A Child's Pain
Since the situation with Kayelle at her day care, a number of times its been said to me "Well, the teacher was fired, so Kayelle should be okay now." Only people who know child psychology or have had children who have experienced trauma can understand that it is not always that simple. I have vivid memories of my childhood that I wish I could escape. Many of them from as young as two years old: Being thrown down a flight of stairs, my mother leaving a pot of boiling water on the transom of the front door for fear my father would return after a violent fight, and having my hair grabbed and shook back and forth like a rag doll, among many incidents.
I learned very early on that it was best to keep these horrors to myself. I recall when I was a little girl the first time ever sharing one of my traumatic tales of being thrown down the stairs with a friend and her older teen sister. I was mistaken in believing that they would have empathy for me. Instead they laughed. I remember the hurt I felt being laughed at after sharing something so painful. So, for many years I just endured. I pretended everything was okay until it was really okay and then not okay again. A never-ending cycle of mental, physical, and emotional abuse.
One incident I recall is when my biological father left when I was about 3 years old. I remember like it was yesterday the circumstances around his departure. My brother Tracy and I were walking with my mother and father to one of the stores in the neighborhood. They were arguing. I have no idea what it was about and I was probably too young to understand the details, but I was old enough to understand both of them were very angry.
I remember walking into the store with my parents. My one-year-old brother Tracy and I ran towards the middle, right across from the cash register where dozens of baskets of candy sat. We were always excited by the candy although I remember vividly my mother forbid us to eat candy. She was always worried about cavities. The only time we were able to indulge in those sweet treats was at my grandmother's house where she kept a a large glass container regularly filled with chocolates. Even then my grandmother had to sneak it to us while my mom wasn't looking.
Taking a moment to tear myself away from the euphoria, I watched my mom enter one of those old-fashioned telephone booths at the front of the store. The one with the accordion sliding doors. She began to punch numbers on the key pad. I don't know who she was calling. What happened next was like in slow motion. Thirty-nine years later I still see the vision over and over again. It's burned into my memory and won't ever go away.
The door to the phone booth was still open. My father walked over to the phone booth, balled up his fist, leaned back, and threw the hardest punch that I have ever seen in my life to the side of my mother's face. My mother's body crumpled up in the phone booth and was still. Her eyes were closed. The Hispanic men who worked in the store were shocked. I was terrified. My father picked Tracy up in his arms, then he grabbed my hand and he began to run out of the store. We were walking really fast. Every few steps I turned around to see if my mother would get up. I was crying. I whispered to myself, "Get up, Mommie." I kept looking back until I could not see the store anymore.
We rode up on the elevator to our tenth floor apartment in silence. I was still wondering did my mother ever get up? Did someone get her help? Was she on her way to the hospital? Was she dead? Would I ever see her again? We walked to the back of the apartment to the Master bedroom where my father put Tracy in his crib. He told me to sit on the bed and then he left the room. I'm not sure how long I sat in silence by myself, but I was scared. Scared to move. Scared to cry. I just watched Tracy in his crib hoping my mother would come home soon.
All of a sudden I heard a knock at the front door. I walked towards the front of the apartment. At the moment I realized my father was gone. More knocking. I just looked at the door and then I heard my mother's voice, "Tiffany?" I grabbed the chair from the kitchen and pulled it to the door because I was two short to reach the top lock. I remember the relief I had seeing my mother's face. She had two police officers with her. "Is your father here?" "No, he left." My father had left his three-year-old and one-year-old in a public housing apartment by themselves after assaulting their mother.
It would be a few years later that I recall seeing my father again after that incident. It was recess and I was in the park across the street from my school. There were two men standing out side the fence of the park and I was sitting on the bench with my friends. One of the men called my name. I turned and looked at him. He asked me a few questions, but the only one I remember is, "Do you know who I am?" I responded, "No." Just at that moment the teachers began to call us to line up to return to school. I started walking away when one of my friends whispered to me, "Do you know that man?" I answered, "He's my father."
I never looked back to see if my father was still standing there at the fence. I didn't care. I wanted him to feel pain. I wanted my words to inflict the same pain he had inflicted when I was three years old. I wanted him to know what it felt like to be hurt by the one you loved. In my mind, he wasn't my father anymore.
I learned very early on that it was best to keep these horrors to myself. I recall when I was a little girl the first time ever sharing one of my traumatic tales of being thrown down the stairs with a friend and her older teen sister. I was mistaken in believing that they would have empathy for me. Instead they laughed. I remember the hurt I felt being laughed at after sharing something so painful. So, for many years I just endured. I pretended everything was okay until it was really okay and then not okay again. A never-ending cycle of mental, physical, and emotional abuse.
One incident I recall is when my biological father left when I was about 3 years old. I remember like it was yesterday the circumstances around his departure. My brother Tracy and I were walking with my mother and father to one of the stores in the neighborhood. They were arguing. I have no idea what it was about and I was probably too young to understand the details, but I was old enough to understand both of them were very angry.
I remember walking into the store with my parents. My one-year-old brother Tracy and I ran towards the middle, right across from the cash register where dozens of baskets of candy sat. We were always excited by the candy although I remember vividly my mother forbid us to eat candy. She was always worried about cavities. The only time we were able to indulge in those sweet treats was at my grandmother's house where she kept a a large glass container regularly filled with chocolates. Even then my grandmother had to sneak it to us while my mom wasn't looking.
Taking a moment to tear myself away from the euphoria, I watched my mom enter one of those old-fashioned telephone booths at the front of the store. The one with the accordion sliding doors. She began to punch numbers on the key pad. I don't know who she was calling. What happened next was like in slow motion. Thirty-nine years later I still see the vision over and over again. It's burned into my memory and won't ever go away.
The door to the phone booth was still open. My father walked over to the phone booth, balled up his fist, leaned back, and threw the hardest punch that I have ever seen in my life to the side of my mother's face. My mother's body crumpled up in the phone booth and was still. Her eyes were closed. The Hispanic men who worked in the store were shocked. I was terrified. My father picked Tracy up in his arms, then he grabbed my hand and he began to run out of the store. We were walking really fast. Every few steps I turned around to see if my mother would get up. I was crying. I whispered to myself, "Get up, Mommie." I kept looking back until I could not see the store anymore.
We rode up on the elevator to our tenth floor apartment in silence. I was still wondering did my mother ever get up? Did someone get her help? Was she on her way to the hospital? Was she dead? Would I ever see her again? We walked to the back of the apartment to the Master bedroom where my father put Tracy in his crib. He told me to sit on the bed and then he left the room. I'm not sure how long I sat in silence by myself, but I was scared. Scared to move. Scared to cry. I just watched Tracy in his crib hoping my mother would come home soon.
All of a sudden I heard a knock at the front door. I walked towards the front of the apartment. At the moment I realized my father was gone. More knocking. I just looked at the door and then I heard my mother's voice, "Tiffany?" I grabbed the chair from the kitchen and pulled it to the door because I was two short to reach the top lock. I remember the relief I had seeing my mother's face. She had two police officers with her. "Is your father here?" "No, he left." My father had left his three-year-old and one-year-old in a public housing apartment by themselves after assaulting their mother.
It would be a few years later that I recall seeing my father again after that incident. It was recess and I was in the park across the street from my school. There were two men standing out side the fence of the park and I was sitting on the bench with my friends. One of the men called my name. I turned and looked at him. He asked me a few questions, but the only one I remember is, "Do you know who I am?" I responded, "No." Just at that moment the teachers began to call us to line up to return to school. I started walking away when one of my friends whispered to me, "Do you know that man?" I answered, "He's my father."
I never looked back to see if my father was still standing there at the fence. I didn't care. I wanted him to feel pain. I wanted my words to inflict the same pain he had inflicted when I was three years old. I wanted him to know what it felt like to be hurt by the one you loved. In my mind, he wasn't my father anymore.
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