Early Years
Honor your father and your mother
~Exodus 20:12
Child’s Play
Opening presents
on Christmas usually brings a sense of warmth to children. It’s like drinking
hot chocolate, only there’s no hot chocolate and your insides just feel good. Somehow
through the colorful wrapping paper and the gift beneath, the act signifies coziness,
love, and belonging. The children who experience those feelings have never had
to feign excitement over a gift they hated in fear of being hit by their drunken
father.
At the age of
eight, the most important thing about Christmas was the one thing I truly ever
wanted; my father to lose custody of his children. If that wasn’t going to
happen, well then, I also wanted toys. I needed stuffed animals, and video
games, and electric blue nail polish. The only good thing about having forced
visitation with our father was that we three Schmidts got not one Christmas,
but two. Granted, our father’s gifts were usually sub-par and bought from the
dollar store or cheaply made, but this was also the man who’d forget to call on
my birthday, so I never really expected much other than at least fifteen
minutes of not having to live in fear.
“Do you like it?”
he’d ask as I ripped off the red paper. Somehow, the red glow of the Christmas
tree only made him look more menacing.
“It’s great,” I
said automatically wincing. He’d gotten me a necklace, but I don’t wear
jewelry.
“Do you have any
idea how much money I spent on that?” He knew I hated it. My stomach dropped as
his voice frosted over.
“No, no, I love
it. Thank you!”
He’d grind his
teeth and wait for Jacci or Laura to open their presents, too. Our shoulders
would be pulled up to our ears, constantly bracing for impact. When we’d go to
bed that night, we’d stay up.
“Someday, we’ll
steal a car,” Jacci would say in the darkness above my head as we lay in bunk
beds. “We’ll drive into the sunset and never come back here.”
Slowly, and one by
one, we’d drift off to an uneasy and un-restful sleep counting down the hours
until we’d be safe at our real house again.
At my mother’s
house, there would be presents galore. We’d open a majority of them Christmas
Eve with the exception of a few, and the following morning we’d open the rest
while magical red velvet and white rimmed stockings appeared on the table. As
we plunged our greedy hands inside, we extracted small trinkets, a CD that we’d
wanted, perhaps a book, and sometimes money.
While most
children receive Christmas presents with the intentions of playing with them, the
year my older sister, Laura, got a silver hand-held talk-boy under the tree
from our mother, the three young Schmidt sisters went to work hatching the
escape plan.
The mission was
simple: catch our father abusing us. Catch him drinking, screaming, smoking pot
in his bedroom, hitting Jacci, Laura, or myself. We knew if we could get proof,
we’d never have to see him again. So the day his blue truck recklessly pulled
into our dirt driveway for his weekend visitation, Laura was sure that her
contraband was stuffed neatly away.
When I climbed
into his vehicle, his large arm trapped my small frame in an awkward embrace.
“I missed you so much,” he said with the smell of cigarettes clinging to his
breath.
I moved my head
away in a feeble attempt to create distance. He wrapped his arm tighter,
keeping me restrained and helpless. I didn’t say anything because in school and
in church I’d been told that lying is bad and you shouldn’t do it.
“Well?” he asked,
voice edging with anger. “Aren’t you going to say you missed me?”
I swallowed hard,
forcing the words out. “I miss you, too.”
His lips pressed
hard against my cheek, a gesture that turned my stomach. “I love you.”
And the cycle
repeated leaving me feel raw and ugly and exposed, like peeling a deep sunburn
a day later.
I spent the hour
long car ride stuffing my face inside my shirt to keep from inhaling the second
hand smoke that never left the truck. When one cigarette ending another began.
By the time we got to his house, the breath of fresh air when I stepped out of
the truck was a godsend. It vanished as we went into the house. Stepping in was
like stepping into fog. Old cigarette smoke lingered in the air suffocating
anything that tried to breathe. For the most part, he seemed sober but I knew
he’d drink. I knew he’d turn angry and violent, so as Jacci, Laura, and I
shuttled our suitcases into the bedroom, I watched him like he was a rabid dog
that had just contracted the disease wondering which of us he’d end up biting.
Just before the
sun set, when he walked out the door, a collective breath was let out. It’d be
a few hours before he came home from the bar. I passed the time playing video
games on the couch with my sisters.
By the time he
stumbled through the living room door, we were all safe in bed that first
night.
On Saturday
morning, we took our turns sneaking to the kitchen to steal food that wasn’t
rightfully ours because he’d bought it. We’d eat it quickly in our bedroom and
hide the wrappers. Soon enough, Jacci, Laura, and I ventured out to the living
room where he already was.
“What’s mine is
yours,” he said, offering some façade of normalcy.
“No thank you,” we
said, careful not to offend him, or take what he was offering.
“Look,” he said,
ushering the three of us to left of the large fish tank. Finally, his finger
pointed to a small white box. “It’s a caller ID.” And then he stood, waiting
for us to feign excitement for his brand new purchase. He smiled broadly,
clearly proud of his new toy.
“Cool,” Laura said,
trying her best at something that looked like a smile. Jacci and I nodded in
unison, not caring, but falsely interested.
Soon enough, he
left for the bar, and the dark cloud around us lifted slightly. Only one more
day to get through until we were home. Minutes later, the phone rang. Laura
checked his fancy new caller ID and our mother’s number popped on the screen.
“Are you guys
doing okay?” she asked.
“Yea, we’re fine,”
I said keeping the conversation short.
“Would you mind
deleting my number off his caller ID?” she asked Laura at the end of their
conversation. She did it without question.
After the phone
call, the three of us wasted time playing outside on the jungle gym or
exploring the woods in the backyard. When we got tired we raided his VHS
collection. Each visitation weekend, our father would rent videos from the local
store. At his house, he had two VCRs which he would use to copy them. Anything
we wanted to watch was at our fingertips. Laura or Jacci picked out the movie,
and we sat on the couch until the credits rolled through.
Just outside the
house, gravel crunched under four black rubber tires as headlights spilled through
the windows. “He’s home!” one sister said running from the main door back to
the couch. Our few hours of freedom and happiness quickly vanished as he took
drunken steps toward the house.
“Hi girls,” he
said with glossy eyes and an eerie smile. “Did anyone call?”
“Mom called,” one
of us answered.
“Anyone else?” he asked,
glairing.
“We let the
answering machine pick up,” Jacci answered.
As he made his way
to his precious white box, Jacci, Laura, and I bolted for our bedroom.
Technically, it was Laura’s and mine,
but Jacci refused to sleep alone in her room, across the hall from his. Each
weekend we were trapped there, she always slept in the top bunk with Laura. We
turned on video games, careful to take small breaths in the hopes he wouldn’t
find us. Because locks weren’t allowed to be turned in his house, even
if we were changing, we shut the door in a poor excuse of safety. In seconds, he
burst into the unlocked room.
“Where is the
number?” he screamed, eyebrows so close together, they’d be able to hold
quarters with the creases they made.
“I deleted it,”
Laura said without thinking. Her eyes got wide, like the time he forced her to
spray a hose into a hole where a trapped mouse was hiding.
“You what?” he
screamed, louder, angrier, face turning redder.
“I deleted it,”
she repeated, more quietly, panic overtaking the look in her eyes. “Mom called
and asked me to delete it. You said—“
“--That is my caller
ID!” he screamed, forgetting his what’s mine is yours speech earlier in
the day. “Do not touch what isn’t yours!”
With lightening
like speed and precision, our father grabbed Laura, hard by the shoulder and
dragged her from the room as she screamed, “I’m sorry! It was just a number!”
Momentarily dazed,
I remained sitting on the brown saggy bean-bag chair, while Jacci launched into
motion, searching frantically for the talk-boy that could at least record what
happens next.
In the living
room, Laura was thrown face down on the couch by the time I saw her again. In
the darkened safety of the kitchen, Jacci pushed the red record button
on the talk boy and placed the device as close to the living room as she could
get it without him noticing we were there.
Dad was screaming
at Laura while she wailed, terrified of how badly he’d hurt her this time.
Jacci and I remained hidden in the shadows of the kitchen. I looked to her
helplessly to rescue our fallen sister, but instead of being heroic, she pushed
me behind her as we stood in the doorway between rooms. The scene was no longer
in my view.
He screamed more.
Laura cried more. Dad took off his belt to beat his daughter. I peeked my head
around the corner daring to look, and saw him straddling my ten year old sister
who squirmed beneath his weight, a small butterfly getting her wings ripped
off.
There was a rush
of motion beside me, and I followed the blur into the living room. Jacci jumped
onto Laura’s back screaming, “No! Stop, Dad! You’re not going to do this! Stop,
Dad!”
Our father shook
his head. Dropped his belt, and walked out the door.
Which is why, as a
young child, I only had one prayer, one wish. That my father would lose custody
of his children. Or die before he killed one of us.
Thank you for bringing to light the people who have abortions just because they don't want a kid.
ReplyDeleteI see a lot of pro-choice arguments that point out situations of rape, abuse, and life threatening pregnancies in an effort to gain more understanding from the anti-choice side. While these stories absolutely have their place and should be vocalized, I often see the "just doesn't want a kid" story swept aside, for obvious reasons.
Thank you for being so vocal about it!
If the pro-LIFE movement put as much time into preventing child abuse as they do advocating forced childbirth, I might start to believe they actually gave a shit about children and the sanctity of human life.
ReplyDeleteTimothy, you didn't read between the lines on this one, you put words there. No where does she say she should have been aborted because her father was abusive, she says that he should have lost custody. I highly doubt your mother's doctors suggested to abort you, considering abortion was illegal in this country until the civil rights movements in the 1960s, though sterilization was not uncommon then.
ReplyDeleteAlso, you misuse the term genocide, which is systematic, deliberate killing of a specific ethnic group. Abuse is abuse. Being beaten is not what she "thinks" is abuse, that is what is defined as "abuse." You were fortunate enough to have parents that cared deeply for you, congratulations. What if your parents abused you, as well? What if they just absolutely DID NOT WANT to have you, and treated you horribly because of that?
And you're right, pro-choice isn't the option to kill children of alcoholics/ drug addicts/ rapist/ robbers, because that ISN'T WHAT WE WANT. We are not advocating that every woman rush out and have an abortion. It's not some super-fun trip to the doctor that you get a giant lollipop out of that we all get to gossip and commemorate about later. WOMEN DO NOT GET PREGNANT SO THEY CAN HAVE ABORTIONS, and that's what people like you don't seem to understand. Pro-choice doesn't mean anti life. We just understand that condoms break, birth control fails, women get raped, and some times, a woman just isn't ready to have a child.
And before you say that people shouldn't be having sex before they're ready for children, how many times have YOU had sex without getting a child out of it? That's what I thought.
It sickens me first that abortion is actually a major topic of political debate, secondly that men actually get to vote on what a woman gets to do with her body, and thirdly that men even feel entitled to have an opinion on the matter. Unless a man's partner is questioning her pregnancy, initiated by him, he shouldn't care less. Men will never know the feeling of having your body invaded. Some women are just not ready for it, and the only person who needs to be concerned with that is that woman herself.
In writing terms, the first paragraph transitioning to the second confused me, it took a minute for me to grasp what was going on.
ReplyDeleteIn story terms, I can't relate. I was never physically abused(though emotionally and sexually I was, but that can't be compared.) My father didn't hit me, he merely abandoned me. However it seems to ring with the same poignant writing as "A Child Called It."
Now on to the topic of abortion, it is a necessary evil, so to say. There will ALWAYS be children abused, mistreated, neglected, and unwanted. To ban abortion would be to raise the rates of those children who are abused, mistreated, neglected, and unwanted. I'm a firm believer that there should be no need for abortion if people are smart about sex, there are many forms of birth control and you are remiss if you don't use at least ONE if you have no intention of having children. Abortion is not and should not be used as a form of birth control. However, there are many people who aren't smart about sex thus having a need for abortion.