A Child’s Perception by Katydad
I was home alone one day as a small child. When a man came bursting through the door, frantically going from room to room. Looking tattered in his grey suit and frayed around the collar. Beaded sweat poured down his brow. With hanky in hand, he’d wipe his face. I didn’t understand, this was not the heat of the day. After feverishly prancing around, this shadow of a man stopped abruptly as his stare pierce this child’s face. I was just a frail shoestring of a girl with a small pig nose, stringy straight dishwater hair, and a wide-eyed crooked smile from biting my lip. There he stood sequenced up face dripping wet with sweat just starring at me. He barely looked into my Irish green eyes and said, “There might be a knock at the door and if there is you will say I am away, gone for the day.”
By the end of his sentence, I felt controlling hands clutching the shell of an eight year old’s shoulders… Louder and louder he shook me and said, “I am away, Gone for the day. Do you understand?”
My voice cracked as I said, “I understand you are away, Gone for the day.”
Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door. Grabbing my hand, pulling me down the winding basement stairs, informing me he would remain there. I was to answer the door and say what he told me to say. The knocking on the door began again so I went up the lofty flight of stairs.
My father yelled, “Beware of what you say or you will pay.” I heard his voice echoing in my head.
Heart pounding to a ritual dance, I went to the door only to behold two policemen. My father educated his children to respect our elders to a point that left marks. The tall officers bent down because I was so small to say in a soft way that they needed to come in and address the man I so detest.
It wasn’t easy for me and that they could see when one said, “He killed someone dead.”
I couldn’t look them in the eyes when they came into search my abandoned habitat. I just silently shook my head; yes, when they asked me if he was home. I couldn’t utter a sound because my knees were shaking with fear. They finally went down the dark and bleak basement stairs only to find him hiding all hunched up on his hands and knees back by the old musty debris. They cuffed him and read him his rights as they drug him into my sight. I couldn’t look at him. I was afraid of what he might say. Going up the stairs seemed thousands of miles away, as I struggled focusing to plant my feet; I could easily feel his tremendous disgust weighing on me. As we arrived upstairs, his eyes were glaring with his mouth spitting words that cracked our ears. “You will pay!”
Mother had just arrived home after sixteen hours of work, rushing to his side with utter forgiveness in her eyes. He whispered something to her as they paused for him to say goodbye.
After they left, Mom looked at me and bellowed, “How could you do this to your father?”
At that moment, the little silent child deep inside died knowing the love she had was for him not me. This was perceived by an eight year old child making her feel like shell of a human being.
Many years later after forgiving my parents, I have come to understand that we are all a products of our parents rearing. It is a part of our past, but does not have to be a part of our present or future. It takes a strong will to break the chain of abuse and not pass it down to our children. I can feel proud that on my deathbed I can proudly say, “I broke the chain of my ancestors’ abuse; for my link and the link of my child is now made of steel.”
