“…but now am found…”

Chapter Three

     My mother did eventually return to rekindle a relationship with my brother,  but not with me. I felt so all alone. She’d take my brother out, buy him things and make empty promises to him. I wondered why she didn’t want me. I assumed I was too ruined for her to want anymore. I’d watched my brother excitedly tell me how she promised him the latest video game system after one of his evenings out with her. I became bitter and would be angry with him for being so foolish as to believe that her promises could erase the fact that she abandoned her own children. As I had suspected, she let him down and kept none of her promises. My brothers tears were ineveitable. My mother never came around anymore and life continued.

    Since my father couldn’t sexually abuse me anymore, he’d make me feel uncomfortable by glaring at me as I’d sit on the sofa watching television or as I did anything in his presence. He forced me to clean the entire apartment every Sunday morning and do all of laundry, all of this without any help. I hated touching his nasty underwear that were often caked with semen and had traces of poop. He taught me how to fold all his socks and stained underwear and T-shirts a certain way and told me in which of his bureau’s drawers each article belonged. I had to get up at four in the morning just to be able to have all the chores done by supper. I did all of this with no help while he sat and watched fishing all day on television and while my brother played video games in his bedroom. My father told me that females were supposed to do all the house work and I became a sort of Cinderella, scrubbing the feces-stained toilets (we had a bath and a half in our new section 8 apartment), floors and bathtub. He was not setting a good example for my brother who never offered to help me. My brother  began to act like my father's treatment of me all was normal.

     Since my father vomited often due to the various medications he was taking, he made a mess in what became his bathroom and he never cleaned up after himself. Every Sunday, I’d have to scrub and scrape the stiff bits of vomit that painted the sides of the toilet. My father further humiliated me by forcing me to clip his yellow-crusted toenails, scratch the dandruff from his scalp, clip and clean his fingernails, pick the scabs from the bottoms of his smelly damp feet and scrub his back. All this I did in silence for fear of the beating he always threatened to give me. I once was so tired that I didn’t put away his clothes. I left his clothes on his bed and, when he discovered what I had not done, he began swearing at me, calling me lazy, fresh, and grown. He told me to “put his shit away before he slapped the hell out of me”. Tiredly, I put away his clothes all the while enduring his verbal insults. After I had finished putting away his clothes, he followed me to my room hurling more vulgar insults at me. I wanted to cry but waited until he was gone before plopping down on my bed and crying into my pillow.

     The next day was Monday again and I was excited to be getting away from him and going to school. At this time, my father had gotten into car accident with his brown 1986 Fifth Avenue Chrysler Coach and didn’t have car insurance so it sat in the driveway from season to season.  I was in the car the day a pickup truck smashed into the vehicle, flinging me towards the windshield and causing my niece to roll onto the floor (she was asleep in the backseat and I had just removed my seatbelt). I saw the accident as a blessing. My father couldn’t drop me off at school anymore nor could he prowl the  school grounds in search of me.

    I attended Classical High School, a college prep school in Providence, Rhode Island. I was an excellent student and saw education as my way out and away from the life that was my hell. My father would walk my brother and me to the bus stop every morning, the whole while criticizing or reprimanding us for one thing or another. My brother was still in middle school due to having to repeat the third grade so, he took the yellow bus to school. I took the city bus to school. My father would walk me to the bus stop last, telling me that I was fat and that my butt was getting big. He would flirt with the young girls who were at the stop as well, so much so that I became embarrassed and concerned for their safety. One very attractive young Afro-American girl about my age was a regular at the bus stop. When she was not within ear shot, my father would say how she had “pretty legs” and how I should be more like her. He always found a way to put me down. When he’d talk to her, she’d blush and shyly smile, all of which my me sick to my stomach. I suppose she saw my father as a silly old man and not for the predator that he was. Even at home, he’d talk about that girl as if he were in love with her. He’d go on and on about how “pretty” she was and that I didn’t look like her. It wasn’t long before I never saw the girl again at the bus stop and my father suddenly stopped talking about her. I never found out what happened to her.

     At school, I was happy although I hurt deep inside every single day. I drowned myself in my studies in order to numb the pain I felt. I excelled in my classes because I dreamed that someday education would be my ticket out of my nightmarish life . Many said that I would fail out of Classical and some even joked that I’d be sent to the neighboring Central High School, a school whose reputation at the time was a school that was not academically challenging. May father told me horror stories of girls getting raped in high school and said that it would happen to me. I became afraid of every dark corner in the hall and locker rooms. I was afraid of making friends with boys because of all the stories my father told me.

     My father wouldn’t allow me to do my homework uninterrupted at home. I had to lie that school started at a certain time in order to get it done before class. Every night, he’d ask me to type something, to read something, to clip his nails and scratch his head or anything he could think of to distract me from my studies. I would complete whatever task it was that he wanted and then tiredly try to do as much of my homework as I could. It was as if he were trying to make me fail after I worked so hard to pass the school’s entrance exam so I could attend the school.

     I held my composure at school as long as I could until I broke down my last year of high school. I felt so all alone. My father would never stop harassing me and it had finally gotten to me. During every meal, he’d laugh and say that I had a “big butt”. My brother even began to join in on the ridiculing and that really hurt me because I never stopped being my brother’s biggest protector and supporter. I endured the terrible meals in silence, refusing to say anything as my father would tell me I was fat and that women were “stupid” and were “only good enough for one thing”. Despite my efforts to ignore him, I began to internalize all that he said to me resulting in me refusing to eat all of my meal. I lost weight rapidly but this only increased my father’s criticisms of me. He began saying that I was “ too skinny”, that I  “looked like a skeleton”, and that I “didn’t look cute”.

      One morning , as I boared the city bus while my father’s morning insults echoed behind me, I cried uncontrollably. I turned my face to the window in order to conceal my face from the other passengers on the bus. When I arrived at school, my math teacher who was my favorite teacher in the school, spotted my tears. I blurted out all of my pain to him, all of my secrets because I needed to and I had no one else to whom I could turn. My teacher listened and suggested that I see the school’s counselor.

   I was afraid the school counselor would try to take me away from home, making it impossible for me to protect my little brother. I begged for them not to do it and I didn’t want social services to come and split up my brother and me. I felt safe at school knowing that my teacher and counselor knew of my situation. While I was in the safety of the school walls, I could pretend that life at home did not exist. However, just as soon as I exited the city bus at the top of my street, my heart would begin to beat rapidly. I could see my father standing outside the house frowning as I walked with my other classmates who lived in my neighborhood and took the same bus home. My father would glare at me and I was instantly afraid. He didn’t like me talking to anyone at school, especially boys. Three of the four kids who got off he bus with me were boys and they were nice boys who always treated me with respect as did most of the boys at my high school. I wasn’t seen as one of the girls who guys wanted to date but rather, a little sister who was looked out for. I could never tell my father that I talked to boys.

     My father would wait until the last of the bus kids had walked to his house at the end of he street before he started yelling at me and accussing me of “fucking around” with boys. While his rants followe me into the house, I held back tears. I hated my father so damned much and I so wanted to get away from him. He called me all sorts of names while he accussed me of doing something that, thanks to him, I thought was absolutely disgusting. I would pray every night behind my closed bedroom door that God would deliver me from the nightmare I was living. Sometimes, I even begged God to kill me. I never saw any way out and my father would kill me if I  ever tried to leave.

     My father didn’t allow me to talk to friends on the phone. In the days before caller ID, I’d wait until he’d leave the house and then stand by the window while talking to a friend on the phone. My friends understood and never made fun of me for it. High school was completely different from the years I spent at Saint Matthew School, the parochial school I attended for grades kindergarten through eight in Cranston, Rhode Island. When I saw my father coming home, I’d hang up and then dial our home number so he couldn’t trace the call if he somehow found out I was using the telephone. My brother and I kept our calls our secret. My brother and I, through our experiences, became closer and I loved him more than anyone.

     I decided to bring to the light my abuse one evening while my father yet again ranted and raved as he stood over me at supper. My brother had developed a habit of pushing his face as far as he could into his food without actually touching it and, when my father would get angry, my brother’s hands would visibly and uncontrollably tremble. On this particular night, my father went on and on about my messing with boys and “don’t think just because I was going to college” that he “couldn’t slap the shit out of me”. I had grown so accustomed to his rantings and accusations that I didn’t cry about it anymore but, instead, I housed a fury so hot deep with my soul and I awaited the opportunity to unleash it upon him and make him pay for what he had done to me. This night would be the beginning of my standing up to him. I slammed my fork on the dining room table and stared into his bloodshot eyes, my body buring with rage. I asked him why would I “mess around” when he stuck his “nasty penis into me” and made me do nasty things and did nasty things to me. “Thanks to you, I hate that stuff!” I screamed and I saw tears stream from my brother’s face who had learned not to say anything and who continued to look into his bowl and shove food into his mouth. My father lowered his eyes and said, “I don’t remember” which only made me even hotter. He quickly walked outside and stayed on the porch in the dark well after we had finished supper and had gone to bed. Before going to his room, my brother whispered to me, “ You gotta get out of here! Why are you still here? I think you wanted it.” Even though his words hurt, I wasn’t angry with him because I knew he didn’t understand what happened. I said to him, “I’m still here for you, stupid.” I spun around on my heels and went into my room to try to get some sleep.

     The next morning, my father came to me while my brother wasn’t around and said that he had had nightmares about what I said to him and that he “shouldn’t have done that to me”. I said nothing because I knew he didn’t feel truly sorry for what he had done. Although the abuse had stopped, he continued to verbally bash me and grab and slap my behind whenever he was within reach and when my brother wasn’t around. I’d tell him to stop but he’d just laugh as though I really didn't want him to stop. I’d pray that he’d die so my brother and I could be at peace.

     Death was knocking on his door when, one day, he ended up in the hospital with a collapsed lung while we were at school. It was May and I was a senior in high school. My father once bragged to everyone that I didn’t want to go to my Senior Prom when that was not the case. One of his fishing buddies who was a parent of four managed to convince him to buy me a dress to go.

      When my father landed in the hospital, I was hopping he’d stay in long enough for me to have fun with my friends. One of my friends asked me to the Prom and I had to tell him “no” because depiste his Portuguese heritage, he was too white for my father and my father always said that I “better not bring no white man to the house”. I really wanted to go with my friend and decided to go alone. No one asked me to the Prom until the very last minute. and then there was more interest in asking me than I could handle but none of them would fit my father's liking as I knew he was very racist. Since one of the boys was Black, I agreed to go with him. There were rumors that one of my Asian male friends wanted to ask me but I was glad he didn’t because I didn't want to have to explain to him my situation.

     When I returned home from the Prom before midnight, my father was standing in the dark waiting for me. All of my fun instantly vanished at the sight of him. He glared at me unmoving and when I gave him a kiss goodnight as he still made us do. He angrily wiped his cheek and said to me, “ I know you been kissing up on some boy!” I just continued into my room and closed the door, locking it (our old apartment didn’t have locks). He then shouted at me as he always did when I had my bedroom door closed, “I’ll take that door off the hinges!” I never budged because I knew that I had something over him and, that if he tried anything again, I’d make him pay with his life. I was getting stronger, feuled by anger and bitterness and if he ever touch me again, he’d wish he hadn’t.

      I used my newfound attitude to shield my brother even when he may have thought I didn’t. My brother was afraid to stand up to my father and, at times, would visibly tremble whenever someone got close to him. It seemed he was always afraid.

     Finally, it was high school graduation and I had made it through a very challenging school despite the obstacles. I had been accepted to Rhode Island College and looked forward to my freedom. Despite my enthusiasm, my father managed to spoil even this glorious day for me. When my name was called to receive my high school diploma, there were no cheers for me like there had been for the rest of my classmates. I was sad. My brother, father, older sister and niece were in the audience but no one applauded. After a pause that seemed eternal, one of my friends blurted out a cheer and was joined by some of my other fellow students. The thought was wonderful and I cried because not even my asshole father or brother could applaud my accomplishment. My father was even angry when I wanted to take pictures with some of my friends after graduation. When I was hugging some of my friends and bidding them farewell, my father hovered in the background, a scowl on his face. He then shouted at me, “Let’s go! I’m hot!” Embarrassed, I raced to the car not wanting anyone to see me crying.

     All the way home, my father cussed me out, again accussing me of “messing around” and saying that I shouldn’ t think that I was grown “just because I turned a little eighteen”. Some friends and I had conjured up a lie about a teacher and student celebratory dinner that night and my father fell for it. My friend’s family owned  a restaurant and she and her family invited a bunch of the graudates to a free meal at their restaurant. I wanted to see everyone one last time. My father dropped me off, again, cussing  me out throughout the entire car ride. Not once did he congratulate me. Not once, did he say he was proud of my especially since he wasn’t allowed to go to school and got not further than the third grade. For some reason, he continued to accuse me of sleeping around when, thanks to him, I had an aversion to sex and all that it entailed.

     Arriving at the restaurant, I jumped out of the car , angrily slamming the door. My father rolled down the window and hurled threats at me. He said that he was going to “knock the shit out of me” if I slammed the door again and that I shouldn’t “think I was grown”. I rushed into the restaurant, not wanting to listen to his foul mouth anymore.

     Unfortunately, I was not able to enjoy myself at the restaurant. My friends noticed that I was upset and I briefly told them what had happened. We ate and then took some pictures outside. Returning to the restautant, I noticed my father’s car parked outside one of the large restaurant windows. “I have to go!” I said to my friends. “He’s outside!” I whispered. Trying desperately to conceal my tears, I rushed out the door, followed by some well-meaning “Good luck’s” and “We’ll miss you’s” from my friends. Before I even reached the car, I noticed the intense anger on my father’s face. I knew I was in for it once I got into the car. Why was he so angry? Wasn’t that bastard proud of me for being the first member of his countrified family to graduate from an elite high school, a college-prep school? I was going to college! Didn’t that mean anything?

     As I sat in the car, my father went on about how he was watching me and saw me kiss a boy. I did no such thing. I did think one of my male friends was handsome but I knew that it would have never been possible. It took the end of the school year, my last year of high school before some of my absolutely handsome male friends, “my big brothers” I called actually thought about asking me out. They had trememdous respect for me and treated me like a little sister. They let no one disrespect me. I think they felt sorry for me because of what I was going through. I even overheard a few of them one afternoon questioning my prom date as if he were on trial making sure he didn’t disrespect me. My father didn't allow me to have a boyfriend and, thus, I was only left to daydream. How I wanted someone to tell me I was pretty and to love me without the sex, to love me and cherish me. It seemed no one in my life did so I always felt that I were missing something. I thought all of this as my father insulted me, threatened me and cussed me out during the ride home from the restaurant.

     Every little girl dreams of her handsome Prince wisking her away from her present life and taking her away to a beautiful magical kingdom somewhere in fantasyland. For me, my imaginary prince was named Buck. I created Buck some time during my early high school years. Many of the men in my short romantic pieces were modeled after him. He was tall, had a very firm and mature voice. He had long, flowing dark hair, dark eyes and he could sing and play the guitar. He was handsome and he was madly in love with me. He treated me like his queen and no one could ever love me more than he. I spent many hours thinking of Buck when things at home caused me to want to just give up. I thought of him when I was trying to sleep and block out the disgusting sexual noises of my father either masturbating in the bathroom or having sex with some woman he brought home in the living room. How I wanted to leave! I cried many nights because I didn’t know what to do and no imaginary Buck could or would ever save me. I had to pray and take actions to save myself. Not knowing what I’d encounter in the real world, I had to finish college so I’d have a leg to stand on.

      I thought that I would get away from him somehow. College would offer me a new life and new opportunities. It was my only way out. God was going to finally set me free.