Chapter Four

     As promised, I wrote my brother a few times a week. I never wrote my return address on the envelopes and I assume that sparked suspicion within my father. I discovered that my father was hiding all of my letters in a cabinet drawer much like he started hiding all of the mail addressed to me while I was still living at home. It reminded me of a certain scene in "The Color Purple", a movie he repeatedly forced me to watch while, his eyes invasively crawled all over my body. During a sex scene in the movie, he would always say, "That's why I'm trying to teach you."My brother would not be forced to watch the movie. He was free to play and hang out in his bedroom.

      My brother never received the gifts I sent him for Christmas. I wondered why he never said, "thank you". I never heard from my brother and assumed he was angry with me for leaving him. Once again, I was sad. I loved him so much. Why hadn't he sent a response through my half-sister? I’d never forgive myself for leaving him.

     I phoned my  half-sister and arranged a day when she could bring my brother to see me. I remember how anxious I was about seeing him again. I couldn't wait to throw my arms about him and squeeze him with all my might. The meeting was not as great as I had thought it would be. He was angry and I didn't know why. Through his anger, however, I sensed sadness and fear. Why hadn't he taken my mother up on her offer and go live with her? He was her only son and a favorite of hers, so she'd do anything for him. She'd lavish him with gifts and would probably send him to the best schools, at least this is what I though.

     When my brother also discovered that I was dating a guy who was half white, he started yelling at me. It was obvious he had inherited my father’s hatred for white people. He was so angry with me and I was so hurt. I knew he, too, was hurting and I assumed my father bad mouthed me. There was my little brother, tall, handsome and muscular eyes red with sadness and his face etched with pain. Why hadn't I taken the chance and taken him with me when I ran away? What had happened to him? He was the only person I loved. Why couldn't he love me back like a brother should his sister? 

     Eventually, my brother and I lost touch and it hurt deeply. I poured myself into working two jobs and doing well in my college courses. I didn't have much of a social life outside school. I didn't go to clubs like many others did on Thursday nights. In fact, I was working the midnight shift.  My college years were years of growth, development and self-discovery. I was often inspired to write poetry that echoed my sadness with the situation of my brother and my abuse. I often asked God for answers. I wrote my best poetic pieces when I was engrossed in reflection. It was during these years that I was the most at one with nature. I was my most spiritual self, whole and receptive to the natural world around me. Much like my Native American ancestors, I was able to “communicate” with the natural world and draw strength from it. I was labeled "odd", "eccentric" yet many wanted to be friends with me. I feared getting too close because I feared my secret being discovered.

       I was finally free. God had delivered me. My father would hurt me no more. I was safe and I was going to be something in the world one day, I'd tell myself. No one would insult me daily and tell me how ugly I looked or how stupid females were. I didn’t have to hear disgusting sexual noises at night. The peace that I so longed for was upon me. This was a new life. This was a new beginning.

Or was it?