My dad was an abusive alcoholic by the time I was born. I am the youngest of three and the night he broke my mother’s arm with his bare hands, he was in one of his drunken rages. I was not yet three years old. My memories of this night occur in what can be described as black and white picture frames.
The first frame consists of my dad with his hands gripping my mother’s forearms accompanied by an audio clip memory that echoes again and again whenever I think about this night – it is the sound of bone crunching. Fade to black.
The next fame is of my mother being pushed over the other side of her bed, and my dad using the double mattress to squash her against the wall. This includes a sound clip of my mother screaming and in the background I hear someone running up the stairs shouting “Tony! Ka’an dodagene!” Fade to black.
The third memory frame that I have of this night includes an innate knowledge that my dad has left the premises. My mother holds me in one arm and carries my four year old brother with her broken arm. The image I retain is that of my mom running down the stairs with my eight year old sister in front of her. “Run!” is the only word I recall. Fade to black.
Next memory, we are outside and still I hear my mom yelling at my siblings to “Run!” as she carries me to safety. Fade to black.
The final memory frame I have of this night is me in an upstairs bedroom of my grandparents' house. From this place of safety I peer into the darkness at my own house across the road. I recall watching out for my dad who is bound to come tearing back into our driveway. Fade to black.
Many years ago, I shared my black and white memory frames with my mother. Not only did she verify these memories, she filled in the missing sequences. After my father (a term I use very loosely) broke my mother’s arm and was squashing her against the wall with the mattress, my mom’s cousin John came bounding up the stairs with the intent to stop the assault. When my father heard John’s voice he turned his attack (upon John) and both men wound up tumbling down the entire flight of stairs. In his rage, my father threw my mom’s cousin through the living room window. John had to be taken to the hospital to receive treatment for the lacerations from the shards of broken glass.
Before my father fled into the night, my mother (who had made her way downstairs to help her cousin) received a blow to the head with a heavy clock. My dad’s last words to her before fleeing was “See what you made me do to your cousin? Now he has to go to the hospital!” With that, he ran out of the house, jumped into his car and spun out of the driveway. Unfortunately, at the time my mother held the opinion that children “need a father” no matter how bad he might be. He always came back, crying and begging forgiveness, and this time was no different. My mother told the typical lies of a woman abused, “Oh I fell down the basement stairs and broke my arm,” to save her husband’s reputation I suppose.
In the end, it was always the same. He’d swear to change, it would last a few days, maybe a week or two and then he’d be drunk and eventually disappear for several days. The times when my dad was out of the house were the best – the place was peaceful, calm and carefree. I was five years old and it was during one of those times when the house was peaceful – my dad had been gone for a while. I was playing with some toys on the floor, and my mother was sitting on the couch watching me. I looked up at her, stood up, climbed onto her lap and placed my hands on her cheeks. Looking directly into her eyes, I asked “Mommy? Promise me something?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Promise me that if daddy comes home, you won’t take him back?” I asked my dear mother as I looked into her beautiful brown eyes. “Please mommy,” I continued “promise you won’t take daddy back?”
“Ok,” my mom said. “I promise you, I won’t take your daddy back if he wants to come home.”
“You promise?” I insisted one more time.
“Yes. I promise.” Was my mom’s only reply, and as I looked into her eyes, I knew I could trust her. I kissed her, told her I loved her and went back to playing with my toys.
Did my dad come home begging his wife's forgiveness? Of course he did. Fortunately, my mother is a Promise Keeper and I have decided to tell on her.
Eta godj ni-wi ikido tangoje miigwetch ni-jojo. Ki-zhagiyen, apedjigodj.
Del ~
January 7, 2009
The first frame consists of my dad with his hands gripping my mother’s forearms accompanied by an audio clip memory that echoes again and again whenever I think about this night – it is the sound of bone crunching. Fade to black.
The next fame is of my mother being pushed over the other side of her bed, and my dad using the double mattress to squash her against the wall. This includes a sound clip of my mother screaming and in the background I hear someone running up the stairs shouting “Tony! Ka’an dodagene!” Fade to black.
The third memory frame that I have of this night includes an innate knowledge that my dad has left the premises. My mother holds me in one arm and carries my four year old brother with her broken arm. The image I retain is that of my mom running down the stairs with my eight year old sister in front of her. “Run!” is the only word I recall. Fade to black.
Next memory, we are outside and still I hear my mom yelling at my siblings to “Run!” as she carries me to safety. Fade to black.
The final memory frame I have of this night is me in an upstairs bedroom of my grandparents' house. From this place of safety I peer into the darkness at my own house across the road. I recall watching out for my dad who is bound to come tearing back into our driveway. Fade to black.
Many years ago, I shared my black and white memory frames with my mother. Not only did she verify these memories, she filled in the missing sequences. After my father (a term I use very loosely) broke my mother’s arm and was squashing her against the wall with the mattress, my mom’s cousin John came bounding up the stairs with the intent to stop the assault. When my father heard John’s voice he turned his attack (upon John) and both men wound up tumbling down the entire flight of stairs. In his rage, my father threw my mom’s cousin through the living room window. John had to be taken to the hospital to receive treatment for the lacerations from the shards of broken glass.
Before my father fled into the night, my mother (who had made her way downstairs to help her cousin) received a blow to the head with a heavy clock. My dad’s last words to her before fleeing was “See what you made me do to your cousin? Now he has to go to the hospital!” With that, he ran out of the house, jumped into his car and spun out of the driveway. Unfortunately, at the time my mother held the opinion that children “need a father” no matter how bad he might be. He always came back, crying and begging forgiveness, and this time was no different. My mother told the typical lies of a woman abused, “Oh I fell down the basement stairs and broke my arm,” to save her husband’s reputation I suppose.
In the end, it was always the same. He’d swear to change, it would last a few days, maybe a week or two and then he’d be drunk and eventually disappear for several days. The times when my dad was out of the house were the best – the place was peaceful, calm and carefree. I was five years old and it was during one of those times when the house was peaceful – my dad had been gone for a while. I was playing with some toys on the floor, and my mother was sitting on the couch watching me. I looked up at her, stood up, climbed onto her lap and placed my hands on her cheeks. Looking directly into her eyes, I asked “Mommy? Promise me something?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Promise me that if daddy comes home, you won’t take him back?” I asked my dear mother as I looked into her beautiful brown eyes. “Please mommy,” I continued “promise you won’t take daddy back?”
“Ok,” my mom said. “I promise you, I won’t take your daddy back if he wants to come home.”
“You promise?” I insisted one more time.
“Yes. I promise.” Was my mom’s only reply, and as I looked into her eyes, I knew I could trust her. I kissed her, told her I loved her and went back to playing with my toys.
Did my dad come home begging his wife's forgiveness? Of course he did. Fortunately, my mother is a Promise Keeper and I have decided to tell on her.
Eta godj ni-wi ikido tangoje miigwetch ni-jojo. Ki-zhagiyen, apedjigodj.
Del ~
January 7, 2009