Tree limbs…ironing cords…shoes…fists…boards…extension cords…belts…sticks…scalding hot water…razor straps…paddles…profanity…and even from the barrel of a gun were demoralizing instruments used when my mommy meted her schizophrenic spankings!
So, understandably, the aforementioned gear has stained my psyche as it pertains to corporal punishment. Growing up, these items became permanently etched within my mind, within my heart, within my soul, not to mention as evidence of inflicted wounds and scars on my body. In fact, my disfigured right thumb became a long-lasting reminder of me constantly using my right hand to defensively block mommy dearest’s prolonged brutality.
Shucks. Would you believe that as young as a babe in my makeshift crib, I can still vividly recall how that specimen, who I called mother, would frenziedly use her arsenal when it was time to apply her “ritual of torture?”
Tragic!
Frankly, infanticide would have been much more merciful and my preferential choice of punishment rather than being ritualistically victimized by her insane atrocities!
Sadly, stacked against me was the fact that I became an “unwanted souvenir” resulting from the unprotected sex between a 16-year old high school girl who sought the comforts and solace of a roving-eyed college student.
Neither was prepared for my azz!
Hence, my self-appointed executioner’s angst escalated and grew throughout my life because I had usurped her childhood and daily life. Consequently, any natural instincts that was associated with a growing baby such as crying, babbling, or teething was often met with a scoff, a slap, a spanking, or from a potent mixture of milk and the contents of my dad’s whiskey bottle.
Still can’t believe that I never became addicted to alcohol!
Anyways, back in those days, beating the “hell out of your child” was hardly a new phenomenon. Parents had a license to beat their children to the “inch of their lives.” Seemingly, being hurled with “sticks and stones” by your parents and then saturated from head to toe with bruises, scratches, lesions, bleedings, and welts was a “rite of passage” for the kids in my neighborhood.
In large measure, spankings enjoyed community tolerance, cultural rationale, and was as common-place as praying before each meal!
Will never forget Bobby!
Bobby was a colleague at my job who insanely loved me. He had many attributes that as a 16-year old girl I had admired—–personality, work ethics, Christian values, doting and loving parents, and a willingness to wait until I finished high school before he would “explore my innocence.”
However, mommy dearest HATED him. I think part of the reason was because of his dark complexion. The other reason may have been that our union was reminiscent of her earlier days with my dad and she did not want me to repeat her mistakes.
In any case, the more mommy dearest forbade me to talk to Bobby, the more obstinate I became and riled against her edict. Unbeknownst to her, I truly liked him but merely as a brother figure. At that time, I sorely needed male companionship as I longed for my dad whom she had divorced. Also, complicating matters was my detestable disdain for her insatiable appetite in the succession of men she had paraded into our home under the guise of “boyfriends.”
Entering into her fourth of nearly ten marriages didn’t help either.
Certainly, the “pot was calling the kettle black!”
Thus, Bobby’s moral character was being considerably challenged as he was growing increasingly concerned about my deteriorating emotional state and questionable living conditions. Bravely, he sought the permission of his parents to “intervene” on my behalf and discussed with them various options of rescuing me from the brutal clutches of a mad, mad woman. Eventually, he had successfully convinced his parents to harbor me within the safety of their home.
Although honorable, this daring attempt scared me. As a newly police cadet, I personally knew the depths of mommy dearest’s wrath which would not preclude her from seeking revenge by ending his promising police career.
Making a public spectacle or conducting character assassination campaigns was her forte.
Unfortunately, Bobby witnessed first-hand the lengths of her schizophrenic theatrics. Strategically, she left the front door opened so he could witness me being systemically beaten.
It took an hour and ten tree branches later to exact her plan and accomplish her demonic goal!
With a river of tears flowing down his face, Bobby instantly got amnesia!
Never saw my brother-friend again.
Although I whole-heartedly believe in disciplining a child, I draw the line in using “excessive” modes and prolong punitive measures that severely injuries a child or borders on abuse. Also, reprehensible to me is the accompaniment of various and dangerous objects used during the correction of the behavior.
In my case, what I desired and deserved the most was “excessive” LOVE!
