Part 7 - A Bonding Moment
The same year we got Beauty, which was, of course, also the year I was sexually abused and had four boys chasing after me, my dad and I had an unusual experience. At least, unusual for us. My dad is a nice guy. Soft spoken, tender hearted, and unsure how to connect emotionally with his children, he nevertheless tried his best to be a good father to us. Through all of the abuse my mom aimed at him, he still stuck around, though I'm not entirely sure why. Often, after a hard day's work at whatever job he happened to have at the time, he would come home only to be yelled at, hit, and belittled by his wife and even his children. Sometimes my mom forced us to say bad things to our dad, such as calling him lazy and a jerk, and telling him he never provided for our family. But he tried. And he knew we didn't mean those things. After all, he knew my mom. He married her.
One day while living in our Ozark hills house, I came home from school and made my way down the long driveway, noting that my dad must be gone, since the car wasn't there. Back then, we had two cars. My dad drove one, and my mom the other. My dad's was a tiny Fiesta, but if I remember right, one that was in good condition. On this particular day I entered the house to find my dad sitting silently on the stairs leading from the entryway up to the living area. I could tell by his demeanor something was wrong. I asked where the car was, and I'll never forget his simple reply: "I wrecked it."
In that moment, in the fearful anticipation of my mom's reaction, my dad and I connected in a way that rarely, if ever, happened after that point. I remember looking at him for a split second, then falling into his arms as he held me and we both wept. I don't know how to describe the bond we felt at that moment, but we somehow related to each other. We knew my mom, his wife, would be angry, that she would yell, and that she would most likely begin to hit him again. We knew he hadn't wrecked that car on purpose, but we also knew that wouldn't matter to my mom. In her eyes, he was a failure. We both were. In her eyes, we deserved whatever abuse she decided to dish out upon our already overloaded shoulders. In her eyes, only her views were correct, and only she mattered. In those few moments as my dad held me, we wept, and in so doing we silently acknowledged one another's pain. We acknowledged, albeit wordlessly, the abuse we both knew was happening at home, and we acknowledged that neither of us could talk about it. We wept, we bonded, and then we went on about our lives as if it were all normal. There was nothing else we could do.
One day while living in our Ozark hills house, I came home from school and made my way down the long driveway, noting that my dad must be gone, since the car wasn't there. Back then, we had two cars. My dad drove one, and my mom the other. My dad's was a tiny Fiesta, but if I remember right, one that was in good condition. On this particular day I entered the house to find my dad sitting silently on the stairs leading from the entryway up to the living area. I could tell by his demeanor something was wrong. I asked where the car was, and I'll never forget his simple reply: "I wrecked it."
In that moment, in the fearful anticipation of my mom's reaction, my dad and I connected in a way that rarely, if ever, happened after that point. I remember looking at him for a split second, then falling into his arms as he held me and we both wept. I don't know how to describe the bond we felt at that moment, but we somehow related to each other. We knew my mom, his wife, would be angry, that she would yell, and that she would most likely begin to hit him again. We knew he hadn't wrecked that car on purpose, but we also knew that wouldn't matter to my mom. In her eyes, he was a failure. We both were. In her eyes, we deserved whatever abuse she decided to dish out upon our already overloaded shoulders. In her eyes, only her views were correct, and only she mattered. In those few moments as my dad held me, we wept, and in so doing we silently acknowledged one another's pain. We acknowledged, albeit wordlessly, the abuse we both knew was happening at home, and we acknowledged that neither of us could talk about it. We wept, we bonded, and then we went on about our lives as if it were all normal. There was nothing else we could do.
posted by Brooke | 11:19 PM
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