Soul Mosaic

If my parents didn’t have a fight on a Saturday, it would happen on Sunday, right after church. But then, right after church, I was fair game too. Especially the Sunday I declared my support for birth control, after the priest’s sermon that day demonized it. While my courage to stand up for my beliefs was admirable, you’d think I would have learned by then to just keep my mouth shut.

But it didn’t really matter what the trigger was. There would be a nasty fight on one of the weekend mornings, and after church was as good a time as any. He was miserable first thing in the morning on most days. Add to that having to dress up and go to Mass, and that only worsened his temperament.

Whatever the fight, it would end up with them in the bathroom and me at my bedroom wall listening to make sure he didn’t kill her this time. After the battle, he would storm out of the house, get in the car, and tear out of the driveway. That left our house in relative quiet while he was gone, except for the sounds of sobs or blowing noses. It was the stillness after a storm, like when the skies have unleashed their worst and now, energy depleted, they have nothing left to hurl at you.

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On the bad Saturdays, there wasn’t usually much time for a respite. It was enough to just crawl into bed on Saturdays and try to get lost in daydreams under the covers until sleep overtook me.

There was no question that Dad was going to make me pay for “Doughnut morning rejections” and “Late movie avoidances.” Before Sunday Mass, he wouldn’t look at me or talk to me, the usual “silent treatment.” He would be personable with everyone we met there, but always avoided any eye contact with me.

Once we got home, he would start in with his barrage of questions — looking for something I did, or didn’t do, so he could start the fight. One time, it was the fact that I wore a sweater too short for me to church that morning. To him, that would be an affront and make him look bad to everyone else. It was like saying he wasn’t a good enough provider, and his family couldn’t dress properly.

That particular Sunday, we got in the house, and he literally ripped the sweater off my back and started yelling, and of course, coming at me. Mom ran interference, and I hid in my room. But eventually, once we had our big Sunday meal at noon, there would be no avoiding him.

He would fire questions at me. Glare at me across the table. I could barely eat, but I had to, or he would yell at me for that. I was so nervous, I could barely choke down my food. But the worst was yet to come.

After the meal and dishes were done, I would make a beeline for my room and bury myself at my desk. My hope was that if he saw me diligently at work on my homework for school, he would leave me alone. But that was a useless wish. On “payback Sundays,” nothing was going to stop him.

As I tried to concentrate, I’d hear his footsteps coming down the hall and stop outside my room. He would stand in the doorway and start peppering me with questions, or barking orders about something he wanted to see done the next week. Or he would just keep attacking me over some small infraction and not let it drop. My nerves were like elastic bands stretched out too far. After a few minutes of this, he would walk away.

I would just start to calm down when I’d hear him returning. Again and again we went through rounds of this, each time my nerves fraying more. Finally, he would decide it was time to escalate the situation, and he would come into my room. He’d whip open the closet door and start yelling about the mess in there with all of our shoes and toys.

Given that we only had two closets in the whole house, it was hard to store everything in there neatly. And since that closet was in my room, it was my fault if it wasn’t neat enough.

As he yelled at me, he was also grabbing toy boxes, shoes, clothes, everything in there, and flinging it out on the floor. Then he would storm over to my bureau, again guaranteed to be a mess.

Yanking drawers open, he would pull them out and empty everything onto my bed. He was in full Navy-inspection mode. It was one of his standard terror tactics, and he could always count on it to totally freak me out. I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare say anything. I just stood there and waited until he emptied everything. Then, like a military commander, he would bark at me to put everything back and make it neat.

And of course, that meant he would be able to return several more times. Some of his visits were to yell that I was being too slow, and others to inspect whether I did a good enough job.

By this point, I was an emotional disaster…on the inside. I cannot find the words that capture just how much a person’s nerves can shake on the inside and how tightly coiled they can get from repeated rounds of this emotional battering. But I just had to deal with it and not show any emotions. For sure, I definitely better not cry, look angry, or say anything. I was just supposed to take it – tough and stone-faced, no matter what I was feeling underneath.

Finally, at some point in the afternoon, after several rounds of him verbally and emotionally beating on me, my mother would finally say something like, “Why are you acting like this?”

She never said, “Why are you doing this to her?” She never said anything about me at all.

But once she had said that, he would finally leave me alone and retreat to his office.

By that point, my nerves were jelly. I was nothing but a quivering mess inside. I so wanted my mother to come over, to check on me. To see how I was, or if I was okay. I could even understand if she was afraid to say much to me. But I longed for just a glance from her, a smile, a look of concern. Anything. But no one came near me. She just stayed in the kitchen, a turned back.

One of the worst payback Sundays was July 20, 1969…the Apollo 11 Moon Landing night. The day had been pure hell. Rounds of verbal and mental abuse. But since it was summer, I didn’t even have homework I could pretend to be doing. And worse, since the astronauts landed on the moon that afternoon, that meant that instead of going to bed on time and finally getting a reprieve from him, we would be up later to watch them take their first steps on the moon.

While July 20th, 1969, was a landmark event for millions of people around the world, all I wanted was to be released so I could escape to my room. That one small step couldn’t come fast enough for me. A part of me realized that I should be feeling the awe and amazement of the moment. But the rest of me just couldn’t wait for that damned step to be over so I could just go to bed.

TRIGGER ALERT – Depictions of abuse. Please be aware.

Saturdays – The mixed bag

Saturdays. They were all over the place in terms of what went on.

The “normal” ones

There were actually some relatively “normal” Saturdays, such as the ones where we headed out on one of those family day-trips, or out of town to do clothes shopping or bulk meat purchases. Some Saturdays, there were no fights, but this was rare. If it weren’t Saturday, then the fight would be on Sunday.

Sometimes we didn’t go anywhere but did chores. Or when we were young, the exciting thing was to accompany my dad and my grandfather to the dump…the 1960s name for a landfill. That was always exotic to drive out to the southern edge of town, get in line, and wind slowly up to the top of that hill, then be directed to back up into a wall of garbage, trash, and broken items. We weren’t allowed out of the car, and the place reeked, but still, it was fascinating to a young child.

Other times, Dad would decide it was a good day to try to teach our pet parakeet tricks. In a normal household, this might seem like a fun idea. It never was. First of all, our parakeet was terrified of Dad. Whenever he walked in the house, the bird would freak out, squawk, and fly into the sides of the cage. So Dad taking the bird into the bathroom to learn new tricks usually resulted in him getting more impatient and angry, and the bird screeching and flying into the walls

Afternoons could be calm on a “good-mood-day” for Dad. Especially in the summer, with the windows open and a breeze flowing through our apartment. He’d play his usual *Victory at Sea* or *Herb Alpert* record albums, and life would be relaxed. And the evenings sometimes included board or card games. Those days were the ones we lived for and savored. Those were the ones that made the others seem like a bad dream that would never come back.

Always, the weirdness…

But still, even on the good days, weirdness showed up.

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TRIGGER ALERT – Reference to child sexual abuse

The back door closed, and the key turned in the lock. I bolted awake.

“God, no!” I’d overslept, and she was leaving.

It was Saturday morning. Mom would often go to a small local bakery — Baggish Bakery — to get fresh doughnuts for breakfast. Baggish was one of those old-time privately owned bakeries, not a chain, and they made the best poppy-seed rolls, crusty rye bread, sliced fresh, and…wonderful doughnuts.

I tried ALWAYS to be up in time to go with her. I risked his anger when I did this because he made it clear he wanted me available. But it was still better than the anger I encountered when I refused his approaches. The consequences for that were dangerous. So I tried desperately to wake up early and go with her. But sometimes, like this day, she was just too quiet.

Grabbing my clothes, I scrambled, but it was too late. The car pulled out of the driveway.

I froze. It would be a good twenty minutes before she’d get back with the doughnuts. I was an open target. My only hope was that he was still asleep.

On tiptoes, I stretched across the room toward my bed, almost in slow motion. Without a sound, I slipped under the covers.

Bare feet slapped against the linoleum floor in the other room and approached.

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So many nights, especially in the summer, if it was Dad’s week to work 2nd shift, I loved to stare out of my bedroom window. I knew Mom was asleep on the couch as she watched TV. 

So, I would crawl out of bed, shut the door, and just curl up against my open bedroom window. Even on the hot days, there was usually a cool breeze at night. And often the smell of fresh-cut grass would waft inside.

The shaded living room windows of the house next door glowed a dim yellow. And through the darkness, I could see the various houses that backed up to our yard. A few windows here and there were lit up behind their curtains. But there was one house in particular I always looked for.

It was at the far end of our neighbor’s yard, sitting atop a retaining wall. The house faced the next street over, but I could see its back windows, and in particular, one small window on the second floor. It was probably a kitchen or pantry window, given its size. But the special thing about it was that it was always bathed in a soft purple light. I loved that window and would stare deeply into the peacefulness of that glow.

I think it was a plant light, as I could make out some racks and what looked like trays of plants in the window. It would make sense, then, that the light might glow at the same time every night for them. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. I only know that I would stare into that purple light for a long time, and just get lost in it.

I LOVED its tranquility. Soaking up its calming effect, I wondered who lived there and what they were like. I wondered about the world on the other side of that purple light, and dreamt up all kinds of ideas for what it would be like to live in that house.

On those nights, it was my respite. My moment of peace and escape to another world, far, far from my chaos. Even now, whenever I see one of those purple lights somewhere at night, it stops me in my tracks and floods me with a sense of calm, peace, and serenity.

And then, there were the second-shift nights. Dad’s work schedule was such that one week he worked the day shift and the next week he’d work the second shift. Frankly, I loved those weeks.

If it were summer, we just had to deal with Dad being around until 1:30. That’s when he left for work, and we wouldn’t see him until the next morning.

If it were the school year, he would be asleep when we left for school. We’d say a quick good-bye, and that would be it until the next morning. Basically, during those weeks, we really didn’t see much of him until the weekend because of our school schedule.

And I made sure that unless I was dying, I didn’t stay home sick on the weeks he was on second shift. I only made that mistake once. He would be grumpy as usual when he got up, and then would start asking why you stayed home, and what you were doing to get better. After all, this was the person who, after I’d just finished throwing up, would tell me to go eat so I could get better quicker.

What were some of the nice things about second-shift weeks?

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I’m going to take a moment here to catch my breath. The last few entries have been intense. So it’s time for a Moment of Respite. Just as I would seek out back then.

One of my favorite discoveries was in our bathroom at night. During the day, the bathroom could be moments of fear with Dad and Mom’s fights. But at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would find peace in my own world.

Have you ever had one of those simple green night-lights? They’re nothing special and very inexpensive. You just plug them in and forget them. When the room is dark, they’ll emit a subtle, green glow, just enough to keep you from walking into a wall or stubbing your toe on a door. And I find myself deeply at peace in its presence.

So many times when I was young, especially after those rough days, I would lie awake, unable to sleep. Sometimes I would duck under my blankets with a flashlight to read. Other times, I would conjure up imaginary adventures, dreaming I was off in some faraway land on a heroic journey.

But eventually, when the house grew silent and I knew everyone was asleep, I would pad into the bathroom. Without a sound, I’d shut the door so no one would bother me.

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TRIGGER ALERT – Please be aware that this post discusses violent outbursts.

Dirty-look duels

Supper could go in two directions, and neither was in my favor.

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When Dad came in the house, it was expected that we would be there ready to greet him. Lined up by the door, we were his adoring family, welcoming him back from the day’s battles, I guess. It was a small price to pay, though, if it meant a peaceful evening. But it wasn’t over yet.

While he went to change from his office clothes, my mother would be finishing up at the stove, and the rest of us were supposed to be setting the food on the table. If he was in a bad mood, this was especially critical so as to keep things from deteriorating. So for sure, it was all hands on deck, and I stayed in the kitchen. Too many nights, I’d be in the line of fire soon enough. No point in risking it any sooner than necessary.

If he was in a good mood, I still wasn’t off the hook, though. He would start chatting and expect me to accompany him to his bedroom while he changed. I was torn. Of course, I was supposed to help Mom, and I knew it…and wanted to. But I also knew that if he expected me to be with him, I had better follow, at least for a few minutes. If I didn’t, he would take offense, get angry, and then the night would still go badly. So, forced to choose between what Mom wanted and what Dad wanted, even as I wanted to choose Mom, it had to be Dad. The repercussions of choosing her over him were too dire.

But that didn’t mean I went unscathed. For the days I followed him and fulfilled what he expected, I faced her wrath when I returned to the kitchen. As soon as I walked in, her eyes shot laser beams at me across the room. I hated it. I felt like such garbage. But it was survival to me.

She never said a word to him, like telling him I should be helping her. And she never said a word out loud to me either. I don’t think she dared. But she made her fury clear to me — her look said it all.

So supper was almost always the duel of the dirty looks — my family’s name for angry glances. I was going to get them from one parent or the other, and it just came down to which one did I risk on any given day.

Did you practice your accordion today?

On the days he was in a bad mood, I had to be prepared for his questions fired at me like bullets.

“Did you polish my shoes like I asked you to?”

“Did you do the report I told you to?”

“Did you ….” and at this point, insert any number of things. He always seemed to have a perfect sense for the very thing I hadn’t accomplished. It didn’t matter if I did all the other chores. He didn’t ask about those. He’d always zero in on the one thing I hadn’t done yet, and then hell would start.

And the worst of those questions was: “Did you practice your accordion today?”

Up the street from us was a small music shop. So many times walking by it, I would stop and peek through the window at whoever was having their lesson. That accordion — odd and unwieldy — fascinated me. I just wanted to be able to fly my fingers across the panel of buttons on one side as my other hand picked at the keyboard. Never mind that I was barely big enough to hold the thing. But still, it became an obsession…and my doom.

For one, while music, songs, and lyrics speak to my soul to this day, I am NOT a musician. Appreciating music, feeling my soul respond to its call, is a very different thing from “delivering it” on an instrument. So, being a typical kid, I avoided practicing. And it didn’t help that the music teacher spent my entire lesson running his real estate business on the phone. He didn’t care that I didn’t practice. And I was relieved to be off the hook. Until supper-time.

I don’t blame my father for being frustrated with me and my lack of progress. But the usual parent approach would have been to just issue the ultimatum: “If you aren’t practicing, then we’re going to stop the lessons.” That would have made the most sense.

And that would eventually happen once a new teacher took over for my lessons and realized how far behind I was. At that point, my father, rightly so, stopped wasting his hard-earned money and put an end to them. I was grateful. While I loved the art lessons he sent us to and I would have done that every day if I could, music was just a setup for trauma for both of us.

Anyway, on the bad-mood nights, we would sit at the table, say our blessing, and then begin eating in silence. I used to sit right next to him at the table, but I learned quickly it was safer to sit at the other end, with my mother between us…which, in so many ways, was the nature of how the three of us would relate all our lives.

A few minutes into the meal, with only the sounds of chewing and forks hitting plates, the questions would start. It was like an interrogation. I prayed for something I could say yes to, or something I had succeeded in that day at school.

But on his worst nights, that was never the case. And I think my father always picked the accordion question because that was an almost always guaranteed “no,” and one he could use to start a fight.

“Why didn’t you practice?”

“I…just didn’t have time.”

“You NEVER have time!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I..”

“Why didn’t you have time?”

“I…I don’t know…I uh…my homework…”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW?!

The questions came fast. His voice got louder. And each word was delivered like a punch.

“What the hell’s the matter with you! IF YOU AREN’T GOING TO PRACTICE…”

At this point, his eyes burned into me like lasers.

My supper stuck in my throat. I felt like vomiting.

He continued to yell.

My hands gripped the edge of the table while my eyes never left his face. It was critical that I be ready to move if this got any worse.

Then, it came. He stopped eating, and almost in slow motion, the rage response began.

He’d tilt his head to the side and lower it, like a bull ready to charge. His mouth twisted into that thin line pulled to the side, and his jaw jutted out as he gritted his teeth.

Suddenly, he’d stand upright, kick his chair backwards, and start toward me.

I didn’t wait another second. I bolted for my usual escape route to my bedroom right next to the stove. It was always a race to see if I could get to it before he could round the table and push past Mom.

She would try to block him.

Sometimes I would make it. But not always. Sometimes he got to me before I could get away.

In that moment, he’d grab me by the shirt with his balled fist shoved up into my throat and push me up against the wall.

My head would snap back and hit the wall as his fist hit my jaw. Grabbing my shirt, he tightened his grip until I started to choke. Sometimes my feet weren’t even on the floor. I just hung there, his hand gripping my throat.

Mom would be yelling, “Hon, stop! Hon, stop it! STOP IT, HON!!!’  

Back then, I never noticed the irony of her calling him “Hon,” – short for “Honey” – as he was beating her child. I never noticed much of anything except maybe someone running out of the room, and my mother trying to pull him off of me.

“What’s the matter with you??!” she’d yell at him.

Sometimes she had to push him back several times because he kept coming at me. I could always tell how angry he was by how many times he tried to get at me.

To avoid his fist and try to breathe, I remember flattening myself against the wall. I was never sure he would stop choking me in time.

If I could capture what he was to me in that moment, it was a “rage monster.” One minute, he was Dad, the next, he was this out-of-control twisted face vomiting rage at me like a monster.

Finally, Mom would succeed in pulling him away. Panting like that charging bull, he would finally just yell, “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY SIGHT,” and I did. 

These moments were more frequent than I’d like to think. From a young age through adulthood. And he didn’t just focus on me — Mom sure got her fair share in that bathroom…and she didn’t have anyone there to pull him off of her.

But I was his frequent target since I was the oldest. There was something about his associating us both being eldest children, with that inner fury he pummeled me with. In those moments, in those eyes, he was someone else.

I’ve often wondered if anyone else in the house — like my Grandparents upstairs — heard these fights. Given the yelling and noise, they had to. The walls in that house weren’t very thick.

During one fight, Dad lost it and tore the shirt and left marks. We were supposed to be going upstairs after dinner to visit as my uncle, Mom’s brother who was a missionary priest in Puerto Rico, who had just come home for his summer vacation. He would stay with my grandparents when he was home.

My mother made sure to powder the marks to hide them, handed over a new shirt to put on, and told us not to say anything about this when we went upstairs.

And somehow, he always managed to switch back from the rage monster, to the charmer, while I just swallowed my terror and slapped a smile on my face.

Just like our summer days had their routine when Dad wasn’t around, school days did as well. I’ll talk more about school shortly. But for now, suffice it to say that while the days of the school year had a strict regimen, there was a brief respite period between the end of the school day and when Dad would get home.

The 2:30 bell would ring, and two by two we would exit school in an orderly manner. Then, once clear of the nun’s “jurisdiction,” we’d burst down the street, greedily sucking in the fresh air, literally and figuratively.

It was often the same group of us walking down the hill. My siblings and I, some of our friends from the neighborhood, and usually the two brothers who lived down by the corner of our road.

We were always careful to watch over the younger one. He had Cystic Fibrosis and was fragile, whereas his older brother had a robust loudness that couldn’t be easily contained. But still, he, too, had a gentle soul and worried about his brother.

On one walk home, the younger boy just passed out cold. I still remember the thud of his head against the ground, like a melon against asphalt. While we gathered around him, his brother ran full-speed down to his house, yelling for his Mom. I was grateful for his ability to scream on that day, because she came running up toward us before he’d even gotten all the way home. Fortunately, in spite of the fall, he was okay.

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