Tough Love

Tomorrow was a big day for my 12 year old self. Dad was going to allow me to mow the grass by myself. All the other times we mowed lawns in the neighborhood, I either rode on the riding mower with him helping him shift gears, or I raked leaves and picked weeds out of the cracks that break mamas' backs. But, tomorrow he was going to let me use the push mower alone. Without supervision. He would, of course, check my work when I finished and probably do a lot of the trimming around the trees and bushes himself. But, it meant that I would make $8 instead of $4. That was like, 6 single tapes, or 1 cassette and 1 single tape, or maybe a compact disc that is on sale. (My music addiction began at a very early age)

I awoke with little to no fear. When I look back on it now, I remember feeling brave and confident that I would prove myself to my father. The day began as usual. Some breakfast of cereal (finishing the milk), some television, some time with the dog, then the yard work.

When my mother left to do some shopping at neighborhood garage and yard sales, I did have a quick pang of desperation. I wanted her to stay while I mowed the lawn just in case. In case. In case I did it wrong. IN CASE Dad flew off the handle.

Dad instructed me on how he wanted it done.

I began. I was quick. I was happy. I was certain I knew what I was doing. How difficult could a push mower be. If I missed I spot, I would neatly (in the direction of the lines dad preferred) mow back over it. He left me to my own. And I proceeded to comb through the back yard. But, he didn't leave me to my own. He was eyeing my every move from the back porch window. At first, I tried not to notice he was watching over me. I also thought once he saw me doing a satisfactory job, he would walk away and leave me be. After all, the point of me doing the lawn alone was so that father could get more done with his day. If he was planning on watching me the whole lawn then wouldn't that defeat the purpose? He continued to watch me. It sent me raging. I sensed what it must be like to become my father. I was soooo angry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg for him to trust me. Why was he still watching me with judging eyes and a condescending look on his face?

After three or four more lines in the yard, I couldn't take it. I let go of the mower and threw my hands up in the air looking right at my father in the back porch window. I threw them in the air with a non-verbal curse and an exclamation point! A second after I had done this, I knew I shouldn't have. His condescension changed immediately to rage.

I knew he was coming for me. I knew Mom wasn't home. I didn't know where to run. So, I didn't. He flew out the back door with three and four foot strides. I cowered like an ignorant puppy anticipating it's scolding. I can only imagine what I looked like at 12 years old and 4 feet 9 inches tall practically curled into a ball. He grabbed me by the back of my shirt lifting me off the ground. I remained curled up. He threw me. Far. I was tiny. He was big. My head and I landed inches from the rock landscape that encircled the large rose bush at the corner of the house. The pee sprayed out of me. It soaked my undershorts and my gym shorts leaving a damp spot on one of the stones. Now I was not only scared but embarrassed. He began kicking me violently in the rear and the back of my thighs as I attempted to crawl away from him up the back porch stairs toward some sort of furniture as a blockade or refuge. I didn't make it. He threw me over the love seat and I landed on the floor in front of it.

He peered over me. Like a monster. Like a mad dog. There was saliva in the corners of his mouth and splayed across my face getting picked up by the river of tears that was now cascading from my eyes.

He asked me if I liked this. No "Yes you do," he said. No
Yes.
Fine, yes dad, sir, I do.
LIAR!

He spit and scream. He hit and hissed.

Sissy. Faggot. Fucker. Among others.

It finally stopped. Probably less than a minute of beating that felt like hours. I stopped crying immediately. That's how he liked it and that's how he would stop. So, I learned how to stop the tears immediately. I eventually changed my shorts and wrapped them in a plastic garbage bag so that my mother wouldn't find them. So, that I wouldn't get into trouble for telling mom. So, I planned not to tell mom.

Later that night, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake (please), I pray the lord my soul to take. My rear-end began to itch and ache. I tip-toed to the bathroom and pulled my undies down below my cheeks. A web of chaos had been deposited on my rear. I couldn't tell what had happened. Was it a bruise, a stain, veins, blood vessels?

Now should I tell mom?

It's now mine and Mom's secret. She thought it best to not tell Dad either. He would only get more angry that I went to mother to tell her about it.

I still don't think he knows the lines he left on me.

Tough Love.