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........THE
FAMILIAR Vol 1, Iss 2..............................................................................................................................
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BEHIND
THE SCENES OF AN EMOTION LITERACY E-ZINE MISSION
STATEMENT THE FAMILIAR VOL. 1 ISS. 2. Missed an issue of the familiar? Click here to browse through our entire back-issue archive! |
the weak link I remember when I was little – I remember times at dinner when my father would tell stories. He would tell stories of his life, about all the stupid stuff he did and all the smart things he never did, and what marijuana brownies taste like. We would laugh so hard I thought I would puke. Dinner would sit and get cold while he told us of his glory days. Dinners were in our house 50% laughing, 30% gagging, and 20% gasping for air between outbursts of laughter, with eating somewhere in there. My father tells us about a time when he was about eight and his older brother came down and started showing off how easy it was to push around his little brother. His older brother and his buddies pushed and shoved and laughed at my father. When they were all done with him they started walking up the stairs, the corners of their eyes moist and their chests hurting from laughing to death. My dad lay on the floor, very hurt inside. My young father picked up an ice-ax and hurled it as hard as he could at the back of his retreating brother. It sailed through the air and imbedded itself in his back, sticking there like a knife thrown at a carving board. By this time, all of us would be very near rolling on the ground, slapping our fists on the floor, anything to keep our chests from bursting open. Dad would then talk about how he and his brother walked side by side to their father, who carefully removed the ice-ax and seeing that no harm but a simple but deep puncture wound, immediately commenced in teaching my father a very thorough lesson. His stories always stop there. All of his stories stopped with his father, and so did his laughter. My mother and sister would continue laughing till crying, doubled up with laughter. But me… I remember – I was in fifth grade. I was ten. On the corner, there was this little, unkempt shop with bars over the windows. My parents told me never to go in because I could get shot. But my friends went in, and so I followed even though my parents expressly forbid it. I bought a pack of Mambas, a sweet fruit chew. When I got home, my father was waiting for me. The first thing he asked me was if I had anything to tell him. I said no. I lied to my father. He asked again. I lied to him again. He told me then that my friend who had also been caught by his parents had had his parents call him. I got caught with my hand in the pot, and my father gave me the same lesson he received many times long ago. Maybe, in a few years, I’ll be able to look back at this and laugh as my dad does now about what his father did to him so long ago. I hope not, because the day I laugh about all that pain and shrug it off is the day I beat my own son myself. . . It’s strange how I feel that the closest bond I share with my father today is this, this silent and unspoken knowledge of perverse abuse. I swear, I promise I will never lay a hand on my son in violence or anger for as long as both he and I shall live. Children do not deserve to be hit or pummeled for any reason. I will do what my father and his father and father’s father could never do. In all their strength and internal hardness, they found the strength to do what they knew was wrong and hurtful. But not me. I am not as strong as they. I lack the strength to cause needless harm. I am the frail one. I am the feeble one. I am the weak link. Please click here to read Jan Hunt's article, "10 Reasons Not To Hit Your Kids."
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