October 5, 2007
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you never know what will happen if you shut up and listen to people around you…
We lived at the juice factory. My older sister took us all in, and when
we moved with her i met him at a party. Someone put their hand on my
arm and pointed to a boy across the way. “He’s your boyfriend.” I was
only ten. It entered my head that he was my boyfriend, and it stayed
there. When he walked past me, i told him he was. he said he wasn’t. he
was really almost a man at 17. He offered to ride me around on his
bike. we rode around and around, my boyfriend and i. He thought i was
tired, but i told him i wanted to ride some more. After awhile, he
asked me again “Am i really your boyfriend?” and i told him yes. I
guess then he believed it, because he came to my school and told my
little girlfriends that i couldn’t play games anymore. no jump rope for
me–i was grownup, i was his girlfriend. So i stopped playing games.
My mother raised me to get married, and that is what i did. Patricia
was born three months before i turned 15. I went from child to adult.
My children were well off. My husband had a good job, so they always
had what they wanted. But he beat me. He was like my father, and he was
a bad father. i didn’t know how to do anything on my own. if i needed
money for something i had to face the taunting “what would you need
that for?” i never knew what it was like to walk down the street and
have someone look at me like i was a woman. I lived my childhood and
adolescence with my children. We played house together and dressed up
and in those moments i got to return to what i never had. But the
moment he walked in the door, sober or not, everyone went and stayed in
their rooms. He was jealous for me. He was jealous that my children
would have more of me than he did. This was my life. Full of suffering.
He came to me and apologized, so many years later. He said he wished he
could go back and do things right, because i am a treasure most
beautiful. And after he died, i cried with saudade for the moments that
were good.
