-A Lie
I decided to focus on family, choosing to believe and have faith that everything else would fall into place. I wasn't comfortable-or good-at lying to her.
So, when Samantha surprised me one day by swallowing her pride and asking directly if a...
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I grew up in a family of seven and am second to the youngest of five children. I followed the worn path, with intermittent surges of individuality. Household chores dutifully performed and school assignments lethargically completed, as I daydreamed my way through life.
I gave up on a long-term commitment to Scouting. I quit as a Life Scout, one merit badge and project short of earning an Eagle status, and broke nearly every by-law along that journey. Somehow I achieved decent grades as endured long-gone school years riddled with adolescent angst and insecurity. I put forth a subpar effort in sports, as I was a late-bloomer and didn't develop a competitive nature until after graduating high school.
My family attended mass each Sunday. Memories of that 1-hour weekly event consists mainly of repetitive movements (stand, sit, kneel), and memorized phrases. Occasionally, the monotony was interrupted by moments of hilarity that were in reaction to a dropped hymnbook, a burp or fart, or some other inadvertent noise made by one of us kids. The disruptive sound stood out in contrast to the low tones of well-rehearsed passages performed in unison. What followed afterward was a scene of visibly shaking little bodies that somehow, superhumanly, held back laughter.
My father attempted to terminate with a sideways glance of warning, so as to avoid an eruption of full-blown giggles. Not often, but at times, when not heeding his warning, he liberated us from the chapel. I remember one time being brought outside, and after given the choice of a low-hanging thin branch, was treated to a mild switching. A punishment administered without force, performed mostly for effect.
As I got older and wilder though, the corporal punishments became more intense and frequent. On occasion were used belts, hangers, hot wheel tracks, and a section of garden hose. Once, he used a short piece of PVC pipe; vividly recalled were the raised welts on the back of my exposed thighs. It was a punishment received for disregarding his warning to not get the freshly varnished front door wet.
The last time he hit me I was in the tenth grade. I remember the specific year because the altercation happened before school, and as a result, I missed out on a scheduled field trip for Biology class. My mom was upset with me from the night before, and served as fuel to his anger. He worked appointments in the evenings and my mom was left handling us kids. As I recall, I wanted to go out with friends the night before and was denied permission. I must have fought her hard on the decision, as she thought I defied her authority and left the house. In actuality, I went to my room and never left. She must have stayed up half the night waiting for me, eventually falling asleep before my father's return. I was surprised the next morning when he confronted me downstairs. I don't remember his words, but before I could respond, I was reeling from a punch to the face. My brother Mike heard the commotion and came to my defense, yelling out that I had been home all night.
It's not the violence that's memorable. I'll never forget being alone with him in the car that morning, watching as the biology boat shrank into the distance, and seeing the tears on his face. Before then, I had never seen my father cry.
