Childhood Memories

My earliest feelings about my mother were always those of fear and being abandoned. I never felt connected to her. I remember her putting me outside on the sidewalk in front of our row home. As I looked through the wooden bars of my playpen, it seems as though I was very close to the ground. Everything felt as though it towered over me. I felt small, vulnerable, and overwhelmed by helplessness, with no family members outside and me on a tiny street in North Philadelphia. Even though it was warm and sunny, I felt sad, alone, and afraid. I could see adults walking up and down the street. They seemed close, but they were out of reach. One woman walked past me every day. When I got older, I realized she was our neighbor, Mrs. Walker. Somehow I connected with her. I smiled as she walked by and waved. She walked with a limp, almost on her ankles, because of her bad feet. She was coming home from her job at the local factory. The memory of her reminded me of how much I was ignored by my own mother.

When I was five years old, my father and mother were arguing one Sunday morning because he had come home drunk the night before. My sisters and I were sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast, when my mother suddenly jumped up from her seat, grabbed the iron, took the cord, and wrapped it around his neck. She was trying her best to strangle him right before our eyes. I left my body, and I don't remember what happened next. I was scared and helpless and thought I was next, so I withdrew into my mind and became very quiet. I was careful not to be noticed. The only person I talked to was my sister, Val, who was three years older.

As far back as I can remember, I felt afraid in my parents' house. My mother was full of rage, screaming from the top of her lungs when my father came home drunk every weekend. Sometimes on Monday morning, as I was heading out to school, I would find my father sleeping in the vestibule floor. I quietly stepped over him and continued on to school. The house was always chaotic. I worked hard at staying away from my mother, but she was upset most of the time, which usually resulted in her directing her rage at me by yelling and lobbing constant criticism in my direction.

I constantly lived in my mind and daydreamed about when I would escape the madness. I began very slowly to build a deep-seated hatred for myself. I never felt comfortable in my body and felt there was something profoundly wrong with me. My mother told me every day, "You will never amount to anything, and you are just like your no-good, drunken father." This message was implanted in my brain. I thought it must be true.

Daddy disappeared every weekend. He left for work Thursday morning and did not return until Sunday night. I always worried he would not come back. When he did return, I felt relieved, but all hell would break loose. The fights would start, and I thought, This is my fault. My mother would run after my father, screaming, "motherfucker," "shit," and a lot of other words I knew were bad. I would go into my room, pull the covers over my head, and cry quietly to myself.

One day when I was five, my mother dressed me in new clothes and patent-leather shoes. She took my hand, and we walked for about twenty minutes. When we arrived at a strange building, she let go of my hand and left. I thought she had decided to leave me and never come back. There was no explanation of why I was there. She didn't sit down and tell me I was going to go to school and that this was kindergarten.

There were other small children playing outside, but all I could think of was that I had been left in the back of this big building. When we were told to come inside, there were cookies and warm milk, nap time, and playtime with drawing, coloring, and cut-outs, none of which I was interested in. I could not relax because I was distraught, thinking about never seeing my family again. My mind raced with the fear. I sat there all day lifeless, unhappy, and unsure. I had no idea what would happen to me. Kindergarten was traumatic. I thought my mother had abandoned me. I wanted to leave, but I didn't remember how to get home. Finally, at the end of the day, I saw a familiar face. Val was waiting for me outside, and all my fears slowly disappeared. It was Val's job to pick me up after school. She held my hand and walked me home. She was my saving grace, and I held on tightly. I never forgot the fear of that first day of school.

Sometime during my kindergarten year, I had my tonsils removed. Once again, my mother did not explain that I would be staying overnight in the hospital. I was left in an unfamiliar place, thinking that they were not coming back for me. At the hospital, I hid under the bed, afraid. The nurses never understood why I was always hiding. After two days, my mother came to take me home. She was mad and not happy to see me. She hailed a cab because I was still woozy from the anesthesia. She never said a word to me. When I got home, Val helped me climb the steps and remove my clothes so I could get in bed. I thought I was dying because my throat was in such extreme pain. Val brought me soup and then ice cream. She sat and talked to me. I don't remember seeing my mother the rest of the night. I was happy Val was there.

At age six, I was in the first grade and did not know how to groom my hair. My mother was sleeping, and I needed her to comb my hair. I slowly walked down the hall to her bedroom door and took a deep breath before I knocked. My mother considered her bedroom sacred ground; we were never allowed in.

I was afraid to wake her up, so I slowly opened the door and quietly asked, "Mom, can you please help me with my hair?"

She jumped up and screamed, "Get the hell out of my room, and never bother me when I am sleeping."

I was paralyzed with fear. It took a moment for me to recover from the assault. I turned around and went back to my room, tears streaming down my face. I tried to do something with my hair. I went to school unkempt and depressed.

My first-grade teacher realized I was having a hard time hearing. She moved my seat from the rear of the room to the front, and my grades improved. I also developed a speech impediment. The teacher sent a note home to my mother, explaining my symptoms. I was given a speech therapist at school, and my mother took me to see the ear, nose, and throat (ENT) doctor. We caught the bus together to get to the doctor's office. I was not excited about spending one-on-one time with my mother. She was cold and distant and seemed angry every time I was alone with her. We never spoke during the bus ride. I was examined by the ENT doctor, and it was determined I needed an operation on my ears. My mother seemed agitated with the news from the doctor. Returning on the bus, we rode for a short time, and suddenly, she got off, leaving me without any...