10:} The Day I 'Almost' Hit Her

I remember...
having a mug of coffee at the table while
looking up in total and utter disbelief at the
small tapestry hanging next to the kitchen clock.
There was a drawing of a young girl in a pink dress.
And a little boy wearing a cap, jacket & shorts.
They beamed happiness and contentment.
Some other children must have been
the intended subjects, because
its positive message had
never been revealed
to any of us
growing
up...



Instead of
showing us to love
and care for each other,
we all grew up divided and
emotionally apart. I don’t believe
she ever read past the first seven lines.
This was the day I ‘almost hit' my mother.
As was usual, she had been belittling me
while denigrating my future. I forget the
particulars but that mean, broad snarl
on her face highlighted baseness
as foundation of character.
It was spring in 1977.
Cherokee Street
would soon,
thankfully,
produce
no more
memories
for any of us.
I was imbued in
self-descriptors by rote;
'moron, glom, idiot, lazy, stupid,'
and many, more-demeaning humiliations...

Her snarls rapidly spurt hate-filled venom with
deadly aim. From all around the kitchen looms the
menace of back-handed slaps. Arms bend high with
each vicious curse of disgust to choke off my personal
space. I should not cower in fear of someone who is no
longer bigger than me. It strikes me how she might
feel on the receiving end of intimidation and I
stand to re-enact the threatened slap of a
few moments before. Crocodile tears
flow sparkles of shock down a
distorted, reddening face
that howls for help
as if a banshee
has come
for her!

No
one
responds.
She dashes
to the phone
to call my aunts
who are just around
the corner and 6 houses away.
In one of the most outstanding performances
I have ever witnessed, she cries like a 911
caller to report the most terrible event
ever witnessed in their whole life,
bawling into the phone that I
just 'almost' hit her and
would they hurry
quickly to
protect
her...
from
me!

Arriving
in emergent response
but a few moments later,
fists lightly beat upon my chest.
My grandmother calls me a big bully.
Three aunts demand how dare I
raise a finger to my
poor mother and
that I should
be ashamed
at having
done
so!

I
realize
without a doubt
she has exacted a most
grievous revenge upon me.
At the maddening crowd I shout
I had never even tried to hit her,
then silently plead 'no contest' to
my inner judge and jury as the
angry mob's gathering faces
reveal not a one would
believe a single word
I spoke from that
moment
on.

I
turn and
walk from the
world in which such
impossible realities
can plague my
existence
every
day...


This is the poem from the tapestry:

Children Learn What They Live

If a child lives with criticism, he learns to condemn.
If a child lives with hostility, he learns to fight.
If a child lives with fear, he learns to be apprehensive.
If a child lives with pity, he learns to feel sorry for himself.
If a child lives with ridicule, he learns to feel shy.
If a child lives with jealousy, he learns to feel envy.
If a child lives with shame, he learns to feel guilty.

If a child lives with encouragement, he learns confidence.
If a child lives with tolerance, he learns patience.
If a child lives with praise, he learns appreciation.
If a child lives with acceptance, he learns to love.
If a child lives with approval, he learns to like himself.
If a child lives with recognition, he learns it is good to have a goal.
If a child lives with sharing, he learns generosity.
If a child lives with honesty, he learns truthfulness.
If a child lives with fairness, he learns justice.
If a child lives with kindness and consideration, he learns respect.
If a child lives with security, he learns to have faith in himself and those about him.
If a child lives with friendliness, he learns the world is a nice place in which to live.

By Dorothy Law Nolte, 1972