There’s a particular memory that has been playing in loop in my head the last two days. It’s no more or less astounding than any of the other normal days in that household, but it’s being persistent so I’ll share.
I would have been four or five years old, just learning my letters and how to combine them to spell the names of the people around me. Apparently one bored day I practiced my spelling on the back of the Suburban seats before completely forgetting about it and moving on to a different childhood activity. But it came back to haunt me.
That night after dinner my parents took my oldest sister K into their bedroom and shut the door. Sounds of beating soon escaped. At some point the information also escaped that she was being beaten for writing her name on the back of the car seat. I felt awful for her. After a dreadfully long time the door opened and all three players emerged laughing while looking at me. It was my turn to go in. I was so confused. I was told to confess to intentionally writing her name and therefor framing K for the inexcusable crime of permanent ink. But I didn’t remember having done anything let alone an intentional malicious act. And my father’s anger burst. Now I would be beaten first for the act, second for not stopping my parents from “beating” K despite being eleven and better capable of handling herself than me, and third for lying. Then when I was too frozen to give my father the satisfaction of wailing I was beaten harder for my silence.
How often do adults not stand up to injustice, even when they’ve had an accidental role in it? How could a toddler be expected to do what grown men often can’t?
But that’s part of the problem. I was always held to too high of standards and punished for not meeting them precisely as the adults in my life pre-planned.
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