300 Years & Counting 1H KILLS - On The Issues Magazine

her acknowledgement could have widerimplications. How could she accept thefact thather daughter did terrible thingsto her grandchildren? It might meanshe too had been a bad mom.My teacher was another dead end.She scolded me, insisting that if only Iwatched where I was going and paidmore attention to what I was doing, Iwouldn't bang into things and bruisemyself. She kept saying what a lovelyperson my mother was: "So sweet. Sonice."She was right. My mother was nice —to our teachers, the neighbors, and,occasionally, even to our friends. Butshe was rarely nice to us.I have heard that if a dog births pupswhen her instincts for mothering areimmature or non-existent, the dog maysimply abandon her litter. Maybe mybrother and I would have been better offif my mother had deserted us, or acknowledgedshe didn't love us or couldn'tcare for us. Her truth might have savedus. But my mother couldn't face thesefeelings. Instead she seduced us with, "Ilove you. Who else is going to love youthe way I do?" Tucked in bed each nightin my lightless room, I prayed that noone ever would.The beatings ended abruptly when Iwas 12 or 13. We three were in thekitchen. My mother was chopping vegetables,my brother andl were eatingatthe counter, he in the seat closest to her,I next to him. Suddenly, brandishingthe knife, she lunged at him. My brotherducked under the counter and ran out ofthe kitchen through the door farthestfrom where she stood. He took refuge inhis room, slamming the door behindhim. She flung it open with such violencethat the brass doornob punchedthrough the hollow closet door directlybehind. I was close on her heels, tearingat her shirt tails in a vain attempt tothwart her. Using the small pool tablewhich stood in the middle of the room asa partial cover, my brother scootedaround and crouched low. Awkwardly,my mother came after him.In what seemed like slow motion, mybrother stood up and reached for thewooden cue stick. At first, like a warmupbatter, he rested the pool cue againsthis shoulder for one brief moment beforehe touched the blue chalk-stainedtip to her breastbone."Put the knife down."My mother didn't move. She seemedmesmerized.ON THE ISSUES SUMMER 1992She denied myaccount andmy memories,accusing me ofhaving anoveractiveimagination"Put that knife down."Something in my brother's voice scaredher. It scared me too. Gingerly, sheplaced the knife on the green felt table."If you ever touch us again I'll kill you.I'm going to break both ofyour arms andthen I'm going to stab you. Don't comenear us again."Afterward, I stayed out of my mother'sway as much as possible until I left herhouse for good. I had no idea where mysalvation lay but I did know that tosurvive I had to flee. Books and schoolbecame my haven. Men too. At 17, Imarried the man I fell in love with. Thetwo of us became family. It was all thefamily I wanted.From the time I became sexually activeuntil well into my late 20s, I wasextraordinarily vigilant about birth control.Just one method wouldn't do. Iused two and sometimes three differentdevices at a time because I was terrifiedof passing on my genes and my heritage.Just before my 30th birthday, myhusband, the voice of sanity on thisissue, suggested I examine the pain ofmy childhood in order to free myselffrom this fear.It made sense. But I continued tosidestep the question of motherhooduntil my body, with an agenda of itsown, flooded me with the desire for achild. Still, I shied away because I wasafraid I, too, would be an abusive mother.I tried sedating myself with work, withfood and then with alcohol. But ultimately,I knew, my past demanded attention.I know so few of the details of mymother's history. Because both her parentsworked outside the home, mymother was cared for by her great-aunt,a woman she loved and who loved herdearly. Her father, absent more oftenthan not, was the family disciplinarianalthough he didn't believe in hittingkids. When she'd exceed the limits herfolks set for her, her father would deliverexcruciatingly lengthy lectures thatmy mother found agonizing. She saidshe'd have preferred a beating. Mymother doesn't talk about her mom alot, but I too know the sting of mygrandmother's sarcasm.For as long as I've known her, mymother's been in a state of siege — anenraged woman unable to admit to thevolcanic anger churning beneath thethin veneer of her sociability. Her frenziedemotions endangered us but thereal devastation was caused by the denialof her feelings.I have other siblings. None of us escapedunscathed. My brother had hisfirst epileptic seizure at 19. Might hisepilepsy be related to the beatings abouthis head? None of us knows. None of ustalks about it.My own recovery has been painful. Myseparation from my mother did littlegood because, unconsciously I'd assimilatedher bitter legacy and her corrosiveattitude about the world. Unconsciously,I'd internalized her spirit. My mothercould wound with her fists or her wordsbut I could perpetuate her self-denial,her masochism, her martyrdom. Shewas, after all, my first role model. Fromher I learned that a woman was a second-classcitizen, slightly more valuablethan the family dog because mymother, at least, earned her keep bytending to everyone else's needs. I sawthat a woman's feelings and ideas didn'tmatter. My mother kept hers to herselfbecause no one cared enough to askwhat she thought. I watched my mothercower in the face of my father's aggressionand learned that a woman neverspoke up for herself; she wouldn't presumeto challenge a man. My father wasthe head of the household, the breadwinner,and as such, he knew best. Shetaught me that a woman didn't dareharbor hopes or dreams for herself. Whatwould be the point, since the best mymother could do would be to acceptwhatever place the men in her life, mygrandfather and father in turn, allowedher? Above all, a woman was selfless,the needs of others always came first.43