The Power of Testimony

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There wasn’t a single daywhen Mom and Dad didn’t loathe their
moldy trailer, but it was their only option, year after year. It was already
a pit when Grandma Jean bought it for them—​ it had electricity at least,
but no running water—​and adding one, two, and then three children
didn’t improve it. Neither did Dad’s habit of burning through whatever
meager pay he earned. Dad was working a string of dead-​end, nonunion
jobs, then cashing his checks so he could treat himself to dinner and a
movie. When he got fired from one job—​for lying about his qualifications,
for insulting his boss, for bringing a pistol to work and threatening
someone—​ he’d just move on to the next.
Mom, meanwhile, was in survival mode. Besides scrounging food,
lugging water, washing diapers by hand, and trying to keep track of us
kids, she had her husband to care for. Since he was out winning bread,
he expected Mom to keep him clothed and fed. He made rules on the
fly, which she was expected to follow—​no matter how unreasonable—​or
face the consequences.
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