ESL a/s/l?
a WIP multimedia project—
::: RUNNING INTO A DOOR :::
One morning in 3rd grade, I was having breakfast before school when the bus drove past the front of the house. This was my queue and I had five minutes to catch my ride as it circled the neighborhood to my stop. I was a slow eater and was still chomping on my cereal. Mom knew I’d miss the bus if I continued at my current pace, and this aggravated her so much that she rammed her hand at and into my mouth, two fingers straight out like a bulimic making themself throw up. I feel her long nails digging into my throat. I gag and hyperventilate, coughing up what I have in my mouth. I start crying.
Mom: SHUT UP!
SHUT UP!!
EAT FASTER!!
She slaps me across my face, her long nails slice my skin and leave a gash that bleeds instantly an inch below my eye. Wet chunks of food sputtered from my mouth onto the table and my clothes. I think my dad is in the other room looking out the window to confirm the bus had driven away. I clean the mess off my face, or maybe my dad does, and he takes me to school. I don’t think we said anything on the car ride over, and in the uncomfortable silence, I stare out the window at the flatlands of sun-kissed cornfields, hating myself for not being a faster eater. Relieved to be carted away from her searing energy, it saddens and angers me now that my dad didn’t intervene while it was all happening. I realized I had to learn how to fight my own battles.
I arrive at school 45 minutes late. As I walk into the classroom of about 20 students in my metallic jewel-toned sweater and black stirrup pants, I notice my classmate Justin’s eyes following me. I use it as a cry-for-help opportunity. I plop into my seat and look despondently at my desk.
Justin: What’s the matter with you?
Me: (I look up at him.) I ran into a door.
Justin: Got it.
In my recollection, he swiftly asks the teacher if he can be dismissed from class. I know he went straight to Mrs. Gambaro, the guidance counselor who once taught us that if a classmate tells you they “Ran into a door,” it was code for getting physically abused. Justin and I both remembered this important lesson and had it not been for him, I probably would’ve endured much more physical violence from my mom during the remaining 15 years I lived at home. I don’t think I originally had a clear plan for reporting her, but this was my chance to fight back without literally having to fight back — by leveraging the help of an observant classmate. Sadly, Justin was probably attuned to my energy because I later discovered he was regularly abused by his alcoholic dad. There wasn’t a specific incident where I could’ve saved him as he saved me.
I get dropped off by the bus after school at 3:45 PM and see an unfamiliar car parked in our driveway. “It must be the social worker,” I thought. I scurried to the side of our suburban, two-story white house and hid in the bushes. My dad comes out and finds me, brings me into the kitchen, and sits me down at the table where the social worker, my mom, and my dad are seated. The person from Child Protective Services was a white male dressed in a dusty blue V-neck sweater with a button-down shirt underneath. He exuded warmth and sternness at the same time. I’m simultaneously nervous and excited by his presence because this meeting could go either way: my mom will beat the sh*t out of me after he leaves, or this tall white American man with authority will scare her off and I can focus on just being a kid. He could be the intervention between me and my scary mother. He likely tells her that legal action would ensue if the physical abuse continues. I reveled in the soft power I had, using my psychological tactics vs. physical to fight back. My mom rarely hit me again after that (Maybe she felt ashamed? Scared of who else I’d tell?), save for one major episode.
I don’t recall my siblings being home at the time. I’ve asked if they remember, and they don’t. My sister was 20 years old and was likely working on campus for the school paper, the Badger Herald. My brother was 22 and probably in class or with his college friend Raymond. Feeling guarded and ashamed, I don’t think I had anyone to talk to back then. I’m not sure I was even old enough to have the insight to reach out to anyone — what would I even say? Unless someone asked about the cut on my face (which they never did), I probably would’ve kept it to myself if it weren’t for Justin.