The Same Argument

aww ~ june 16, 2010
non-subject: "the same argument"
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The Same Argument. I draw a blank. I don't like arguing.

My father had such an anger streak, before the accident that left him to live his last 13 years as a quadriplegic.

When I was little, his face would turn fire red. His neck stretched tight and thick with ripples. I don't recall what he would get so mad about as the words, "God damn it to hell!" would spew forth uncontrollably. His voice, a bass tone, that on Sunday mornings would sing with the gospel quartets on the TV. He watched them most every Sunday. Our family mainly attended church only at Christmas and Easter, along with Camp Meetings in August. Our family didn't spend much time together.

I was scared of Dad, though I don't recall with clear memories as to why. Other than his red face, the bulging neck veins, the too-often-shouted "God damn it to hell!" and the fear that he'd walk around naked in front of my friends when they were visiting. Mom said his anger streak came from his Indian blood.

When I was around 6 years old, I stood in the living room gazing out the window, staring at Dad in the front yard as he practiced his golf swing, praying he would die. "I hate you," is all I could think. But I don't recall why.

I lived in my cocoon, my world of ponies. Ponies were safe.

Dynamite was my first pony, a grayish white Shetland who much preferred grazing to being directed by a bridle. Princess was my second pony; larger than Dynamite, female instead of male, chestnut with a blond mane. She liked to trot. Black Eagle was my third; black coat and mane with white socks, the size of a Welsh pony, larger than Princess. Black Eagle had a wild streak; but not as wild as Mary Jane, the horse I was riding and breaking in when I broke my arm after I fell off as she panicked, frantically galloping to escape the mini-bikes that had spooked her.

Mr. Phillips, our family neighbor, came to my rescue. I had a crush on Mr. Phillips. I was 10 years old. He used to take me riding on his motorcycle.

Ponies were safe.

When the Phillip's moved in next door, I was around five years old. I watched their house being built. Brick and sand and big machines. I watched a lot of homes as they were built in our neighborhood. New, modern houses. Not like our house that was left over from the 1930's.

There was Mrs. Phillips, a school teacher. Mr. Phillips, a city politician and banker. And their two sons; the younger was my age. After they first moved in, the big folks were sitting in lawn chairs discussing stuff big people discuss. I was standing with the younger Phillips boy. I decided I didn't like him; he was a sissy. I was tough, a tomboy.

To let him know my distaste for him, I scratched his face with my fingernails. I recall using my right hand pulling my nails down his face and drawing blood. For some reason, I felt he deserved it. He was weaker than me.

Surely I got in trouble for such a deed, but I don't recall that part.

I used to tear up my toys. My mother later told me that I had horrible temper-tantrums, that she didn't know what to do with me. At some point I grew out of them. I don't recall tearing up anymore toys after I was around six years old.

A few years ago, at age 48, I learned for the first time that Dad used to beat my sister with a belt. Her last beating was when she was 17; I would have been 10. He beat her for using his razor to shave her legs before the high school prom. He beat her in front of one of her friends. She didn't make it to the prom.