Читать книгу Sing For Me - Betsy Jiron - Страница 8

CHAPTER 1

Family

My parents split up when I was four. Mom had us on the weekdays and dad had the weekends and summers. Derren was older than I by two years and Max was two years younger. Middle Child Syndrome was definitely proven in my case.

During the week, mom was going to college and teaching at a middle school as well. We didn't get much quality time with her other than going roller skating once a week at the local rink. That was enough for me. It was fun to laugh with her.

Mom never cursed or yelled. She shook me once or twice, but I'm sure I deserved worse. I was a rotten disrespectful kid. She was always patient and loving with me.

My brothers and I definitely lived the split family life, the epitome of a broken home. Friday after school mom would pack us up for our weekends at Dad's. He worked nights so we spent a lot of time with our grandparents.

The Andrews were my mother's parents, two most amazing and supportive people I will ever know.

Their house was like a castle to me as a child. God knows I was grandpa's princess. The house was located just blocks from a private lake where I spent summers swimming and winters ice-skating. This was a very privileged community.

There were never any worries at the Andrews. My brothers and I were always safe and loved with them. Both my grandma and grandpa were well educated so reading and learning was a must. I will never forget Billy Goat's Gruff and Where the Wild Things Are. Long after, I learned to read, they both took joy in continuing to read to us.

Grandma made flash cards for math and grandpa taught me to count cards with the proper rules of Blackjack. This paid off more than once as an adult.

No one ever was yelled at, or hit at the Andrews' or got stabbed in the head with a fork for saying something stupid during dinner. Dad's punishments were completely unnecessary.

Grandpa would always let me cry. I never felt weak, worthless or small for having feelings around him. He tried for years to get me to counseling for my anger “issues”. I could not bring myself to tell him that my dad thought counseling was a “quitter's way out” and wouldn't let me. I took the quitter's way out when I was twenty-five. It saved my life.

I knew I could never tell him the extent of the misery I endured at my Dad’s. And I knew he would never ask.

It was not until my mid 20's when I finally broke down and told my grandparents of the dreaded details of my father's house. I wished I had done it over the phone. Instead, I told them in their comforting calm of the house while sitting at the table we shared birthdays and family meals. The anguish in their faces was almost unbearable. My grandfather would have given his own life for my safety.

The Trujillo’s were a completely different story a world apart from the Andrews.

Grandma Trujillo was seen and not heard. She spent most of her time in the kitchen where many Hispanic women back then were found. Grandpa Trujillo was a riot. Every beat of his heart was for his grandkids…unlike his own offspring.

My aunts and uncles were not much older than we were, so they came and went quite frequently. The Trujillo’s' consisted of three boys and two girls. The eldest was my father; then Daniel, Lance, and Jane, with the youngest and wildest Jennifer.

Lance and Jennifer wore the “bad apple” stamp, and they wore it well! Sex, drugs, and Rock N' Roll pretty much summed them up. Lance is currently incarcerated and has been off and on since I could remember. He was the most gentle and protective uncle I had. I respected him the most because he knew how to discipline me without hurting me, physically or mentally.

Jane and Daniel were the exact opposite of Lance and Jennifer. They had my dad's “too good for everyone” attitude and very unfortunate to see them as an adult, because I remember them laughing as a child.

Grandpa Trujillo would take my brothers and me to this drive-thru ice cream place and get us banana splits. I was the clumsy one, so by the time we would get home, the car and my clothes would be wearing most of my ice cream.

He was never violent with any of his grandkids. I wish I could say the same for my aunts and uncles. I had witnessed a few beatings he had dished out to his own.

I was maybe four or five at the time when I witnessed the worst, I had ever seen him do in the past. Grandpa worked third shift with my dad and uncles at the post office. It was no surprise that he was awake when Jennifer came strollin' in at all hours.

As a joke, Grandpa would turn the fire alarm on and wake the house. My grandma took it as her hint to head to the kitchen. Not this night though. Jennifer crept as quietly as she could across the creaky floors. I had fallen asleep on the couch that night. It wasn't the sound of the creaky old floors or the front door that initially woke me; it was the sound of my grandpa's heavy footsteps tearing across the living room heading straight for Jennifer.

Jennifer froze, and so did I. I tried to peak up from under my blanket just in time to see my grandpa wind his arm up like it was a baseball bat and land it to the side of her head. I felt the breeze from her body wiz past me as she hit the floor directly in front of me. The blow to my tiny aunt Jennifer (who stood all of 5'0” and not weigh 100 lbs.) hit the floor so hard and so loud; it could have woken the dead.

Jennifer did not run. Nor did she fight back. She took blow after blow and kick after kick like a 300 lb. man. I wasn't sure she would survive such a brutal attack.

I pulled the blanket slowly over my head out of fear that I would be seen. I lay there tiny and helpless. I remember thinking “If I could catch a blow in the crossfire, he would stop.”

Even after the incident with my aunt and grandpa, I never once feared him. He never laid a hand to me or my brothers. We were allowed to be as loud and uncontrollable as we pleased. Grandpa was always coming up with crazy ideas to give us money, whether it was tickling ourselves, beating up the neighbor kids, or how high we could climb the tree.

My father feared him. Even as an adult, my dad never challenged him. I did things that I should have had my ass reddened (to say the least) in front of my dad, but as long as grandpa was there, I was free and safe.

My Grandpa passed away when I was 11. Pancreatic cancer. He was 54 years old. I knew not only was my childhood over, but so was the protection from my father.

I knew nothing good was going to come out of that year. I heard endless stories of how my grandpa was a Prisoner of War in Korea for 3 years and 3 months. My father's heavy hand only became heavier, and my mom dropped the biggest ball yet. She was moving to South Carolina. This was the beginning of the end of my childhood or what was left of it.

Blind

Despite all my rage

I chose to turn the page

In hopes of a better me.

Despite all my pain

I will still dance in the rain

My mind needs a better place to be.

I could wash my hands a thousand times

but the dirt just gets deeper

the secrets get louder

and the mountains get steeper.

I'm still on my own,

The motions I’ve been going through have failed.

I'm drowning in my own blood

my demons have prevailed.