A child called it - Bad Boy

3 – Bad Boy
My relationship with Mom drastically changed from
discipline that developed into a kind of lifestyle that grew out of
control. It became so bad at times, I had no strength to crawl
away – even if it meant saving my life.
As a small child, I probably had a voice that carried farther
than others. I also had the unfortunate luck of getting caught at
mischief, even though my brothers and I were often committing
the same “crime”. In the beginning, I was put in a corner of our
bedroom. By this time, I had become afraid of Mom. Very
afraid. I never asked her to let me come out. I would sit and wait
for one of my brothers to come into our bedroom, and have him
ask if David could come out now and play.
About this time, Mom’s behavior began to change radically.
At times while Father was away at work, she would spend the
entire day lying on the couch, dressed only in her bathrobe,
watching television. Mom got up only to go to the bathroom, get
another drink or heat leftover food.
When she yelled at us, her voice changed from the nurturing
mother to the wicked witch. Soon, the sound of Mother’s voice
began to send tremors down my spine. Even when she barked at
one of my brothers, I’d run to hide in our room, hoping she
would soon return to the couch, her drink and her TV show.
After a while, I could determine what kind of day I was going to
have by the way she dressed. I would breathe a sigh of relief
whenever I saw Mom come out of her room in a nice dress with
her face made up. On these days she always came out with a
smile.
When Mother decided that the “corner treatment” was no
longer effective, I graduated to the “mirror treatment”. In the
beginning, it was a nonotice form of punishment. Mother would
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simply grab me and smash my face against the mirror, smearing
my tearstreaked face on the slick, reflective glass. Then she
would order me to say over and over again, “I’m a bad boy! I’m
a bad boy! I’m a bad boy!” I was then forced to stand, staring
into the mirror. I would stand there with my hands locked to my
sides, weaving back and forth, dreading the moment when the
second set of television commercials aired. I knew Mother
would soon be stomping down the hall to see if my face was still
against the mirror, and to tell me what a sickening child I was.
Whenever my brothers came into the room while I was at the
mirror, they would look at me, shrug their shoulders and
continue to play – as if I were not there. At first I was jealous,
but soon I learned that they were only trying to save their own
skins.
While Father was at work, Mother would often yell and
scream while forcing my brothers and I to search the entire
house for something she had lost. The quest usually started in
the morning and lasted for hours. After a while, I was usually
sent to search in the garage which was under part of the house –
like a basement. Even there, I trembled upon hearing Mother
scream at one of my brothers.
The searches continued for months, and finally, I was the only
one singled out to look for her things. Once, I forgot what I was
looking for. When I timidly asked her what it was that I was to
find, Mother smacked me in the face. She was lying on the
couch at the time, and she didn’t even stop watching her
television show. Blood gushed from my nose and I began to cry.
Mother snatched a napkin from her table, tore a piece and
rammed it up my nose. “You know damn well what you’re
looking for!” she screamed. “Now go find it!” I scurried back
down to the basement, making sure I made enough noise to
convince Mother I was feverishly obeying her command. As
Mother’s “find the thing” became more common, I began to
fantasize that I had found her missing item. I imagined myself
marching upstairs with my prize and Mom greeting me with
hugs and kisses. My fantasy included the family living happily
ever after. But, I never found any of Mother’s lost things, and
she never let me forget that I was an incompetent loser.
As a small child, I realized Mom was as different as night and
day when Father was home from work. When Mom. fixed her
hair and put on nice clothes, she seemed more relaxed. I loved it
when Dad was home. It meant no beatings, mirror treatments or
long searches for her missing things. Father became my
protector. Whenever he went to the garage to work on a project,
I followed him. If he sat in his favorite chair to read the
newspaper, I parked myself at his feet. In the evenings, after the
dinner dishes were cleared from the table, Father would wash
them, and I would dry. I knew that as long as I stayed by his
side, no harm would come to me.
One day before he left for work, I received a dreadful shock.
After he said goodbye to Ron and Stan, he knelt down, held my
shoulders tightly and told me to be a “good boy”. Mother stood
behind him with her arms folded across her chest, and a grim
smile on her face. I looked into my father’s eyes and knew right
then that I was a “bad boy”. An icecold chill rushed through my
body. I wanted to hold on to him and never let go, but before I
could give Father a hug, he stood up, turned and walked out the
door, without saying another word.
For a short time after Father’s warning, things seemed to calm
down between Mother and I. When Dad was home, my brothers
and I played in our room or outside, until about 3:00 P.M.
Mother would then turn on the television so we could watch
cartoons. For my parents, 3:00 P.M. meant “Happy Hour”.
Father would cover the kitchen counter top with bottles of
alcohol and tall fancy glasses. He cut up lemons and limes,
placing them in small bowls beside a small jar of cherries. They
often drank from midafternoon, until my brothers and I climbed
into bed. I remember watching them dance around the kitchen to
music from the radio. They held each other close, and they
looked so happy. I thought I could bury the bad times. I was
wrong. The bad times were only beginning.
A month or two later, on a Sunday, while Father was at work,
my brothers and I were playing in our room when we heard
Mother rush down the hall, ye lling at us. Ron and Stan ran for
cover in the living room. I instantly sat down in my chair. With
both arms stretched out and raised, Mother came at me. As she
came closer and closer, I backed my chair towards the wall.
Soon, my head touched the wall. Mother’s eyes were glazed and
red, and her breath smelled of booze. I closed my eyes as the
oncoming blows began to rock me from side to side. I tried to
protect my face with my hands, but Mother would only knock
them away. Her punches seemed to last forever. Finally, I
snaked my left arm up to cover my face. As Mother grabbed my
arm, she lost her balance and staggered back a step. As she
jerked violently to regain her stability, I heard something pop,
and felt an intense pain in my shoulder and arm. The startled
look on Mother’s face told me that she had heard the sound too,
but she released her grip on my arm, and turned and walked
away as if nothing had happened. I cradled my arm as it began
to throb with pain. Before I could actually inspect my arm,
Mother summoned me to dinner.
I plopped down at a T.V. tray to try to eat. As I reached for a
glass of milk, my left arm did not respond. My fingers twitched
upon command, but my arm tingled and had become lifeless. I
looked at Mother, trying to plead with my eyes. She ignored me.
I knew something was very wrong, but I was too afraid to utter a
word. I simply sat there, staring at my tray of food. Mother
finally excused me and sent me to bed early, telling me to sleep
in the top bunk. This was unusual because I had always slept on
the bottom. Sometime near morning I finally fell asleep, with
my left arm carefully cradled in the other.
I hadn’t slept long when Mother awakened me, explaining
that I had rolled out of the top bunk during the night. She
seemed to be deeply concerned about my condition, as she drove
me to the hospital. When she told the doctor about my fall from
the top bunk bed, I could tell by the look he gave me that he
knew my injury was no accident. Again, I was too afraid to
speak up. At home, Mother made up an even more dramatic
story for Father. In the new version, Mother included her efforts
to catch me before I hit the floor. As I sat in Mother’s lap,
listening to her lie to Father, I knew my mom was sick. But my
fear kept the accident our secret. I knew if I ever told anyone,
the next “accident” would be worse.
School was a haven for me. I was thrilled to be away from
Mother. At recess I was a wild man. I blitzed through the
barkcovered playground, Looking for new, adventurous things
to do. I made friends easily and felt so happy to be at school.
One day in late spring, when I returned home from school,
Mother threw me into her bedroom. She then yelled at me,
stating I was to be held back from the first grade because I was a
bad boy. I did not understand. I knew I had more “happy face”
papers than anybody in the class. I obeyed my teacher and I felt
she liked me. But Mother continued to roar that I had shamed
the family and would be severely punished. She decided that I
was banned from watching television, forever. I was to go
without dinner and accomplish whatever chores Mother could
dream up. After another thrashing, I was sent to the garage to
stand until Mother called me to go to bed.
That summer, without warning, I was dropped off at my Aunt
Jose’s house on the way to the campsite. No one told me about
this and I could not understand why. I felt like an outcast as the
station wagon drove away, leaving me behind. I felt so sad and
hollow. I tried to run away from my aunt’s house. I wanted to
find my family, and for some strange reason, I wanted to be with
Mother. I didn’t get far, and my aunt later informed my mother
of my attempt. The next time Father worked the 24hour shift, I
paid for my sin. Mother smacked, punched and kicked me until I
crumpled to the floor. I tried to tell Mother that I had run away
because I wanted to be with her and the family. I tried to tell her
that I had missed her, but Mother refused to let me speak. I tried
once more and Mother dashed to the bathroom, snatched a bar
of soap and crammed it down my throat. After that, I was no
longer allowed to speak unless I was instructed to do so.
Returning to the first grade was really a joy. I knew the basic
lessons and was instantly dubbed the class genius. Since I was
held back, Stan and I were in the same grade. During recess, I
would go over to Stan’s firstgrade class to play. At school we
were the best of friends; however, at home, we both knew I was
not to be acknowledged.
One day I rushed home to show off a school paper. Mother
threw me into her bedroom, yelling about a letter she had
received from the North Pole. She claimed the letter said that I
was a “bad boy” and Santa would not bring me any gifts for
Christmas. Mother raged on and on, saying that I had
embarrassed the family again. I stood in a daze, as Mother
badgered me relentlessly. I felt I was living in a nightmare that
Mother had created, and I prayed she would somehow wake up.
Before Christmas that year, there were only a couple of gifts for
me under the tree, and those came from relatives outside the
immediate family. On Christmas morning, Stan dared to ask
Mother why Santa had brought me only two paintbynumber
pictures. She lectured him saying, “Santa only brings toys to
good boys and girls.” I stole a glance from Stan. There was
sorrow in his eyes, and I could tell that he understood Mother’s
freakish games. Since I was still under punishment, on
Christmas Day I had to change into my work clothes and
perform my chores. While I was cleaning the bathroom, I
overheard an argument between Mother and Father. She was
angry with him for “going behind her back” to buy me the
paintings. Mother told Father that she was in charge of
disciplining “the boy” and that he had undermined her authority
by buying the gifts. The longer Father argued his case, the
angrier she became. I could tell he had lost, and that I was
becoming more and more isolated.
A few months later, Mother became a den mother for the Cub
Scouts. Whenever the other kids came to our home, she treated
them like kings. Some of the other kids told me how they
wished their mothers would be like mine. I never responded, but
I wondered to myself what they would think if they knew the
real truth. Mother only kept the den mother job for a few
months. When she gave it up I was so relieved because it meant
I could go to other kids’ homes for the Wednesday meetings.
One Wednesday, I came home from school to change into my
blue and gold Cub Scout uniform. Mother and I were the only
ones in the house, and I could tell by the look on her face that
she was after blood. After smashing my face against the
bedroom mirror, she snatched my arm and dragged me to the
car. During the drive to my den mother’s house, Mother told me
what she was going to do with me when we got home. I scooted
to the far side of the front seat of the car, but it didn’t work. She
reached across the seat and seized my chin, lifting my head
towards hers. Mother’s eyes were bloodshot and her voice
sounded as if she were possessed. When we arrived at the den
mother’s house, I ran to the door crying. I whined to her that I
had been a bad boy and could not attend the meeting. The den
mother smiled politely, saying that she would like me to come to
the next meeting. That was the last time I saw her.
Once home, Mother ordered me to strip off my clothes and
stand by the kitchen stove. I shook from a combination of fear
and embarrassment. She then revealed my hideous crime.
Mother told me that she had often driven to school to watch my
brothers and I play during our lunch period recess. Mother
claimed that she had seen me that very day playing on the grass,
which was absolutely forbidden by her rules. I quickly answered
that I never played on the grass. I knew Mother had somehow
made a mistake. My reward for observing Mother’s rules and
telling the truth was a hard punch in the face.
Mother then reached over and turned on the gas burners to the
kitchen stove. Mother told me that she had read an article about
a mother who had her son lie on top of a hot stove. I instantly
became terrified. My brain became numb, and my legs wobbled.
I wanted to disappear. I closed my eyes, wishing her away. My
brain locked up when I felt Mother’s hand clamp my arm as if it
were in a vice grip.
“You’ve made my life a living hell!” she sneered. “Now it’s
time I showed you what hell is like!” Gripping my arm, Mother
held it in the orangeblue flame. My skin seemed to explode from
the heat. I could smell the scorched hairs from my burnt arm. As
hard as I fought, I could not force Mother to let go of my arm.
Finally I fell to the floor, on my hands and knees, and tried to
blow cool air on my arm. “It’s too bad your drunken father’s not
here to save you,” she hissed. Mother then ordered me to climb
up onto the stove and lie on the flames so she could watch me
burn. I refused, crying and pleading. I felt so scared I stomped
my feet in protest. But Mother continued to force me on top of
the stove. I watched the flames, praying the gas might run out.
Suddenly I began to realize the longer I could keep myself off
the top of the stove, the better my chances were for staying
alive. I knew my brother Ron would soon be coming home from
his scout meeting, and I knew Mother never acted this bizarre
when anyone else was in the house. In order to survive, I had to
buy time. I stole a glance at the kitchen clock behind me. The
second hand seemed to creep ever so slowly. To keep Mother
off balance, I began to ask whining questions. This infuriated
her even more, and Mother began to rain blows around my head
and chest. The more Mother slugged me, the more I began to
realize I had won! Anything was better than burning on the
stove.

Finally, I heard the front door fly open. It was Ron. My heart
surged with relief. The blood from Mother’s face drained. She
knew she had lost. For a moment in time, Mother froze. I seized
that instant to grab my clothes and race to the garage, where I
quickly dressed. I stood against the wall and began to whimper
until I realized that I had beaten her. I had bought a few precious
minutes. I used my head to survive. For the first time, I had
won!
Standing alone in that damp, dark garage, I knew, for the first
time, that I could survive. I decided that I would use any tactic I
could think of to defeat Mother or to delay her from her grizzly
obsession. I knew if I wanted to live, I would have to think
ahead. I could no longer cry like a helpless baby. In order to
survive, I could never give in to her. That day I vowed to myself
that I would never, ever again give that bitch the satisfaction of
hearing me beg her to stop beating me.
In the coldness of the garage, my entire body trembled from
both the cold anger and intense fear. I used my tongue to lick the
burn and soothe my throbbing arm. I wanted to scream, but I
refused to give Mother the pleasure of hearing me cry. I stood
tall. I could hear Mother talking to Ron upstairs, telling him how
proud she was of him, and how she didn’t have to worry about
Ron becoming like David – a bad boy.

A child called it - The Good time

2 – Good Times
In the years before I was abused, my family was the “Brady
Bunch” of the 1960s. My two brothers and I were blessed with
the perfect parents. Our every whim was fulfilled with love and
care.
We lived in a modest twobedroom house, in what was
considered a “good” neighborhood in Daly City. I can remember
looking out of our living room bay window on a clear day, to
gaze at the bright orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and
the beautiful skyline of San Francisco.
My father, Stephen Joseph, supported his family as a fireman,
working in the heart of San Francisco. He stood about five feet
ten inches tall, and he weighed about 190 pounds. He had broad
shoulders and forearms that would make any muscle man proud.
His thick black eyebrows matched his hair. I felt special when
he winked at me and called me “Tiger”.
My mother, Catherine Roerva, was a woman of average size
and appearance. I never could remember the color of her hair or
eyes, but Mom was a woman who glowed with love for her
children. Her greatest asset was her determination. Mom always
had ideas, and she always took command of all family matters.
Once, when I was four or five years old, Mom said she was sick,
and I remember feeling that she did not seem to be herself at all.
It was a day when Father was working at the fire station. After
serving dinner, Mom rushed from the table and began painting
the steps that led to the garage. She coughed as she frantically
brushed the red paint onto every step. The paint had not fully
dried, when Mom began tacking rubber mats to the steps. The
red paint was all over the mats and Mom. When she finished,
Mom went into the house and collapsed on the couch. I
remember asking her why she had put the mats down before the
paint dried. She smiled and said, “I just wanted to surprise your
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dad.”
When it came to housekeeping, Mom was an absolute clean
fiend. After feeding my two brothers, Ronald and Stan, and I
breakfast, she would dust, disinfect, scour and vacuum
everything. No room in our house was left untouched. As we
grew older, mom made sure we did our part by keeping our
room neat. Outside, she meticulously attended a small flower
garden, which was the envy of the neighborhood. With Mom,
everything she touched turned into gold. She didn’t believe in
doing anything halfway.
Mom often told us that we must always do the best we could,
in whatever we did.
Mom was truly a gifted cook. Of all the things she did for her
family, I think creating new and exotic meals was her favorite.
This was especially true on those days when Father was home.
Mom would spend the better part of the day preparing one of her
fantastic meals. On some days when Father was working, Mom
would take us on exciting sightseeing tours around the city. One
day, she took us to Chinatown in San Francisco. As we drove
around the area, Mom told us about the culture and history of
the Chinese people. When we returned, Mom started her record
player, and our home was filled with beautiful sounds from the
Orient. She then decorated the dining room with Chinese
lanterns. That evening, she dressed in a kimono and served what
seemed to us as a very exotic but delicious meal. At the end of
dinner, Mom gave us fortune cookies and read the captions for
us. I felt that the cookie’s message would lead me to my destiny.
Some years later, when I was old enough to read, I found one of
my old fortunes. It said, “Love and honor thy mother, for she is
the fruit that gives thou life.”
Back then our house was full of pets – cats, dogs, aquariums
filled with exotic fish and a gopher tortoise named “Thor”. I
remember the tortoise best because Mom let me pick a name for
it. I felt proud because my brothers had been chosen to name the
other pets and it was now my turn. I named the reptile after my
favorite cartoon character.
The five– and tengallon aquariums seemed to be everywhere.
There were at least two in the living room, and one filled with
guppies in our bedroom. Mom creatively decorated the heated
tanks with colored gravel and colored foil backs; anything she
thought would make the tanks more realistic. We would often sit
by the tanks while Mom told us about the different species of
fish.
The most dramatic of Mom’s lessons, came one Sunday
afternoon. One of our cats was behaving in an odd way. Mom
had us all sit down by the cat while she explained the process of
birth. After all the kittens has slipped safely out of the mother
cat, Mom explained in great detail the wonder of life. No matter
what the family was doing, she somehow came up with a
constructive lesson; though we were not usually aware that we
were being taught.
For our family – during those good years – the holidays
started with Halloween. One October night, when the huge
harvest moon was in full view, Mom hurried the three of us out
of our house, to gaze at the “Great Pumpkin” in the sky. When
we returned to our bedroom, she told us to peek under our
pillows where we found Matchbox race cars. My two brothers
and I squealed with delight as Mom’s face was flushed with
pride. The day after Thanksgiving, Mom would disappear to the
basement, then bring up enormous boxes filled with Christmas
decorations. While standing on a ladder, she tacked strings of
ornaments to the ceiling beams. When she was finished, every
room in our house had a seasonal touch. In the dining room
Mom arranged different sizes of red candles on the counter of
her prized oak hutch. Snowflake patterns graced every window
in the living room and dining room. Christmas lights were
draped around our bedroom windows. Every night I fell asleep
while staring at the soft, colorful glow of the Christmas lights
that blinked on and off.
Our Christmas tree was never ever an inch under eight feet,
and it took the whole family hours to decorate it. Each year one
of us was honored by being allowed to place the angel at the top
of the tree, while Father held us up in his strong arms. After the
tree was decorated and dinner was finished, we would pile into
the station wagon and cruise the ne ighborhood, admiring the
decorations on other homes. Mom always rambled on about her
ideas of bigger and better things for the next Christmas, even
though my brothers and I knew our house was always the best.
When we returned home, Mom sat us down by the fireplace to
drink egg nog. While she told us stories, Bing Crosby sang
“White Christmas” on the stereo. I was so excited during those
holiday seasons that I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes Mom would
cradle me, while I fell asleep listening to the crackle of the fire.
As Christmas Day came nearer, my brothers and I became
more and more excited. The pile of gifts at the base of the tree
grew day by day. By the time Christmas finally arrived, there
were dozens of gifts for each of us.
On Christmas Eve, after a special dinner and caroling, we
were allowed to open one gift. Afterwards, we were sent to bed.
I always strained my ears as I laid in bed, waiting for the sound
of Santa’s sleigh bells. But I always fell asleep before I heard his
reindeer land on the roof.
Before dawn, Mom would creep into our room and wake us,
whispering, “Santa came!” One year she gave each of us a
yellow, plastic, Tonka hard hat and had us march into the living
room. It took us forever to rip the colorful paper from the boxes,
to discover our new Christmas toys. Afterwards, Mom had us
run to the backyard in our new robes, to look back in through
the window at our huge Christmas tree. That year, standing in
the yard, I remember seeing Mom cry. I asked her why she was
sad. Mom told me she was crying because she was so happy to
have a real family.
Because Father’s job often required him to work 24hour
shifts, Mother often took us on day trips to places like the
nearby Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. As we slowly drove
through the park, Mom exp lained how the areas were different
and how she envied the beautiful flowers. We always visited the
park’s Steinhart Aquarium last. My brothers and I would blaze
up the stairs and charge through the heavy doors. We were
thrilled as we leaned over the brass, seahorseshaped fence,
looking far below at the small waterfall and pond that were
home to the alligators and large turtles. As a child, this was my
favorite place in the entire park. I once became frightened, as I
thought about slipping through the barrier and falling into the
pond. Without speaking a word, Mom must have felt my fear.
She looked down at me and held my hand ever so softly.
Spring meant picnics. Mom would prepare a feast of fried
chicken, salads, sandwiches and lots of desserts the night before.
Early the next day, our family sped off to Junipero Serra Park.
Once there, my brothers and I would run wild on the grass and
pump higher and higher on the park’s swings. Sometimes we
would venture off on a new trail. Mom always had to pry us
away from our fun, when it came time for lunch. We wolfed
down our food, hardly tasting it, before my brothers and I
blitzed off for parts unknown, in search of high adventure. Our
parents seemed happy to lie next to each other on a blanket, sip
red wine and watch us play.
It was always a thrill when the family went on summer
vacation. Mom was always the mastermind behind these trips.
She planned every detail, and swelled with pride as the activities
came together. Usually we traveled to Portola or Memorial Park,
and camped out in our giant, green tent for a week or so. But
whenever Father drove us north across the Golden Gate Bridge,
I knew we were going to my favorite place in the world – the
Russian River.
The most memorable trip to the river for me, happened the
year I was in kindergarten. On the last day of school, Mom
asked that I be excused a halfhour early. As Father honked the
horn, I rocketed up the small hill from the school, to the waiting
car. I was excited because I knew where we were going. During
the drive, I became fascinated at the seemingly endless fields of
grapes. When we drove into the quiet town of Guerneville, I
rolled my window down to smell the sweet air from the redwood
trees.
Each day was a new adventure. My brothers and I either spent
the day climbing an old, burnt tree stump with our special
whomperstomper boots or swimming in the river at Johnson’s
Beach. Johnson’s Beach was a whole day’s event. We would
leave our cabin by nine and return after three. Mom taught each
of us to swim in a small, trenched hole in the river. That summer
Mom taught me how to swim on my back. She seemed so proud
when I was finally able to do it.
Everyday seemed sprinkled with magic. One day after dinner,
Mom and Dad took the three of us to watch the sunset. All of us
held hands, as we crept past Mr Parker’s cabin to get to the
river. The green river water was as smooth as glass. The
bluejays scolded the other birds, and a warm breeze blew
through my hair. Without a word, we stood watching the
fireballlike sun as it sank behind the tall trees, leaving bright
blue and orange streaks in the sky. From above, I felt someone
hug my shoulders. I thought it was my father. I turned and
became flushed with pride to find Mom holding me tightly. I
could feel her heart beat. I never felt as safe and as warm as that
moment in time, at the Russian River.

A child called it - The Rescue

1 – The Rescue
March 5, 1973, Daly City, California – I’m late. I’ve got to
finish the dishes on time, otherwise no breakfast; and since I
didn’t have dinner last night, I have to make sure I get
something to eat. Mother’s running around yelling at my
brothers. I can hear her stomping down the hallway towards the
kitchen. I dip my hands back into the scalding rinse water. It’s
too late. She catches me with my hands out of the wat er.
SMACK! Mother hits me in the face, and I topple to the floor.
I know better than to stand there and take the hit. I learned the
hard way that she takes that as an act of defiance, which means
more hits, or worst of all, no food. I regain my posture and
dodge her looks, as she screams into my ears.
I act timid, nodding to her threats. “Please,” I say to myself,
“just let me eat. Hit me again, but I have to have food.” Another
blow pushed my head against the tile counter top. I let the tears
of mock defeat stream down my face as she storms out of the
kitchen, seemingly satisfied with herself. After I count her steps,
making sure she’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. The act
worked. Mother can beat me all she wants, but I haven’t let her
take away my will to somehow survive.
I finish the dishes, then my other chores. For my reward I
receive breakfast – leftovers from one of my brothers’ cereal
bowls. Today it’s Lucky Charms. There are only a few bits of
cereal left in a half of a bowl of milk, but as quickly as I can, I
swallow it before Mother changes her mind. She has done that
before. Mother enjoys using food as her weapon. She knows
better than to throw leftovers in the garbage can. She knows I’ll
dig it out later. Mother knows most of my tricks.
Minutes later I’m in the old family station wagon. Because
I’m so late with my chores, I have to be driven to school.
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Usually I run to school, arriving just as class begins, with no
time to steal any food from other kids’ lunch boxes.
Mother drops my oldest brother off, but keeps me for a lecture
about her plans for me tomorrow. She is going to take me to her
brother’s house. She says Uncle Dan will “take care of me.”
She makes it a threat. I give her a frightened look as if I am truly
afraid. But I know that even though my uncle is a hardnosed
man, he surely won’t treat me like Mother does.
Before the station wagon comes to a complete stop, I dash out
of the car. Mother yells for me to return. I have forgotten my
crumpled lunch bag, which has always had the same menu for
the last three years – two peanut butter sandwiches and a few
carrot sticks. Before I bolt out of the car again, she says, “Tell
’em … Tell ’em you ran into the door.” Then in a voice she
rarely uses with me, she states, “Have a nice day.” I look into
her swollen red eyes. She still has a hangover from last night’s
stupor. Her once beautiful, shiny black hair is now frazzled
clumps. As usual, she wears no makeup. She is overweight, and
she knows it. In all, this has become Mother’s typical look.
Because I am so late, I have to report to the administrative
office. The grayhaired secretary greets me with a smile.
Moments later, the school nurse comes out and leads me into
her office, where we go through the normal routine. First, she
examines my face and arms. “What’s that above your eye?” she
asks.
I nod sheepishly, “Oh, I ran into the hall door … by
accident.”
Again she smiles and takes a clipboard from the top of a
cabinet. She flips through a page or two, then bends down to
show me. “Here,” she points to the paper, “You said that last
Monday. Remember?”
I quickly change my story, “I was playing baseball and got hit
by the bat. It was an accident.” Accident. I am always supposed
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to say that. But the nurse knows better. She scolds me so I’ll tell
the truth. I always break down in the end and confess, even
though I feel I should protect my mother.
The nurse tells me that I’ll be fine and asks me to take off my
clothes. We have been doing this since last year, so I
immediately obey. My longsleeve shirt has more holes than
Swiss cheese. It’s the same shirt I’ve worn for about two years.
Mother has me wear it every day as her way to humiliate me.
My pants are just as bad, and my shoes have holes in the toes. I
can wiggle my big toe out of one of them. While I stand clothed
only in my underwear, the nurse records my various marks and
bruises on the clipboard. She counts the slashlike marks on my
face, looking for any she might have missed in the past. She is
very thorough. Next, the nurse opens my mouth to look at my
teeth that are chipped from having been slammed against the
kitchen tile counter top. She jots a few more notes on the paper.
As she continues to look me over, she stops at the old scar on my
stomach. “And that,” she says as she takes a deep swallow, “is
where she stabbed you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Oh no!” I tell myself, “I’ve done
something wrong … again.” The nurse must have seen the
concern in my eyes. She puts the clipboard down and hugs me.
“God,” I tell myself, “She is so warm.” I don’t want to let go. I
want to stay in her arms forever. I hold my eyes tightly shut, and
for a few moments nothing else exists. She pats my head. I flinch
from the swollen bruise Mother gave me this morning. The nurse
then breaks the embrace and leaves the room. I rush to put my
clothes back on. She doesn’t know it, but I do everything as fast
as possible.
The nurse returns in a few minutes with Mr Hansen the
principal, and two of my teachers, Miss Woods and Mr Ziegler.
Mr Hansen knows me very well. I’ve been in his office more
than any other kid in school. He looks at the paper, as the nurse
reports her findings. He lifts my chin. I’m afraid to look into his
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eyes, which is mostly a habit from trying to deal with my mother.
But it’s also because I don’t want to tell him anything. Once,
about a year ago, he called Mother to ask about my bruises. At
that time, he had no idea what was really going on. He just knew
I was a troubled kid who was stealing food. When I came to
school the next day, he saw the results of Mother’s beatings. He
never called her again.
Mr Hansen barks he’s had enough of this. I almost leap out of
my skin with fear. “He’s going to call Mother again!” my brain
screams. I break down and cry. My body shakes like jello and I
mumble like a baby, begging Mr Hansen not to phone Mother.
“Please!” I whine, “Not today! Don’t you understand, it’s
Friday?”
Mr Hansen assures me he’s not going to call Mother, and
sends me off to class. Since it’s too late for homeroom class, I
sprint directly to Mrs Woodworth’s English class. Today’s a
spelling test on all the states and their capitals. I’m not
prepared. Usually I’m a very good student, but for the past few
months I gave up on everything in my life, including escaping
my misery through my schoolwork.
Upon entering the room, all the students plug their noses and
hiss at me. The substitute teacher, a younger woman, waves her
hands in front of her face. She’s not used to my smell. At arms
length she hands my test to me, but before I can take my seat in
the back of the class by an open window, I’m summoned back to
the principal’s office. The entire room lets out a howl at me –
the reject of the fifth grade.
I run to the administration office, and I’m there in a flash. My
throat is raw and still burns from yesterday’s “game” Mother
played against me. The secretary leads me into the teachers’
lounge. After she opens the door, it takes a moment for my eyes
to adjust. In front of me, sitting around a table, are my
homeroom teacher Mr Ziegler, my math teacher Miss Woods,
the school nurse, Mr Hansen and a police officer. My feet
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become frozen. I don’t know whether to run away or wait for the
roof to cave in. Mr Hansen waves me in, as the secretary closes
the door behind me. I take a seat at the head of the table,
explaining I didn’t steal anything … today. Smiles break
everyone’s depressed frowns. I have no idea that they are about
to risk their jobs to save me.
The police officer explains why Mr Hansen called him. I can
feel myself shrink into the chair. The officer asks that I tell him
about Mother. I shake my head no. Too many people already
know the secret, and I know she’ll find out. A soft voice calms
me. I think it’s Miss Woods. She tells me it’s all right. I take a
deep breath, wring my hands and reluctantly tell them about
Mother and I. Then the nurse has me stand up and show the
policeman the scar on my chest. Without hesitation, I tell them it
was an accident; which it was – Mother never meant to stab me.
I cry as I spill my guts, telling them Mother punishes me because
I am bad. I wish they would leave me alone. I feel so slimy
inside. I know after all these years there is nothing anyone can
do.
A few minutes later, I am excused to sit in the outer office. As
I close the door, all the adults look at me and shake their heads
in an approving way. I fidget in my chair, watching the
secretary type papers. It seems forever before Mr Hansen calls
me back into the room. Miss Woods and Mr Ziegler leave the
lounge. They seem happy, but at the same time worried. Miss
Woods kneels down and wraps me in her arms. I don’t think I
will ever forget the smell of the perfume in her hair. She lets go,
turning away so I won’t see her cry. Now I am really worried.
Mr Hansen gives me a lunch tray from the cafeteria. “My God!
Is it lunch time already?” I ask myself.
I gobble down the food so fast I can hardly taste it. I finish the
tray in record time. Soon the principal returns with a box of
cookies, warning me not to eat so fast. I have no idea what’s
going on. One of my guesses is that my father, who is separated
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from my mother, has come to get me. But I know it’s a fantasy.
The policeman asks for my address and telephone number.
“That’s it!” I tell myself. “It’s back to hell! I’m going to get it
from her again!”
The officer writes down more notes as Mr Hansen and the
school nurse look on. Soon he closes his note pad and tells Mr
Hansen that he has enough information. I look up at the
principal. His face is covered with sweat. I can feel my stomach
start to coil. I want to go to the bathroom and throw up.
Mr Hansen opens the door, and I can see all the teachers on
their lunch break staring at me. I’m so ashamed. “They know,”
I tell myself. “They know the truth about my mother; the real
truth.” It is so important for them to know that I’m not a bad
boy. I want so much to be liked, to be loved. I turn down the
hall. Mr Ziegler is holding Miss Woods. She is crying. I can
hear her sniffle. She gives me another hug and quickly turns
away. Mr Ziegler shakes my hand. “Be a good boy,” he says.
“Yes, sir. I’ll try,” is all I can say.
The school nurse stands in silence beside Mr Hansen. They all
tell me goodbye. Now I know I am going to jail. “Good,” I tell
myself. “At least she won’t be able to beat me if I’m in jail.”
The police officer and I walk outside, past the cafeteria. I can
see some of the kids from my class playing dodge ball. A few of
them stop playing. They yell, “David’s busted! David’s busted!”
The policeman touches my shoulder, telling me everything is
okay. As he drives me up the street, away from Thomas Edison
Elementary School, I see some kids who seem to be fazed by my
departure. Before I left, Mr Ziegler told me he would tell the
other kids the truth – the real truth. I would give anything to
have been there in class when they found out I’m not so bad.
In a few minutes, we arrive at the Daly City Police Station. I
sort of expect Mother to be there. I don’t want to get out of the
car. The officer opens the door and gently takes me by the
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elbow, into a big office. No other person is in the room. The
policeman sits in a chair, in the corner, where he types several
sheets of paper. I watch the officer closely as I slowly eat my
cookies. I savor them as long as I can. I don’t know when I will
be eating again.
It’s past 1:00 p.in. when the policeman finishes his
paperwork. He asks for my telephone number again.
“Why?” I whine.
“I have to call her, David,” he says gently.
“No!” I command. “Send me back to school. Don’t you get
it? She mustn’t find out I told!”
He calms me down with another cookie, as he slowly dials 7-
5-6-2-4-6-0. I watch the black dial turn as I get up and walk
towards him, straining my whole body while trying to hear the
phone ringing on the other end. Mother answers. Her voice
scares me. The policeman waves me away, and takes a deep
breath before saying, “Mrs Pelzer, this is Officer Smith from the
Daly City Police Department. Your son David will not be
coming home today. He will be in the custody of the San Mateo
Juvenile Department. If you have any questions, you can call
them.” He hangs up the phone and smiles. “Now that wasn’t so
hard, was it?” he asks me. But the look on his face tells me he is
assuring himself, more than he is me.
A few miles later, we are on highway 280, heading towards
the outskirts of Daly City. I look to my right and see a sign that
reads, “THE MOST BEAUTIFUL HIGHWAY IN THE
WORLD.” The officer smiles with relief, as we leave the city
limits. “David Pelzer,” he says, “you’re free.”
“What?” I ask, clutching my only source of food. “I don’t
understand. Aren’t you taking me to some kind of jail?”
Again he smiles, and gently squeezes my shoulder. “No,
David. You have nothing to worry about, honest. Your mother is
never going to hurt you again.”
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I lean back against the seat. A reflection from the sun hits my
eyes. I turn away from the rays as a single tear runs down my
cheek.
“I’m free?”

5 Questions To Ask Yourself Before Taking Your First Online Class

Just a few short years ago, the idea of taking a college course through the Internet was something online “techies” considered. Now that people realize how convenience it is to take a class without leaving home, more and more people are taking advantage of using their computer to learn. But while the technology used for online classes is so simple just about anyone can become an online student, you should ask yourself the following 5 questions first – and save yourself a lot of stress! 1) Do you have the time? Many people think – mistakenly – that online courses are “easier” than traditional campus classes. But most online classes require regular participation. So, you must have the time to “log on” to your course several times each week, complete the assignments and do your homework, and interact with the other students. All of this takes time…and, you have to account for the time you would normally have spent in the classroom. If you have the time, you will find taking an online class to be very convenient! 2) Do you have the discipline? Sure, most online classes don’t require you to be on the computer at a specific time (although some do). So it is up to you to make sure you check in on your class several times each week. With a busy work schedule, sports, hobbies, housework, kids, it’s easy to put your class low on your priority list. And that could mean big trouble when it comes time to get your grade. It’s not the teacher’s job to remind you to keep up with your work – that’s your responsibility. A simple way to make this work is to create your own schedule, so each week you know exactly when it’s time to “go to class”! 3) Do you have the money? While there are many free or low-cost online “self help” courses available, college courses almost always cost the same whether you take them on-campus, or online. Colleges have to buy the software, train their faculty, and offer student services after hours – so expecting online courses to be less expensive is not reasonable. On the other hand, the same financial aid is often available for online classes, just as with campus classes. So, money should not stop any student from furthering their education! 4) Do you have the right technical skills? Fortunately, you don’t have to be a computer “genius” to take an online class. The technology has become very simple for students and teachers to use, so that students who can “surf the Internet” and use email usually have the necessary technical skills. Before getting started, the school offering the course should have a sample course, tutorial, or other training to help you determine if there are any skills you need to learn, so you can become a successful online student! 5) Do you have the right computer equipment? Since most online classes are taught through the Internet, students usually don’t need any special computer equipment. However, most online classes require students to have reliable access to the Internet, an email account (and the knowledge to use it), a word processor (such as Microsoft Word), and antivirus software. Check with your school to see if there are any other requirements. A high speed internet connection is usually not required, but if instructors use graphics, videos, audio lectures, or other big files, a high speed connection (such as DSL or cable) will help you open the files, and do you work, more efficiently! Are you ready now to take your first online class? Then it’s time to contact your local college, or search the internet for an online class directory, and see what online courses you can take!