Open Season on Antelope

I was a musical child. I would prance in the driveway, singing gibberish to myself, neverminding my neighbor’s shy smile. I never took lessons to sing, but I did it occasionally. I played the violin and the drums. And though my strict and formal musical training discouraged it, I loved to “noodle” – to make noise without a goal (it could hardly be called music). I would noodle quite often on my stringed instrument. My positioning would be improper. At a slouch, I would hold the neck of the violin pointed down at my feet, or overturned like a baby tiger cub engaging in play. Mother would walk in. She would prick my back with whatever she was holding at the time. “Stand up straight! Thumb bent, chin up, arms poised, and shoulders square!” She knew proper violin etiquette as much as I did. I think it was because she cared too much about me or my success. Or maybe she cared about authority, and abiding by rules.

I was a quiet child. My music was my voice, and that included noodling. “Stop that,” Mother would demand. I sensed that she despised noodling. She despised unruly behavior. I loved to noodle. And I especially loved it on the drums; I think most people do. Smashing and whirling worries and fury and ecstasy away in a flurry of waving arms and bouncing legs. “Stop that!” This time, I understood. Nobody wants to listen to unruly, loud drumming for too long. But that was my voice, and it was being silenced. I compromised, and my waving arms and bouncing legs relocated to the air, the furniture, and the kitchen counter. I initiated a drum roll on a wooden surface. With no hesitation, Mother raised her voice. “Stop that this instant, or I will give you a spanking!” I’d been spanked before by my mother. It was not pleasant.

But I was a defiant child. I stopped, but grabbed both drumsticks in one hand. “Mmph!” I playfully whipped myself with the pair of sticks, as if to say Come and get it. Something was amiss. My mother spanked me hard, pinched me, clouted my ear, but what I sensed coming was much worse. My mother, a lion, bolted for me, the antelope. I was nimble, athletic, and my mother was not. I could outrun her. But her primal instincts only fueled the chase. Food was about to be served. The antelope’s hooves slipped on linoleum, while the lion’s padded paws gave it the upper hand. The antelope was still able to outrun the lion, but into a dead end. It was a labyrinth canyon of a living room. The lion slowed to a saunter, knowing that it was victorious. Eyes fixed. Mouth foaming. Meanwhile the antelope frantically searched for an exit. It was to no avail.

I was dead meat. I was bent over the piano bench, though I was not being spanked. No, it was much worse. Mother confiscated my sticks and turned the instrument of my voice into the instrument of my torture. One, two. The blows were swift on my behind. Three. Blood gushed to the surface, but did not break the skin. Four. A heavy swat. The lion did not sink its teeth into the antelope. It brutally clawed at it. This lion liked to play with its food. Five. The antelope escaped the emasculating position, though the lion still clung and chased. My loose pajama shirt was an easy target for claws. Six. The whips were no longer hitting just my bottom. Claws tore at the antelope’s spine and its side. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. The lion did not feast upon the antelope. The antelope lay there, raw flesh exposed, unable to cry. “Don’t you ever dare have the tenacity to talk back to me like that. And don’t tell your father. Now go shower.”

I wearily marched upstairs and turned on lukewarm water, unable to process what just happened. I entered, breathlessly sobbing. “Why?” I cried! The antelope lay in a nighttime rainstorm, wishing for vultures, hyenas, insects. Hell, even another lion. Just not that one. I wished for death.

I was – I am… I am a damaged man.

*

I don’t remember if everything that I wrote actually happened. What I do know is that I was nine years old at the time and I was indeed beaten with my drum sticks, though I exaggerated the severity of my injuries in order to get across a point. I also could not capture the complex dynamic relationship between me and my mother without writing a hundred pages – many more motives were involved. I am fairly certain that I was instructed not to speak of the incident, but my memory may be failing me. This lack of memory is not because it happened so long ago; it’s because it was too brutal of a memory to live with.

I had intermittent suicidal thoughts and severe depression for different reasons from age 9 to 15. I won't share the other reasons, but physical and verbal abuse – and the subsequent emotional neglect – was one of them. However I am extremely glad to be here today and know that I have many people who love and care about me.

I see so many of you posting and arguing about gun control, gender equality, and climate change. That’s awesome that you are willing to share your opinion regarding something that affects humankind. I am proud of you for speaking up, especially given how young the large majority of you are. You are breaking the stereotype that young people do not have a voice, and if they do, they are not well-educated. Unfortunately, I’ve kept my silence and observed these arguments from afar because my stake in the matter is not significant, I am not as educated on the matter as you are, because arguing over the internet is impersonal and encourages people to say things that they would not say to other people’s faces, or because one of my defining characteristics is that I avoid conflict. You bring these issues to the table – thank you. We are talking about them in politics, at the dinner table, and in our places of learning. It is imperative that we continue to do that. But I’ve kept my silence for too long. I was afraid that people would not believe me, but I am also afraid that what I present as the truth is merely what I have convinced myself is the truth. This is my issue that I am bringing to the table. You may think that my issue is a thing of the past, but like we are discovering with racism and sexism in the modern world, it merely evolves over time and manifests itself in a different way. 

So now that I have stopped providing background on myself, I would like to begin an open letter to you – my Facebook friends. It’s very brief, though I should thank you for making it this far. It applies to a very specific demographic, but really, it is directed at all of you, because all of you have the potential to commit what I am speaking of. All I am going to say is: “If you ever have or will inflict physical harm upon your child, partner, or those under your care… STOP IT. RIGHT NOW.”