When I Was A Kid...

When I was a kid...I was afraid of the dark. I would beg my parents to leave some sort of a light on...and it didn't matter if it was a closet light, a hall light, or a bathroom light. I just needed some light to creep into my room, so that I could lay my head down to rest, but, it was never easy and always a Huge ordeal. Electricity was expensive and Dad never let me forget it. Alot of arguing...alot of crying...and alot of pain was induced before I could rest. But, once I was down, and some sort of light was in place, I'd turn to my little silver AM Radio and flip the switch. It would immediately transport and soothe my weak and wandering little mind to the pop hits of KTSA. Every night was an ordeal...every night was the same. I was scared of the dark and didn't want to be left alone, but...I wasn't alone. I shared a bedroom with four brothers and sisters. I was such a baby...the eldest of five kids...all sleeping in one room, and yet, I was deliriously afraid of the dark. I was more afraid of the dark than getting whipped. I don't know what would come over me, but the tears that were shed were real. The pleadings and the whippings were all real...painfully real.

Unfortunately, before Mom and Dad went to bed, they would turn off every single light, including my tiny radio that I had strategically propped up against my ear. But, once the lights were turned off and my transporter was yanked out of the wall...I'd wake up. I'd lay scared stiff, until, I thought it was safe to reconnect my metal "whoobie" and then I'd quietly turn a light back on. But...it didn't stay on for long. Before I had time to drift off to another world, I was beaten awake...yelled at...spit on and threatened. And instead of drifting off to the sounds of staticy pop music, I'd have to settle for the sounds of my own cries...deep within my pillow. Mornings couldn't come soon enough.

My Dad took pleasure in whipping us...and when I say us...I mean me. He showed no remorse and proudly walked away when he tired himself out. The more I screamed...the more he whipped. If I tried to run, I'd lose alot of hair and get hit with the buckle end of his belt...instead of just the leather strap. Sometimes, I'd try to catch the blows...so they wouldn't hurt as bad, but it just seemed to ignite his rage. My Dad was really mean and very scary. I wished him misfortune on a daily basis. I'd secretly wish that his little black volkswagon would drive off a southside cliff and never be seen, again or that he'd accidentally slam into a Pecan Tree and forget that he ever had a family, but he always made his way back home...unscathed. He had dark eyes coupled with a dark soul and he feared nothing. It was obvious that the neighbors were quite fearful of him...not to mention...my teachers. I don't know how they could have allowed me into their classrooms with welts and whip marks on my face...arms...and legs and not say a word to anyone that could help me. To this day...I don't know how my Mom was able to take the screaming. "Prince of Tides" comes to mind. To this day...I can still hear my screams. I don't live in the past, but yes...I'm still afraid of the dark and yes...I'm still afraid of my Dad. I guess some things will never change.