*** Content Warning: Descriptions of Child Abuse ***

 

So I’ve been loath to post this, but I felt I had to for honesty’s sake.

The most shameful day of my adulthood? When I was a young adult in my mid- to late-20s, my sister, brother, and I shared a house together. My mother had set this place up for us to “land safely” between high school and college or future employment. I was struggling.

My sister temporarily put me in charge of watching her two children when she was out. I had done this before with little problem. On this particular day, they were jumping up and down on their beds in another room. I was annoyed. I asked them to stop and they kept doing it. Without even thinking about it, I grabbed a belt, entered their room and started swinging.

I scared one of them so bad they threw up.

In that moment, I became my father. The man I swore I would never become.

It was the greatest shame of my life. My abusive, emotionally incestuous father would have done this, and that was unacceptable to me.

I washed their sheets quietly and wept the bitterest, most appropriate tears I have ever wept.

The next day I sat them down and apologized. I swore I would never do anything like this again. And I never have.

Why do I tell this story? Because abuse is unacceptable to me, in any fashion (physical, emotional, psychological … you name it).

I’m sure there are people that would say I shouldn’t worry so much because I apologized.

I’m sure there are people that say it wasn’t that bad.

I’m sure there are people that say those bad ol’ kids had it coming and should have behaved.

FUCK THOSE PEOPLE.

I wasn’t ever going to have children, even if I didn’t have an abusive upbringing. The ease with which people will outright dismiss and laugh off the abuse of children certainly must play into my decision as well. But the final word on this is that children deserve love, support, and safety from their caregivers, not after-the-fact excuses for shitty parenting and care giving.

I will never forgive myself for this. And I never should.

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Addendum:  One summer, my family stayed with my maternal grandparents.  My sibling and I decided to play a game in their living room.  We took turns running up to the armrest of their couch, jumping over it, and diving face first into the seat cushions.  Without warning, my grandmother came in, whipping us with either a belt or electrical cord (I forget which).

So clearly my parents had some unresolved abuse from their past they passed on to us.  Oh, and for those that think intergenerational family child abuse is some sort of obstacle black children inevitably have to confront on the path to adulthood … how about that not being an obstacle we have to face in the first place, okay?

Yeah, I know.  There are plenty of people who think it’s hilarious to recount how their families beat their asses and how they are going to or are doing the same to kids under their care (Sinbad, Bernie Mac, etc., ad nauseum).  Fuck those people, too.