We were lower middle class and as violent as my father was, he showed more restraint than some of the poor people I had met. I was aware that there were other kids who had it a lot worse than I did. I remember one specific time when I was playing by myself on the side of a hill that was a block from my uncle’s house which people had turned into an improvised dump site. To grownups, it was an eye sore and a source of potential disease. To stray cats and dogs a potential source of food, to me a potential source of fun, and to the local poor kids a source of both fun and money.
That day I was a little disappointed to see there were no stray animals to pet and no kids to play with. My disappointment didn’t last long because soon I found myself distracted finding cool little treasures, treasures that I was determined to keep. I had learned from previous experiences that my grandmother, or the adult taking care of me at the time would search my pockets and throw away all the nice things I had found in the trash. My strategy this time was to hide the cool things in the yard before they conducted their inspection, and fill my pockets with decoys. I knew I couldn’t show up to the house with empty pockets because that would have raised suspicion. After the inspection, my grandmother would tell me to play in the yard while she got her things at which time I would go outside and fill my pockets with the cool things I had found.
It had rained, there was mud everywhere, it was messy and it would make for great fun after I was done playing with the trash. Then I would get covered in mud and my mom would make me strip to my underwear on the welcome mat before taking me to the bathtub where I would play with my real toys or pretend I was a Navy Seal and hold my breath under water for as long as I could; To me, this was important training. Even though I was seven, I knew I had to get started as soon as possible.
I was playing with some colorful pieces of broken glass that I had anthropomorphized, and now were soldiers escaping and evading an enemy who had devastated their unit. To make matters worse, and more interesting, this small group of soldiers had jumped from the pan into the fire and now were also being hunted by enormous crocodiles. It was ok though, they were intelligent, tough, resilient, and they had a good leader in charge who would come up with good ideas and they would all survive to tell their friends their amazing story.
I was keeping myself entertained while my grandmother spent time with my uncle and talked about grownup stuff, and that is when I saw her. Earlier I had heard a girl screaming and crying; someone was clearly beating his child. Now I knew who was on the receiving end, we had never met before and she walked straight to me, maybe she knew another kid, or any being besides her parent would provide some comfort. She was doing everything she could to keep from crying, and walked with such purpose I knew whatever she had endured had been awful. As soon as she came within five feet from me she sat down, and began to cry. As if she could finally release the tears she desperately wanted to get rid of but couldn’t until she knew she was not within hearing range of the person who had hurt her.
She had my full attention, I was in shock when I saw her arms and legs. She was wearing a cheap white dress and just when I thought I had seen the extent of her injuries, my shock and curiosity turned into sadness and sincere concern. When she leaned forward I saw that the blood from the wounds on her back had socked through her dress revealing the shape of her wounds, which were long and thin. I could tell she was younger than I was, so she had to be about four, since I was seven. When I heard her screaming earlier, I had known the beating was worse than any beating I had received but seeing the result of such violence and aggression in front of me, really shocked me. It would have shocked me if it had been a boy younger than I was, or if it had been a girl older than I was, but seeing that it had been a girl, and a girl who was younger than I was who had been physically, emotionally assaulted so violently really made me worry, sad, concerned for her; and after the initial shock, I was concerned for my own safety. What if this person came to get her? Would “I” be in danger? So I immediately scanned my surroundings for possible weapons, and I spotted a broken broom stick which was perfect. Once I knew I could hold my own until my grandmother, uncle and adults in the area could hear my screams for help, I focused my attention back on the girl.
I just sat in front of her and let her finish crying, once she began to sob, and catch her breath I waited for her to make eye contact. Once she did I said “hi”, but she just looked at me with her eyes still full of tears and I realized a had spoken too soon…damn it! I felt like such an idiot. So I waited a few more minutes and then she asked me what I was doing, after she had spotted my collection of colorful pieces of glass. Some had come from bottles, others from a window, and a few others I had no clue, and were organized in such an interesting manner that I wasn’t surprised someone would find it interesting. So I explained to her what I was doing, how they were soldiers fighting crocodiles, after an epic battle, and how now they had to develop a strategy if they wanted to live (illustrating how high the stake were). I was very proud of my game, and wanted to keep playing since I had put so much thought an effort into developing it, but of course now “she” wanted to play and put her own spin into “my” story.
Under normal circumstances I would have told her to get lost, but after seeing her, I just didn’t have the heart. Plus, I immediately realized something amazing. After I told her about my story, she seemed very interested and for a few moments was thinking about something other than what just happened to her. So I though this would be a great chance to distract her, and offer some kind of comfort. I agreed to include her in my game. Before too long, my pieces of glass weren’t soldiers anymore, they were a family. A mom, dad, a few kids, and lots of cats and dogs. Since they needed a nice house, we went our separate ways looking for things we could use to make a very nice house for all of them. I found some pieces of wire we could use to make a nice big fence around the nice house, which was a cardboard box she had found. Once we ran out of ideas, cool things we could use, the house was finished, and I was sure enough time had passed since the beating. I inevitably I asked her if she was the kid I had heard crying earlier, even though I knew.
I was a little concerned the conversation would evoke painful feelings, but I also knew it would help her. Sharing her pain, and seeing that someone cared would provide some comfort, which was all I could do. She told me her mom had hit her, which surprised the living shit out of me. In my case, it was my dad who would hit me, and my mom who would comfort me. Actually, that was the case with my friends too. I had never heard of a mom doing the beating, and I had certainly never heard a mom being so violent and plain mean. She told me her dad had left, that he was nice and would comfort her after her mom hit her but now he was gone and her mom was even meaner than before. I asked her if she knew where he was, or when he was coming back but she said she didn’t know. She just hoped he would hurry up, because she was afraid of her mom. Then I asked her how her mom had beaten her, and that’s when my heart sank, and I felt a sickening feeling of sadness and helplessness in the pit of my stomach that I wouldn’t feel again until 2005 in Iraq, when I learned that one of the Iraqi kids who worked on base was killed because he was working for us.
She said that her mom would beat her with the electric cord she took from an old iron, that’s when I shook my head as I said “wait a minute, what do you mean she beats you with it? You mean she does this on a regular basis?” she said yes, and that’s when I got up, knelt in front of her, wrapped my arms around the back of her neck, back, gave her a bear hug and began to cry. The whole thing took me, and her by surprise. I think I was holding her so tight that I was hurting her, but the comfort I provided seemed to be worth it because she grabbed my arm and also began to cry. We both needed it. After a few minutes, when we were done crying, we let go and I asked her if she was ok, and if I could touch her wounds. She said no because it would hurt too much, so I touched the skin about half an inch around the wounds. It hurt her a little, but it also felt good. I wanted to rub her wounds to make her feel better, kind of like when you rub your foot after you kick a table barefoot but that would have hurt her too much, so I tenderly rubbed the skin close to the wounds. After a few minutes my mind inevitable started wondering, and I was no longer comforting a friend. I was a medic in a combat zone taking care of a wounded buddy after some epic fire fight.
I was pretty damn good too, she was so relaxed and seemed to be enjoying it as if she had been receiving a therapeutic massage from a professional. We were in our own little world, we had forgotten about reality, and can even say we were happy, but life and reality had a cruel way of shattering that peace. After a few hours, I heard my grandmother calling me. Both mine, and her eyes widened in surprise, worry, and sadness because our meeting was over. Neither had though about this moment, so when it came, it took us by surprise. She almost began to cry, but I stopped her. I immediately put my hand on her shoulder and told her not to worry, that I had everything under control. I told her I would do everything I could to come back in the next few days, and that we would finish our game, but there was also the chance I would never see her again because I knew my uncle was moving soon. That almost made her panic, but I also stopped that from happening. Now I was grabbing her shoulder hard, and looking her right in the eyes and I told her “look, I don’t know why adults are so mean. My dad hits me all the time too, there are a lot of things I don’t understand and wish were different. What I do know is that someday we are going to grow up, be strong enough to keep anyone from hurting us in any way. Our happiness will depend on us, and we won’t have to rely on anyone to be happy. So until then we just have to endure anything they do to us and never give up, ok?”
I hugged her as close to me as I could, she hugged me back and said “Ok. But come back ok? I will wait for you. I will leave the house the way it is and we’ll play again.” Then I grabbed two small pieces of glass, kept one, and have her the other. I told her to keep it, and that I would keep mine just in case I never came back; that way we would always be friends, and know that there is someone somewhere who cares about you and thinks about you. We never stopped looking at each other until I reached my uncle’s house. I had a knot in my throat, tears welling up in my eyes, I was afraid to stop looking at her because I was afraid it would be for the last time. I would have stayed there forever but I couldn’t let her see my cry, I wanted her to have hope so I ran to my uncle’s back yard and began to cry. I cried and asked God to please take care of her, because “I” couldn’t. I washed my face with the hose, hid my piece of glass so I could recover it after my grandmother emptied my pockets. Once my inspection was over and while my grandmother and uncle said their good byes, I picked up my piece of glass and put it in my pocket. I was expecting to see her when my grandmother and I walked outside. I was even smiling a little, but my hope turned to disappointment when I saw that she wasn’t there anymore.
That was twenty-six years ago. I lost my piece of glass when I went to live with my dad a few years later, but I still think about her. I kept half of my promise. I grew up, but I’m not happy. Life got to me and my happiness to some extent still depends on other people.
It will always bother me that I didn’t do anything to help her. And it breaks my heart to think that somewhere there is and always will be an innocent child who will experience cruelty. I just pray that where ever she is now, she is happy and safe…that’s all I can do.
