It was either you or me

Dear Little Sisters,

It was either you or me. And you’re damn straight to think that I would ever let it be me. As cliche as this sounds, we each walked up behind the bleachers of our high school, staring straight into each other's eyes, with each of our posse walking with the same stern faces behind us. My long black hair was braided, courtesy of my best friend, you know just in case she attempted the typical girl move and tried to pull my hair. The tension mounted as we came into the space between the bleachers and concession stands, face to face not saying anything, holding our breath and waiting for the other to say something or to make a move. It was as if time stood still as we waited for the other to say anything, flinch, or perhaps even turn away.

However, I refused to be the one to stand down, especially after how she and her friends had cornered me the previous week; I decided it was now or never to defend my pride and ego. And so out of nowhere, BAM! I punched her in the face and began the fight that felt like an eternity but was probably only a couple of minutes or perhaps even less. All I know for certain is that I was clenching my fists so tightly that I caused little cuts in the palms of my hands from my own nails. It was a blur of blows towards one another until eventually my contact got displaced from my eye and then I was left struggling to see clearly. She went for my hair just like I had expected and sought to scratch me with her nails. She did not succeed. There I was a 5’4” hundred-pound Sophomore fighting a girl who was taller and heavier than I was. Did I care? Heck no! All that mattered to me was that I teach this girl a lesson about who not to try and threaten and bully. She may have caught me off guard alone with her friends as I came out of PE wearing my nice purple skirt and a white tank top but now I was ready and would not stand down.

I don’t exactly recall how the fight ended, if one of us just eventually backed off or if friends stepped in or if it was the fact that someone shouted that a teacher was coming and so we quickly all scattered. My friends and I ran to the bathroom where I looked to quickly compose myself and clean up enough to make it to my PE class cause, of course, I still had to go to class. I mean I was a straight A honors student and class president so God forbid I miss a class.

What’s crazy is that this set off a series of incidents and another fight between my friends and hers. Until one day as I was sitting in my French class I got called into the principal’s office. The moment I heard my name I knew I was done. I scrambled to think not of what I would tell the administrators but what I would tell my parents. I was scared and my sweaty palms and pale face showed it. I walked into a conference room where both the principal and assistant principal were already waiting for me. I sat down and proceeded to answer their questions with complete honesty. They asked what had happened, who had started it and what was the current status of things. To my surprise they did not suspend me or give me any consequences at that, nor did they tell my parents. To this day while I was baffled by their decision I am forever grateful. Ultimately they knew me better than I thought they did and seemed to understand that the consequences that I would face with my parents would probably be more detrimental to my current high achieving, overcommitted and involved student that I was.

Now you might be wondering what caused this girl to want to fight me. Such a silly high school thing, she thought her current boyfriend who I “dated” for all of two weeks in 8th grade still had a thing for me. M and I had only held hands for goodness sake. So not worth it, especially over a guy, I didn’t even like.

Love,

Espe

I feared for when that inevitable day would come

Dear Little Sisters,

I feared for when that inevitable day would come. The day that I would be punished by that unseen force for the transgressions of my past. For a while, I thought that I had escaped it. Maybe, somehow, this force decided that the score no longer needed to be settled. But, if I had learned anything so far in my twenty-eight years, it was that my sins would always come back to haunt me. The day of reckoning had come and I was going to be made to suffer.

We were at IKEA trying to get stuff for our new house. AT, his sons and I, walked through the huge industrialized-sized doors and a rush of air hit our faces. I was excited to think about going through the baby section and imagined what things we would buy. It only had been a few weeks since we had found out, but I wanted to dare to hope. Perhaps, the first time was a rare fluke and this time we were ready. I told AT that I really had to pee. So we went through the IKEA maze, following all their crazy signs, until finally, we found the restroom. I sat down to pee and finished quickly. I prided myself on my ability to get in and out of the bathroom at lightning speed, including washing my hands thoroughly, of course. So, when I wiped and I saw the bright red blood on the toilet paper, I knew it wasn't going to be one of those days. I started shakily rolling up a piece of paper and stuck it between my legs. I flushed the toilet with its pink-tinged liquid swirling quickly down the hole. I washed my hands.

AT said, "What took you so long?"

“I’m bleeding,” I whispered to AT so that the boys wouldn’t hear. “I’m going to text my doctor. It’s Sunday but she will tell me what to do.” Go back to the emergency room, I thought.

AT left me at the hospital to go drop the boys with their mother. “I’ll be right back.” So, I waited by myself to see what the verdict was. Remember to say that this has happened before, a year and a half ago. And that you are at risk of another ectopic pregnancy. And that you only have one tube, the right one is gone, with the other baby you lost. Remember to tell them that this was your punishment.

“Poor thing, you’re really trying, huh,” said the emergency room doctor who was trying to unsuccessfully to comfort me. I sat on the emergency room bed, with my legs hanging over the side.

“We can set you up for a D&C right now, in case it turns out to be another ectopic pregnancy. You don’t want to lose that other tube, so young.” I just buried my face in my hands even further and cried even more loudly. I know that they would prefer that I wouldn't risk it, but I couldn't. In some fantasy world, I believed that my baby and I would pull through. That my baby would stay this time. That my baby would not leave me in the darkness alone.

In the end, AT showed up and I decided to go home and give it more time. I went to sleep, that familiar tearful slumber, that ruled my early twenties. I awoke to AT moving around. He gave me a hug and told me that it was okay if I could not have babies. I know he was trying to comfort me but it wasn’t comforting. I did not want to admit what I feared was true: I did not deserve to be a mother. I would never say that to anyone else in the same situation because I wouldn’t believe it about anyone else. But, me? This must be it, the inevitable day. The day where I could not just say it was just a coincidence because this was 2 for 2. Happiness, followed by blood and shame. This was the second time that my body would turn against me because it even knew that I did not deserve to have that type of goodness in my life. We had a sonogram tomorrow with my OB-GYN, a mother of one of my students. She told me that it could still be early and that’s why the baby didn’t show up on the sonogram. She said maybe we could stop the bleeding. I remember thanking her but all that went through my head was the curse.

I wrapped my arms around myself, asking my body for forgiveness for everything I had done to it. Asking my body, if it could do me this one favor, even though I wasn't worthy. I begged, mouthing a silent, "Please." My sleep was heavy yet restless that night. How could it not be? Everything hung in the balance.

I was never a child

Dear Little Sister,

I was never a child. I wasn’t allowed to be. My so-called childhood was taken from my tiny hands and shoved aside in order to survive. The sweet tender-hearted and all trusting little girl slowly got lost in a hardened adult soul that over time became more and more doubtful and self-loathing. I’ll share this with you little sister in hopes that you never lose that playful little girl inside of you and instead fully embrace her and shine her curiosity and light into this world. We need more of you.

As a little girl, I remember seeing a huge tree in the front yard of our new house and imagining the many things that I could do on and around that tree. It was ginormous! It would take three sets of arms around the trunk to be able to get around its entire circumference, or at least that’s how my child mind remembers it’s size. The tree had a huge branch that was shaped like a U and over time it would become the perfect spot for me to climb on and sit to observe the entire yard. I also thought that this would be the perfect spot for a treehouse, something that I only knew from tv but a place that I longed to have. My desire for that treehouse was unknowingly a similar desire I had for the childhood that was stolen from me years before. The childhood of the little girl who loved to play with my little pony and tea sets was short lived and instead marred with a deep set fear of what would happen to her when she was left alone with her brother or when her father would get angry with her mother.

I'm saddened to say that distrust and rage against men were instilled in me from a young age because of what I had experienced and witnessed. I didn’t realize how deep this anger was until I spent time reflecting on my relationships and even recalling the unexplainable fear that I felt towards the male custodian at my elementary school. At the time it made no logical sense that I would practically burst into tears when he approached or that I would watch him from afar and shudder with fear. Now I understand that this was my well-trained body reacting to what it perceived as a threat based on what I experienced at home. The two men who were supposed to love and protect me the most in this whole world, my older brother and my father, had instead taught me to trust no one and much less a man.

Despite this fear, I pleaded for my dad to build me a treehouse and to my surprise months later I did have my own little house, maybe not in the tree like I had wanted but instead my dad had built me my own little house in the backyard. What I loved the most was that my dad made sure that it resembled a real house in every way...from the linoleum as the floor, to little shelves for my dishes, a little door that I could lock, and a roof made with actual shingles. As much as I saw my dad’s rage and fury, I cannot deny the fact that as a little girl there were times when I looked to him with such love. How could I not? This was the man that built me my own little house from scratch with his bare hands. That little house became my safe haven, the place where I could hide from everyone and everything and escape from the chaos that was my life inside my actual house.

You see, Life inside my actual home was unpredictable, volatile and felt like I was constantly walking on eggshells. My father was extremely verbally and physically abusive to my mother. Anything could set him off, a meal that he didn’t like, my mom, taking too long at the grocery store, or the receipts not adding up, you name it, he could bust at any moment. This led to so many ruined occasions from birthdays and celebrations to family outings.

And then there was that horrific night that is forever etched in my mind and to this day still brings tears to my eyes. The night my mother fought for her life and the night I ran out of my house barefoot screaming to the neighbor's house to call the police. I thought he had killed her because she was lying on the bed practically unconscious, bruised and bloody, and somehow speaking words to her dead father. The things I witnessed and heard, no child or person should ever have to see. How could I ever be a child in that environment?

That night was the night before Christmas Eve. During a time when my biggest worry was supposed to be if I had gotten the presents that I had asked for, instead, I was worried if I had just ruined my family's life. I spent the night alone crying and confused about what had happened because now my father had been arrested and my mother was lost in the sea of her own pain. And no one ever told me that I did the right thing, no one ever said it’s okay Maria..instead this became the first of many times that my father choose to stop talking to me for taking a stand against him or for protecting those around me. And to make matters worse my family sided with him and I was eventually forced to apologize him. I learned at a young age to take care of myself and to be strong and independent because, well, I had no other choice. How could I be a child when I had to survive on my own and try and save my mother?

No one outside of our home knew the terrors that we all endured. Instead, my mother honored the family code to maintain secrecy because well that was easier. There were so many nights that I would go outside in the middle of the night and sit on the roof of my little house and look up to the sky wondering if this was really all happening and wishing that maybe I would wake up the next day and realize it was all just a nightmare. I was ashamed. I was alone. I was terrified. My childhood was haunted by secrets. And sadly I knew the day would come when I would have to confront my demons. I feared for when that inevitable day would come.

Love,
Espe 

I was never a child

Dear Little Sisters,

I was never a child. I was more like a rat, or a maggot. Or, a roach. Yeah, I was probably most like a roach. In fact, all five of us were like little roaches, scurrying about and hiding whenever anyone came to the door. Roaches do secret things in the dark that nobody knows about. Roaches scatter when the light switch gets flipped on because they have to conceal their shame. Roaches know that their survival depends on not being discovered. Yeah, we were definitely roaches. 

We lived in a small house that faced a major street. The house had two window panels on either side of the door. They weren't true windows because people could only see distorted images from the outside. A distortion of a distortion, I would say to myself. I don't know why we had these. Maybe my parents believed that one day we would have a house worth looking into. But, I saw them as dangerous. We were supposed to trust that the distorted windows would protect us, but I wasn't so sure. If a person squinted hard enough and at the right angle, would they be able to see who we really were?

Sometimes, we would be playing amongst the trash and clothes on the floor and there would be a knock on the door. The five of us would freeze, like fucking roaches. We would drop down to the ground and slowly, very slowly, crawl to a designated hiding spot. Maybe behind a couch, maybe behind a box, or maybe we would press ourselves against the wall. As if the person at the door was some T-rex that would only attack us if we moved. So, we stayed where we were and made no sudden movements. People could knock for up to three minutes. Some people would stay longer if they were convinced they had heard something before they showed up. One time, we didn't move for one hour. The Twins had even fallen asleep on the floor. Our goal was to make them feel crazy, for them to second-guess themselves. They couldn't have heard children's voices, because what kind of kids would be quiet for that long? 

I am not sure when I first learned that the way we were living was wrong. The house had always been that way for as long as I could remember. No one was allowed in and we only opened the front door just wide enough to squeeze out. Maybe I found out from my grandmother. We had to stay with her sometimes when it was too cold because we couldn’t afford a heater. She would wake us up early and make us clean. Maybe it was going to a friend’s house and seeing there wasn’t spoiled milk in the refrigerator or a garage full of pee-stained clothes in piles. Maybe it was when I mumbled some excuse to my best friend about why she couldn't visit us. "We are remodeling," I would lie, like the bad little roach I was. Lying was our key to survival. 

But, I wasn’t a roach at school. I was the best, I was the fastest and I was the smartest. I had skipped a grade and still could beat every single person in the class in the Around the World game. I was somewhere else on the food chain. Human, even. Someone who stepped on roaches instead of laying on their stomach on the floor waiting for the mysterious knocker to leave. I protected that person and secretly hated everyone else because they were normal. I knew that if it came to it, that I would do anything to protect my school identity. One day, I finally put my resolve to the test.

I will never forget that day because the teacher was at the blackboard and we were all listening. I opened my backpack to get more paper and that is when I saw it. Coming out of my bag, my brethren, myself, running to the front of the classroom. The other children started screaming. They had seen who I really was and they were horrified. I pretended to be horrified, too, because no one knew where it had come from. I was hated but at least my identity was safe. While everyone was transfixed with the piece of me running around the classroom, another piece of me began crawling out too. With speed I did not know I possessed, without remorse, I smashed that miniature version of myself under my shoe. I let my paper fall from my desk and simultaneously scooped its dead carcass up while I crumpled the paper. In my bag they went. 

I sweated and squirmed the rest of the day because I was not sure that my public persona could survive another attack. But I made it and no one knew. When I got home, I emptied every single pocket in my backpack and checked every nook and cranny. These fuckers were not going to ruin me. I had the fucking highest standardized test scores in school. I put my backpack inside one trash bag after another and tied them tightly. They would never come with me to school again. I looked at the bottom of my shoe and said, “It was either you or me.”

Sincerely,

Ratsiram

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