31

Summer 1990



I hated practicing my piano but I loved to play. There was certain rules my father applied to me that I just abhored. I wanted the freedom of pounding out my own rhythms on those keys but he wanted rules, organization and discipline. Why did I always run from discipline?



Daddy said that I had to play my piano at least an hour a day and that he wanted me to play gospel songs for him. I personally wanted to play my favorites like Fur Elise and Tarantella. I loved the classics. I also loved listening to Faith no More and trying to sound out the chords from their songs. It felt comforting to play what I wanted to play but that didn’t make daddy happy. Once when Ferris Bueller was on, he started yelling at me about my lessons. It was only about 10 minutes or so left of the movie but he insisted that I turn off the television. I begged and pleaded trying to buy time just so I could see the last few minutes of the show. He got madder and madder and told me that I would never be able to play anything if I didnt get a little discipline in my life and do as he said. I stood in front of him while I glanced over my shoulder at the television. I saw the car crash through the glass window as daddy turned off the television. I was so angry.



I stood there soaking up my anger for a moment. Daddy started to yell down at me and get closer and closer to my face. I started to tremble. I felt something odd rising up in me, it felt like a fire deep within rising and rising upward. Before I realized it, I was yelling NO! really loudly into my daddy’s face. The astonishment that he showed by my rebellion was almost comical. He tilted his head and spoke a statment that I had learned to dread.



“Okay, little lady. You will regret what you just said.”



Daddy left the room and I knew what he was doing. I ran to my room and locked my door. Hiding under the covers, I began to tremble. I heard his pounding footsteps accompanied by his rattling belt buckle. Then I heard a snapping noise that I knew too well. Daddy had doubled his belt and was snapping the leather together. This was to let me know that he was about to beat my ass…and whatever go in the way.



He tried my door and found that he could not get in. He rattled the knob and I could here his anger getting worse.



“Okay, I see.” He spoke and I heard his voice trembling…not in fear but in rage.



He rammed my door with his shoulder over and over until he broke part of the facing off the door. He came barging in with my fretting crying mother behind him. She was pulling him back pleading with him not to hit me. She was crying. He snapped his belt and walked to the edge of the bed. I never looked from under the cover and how would I know exactly what was going on. My descriptions had been born from years of this…years of this confrontation and torment.



He flung my covers back and started to wail upon me with the leather of his belt. I curled into a ball and screamed.



“please…please ….stop!”



But he didn’t stop and when he got tired of the leather, he let go of one end of the belt and let the buckle make its mark upon me. One two three four…..ten eleven twelve…



I couldn’t take it anymore…something snapped inside me. I jumped up and grabbed hold of his belt and screamed



“FUCK YOU..you son of a bitch. …goddammmit…STop fucking hitting me…fucker!”



He stopped abruptly and just starred at me. The look on his face was very interesting. It was kind of a mixture between astonishment and actually….fear. After the initial shock, he tugged at the belt. I held on for dear life and pulled back. My eyes borred into his with hatred. My mom held both hands over her mouth to stiffle the surprising sounds she often made. She knew how daddy hated her to speak when he was punishing me. I pulled harder and smiled.



I whispered so that daddy could hear me…



“come on…hit me again. YOU will regret it.”







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