The Violence

Writing about L.E. reminded me that one of my earliest conscious memories is of a horrific fight he had with my father.

It's taken me a long time to acknowledge that I was a frequent victim of violence as a child. I've spent most of my life repudiating that label; I am not now, nor have I ever been, anyone's fucking victim. When you grow up in an atmosphere of unpredictable violence, adopting the label of "victim" is like posting a target on your back. You might as well ask to get your ass kicked. To this day, if I feel like I'm under attack, be it physically, verbally or psychologically, I don't back down; I instinctively strike back before I even realize what I'm doing. Back me into a corner and I lash out like a wild animal. It's a survival instinct at its most primal.

Dad and L.E.'s fight is one of the earliest incidents for which I retain a vivid, concrete memory. They had history, those two. Both were deeply scarred by childhood poverty and a violent mother. I don't know what her story was, but I know she beat my father frequently and without mercy. Both brothers were traumatized by the war. My father exhibited all the classic symptoms of PTSD and L.E. clearly suffered from traumatic brain injury. Back then, such damage was considered shameful, something to be hidden and denied. Despite their wounds, they banged around together a fair bit after the war, hitching through the south and the west engaging in petty and perhaps not so petty crime. They were very close at one time, but by the time I came on the scene, there was bad blood between them. There had been some kind of trouble with L.E.'s infamous wife. I say 'infamous' because hers was one of those names you couldn't mention without people exchanging looks. L.E. was the darling of his mother and five sisters and they never considered L.E.'s wife to be good enough for him. There were vague references to Indian blood, hints about promiscuity. Who knows what the real story was? I never met the woman. I know this: in the last months of his life, when he was in a confessional mood, my father told me that L.E., their sisters and their mother all believed that he had slept with L.E.'s wife. There was an incident; he was hazy on the details. Perhaps they were found together? I don't know. He swore to God that it it was all a big misunderstanding. I didn't believe him, but I told him I did.

Perhaps he sought absolution; as if it were mine to grant.

So, I wasn't five yet; I may not have been four. We were still living in the house on 5th Street, we hadn't moved to Williams Street yet. I was in the living room with my brother and mother (who may or may not have been holding a baby.) It was late afternoon and I was watching Hobo Kelly on TV. She had an afternoon TV show and I can still remember the theme song: "H O B O / K E double L Y / Hobo Kelly / sure n' begoran it's I!" Every day Hobo Kelly put on her giant magic glasses, gazed out into TV land and found the good children. She would say, "I see Timmy, I see Cathy, I see David..." Perhaps their parents sent their names in to the TV show, but I didn't know that. I thought that, if I believed in the magic hard enough, some day she would call my name. So, I was sitting in the middle of the living room, believing as hard as I could, when there was a loud noise at the screen door. I looked up and saw Uncle L.E. crashing though the screen. He was hollering incomprehensibly. Mom jumped up out of the chair, grabbed my brother and I and hustled us down the hall. About then, my dad appeared. I think he must have been sleeping in the back bedroom. He might have been sleeping off a graveyard shift, or he may have been napping. He was a champion napper, my dad, he could sleep anywhere, any time, a trick he learned in the war.

There was a cacophony of shouting, crashes and thuds behind us. Mom pushed us into the bedroom and slammed the door. I heard pounding, pounding, and louds voices. The door sprang open and L.E. was in the room, hollering. Mom was screaming at him and pushing us into the closet. Then L.E. wasn't in the room; maybe dad pulled him out, I don't know. Mom kneeled down and said, "stay here. Don't worry, just stay here," and closed the closet door. My brother and I cowered in the dark, on the floor, listening to the shouts and thuds. We waited. The noise moved outside, got fainter and stopped. We waited. Finally, my mom opened the closet door and we tumbled out into her arms. We were laughing and crying at the same time, giddy with relief. I remember repeating over and over again "I was so scared mama! I was so scared!" She sat with us on the bed for a long time. She probably sang to us. She often sang to comfort us when we were very little. Dad came in, breathing heavily. He said "don't worry, he's gone," or something like that. I can't remember exactly; like I said, I wasn't five. I may not have been four.

That's my earliest memory of the violence. It's not my last.