Hope you don't mind if I cybersquat a bit more on this topic, but perhaps some backstory could illuminate some of the invective.
As far back as I can remember, I feared the old man. His rage was epic, and was tinged with just enough violence to let me know not to fuck with this asshole. As I gradually became aware that his rage just wasn't right, I began to hate him. The fear subsided as I grew larger. About the time I was as tall as him, I realized that my younger brother and I might not be able to take him, but we could sure as hell fuck him up while trying. I continued to feign fear because it was just easier that way. The last time he spanked me, I got twenty lashes with the belt. I willed myself to be stoic. And he did not like that. Afterwards I stared him straight in the eye. I had one tear. This betrayal by my tear ducts royally pissed me off. But at dinner, that night or the next I said, "You didn't make me cry. Sure, I had a tear in my eye, but it was a physical reaction. (He smirked right about then.) Like getting some jalapeņo juice in my eye. That's tearing up, not crying. You'll never make me cry again, even when you die." (He quit smirking right about then.) I quickly turned the subject to something completely unrelated, and never mentioned it again. Sometime around the age of twenty, all pretense of fear was banished during the big annual New Year's Eve party at their house. Sometime I'll have to ask someone who was present what I said. For the longest time, I had no recollection of the event. I remember enough now to know that it was ugly, public and humiliating for them. We have never spoken of it. Since leaving Texas, the hatred softened to rage and then anger. I've worked to rid myself of that anger. But what's left behind is nothing. He's just the asshole who lives with my mother.
Ok, then.
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As far back as I can remember, I feared the old man. His rage was epic, and was tinged with just enough violence to let me know not to fuck with this asshole. As I gradually became aware that his rage just wasn't right, I began to hate him. The fear subsided as I grew larger. About the time I was as tall as him, I realized that my younger brother and I might not be able to take him, but we could sure as hell fuck him up while trying. I continued to feign fear because it was just easier that way. The last time he spanked me, I got twenty lashes with the belt. I willed myself to be stoic. And he did not like that. Afterwards I stared him straight in the eye. I had one tear. This betrayal by my tear ducts royally pissed me off. But at dinner, that night or the next I said, "You didn't make me cry. Sure, I had a tear in my eye, but it was a physical reaction. (He smirked right about then.) Like getting some jalapeņo juice in my eye. That's tearing up, not crying. You'll never make me cry again, even when you die." (He quit smirking right about then.) I quickly turned the subject to something completely unrelated, and never mentioned it again. Sometime around the age of twenty, all pretense of fear was banished during the big annual New Year's Eve party at their house. Sometime I'll have to ask someone who was present what I said. For the longest time, I had no recollection of the event. I remember enough now to know that it was ugly, public and humiliating for them. We have never spoken of it. Since leaving Texas, the hatred softened to rage and then anger. I've worked to rid myself of that anger. But what's left behind is nothing. He's just the asshole who lives with my mother.
Ok, then.
- mark 11-03-2005 10:12 am