I’m dedicating this one to my half-brother who was half-raised by a father who isn’t even half a man.
I was eight years old when my mother gave birth to the spawn of the devil. Eight years old when they made me and my sister watch the birth. Made us watch that giant head rip our mother in places an eight year old and a five year old should not have to see. But it was important to him, ROC – Satan, as he’s more commonly known. He needed us to see his spawn enter the world and break any will my mother had left to resist him. He needed us to know just how little we mattered in the scheme of things.
Only my sister can correct me if I’m remembering this wrong but he watched a basketball game from the head of the bed as we were made to sit at the foot and told to watch his miracle happen OR ELSE. It was supposed to be a lesson in what happens to slutty girls like us – branded whores before they’ve ever even kissed a boy, before they’ve even reached double digits in age or experienced puberty. If you let a boy put his penis inside of you, then you too will be ripped to shreds and held hostage by the seed of the monster sitting comfortably in a hospital chair as he roars orders at tiny, frightened beings who just want to be anywhere but there.
Since I am eight years older than my half-brother, DXC, I don’t hold it against him that he seemingly can’t remember any of the abuse that my sister and I suffered at the cruel hands of his father who isn’t even half a man. He certainly doesn’t recall the circumstances of his birth.
He wouldn’t remember his father beating me with a leather belt across my back for bringing home Bs on my report card at the end of the fourth grade. He can’t be expected to recall how I was grounded that entire summer for my “substandard” performance. So it’s only teasingly that I used to tell him he was lucky to get a truck as a C-average student when I got grounded and beaten for two Bs. But it wasn’t really luck at all. It was favoritism – nepotism, I think is the word.
DXC is ROC’s actual child. My sister and I were forced upon ROC when he couldn’t even be bothered to raise his own two children from a previous marriage. So, naturally, he took every opportunity to let us know just how in the way we really were. I don’t expect DXC to remember any of that. He was just a child.
He was barely three when ROC broke that wooden broom handle and then the wooden mop handle over my back. But his “trustworthy because they shared ROC’s last name” half-sister was there to witness it. It was a family affair. My mother, my sister, little half-brother and his half-sister, and ROC were all gathered round.
There I was the main attraction, the girl who refused to cry. I didn’t cry when he hit me with the leather belt, so he made me bring out the broom. He broke that on me and still not a tear. So I was forced to get the mop; he broke that too but I still refused to cry. I was very Kunta Kinte that way. The more he beat me, the more defiant I became. So this went on until his arm grew tired, as he tells the story.
I just remember thinking, if they want a show, I’ll give them a show. My fragile body may be broken but my soul is unconquerable. He must have forgotten that he’d made me memorize “Invictus” by threat of force. So really what was he expecting? He expected me to be as dumb as he is and not understand that he was the trying-to-pass-for-white negro lording over my brown ass for master’s benefit. But unfortunately for him, by this time I’d read Malcolm X’s autobiography, Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” and The Bible in their intirety. So I was way too hip to the game for that sucker.
I don’t expect my half-brother to half-remember any of that. But he was plenty old enough to remember when our only shared sister was molested. She couldn’t have been older than thirteen and made the grave mistake of growing boobs. In a family that harbors and coddles abusers and losers, maturing into womanhood at any age is a terrible idea. So when the predator that raped his own daughter happened to my little sister, I was pissed!
I was pissed at my mom for letting her go around that child raper. I was pissed at my aunt for staying married to that asshole and telling my sister she “must have misunderstood what happened.” But I was stab-you-while-you’re-sleeping pissed at ROC for telling my sister she got what she deserved for being such a dirty slut. He also told her she should stop lying about what happened because “everyone knows the truth” and she must have made it all up for the attention.
Cuz that’s what black girls do, you know. We get hysterical for no reason and suddenly some grown-ass man slipping his tongue in our mouth, grabbing our newly formed breasts, and telling us how long he’s waited for that moment gets confused with actual incestual molestation. Silly brown uterus-carriers! There we go thinking we’re actually human or even worthy of being considered women. Hardy har har!
For that particular abuse my half-brother would have been eight. He might not remember a whole lot about being eight (because he smokes a lot of pot, like his mother, and drinks a lot of alcohol) but one should probably remember his sister that he was raised with being molested and the very F’d up way his shitty father responded to it.
Not only did I have to convince my sister that the man who claimed to be her father, ROC, was just a step-daddy and couldn’t possibly speak for everyone with his awful views, but I had to pay (out of my college fund that I’d worked 40+ hour weeks to earn while going to school full time and still earning straight As) for the gas and lawyer fees for my mom and little sister to go back to Louisiana to prosecute that molesting child fucker because ROC refused to give a single penny. You’d think an eight year old could remember some of that!
But hey, he was young and wrapped up in his own shit. Like picking out which private school to attend, choosing the best theme parks for Summer vacay, and enduring the grueling challenge of picking which sport my mother would attend all the games for when she couldn’t even be bothered to participate in the extracurricular activities of her first two children. But hey, who’s bitter?
This chick. This one right fucking here. So when that fucking prick of a shitty half-brother of mine told me that his fucked up, child abusing, self righteous, self absorbed , selfish fucking father raised me with “love and compassion,” I wanted to push him in front of a moving vehicle. Instead, I pushed his drunk, screaming self out of my face and asked him not to be an asshole like his fucked up father. His response was to tell me that until I can stop being an ungrateful bitch to his father, then I’m not welcome in his life.
Uh, dude, I’m the result of an abusive childhood. You really think abandoning me is going to hurt me?! Half-brother, if you cared to recall, that’s the story of my life. Ain’t nothing new there. See you on the other side of Hell, dude.
So that’s how come I’m minus a brother for speaking my truth and why I give zero fucks in the end. It’s a great story that you’ll never care enough to read, bro! Thank you to the rest of you for reading part one of the multi-part story of assholes I used to know.