There are some images that haunt you; there are moments in which you are shaken so deeply that you know you can never again look at the world, those you love, in the same way ever again.
When I was thirteen years old, I witnessed my father smash a broom into pieces over my 11-year-old sister's back. I'm not sure what drew my attention from my sitting place upon the couch to the doorway dividing living room from kitchen and to the sight of my sister doing dishes at the sink. Having a house full of seven children, the noise level was consistently raised a level or two, so there must have been an increase in chaos that I felt important to view. Shouting, arguing, my sister, Ava was never known for her quiet demeanor. If something was amiss, Ava was sure to tell about.
She and my dad were in some kind of yelling altercation. Swift action. My eye was drawn to my father quickly reaching for a weapon, something with which to strike, hit, inflict pain with. He reached toward the side of the stove, nearest the living/kitch doorway, and grabbed the yellow wooden broom that had rested there. That, that is what drew my immediate and intense attention.
Dad had a weapon in his hand. Whenever this occurred, which was frequently, sometimes daily, but mostly just once or twice a week, anyone within his vicinity, guilty or innocent of childhood infractions, had the potential to be smacked, an appropriate moniker for dad's physical strikes. Dad had my full and undivided attention which was my downfall, my misery, my bad luck to have happen.
The shouting was a back and forth between Ava and dad about something of no consequence, but it was unusual in pitch, and its intensity. Then as quickly as dad grabbed the broom (which reminds me of that damn coat rack that always frightened me in my therapist's office, and I did not know why it scared me so until this very moment; it looked similar to the broom.) he whipped it heartily over Ava's back with a thud and a crack as the wood split into two or more pieces; a sound that seems to forever haunt me in it's vile echoes.
The shock of what I had just witnessed was like the force of a dump truck loaded with bricks being dumped into my lap. I dare not move. I dare not move, yet the house and its occupants all around me sprang into action like bullets with everyone running. Mother running towards the kitchen. Older brother following her. Younger children waking from play and full of fright and confusion, they too, made there way to the kitchen for the sound of the crack, the thud and the pieces of broom striking flesh and wall elicited a fearful curiosity.
I felt so far removed, sitting as I did upon the couch too afraid to move.
Oh, why does this pain me so to recount this first descriptive telling of what I saw?
I don't know if I was more concerned about Ava's well-being or my own, as I was grimly familiar with dad's hitting. Uncertainty of a new and violent event within the household meant that anything could happen. My thoughts streamed rapidly in erratic fashion: Was Ava's back broken? Was dad going to hit more children? Was I safe in living room? Should I run out the door and call the police from the neighbor's house?
Inside, I was terrified, stunned, frozen in place. Yelling, dad was still yelling. I had made timid steps towards the doorway. Mother was on scene. Brother was there, too. It was a melee with sister crying, young ones, mouths agape on the verge of tears, and Ava sounding more angry than hurt.
I'm still stunned. I know that something in me changed that day. I had witnessed violence "out loud" for the entire household to see and hear instead of the sometimes hushed tones of a slap here or a smack there. It was like the ritualistic "wait till your father gets home" "spankings" that were customary and done daily with hand, spatula or hair brush. No. There was something more sinister about using a large, hefty, found in every household item and striking a child so hard that the object broke apart in violence.
Part of me thought dad had killed Sister. Just the mere act of watching such a horrific incident never personally witnessed before made me think that he was trying to kill or murder her. I mean, what parent does that? Purposefully raises and strikes with such a weapon their own child? I knew Ava wasn't evil, bad or deserving of such punishment. It made me see my father in a more out-of-touch with reality and potentially even more dangerous, chaotic way.
Nothing was the same. I could never look at a broom the same nor my Sister. I felt even more unsafe than before it had transpired. The world felt more dangerous and unpredictable. Maybe, at thirteen I thought I had seen my father at his worst with the beatings in addition to the sexual abuse of children he was guilty of on a weekly basis. No, something made me feel even more unsafe in an unsettling way.
I mean, dad was known for beating us kids but the thought that any everyday object sitting innocently around the house made me take pause.
God, how I loved my Sister and it hurt me deeply to see her so egregiously, so violently harmed. I still don't know how the blow did not break her back or cause her irreparable injury. I'm sure it affected her deeply, probably for the rest of her life, as well.
My dad did not give spankings. He beat his kids with fists and anything he could get his hands on with which to strike even more painfully.
I was completely helpless in a mad world called my family. I couldn't save my Sister anymore than i could save my self.
It feels different, far worse to see someone you love harmed than it is to be harmed yourself.
Rest in Peace Ava. You stood up to dad as no one else could.
(My sister died twenty years ago in a car accident.)
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