New Hope

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The Fear of Consonants

Children suffer from a variety of irrational fears; the fear of the dark, the sound of thunder. My fear was of consonants. From as early as I can recall, I stuttered. I could not successfully string more that a couple words together without being impeded by the dreaded affliction. My tongue would become trapped at the roof of my mouth in a frantic quiver. Painful embarrassment would follow; heat and blood would rush up my face.

I spoke very little.

Often ridiculed, children would take great glee in mimicking me. I receded further into myself. I spoke little more than a few painful words each day. I was timid and quiet.

Every school day was filled with anxiety; the anxiety of never knowing when I would be spoken to. School was a minefield. The first day of each school year was particularly stressful. The first day of sixth grade was no exception. Seated in our new class, our teacher, Sister Hayward directed us to introduce ourselves one by one. She motioned to the first student of the leftmost row to begin. As my turn approached, I became frantic. I mentally practiced the dreaded first consonant of my name; the most impossible consonant of them all. My heart began pounding long before my turn. I became flushed and drenched in a cold, oily sweat. My turn inevitably arrived. All eyes turned to me. I could see the teacher’s puzzlement at my obvious discomfort. With a quick gasp I attempted to utter my name. A staccato of sound assaulted my ears; I could not get past the first consonant. Laughter erupted. The teacher scolded the class and was kind enough to proceed to the next child. Relieved, I averted my eyes and breathed deeply until my pulse returned to normal.

Sister Hayward never called upon me during class and allowed me to present oral assignments to her in the privacy of her office.

Until the age of 15, I spoke very little. By then I had mastered a clever system of interchanging words to avoid the humiliating impediment. Although I was a long way from voluntary conversation, I became skilled at these spur-of-the-moment word switches. These often resulted in conveying completely different thoughts but it saved me from a world of humiliation. Synonyms became my solace.

My first name, however, remains my biggest crux.

Bloody Bastards

I would often lose myself in the magic of make-believe. On this particular morning, Simon and I were on all fours howling, pretending to be wolves. We circled each other, ferociously growling until one or the other erupted in giggles. Our howls grew louder and louder.

I didn’t hear my father’s footsteps. I didn’t see him crouch down. I didn’t see the fury in his eyes. But I did feel his grasp at the nape of my neck. His large fist clasped my hair, his other hand the waistband of my pajama bottoms. He picked me up and threw me against the wall. My nose struck first, then my cheek and shoulder. The impact caused tears to immediately well up in my eyes. I was confused and disoriented. Instinctively, I clamped my eyes shut with my hands covering my face. The scalp at the nape of the neck was throbbing. I could hear Simon wailing and repeating over and over again that he was sorry. I didn’t understand what he was sorry about.

In a daze, I blinked several times to clear the tears from my eyes. Forgotten, my father’s furious stare was now on Simon. He wore nothing but dingy grey briefs. His face was contorted in anger, his voice low and menacing. Simon was cowering on the floor, a few feet from where I had landed. I now understood what had infuriated my father so. He was ill and our horseplay had awoken him. “Bloody Bastards” he seethed. Holding his temples, he slowly turned and shuffled out of the room. We held our breath until we heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Vigorously rubbing my scalp, I looked over at Simon. He wouldn’t return my gaze. He scampered off without a word. I could hear the muffled sound of my father vomiting in the bathroom. A tiny stream of blood flowed from one nostril. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. My heart hurt.

I didn’t see my father until the following evening. As I came in from playing outside, he was slumped at the kitchen table; his hand wrapped around his usual vodka and tonic water. His chin hung to his chest. His eyelids drooped. He slowly looked across at me. His eyes sparkled. He smiled at me and winked.

With angry purple bruises on my shoulder and cheekbone, I smiled back at him.

Children's Games

Like most other children, our summer days were spent outside.

It seems my oldest brother Robert was always angry and appeared taking great pleasure in inflicting pain on his younger and weaker siblings. Without provocation, Robert would walk by us and brutally pinch or kick us; being the youngest, Simon and I were his preferred targets. While other children spent their time playing outside, we spent our days outside to escape the wrath of our older brother. We were not always successful.

One early morning, as Simon and I made our way to the park, we spotted Robert ahead with some friends. We instinctively turned and hastened our stride away from them. My fear was mounting. I heard them coming towards us; I dared not look back. Simon’s hand was on my arm, urging me to run. He looked down at my feet then up into my eyes. I could see fear and despair in his eyes. I could not bear to think what he saw in mine. I was barefoot on the gravel road; I could not run. At once, he let go of my arm and bolted away.

Within minutes, Robert caught up to me. He grabbed my arm and twisted it up behind my back. I begged him to let me go, repeating over and over that I hadn’t done anything to him. He ignored my pleas. He dragged me towards our house, his teeth clenched and his face red with rage. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Simon watching us from a safe distance. My bent arm throbbed and I could feel a searing white pain in my shoulder. His fingers on my forearm were burning and chafing my skin. I concentrated on my breathing to keep from crying. My tears would only incite him further.

As we reached the back of our house, I began screaming for my mother’s help. I knew this to be futile; she was passed out in bed, but I screamed for her nonetheless. Robert propelled me to the basement window well, opened the metal grating cover and shoved me inside. His friends cheered and egged him on. To my horror, he closed the grating cover over me, forcing me to a crouch and fastened it shut. Numerous insects crawled over the rocks on the bottom of the well. I could feel them prickling my feet. Several spiders were perched along the well walls, inches from my face. I screamed and repeatedly jerked upright to escape. The metal cover tore at my shirt and scraped my back but held. I was trapped. I burst into hysterical sobs and screams, my arms flailing convulsively. I could feel dozens of insects on my back and neck. Writhing and thrashing wildly, I swatted at them. The smell of my sweat and blood was heavy in the confines of the well.

I spent hours in the window well that day. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound of my brother’s cruel laughter. Many times when I sit quietly reading or daydreaming, I am overcome with a sensation of dozens of insects crawling on my neck and back. In a brief moment of panic and horror, I jerkily scratch the sensation away.

Something to Chew On

Elementary school was a blessing. It provided us an escape from the turmoil of our home life. My brothers and I were easily identifiable. We were usually dirty, languid and hungry. What a spectacle we must have presented.

This one morning Miss Monique, our second grade teacher, instructed us to silently read while she corrected our spelling tests. Sitting at my desk, I became faint with hunger. I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the day before. With all the courage I could muster, I raised my hand. Miss Monique, with a wave of her hand, motioned to me to come to her desk. I slowly rose on shaky legs, cold sweat running down between my shoulder blades. I slowly made my way to her. She peered at me with an appearance of gravity I did not understand. In a series of stutters, I finally told her I didn’t feel well, all the while looking down at my shoes. It seems all blood had drained from my face and neck. I could feel my cheeks tingling, as if they were being bombarded by thousands of tiny pins. These sensations were disquieting and alarming but common.

I thought I might be dying, perhaps of the same condition my mother had. But my heartbeats felt sluggish not pounding like hers. During my mother’s heart “episodes”, we’d vigorously rub her left arm. No amount of rubbing my own arm alleviated this pain.

Miss Monique reached into her purse, rummaged a few moments then handed me a piece of chewing gum. She sent me back to my desk to lay my head on my arms until it was time for lunch. I was confused but I did as I was told. After class, she told me I was to go directly home for lunch. I nodded and made my way out of the school.

I hid in the woods on the edge of our school until the bell summoned me back to class. Most of the pain was gone. From then on, when the pains and strange sensations returned, I would find a piece of gum on sidewalks or gutters, pop it in my mouth and chew until it subsided.

I was relieved that I wasn’t dying.

It Doesn't Amount to a Can of Beans

Ever since I could remember, our father left us for months at a time, under the guise of searching for work, weaving for us a tale of a better life awaiting us in some distant place. Whether he was intentionally deceiving us or simply himself, he would set out to find work and establish himself. He would then, he promised, come for us and we would live happily ever after. We believed him every time. Hope lives on very little sustenance and thrives on promises.

We were left alone much of the time. Mother was very ill. She suffered recurring heart attacks and was often hospitalized for weeks at a time. During this time we were alone; the eldest being 13. These were times of violence and chaos. We argued as all children do, but left unsupervised, our arguments would escalate to violence. Most altercations were between the three youngest children and the two oldest.

One night an argument over a can of beans ensued. Brian, my eldest brother, was outraged; what he perceived as his can of beans had been eaten by my younger brother, Simon. The argument began with angry accusations and name calling. I silently prayed Simon would not retaliate, but he did by throwing the empty can at Brian with a litany of curses and crude expletives. I was rooted in place by fear. I felt my hands grow cold and my legs weaken. But I looked on, helpless, knowing that I would inevitably be caught in the crossfire. The screams quickly led to shoving. Brian struck Simon in the face. Blood sprayed from Simon’s nose as he charged Brian, crying and cursing. The sight of blood propelled me into action. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a small paring knife. My heart was racing and I could feel my heartbeat in my temples. I was crying and my tears bleared my vision. With the knife firmly clutched in my hand, I ran back to my brothers, intent on saving Simon.

Both were on the floor wrestling. Brian, being much bigger, was holding Simon in a headlock, cursing and screaming. Simon’s face was beet red with rage and blood ran down his chin in a steady flow. I raised a trembling arm; raising the knife high with a confidence I didn’t feel. I screamed at Brian to let go of Simon but he ignored me. Tears were pouring down my face, my body was shaking hard. My own shouts filled my head and made my ears ring. Finally Brian looked up at me. And at that moment, from some ten feet away, I hurled the knife at Brian. The knife struck Brian above the eye, right below his eyebrow. He abruptly let go of Simon and lay on the floor clutching his eye, screaming. We could hear the neighbors pounding on the adjoining wall, demanding that we cease the noise. Simon stumbled to his feet, grabbed my arm and we scampered up the stairs to lock ourselves in relative safety, in the bathroom.

Before long, police officers were at our door. The crisis had ended. Brian received several stitches. With angry spittle accentuating his words, he vowed to make my life a living hell. Over the next few years, with a faint white jagged line over his left eye, he did just that.

Fear lives on very little sustenance and thrives on threats.