Forgiving Andre

For anyone who is working on healing childhood trauma, I see you.

When I was six years old, my mom went into labor with my younger brother, and we were left to my dad and his devices. Living next door to us was the president of The Hell’s Angels biker gang. His name was Rooster, and he was racist and proud of it. He also beat his wife. I only know this because she came banging on the door one day, hoping to be rescued. When my mom let her in, she screamed that Rooster was going to kill her. My mom ushered her into the house and promptly hid her. A few minutes later, Rooster came to retrieve his wife. He stood at the door, a beacon of hate. He was dressed in biker gear and had his signature bandanna tied around his head.

“Where is she, Kathy!” He growled as the rest of the Hell’s Angels circled the block, revving their engines. My mom locked eyes with him and held her ground, “You can’t come in here; she’s not here, but my kids are, and you need to go home.” Her voice was steady and powerful, but I’m sure her heart was pounding, mainly because everything about him was threatening. It wasn’t her first rodeo, though; she knew plenty about an abusive husband. He glanced over my mom’s shoulder and looked at me. My heart was pounding, too. Maybe he expected me to buckle and tell him the truth, but I held my own just like my momma and simply shrugged at him. I have always had a natural allegiance to doing the right thing and protecting those who need protection. When my mom closed the door and locked it, she took a deep breath and sighed before turning around. She whisper-yelled that it was safe to come out. When Rooster’s wife emerged from wherever she was hiding, my mom, through gritted teeth, told her she better not ever come over here again, putting her and her kids in danger. She told her to get the hell out. I’ve always found my mother’s willingness to help Rooster’s wife mindboggling when she often failed to help herself in similar situations. 

Rooster had a stepdaughter, Jessie, and despite his racism, I was allowed to play with her. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been seen as an acceptable, digestible Black person. When my mom was in the hospital giving birth, I had a playdate with Jessie. Jessie’s basement was always the first choice for our playdates. It was lavish to my six-year-old mind; hell, it's still kinda lavish to my grown adult mind. There were bright neon lights, a sound system that would play music throughout the entire basement, a fully stocked bar, and a hot tub. I had never seen anything like their basement, and I thought they were rich.

We played in that basement many times, but this time, Jessie ventured outside the norm. She headed to the bar and started messing with the bottles. I watched, but I knew better. My dad was quick to give an ass-whoopin’, and this was prime ass-whoopin’ territory. Jessie kept clanking around with the bottles, and at six, I had no idea how to abort the situation, so I sat back and watched. She had the biggest smile on her face and encouraged me to play along, but it was never gonna happen. Jessie was testing limits, which my siblings and I were never allowed to do. When Rooster’s racist ass came down to the basement and realized his bottles were all out of place, he didn’t even think that Jessie could be the culprit. It didn’t matter that I was six, I was black, and I was to blame. He promptly walked me home and told my dad, matter-of-factly, that Jessie and I were messing with his bar and alcohol and that Jessie had never done that before, so I had to have instigated the situation. He never saw me touch the alcohol or even be close to the bar. He saw Jessie behind the bar with his own eyes. Jessie attempted to explain that I hadn’t played along, but my skin, even at six, made me a criminal in his eyes, so much for being acceptable and digestible. 

As soon as the door closed, I knew it was game over. My dad asked me what happened, and I gave him a detailed summary.  “So you’re saying that you had nothing to do with what he’s talking about?” he hissed. That was precisely what the fuck I was saying, but there was no use. Adults were always right back then, especially white adults; what they said was law. Pleading your case would almost always lead to harsher punishment, so I’m not sure why I tried; I’m also not sure why he asked for my side if he never intended to believe me. I knew I would get in trouble, yelled at, and most likely whooped, which is why I didn’t partake in Jessie’s shenanigans in the first place. I also believed my dad could read my mind; such an innocent and childish thought. He seemed so powerful; maybe it was based on fear; perhaps he told me he could, and I believed it. I don’t remember why I arrived at that conclusion, but it was an absolute truth to me, so when Jessie was playing bartender, my inner monologue was loud, “Nope, I’m not doing this; I know my daddy don’t play,” I thought. 

While he interrogated me about my role in the wrongdoing, I pleaded with him in my head, “I promise I’m not lying, Daddy! I know better! I’m a good girl.” Despite being truthful, my daddy remained unconvinced. I was relieved when he told me to stand in the corner and face the wall. I could do timeout over a whoopin’ any day. I was unaware and unprepared for what would happen next. As time passed, minutes turned into hours. My dad and his best friend Corey, whom we still affectionately refer to as Uncle Porch, were invested in some video game they were playing. As I stood in the corner, the soundtrack of grown-man banter and locker-room talk surrounded me. There were only so many songs I could sing in my head, only so many things I could imagine to distract myself from the heaviness I felt in my legs and heart.  Every time I started to think they had forgotten about me in that corner, my dad would ask a question over his shoulder, “So did you do it?” and every time I would tell the truth, “No, I didn’t,” I would say. “okay, well when you remember that you did, you can come out of the corner.” 

Maybe I should have given in sooner, but my young spirit was mighty, and I really hadn’t done it.  Hours would pass, and he would softball another question my way, “you hungry?” he asked after a pizza had arrived. We both knew the answer. I had been standing in that corner for hours; there was no way I wasn’t hungry. “Yes,” I muttered, “well, did you do it?” Once again, I responded with the truth. “Well then, I guess you’re not hungry,” he said over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the game.  Uncle Porch was younger than my dad, and I remember him attempting to intervene a few times, and each time, my dad shut him down. He reminded Corey, whose kid I was. Ironically, I stood in the corner wishing I wasn’t his.  After my dad died, I would pull Uncle Porch aside and thank him for what he tried to do. I saw it as a kindness; the look on his face made it clear that he saw it as a failure. My dad haunting us both from the beyond.

Despite being hungry, I hung in there, but then I had to use the bathroom. “I have to go potty, Dad,” I said from the corner, “Well, did you do it?” he replied. I should have known it was coming, and maybe I should have given in then; instead, I told the truth. “Well, I guess you don’t have to use the bathroom,” he said, never looking at me. I held on for as long as possible, but I watched the day turn into night and the night become another day. Even if my spirit hadn’t broken, my body was done.