The Truth Will Set You Free

A son shows his father's strength and wit through his own.  Every son's father worries, therefore, that his progeny will not be strong, smart or simply 'good' enough to mirror him.  My father had two sons.  Gary, his first son, was born long and lean and incredibly easy to please.  One year and two months later, David was born.  Dave was a tiny, five-pound ball of fire--as stubborn as an angry drunk in a bar.  I think my father felt an immediate need to strengthen and mold tiny David--named for the mighty King of Israel--otherwise, people may think the father 'small' and weak like the son.

So young did his training begin that as an infant, he left an impression of his will on my mother that she sees vividly to this day and Dave is now 44.  In my father's quest for knowledge of how to raise a perfect child, he came across a Native American technique for stopping a crying baby by stuffing a cloth into his mouth.  He waited for his diminutive son to cry, which didn't take long, and promptly stuffed a washcloth into his mouth.  My mother reports that Dave immediately stopped crying and looked at his enormous father with a a glare that sent chills through his 6 foot, 200 pound frame.  I believe it was at this moment that my father began to look at Dave as a challenge.  He no longer wanted to shape him, but to break him. And break him he tried for the next thirteen years.

All of us were punished with much more severity than any other child we ever knew (unfortunately we didn't know Dave Pelzer), but no one endured punishments like Dave.  As a toddler he was 'dried' in a clothes dryer for bed-wetting; he was slapped, punched, beaten with belt buckles, canes, brooms, whatever was in reach that Dad thought would make an impact.  His head was continually flushed in the toilet when he once puked on the floor due to a punch in the stomach (of course by Dad) after dinner.  This was to teach him where puke belonged (as if he could have said, "Could you stop punching me for a sec Dad, I feel a puke coming on from that last punch and I'd like to let it out where it belongs--in the toilet.").

When Dad wasn't mad a t him, he'd give him 'challenges' to prove how tough he was.  These challenges included pulling eggs from boiling water, being tied up with a multi-knotted rope and left alone for however long it took to free himself, or attaching as many clothespins as possible to his body (we all actually played this fun game).  Dave actually enjoyed proving himself with feats such as these as he never once failed to have the ability to execute one.  No matter how tightly he was tied up or how much pain was involved, Dave would never quit until his task was complete.  Grievously, this just created more of a challenge for Dad.

Beatings and exploits became more and more severe as the years passed, with Dave rising above each and every one.  My father succeeded not only in creating a son that mirrored his strength but, as he was soon to discover, surpassed it.

The defining moment came late one particular night after Dave, now 13 years old, came home from an evening at his friend's house.  I don't recall the reason, but there had been an attempt made to locate my brother.  Dad had Dory (he never did the legwork if it meant dealing with the outside world) call him at his friend Kevin's house.  Kevin had a brother named Dave who, apparently, was out that night and when a call was made for 'Dave', Kevin's sister told the caller (Dory) that Dave wasn't there.  Dad, now believing that his son lied to him--the greatest offense one could commit with Dad--stewed for hours in his anger and his Jack Daniels for my unfortunate, unsuspecting brother's return.

Interrogations were common with Dad.  Before he began, he made sure he knew the 'truth'--his truth, which was very rarely the real truth.  When the beating began, we had to figure out the 'truth', tell it, and stop the beating.  Dory, Gary and I did it that way anyway.  Dave stood his ground.  Dad would not make him lie, damn it.  So for hours that night, Dave was kicked in the shins with heavy boots.  He was kicked until Dad's legs got tired of kicking at which point a broomhandle was used to demolish the bones in his young son's legs.  When his bloody, flesh-exp0osed legs would give out and he'd fall to the floor, he would drag himself back up with a renewed sense of strength.  As Dave claims, he finally 'won'.  Dad, exhausted and utterly defeated, sent him to bed.

The next day, my father presented Dave with a mini poster which read, "The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable."  It depicted a rag doll that had been wrung through a wringer.  I wonder if Dad ever realized that poster referred to him.  I don't think he enjoyed hurting us (okay, maybe he did a little) but he was really just trying to produce perfect children.  He fell terribly short here where his mission was to raise truthful children, he actually created liars.  We learned to lie for our safety.  Except Dave.  He won that day.  He won for all four of us.  It was a small victory for which he paid one hell of a price.

The years of lies are rocks both large and small that I struggle to pass as I make my way along. The memory of the sound of the broom handle hitting Dave's legs and the sight of the wounds it left, though, are almost mountainous and dammable in my brook.  But I'm pretty stealthy--I can maneuver around, over or under just about anything.  Or maybe I could just lie my way through...

Jen ;-)