A Punishment Well Deserved

Still Cute in 1st or 2nd grade

Not so cute anymore in 3rd or 4th grade

 

       

I lost my cuteness somewhere between third and fourth grade, or maybe it was just something about that big, gray house that just totally morphed Dad into the beast he became.

Tiama was the new girl in Mrs. Gregaydis’ fourth grade class. She was different. She was quiet and shy and had a funny name.

Gretchen was my best friend at school. She was strong, opinionated and could be very, very mean when provoked. She ruled our friendship and I allowed it because she was the most amazing young girl I had ever known. She was the fourth of four girls and her father really had his heart set on a boy so his boy is what she became. She knew how to work all of his power tools to create things, she could sew, gut and skin a deer, swim and dive like athletes I’d seen in the Olympics on tv, make amazing pieces of art, she would snake hunt--knowing all of the species of snakes and all things in nature--flora as well as fauna. She just amazed me. I felt empowered just being her friend.

Gretchen did not like Tiama for reasons unknown to anyone but Gretchen. When Gretchen did not like someone, she felt the need to hurt him or her and so devised a plan to hurt Tiama.

As our class lined up to leave the room, Gretchen planted something of hers (I don’t recall the item now, I believe it was cash) in Tiama’s desk as she passed by. Later in the afternoon Gretchen told the teacher that the said item was missing and that she witnessed Tiama take it. She continued with her story, telling the teacher that I witnessed the thievery as well. Assuming Gretchen was telling the truth--she was my best friend after all, I backed my friend and stated that I had seen it as well.

Sweet, quiet new girl’s desk was searched, item found, and she was whisked out of the room not to be seen again for several days (I assume she was suspended). When she returned she was called out of the room several times a day to speak with the school counselor.

Gretchen, at some point later, admitted her own guilt and thought it was all quite funny. She had never received a beating so consequences were never an issue for her and was rather disgusted with my lack of ability to see humor in the situation. I was tortured with guilt for my part in what may have caused a sweet, scared girl an undeserved and maybe severe punishment. What if she had a father like mine?

I don’t recall if it was mine or Gretchen’s guilt (I doubt the latter) or good questioning from our teacher, but the truth was revealed. The whole thing was a set up and I was in on it.

Parents would be called.

Dad would know.

My stomach churned and I stifled tears (not always successfully) the entire rest of the day. The anxiety was more than my 9 year old body could handle--I began throwing up. Mrs. Gregaydis knew Dad. She taught Dory and Gary in years past. She looked at me now with a mixture of anger, disappointment and sympathy. She knew what awaited me (well, not fully, not yet) upon my arrival at home, but she had to take care of this ugly situation. In her mind I plotted to set up a sweet, innocent, scared new girl and punishment, however severe, was necessary. The guilt I had been carrying around was torturous and I agreed with her. Almost.

It would be my first real beating--I knew this. I had endured the occasional whack across my face, punch to my gut and belt to my palms but I had only witnessed Dad’s beatings through Gary and Dave. I was well aware of the possibilities or rather, probabilities.

As I walked home from school my mind raced, my body shook and my churning stomach remained high in my throat. I got to the corner of our street and saw that the car was, in fact, in front of the house. Dad was home. I forced my rubbery legs to finish the journey home.

With great trepidation I ascended each of the creaky wooden steps onto the front porch, inhaled very slowly then turned the knob on the thin outer front door. I stood several minutes between the two doors before quietly closing the outer door behind me. Once between the two doors I felt a momentary desire to flee--far and fast--but I took another long, deep breath and entered the eerily quiet house through the heavy wooden inner door.

To the right of the door was the living room and there sat Dad. He would have appeared to be stone faced to anyone from the outside world, but I saw the intense anger beneath the façade…

My next few entries will be some of the most enormous rocks in my brook. I’m happy to say that I’ve made it past all of them and can relay these stories with very few tears and no self-pity. These are the rocks that are the feeling behind one of my favorite quotes: “Pain is weakness leaving the body” and these are the rocks that turned my little brook into the roaring river my life is today…