Backseat Questions

Childhood memories are kind of weird snapshots. Fragments of smells and images not really pieced together in any semblance of order.

I remember riding in the backseat of my mom's Oldsmobile. We were on our way home some evening, having just turned into our subdivision we were driving down the street towards our house. I leaned up against the front seat and struggled to formulate the question:

Mom? What is a bastard?

I could not see my mom's face, but I am sure it was a question she never expected to hear her elementary school-aged daughter ask.

I remember she fumbled a bit and responded that a bastard was somebody who didn't have a father. That they were born out of wedlock (this was the early 80's remember).

I sat on that for a minute, then asked:

Well then why does dad always call me that? He is my father, so why does he always call me a bastard?

As a mom of two little ones, I cannot even now imagine what went through my mom's mind. Of the sorrow. The anger. The frustration. I don't really remember what she said to me save that my dad shouldn't say such things and that it was a bad word.

It was left at that.

I was so confused.

I don't know if my mom ever said anything to my dad about it. I doubt it made any difference if she did.

My next and only other recollection in that same vein is that of my dad chasing me out of the house one afternoon intent on spanking me for something I had done. I ran like hell out the front door with him right on my heels. I was faster and was running across the front lawn when through gritted teeth he yelled at me You little bastard!

I remember that I whirled on the the sidewalk and screamed at him that he was my father. That I was not a bastard, and that he shouldn't say that to me.

Close curtain. End of scene.

I am like my father in so many ways. I look like him. I have a terrible temper. I am overly sensitive and do not always communicate my feelings well.

But holy christ do I love my kids. I do not ever, ever want to put them through that kind of anguish. That verbal abuse. I know that potential is inside me because I lived through it.

They say when you know better you do better. I do know better, but sometimes it is just so hard when you don't have any other model. There are days I catch myself in the mirror. When the kids are screaming and fighting with each other and my blood pressure puts Mount St. Helens to shame.

I can't go there. I won't go there. God help me not go there.