This I believe Essay
Antonia Peters
eng 100
this i Believe
due:2/27/14
sticks and stones may break my bones but, words can cut like a double edged sword
I was by all appearances, a normal sixteen year old in the throes of adolescence. Five more months to my graduation from Success Laventille Composite School. It was located in Port of Spain, the capital of Trinidad and Tobago. I lived in a village called Movant, where most of the houses were nestled in the breath taking luscious green mountainsides.blending in with the magnificent yellows and pinks of the Poui trees ,it looked like gigantic floral bouquets. Growing up on this exotic tropical rainforest island, where a beach trip was like going to the playground. It was pure magic but, at times could be a hellish experience, that had nothing to do with the usual ninety degree climate.
Over the 1993 Christmas holidays, when I should have been hanging with friends or doing some regular teen aged stuff,I found myself cowering in fear on the cold concrete floor of my room.
I was being brutally beaten during one of my mother's fits of rage. Sandra, was a beautiful dark skinned ,5”5 inch tall, 38 year old. Mom was raised in a strict Seventh Day Adventist home and the eldest of ten children. My maternal grandfather used the bible as his blue print for every thing in life and ruled with the belt . Whilst my grandmother was the compliant Proverbs 31 woman who complied with grandfather's every command.
The bedroom door flung open and the anticipated beating was proceeded by my mother screaming in a hash Trinidadian dialect
"Ah go beat yuh and put you in the hospital”.
The six inched piece of 2x4, forcefully came crashing down on my middle finger of My left hand as I instinctively held it up in defense over my face. I had no time to think about the pain because the blows just kept coming.
I screamed out in pain,pleading with my mother in same dialect"mamie ah sorry ,please ,ah aint go do it again, mamie ah go listen please stop ah go behave ,please mamie please."
"Ah go kill yuh gurl, ""Ah go kill yuh gurl, " mom yelled over and over again.
It seemed like with every blow , those words intensified as the piece of wood connected with different body parts, my head, my legs, arm and, back. In my futile attempts to escape the brutal beating I could feel the welts on skin stinging from being hit with the edges of the 2x4. Suddenly she was straddling me and went in Mike Tyson style with no boxing gloves swinging at my face. I felt my lip split and the salty warm blood gushed into my mouth .
"Ah go kill yuh gurl, " was the last words mom said.
I looked up to see uncle Paris, my step father, holding her back as he said
"Sandra yuh go kill de gurl"
She was panting like a famished dog walking through the desert as her 5ft 5inch frame was led out the door by Uncle Paris.
The most intense pain traveled through my left hand,that's when I looked down and saw that my middle finger was swollen to twice it's normal size, greenish in color and the nail was split in two peices with raw flesh bulging out . what hurt even more than that, was the words that mom left swirling around in my head.
"Ah go kill yuh gurl." Those word made me feel replaceable, as if my existence did not matter and unwanted.
Why did I get such a beating you ask? Does it even matter? What warrant's such brutality towards you child? It should not have happened. Now twenty one years has pasted since that incident and what did I take away . Looking at my finger today, it remained slightly bigger than the one on the right and still has a tenderness to the touch but, it does not hurt anymore. The effect of the words caused me to think before I talk, that words can hurt more than broken bones and can leave scars that last a life time.
Over the 1993 Christmas holidays, when I should have been hanging with friends or doing some regular teen aged stuff,I found myself cowering in fear on the cold concrete floor of my room.
I was being brutally beaten during one of my mother's fits of rage. Sandra, was a beautiful dark skinned ,5”5 inch tall, 38 year old. Mom was raised in a strict Seventh Day Adventist home and the eldest of ten children. My maternal grandfather used the bible as his blue print for every thing in life and ruled with the belt . Whilst my grandmother was the compliant Proverbs 31 woman who complied with grandfather's every command.
The bedroom door flung open and the anticipated beating was proceeded by my mother screaming in a hash Trinidadian dialect
"Ah go beat yuh and put you in the hospital”.
The six inched piece of 2x4, forcefully came crashing down on my middle finger of My left hand as I instinctively held it up in defense over my face. I had no time to think about the pain because the blows just kept coming.
I screamed out in pain,pleading with my mother in same dialect"mamie ah sorry ,please ,ah aint go do it again, mamie ah go listen please stop ah go behave ,please mamie please."
"Ah go kill yuh gurl, ""Ah go kill yuh gurl, " mom yelled over and over again.
It seemed like with every blow , those words intensified as the piece of wood connected with different body parts, my head, my legs, arm and, back. In my futile attempts to escape the brutal beating I could feel the welts on skin stinging from being hit with the edges of the 2x4. Suddenly she was straddling me and went in Mike Tyson style with no boxing gloves swinging at my face. I felt my lip split and the salty warm blood gushed into my mouth .
"Ah go kill yuh gurl, " was the last words mom said.
I looked up to see uncle Paris, my step father, holding her back as he said
"Sandra yuh go kill de gurl"
She was panting like a famished dog walking through the desert as her 5ft 5inch frame was led out the door by Uncle Paris.
The most intense pain traveled through my left hand,that's when I looked down and saw that my middle finger was swollen to twice it's normal size, greenish in color and the nail was split in two peices with raw flesh bulging out . what hurt even more than that, was the words that mom left swirling around in my head.
"Ah go kill yuh gurl." Those word made me feel replaceable, as if my existence did not matter and unwanted.
Why did I get such a beating you ask? Does it even matter? What warrant's such brutality towards you child? It should not have happened. Now twenty one years has pasted since that incident and what did I take away . Looking at my finger today, it remained slightly bigger than the one on the right and still has a tenderness to the touch but, it does not hurt anymore. The effect of the words caused me to think before I talk, that words can hurt more than broken bones and can leave scars that last a life time.