My first lesson on obedience came when I was seven years old. I was called back home from playing with my two older brothers and sister at the corner of the street, jumping on broken zinc plates meant for roof tops. It was fun, being small and yet on top of things and destroying it. So when we were all called home for dinner, my mind was still trailing back to the corner of the street where my poor lifeless victims await my destruction.
The television was turned on moderately loud, Dad was reading the papers next to the television (it was a small house); Grandma was at the dining table and Mom was busy making sure every one of her kids got to their dinner. When she saw me, she handed me my bowl of rice and cooked dishes. And then I did the unthinkable. I shook my head in response to her outstretched hand. Now, patience was a stranger in our family; anger and screaming voices are next-of-kins. Mom tried to shove the bowl into my hands but I refused to accept it. I wanted to display my refusal so I could go back to playing. Dad looked up from his papers and told Mom, “It is time to bring the cane out. She has to learn not to disobey her elders. If we let her off this time, she will grow up to think she can have her way around and disobey authorities in her life.”
I was in a state of panic and shock. I have seen and thought Dad only hit my older siblings, but never me, because I was young and adorable. That first beating was to be the beginning of a string of beatings that molded and shaped my adolescent years, which left me scarred and wounded emotionally, but thank God, healed with forgiveness and love.
The television was turned on moderately loud, Dad was reading the papers next to the television (it was a small house); Grandma was at the dining table and Mom was busy making sure every one of her kids got to their dinner. When she saw me, she handed me my bowl of rice and cooked dishes. And then I did the unthinkable. I shook my head in response to her outstretched hand. Now, patience was a stranger in our family; anger and screaming voices are next-of-kins. Mom tried to shove the bowl into my hands but I refused to accept it. I wanted to display my refusal so I could go back to playing. Dad looked up from his papers and told Mom, “It is time to bring the cane out. She has to learn not to disobey her elders. If we let her off this time, she will grow up to think she can have her way around and disobey authorities in her life.”
I was in a state of panic and shock. I have seen and thought Dad only hit my older siblings, but never me, because I was young and adorable. That first beating was to be the beginning of a string of beatings that molded and shaped my adolescent years, which left me scarred and wounded emotionally, but thank God, healed with forgiveness and love.
2 comments:
i too was caned frequently when i was young.
when my sis and i had to be whacked, we would huddle and beg mum to stop.
as we got older, we discovered the power of 'unity and strength'..
ha..
nice blog!
thx anonymous! ;)
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