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Just
Like My Daddy PAGE
TWO: As I entered my teens, it started to bother me that I didn't have what other kids had, especially the little things. Soda was served only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Desserts were a rare splurge and strictly rationed. I never got strawberry flavored lip gloss or Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. We shopped for clothes once a year at a discount store called Weiner's. Weiner's. And that Chevy that had transported our precious water and so faithfully taken us to the beach? It became a constant reminder of who I was and who I was not. I never looked right or got attention from boys, so at 13 I got a job bussing tables at the nearby yacht club and used the money for new clothes, junk food and cigarettes. I would wait on kids I went to school with and ask, "Pepper for your salad?" They always looked shocked and perhaps a bit awed. I had a job; I was a grown-up. Eventually my parents' partying and drinking began to take its toll. Our trailer was repossessed and we moved back into the tin shed that had been serving as a barn for our horse. My dad would miss work to nurse his hangovers and would sometimes disappear for days at a time. I would fretfully pace the driveway and waste time by drawing patterns in the dirt with my shoes. "What if he died in a car wreck? What would we do?" My mom would never tell me the truth, saying simply, "I don't know where he is. Why don't you ask him when he comes back?" Years later I would learn that he was with his mistress. My mom was a faithful wife, hard worker and good mother. She could have allayed my fears with a simple, "He's with friends," but she wanted my dad to answer my questions, to see first-hand the angst he caused me, his "baby girl." When I would finally see his headlights advancing down our long, windy dirt road, I would race to greet him and open his car door. "Where have you been? I was worried sick about you!" He would smile, looking pleased at how much I needed him and sign, "I'm sorry. I was with friends." "Why didn't you call us?" I would sign back. "No phone," was his reply. That seemed to be a good enough reason for me. He was home. During my freshman year of high school, we ventured north to Ft. Worth. Bars that had taken an hour to reach were now across the street. I barely saw my parents. I was working full-time and busy with school, and they were enjoying the nightlife the city had to offer. Despite their marital and financial woes, my parents supported my ventures. My junior year, they traveled to Austin to see my drama troupe compete in the Texas State one-act play finals competition. A very serious outing, we aspiring actors were on our best behavior. Just before the awards ceremony began, I heard a smattering of gasps and giggles mixed in with familiar guttural noises and high-pitched nonsensical sounds reverberating through the sound system. Anyone who looked up at the stage observed a deaf-mute man doing his best gyrating Elvis impersonation into the microphone. A few people rushed the stage and the emcee wrested the microphone from Elvis's hands. Rather than exit the stage, Elvis continued to perform more enthusiastically to the crowd. The emcee announced, "If he belongs to you, would you get this monkey off the stage?" My friend Scott queried, "Hey, Kambri, isn't that your dad?" Always up for a dare, he had impressed his friends and made everyone but me laugh hysterically as we watched my mother scramble to get him off stage. The laughs shared between my parents were becoming further apart. My brother was heavily into drugs, had dropped out of high school and would disappear for weeks. I was the polar opposite: a successful student, working full-time and active in theater after school. With her responsibility to two children waning, my mother decided to separate from my father. He couldn't bear the thought of her living a life without him. He began harassing her by surprising her with drunken, late night visits and angrily accusing her of sleeping with other men. It culminated on one very long August night. The sounds I heard woke me up from a deep sleep. I looked into my mother's bedroom to find her on the floor and my dad straddled atop of her with his arm cocked back ready to punch. He caught sight of me and punched the floor instead. They scrambled to their feet and I tried to get my mother to tell me what was happening. I wanted to call 911 but wasn't sure if I should. I didn't want to get Dad into trouble but I was terrified -- I had never seen him act this way, and the walls were riddled with holes. I had slept through punch after punch after punch. The next few hours were a blur. In an instant he would turn from calm to enraged. He punched the walls, broke glass, and graphically described my mother's sex life telling me, "Your mom gives good head. Did you know that?" He
worked himself into a frenzy. He grabbed her by her neck and lifted
her off the floor. I couldn't pry away a single finger of his, so
I switched tactics. I tried to get his eye contact and signed, "Please,
don't do this. Look at me. I'm your baby girl, remember?"
With that line, he let go. I screamed to anyone who could hear me
through our thin apartment walls, "Somebody help us! Call 911!"
Nothing. The calm broke to rage again when he picked up a knife
and held it to my mother's throat. I raced to the phone and dialed
911. My dad caught me and disconnected the call, but they called
back within seconds. Being deaf, he wasn't aware the phone rang
and had lost sight of me. I quickly confirmed our address and made
sure the operator realized my father was deaf and therefore might
not comply with the officers' vocal commands.
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Somehow
I managed to fit in with the wealthier kids. During sleepovers,
I would show off to my friends by screaming curse words at the top
of my lungs when my dad was in the room, and we would laugh hysterically.
He knew what we were up to, but he didn't want to spoil my devilish
fun. When Dad was a boy, he was punished regularly with a razor
strap or switches made of cherry tree branches for the smallest
infractions. At age three, his father left him at the shantytown
where the poorest black families lived. At dusk, his father returned
and threatened to leave him there "to live with the niggers"
if he didn't behave. He held onto this memory with bitterness; so
instead of scolding me, his carbon copy, he laughed along with us.
"You're just like your daddy," my parents would tell me.
