My Rageful Memoirs – circa 1985

Anger, Memoir, Rage

One of my beliefs about anger was imprinted into my body when I was around eleven or twelve years old. 

My maternal grandmother, Mama, raised me. 

She was tough, mean, loving, strict, caring, stressed, abusive, worried, sick, depressed, and rageful. 

I knew not to fuck with her. 

And I adhered to unspoken rules and expectations when interacting with her.

One expectation she had was that I acknowledge her with a salutation and kiss.  

“Good morning, Mama.” Kiss.  

“Bye, Mama.” Kiss.  

“Hi, Mama.” Kiss. 

“Good night, Mama.” Kiss.  

But one morning, I didn’t acknowledge her because I was angry with her. 

Of course, I don’t remember why I was angry. 

Being a kid, I probably asked her for something I wanted. 

Perhaps, I asked her if I could go somewhere. 

Honestly, who knows? 

But, whatever it was, she said, “No,” to me.  

I was angry with her, and the only way I knew how to express my anger was by silently ignoring her.  

After getting ready for school, I went to the living room.

I sat on the sofa, waiting with my cousins for our ride.

I still hadn’t acknowledged her. 

As I silently watched TV, she exploded and went into a rageful outburst. 

She started screaming and cussing me out in Spanish. 

She was calling me every name in the book. 

While she was screaming, she stormed over from the kitchen and towered over me, violently yelling, 

“You fucking bitch!

‘How dare you disrespect me!  

‘Who do you think you are ignoring me?!

‘You will not be angry with me!

‘I’ll give you something to be angry about!”

Continuing with her expletives, she raised her arm. 

She started slapping me as hard as she could, from my neck down, all over my body while family members watched. 

I was stunned. 

I didn’t say a word and left my body. 

Finally, out of breath, she stopped hitting me. 

I returned to my raddled body on the sofa and started crying and couldn’t stop. 

Family members ignored me. 

They seemed to get some satisfaction out of witnessing Mama beat me. 

The next thing I remember was sitting on a cement bench in front of my middle school, waiting for the doors to open. 

I sat there in tears, desperately wanting comfort, but no one came. 

When I got home from school, before going straight to my room to do homework, I said, “Hi, Mama.” Kiss. 

~~Vanessa Alfaro, San Francisco