My Rageful Memoirs – circa 1988

Anger, Memoir, Rage

Between ages fourteen and fifteen, I started to question everything and everyone.

I questioned God, religion, school, government, society, and every adult, including my family.

Of course, questioning familial adults was a problem often followed by disciplinary abuse.

But I refused to let adults abuse me without consequence.

So, I started to use my rage to protect myself and fight back furiously.

One aunt, in particular, hated me for this.

She hated me.  

Hated.

She was determined to crush my spirit, but I was determined not to let her.

And she hated me for that.

This hatred fueled her and fueled me. 

Once, she tried to discipline me with threatening, assaulting words.

But I retaliated by repeating word-for-word what she’d say to me.

Ah. 

This was why she hated me.

I became a threat to her.

And she knew I hated her.

Every time she saw me after that, she’d instigate, cuss, threaten, and I’d return it to her.

I remember sitting on the living room couch where I read the Sunday comics as a little girl.

Every single comic I read.

It was a place to sit near the front door and, hopefully, be left alone.

But that wasn’t the case on this calm, warm, sunny day.

The tiny kitchen and tiny living room merged.

Mama was sitting in the kitchen, frail, her health rapidly declining.

Another family member was present with her newborn baby, who was lying on the floor.

And the aunt who hated me was there.

On this particularly calm, warm, sunny day, she started in on me just because she wanted to.

While I sat on the sofa, she squatted down in front of me, meeting me eye-to-eye.

I felt her hot breath as sweat ran down her face. 

Inches from my face, with hatred, evil, dark, dangerous energy, she hissed, 

“You are a fucking bitch and whore.

‘I hate you, Vanessa.

‘I wish you were dead.

‘You make me sick, you fucking cunt.”

Stone-faced, rigid, staring her down because I was stubborn and fearless, I rebuked every single sentence back to her.

I simply replaced my name with hers.

It was too much for her.

She was congealing a big wad of spit in her demonic mouth as she listened to every word I said.

Before I could finish my last sentence, she violently spat in my face.

I grabbed the glass baby bottle that was nearby and stood up.

I raised it and was ready to smash it down into her head.

Despite my boiling fucking rage, I had enough awareness at that moment to think.

I was aware of the baby on the floor.

If I smash it into her head, I might hurt the baby.

I might kill her.

My life will be over.

She wants me to do it.

I dropped the baby bottle and spat right back in her face.

Suddenly the blows started.

I heard the family member scream, “Watch the baby!!! The baby!!! The baby!!!”

We were like crazed, deranged ally cats, pushing, pulling, scratching, slapping, hitting, punching.

I heard Mama’s voice in the background for us to stop, but she was too weak to break it up.

Finally, I stopped and ran out of Mama’s house.

I kept running, never wanting to go back there.

But eventually, I did because I knew Mama had little time left.

I wasn’t ready to leave her.

Yet, to continue to survive in Mama’s house, in my mind, I couldn’t and wouldn’t stop running.

~~Vanessa Alfaro, San Francisco