my dad

When I was a kid, my dad drank. He drank a lot. There were many times what my mom would have to go pick him up from city jail. He got arrested for DUI or public intoxication.  He would spend the night and “sleep it off” there. The he would be released.   Or if he drove, she would have to find someone to drive her to the bar in order to pick up the truck.  He would drink so much that often times, he would come home and argue and fight with my mom.  She tried hard to keep him quiet or defuse his angry rants.  She didn’t want us kids to hear them as the arguing escalated.  Sadly, we knew it was going on. I saw my father hit my mother, punch her or pull her hair on many nights.  He would also throw things, like the time he broke an ashtray that split my mothers lip.   My dad was mean and angry when he was drinking.  It scared me.  There had already been enough abuse by the hand of my father. He would hit us with his fist and beat us with his belt.   He would tease us until we cried or punish us for some behavior that he felt was wrong.  He would call us names and tell me, I was ugly or stupid.  Really I don’t know what I did wrong, only that if I made him mad enough he would lash out and hit me.  My mother would try to protect us and keep him from hitting us.  I think it made me very distant from my father.  I was never sure if he loved me.  I was just a weak kid, defenseless to protect myself.  I always felt like he blamed be for not being stronger like my brother.  I remember once, my dad took me, my brother and my sister to the cemetery on the edge of town. He was drunk and talked my mother into letting us go with him. Maybe she just assumed we were going for a quick ride or maybe to the store for cigarettes.  My dad was a pack a day smoker.   But my dad had other plans.  We were all barefoot and scared. I remember crying and trying not to sob.  I sat against the door of the truck and my brother stood on the seat. My sister was in the floor with her knees up and her arms hugging her legs. Her head was down.  I think she was sobbing too.   I was probably only about 4 years old.  It was late and dark on the moon lit up the road as we passed the overpass on the edge of town.  My dad made a left into the local cemetery. We passed through the metal gates. You approach the cemeteries from the highway; The Old Electra Cemetery is on the left side of the road. It is the first entrance that you come to on the left.

In a section behind the Old Electra Cemetery is the Dick Sparks Cemetery that was the black cemetery.  Even in 1979, the cemetery was segregated.   My dad smoked a cigarette and the glow cast a glow on his face.  He drove slowly to the back of the cemetery.  The road was mostly gravel with a grass growing between the compressed parallel paths of gravel.  My dad parked the truck on the narrow road and turned of the lights.  He rolled down the window to discard his still lit, butt of cigarette out the window.  He left the truck running.  My dad began to speak.  He told us not to interfere when he “talked” to my mother.  He felt that when adults were talking, the kids should stay out of it. He continued to lecture us, slurring his words and rambling on about what he felt like was a lack of respect.  He made no mention about the beating, yelling or punching that had left my mother in tears on the floor at home.   He wanted us to get out of the truck.  I sobbed more but it came out as a whimper of saliva and snot. I quickly wiped from my face with the sleeve of my shirt.  He told us to walk over to the white grave in the middle of the rows of head stones.  It was dark but you could see it.  It was bigger than the others.   He told my sister, to wait with us about an hour and then walk home.  This would be our punishment. We would have to walk home barefoot in the dark. I was confused.   I cried more and wanted  the whole nightmare to be over.  My brother held hands with my sister and I followed behind them.  We sat on the grass and I watched my father drive out of the cemetery.  How could he leave us there?  We huddled together and flinched at every sound.   I closed my eyes as I cried.  We sat there for what seems like hours.  My brother tried to talk to my sister, who the oldest.  She would quickly scold him for speaking.  Maybe she was afraid that my dad would some how hear us and become angry again, it would mean more punishment for us.  We had seen him drive away, but some how he always controlled what we did, how we acted and the fear of punishment was a constant threat.  This control was in our minds even when he was not around.  We finally got up the nerve to leave. My sobbing had subsided, but the fear of the dark and unknown grew as we walked the gravel road toward the iron gates of the cemetery. We finally reached the highway and walked along the edge of the pavement in a single file line.  My sister, then my brother and then me bringing up the rear and scared not to keep up.  We could see the lights of the overpass walked through the high grass and onto the concrete curbs.  We crossed under the overpass.  We could see the lights fro the neighborhood a few miles away.  Walking on the warm pavement was not as painful as rocks of the gravel roads of the cemetery.  There were no cars.  We proceeded cautiously down the side of the highway.  And we reached the first city street inside the city limits. My sister knew the way even in the dark. We continued all the way back to our house.  The kitchen light was still on.  My mother was outside, sitting on the back step crying.  She quickly wiped her eyes and hid her pain. Something she did a lot.  She hurried toward us and knelt down to embrace us.  We all began to cry. She kissed our foreheads and whispered prayers over us.  I know she must have been beside herself when my dad had retuned without us.  Apparently he had come back with the intent of confronting my mother again.  My mother had locked herself into the bathroom room until she was sure my dad passed out.  She then waited outside waiting for us to come home.