Spring, 1979.

Houston, Texas.

The ground next to the septic tank in my grandparents' yard was very fertile.

The plum tree that grew there burst with fruit.

Now the branches on a fruit-filled tree are very pliable.

They bend but they don’t break.

Perfect for switches.

The house had a steep step to the concrete kitchen, and you had to hold onto the rail to step down.

At this time I'm 8, and my 3-year-old sister trips and smacks her face onto the concrete floor.

“Mom! Kimberly pushed me!” she screams.

“Kimberly how could you! She’s just a baby!” yells Mom.

“I didn’t push her, she fell!” I plead as my sister bawls her eyes out for effect.

“Don’t you dare talk back to your elders,” she screams. “Now go out and choose the switch you want me to whoop you with.”

I move slowly hoping she’ll forget all about it.

“Don’t you keep me waiting!” she yells from the porch.

I choose a switch that’s just long enough.

If it’s too short, she’ll get a much longer one that’ll whip its way right around my legs with every lash and leave even bigger marks.  

Mom holds me with one hand and puts the switch to work with the other, and with all my hopping around and screaming trying to get away, there isn’t an inch of my legs or butt that doesn’t get whipped.

*****
I’d say my Mom wasn't really cut out for the mothering life.

Growing up, she was told to shut up and obey her elders and keep the family’s business to herself…

And never ever ask for help.

And she passed that learning down to her children.

My sister and I were accidents, as she’d been told she’d never have children.

And instead of really taking care of us, she used us as the support system for the chaotic lifestyle she chose.

The men she met in the bars she ran weren’t always solid folks.

And she’d wake my sister and me at 3 am to unload her drunken anger and shame on us.

Soon after that switch beating, I was getting myself ready for school, as Mom was still passed out from the night before.

I dressed up in a little skirt like I’d been told so people could see the switch marks and know I’d been a bad girl.

I walk slowly down our mile-long street toward the bus stop, dreading the teasing I’m about to get from the mean kids there.

But I’m so relieved that today, I’m the only one there, and I get to put off the teasing for a little while longer.

Soon after, a car pulls up and a big, strange man in his 20s or 30s I guess, rolls down the window.

“Hey I’m lost,” he says. “Can you help me?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” I say, suddenly wishing the mean kids would arrive.  

“Oh sweetie, I can’t hear you. You’re too far away. What did you say?”

Now what do you do when you’re told not to talk to strangers?

But you’re also told to do what grown-ups tell you…

And not answer back?

I edge closer to the car, that’s what.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” I say again, louder this time.  

The man opens the door and drags me in.

“I heard you. Now I need you to listen. I have a knife.”

My brain races, but my body freezes.

Can’t talk back.

Can’t disobey.

I nod “Yes.”

We drive a little ways away to some woods and he parks up.

“Get in the backseat. I need you to take off all your clothes.”

I get in the back seat and undress.

There’s trash all over the floor and it smells funny.  
The man opens the door and drags half of my tiny body to the edge of the seat and my eyes turn to the swaying tree branches behind him because I don’t understand what’s happening.

Can’t talk back.

Can’t disobey.

*****

*****

*****

After, the man drives me off to I don’t know where.

Now I’m scared I’ll never see my home again, but what will happen if I speak up?

 One fear overrides the other, and I find my voice from somewhere.   

“My aunt works for the police department. She’ll be looking for me because I’m not in school.”

This was mostly true; my grandfather’s wife did work there, but we called her “aunt.”
The man goes quiet a minute, thinking.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure it’ll break.

Maybe he hears it too, because he turns the car around and drops me back off at the bus stop.

The school bus has already left.

So I walk the 10 minutes home, tears streaming down my face, and I don’t know what’s worse...

The disgust and confusion I feel about what just happened, or the fear of Mom’s fury when I wake her from her hungover sleep.

“What? What is it? I told you never to wake me up!” she yells bleary-eyed as I stand shaking beside her.

“The man took me from the bus stop.”

*****
“What did he look like?”

“What kind of car was it?”

“Did he hurt you?”

I give the police officer the best description I can with Mom watching on.

Her scowl tells me I’m already in trouble for making her call the police into our business.  

I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing.

I’m terrified of saying anything.

I know something bad happened, but I don’t know what.

And none of the grownups around me seem to really care.

*****
The police leave without any promises or reassurances that I’ll be safe.

And Mom must now drive me to school.

“Remember what I told you,” she says, chain-smoking Camels.

I nod my head and stare out the window, unable to look at her in case I burst into tears.

“Look at your elders when they speak to you,” she yells, her angry breath swirling the cloud of smoke in the car.

I look toward her, my lips quivering, but I can’t look her in the eye.

“What are you going to say when they ask why you’re late?” she barks.

“Nothing,” I say loudly, so I don’t have to speak again.

“That’s right, young lady. You say nothing. You don’t tell anyone our private information.”

As we pull up to the school it’s break time and the kids are chasing each other around the yard.

“Can I please stay home just for today?” I find myself saying out of nowhere.

I try to pull my short skirt lower to cover the welts on my leg.

“I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“Should have thought of that before you threw your sister down the steps,” she replies.

“I didn’t –” but I don’t dare continue. I take a deep breath instead.

“What if the man comes back?” I ask.

“Teach you to talk to strangers,” she snaps. 

“I’m scared, Mom.”

“No you’re not.”

I give up and open the door. But she’s not finished with me just yet.

“If anyone picks on you and you don’t kick their ass, then I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Yes Momma.”

*****
I sit on the playground not wanting to be there.

I keep my knees bunched up and my arms wrapped around my legs to cover up the new bruises forming beside the switch marks showing just how bad I’ve been these last couple of days.

Kids are running around screaming behind me, but I have my back turned to them all.

Instead, I watch all the cars pass, sure the man will come back for me.

“Kimberly, come play catch!” a voice yells from behind me.

"Aw you're no fun. Why not?"

Without taking my eyes off the road I say...

"I don't care for games today.”