Traumatised: Confessions of a Scared Little Girl in a Woman’s Body
Chapter 1: Robert
Stout, no neck, Red Stripe lover, singer — these are the only facts I know about Robert. Everything else I’ve deduced from observation, eavesdropping and tales from his women and children. P.S. I don’t get preoccupied with the societal assignment of the terms “father” and “dad” based on biology and parenting. I don’t give two fucks and will thus alternate between the two and Robert.
I often forget that a man and woman came together to conceive me until I’m asked about my father. I never have much to say, but this 10-minute read will prove otherwise.
Robert has eight kids as far as I know, but he didn’t live with us. The earliest memory I have of him is the day he, my pregnant mother and I came to check out the house I was raised in. I remember jumping around the room, naively giddy and unexposed to adult shit. After we moved in, he would visit every Sunday afternoon, have dinner, then leave.
“Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego,” I’d hear my nickname as he mounted the stairs. His footsteps carried a rhythm and bass that lured me to the grill each Sunday, and to be honest, I don’t know why I was ever excited. I never knew the man, our conversations didn’t progress beyond “Yuh behaving yourself?”, and he was terribly inconsistent. I did, however, look forward to the freedom and possible ice cream money that came when he visited on Sundays. He’d give me the keys to his car to play “drive-drive” and though I could barely see above the steering wheel, I’d relish in imaginary speeding for an hour or two, then return to the yard to play with the neighbouring kids. At some point, the grill would open, my dad would descend the stairs, and he’d be off.
I was fine with this routine until I realised the real reason behind his visits. I had returned from playing in the car early one Sunday when I saw my mom naked through the curtains. She was arguing about something and I’d watched enough episodes of The Young & the Restless to know what was up. Robert was only coming by on Sundays to have sex with my mother, stuff his face, then leave. My brother and I were a deterrent to this so he’d usher us off to his car while he deposited sweet nothings inside my mom.
I never viewed him the same from that day. You see, my parents were engaged at the time (which I later found out), but my dad was living with another babymother, their two children, and two of my other siblings.
According to my mother, my dad told her he couldn’t leave the woman because she had “obeahed” him. My mother accepted this narrative, holding on to the possibility of being his wife one day, which is why (I suppose) she tolerated him living with another woman until he broke free from the alleged spiritual entrapment.
I couldn’t have been older than seven, but from the day I realised that he was using my mom for sex, I stopped accepting his car key. I tried to stay in the house as long as I could, and when they’d have me leave, I sat on my step just outside the door as a proud cockblocker. My friends would beg me to play but I didn’t fold. Someone had to protect my mom from my dad and from herself.
My animosity and resentment grew towards my dad from then on. I didn’t respect him as a man, surely not as a father, so I didn’t yield to his instructions. This is when they started labeling me a problem child with a bad attitude. The only problem I had was a neckless, beer-bellied pussy addict as a father, and a mother who was too scared to lock shop and be alone.
Robert was spoiled. On one end you had my mom playing the Sunday wife, and on the other was his woman, whom we’ll call Norma, catering to his needs throughout the week. I had spent some time at their house as a youngster. Norma would pick me up from primary school each day and I’d stay at their house until my dad got off work and took me home. I never spoke much. Norma was a stern case; her steely stare alone could cut anybody in half. I observed her though, just as much as I’m sure she observed me - the daughter of the woman with the ring.
Norma was short, brown-skinned and beady-eyed with a straight nose, loved to profile in variegated wigs, and carried a hardness that produced harshness whenever she spoke. She could cook her ass off too, and kept the home spic and span with the help of my sisters whom she turned into black Cinderellas. I don’t recall her having a steady job but she would sometimes do hair for women in the community.
My dad would get home in the evening, they’d have some argument which usually resulted in him calling her a Jezebel, then he’d tell me to get my bag and go to the car. She never let me leave without a plate of food. I don’t know if it was a message to my mother that I was being cared for, or if the food was prepared with some spooky ritual or “obeah dealings” to bring me or my mother harm. Mom didn’t have an issue with me having Norma’s food, but I eventually stopped when I noticed that my dad and sisters were getting plumper.
Their household culture varied from ours. My siblings had expected chores every day, there were strict rules about hygiene and keeping the house clean, and secular birthday parties were held for my siblings where they could wear hair extensions and nails. At my abode, there were no set rules nor chores, the house was sometimes a pigsty as my mom was always at work, and we didn’t have parties or play explicit music in the house. My mom was also different from Norma. She was tall, chocolate-skinned, primarily spoke the Queen’s English, didn’t wear fake nails or brightly-coloured wigs, and had a softness in her tone when she spoke. They both loved my father though, something I never quite understood as a child.
Robert wasn’t a rich or well-off man, he wasn’t the most attractive chap, he was a serial philanderer, and he had more kids than he could take care of. But as I got older and made my own mistakes with men, I realised love isn’t linear.
My mom was growing frustrated with Robert which reflected in the tension that pervaded during his visits as the years passed. She tried dating other men but I didn’t trust any of them. I saw all men as Robert; ready to smooth-talk their way and romanticise a life that would never happen just to get some pussy. There was this one chap who seemed to be a financially-stable gentleman. He always wore dress shirts and trousers and took my mom on fancy dinner dates. I think he was serious about her as he wanted my brother and I to like him. He planned a whole family date once, giving us the option of going fishing or to the beach. I chose the beach, but I was still wary of him. Just as I had clung to my mother when my dad used to visit, I was glued to her hip at the beach. I wouldn’t let them have time alone and if I failed, I’d steal the attention by drifting off and appearing sad. It worked; my mom left his side and came to me. Of course, later on in life I realised how much of a dicky kid I was and how I could have possibly interfered with my mother’s happiness because she stopped dating dudes I didn’t give the time of day. However, I also acknowledge the perspective that if God wanted my mom with a particular fella, my fastidious ass couldn’t have stopped it. I also know my intentions were pure. I believed all men were my dad and I didn’t want another man stringing my mother along.
Robert wasn’t happy that mom was moving on. She’d stopped wearing her ring and he’d come by to terrorise her. It heightened one night as my mom and I were watching television. There was a bang on the door and my dad was demanding that she open it. She pretended like she didn’t hear and resumed watching the TV. She didn’t seem scared so I ignored it too. I became conflicted when my dad started calling my name, telling me to open the door. He said she shouldn’t prevent him from speaking to his child. Suddenly, this belligerent motherfucker wanted to speak to his child. I went to the grill and slightly opened the door and he started fighting his way in. I felt so foolish. I shouldn’t have gone. He didn’t want to speak to me, it was another case of Robert using others to please himself. My mom tried to push him off so he wouldn’t get in, and I was so small, but I used all my strength to help her lock the door. We succeeded and he continued his rant outside. I think he was drunk, but all I know is, my mom was over the shit. She cursed his ass out and he eventually left after she threatened to call the cops. I gained respect for my mom that night. After years of feeling like I was fighting alone, I felt like she finally fought back too; fought back against mediocrity and niggas who ain’t shit. She did it. She finally did it.
But men will be men. Robert still lingered. He even went by her workplace with the bullshit, but she was done. So his visits decreased, ice cream money turned into no money, so she had to take him to family court. To no surprise, he failed to honour the order made in court for child support.
During my teenage years, my father would appear when my mother sought an extra disciplinarian. It was never effective as I had lost respect for the man, and quite frankly, someone with little regard for playing an active role in his children’s lives unless the punani of the babymother is guaranteed, cannot tell me what to do, and that’s on period.
He was perennially broke, never remembered my birthday nor my brother’s, and oozed unreliability. For all that I had witnessed with Robert, I knew from a very early age that I didn’t want a man or boyfriend. When my teenage friends were crushing on the guy on the bus or the dude next door, I was thinking about getting rich, becoming a mega media star and giving my mother a better life. I didn’t care for the testosterone discourse. Wherever there was man, there was Robert.
Despite my verbal misandry, I contradicted myself by having my first boyfriend at age 15. The foolish part was, [it] was never something I sought or even saw the need to have. My mother had gotten baptised and became buddies with our neighbours who attended her church. They had a daughter who was two or three years older than me, and we were paired-off in this new Christian family that my mother had joined.
The girl was noticeably smitten by all things penis and wanted to set me up with her cousin. I had met the fellow a few times (he also attended the church) and I trusted her judgement. I knew nothing about having a boyfriend or what that meant, but in no time, this guy and I were boyfriend and girlfriend. It lasted four weeks before I ended it because he wanted to do things I wasn’t comfortable with. Our intimacy climaxed at holding hands; I didn’t want to sit on his lap and I didn’t want his lips close to mine. I was relieved to be rid of the relationship. He wanted more than I was willing to give and I was not about to compromise my values for the sake of having a boyfriend. I felt proud of myself, I was on the road to dismissing all Roberts.
But in less than six months, I’d lose my virginity to someone I barely knew, and become the clown of the circus narrative I swore wouldn’t be mine.
