American Parisienne

Off-Topic: Where I Began

My mother used to beat me with baseball bats.  There were two.

One was small, about two feet in length, and heavy, made from solid wood.  That one left blows felt deep in the flesh.  I don’t remember if there were bruises.  (I was so young.)  But I remember the thud of wood against skin, muscle, tissue, and bone.  The blows were heavy. They ran deep.

The other was large, three or maybe even four feet.  This one was light, plastic, filled with air.  That one left sharp stings against the skin.  They were slaps.  Did they leave me red?  Again, I don’t remember.  (I was that young.)  These blows were painful but quick.  They soon faded.

I preferred the slaps to the heavy thuds.  Not only could you soothe a sting much more easily but the bat was larger and lighter.  I could block without worrying about enduring pain in my elbow or hip.  I could deflect.  I could dodge.

I could make it stop.

I was about eight—maybe nine—years old that day when my mother swung the plastic bat at me.  From habit, my arms flew to my face.  But on that day, I was daring.  I reached towards the barrel as it came hurtling towards me.  I caught it.  I held it.  I looked my mother straight in the eye.  I said nothing.  (I was still a child.)

She snatched the bat away from me and jabbed a finger at my face.

“You don’t have the right!” she shouted.

Then she stormed away.

I didn’t say anything then.  (I was too young.)  But I knew that she was wrong.  There were years of abuse already, but at that moment, I knew that I could fight back.  My mother was larger, more experienced with the tooth and claw, but I discovered that I could give a bite or swipe of my own, if only to keep her at bay.

That was when I became an activist.

There is still a little girl inside me, a mini-VG who has been beaten, who is still angry.  But that little girl is not angry at her mother anymore.  She has long since apologized, and they have long since made peace, and they have long grew into two different people—a confident and wiser VG, and a more disciplined and empathetic VG’s mother.

But that little girl is angry at a society where mothers view and treat their children as less human, where mothers beat their children because anger justifies the action.  That little girl wants to tell the world that children have rights.  “Children have rights,” she shouts with my mouth.  Children have the right to be protected from people who abuse their power.  Children have the right to claim protection.  Children have the right to protect themselves.

Yes, world, I have the right.