The painful years
Well you asked for it here it is: I was born in Orange Walk Town. I am the second of 3 children. I became fatherless when I was 3. My father was murdered by unknown subjects while he and his brother planted sugar cane. The official report states that my father was the first to be killed with a rifle shot in the back and my uncle was next shot in the chest as he turned to attend to my father. They were then decapitated. The murders were publicizing nationwide on September of 1974. Media provided graphic account to the point of tabloid speculation capitalizing on the gruesome details. Until this day the reason for the murders remains a mystery.
My mother was left to care for the 3 of us by herself. Alone, impoverished, grasping, and enraged, she planted in me a terror that grew to epic proportion. As if to expiate her own painful existence, she meted out punishment without relent or remorse for even the smallest of transgressions, whether real or imagined. While still a toddler I was selected as her prime target for practicing various forms of torture. With a morbid ardor she was delighted by the evidence her efforts produced. Bruises, welts, cuts, gashes, second even third degree burns, could be provided by a various media. Weapons of an untold variety were used, among them thick cords, sticks, machetes, knives, shoes, ropes, wire, pots, pans-all proved reliable. But all of these paled to her undisputed favorite, blazing firewood. Pressing a burning stick into my 7 year old flesh, she would speak assurance of love and redemption. I would plead "mama please don't' love me anymore!" Often, after beating me until she was exhausted, she voiced regret: "You ugly sonuvabytch, I should have aborted you! But I WILL KILL YOU- I will kill you - only slowly... and painfully..." After spent from exertion Mother would typically grind salt into my open wounds. On other occasions she would make a spread of rice, corn, gravel or coke stoppers. I was then ordered to kneel while holding a heavy stone with my arms held high for ten minutes. She would hit me if I lowered my arms and this would result in an increase of the sentence to 20 minutes. The ritual would more often end though, when she declared "Enough!" or until I passed out. I was not yet old enough and such concepts seemed foreign and distant to me. I began to contemplate death as the only way out.
I was about 8 when my mother, in a seeming act of charity, gave a Salvadorian refugee, a sugar cane cutter, a chance to stay at our hut, his wife having recently died from childbirth complications. "John Doe" AKA Jessie came with his 2, 3 days and 2 yr old girls. Within a few months Mother and Jessie were romantically involved. Jessie unwittingly made matters worse when he tried to prevent my mother from hitting me, He and Mother would get in fist fights when he tried to yank me away from her. Jessie's intervention enraged my mother even more. I begged Jessie not to defend me as his intent of protection would only produce more of Mother's attacks, particularly as soon as she could take the opportunity in his absence. One time mother appeared to have given up after Jessie slugged her. Turning away after what seemed to the final round, Mother took full advantage of his slackened attention. She poured gasoline on him, and tried frantically to light him on fire. But her attempt was unsuccessful, and Jessie found it within himself to stay with mother confirming our pathetic little tribe a 'family'.
Most memories of my mother's countless tirades are embedded deep down inside of me. But there are those incidents that flash through me without warning. When I was about the age of 7, my sister and I took a nickel that my mother had left on the table and we spent it all on candy at school. When we came home that evening we were questioned about the missing nickel which we admitted to taking. My mother then decided that I was the sole guilty party in the theft. She proceeded to punish me by taking a piece of burning fire wood and burned the palm of my hands to teach me a lesson to never steal again. For several weeks I had difficulty managing well in school due to the injury she inflicted and in turn I was beaten every time I performed poorly on a test. When she grilled me about my unsatisfactory efforts, I explained that I had difficulty writing due to my pain in my hands. She would then ask me to show her where in particular I was hurting and upon showing her my palms, she poked at my injures (on one of these occasions she even bothered to use a pencil) all the while feigning great concern. "Where-here? Or here?" Relentlessly-she kept this up until she tired of her amusement. On another day she tried to probe, to start her game gain, asking me if my hands were still hurting. I lied, but she couldn't resist beating my whole body anyway.
In my thirteenth year, Mother sent me to pick up some money from my aunt who lived about five miles away from us. On my way back a thunderstorm plagued me but I pressed on, fully aware of the consequences if I didn't return promptly with the money in hand. In spite of my timely return, my mother berated me for arriving soaking wet and for the money being wet as well. This beating sears me to this day. The sting of leather whipping my cold, wet little body had the inexplicable effect of being bathed with fire. And yet, just a few weeks later, I was sent on a similar mission to the same place. Again with the rain. But this time I vowed things would be different. I quickly sought refuge under a banana tree and successfully remained dry. The rain persisted and one hour became night- until the storm was finally over. I ran home as fast as I could, through the darkness never, stopping. I was safe and dry... but mother had been waiting. And she was angry. With no relief upon my producing the (dry) cash, and certainly not due to my safety, she was in fact furious. She was still smarting from the suspected pretext she concocted of my running away from home with the much anticipated $50. Armed with that thought and a piece of burning firewood, she pressed the flaming tip into the sole of my right foot and then the left. With great ceremony she finalized her pleasure with a severe beating. For each day of a month, I endured the long walk to school and back. My schoolmates creatively christened me 'Baboon' upon noticing my affected gait. I was known as Baboon for the rest of my school years.
My siblings were punished too but not as severely as I. My sister was granted slight mercy as she was the only girl, and my brother was the baby. But these credentials did not render them as exempt. My place in the lineup merely awarded me the full passion of her fury. When she nearly expended her energy on me she would always rally with just enough effort to slap my sister a few times and smack my brother for good measures. She would sometimes withhold food from me (or us). Once I was hungry I got up in the middle of the night when I was sure mother was sound asleep and crept outside in the darkness to the nearest orange tree to relieve my hunger. But Mother was not to be fooled. The next thing I knew an orange was being shoved down my throat with great force..... some time must have passed, because I awoke the next day in a hospital. Now there was a breathing tube where the orange had once been. When Mother took me home from the hospital she slapped me a couple of times reminding me that I should always be on my best behavior and that a swollen throat did not excuse anyone from a well-deserved beating. It happened that I would have to return to the hospital often now because I began to experience epileptic seizures that I sincerely believe are in some way connected to the trauma of these years.
My mother's violent ways triggered Jessie's decision to leave for the United States. Because of financial complications he could not at the time bring his two daughters. He had no choice but to leave them at the mercy of their aggressor. He made his way up north and arrived in Los Angeles, California. He constantly kept in touch with my mother through telegrams and sent here money to make sure his children were fed. After living in LA for 5 years, he obtained a green card, and returned to Belize to retrieve his daughters. It was then that he talked to me about starting a new life in America; I was 19 then. He told me I could make twenty times more money than what I was earning as a baker in Belize. Better yet I could continue my education and become something in life! I didn’t even give it a second thought and figured if I didn’t make it to the US I would then commit suicide but I vowed, never return to my aggressor. And so Jessie arranged all of the necessary paperwork for me to travel north. I now own my own construction company under the name of Do It Myself Construction. I came up with the name cause I do everything myself. I’m a carpenter, electrician, plumber, drywaller, floor installer, designer, artist, and much more.
About 2 years ago after 11 yrs of therapy I finally rid myself of the suicidal tendencies that tortured me day after day. I also learned to love myself and finally accepted that I was never at fault and did not deserve to be treated the way mother did. I now live a peaceful life and look at the sunny side of everything. While I’m healthy, I promise myself to live life at its fullest and make the best of it. Now you can understand that returning back to Belize would instill fear in me a fear that I never want to relive again. Understand that summarizing my life in 5 minutes took about 3 hrs because it is still painful to go back in time and relive my childhood.
.....by the way whe name Tamalito.....never heard of it!....but we have lotta chefs on yah so scotchie and rosy soon come with di recipe......
