He justified his discipline style by recounting tales of terror from his childhood in the ’50s, justifications which conveyed an implicit threat. I walked around the house with a thermos of water, pouring it on my ass, soaking my underwear in an attempt to soothe the beet-red skin. When I was in first grade, after I’d run around the block without his permission, he spanked me so hard he swore, with a smirk, that he saw sparks. Roughness wasn’t only play it was punishment, too. I flailed at his arm, trying to communicate I can’t breathe under here! But even if I’d been able to speak, I don’t think he’d have heard me over his laughter. Once, he threw me onto the couch and held me under a pillow for so long I saw fireworks. Sometimes she came to the top of the stairs, crying. As the pressure built, we’d holler at the top of our lungs for her, the game no longer so fun. The force of his mass would mash us against the carpet, giving us rug burn, knocking the wind from our lungs.įorget screaming“uncle”: with us trapped under his knees, Dad commanded we beg our mother for help. The Steamroller! Instead of pinning us, Dad would roll his whole body across ours, back and forth, again and again, the only time I recall touching parts of him like his thighs or his back or his hair. Later, the bruises formed constellations around our nipples.
Then the claw would rain upon him, and I’d be at Dad’s back, trying futilely to rescue my wailing brother. “No, Dad, no!” I screamed while my brother, tenacious as fuck, pummeled him from behind till Dad swatted him onto his ass. The Claw! With fingers splayed, he grabbed my chest, digging into the flesh as if he could rip out the heart, still beating. My mom, dishes done, passing us on her way up the stairs, would chastise him. I was sure my insides were going to come out of my mouth or into my pants. The Scissors! Lying on his side with me between his thighs, he squeezed downward, crushing me in the middle. My dad, on his knees in sweats, gigantic mitts at his side, had a variety of assaults, which he would announce with monstrous growls. Swarm, then clasp our tiny bodies to his great one, hoping to drag him to the ground with our weight. In our corner at the foot of the steps, my brother and I would huddle, ready to rush him. But occasionally, according to some calendar our childish minds couldn’t fathom, he agreed, and we’d take up position in the living room. Most evenings he said no, choosing instead to do push-ups and sit-ups or, more often than not, watch the news. My family ate dinner early, and when I was about 8 and my brother 4, we would beg Dad to wrestle after we cleared our plates. Hugs were scarce, and cuddles not an option for “big boys.” When I was a child, it seemed my dad only touched to hurt. Brian Gresko | Longreads | June 2018 | 14 minutes (3,488 words)