huckleberry hound

for me, it all really started in kindergarten.

it was the the first week at 53rd st. elementary school, and for some reason, the school nurse wanted to give us all physicals. i was only 5 or 6, but i knew this was going to be problem. i was already being teased for wearing long sleeves shirts and pants in the summer because i had bruises all over my body from a beating my father had given me with a belt. when i heard the official announcement, my body went cold. what should i do? she was conducting the physicals all week, and i wasn’t smart enough to figure a way out of mine. she was going in alphabetical order, my last name was moore, so i had time to think about what lie i could tell.

when she came in the classroom and pointed at me, i wanted to cry out “no!!! please don’t!!! you’re gonna get me in trouble. i’m gonna get in trouble when i get home...” but i said nothing, and took the long walk to her office, with my head down and my best friend fear, walking in front of me, holding my hand. after she weighed and measured me, she stood back and asked me to take off my shirt and pants so that she could complete the examination.

“okay,” i said quietly.

my hands were shaking as i tried to raise the shirt over my head. it got stuck for a moment, covering my eyes, leaving me in the dark. i wanted so badly to stay there, where it was safe. finally, i was able to yank it over my big ears and my even bigger afro.

i heard her gasp. i looked up, my eyes beginning to water, and i saw her put her hand over her mouth. she took a step back, as if i smelled. with my wrangler jeans in a pile beside me, and my shirt in my hand, i stood there in front of her, small and scared.

“what happened to you she whispered,” her hand still over her mouth. i started to shake, from the cold, or the from the possibility of things to come.

i was in so much trouble.

i looked at my arms and legs and chest and saw what she saw, dark brown bruises and welts that criss-crossed over my body.

“i-i-i fell??’ i stammered quietly. surely this was possible right? i could have tripped over a toy and fallen down the stairs. my body flinging into the railings and the walls? i offered it up to her, almost as a flower, praying she would take it, and believe me.

“you fell?” she asked kneeling in front of me, touching my shoulder with her soft white hands. they were warm, and she was kind. looking into her eyes, i was distracted because they were a pretty green, like the grass outside. only lighter, with flecks of hazel in them.

i wished i had green eyes.

her face was long, and she had a small pointy chin. her hair was pulled back in a pony-tail and was a brownish blonde. she was close to me and she smelled like bubble gum and glazed donuts. when she had come to get me out of the classroom, she had pointed at me and waved me down the hall. she never really looked at me, only the clipboard that must’ve had important notes about little bobby moore. but now, as she knelt in front of me, i felt like she was really looking at me. i felt like she could really see me.

“who did this to you?” she asked softly.

my mouth was frozen shut. i couldn’t say it. my daddy always told me to never tell anyone what goes on in our house. never. ever. but looking at her kneeling in front of me, it was hard not to. even though i was only 5 or 6, i was tired. i just wanted to put my little bruised arms around her and hug her. and then cry. i wanted to tell her everything. how scared i was all the time, and i hated going home. my lips started to tremble and the tears started to come down my cheeks.

“i was bad,” i said quietly, looking down again. she nodded her head in disbelief.

“you didn’t deserve this sweetie.” she said touching my arm.

“i was bad, and i got a whooping,” i said. the words were spilling out of me now. like heavy rocks falling from my pockets, they landed in front of me. too heavy, to be picked up again.

“does this happen all the time?” she was standing now and reaching for her clipboard.

i nodded slowly. i was too tired to say anything else. i had used up all my words. she told me i could put my clothes back on, and i watched as she scribbled furiously on her clipboard. i wanted to tell her to ‘stop,’ that we couldn’t tell anybody, that we could never tell anyone what happens in my house on burleigh.

when she walked me back to my classroom, she walked beside me this time, not in front. i could feel her eyes look down at me from time to time. when we got to the door, she stopped an kneeled in front of me again.

“don’t worry,” she said with a soft smile. “everything is going to be alright.” i nodded, looking down again, pretending to believe her. i was only 5 or 6, and i didn’t know a lot, but i knew this white lady was wrong.

i remember they contacted my father a couple days later, and informed him that they were going to stop by for a “visit.” after my father hung up the phone, he informed me that he was going to beat the living schit out me when they left. i knew he meant it. you could see it in his eyes and the way his lip would curl and tremble when he thought about it. i cried and cried and told him i was scared, and didn’t know what to do. i told him that they made me do it. he didn’t care, somehow it was still my fault. he told me i should’ve ran, or called home, that i should've figured something out.

i was upstairs when the doorbell rang the next day. i heard my father quickly go to the door to answer it. he and i were there alone, my sister was at school, and my mother had gone to work. she couldn’t afford to miss a day, since my father never had a job. i could hear their muffled voices thru the vent in my room. it sounded like they were sitting in the foyer. i could hear my father’s voice, he was so fake. he was such a liar. and he never got caught, everyone always seemed to believe him.

“bobby, come down here,” i heard him bark. even though he was trying to put on airs, i could hear the undertone of irritation in his voice. i quickly came downstairs and into the foyer.

a small, round white woman stood and took a step towards me when i came in. she wore a brown trench coat and carried a black satchel with a strap. her hair was short and curly and she wore big, black rimmed glasses. she was heavy-set and her hands were soft and puffy, like cookie dough. she shook my hand gently, and then smiled at me like she meant it.

“please, sit down,” she said pointing to the seat next to my father. i looked around before i sat down. i always liked this room. the foyer. it was small, but was always filled with so much light. with it’s windows, french doors, plants, and wicker furniture that snapped and crackled whenever you sat in it. the cushions were violet red and covered in plastic, just to be sure everything stayed perfect.

“so bobby, you’re father was explaining to me what happened to you, how you got all those bruises and welts all over your body.”

i nodded quietly while i started at her. she didn’t really believe him, did she? had he charmed the one woman that actually had the power to save me? she reached into her satchel and took out a manilla folder and a pen, and then cleared her throat, as if to make the statement official.

“he said that you broke an expensive vase and that unfortunately he lost his temper and spanked you too long. is this true?” she asked, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.

i nodded again, afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid my voice wouldn’t work if i spoke. i glanced quickly over to my left to my father and i could see his jaw clenched. i was always amazed that his teeth didn’t shatter, that his anger didn’t just grind them into a pile of yellow dust in his mouth. i could see his muscles straining under his collared, multi colored rayon shirt. every inch of him, every fiber of his body seemed to scream, “if you say one word—just one word boy, i’m gonna hurt you so bad...”

“do you like your father?” she asked, her pen poised over her folder, waiting for my answer.

“yes,” i lied. i was surprised my voice actually worked. i could feel my father’s eyes on me, boring a hole into the side of my head. couldn’t she see this, couldn’t she see the monster that sat beside her?

she paused before writing again, to look at my father, and then back at me. for a moment, i thought she could see it, i thought she understood. i thought she could finally see the game he was playing, the way he was manipulating her. i thought she could sense what he was going to do to me when she left. i thought she could feel the fear that stood behind me, with his hand resting on my shoulder. instead, she just smiled at us both, as if we shared some affectionate, invisible bond.

she pushed her glasses up with her forefinger, and continued to make notes in her folder, while coughing softly into her hand. she asked a few more questions, and then smiled at me and said she wanted to speak to my father alone for a few minutes, and that i was free to go upstairs and play. as i was leaving, she called my name.

“bobby,” she said, leaning forward to see me better, “did you get a lot of toys for christmas?”

i lied of course, shaking my head 'yes' enthusiastically while my fathers demon face watched every move i made, his eyes squinting, as if to remind me that he could see everything. i wanted to tell her the truth, i wanted to tell her that my mom bought me a bunch of nice toys, but when my dad saw them all unwrapped and in our rooms, he screamed at her and choked her, and made us bring them all downstairs so that she could take them back to jcpenny. he told her to “stop buying them kids all that schit!! they're dumb azzes don’t need nuthin!!”

i went upstairs and sat on my bed. it was neatly made and had my huckleberry hound sheet and pillowcase set covering it. i liked him, huckleberry and his red bow tie. he seemed like a nice blue dog, with his little yellow hat perched on his head. i wished so much, that there was a door, somewhere, that i could escape to, somehow find a way into his world.

fear sat next to me, like a good friend, and held my hand, squeezing tightly and whispering in my ear that ‘the pain was coming. and it was gonna hurt so bad...’

i was empty inside. i realized that no one was going to save me. not the nurse, not the child protective services lady, no one. even God was just sitting, and watching. i heard the front door slam shut and my heart stopped. ‘it was gonna hurt soooo bad.’ i could hear him coming up the stairs, two by two, like he always did, like some kind of animal. and then, he was in my room.

“take your clothes off boy,” he growled. he hated me so much. i wished at that moment i knew why. i wanted to love him, because i was supposed to. i wanted his approval, to hear him say ‘good job bobby.’ i wanted him to hug me, and say he was sorry, for all the whoopings and screaming and cursing. for him to say i really wasn’t a stupid azzhole. i wanted to hear him say that he believed in me. that he loved me. that he would always love me. for him to call me by name, and stop calling me boy.

“i said take your clothes off!!!” his voice boomed now, filling my small room. he walked over to my window, pulling it shut, and closing the blinds. he wanted to be sure that no one heard me screaming, that no one saw his arms swinging the orange extension cord across my body.

i started to shake, fear was holding me up now, my only friend, holding me in it’s cold embrace. i tried to stop trembling, but i couldn’t. i stripped down to my spiderman underwear.

“take everything off,” he said quietly. the way he said it, and looked at me with his yellow eyes, was even worse than the yelling, because you knew—you knew he was gonna hurt you.

i slowly pulled my underwear down to my ankles and stepped out of them. my penis was so small and shriveled, it looked like a button on a stuffed teddy bear.

“lay on the bed!” he barked.

my father was a muscular man. he was about 5’10, and at my age, he seemed to tower over me, like some kind of black goliath. he worked out a lot. lifting weights, and sometime in his late 20’s, he started kickboxing, which was very bad for all of us. he had taken off the the nylon shirt he wore to impress the social services lady, and now stood in front of me in his wife beater and the same dusty black cargo pants he wore every day. and i mean every day. in his hands, was the bright orange extension cord that he only used on special occasions. like today. it’s purpose was to remind me again to “nevah-evah tell anybody what goes on in this house.”

i lay my naked body on the cold sheets, shivering from fear. i looked up and watched as he turned to my dresser and rummaged thru my sock drawer. finally, he paused, turning to face me, holding two long black socks. they were the ones that i only wore to church. they were nylon and stretchy. just what he was looking for.

he instructed me to stretch my arms out, and as i did, he tightly tied each wrist to a bedpost. there was no reason to fight, or try to wriggle free, it would only make it worse and make it last much, much, longer. he stepped back, satisfied with his knots, and went to get the extension cord. he turned to face me, his dead yellow eyes staring at me. his top lip was just starting to curl like it always did just before he would punch me. he stretched and looped the cord to a convenient whipping size.

just as he began to raise his arm, i whispered; “daddy i’m sorry...”

he paused, his empty black pupils staring at me. he seemed genuinely surprised that i spoke at all. sacrificial lambs should always be silent. that’s how he had trained them.

“naw, you ain’t sorry,” he snarled, “but you’re gonna be.”

his arm swung like a piston, with short but efficient strokes to account for the low slanted ceilings in my room. i screamed before the first blow even landed. my legs instinctively tried to cross over my body to protect my small shriveled penis. you never really feel the first sting of an extension cord. it was kind of like cutting yourself with a very sharp knife. all the sudden you look down and you’re like “is that blood??” it was blood. it was mine. the special occasion extension cord was doing its job. long, criss-crossed puffy slashes were forming over my body. we were both screaming. it was like a symphony of pain and glee. i kept screaming over and over “daddy i’m sorry, i’m sorry daddy.” he kept screaming that my stupid azz shoulda done what he told me to do. looking at his face, i only saw demons and darkness. it was clear that he was enjoying this, even as the sweat began to form on his forehead.

there was an art to a good whooping, especially with an extension cord. always keep to the trunk of the body and obviously, avoid the face, but always take care not to mark the arms up too much. that’s why it was good to tie them back. a child’s natural instinct is to hold them up to protect themselves, which of course leaves marks, which of course, leads to questions, which of course was why we were here in the first place. with the arms out of the way, all that was left was a small brown torso and skinny legs to deal with.

“put your flucking legs down!!” he screamed, pausing with the extension cord in mid-air. as soon as i lowered my legs, he was at it again, judiciously whipping every part of me, trying to get any areas he might have missed. i was howling by now, tears, streaming down my face, legs turned sideways, almost as if i were running in my bed. somewhere, in a different universe, this was funny.

time seems to stand still when you’re getting a whooping. you’re lips and you’re hands are ice cold when you’re sitting and waiting in your room for your turn. it is made especially worse if you can hear your sibling running around in their room screaming in pain. you may have the benefit of the administer of pain being winded by the first engagement, but unfortunately for me, my father’s cardio regimen must’ve have been superb. because he never seemed to tire.

he was spitting now, as my body turned red from the bright orange cord whistling through the air and breaking open my skin. lash after lash, on my feet, my legs and my torso as i twisted over and over trying to protect myself. at times he would slow down the intensity, take his time to be sure he got all of me.

“put your flucking legs down!!” he kept screaming. he would wait for my legs to go down, hold his arm high over his head pausing, and then come down hard and fast making sure he didn’t miss. then, almost out of impatience, he would lose it and go fast again, hitting everything, my body, the walls, the mattress, like he hated me and everything in my room. it seemed like it would never end. i kept looking at the white popcorn ceiling praying that God would save me, or let my father clutch his chest in mid-swing, dropping to his knees, as his black heart stopped beating with me, standing over him, watching him die.

but instead, he stood over me still gritting his teeth, spittle in the corners of his mouth, nostrils flared. his brown skin was glistening with sweat and he was breathing deeply as he watched me crying and hyperventilating at the same time. he took a deep breath and then pointed at me with the extension cord.

“keep crying and i’m gonna give yo azz something else to cry about.”

i stopped crying immediately. i knew this was no empty threat. the last thing i wanted was for him to catch his breath and start on round two. the room was eerily silent, but smelled hot and sweaty and full of fear. he walked over and yanked on the knot that had my right wrist tied to the bedpost.

“get yo dumb azz up and clean up this room.” he barked grabbing his shirt off the dresser. “next time i tell you to do something—you better do it. do you hear me boy!!??”

his message was clear. it didn’t matter what situation i was in, whether i had to lie, steal or cheat, i had better be sure that no one ever found out what happened in this house. ever.

“yes daddy,” i whispered.

and my name's not boy.