Photo by Christian Papaux
Disciplined Discipline
Creative Nonfiction Essay
He’d been punishing us for the sins of others, for childhood wounds gaping open, unhealed. Had I been disobedient or resistant to his rules, I’d have gladly accepted his discipline, but his usual style was to periodically put me in the corner, saying, “You must have done something bad during the week while I was away.”
His voice reverberated over me as I stood there, defenseless, defeated, and deafened by my pulse beating in my ears. Yes, I had done things. Like arguing with my sister, eating some of the raisins and grated coconut, my mom had put away for baking, or forgetting my noon prayers on some days. Still, I’d always prayed first thing in the morning and before sleep. I tried to be good as I could, but the bad words I shouted back at my sister—molded after his expletives—came rushing out, and I was sorry for them.
“I just want peace when your father’s not home,” my mother would say. “Why do the two of you always have to fight over something?” She repeated it like a mantra each and every time my sister and I quarreled. I wanted peace, too, but every day.
My father would select the times when we were alone to administer his discipline.
“Stand in the corner on one foot,” he ordered. “Now lift your arms and hold them up. Now out to the sides. No, don’t put your foot down. Balance.”
I’d have to stand like that for what seemed like hours as he watched. Then he’d take me to get dry kernels of corn from our room full of grains we kept for the pigs, chickens, and ducks.
“Kneel on these and think about the things you’ve done wrong,” he said in a commanding tone.
I would stare ahead at the designs painted by my mother on the light pink canvas of the walls colliding. She used rollers to make the room full of flowers in the color of pomegranate that didn’t fit the prison our home had become.
I’d try not to focus on the pain as the hard kernels dug into my knees. Try not to breathe in the secondhand smoke swirling around me. I’d try to ignore the stench of beer and the fiery smell of distilled alcohol. I’d stay there motionless, deprived of my humanity, of food and drink, and I’d think about how our lives depended on him.
Monday through Friday, we could be free, but then he’d swoop in like a dark cloud, turning our weekends into a hailstorm. The downpour of his words wounded. The put-downs splattered as mud and dirt to murder our self-esteem—stained our souls to be ashamed of who we were.
At the first chance, when he’d leave the room, I’d squeeze through the small window on the front door and run. His thunderous voice would call after me, but I knew he couldn’t catch up. I’d run to my mother. Through the yards, the gardens, and the fields—out of breath, without looking back. She was my safe haven wherever she was. Being by her side meant protection from him, so I would stay with her until she finished her work. I’d help out mending sacks, planting or harvesting, or watch her shave the wool off sheep, whatever the tasks were for the day.
Girls who grow up in abusive homes often marry an abuser. Boys may become one. That’s a lesson I’d learned through my own experiences—I wish it weren’t true. Textbook after textbook recited the same thing, but back home in my little Hungarian village, no one dared to interfere in family matters until there was blood. Countless times I’d run to the post office as a child to call the police, but the question they asked was always the same: “Is there any blood?” My mother’s bruises and broken ribs weren’t enough.
Many teenage boys in neighboring towns had risen up against their drunken fathers and protected their mothers and sisters—some with an ax—ending their future before it even began. We didn’t have a brother. It was better that way. I didn’t want my father dead, nor my brother to become a murderer. I wanted my father to be a dad.
The Author
E. Izabelle Cassandra Alexander writes short stories, creative nonfiction essays, flash fiction, plays, and poetry. She's also working on a few novels, a series of children's books, and illustrations.
Her work has been published in Spark Literary Journal 2016, 2018, 2019, and 2020, in the Illinois State Poetry Society’s (ISPS) Anthology, Distilled Lives, Volume 4, 2018, and on the ISPS website, 2017-2019, in Yearning to be Free by The Moonstone Art Center, 2019, by The Scarlet Leaf in 2018 & 2020, by WOW! Women on Writing, 2019 & 2020, by The Book Smuggler's Den, 2019, Tint Journal, 2020, Unlimited Literature (UL-LitMag), 2020-2022, Ariel's Dream, 2020-2022, Pages & Spine, 2020, Beautiful Words by Ariel Publishing, 2020, 2021 & 2022, L.eX | Literary Excellence, 2021 & 2022, The Bookend Review, 2021, and more.
Author/Critique Site: https://izabelle2012.wixsite.com/izabelle
Facebook: www.facebook.com/E.IzabelleAlexander
Twitter: Twitter.com/IzabelleAlexan3
Patreon: www.patreon.com/IzabelleAlexander
E. Izabelle Cassandra Alexander
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