Burn books burn

By the age of thirteen I discovered old Mills & Boons, having read Enid Blyton the last two years. The first book I read belonged to my cousin. I was hooked there and then. It was a time of discoveries as it made me realize there was a world of love out there. Virginal heroines and dashing heroes who would come and sweep distressed damsels off their feet. Of course, there were scoundrels and cads to make the heroines wiser before they found their own sweet loves.

One day my mother found me reading a book. ‘Are you reading a book you’re not supposed to read? So engrossed, it can’t be a text book! Give it to me.’ Instead of giving the book to her I got up and ran. She came after me, hot at my heels. I ran past my father who sat in the living room. I ran to my room and like a cornered animal I ran under my bed. My mother squatted down and demanded me to give the book to her. With quick thinking, I tore the revealing cover and then with a show of reluctance I passed the book to her.

She gave the book to my father who looked at it and passed it back to her. I thought it was a narrow escape.

Next day, upon my return from school she nonchalantly remarked, ‘I burnt all your books.’ She burnt the books that most mattered. I spent all my allowance on them albeit they were mostly bought from second-hand shop.

What left of my books were ashes and a few fire marked pages. It didn’t hurt so much when she got rid of the dolls. She said close proximity would introduce spirits into them.

At this time, boys discovered me. One day I was walking home minding my own business, thinking it was just another routine walk home when I heard a shout behind me.

‘Hey, not bad-looking!’ Then I was surrounded by four or five boys who wanted to know my name. I didn’t answer them and tried to walk as fast as I could. From that day onwards, every time I walked past them they would either kick a ball close to me, cycling beside me, behind me or whatever. I would try to walk away from them as quickly as possible.

Then one started chanting, ‘Fire in the mountain, run, run…….’ Soon it was like a choral singing. Every time they saw me they started chanting.

For months, it was with trepidation that I had to walk past that road. Occasionally, there were no boys around. It was a relief.

One day, only one boy I saw. He followed me and asked questions which got no response from me. That was also the last time I saw him as I had found another route to my house albeit a longer one.

Two years later, I heard he was a school drop-out and he had impregnated a girl from my school. She was one year my junior.

different stroke for different people

Finally, it came the day when we were chased out of the house. It was a group punishment. Our crime was watching the idiot box past midnight. Normally we got away for doing it but on this particular night it was a big no-no. First came the warning and the sound was muted. Second time, our mother came charging us and we ran in all directions. Then she opened the front door and screamed at us to get out.

‘You all get the hell out of here, @#**@##.....’ the mother from hell shrieked at us. All of us rushed out of the door and into the darkness of the night.

My brother managed to open the side door and we crept inside the house quietly and into our respective rooms. Years later, I used that entrance to sneak in after my dates.

That night was a prelude to what was going to happen in several occasions when our father came home in the wee hours of the morning. On one occasion, we got back into our rooms as usual but this time I had the foreboding that Mother would not let us off so easily. She was fuming with fury and we weren’t ordered out. We ran for our lives as she came charging us with murder in her eyes. We managed to get out through all exits in the single-storey house.

By the time we got back into our room, my sister dropped onto her bed and prepared to go to sleep. I knew better than anyone that when my mother was in this kind of mood it would be unfinished business if she didn’t vent it on some scapegoats. Boys were not her main targets.

I used my pillows and set up a dummy on my bed and then covered it with my blanket and then I slept under my bed with my bolster as my protector. I was awoken by my sister’s cry and the whizzing of the cane. Being forewarned I was forearmed, so I pressed myself against the side of the wall.

It didn’t take long for my mother to discover the dummy on the bed and soon she got down on her knees and aimed the cane at me.

‘I’m sorry, don’t beat me!’ My bolster was ever ready to receive the cane.

‘Come out!’

I was no moron, it would be suicidal to come out. My mother’s busy hand was never still.
I cried even louder every time the cane touched my bolster. The ordeal was over with the slamming of the door.

Poor sister was whimpering on her bed. The welts of cane marks on her body proved how vicious our mother was in her anger. I was unmarked.

I wasn’t that lucky most of the time. Sometimes, I was too tired to hide from her. Surrender was bliss, less taxing on the mind, the waiting game, the guessing game…. Sometimes, she left the house in a bad mood and then came home in a good one. Sometimes, she left in a good mood and came back in a bad cloud.

Years later I met a woman who was a few years younger than my mother. She was stuck in a marriage which she didn’t want to get out. She inflicted pains on herself to attract her husband’s attention. I would like to hear the viewpoints of someone who has a mother like that.

the asking-for-it stare

The asking-for-it stare

I have this vivid memory of my mother throwing my baby sister on the baby cot. She was crying inconsolably and my mother was carrying her back and forth in the bedroom. It must have been the crying that woke me up from my sleep. By calculation, it was the year I turned four. Another recollection is that I was feeding my sister conge when she was sitting in her baby walker.

Years later, my mother had this explanation that she wasn’t well right after the birth of my sister. Maybe she was suffering from post-partum. As for my sister, it was unlucky for her to have crying spells in her early months. It is possible she was a colicky baby.

My grandpa frequently told the baby she was unwanted child while he rocked her in the cradle. Later she accepted that along with the beatings as part and parcel of her little life.

My sister had this kind of stony expression whenever my mother picked on her. She would keep quiet and just give her the kind of stare that would invite more anger from my mother. Even my father who was uninvolved as he had always been would come out of his shell to give her a beating occasionally.

I remember my brothers running around happily and doing their stuff. Occasionally, their rowdiness was the cause for my mother to give them a mild scolding or beating. It just shows even when siblings live in the same environment, they don’t necessarily experience the same things. We are the way we are, is how we are moulded by events and the interactions with people especially our parents.

During our growing up years my father was a remote figure. He was hardly at home during our waking hours. If he considered his children as part of the furniture we did the same to him. One of my earliest memories is that I did run out joyously upon hearing the sound of his car at the driveway. It’s like hoorah, Dad’s home. Even a dumb kid could sense she was being ignored, with that realization in mind the welcome home gesture came to a stop. I noticed when my brothers were below three they did get a little attention from him. Maybe he wasn’t good with older kids.

I started off as an exuberant kid, talkative, a little cheeky and playful. By the time I was six years old I was a loner. I remember I was friendless in kindy. I was just a wound-up robot who was programmed to go to school. While I was there I was just a silent observer, watching people and kids. Happy kids, loving parents; I could sense it was lacking in my life.

Emotionally uninvolved parents

My mother was having her lunch with me and my sister in a Thai restaurant. When has she become a messy eater? During the last four years there has been a gradual change in her. She has stopped dyeing her hair. At first glance it is not the almost unlined face that ages her; it’s her demeanor that has brought about the change. She is acting like an old woman with Alzheimer but she doesn’t have Alzheimer.

The rice on her plate was falling over the edge and even found its way to the floor. When we were little and let this happen we would have earned ourselves a beating. The punishments varied as they played accordingly to her moods. The most severe one was when my father was around. It was like she wanted to inflict pains on her chosen victim in order to get a reaction from him. To the unlucky child’s bewilderment there was no paternal rescue but only a show of indifference. He did nothing to stop her. Until now my siblings still cannot fathom his unthinkable behavior. I have my own theory. As far as I’m concerned, it’s unfinished business when he took with him to the grave whatever explanation he had.

Now looking at the frail old woman, nobody can imagine she could be so fierce and unfeeling when she meted out those punishments. She would lunge after her child and land heavy blows on her face and head. When she got tired she would yank the helpless child down and then sit on her so that she could rain more blows on her body. Sometimes she battered the child against the wall. Her child’s tear-filled and pleading eyes couldn’t move her. She was totally possessed by her rage. Instead of venting her anger on her husband she was doing it on her child.

My sister mostly got the brunt of her anger; to this day she has been getting nightmares of our mother attacking her. For reasons of her own she seldom picked on our brothers. In her fiery days, she never did apologize for anything. When we were older she did try to put into our minds that whatever beatings we had got were imaginary than real. We even heard her mention to people that she had never lifted her fingers to injure any of her children.

In her mind she believes she has done no wrongs or wicked deeds as it has always been somebody’s faults. Hence, she always feels unhappy and discontented. She carries this unhappiness and discontentment to everywhere she goes. She is more wronged than she has wronged. She has never been good in taking advice as she always wants her own ways. Now in her old age she has selective hearing and what she doesn’t choose to hear, she blames on her failing hearing and eyesight. She is depressed and it shows in her present state of mind. Methinks she has gone through life without seeing and enjoying the positives in life.

Her saving grace is that she was a filial daughter and now she has filial children. In all honesty we don’t think we do it out of love. It is a sense of duty that holds us to her.
Methinks people who don’t have maternal or paternal love for children shouldn’t have children. Innocent children don’t have a choice to choose their own parents will go through hell when they are given beasts for parents. Is it a bad marriage to an emotionally uninvolved husband that made my mother the kind of mother she once was? Or is it in her genes that made her psychologically unstable? Hmmmmm…….

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Basically this blog is about my reflections on life in hindsight and foresight. I welcome all comments on my ramblings because this is my way of getting things off my chest. Thank you for stopping by and staying.