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Maternal Bull

A Teenager's Anxiety

By Sandra WilsonPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 14 min read
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Maternal Bull
Photo by Ilona Frey on Unsplash

I said, " Stop hollering at me!"

"Or else what?", "What are you gonna do to me?"I wish you would raise a fist to me. I dare you! I double dare you!

Bring it! If you think you're so tough, she yelled.

She starts to gaze around the room, still hollering, " You just wait one minute, you just wait right there. I'll show you."

I just sat there crying profusely waiting and anticipating on her next move.

She searched the closet but could not find a weapon. My teeth were chattering and my stomach cramped with anticipation of something that was tumultuous coming. And I knew what it was. Me hollering and the sound of me getting my ass whooped. It seemed like time had stood still, but the clock kept ticking.

I hate you, I hollered. Then I bolted for the door. She ran behind me and grabbed my shirt tail and swung me to the bed. As she swung me to the bed, I managed to holler, "You old witch you, I'm sick of you. All you do is worry about these men like ain't nothing else in this world for you to do. I hate you, I hate you!"

But then and again, I do lie.

Don't worry about my men, you just keep yourself in a child's place", she ranted on. "What you need to worry about is this ass whooping you are about to get."

In my deepest heart feelings, I wasn't scared of her, I was scared of the pain that followed the whooping. During the whooping, I was okay for some reason. Maybe because it was that constant moving torturous type pain, that I really had no control over. Maybe I knew that pain was something temporary or something like that. But no matter what happened during the whoopings, I'd always feel the sting afterwards that seem to last for hours. The reason why I'd feel the pain so long is because the pain was more psychological than a physical hurting pain. Why was I getting this whooping in the first place? What did I do wrong? I never really fully understood most of the whoopings because my mother never said what I had done wrong and that's the way it was with most of my whoopings.

"Why don't you go in there with Bull, and leave me alone?"

That was her "man's" name; Bull.

All her men who came to our house used a nickname. I never knew any of their real names. Even if you asked me today, I still wouldn't know.

I was only 14 years old. I was an A- student in middle school, had few friends, but enough to get by, made the honor roll, and I was always searching for ways to get to do new things in school. I was on the debate team; and when I grew up, I wanted to be a nurse; just to give you an impression of me.

I knew I hadn't done anything wrong. What did I do to deserve such ill treatment? I searched my whole brain, I re-tracked my steps, since I first walked in the house from school. As any other day, I spoke, I ate and went to my room. Sometimes, I didn't even speak to her company. But I did today. Bull was sitting on the sofa watching T.V. I really didn't pay him any mind. He wasn't there for me anyways. Just another typical day.

By now, I had been sitting on the bed watching my mother digging through my closet as if she had lost a million dollar diamond. I was scared of what was coming my way next.

"This is the last time umma deal with you. I'm not gonna keep saying the same things over and over again," she yelled.

I'm sick of your stuff." "You need to learn a lesson and I am just the one to teach you. And what do you know about my relationships anyway?" What you worried about my man for? Huh?

I don't care, I ranted. "Even though that's the third man this week roaming through our house." "I can't stand you, "Always thinking about these men, those men that don't care about you no ways. Sick of you and them!"

I knew that I had struck that dangerous nerve and I needed to think fast of an idea to keep her in suspense. I'd just turn her attention to the stranger sitting in our living room, to avoid this whooping. So I continued on my child psychology path to turn the subject off of what she was doing to me, over to her and all her men, I thought maybe just maybe, she'd start thinking about Bull and leave my room.

"You!" I stated. "You and all the men that run through this house. I can't even go to the bathroom for all the shitty shorts, dirty socks, and beard hairs all over the bathroom and not to mention, Bull, he even has the nerve to leave his weed plate with half smoked blunts on the side of the sink. I hate this place, it smells like weed and funky men. I really can't stand it here."

My mother had me at 17yrs of age. She was a teen mother from Georgia, G.E.D, a pothead, fast, black as crude, ugly too. She had a much older stalking boyfriend, my dad, 10 yrs her senior, back in Georgia, that was controlling and abusive. She even had to go to the law about him, got a restraining order to keep him away, then her mother, my grandmother, who I call Big Mama, allowed her to move to another state with me to get away from my father and all the drama. When we got to the new state, my mother would go out rummaging for collectibles. My mother was an avid collector of any sort of junk. On one adventure, she had bought this ceramic red bull and a matador, from a rummage sale, brought it home and sat it in our living room as some kind of omen of sorts. The matador and bull had a pure red glossy nostalgic look to it. The red bull had only one horn, I guess the other horn had broke off on the way home from the rummage. She sat them on the floor because of its size. The bull and matador were ugly to me. Only reason I would look at that thang is because from the corner of my eye, the bright red color of it would catch my attention at times, as I walked through the house.

Many years later my mother had told me the story behind the red bull and the matador. She said it reminded her of why she left Georgia in the first place. And that the red bull and matador symbolized the law, God, or the police holding my dad back from finding us. She said that if she felt his presence getting closer to finding us, she would feel a strong vibe from the matador and the bull and the bull and matador would stay on her mind all week. Then she got the notion that we needed to move and make some changes. Which usually meant, we'd be moving to another house. My mother had even joked one day about the cloth the matador held. She said sarcastically, "Damn, what if the cloth the matador is holding broke off?" I really didn't think much of it then nor of my dad. All I knew is that I had a dad and that's all that mattered. I was fed, clothed, and loved by my family I had, anyhow. Who cared about a dad? It didn't really faze me none. A dad to me equated to Santa Claus. Meaning; that the little bit he'd add to my life, didn't mean much. Many years later in my adulthood, while reminiscing, I'd always think back to that red bull and the matador, especially when I thought about my dad.

Back to my mother, who is still ranting in my room; for God's knows why. My mother was ugly but had an big round ass. She was ugly because that's how the men talked to her, not because I thought so. I didn't think she was ugly. Her men would say smart-alec, abusive comments about her being ugly all the time. When a kid hears that type of stuff, they understand that that person must be ugly. But, what all her men liked about her was that big round ass. Men would sit around at butt level, usually the sofa, and watch the ass, talk to the ass, make faces to the ass, that ass, that ass! They never really looked at her ugly face in any kind of loving way. I later understood about relationships between a man and woman was more like having conversations, holding hands, being compassionate, looking into a woman's eyes and glorifying her like she was a queen. Not her men. She was ugly and just some type of wham bam and thank you ma'am. And I knew it. I knew that all of her men were the same way. Abusive, and all they wanted was a "hotel stay " in our home for a few nights and with room service. My mother never went on dates, those men weren't taking her butt nowhere. She was ugly. So, she never had date nights just hotel stays.

Whoa!

She almost slapped me behind my head but I threw myself and rolled off the bed onto the floor and then jumped up and ran to the other side of the room. She was looking for anything that would cause some pain at this point. I'm getting really tired of her, thinking to myself. I wanted out.

O-U-T! I wanted to leave, runaway. I wickedly thought that if she left marks, bruises, or scars, on me; that I would have evidence for Big Mama. I hated getting these whoopings for no reason, because they often left me wondering and I would spend days thinking and guessing and trying to understand "why". I knew Big Mama hated and despised her and she would definitely stick up for me. Checkmate! I pictured for a second, while daydreaming about how it would be. Me standing behind Big Mama and Big Mama guarding me while Big Mama argued with mother and end up slapping the shit out of my mother.

My mother picked up one of my books and darts it straight at my stomach. It missed of course.

"You just wait til I find it." "Umma whoop that ass like no tomorrow." You got some nerves walking your high and mighty ass around here, doing whatever you please and talking your disrespectful talk to me.

"What do you mean? "High and Mighty?"

"You know what I mean. You always thinking about stuff you got no business thinking about."

"Stuff like what?"

"But tonight, umma do the thinking on whooping your ass."

My mother then starts searching the closet again. Digging through clothes piles, under my bed, and behind the door.

"Just tell me what I did?" I said.

"Heifer, you know what you did and what you are doing?" She added.

"What?" (By now I'm getting tired and sleepy and drowning in tears)

"Un Huh! Un Huh! Lord Jesus help me! This child is getting on my last nerve." Mother yelled again.

I'm mumbling under my breath now.

I said, "I wish Jesus was here, so he could tell me what it is I did wrong to deserve this whooping?"

"You getting smart?" "Don't talk back, I'll slap the black off you girl and that taste out your mouth."

At one point; through all the searching and looking around for something to whoop my ass, she picked up something she thought would be good to use. She had found a belt, but the belt was a thick cloth belt. I guess that was too soft, so she threw it down. She wanted the thick rawhide belt. I was relieved for one second that she must be a stupid mother. Why hasn't she come charging at me and pinning me down and slapping me across my brain; like she does when she's really angry about her own life problems? Why?

As you can see, there's two types of whoopings in this house. One, the type that keeps you guessing and the other type is straight to the point.

Today, she had me guessing.

The guessing just kept me in fear. The threats were what kept me on edge. Every other minute, "Ooh, you just wait for it. When I get this or that, umma tear that ass up, Heifer. All the ranting went on for what seemed to be hours, but when I glanced over towards my alarm clock, only like 15 minutes had passed. It was enough going on in that moment to keep my head spinning.

All of sudden, Bull yelled to her.

" Felicia?"

We both got eerily quiet simultaneously. It stopped her in her tracks. She turned with a wondering gaze on her face. A gaze as if to say, "what was I just doing"? It was her MAN, Bull. She trotted to the living room to meet him face to face. When she sprinted out of my room and opened the door, I could smell marijuana, alcohol, and oven baked chicken aromas hovering through the door.

I heard Bull say, " When you gonna fix me something to eat?" I'm starving.

She whispered to me one last time, "I'm not done with you. I'll be right back to give you that ass whooping."

She never came back.

She never do!

I was saved from an "I Don't Know Why?" ass whooping, by a strange man named Bull. Last time I was saved by Snake, the time before that, I was saved from an ass whooping by a drunk man named Gator. About 2 months ago, I was saved from punishment by some guy, she'd met at the local Goodwill named Bear. Before him, Hawk. Yeah, I remember when her ex, Big Dog grabbed my mother and gave her a quick hug and kiss and that even saved me from an ass whooping. Big Dog doesn't come around anymore. Hmm. I'd wonder.

Every month, I'd feel like my mother had more visitors from the zoo that didn't amount to a hill of nothing. I knew that her visitors were about jack nothing because by the end of the night, I'd be sitting in my room of a dungeon, at peace and safe, while she was in the other room entertaining the animals. I tried to grasp hold of the thought of my mother trying to keep an animal happy, trying to talk to an animal, or trying to please an animal. I'd laugh. Me, alone and I'd just sit there wondering if my mother knew what I really thought of them? And if the man's nickname was Hawk, I'd picture her entertaining a bird by maybe sticking her arm out so the Hawk would fly to it. Or if it was the man nicknamed Big Dog, I'd think of her throwing a bone to him. And Bull? Yep, she'd be the matador; teasing the bull, making it angry. You get the picture?

As I looked back on all the drama from my mother, it was just to make sure I kept my distance and in my room all night, while her ugly ass stayed in the "hotel" room with Bull. I started to figure it all out.

The tale-tell signs of getting a whooping" that told me, "Do Not Disturb"; see-- its not the kind of sign that hung on the real hotel room doors. Nope, this sign was coming from the heart. The kind of sign that told me to watch out for the pervert, who wanders into a child's bedroom. It was a sign that told me to watch out for the touching man. The sign that said watch yourself child because mother's not always there to watch out for you.

I knew my mothers heart was in the right place the whole time. But when my mother doesn't say anything at all about why I was being punished, it makes my mind a serious wreck.

I cleaned my room, finished my homework, ate a few pieces of chicken and mac and cheese, washed up, and set my alarm clock to get up for school. Then, I locked my room door by jamming a butter knife in it and went to bed.

All the drama was over now. And drama it was.

Sometimes I'd wonder if mother would come back to my room that night. Sometimes I had wished she'd come back and have that conversation. You know, the conversation that affirms her love for you, or about a life's lesson, and the kind of conversation that gives you a little bit more information concerning why I was getting an ass whooping in the first place.

I can hear just faintly, my mother and Bull laughing and the bathroom door slamming all night, but mother never came back to my room.

Wheww!

Goodnight.

parents
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About the Creator

Sandra Wilson

I love to write stories. I enjoy creating literature that helps children and guide children to have faith in all the things that they choose to do in life.

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