My First Memory of Violence

I have a terrible memory. I don’t even remember what I had for dinner last night. I blame it on all the weed I have smoked. At the same time, I have some memories that have lived with me my entire life; they have traveled all over the world and have accompanied me in so many intimate moments. And no matter how hard I try, they are too comfortable, too colorful to get evicted from my mind. These memories even live within my body; I can taste them. They exist in every cell of every organ, traveling through my veins like a float on a lazy river, enjoying the ride, wondering where they will go next. 

The first memory that comes to life in my mind is of my mom on the floor in the room right off the kitchen that leads to the entrance of our patio and backyard pool. She is rolled up, holding her body as tightly as she can, like an armadillo retreating into itself. My dad is wearing white shorts, a white polo shirt, and a white sweatband around his head. His hair jet black with a thick mustache of the times. He just got back from hours of playing tennis; he was the president of the tennis club, and he loved to play tennis. He also loved to drink, and by late afternoon on a Sunday, he was already very drunk. 

I can’t remember my age, and I honestly can’t remember my brother being with me, but I must have been around 4 or 5 years old, and Mario must have been there. We were in the kitchen eating a bowl of white rice that my mom made because we had begged her to feed us. Tu papá va a concinar ya pronto, she’d shared with concern, but we didn’t care. We were hungry, and my dad takes hours to cook, and he wasn’t even home yet. My dad does make the most delicious meals, though. The best Puerto Rican dishes. My mouth waters just thinking about his pollo en fricasé. But I wanted to eat something right away, knowing dinner wouldn’t be ready for many hours. 

That’s when my dad walks in. He’s assertive and bold when he’s drunk, always talking with so much authority, even if he knows nothing about the subject. When he sees us eating, rage takes over his body. I don’t remember how the beating began or how it ended, but I remember the middle. My mother was in the fetal position on the floor with her back exposed to him. He finds a bucket that she was using to mop the floors earlier, and he swings it as hard as he can, hitting her back. Time slowed down at this moment. Sometimes the bucket is yellow, and at other times it is red. I wish I could stay with one color, I don’t know why. I can’t hear anything. I can’t feel anything. I don’t even know if I got out of my chair. All I remember is staring at this horrific scene unfold in front of me, in complete shock, at what was happening to my mother. 

My dad can be so fun, playful, and funny. He commands a room wherever he goes. He is electrifying. When he is in those moods, I feel like I am on top of the world. Then, he has another version of himself where all the fun, the jokes, and the joy disappear somewhere deep in his body, and someone else emerges and comes to life. This man is scary, dangerous, vengeful, and full of hate. Growing up, I always had to be on edge, not knowing the minute or the second when the switch would flip. My body was never at ease at home. At least that’s what I am recognizing now as an adult. 

I remember he hit my mom so hard with the bucket that it cracked. I don’t know why, but seeing the bucket break because of how hard he was hitting her makes me chuckle. Not like a ha-ha funny chuckle, but like a nervous response, like he would have killed her if he had happened to grab a different object. Maybe a chuckle is the safest expression I have to give because if I let myself fully feel this reality, I worry I won’t be able to recover. This is a feeling I carry with me every second of every day. It’s omnipresent, and yet I do not know where it lives. 

I have tried to run away from that feeling my entire life. Numbing myself with alcohol, smoking weed, putting myself in precarious situations, and using my imagination to take me to new worlds that I have never explored. I wish I didn’t know that fear so intimately. But I do. That fear, that life can be taken away so quickly by the hands of my father, permanently changed my chemistry. I wish so badly I could have experienced life a little longer with the naive wonder of the world. My childhood was forever broken that day, never to be found again. 

I don’t know how the beating ended, but I remember my mom grabs my brother and me, and we get in the car. She’s driving through the entrance of Old San Juan. It’s one of my favorite drives. There is only one way into the city and one way out. It’s comforting to know we are all going in the same direction. To my left is the Capitol Building, an impressive and elegant structure made of white marble. To the right is the most gorgeous view of the Atlantic Ocean. The sun is beaming down on the waves, making the water sparkle as we pass by. That water has healing powers. I can sense a calm whisper from my oldest brother, Guillo. The day is stunning, sunny without a cloud in the sky. You can taste the salt in the air; the perfect day to spend at the beach. Staring at the beauty of Puerto Rico never gets old. Puerto Rico está bien cabrón.

The scenery wraps me with love, with stability, with safety, soothing the fear and panic I feel inside. Mario and I are sitting in the back seat, trying hard to sit still and not make a sound. We don’t want to cause my mom any more pain. Music is playing on the radio, but the lively rhythms do not penetrate my thoughts. It’s loud enough that we can’t hear my mom crying, but I can tell she is, as her body shakes as she drives. I wish I could make her feel better and hold her, but I’m just glad we made it out safely. We arrive at the Castillo San Cristóbal, one of two majestic forts built in the 16^th century, whose walls protected Old San Juan from various European settlers. I find solace in knowing these walls were built with the sweat and blood of Puerto Ricans to fight and defend themselves from the colonizers. I sense my ancestors come alive within me and form a shield around my soul. The sun, the heat, the humidity, the ocean, the fort, all reassure me and remind me that I am not alone.