Yvo*NET

He beat us for no valid reason (by that I mean that there wasn’t even a cause for the beatings, not that there exists a valid reason to hit a child, or anyone else for that matter). Bamboo stick, belt, wireframe coat hangers. Knuckles. The knuckles on the skull were probably the worst because they came hard, very fast, with no warning, anywhere, anytime. This is the reason why as a kid I acquired the reflex to cower down and protect my head whenever an adult would lift their hand near me. This is why adults scared me.

One thing he did a lot was to pull our ears. He even lifted me once by the ears, but you can imagine that they are not supposed to carry the weight of a child, even a small one, and they started to bleed. He never did it again, but he did not stop the violent pulling, and my ears were so red and hot.

He was smart never to leave scars. Only the coat hangers had potential to cause bleeding, and they didn’t cut deep into the skin. The other “tools” would leave red raised marks on the skin that burned, but would disappear after a few days.

The stick was his favourite. It was about 1.25 metre long, and 1.5 cm in diameter. It was irregular and crooked. It had a name: cái cây, which means “the tree” in Vietnamese. We knew what was coming when he could not contain his anger (whether it be directed at us or not), and asked us to go get cái cây. We knew the ritual: I had to go fetch and present it to him. I had to lie down on my stomach onto the couch, stretch my arms and put my hand on the armrest, and extend my legs straight.

Then he would strike, usually ten times, sometimes more. Counting slowly. We had to stay still, silently taking the blows while keeping the hands on the armrest and avoiding flexing the legs. I clenched my teeth very tight. Sometimes I could not hold and would put my hands or my feet to protect myself and the stick would land on the fingers, the wrists, the ankles, the feet. And he would keep striking.

We tried hiding the stick. When it was nowhere to be found, he would use his belt or a coat hanger. The belt was similar to the stick on a pain level. The coat hangers struck fast (they are light) and the first two or three hits didn’t hurt too much. But the following ones would sting pretty badly because they felt like they were cutting through the flesh.

It went on for years, almost every day, and I lived in terror. Add to that the fact that he constantly yelled, not only at us but also at our mother, and even other people. He seemed to have violent arguments with everyone. His voice was loud and scary, and we knew that when we heard it booming in another room, he would eventually come and beat us.

The very worst was when he beat mom. I hated it. All of a sudden it made his beating us (his children) irrelevant. Seeing our father beat our mom while abusing her verbally was sickening. We were powerless and could only watch and cry, imploring him to stop hitting her.

I will never forget how my father beat my mother, and how sick it made me.

I will never forget. I will never forgive. No matter how much work I put into it, I know that there will be no forgiveness^[1].