by Perez, Rosie
CHAPTER 18
I WAS twelve now—yes, twelve—and still in the Group Home. Most of my half-siblings were back at home with my mother. I knew not to ask why I wasn’t included because it was understood that you had to wait for an official invitation from your parent to go home. You’d think I wouldn’t care. Even though I didn’t want to live with her at this point, I wanted to know that she wanted me. However, I did ask the Home if I could skip her house altogether during home visits and go directly to Tia’s instead. They of course had to pass the request through Lydia. Her reaction probably wasn’t a good one, because it took a while, but she eventually said yes, as long as I promised to visit her house at least for a night and that she’d retain her parental rights over me. That whole process angered me. Giving so much power to someone they all knew was mentally ill and had suspected of physical abuse seemed crazy to me.
Yes, they knew she was crazy but never told us. And they did in fact suspect the physical abuse. How? I really don’t know, but speaking for myself, I think it could be from the bruises I would come back with from her freakin’ punching me or slapping me or almost ripping my arm out of its socket. No, I never told them that she did it, but come on, people! And when I found out myself about Lydia’s mental issues, it was a difficult pill to swallow.
I used to think that my mother was just intense—ha! But seriously, I did. I thought she had a violent temper and was extreme about everything. Like when she would say something funny, she would repeat the joke over and over for an hour or more, and climax into this laughing frenzy. Or how she carried her gun with her just to get a carton of eggs from the corner store. But I started to suspect her mental illness when I caught her talking to the kitchen wall—no lie.
I had woken up early, like around six o’clock in the morning, and had to use the bathroom. I tiptoed so that I wouldn’t wake my mother up. She didn’t like us using the bathroom so she would put a pot in the middle of the bedroom floor for all of us to piss in. I know. And yes, I found it to be so disgusting. So, I walk into the kitchen where the bathroom was and froze when I saw her carrying on a conversation with the freaking wall. She was actually having an argument with it. “Oh, so you think I did that to her? No? It wasn’t me!… What? How can you say that?!” Not kidding, folks.
I never told anyone about it. It scared me, and believe it or not, I didn’t want to embarrass her. But then, on a home visit, when I was ten, I arrived at my mother’s to find she wasn’t there. My older half-siblings were laughing, telling me, “She’ll be back. They took her again to the crazy hospital for a couple of weeks. You know Mom’s crazy, right? She’s schizophrenic. You never saw her talking to the wall or to the benches on the subway?” I guess being kids, possessing all that information was too much, and all they could do was laugh about it.
Schizophrenic?
I’d sit in the school library looking up the meaning in countless books, worrying constantly if I could be schizophrenic too. By the time I was twelve, I had asked Dr. Tisby during our sessions, in what I thought was a coy manner, if mental illness was hereditary since the mother of my “friend” was nuts. When he raised his eyebrow at me, I finally just came straight with him. He returned the gesture—very delicately, I might add—and admitted that my mother was in fact mentally ill, asking me how I felt about it. I remember trying to act all grown-up, saying I was more concerned about her, which I honestly was, and that I was okay with it, which I wasn’t. Leaving his office, I felt sad and powerless. I didn’t understand why they still allowed her to maintain her parental rights. Why didn’t they let my aunt or my father gain custody? Was Lydia that good at fooling them into thinking she was a great parent? I guess so.
I remember this one time when Mrs. Vasquez called me into a meeting at the Home with Lydia. She wanted to discuss my relationship with my mother, ask me why I wanted to skip the home visits with her. It was all a sham, and I knew it. It was my mother’s ego—she didn’t want anyone thinking ill of her, and mostly, she didn’t want to lose any potential government assistance that she would’ve gotten for me if and when I’d go to live with her. Trust. She knew my father and Tia were still trying to get me out of the Home.
Lydia started things off by saying she was hurt—I was her favorite, she loved me more than any of the other kids. Say what? My mouth dropped on the floor, and when the waterworks came, my eyes went rolling. Then the trickling of tears, followed by sniffles of snot. I mean … and the Oscar goes to …! Mrs. Vasquez asked if I wanted to sit “on Mommie’s lap.” I’m freaking twelve, I never sat on my mother’s lap, ever! Barely even got a hug from her. After much unrelenting pressure from Mrs. Vasquez, I sat on the edge of Lydia’s knees. Talk about awkward! “Now, doesn’t that feel good to sit on Mommie’s lap?” That was it! I slid off and asked to be excused to go to the bathroom and purposely took forever, knowing that by the time I got back, her train would be coming and it’d be time for Lydia to go.
But I digress.
Things were way tense between Lydia and me. I would still stay the first night at her house, but now I wouldn’t wait for her okay to be sent over to Tia’s. Sometimes I would stay the night because there was a good card game of Spades being played, or there was a party going down, or just to hang with Terry and Kathy. But most of the time I would walk in, say hello to everyone, hang for a bit, and then come up with a batch of lies, saying, “Tia needs me, sorry,” or anything to get me over there quick fast. And Lydia wouldn’t stop me or walk me over either. Yep, I would walk all twelve blocks by myself, day or night, through the dangerous streets of Bushwick that scared the hell out of me. And talk about lies … I was becoming an expert.
This one time, on the Metro down into the city, a girl who went to my school was on the train with her parents.
“Rosie! Rosie! Hi! Going to Brooklyn? [I never lied about being from Brooklyn!] Is your father here? I would love to meet him!”
“No. I’m actually going alone. Father couldn’t send the car. The divorce, you know, it’s been tough … but please don’t tell anyone. It’s so embarrassing and …”
Before I could finish, she grabbed my hand and led me over to her parents. Gosh dag it! She whispered to her mother the details about the “divorce.” My mother had placed me with the Catholic Church until the proceedings were over, much to my father’s chagrin, and he was spending a lot of money to get me out, and blah, blah, blah. The fake tears came streaming—not too much, mind you, and on cue! I was panicked the rest of the train ride, wondering if they really fell for my crock of shit.
When I got back to school after that summer, everyone was asking if I was okay, and many were offering their homes to me until the divorce was over. The girls from the GH were pissed at me and called me a liar, which I was, saying I was ashamed to be in the system (true again), which meant that I must be ashamed of them too (not true at all). But it didn’t matter at this point. The lying was horrible—period. It made me feel low, but being a kid, I kept on lying because I couldn’t see a way of stopping and coming clean.
So things were bad between my mother and me.
The subways were hot as hell, packed, and on constant delay. It took me forever to get to my mother’s house, anxiety attack the whole way knowing she would be pissed because she hated if I was late, which meant I’d have to stay longer and calm her down so that she wouldn’t prevent me from going over to Tia’s. (I know, fucking exhausting!)
I walked into an empty house. Oh good, everyone’s out, I thought. Ugh! All I wanted to do was take a shower. I turned around and found Lydia sitting in the kitchen looking tight. Dag it.
“Bendición, Mommie.”
I kissed her extended cheek.
“You’re late. (A long-ass awkward pause) You got a little fatter, huh. (She sucks her teeth) God, look at your hair, just like your father’s.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
“Why are you sorry? Get the food stamps from my bag and go get meat and two cans of beans from Key Food.”
“Now?”
She cocked her head to one side with a smirk as if to say, I know you didn’t just ask me that. I turned to put my suitcase away. Lydia pounded her fist on the kitchen table.
“Where are you going?”
“To put my bag away.”
“Did I say you could do that? Go get the food stamps. And make sure you get me the right meat.”
“What kind do you want?”
“Oh my God! This girl! I’m making stew, so what kind of fucking meat do you think I want?”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know. You want cubed beef?”
“Fucking genius over here!”
God, she makes me so freakin’ nervous.
I returned with the groceries. As I started for the bathroom, hoping to finally take a shower, Lydia pulled out the package of meat.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God. You see this! See it? This says seventy-two cents per pound. I told you I wanted to only spend less than three dollars on this meat.”
“But you didn’t tell me …”
Smack! Right across my face! She hit me so fucking hard that my cheek instantly welted up in the shape of her hand!
“I didn’t tell you what? What? Seventy-two cents times four pounds is what?”
“Um …”
“Two eighty-eight! I wanted the sixty-nine cents per pound, which would cost what? Two seventy-six! Two seventy-six!”
I went back to the store, frantically checked the math on the meat over and over, and headed back.
When I walked in, Lydia was sitting at the table with the cans of beans looking tight. She took a deep sigh and said …
“These. Cans. Have. Dents.”
“I know, but I was trying to save you money. See, Tia buys them all the time ’cause the dented ones are half-priced and are usually still good, so you get over. Genius, right?”
She grabbed both cheeks, squeezing hard. My face was throbbing like crazy, especially the side that was still swelling from the previous smack.
“Don’t you fucking patronize me.”
She kept squeezing. I stood stoic, took it like a pro, knowing it would piss her off more but I didn’t give two shits at this point. She stared me right back in my eyes with a devilish grin and said, “You think you’re slick, Rosie.”
I went back to the store, came back with undented cans of beans. She didn’t even look in the bag, and then she casually asked me to season the meat and asked how school was going—freaking crazy and exhausting.
The next morning I got up extra early to sneak out to Tia’s. Lydia was already up, finishing covering her face with makeup. She was surprised when she saw the bruising on my cheeks.
“Ay my God. What happened to your face?”
“You hit me last night.”
“What? No. I didn’t hit you. Why would I do that?”
I just shrugged my shoulders. She did that a lot, denying the abuse the next day, even with the rest of her kids. So what would be the point to further the discussion? Then the kitchen light blew out.
“Fuck! Come with me to the store.”
Lydia got her pistol, wrapped it in a plastic shopping bag, then placed it in a large brown paper shopping bag. Inside the store, she told me to keep watch.
“For what?”
“For the fucking store owner!” she loudly whispered. “Grab a couple of circular lightbulbs,” she continued as she held open the paper bag. Scared out of my wits and mortified, I shook my head no, refusing.
“That’s wrong, Ma.”
“You think you’re better than me? Huh? You rather us sit in the fucking dark? Put it in! Now!” I did so—feeling so ashamed. “This fucking girl. Let’s go! Act normal!”
Back at her house, she became pleasant again, laughing at our supposed caper. I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, got my suitcase, and headed for the door. “See you later, Ma.”
“Oh! Okay, see you. Tell Minguita I said hello.”
Tia gasped at the bruising on my cheek. I told her that a fly ball hit me in the face during a softball game back at the Group Home. I always lied to Tia too, but only about the abuse by my mother and Sister Renata.
The incident was easily pushed down inside when I went to see John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever at the movie theater in Ridgewood on Myrtle Avenue. Loved it! First time I screamed out loud at the big screen. I had such a crush on John—I had daydreams of the two of us getting married. I know, I know, all the rumors, but who gives a shit, really. He’s an actor who can act his ass off, and that’s all I care about; his personal life is his business to worry about.
• • •
Another home visit in Bushwick had come. I went to my mother’s house first to do my usual hellos and good-byes. Lydia wasn’t there. She had disappeared for that entire first weekend to hang with her sisters—who I’d only met one time, mind you, she did that a lot too—I decided to stay because my half-brothers were getting ready for a “pot” party!
The party was crazy. Jimmy Castor’s “It’s Just Begun,” Manu Dibango’s “Soul Makossa,” Barry White, Al Green, the Brothers Johnson, Donna Summer, Chaka Khan, Labelle, and especially Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band, played endlessly. I danced for hours! There was a perpetual cloud of marijuana smoke that lingered till dawn. Everyone except the two youngest and myself were smoking, drinking bottles of Night Train or malt liquor, and the party continued into the next day!
I was exhausted and went to bed early that next evening in the back room in one of the three beds all eight of us shared, including my half-brothers’ best friend, Armin, who our mother took in. (Yes, she took him in, but didn’t ask me to come home—but, whatever.) I think only my three half-brothers were home. I don’t know where the girls were. Just as I was about to fall into a deep sleep, the oldest brother, the same one who showed me his thing years before, lay down next to me and began to caress me sexually, telling me to lie still.
“It’s okay. I love you, Rosie. Just relax.”
I wanted to scream but couldn’t. When he tried to put his hands down my panties, I got up as calmly and quickly as possible. He tried to stop me, but I was too quick. As I was rushing to the bathroom, the other half-brother asked me what was wrong. “He tried to molest me!” I loudly whispered.
Shocked, he told me he’d go and talk to him and work it out. Inside the bathroom, I overheard them talking in a hushed panic. “You think she’s gonna tell? I told you not to try it on her. You should’ve waited for one of the other girls to come back!” Say what! I calmly walked out, quietly put my clothes on, and snuck out the first-floor window.
I didn’t want to go home to Tia because I was so freaked out and knew she would ask a million questions. What was I going to tell her? I ran to my friend Candy’s house next door instead. She had confided the previous summer that her uncle had molested her, so I knew she would understand my hysteria.
She wanted us to run away. Being pragmatic, I convinced her it wasn’t a good idea. We broke night instead, walking around Bushwick with two male friends of hers—one of them was eighteen and fine as hell. Candy told them what happened while they passed a bottle of Night Train and a joint around—not to me, of course.
Five o’clock in the morning, my oldest brother, the molester, found us hanging in Knickerbocker Park and tried desperately to apologize, begging me not to tell. Then the fine-ass eighteen-year-old got up in his face and threatened to beat him up, calling him a nasty motherfucker. I got so scared. My brother never backed down from a fight, but to my surprise he dropped his head in shame and walked away. Weirdly enough, I felt sorry for him.
Candy and her two friends walked me back to my mother’s house—I wanted to get my stuff and haul ass to Tia’s. The fine-ass eighteen-year-old kissed me good-bye on the lips and told me I was beautiful. (That was weird, especially since that was my first kiss and I was only twelve.) Armin was waiting outside on the stoop. He told me that Lydia was home and knew what had happened, it was okay for me to come in, and she had m
y back. Really? Cool!
When I walked inside, I was greeted by a crack across my face so hard that I fell to the floor. “How dare you! You think he would do that to you? You think he would pick you, when you’re the ugliest? He can pick any of your sisters who are way prettier than you! Huh? Fucking liar!” I was pissed, shocked, and hurt!
She then made me scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush. This is true, folks, and I dare any one of my “brothers” to question it!
Later that night, I jumped out the window with my suitcase and went to Tia’s. My mother never checked on me either. I was in bed for a few days, only getting up to use the bathroom. Tia was so worried. I kept telling her that I was just feeling ill. I don’t think she bought it, because this time I was way beyond depressed.
CHAPTER 19
BACK AT the Group Home, the depression and anger grew.
School had already begun, and I believe I was thirteen now. One of my teachers accused me of cheating on an essay because I would never pay attention in class, would always be late, yet would score high on my essays and tests—what can I say! She gave me an F, I cursed her out and accused her of being prejudiced, and she reported me to the vice principal. I wouldn’t back down and was made to write an essay on the spot in front of everyone. After reading it, the vice principal turned to the teacher and made her apologize to me. I smugly replied, “I accept your apologies.” I got detention for it.