Will: He used to just put a belt, a stick, and a wrench on the kitchen table and say, "Choose."
Sean: Well, I gotta go with the belt there.
Will: I used to go with the wrench.
Sean: Why?
Will: Cause f*ck him, that's why.
When I was a child, my father used to grab me by my shoulders, dig his fingers into my arms and throw me up against the wall over and over again.
He was bigger than me and stronger than me.
My voice was the only weapon that I had at my disposal.
So what did I do? I mouthed off:
Quote from Lisa's childhood:
Dad: SLAM!
Me: You're a terrible father.
Dad: SLAM!
Me: You're a bully.
Dad: SLAM!
Me: (having looked up "passive aggressive" in the dictionary) It's very passive-aggressive to take out your anger on a nine-year-old.
Dad: SLAM!
Just this morning, for some odd reason, my husband and I were talking about this. It baffles Nathan that I kept mouthing off.
Quote from this morning's conversation:
Nathan: Why didn't you just shut your mouth?
Me: What I told him was the truth.
Nathan: Yeah, well, you couldn't have picked a less teachable moment.
Me: He was going to hit me anyway.
I could have begged for mercy I suppose. I could have cried. But, in my mind, at the time, that would have made me weak.
And I always knew that I was strong enough to outlast him.
What does this mean to me today?
Well... hopefully I've gotten a little bit smarter about when to speak out and when to be silent!
But I hope that I always stand up for things that matter most to me. I hope I never cower in fear rather than telling the truth about something.
I was never sure what to expect from my father when he walked into a room.
