Names

My husband and I were watching a show “Tulsa King” the other night.

In it Sylvester Stalone says something like “…wanna find out, F*ckface?”

In the moment we laughed. It was a funny line in a tense scene. But I immediately remembered the first time I’d heard that name.

My mom had called me that.

I was 8 years old again and wincing and shrinking back a little against a door frame in the kitchen. She was inches from my face spitting as she spoke the name over me. I still remember the spit hitting my hot cheeks. It was wet and chilling against my angry heat radiating from me. I can still feel my feet locked in, not taking another step, she’d just grab me and hold me so I couldn’t turn away and run to my room. Her grip would be hard, she’d squeeze too tight and I would try to get out and hurt myself more. She was going to finish her thought. I had done something wrong or not moved fast enough or not understood her instruction or talked back. I was leaning away, my stomach twisted, my chest ice cold with steeled resolve to not let the word touch me. I know I had knitted eyebrows. When I was angry they kept my face stern and stubborn. I know once she stopped my face melted into angry upset tears and rage. “I hate you!” and I ran to my room.

That made me the problem child and her the ever suffering mother in her stories to other moms. To my dad. To our pastor.

Did she ever feel bad?

Did she ever see my little helpless face once she said it?

Did she ever see that little kid trying so hard not to show fear?

Didn’t she see those words getting tattooed onto my heart and brain?

To this day she says she has no idea why I don’t talk to her.

And I can’t begin to list all the days that ended like this.