Chi Chis

I will always remember that small restaurant at the mall's top level.  It stood out because it was one of the last t shops on its floor; the others were just the maximum levels of the large department stores, Sears and Macys.  It was a Mexican Chain, popular at the time, and the food was decent, portions large.  But the one aspect of this non-disclosed restaurant is the memories it held of my family who frequenitment.

I am sure I had many pleasant moments growing up with my stepfather. However, most of them have faded into the recess of my mind; only one remains more prominent than any other, most likely the fondest of them all.

I was ten or eleven then; the atmosphere was festive as my mother, brother, and newly indoctrinated stepfather sat at a large table with several close friends from our church family.  Looking around the table with a broad grin, I look at our dear family friend, Donny, sitting in the far corner.  He is a lean black man, a little slow mentally, but with a huge heart to make up for that incapacity.  We have taken this man in on many occasions; he is in his early twenties at that time, unwanted by his mother.  Donny tended to couch surf as others of our congregation also took him in; he never was a burden and never overstayed his welcome.

He sat alongside my brother, who, whenever the black man was around my brother was glued to his side.  I can trace back my brother’s love of music to their friendship, and because of Donny’s impairment, he related to us on our level as preteens.

Across from Donny and my brother was another longtime family friend, Michael Lee.  Michael was an amazing artist; he was showing off his illustrations of Spiderman as both my brother and Donny looked over with childlike wonder.  Later he produced an uncanny sketch of Donny that captured his likeness remarkably. 

Looking past the others, they escaped my mind except for Wesley, who sat beside my stepfather, enraptured in their conversation.  The table held a little more than ten.

Me, I sat in the center, as I always tended to do, wanting to be a part of every conversation.

We celebrated the union between my mother and stepfather; my mother was so happy, so much in love, and unbeknownst to us, pregnant with our baby brother.

The wedding was tiny and took place in our home church no more than the people who sat at that table witnessed the marriage.  My little brother and I stood beside the groom; my uncle was the best man.  Our pastor, who presided over the ceremony, also made a brief cameo at the dinner and then left home to be with his family.

I remember looking at everyone there; a couple of our eyes met others enraptured in their microcosm.   And my eyes fell upon him; in a way, I was in love too, in love with the idea of having a father, a man to complete our circle.  Someone to make the person who bent over backward to make us happy, to make her happy too.

I look into his eyes with innocence. I never knew upon the very man to steal my innocence away.  The man who became my torturer, the man who would beat me senseless for the slightest discretion.  The man who condemned me for talking to girls, the man who pinned me down and punched me repeatedly whenever he suspected that I might be going out to meet a girl.  The man who beat me for things I deserved and beat me for something I didn’t.  The man who stabbed me with a fork and walked away for talking after bedtime, where I had to pull the utensil meant for eating out of my leg quietly not to occur further punishment.  The man who did this time and time again as my precious baby brother watched from his top bunk, a boy of barely 3 or 4, who to this day remembers what was done to his two older siblings.

For now, I am close to forty years old and afraid to get close to a girl, afraid to get close to children, a fear that I, too might hurt the ones I love.  A fear that I might accidentally break a precious little child.  A fear that I may become the man who tormented me. 

I know I am a good man; some may say I am a ‘great’ man, but once, so was he.