TAIA BOOKS

By Kira D. May 9/18/2024

(Chapter 2)

Saturday, September 3, 1988
 Sometimes, I blame my emotional distance from my Mother and my sister, Deanna, on our physical differences. My Mother told me when I was eight or nine that I resembled my father. That is why I have black hair, almond-shaped dark blue eyes, and a straight nose.
“Your skin is pale,” Mom said, “but not as light as mine or Deanna’s.” 
“I am happy that I look like Daddy,” I announced to Mother and Deanna, feeling suddenly proud because I loved and respected my father.  Deanna acted superior and mighty because she had milky white skin and looked like Mother.
“Big blue eyes are more beautiful than almond-shaped eyes,” she said. Apparently, big, blue eyes were considered universally more attractive than my almond-shaped eyes of mixed colors—green, gray, and dark blue, changing in hue depending on what I was wearing. And their blonde locks appeared prettier than my black hair.
That shocked me. I told Deanna that she was wrong about who was beautiful and who was not. What truly matters is whether the person is good or bad. It is more important to have a good heart and keep being an obedient girl, I told my sister. 
“Well,” Deanna said. “Don’t you think our Mom is the most beautiful woman in the world?
“Of course, she is. There is no doubt about that because she’s our Mother,” I replied, realizing the question was tricky.
“I look like Mom, and this makes me the next most beautiful woman in the world. Which leaves you less beautiful than me.” With her head held high, she walked out of the room.
Even then, as a young child, I knew she was wrong, but then she was also right. Mother was indeed the most beautiful woman in the world to me. I wanted to tell Deanna that only good girls grow up into beautiful women, all the bad ones become the ugly witches.
Deanna continuously annoyed me with her agenda to elevate herself and put me down. I often wondered what motivated my sister to do the things that she did. It started when she took my seat at the dining table. When our parents told her to switch the chairs, she sat mute and deaf, with downcast eyes and a blushed face. For her disobedience, she got spanked with a leather belt. Imagine that. She cried, but still, she didn’t give up my seat.
She demanded to get everything first before my turn, and she never liked following the rules. It seemed her mind sought ways to create chaos, push me out of my place, and break the laws of nature by taking my God-given place as a firstborn child.
That’s how I remember her: competing, whining, making a huge deal out of little things, and creating a disaster if she lost while cheating at a game. For me, it was easier to lose on purpose because my winning meant suffering the consequences of her whining and complaining to her parents.
Deanna insisted that we play together but expected to be the leader. If she wasn’t chosen to be the first, she would run to our parents, somehow managed to remember all my secrets from the past and the wrongdoings from a day or two ago, sometimes a few weeks back.
“Deanna, stop!” I chased after her, trying to reason with her.  “Please come back! Don’t do this! In every game, you have to follow the rules.”
After reminding her about her promises to keep my secrets, my negotiations usually failed.
 “Mommy and Daddy,” she yelled this particular time. “Did you know Jasmine stole chocolate yesterday? She also said she would not say hello to Aunt CariAnne because she thinks that Aunt CariAnne is mean and hateful. And she called me stupid the day before yesterday, but I did not tell anyone because she begged me not to. And, uh, she gave me a chocolate bar so that I wouldn’t tell on her.”
As she stood before our parents, thoughts seemed to race in her little head. Her eyes, twice as big now, wandered from side to side, trying to remember all the incriminating evidence about me to ensure I got punished. Our parents called us to the family room and ordered me to come closer.
She approached them with a contented look on her little seven-year-old face. Following Deanna into the living room, I felt my heart race since Mother considered it a particular offense if we disrespected her family.
Father stepped from the window and sat on the sofa beside Mother, even though she urged him not to meddle in her affairs. His presence changed the wind in my favor. Thank God he isn’t working in his shed this time, I thought. Like a panel of judges, my parents’ faces appeared grave. They silently glanced at me while Deanna repeated my offenses again, adding fresh details. With my head down, I waited for my turn, hopeful that my humble demeanor would soften Dad’s heart.
“Is it true what your sister just said?” Mother asked with her stern voice, eyeing me with her icy blue eyes. Not good at all. That’s because of CariAnne. Of course, it was all true. At that time in my life, chocolate was my biggest weakness. That’s why parents set rules supposedly for my own sake, limiting the amount of chocolate I ingested. Mother told stories to scare me and showed pictures of kids with rotten teeth.
 I felt embarrassed. Especially, since they used me as an example of excellent behavior for Deanna and my brother Josh who was about 2 years old. During these moments, I felt ashamed and betrayed.
Honestly, I forgot that with Deanna, I have to watch my back because she could never keep any of my promises. But when I smelled that wonderful aroma in the storage room coming from a box next to Christmas decorations, I couldn’t pass it, especially when I found out, to my surprise, that the dark chocolate was already unwrapped and begging me to eat it. Chocolate made me happy and generous. At that time, Deanna played in the backyard nearby. I called to her to eat delicious chocolate together. I needed a buddy to share the deliciousness. Lo and behold, the large box of chocolate completely vanished.
My sister enjoyed exposing my secrets every time she got mad at me. Friends don’t do that to each other. Almost every day, Mother encouraged us to be friends. I, for example, never told anyone Deanna’s secrets even though I could benefit from telling on her. In my mind, a promise is a promise, forever, no matter the circumstances and changes in a relationship.
I admitted my transgressions. A crease between Mother’s eyebrows meant trouble. Most importantly, her eyes were ice blue, void of any warmth at the moment.  My mind focused on doing something to save my skin. The punishment was coming. I quickly came up with a solution that would divert their attention from me to my sister. But I would have to betray Deanna. Maybe that would teach her a valuable lesson.
In this case, I would have to give up her biggest secret and inform my parents that she wet her bed this morning and the previous day.
Mother considered bedwetting at Deanna’s age shameful and slothful; therefore, she spanked her bottom with a thin leather belt. That reminded me of the consequences for me. Deanna’s piteous screaming and sobbing, begging Mother to forgive her, followed by the unmerciful whipping and clicking of a whip, sent my body into a tremor. And my hands would start shaking. In my room, I prayed and prayed that her punishment would be over and I could resume doing my chores. When the chaos subsided, Mother returned to the kitchen, leaving Deanna crying on the stairway.
Afraid that my sister’s hysterical weeping would irritate Mother into more beating, I would help her walk her to her room and stay with her for some time to comfort her. Together, we would examine the skin on her upper thighs for puffy red marks. In my effort to soothe her, I told her stories I read in books and even gave her chocolate, sometimes the last piece I had saved in my drawer. I’m giving away chocolate. My last part. Gosh, how dreadful I had to feel to lose my mind about chocolate.
This morning, five hours ago, I helped her by distracting Mother downstairs and buying time for Deanna to change the bed linens. I was the one who told her to take the soiled linen to the laundry room, to hide them at the bottom of the basket and then cover them with socks.
Glancing at her one last time before I opened my mouth, I wondered what is wrong with this person. Why does she recklessly set her skin on fire? Doesn’t she remember how it hurts? Where is her sense of self-preservation? Her face distorted in a mocking grimace, and she seemed pleased with herself as she awaited my punishment. Scheming creature! Oh, how could she be this ruthless even to herself? Uh-uh, she knows that I would keep her secret no matter what.
My heart whined when I met my parents’ eyes, still awaiting my explanation.
“I’m sorry,” I said as soon as I realized that hearing Deanna’s screams was, in fact, my biggest punishment. The confession was my only way out. I confessed about the chocolate and how I shared candies with Deanna.
“Aunt CariAnne,” I said, looking Mom in the eyes. My friend Rebecca reminded her of an ugly little monkey. Yes, she said that. Yes, she did,” I added, watching Mother waving her head in disbelief.
“And Mom,” I continued, “you told me earlier that it’s hateful to call people these names. They’re created in the image of God, you said.”
My parents exchanged glances and decided what to do with us. At that particular moment, I felt disappointed in myself for wasting the perfect opportunity and not betraying Deanna as she betrayed me. That moment, I concluded that I was weak and sentimental. I wanted peace in our house. 
Was it my weakness or my sacrifice at that time? What makes a weakness a weakness and sacrifice a sacrifice? Who decides if a person is weak or noble in her actions? Is it an act of selfishness or good for all?
Frankly, I think betraying Deanna as she betrayed me would have been justice, which I couldn’t deliver. Then what is justice? Can I provide justice with my racing heart, feeling ashamed, angry, and betrayed? Can I decide what is justice against my opponent who hurt me? Would that be justice or punishment?
If I punish Deanna by telling my parents her greatest secret, then I will end up equally punished when I hear her screams from beatings.
I pitied myself and my wicked sister. If only I didn’t care about her screams. She waited for my punishment with a smug smirk on her lips. I can still change my mind and wipe that smirk off her face I told myself.
Deanna denied eating the chocolate.
“Well, enlighten us, Deanna; how did this all happen?” Mother’s stern voice sounded tense.
Whenever something agitated Mother, she used phrases such as “enlighten us, humor me, don’t stress yourself on my account. I don’t know what you deserve: to be laughed at or to be pitied.”
Deanna lied. She told her parents how I shoved candies in her mouth and forced her to eat them. Her father laughed at her illogical explanation, and her Mother gave him a disapproving stare. I was speechless. The lengths she would go to manipulate me always took me by surprise. 
“That’s not how it happened, you’re lying. I never forced you to eat chocolate,” I said.
My sister continued to tell her story until Father said, “That’s enough, Deanna. You stole the chocolate, and now you’re dishonest. Did you eat them, or did you not?”
Casting her eyes down, she finally admitted she had eaten them.
“Very well then, Jasmine and Deanna, both of you, go to your corners and stay there until your mother and I see you’ve learned your lesson,” he said.
Mother turned to me. “You surely misunderstood CariAnne,” she said. “I don’t believe she would say something like that about a friend.”
 I thought she wanted to say more, but I looked at Dad, who waited for her. 
“While you stand in your corners, think if it’s befitting for good girls to behave this way. Think hard,” my Mother added and walked away.
I found my corner by the living room window, with a view of the front yard. Thanks to Daddy, the situation turned out better than I expected. Deanna followed my example by getting into the opposite corner.
Father and Mother always disagreed on how they should discipline us. Mom told us that our father never knew how it felt to be spanked with a belt.
His parents, particularly his Mother, believed it was a cruel punishment and contradictory to Christ’s love for humanity, and manipulators used that verse from The Old Testament. She thought that Jesus preached about love, including toward your enemies. Father’s parents reasoned with them, which my Mother thought was ridiculous and a waste of precious time.
“You can’t reason with children. That’s why your father’s family is like this,” she’d tell us meaningfully. We were supposed to understand what she meant, but I could never get it.
In her voice, I detected proud notes when Mother told us how her father punished her with a leather belt or made her kneel in a corner on lentils while she was holding a little chair for three hours, sometimes more. She praised her father’s expectation of absolute silence at the dining table, whereas Dad’s family always discussed different matters during lunch or dinner.
Spanking, in Mother’s opinion, was necessary for our godly upbringing. She referred to the belt as vitamin B. When we called each other “stupid, idiot, or fool,” Mother’s hand promptly landed on our lips, making them swell. After disciplining us, she regularly reminded us that one day, when we all grew up, we would thank her for molding us into proper Christians and good citizens. With my body aching, I fixed a respectful expression on my face while listening to her fantasies. I knew she expected the impossible. Thanking her for hitting us in anger?! Never. And please, don’t drag God into that, I wanted to tell her, but I knew if I said anything of the sort, I wouldn’t be able to sit on my butt for some time like Deanna.
My initial problems started when I failed to see how my Mother’s family turned out better than my father’s siblings. At seven, still being naïve, I asked, “How are they worse than your brothers and sisters?”
Her face froze as soon as I said that. She stared at me with her huge, icy-blue eyes.
“You are a very silly girl,” her voice became rough, even metallic. “I’m very disappointed in you. Go stand in the corner.” I was also disappointed. Not because she called me silly or was upset with me, but for not finishing her story about unique and desirable characteristics her siblings possessed after being hit with a belt. As a child, I always wondered if she would ever tell us that secret.
Usually, I didn’t mind standing in the corner and found ways to entertain myself. I counted the big flowers on the wallpaper from the ceiling to the floor, from one wall to another, and then switched to the smaller flowers. There were so many things to count: the blue leaves around the big flowers, small leaves in faded gray, big and little lines, and even the little rips and scratches that no one usually noticed. But now with my eyes glued to the walls, I could see it all.
Then I played another game in my mind, rearranging the furniture. That’s when I realized that the window on the left shifted to the left by about one inch.
“How are you doing?” Father walked in and asked. I told Father that I had learned my lesson, thought everything through, and was sure I would never behave like this again.
He stepped closer, asking if I would behave like a good and obedient girl. After I said, “Yes,” Deanna repeated every single word I said, which made Father smile and I felt irritated that Deanna with her wicked mind can’t seem to find her own words to apologize.
 “All right then, if you both decided to be good girls and you took your time to…”
“Don’t let them out just yet,” Mother rushed into the living room. “They still have a lot to think. Don’t you girls?”
“Was I too early?” Father asked. I felt frustrated. If Mother came a few minutes later when we got out, she couldn’t overrule Dad’s decision. My legs started to feel numb, and my back ached. With no more games left to play, I knew for the rest of the time, I would feel sorry for myself. An idea crossed my mind.
“I need to go to the bathroom. May I go?” I asked.
“Oh what an idea! And what are you going to do there?” Mother asked with a suspicious look in her eyes.
“Pee,” I said, feeling embarrassed that I had to announce what I was going to do. “I need to pee.” This was the only way to get out and stretch my legs.
“Is that right?” Mother asked. “And then you’ll come back and decide that you need to poop. Oh, and then pee again?”
“No,” I said. “I just need to go pee. That’s all.”
Father came back from the kitchen. He had been gone a couple of minutes to check on Josh.
“Of course, she can go to the bathroom,” he said.
“I need to go pee, too,” Deanna announced in a whiny voice.
“There we go again! After your sister comes back.”
“But I can’t wait anymore. Can I please go first?” Deanna begged.
“We can’t let them pee on the carpet, can we? They are just little girls,” Father said.
“If you think you can’t wait, then Deanna, you can go first.”
Deanna walked to the bathroom, and when she got behind our parents, she turned and showed me her tongue.
I pretended not to see her, and I smiled at Father in appreciation for defending us. He saw my smile but looked away. Deanna came back. She stuck her tongue out at me again as she passed by me.
I stared her down, like, “Who do you think you are?” Then I walked to the bathroom.
From the window, I watched the neighborhood children playing near our house, probably waiting for me. My parents argued in the kitchen.
“No,” Mother said, raising her voice. “A little spanking never hurt anyone but gives them a good idea of how they should behave. I wouldn’t tolerate disrespectful and lazy children, and that is why we need to remind them. Next time their head forgets, their sore buttocks will remind them, and they will remember. When people don’t get disciplined, they grow selfish, out of control.”
Father remarked that spanking would make us angry and aggressive, with tendencies toward terrorism and abuse. “Look at Hitler, look at Stalin,” Father said. “both survived horrible physical abuse.”
Mother kept objecting. Their usual routine spiraled up, each attempting to prove who was right and wrong. That’s when I knew we would be stuck hugging walls for a while.
Mother told Dad that her father rigorously disciplined her, and she turned out just fine. Of course, she never punished us the way her father used to whip her. I looked through the window, distracting myself, and then I heard her say that she never spanked us while being angry and never lost her temper. You’re lying, Mom, I wanted to tell her, feeling my body getting rigid. But I didn’t dare to say anything.
Sometimes throughout my early childhood, I used to imagine that an evil witch kidnapped my Mother and hid her in a closet, and this person spanking us with a face distorted from anger wasn’t her. How could she be? Mother was sweet, kind, beautiful. Her voice was so soft that many times I fell asleep just from listening to her stories.
Later, I realized that no one kidnapped Mother. The angry person I feared the most was my Mother. I couldn’t tell that to anyone, even to my father, because this knowledge had to stay inside.
Mother, you scare me, so many times I wanted to tell her that. Her disciplining routine was an ordeal for everyone, no matter who she spanked.
“You can’t make them stand more than an hour.” Father’s voice woke me up from dozing.
“You forget that they are children. They’re girls. Look at them, how tired they are,” his voice sounded closer. 
I opened my eyes and realized I was lying on the floor.  Dad approached us. “Jasmine and Deanna. Mom and I forgive you, girls. Let’s go up to your rooms.

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except brief quotations used in articles or reviews.

The moral right of Kira D. May as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patent Act of 1988.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locales, and incidents are products of author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual people, places or events are coincidental or fictionalized.