Manhood: How to Be a Better Man-or Just Live with One Read Free Page A

Big Terry pulled back and punched Trish. She went down. We immediately stopped giggling. It wasn’t a game. She was lying on the floor shaking. It was an awful thing to see my mother in pain, and to have my father be the one who had hurt her, but I didn’t feel safe enough to go over and check on her.
    I imagined being punched like that and wondered if I could take it. Was I strong enough? When I considered how large and strong Big Terry was, I knew that even this superhero was no match for that supervillain disguised as my father.
    “I’m sorry,” Big Terry said.
    Even though his voice had grown softer, Trish drew back from him.
    “Get away from me!” she yelled. “You hit me. You hit me.”
    This is not on TV
, I thought.
This is not the way it’s supposed to be
.
    Unless
.
    Is this what all men do? Is this what the families on TV are like when no one is watching?
    I couldn’t believe it was true. I felt so helpless. I couldn’t stop Big Terry. I couldn’t save Trish. I couldn’t do anything. Where was the electricity I should be able to summon when I needed it, at times like this? I balled up my tiny fists, but there was nothing there. I was little, weak, and scared. I needed more strength, more power, more courage. I could only watch and hope that the violence stopped, wishing someone would take me away from all of this. Trish looked up and saw us standing there. “Go back to bed,” she said.
    When we didn’t move, she sternly repeated herself: “Go back to bed!”
    We knew she would turn right around on us, and we didn’t want her wrath or one of her legendary whuppings, but we paused before going back to our room.
    On other nights, when Big Terry was the first one to notice us, it was a different story. “Go back to bed,” he said.
    Although that’s what Trish usually wanted, when
he
said it, she flipped.
    “No, they need to see you hit me,” she said. Even when she was in pain, she took revenge on him with continued attacks on his pride.
    We froze in the doorway, wanting to make it better, or at least not make it worse. She looked back at where we were huddled together. I stood a little in front of my brother, trying to shield him, although he was two years older than me. He’d just been held back a year in school, and I felt like I had to protect him. In fact, I felt like I was there to protect everybody. That’s what superheroes did.
    “No, you all stay right here,” she said to us. “You see him?”
    Even at five, I knew this was wrong. We were being used to hurt Big Terry. I didn’t want to be a pawn in this cruel game. I looked over at Marcelle. He was crying. Then I broke. I started to cry, too. As young as I was, I still felt mad at myself for not being able to keep my emotions in check, like I’d done when I’d been shocked.
    “See, see what you did to them!” Trish said to Big Terry.
    He turned and stormed out the door. She lay there on the floor, weeping. Marcelle looked at me. I nodded at him and led the way back to our room. I heard Marcelle shifting in his bed above me, and then he grew still as he fell asleep. I stared at that top bunk for hours, waiting to crash out, or for the sun to rise, jumpy with adrenaline as I relived the fight scene again and again.
    We had this little cassette tape player back then. Trish didn’t normally let us listen to secular music. It was either gospel or no music at all. But there was one folk pop group, The Free Design, that she tolerated. They had a breezy, harmless little tune called “Kites Are Fun,” which I probably heard a million times as a kid. It was the kind of song that made it impossible to remain in a bad mood. When I was wide awake and all twisted up after one of their fights, I closed my eyes and sang it again and again, trying to get the visions of what I’d just seen out of my head. Kicking my imagination into overdrive again, I formed a visual of Big Terry, Trish, Marcelle, and me, all flying a kite. I desperately