WHEN NOBODY WAS WATCHING: A CHILDHOOD SHAPED BY NEGLECT, PART 2

In the second installment of his personal essay, Shane recounts the bullying, violence and neglect that shaped his childhood and the adults who failed to protect him.

By Shane Raine

The Advocate

This is the second installment of “When Nobody Was Watching.” Part 1, “A Childhood Shaped by Neglect,” appeared in the previous issue of The Advocate.

Content Advisory: This personal essay contains descriptions of childhood bullying, physical abuse and neglect.

Outside the cafeteria doors where we poor kids would line up for free breakfast, there existed a small square cubbyhole that could fit about four children. My sister and I would be standing in this area waiting for the doors to open for our free, publicly funded breakfast. Other kids quickly learned that we were poor. Our clothes were old, worn and out of fashion. My hair was always messy, unkempt and really curly. I looked extremely out of place no matter where I was. I was always mercilessly mocked and ridiculed.

There were about 15 of us who were humiliated and mocked every day standing in that line. It got so bad that some kids refused to line up. However, that was not an option for me because it was the only time I could eat something until lunch. And I was hungry – so I endured the ridicule.

After a month, the daily torment evolved into violence. I was standing in front of the doors with my sister when this dark-haired kid rounded the corner screaming, “HI-YAH!” He kicked me in the stomach, instantly knocking the wind out of me. It hurt so much. I collapsed to one knee and I couldn’t breathe for 30 seconds. I was desperately trying to take a breath so I could cry.

When I could finally breathe, I was able to cry. More tormentors had arrived. They asked the boy why I was crying and he said, “I kicked him in the stomach, not even that hard.” They all started laughing at me and continued to harass me until the doors opened.

As a psychology major, I find it incredibly fascinating that no matter our age in life, we continuously search for ways to “other” each other. Whether that be race, creed or economic position, if you can think of a way to “other” someone it’s been done before. In my case, I was “othered” because my family was poor.

I don’t remember the events at school that day. I do remember what my father said when I came home and told him what had happened. His response both infuriates me and astounds me to this day. I hate him. Not so much for what he did, but for what he didn’t do.

He didn’t go to the school and demand to know what had happened from the school officials. He didn’t go to school and stand with me and my sister at the door. He didn’t do anything that a nurturing and responsible parent would have done.

Instead, my horrible father was preoccupied with his idea of masculinity and what constituted a man. He was not going to raise a “pansy wimpy ass kid.” He was going to raise a man! And his response was to teach me how to fight.

My father started what he called “sessions in self-defense.” I called it pain and torture.  He would have me stand in front of him like Mike Tyson standing in a boxing match, facing each other, fists ready and in the air.

He’d say, “Get your block up. Now block me.” And he’d proceed to smack me in the face, on the head, on the chest and anywhere he could hit.

I was not tall. I didn’t even stand to his chest. So it wasn’t hard for him. He’d start flailing both his hands at me.

“C’MON SHANE! You’re not even trying to block me!”

I couldn’t. I was defenseless.

Soon my eyes would water and I’d start crying. That only provoked him to strike harder until I collapsed onto the floor and grabbed his leg out of desperation. He hit me on the back of my neck — hard! And I just curled up in a ball and cried. I couldn’t do anything else.

As I lay on the floor crying, he told me, “If I ever hear of you getting beat up at school and you did nothing to protect yourself, I will beat your ass worse.”

So I never told him again.

My mother watched all of this and did nothing. My great, nothing, worthless mother. She did nothing to protect any of her kids from my father. She let him abuse us. He abused me during our routine self-defense/torture sessions. If he was annoyed with my sister or me he would beat us. And that’s just how life was for me for six years of elementary school.

No one did anything to protect us.

I would go to school regularly with my face bruised. None of my teachers called CPS. No one intervened.

I had no sanctuary from violence against me anywhere. Not at home. Not at school.

Continued in the next issue of The Advocate.