In Defense of My Mother
How I Ended My Family’s Cycle of Violence and Sexual Abuse
I dread questions about my childhood. Most people can whip out a happy memory to fondly share with folks who relate. Ask for their earliest memory, and they’ll usually tell you about the first day of school or a vacation.
I recall a few fond memories, too, like my grandma’s plump fingers rubbing my forehead or me, shoving rolly pollies in the front pocket of my Oshkosh b’Goshes. But, you don’t get to be Hank Monroe’s* daughter without retaining a million horrific memories as a direct result of the trauma that he perpetrated.
I remember walking into the bathroom at age 12 and finding my father lying in the bathtub. His fixed eyes stared vacantly into the mid-distance, and his naked body was covered in blood. I watched in terror, wondering what to do. He laughed maniacally at my reaction when he yelled, “boo!” Dad wasn’t dead. The blood was just ketchup, and I was not amused.
My stories are scary, traumatic, and sometimes stomach-turning. Inevitably, anyone who listens walks away disgusted and fuming mad at my mother, who dared allow such things to happen in the first place.
