Kassiquan

Mamita

Domestic Violence and the impacts on family is part of my story.  As a boy at the age of five or six (my middle sister was about a year old) I had my first experience with violence and its impact on my own family; I was a child witness.  Although, at a young age, I did not comprehend what was happening; or recognize the “modus operandi” of abusers or know what one was supposed to do about it.  Deep within my being, all I knew was, “this can’t be right.”

We lived in an apartment on the second floor above a corner “mom and pop” store.  My  Abuela, Mamita came to live with us in 1964.  She stayed with us for two years after vowing to return to Puerto Rico and this was why.  The day I first witnessed domestic violence, Mamita intervened.  One afternoon, we heard yelling and screaming above us.  My Dad was yelling and my Mom was screaming and crying.  I remember sitting frozen with fear in my chair, my brother in the other and looking up over towards the stairs that led to the bathroom and two bedrooms.  We continued to hear the yelling and screaming and crying which told us that Mom was hurting.  The next thing we knew Mom was tumbling down the stairs and landed on the floor crying, laying there doubled over in pain clutching to her stomach.  My Dad flew down the stairs yelling at Mom to get up, kicking her in the stomach and back and pulling on her hair.  My brother and I stayed glued to our chairs our eyes wide in fear and shocked at what we were seeing.  We did not understand what was going on but the nudging inside my chest informed me that what we were seeing could in no way be right; what was happening in front of us was all wrong.  We did not know what to think or how to respond.  My eyes were welling up but we did not move nor did we dare say a word.

We watched Mom crying as Dad continued to slap, punch, and pull on her hair to get her to stand up.  As we looked on, Mamita, hearing the commotion in the kitchen came running and tried to pull my father off Mom and yelling in Spanish that this was no way treat your wife.  The next thing we knew Dad with the meanest look on his face grabbed Mamita, lifted this tiny woman off her feet and threw her across the room yelling at her to mind her own business, “this is my wife.”  Our mouths fell open and my eyes widened in disbelief.  Mamita in tears said, “You’re just like your father.  I’m going back to Puerto Rico and I’m not coming back.  We never saw her again until the day of my Dad’s funeral; in a wheel chair; at least my first time to see her again.  I really did not comprehend what was going on but I was certain this was definitely not a good thing my Dad was to be doing.  We did not know what we were supposed to do with what we witnessed that day.  All we did was kept it to ourselves and we said nothing to no one.  My chest ached.  As a child, every fiber of my being knew that this could not be why God created man and woman; this could not be what God planned for mothers and fathers; man or woman; for us.  This was definitely not God’s image for male and female; it was not “very good‘‘(Genesis 1:26-31).

March 2, 1998, I entered a new employment venture at CAMBA.  March 2, 1897, my paternal Grandmother, Gregoria Suarez y Gonzalez de Rodriguez, my Abuela was born in Arecibo, Puerto Rico.  I never made the connection that I always celebrated my anniversary at CAMBA on my Abuela’s birthday.  But today, I had to check my family tree to verify my information, when exactly Mamita was born.  I am remembering her today because I manage programs and supervise staff that provides services that connect to people with opportunities to enhance their quality of life.  We work with victim survivors of intimate partner violence.

I did not have much time with Mamita as an adult. I really did not have much time with her as a child, either. 20 years passed between the time Mamita left us and the day of Dad’s funeral.  Those few times I spent with Mamita after Dad’s funeral were not very long.  I’d go over to her wheel chair and she would repeat, “Mi nieto, mi nieto (My grandson)!  Three years later, August 1988 she passed away.  Conversations between us were not much; small of stature (shorter than I remembered) and bent over when she was able to stand.  I wished I knew more of her story.  I wished I could have said, “Lo siento por lo que papá te hizo ese día (I’m sorry for what Dad did to you that day).”  I wish I could tell her now, “Mi trabajo es con víctimas sobrevivientes de violencia familiar (My work is with victim survivors of family violence).”  I wish I could say to her, “Ahora entiendo, la historia de papá (I understand now Dad’s story).” Te amo, Mamita! Te veo!  Feliz Cumpleano!