Bitch, Please: Little Hands, Big Mosh Pit
“What a little bitch…” This 6’4”, 250 lb. ex-Navy Seal uttered the words to my mother about me when I was 6 years old. My mom, nervous and desperate not to have a confrontation, just brushed it off: “Oh, whatever, let it go; it’s typical.” He wasn’t my stepfather yet, but he would be. I had put a note in my mom’s purse, scrawled in the handwriting of a scared kid who recently lost her father (he was murdered, but I wouldn’t know that for years).
The note said, “Please, don’t marry him!”
I was terrified of the seemingly giant, raging alcoholic that my mom had cozied up to. He made her feel safe, oddly, with not just his large stature but with his bravado, his big presence, loud confidence, and a mustache like Tom Selleck’s and Burt Reynolds’ had punched a mustache into existence. She saw in him a protector, even if he wasn’t protecting us from anything with the murderer behind bars.
I knew he made me uncomfortable, scared, like a pest that he saw no use in. We had moved across the country and had initially been living with my aunt and cousin. It was a soft landing; I got to feel like I had a sibling for a minute. It was fun and hopeful while I processed my dad’s death; however, it was that he died - my mom couldn’t keep her stories straight. Was it a car accident? A big rig truck? A drunk driver? Maybe a big rig truck driven by a drunk driver? I wouldn’t know what really happened until I was in my twenties.
During that time, I found a friend in possibly the oddest way for a five- or six-year-old.
While playing a game of tag, a kid blurted out, “My dad can beat up your dad!” and I said, “Yeah, probably. My dad’s dead,”
Which received the sort of silence you might expect, except for one kid near me, who blurted out, “Mine too!” It was revelatory because I was pretty convinced at that moment that there was no god, and I was the only child who didn’t have a dad. Let’s call this kid: Lizzy. She and I connected immediately and had an experience that stayed with me for life.
As it turned out, she is the little sister of a member of the punk band RKL.
Of course, as kindergarteners I wasn’t aware of their work, but I have this memory of us going to one of their shows, surrounded by battle vests, mohawks, and spikes. Lizzy and I were warmly welcomed. We actually thought it would be fun to crawl through a mosh pit, and, damned if not a single combat boot touched our tiny fingers. Memories are imperfect but this was emblazoned.
These moments stuck with me, it felt like discovering that strength could come in the form of warriors thrashing to punk and also being kind and considerate. I was immersed; I loved it. In part, it shaped me into the scrappy weirdo I am today. Forty or so years later, I found Lizzy, she laughed at the memory I shared, but admitted something unexpected: her dad wasn’t dead! He was, let’s just say, absent, and she was a frustrated kid who unknowingly made me feel less alone.
That was probably the only playdate I had with that family; my mom was not impressed. Soon after, we moved into our own home, and there was a moment of novelty. I had my own generous bedroom, and I thought things could be really good for a second. Then along came this guy. He was a lot, all the time; even his name was big, King. I had to be polite, be seen and not heard, so I did my best to stay the fuck out of his way. During his rage fits, I hid in my closet sometimes; one time, he found me and called me “sick.” He declared, “There’s something wrong with this kid…” That initial note in my mom’s purse did not help the situation; it started us out as enemies.
I was a little bitch when I didn’t smile when I brought him a beer.
She did marry him. She was also a bitch because, to him, it was her fault, at least partially. I was a punk who didn’t respect his authority.
Rapidly, I hardened to so many of his antics. I became a strong li’l bitch. He would over-tickle me, so I figured out how to not be ticklish, like a bitch that wouldn’t just give up and giggle for him. He thought it was fun to scare me, so I developed nerves of steel, and he couldn’t easily sneak up and scare me, like a damn bitch.
“You will fucking respect me!”
is not a refrain uttered by people who understand how respect works.
It’s a non sequitur shouted by unimpressive, insecure people who have no substance to draw from, no established character traits that have provided a landscape in which respect could be garnered. It’s a demand that a giant toddler shouts as they stomp their indignant feet, and when you stare blankly, or laugh, or roll your eyes accordingly, you will, sweet summer child, be called a bitch.
Bitch, Please is an ongoing series that is NOT just about being called a bitch. It is a cultural analysis explored through personal narratives.
