The Secret to Success

Even though I knew he had my back, I was not in the least bit comforted by his words. He didn’t have to face my father, I did. On the way home I cut through the neighbor’s yard taking my usual shortcut, but then backtracked and took the scenic route. It didn’t make a lot of sense to rush home for a butt whipping. As I walked toward the house I told myself, “Party or no party, right or wrong, he wasn’t going to put his hands on me again.” I was the only kid on the block still getting whippings in high school. I was 16 and still had to wear long-sleeved shirts to school to hide the bruises on my arm that I got from trying to protect myself from the belt. It actually looked worse than it felt. What hurt the most was the fact that my classmates would joke on me about it. When I walk in this house if any one of them says something about me getting a whipping, it’s on!

As I grabbed the knob on the screen door and walked through the garage into the house, I kept telling myself to relax and act normal. I deliberately went through the garage and not the front door because it gave me a few extra minutes to gather myself. I paused for about 30 seconds to calm down, gain my composure, and practice saying, “What’s up ma, Mrs. Brown said you wanted to talk to me.” I must have practiced saying, “What up ma, Mrs. Brown said you wanted to talk to me,” a million times before I mustered up enough courage to walk into the house, and into the family room to face my parents. As I walked into the family room, the sight of my parents struck fear in my heart. I opened my mouth and all the moisture evaporated and my voice began to crack, “Mrs. Bbbbbbrown, I stuttered, ssssaid you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, I talked with your dad yesterday and he said that the steak was missing. Do you know what happened to it?

“No ma’am.”

“Well, that’s strange because your father and I found beer bottles in the backyard and the grill looks like someone cooked steak on it recently. I am going to try this again! Did you have a party here last night?” she pressed.

“Party? No ma’am, I didn’t have a party here last night.” I tried to keep a straight face, but it was difficult because my mom always knew when I was lying.

“Stop lying. Eric, I am so damn sick of you. How could you have a party in my house, eat the groceries your father and I worked for, and have absolute strangers in my house? What in the hell were you thinking?” she screamed. I didn’t say a word; I just stared at her.

“Eric, do you hear me talking to you? I asked you a question, what in the hell were you thinking? I want an answer and I want it now!” I didn’t flinch, I just stood there with a blank look on my face.

“Son, your mother asked you a question,” he chimed in. I pretended as if I did not hear a word he was saying. “I know you hear me talking to you son…I said your mother asked you a question!” He typically used a different tone of voice when he had to repeat himself. He was from the old school and believed that when an adult spoke to a child, the child was supposed to acknowledge he or she was being spoken to. I knew the drill. If you did not respond the first time, he would ask you a second time a bit louder, giving you the benefit of the doubt that maybe you didn’t hear him. He was not necessarily trying to scare you by projecting his voice; it was more of a warning. Generally, I would surrender. I would play the dumb role like I did not hear him the first time, and the second time say, “yes sir” and answer the question. Not this time. In a strong and demanding voice he said, “Boy, you better answer your mother.” Before I knew it I snapped and my mind went blank. I was physically in the room, but mentally I was long gone.

“You can’t make me,” I murmured under my breath as I bit my bottom lip and shook my head as if to say “not this time—not this time.”