Neglect 1

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Armando Rodriguez Linda Ramos English 1A 15 November 2009 Dysfunctionality?

I’m conned into believing my oldest brother is taking me to the store for candies and chips, we pass the gas station then the liquor store and I ask him, “Where are we going?” He doesn’t respond.

The steel bucket we sit in

turns into a dirt road leading into what would be an inferno burning my holy ghost for eternity.

The dirt road

leads into an almond orchard, the further we drive the greater the path morphs into a tunnel of dense brush. “Where here get out of the car,” he says as he guides my four year old defenseless body into a lifeless vacated shack. The windows are busted, the walls are cracking, I’m filled with turmoil as I’m tossed into a corner cot like a shot put tossed by an Olympian.

My body is pierced, my

spinal column on the verge of collapse by the foreign pressure, I’m concerned breakfast will erupt like a vicious volcano through my tightly wound navel. Say a word and your mother is next,” my idol whispers softly in my

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ear.

Rape is your soul floating far away an innocence, a

child hood high jacked simultaneously. Studies show most sexual abuse and sex crimes are committed by people who know the victims, acquaintances are most often the perpetrators, followed by family members and then strangers (CCRC Childhood Sexual Abuse). I’m alone in a hallway closet converted into a bedroom, my twin bed lays smothered rubbing elbows with the bland walls. The light that hangs over my head reminds me of an episode I saw in “Unsolved Mysterious.”

The

melodies and sweet dreadful stench that roam through our apartment imply my mother will be searching for a fisherman to crack open her clam.

I plead with her not to

abandon my susceptible five year old mind, me I’m terrified of the dark and tormented by the unknown that lingers outside these walls as silence approaches the night, “Mira baboso, te callas oh te chingo.”

She’s gone,

I weep under my blankets a verse to a place where people and animals live serene and harmonious “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to take, if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.”

Hours later I

wake to a cold empty darkness, my instinct to call for help, the phone is disconnected.

My savior is somewhere

outside, I run there to encounter a fence sealed with a

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massive steel lock. I jump the fence leaving behind flesh of my inner thigh hanging above edge of the fence. I’m screaming for help, no one will answer to my soliciting cries.

An apartment across the street glows with its

front porch light.

My pounding brings a young confused

couple to the door who ask, “what’s wrong, where are you parents?”

“I’m all alone she went dancing,“ I reply. I’m

served hot chocolate and bedded a spot on the floor in front of the TV. my mother.

I’m assured tomorrow they’ll take me to

I dose off listening to them critiquing my

neglecting mommy.

“The total number of children who were

missing from their caretakers in 1999 (i.e., their caretakers did not know their whereabouts and were alarmed for at least an hour while trying to locate them) is estimated to be 1,315,600.” (J. Robert Flores) My mother and I moved far away to a deserted cornfield farm out in the country without a neighbor insight. My mother, her boyfriend and I are caged in by canal that surrounds the mosquito infested place.

a

We

migrated here proceeding an incident that caused a dilemma in the first grade. My teacher Mrs. Patterson kept me after class informing me somebody wanted to speak with me. A police officer entered the room and said I would be going with him to answer a few questions.

When we arrived

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to the police station a group of adults were waiting for me in what looked like a doctors office filled with instruments and big bright lights. to my saturated blue and

The question related

black frame.

My conscious

reminded me of threats to never say a word, the truth would soon come out. I told them my mother’s boyfriend did it to her and I.

The following would consist of

questions, pictures and more pictures of my leopard body. My mother and her boyfriend where jailed for five days, this is how I ended up here.

I dread it here, I miss

school, the dog that lives here snaps at me.

I share a

room with my mothers boyfriends uncle who sleep walks along the canal in the middle of the night. to meet

When I fail

my mothers boyfriend expectations, he throws me

into the shower and alternates the water between freezing cold and scorching hot.

In the evening when his favorite

show is aired, he commands me to get on my hands and knees as he rest his legs on my back.

This is his way of being

efficient using my back as his ottoman while the show takes its course.

My mother has been trying to leave but

she too is scared he will hurt us.

My peace arrives in

the mornings when everybody is gone to work, I’m left alone to watch Gilligan’s Island, I love Lucy, and Bewitched. I’m getting used to the abuse. My heart tells

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me to be content after all this man provides a roof and delicious corn on the cob with melted butter and sprinkled cheese. I convinced my mother to let me live with my father. Life is amazing even though I was held back to the second grade after test scores reviled I was remedial across the board.

I was not bothered by this, the pros out weigh the

cons. Dinner as a family is terrific, the dog is friendly and my father is very caring and patient.

his wife is

acceptable, though sometimes she pushes to far.

At dinner

time she insist I eat the entire mountain of food that towers my plate pushing my stomach to the verge of explosion.

She recently tore pictures I had stashed of my

mother, worst though, she insist I call her mother and not by her first name.

The uneasiness is worth it; she

dresses me for Halloween, we have Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I’m always curious to know why my fathers

pager is always going off or why determined strangers come at random hours of the night.

It is unclear why he

conceals a gun, maybe he is a detective.

My curiosity

fades between school, karate practice and band rehearsal. My father and I moved to a local motel this summer, apparently he needed a break from his wife.

We been here

for a couple of months, it’s great not having to pick up

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after yourself or the privilege of going swimming in the pool that sits behind our cookie cutter room.

I start the

5th grade today I’m so excited to see friends and meet my teacher.

While I’m getting ready for the school a loud

pounding at the door rattles the room, “open up” “open up” is shouted behind the door.

My father gets out of bed

runs to flush something down the toilet. dying, what do they want?

I’m terrified of

My assumption is we’re getting

robbed, I reach into a drawer and draw my pellet gun.

My

father is yelling, “put it down” just as the door is smashed open I drop the gun.

Men dressed in black

resembling ninjas rush my father and I.

My father is

handcuffed and placed in the back of a car, I’m sat on the edge of the curb. The back of their shirts read “Mariposa Narcotic Task Force.”

High fives are tossed around as the

laughing men compliment each other on a great job. My father is in prison, his wife divorced him and sent me packing to my mothers.

I live in a crowded

apartment complex in the middle of Stockton, Ca.

My

mother continues on pace, drinking, smoking and meeting different guy friends.

The men that come around make me

ill to my stomach with their invading, obscured language, making sexual gestures toward my mother. I recently exploited my curiosity. I figured I’d give it a try since

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my mother treats it as if sex where a handshake and nothing else. My girlfriend, she too was eleven the first time she did it, she assures me not to be scared.

She

would become my pilot navigating me trough turbulence, guiding me to a destination where one could only experience through a perpendicular feeling. I’m unsure if I ever arrived. On my way home from school I head to Kmart, I’ve become an expert in snatching baseball cards, pogs, Hot wheels and what ever else intrigues me.

I’ve

contemplated stealing a walkman, though our local fire department gave out a wish list to families who where under privileged for Christmas.

Last night was

orientation, my mother dressed me in pants that merely tipped my ankles and a stretched, stained shirt, she also removed the gold jewelry that coats her body.

Her

ingenious tactics worked since we left the orientation with the back seat of our car filled with a turkey for Thanksgiving, canned veggies, condensed milk, cereal, and a peanut butter jar with an with no identity.

I know I

should be doing homework but the rush of breaking windows, setting off car alarms and egging front doors release a pain suppressed deep down inside. unlucky.

This evening I’m

I sit with my head between my legs in the back

of a patrol car idling at a rail road crossing waiting for

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a train to pass.

The last time I was brought home by an

officer my mother slammed a frying pan into my face deviated my nose to an unknown direction.

I’d rather jump

in front of train than to go home with this pig. My mother and I have been living in Riverside with an aunt and her family in an over privileged community. I sleep on the floor bare torso to the blond dog hairs that rest between the fibers of the carpet. As I sleep I conceal my disproportion body with a nursery blanket my aunt loaned me.

Food is either scarce or rationalized, I

wouldn’t know the difference because I’m not allowed in the kitchen.

My meals come from leftovers my mother

brings from a restaurants she waitresses, or from the courage I build when everyone sleeps as I loiter through the pantry.

At times my uncle stays up late, bringing a

roaring lion to my insides and a dry cotton field to my mouth.

On New Years Eve I begged my mom not to leave me

alone, my aunt and her family where out of town. The house was recently burglarized they took many electronics, jewelry and other valuables.

I tried to reason with her

but she wouldn’t budge, after her screaming tormented my ears I called her a puta, this would proceed my mother converting into a grizzly clawing at my face.

In an

attempt to block the vicious blows I covered my face with

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my hands, part of my index finger became confined between her molars that evening. The next school day I told the principal out of desperation.

Law enforcement was called

in giving me a déjà vu moment to the first grade.

A

report was made, my mother denied everything, regardless the situation became worse. to Mexico.

My mother decided to move us

As we drive to Mexico the excruciating sound

of silence pierces my ears.

My face is uniquely marked by

the flying back fist of my mother’s rings.

After each

swing she yells at me, “you trader, just wait till we get to Mexico!” My mother had the happiest day of her life when she discovered my father was released from prison.

She

quickly packed my stuff and bummed money from friends to complete the expense of my plane ticket.

She was adamant

in starting her new life without me, her convincing tone reinforced me to never go back. Yesterday I was obligated to attend “A Night of Reality,” It is a program for troubled teenagers.

I was sent to the program by the

school district after my friends and I decided to squeeze adhesive glue into the key holes of our junior high school’s classroom doors.

Class was dismissed that day,

thirty-six door knobs where replaced at the expense of our parents.

A night of reality is a trip to the county jail,

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it’s purpose is to visit inmates who scream at you, spit in your face and make you gasp for air as you stand in your puddle of tears.

It worked for many of us, not for

me, perhaps I’m a sociopath who can’t feel a thing.

My

father just arrived from work, it totally passed my mind that he instructed me to rake the leaves before he came home.

The tip of his cowboy boot breaks the skin in the

back of my legs as he kicks me up and down the living room.

The kicking stops but the scolding begins, I assure

him if he doesn’t stop I will kill myself, he doesn’t believe me.

The anguish has stopped but the animosity

continues, he in his room and I in mine.

My lips settle

softly over the barrow of a shotgun, my finger embrace the trigger, he said I wouldn’t do it.

This evening I say my

last prayer: When the last tear, the forerunner of my dissolution, shall drop from my eyes, receive it as a sacrifice of expiation for my sins; grant that I may expire the victim of penance; oppressed with suffering and exhausted by its continual struggles with the enemies of its salvation, and then in that dreadful moment, Merciful Jesus, have mercy on me.

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Work Cited

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Crimes Against Children Research Center University of New Hampshire 20 College Rd. #126 Horton Social Science Center Durham, NH 03824 e-mail: [email protected] phone: (603) 862-1888 fax: (603) 862-1122 http://www.unh.edu/ccrc/links/contact_us.html U.S. Department of Justice Office of Justice Programs Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention National

Incidence Studies of

Missing, abducted, runaway and thrown away children j. robert flores oct 2002