You Can't See Me

2023

Part 1

It was the sporadic tapping of his feet that emitted the warning. I knew what that meant, even at eight years old. I was so attuned to danger and too afraid and small to stand up to it. I had undiagnosed ADHD then, so everything was moving, like a subwoofer speaker in the back of a Y2K grand am. The walls were crawling, the chairs were nicking at the cheap carpet, and everyone was chewing viciously on their butterscotch and peppermints.

I had to be quiet during Bible study and tried hard to concentrate and be a good girl. Don't make a peep, and don't shift your feet. Move your arm, chuckle at all, and he will give you that look. He will lower his Bible, glare your way, and you know. That was it, and you had gone too far. Punishment was closing in on you; you could do nothing about it. His faith in God turned quickly into rage directed at his family. At me for being too much like a kid and my mother for having me. It's her fault that I behave so badly or color too loudly. In his eyes, any minor inconveniences paint a picture of how worthless she is and why she deserves punishment too. He brought three women into his home to disrespect and question his authority.

After bible study, my little hands would propel me out of the half back of our little Toyota truck. It had those weird fold-down seats that put you in an excellent position to kick your sister for fun. I knew one thing, his frequent consumption of alcohol and the beer belly he acquired would keep him from catching up to me. My white Keds hit the pavement, and I was in my room with the door shut within seconds. My underdeveloped brain wasn't as quick as it is now, but quick enough.

The day I discovered how to get away, I calculated the angles in the corners of my room. It was a question of which one he could not find me in. He could kick the door down with his giant feet, and his broad shoulders could bust through locks. Finally, it hits me as I turn around and face my bed. The shallow area under this queen-sized mattress is a perfect size for me and an impossible cave for him. I crawl under the metal frame and back up to the far wall. Heavy footsteps fill the living room floors, echoing the terror in my mind as the door opens. The black leather belt dangles just in sight next to his sleek dress shoes. The studs shine like the tears in my eyes. He always wanted it to hurt, so he ensured it was the studded belt. A slap on the behind turned into a thick strap, then the lower back, and then a purse strap. His anger had no limits, and it was then that I realized it wasn't the alcohol. I always assumed it was, but it just fueled his fire because right now, he is sober.

He squeezed into the floor, discovering my hiding place, but I had outsmarted him. He took his giant hands and swatted towards my leg, only to be disappointed. Now that I am older, I see that he could have moved the bed, and honestly, I am not sure why he didn't. When enraged, we sometimes get our thoughts tangled.

After he retreated into the kitchen for a drink, I stayed under my bed and in the corner until I was certain he was asleep. I sat there, terrified he would return, a stepfather from the evil fairytales. I could never tell my father on the weekends what was happening at home. Fear is a strong emotion, and it pairs well with silence. I could not tell my mother everything because he would blame and hit her, repeating the cycle. If she was not working, she was in another world because she is the hardest-working person I know. She loved her mother as I love her fiercely and to no end, but now Grandma was gone. I can only imagine that the world seems to stop and the mind goes blank when you lose the person you love the most in your twenties.

Living under the thumb and terror of someone who seems like a religious leader to the rest of the world is indescribable. The cripple it puts on your voice to speak up is permanent. The flight response is what most children will cling to because it is much easier to be invisible. That night after bible study, I was finally invisible for once. That night he could not catch me.

Part 2

At school, I would walk down the tile floors, counting squares and avoiding stares. I was quiet and liked to sit in the back if I could, avoiding attention. Once, I forged a permission slip for a field trip and got detention, but I just wanted to go somewhere. Other kids went on fancy vacations, but he always tried to keep us home, never wanting to travel. I signed my mom's name because he couldn't sign it while stumbling. She couldn't while she was working and healing from bruises or depression. As punishment, I did not get to go.

I viewed that choice as fair back then, but as an educator now, I don't. No one asked me why I did it. No one asked why I avoided socializing. No one asked why I could not remember multiplication tables at a normal age. No teacher saw me for who I was or suspected what was happening at home. They would put down their chalk, go home to watch tv, and not think about the girl under the bed. The teacher identified no signs, and my self-isolation was not alarming for a fourth-grader.

I remember being so distracted. I could hear the clicking of pens, the banging of the a/c, the knocking across the hall, and papers flipping. It was next to impossible to focus on one thing at a time. This was the cherry on top of the thoughts of what waited for me at home.

I went through the public school system for years in this state, and no one noticed. I was the quiet little girl with a boy's haircut. I was invisible at home and invisible at school. I could say that I was open to someone caring about me or showing me kindness, but the truth was that I was not open to it. If anyone of authority had approached me, at first, I would have resisted. It would have taken a persistent and understanding teacher or administrator to intervene. I trusted no one and don't think I would take the guidance well at first.

That is why it's so important not to give up on kids. I did make it out, but I carry so many scars from having to see what I did and to heal from it on my own. Not one person who lived in that house made it out healthy, and some did not make it out alive. I am the unsteady byproduct of having no safe place to go, which shows in my adult life. I thrive in chaos, and I firmly believe that is why I do so well as an autism mom. It's why I don't dread teaching high school students. I am the byproduct of a child ignored, which shows in my teaching because I care. I see it and pursue the quiet ones to the best of my ability. I smile and joke with the most resistant students because a silent presence can be everything. I gravitate towards co-workers who genuinely care about this establishment I call work. Those people are my true friends because instead of hearing a complaint, they have iron-clad fists and moldable hearts for the students like me, walking down the hall and staring at the tiles. They couldn't see me then, but we can all see them now because of the dark corners we hid inside.