My step dad always had his shirt off in the summer. Outside rotor tilling the garden and pulling weeds, laying on the couch watching TV.
He was muscular and pretty fit.
It seemed that it was an expression of him being a man. And more specifically, being proud and comfortable with his body. He certainly showed no modesty around us.
I, on the other hand, had a little pot belly. I’d stare down at the bulge under my shirt while sitting at the kitchen table or riding in the car. I was ashamed of it.
At family gatherings at my maternal grandparents, he normally ignored me, which I loved.
But when we arrived at one family reunion, he noticed I had my shirt on.
“Why don’t you take your shirt off?”
“That’s okay.”
“I didn’t ask if it was okay, I asked why don’t you take it off. Now answer the question.”
“I don’t want to.”
“But it’s hot out.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Look, I have mine off.”
I think he could detect I was embarrassed. And when he saw fear in me, he attacked it.
“Take your shirt off, boy.”
“Why?”
“Do as I say!”
“But I’m embarrassed.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, you’re just a kid. You haven’t even hit puberty yet.”
What his arguments lacked in logic they exceeded in overpowering conviction, that made me believe them.
“But my belly is fat, I don’t want everyone to see me.”
“This isn’t a beauty pageant. It’s summer, you should take your shirt off. That’s how you enjoy the summer. Get over here.”
He grabs my orange tank top from the bottom and yanks it up and over my head.
He took it. He took my fucking shirt away and locked it in the trunk.
“No! Please dad! I can’t! I can’t!”
“I don’t want to hear it!”
He walks away.
The message I consistently took from his treatment of me was that I was a lazy, selfish, stupid, untrustworthy, obnoxious, piece of shit who was always in the way and a burden.
All those attributes were not visible. But being fat, everyone could see that. And people seeing that inflamed all the hidden shame about the other attributes.
Like having a broken arm that’s not in a cast and someone bumps into it. The bump isn’t hard but it triggers all the pain underneath.
I felt so fucking exposed and he was rubbing my nose in one of my deepest shames.
I would have felt less embarrassed if he had gathered the whole family in a circle around me and made me take a shit in front of them.
The shame turned into crying, which added to my shame.
I ran inside, and upstairs to the empty bedroom, a place I knew I one would be.
The summer sweat was now cold and clammy on my exposed skin in the cool upstairs. My face was red and wet.
We very rarely went places, and even more rarely did I get to play with other kids. I loved playing with my cousins — running around the yard, playing catch, playing badminton, horseshoes, riding bikes and making sweet skid marks in the dirt. I was missing it all.
Worst of all, this was my grandparents house. The place I felt the safest, and unconditionally loved. This was the only bad thing I can ever remember happening to me there. It was a violation of my sanctuary.
Crying, I invisibly watched the family reunion from the upstairs window. My cousins, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents — they were all having fun and feeling a warm togetherness.
I felt alone, defenseless, and like an outsider.
It never occurred to me to ask for help or solace.
