of the ear were effective in keeping students in line. However, what went on at my house went far beyond the spanking category. No matter how harmless the infraction, the level of punishment was an attempt to maim or kill you. At my house, the punishment was always disproportionate to the crime.
Nothing was off limits to Elizabeth, but her weapon of choice was her teeth. When her anger took over, Elizabeth turned into Dracula. When she laid her fangs on her prey, her bite marks on arms, necks, or legs left permanent scars.
One of my most memorable beatings was on the day I stole a nickel from her. Elizabeth, a seamstress, usually kept coins in her sewing machine drawer. One afternoon I wanted some candy, an instant-nasal-passage-clearing minty white sweetie we called oh-so-strong. It was my favorite. Tempted by the change in her drawer, I took a nickel when I thought no one was around. Either she knew exactly how much money she had in there or she saw me take it. But I was busted, literally.
She took her time delivering her punishment. She had me kneel, my knees bare on the uncarpeted, wooden living room floor, waiting for hours. She made a big production by telling everyone that I was a thief, making it seem like I was on my way to becoming a career criminal. She picked her punishing paraphernalia carefully, like a warrior choosing her weapons before stepping onto the battlefield. She made certain that she picked only items that would deliver the most pain—paddles, tree branches, and belts. She proceeded to use them one after another. Of the many beatings in my short lifetime, that was one of the worst.
After such beatings, I would make myself scarce. I would retreat to a neighbor’s home or to a corner and take refuge in my thoughts. I fantasized about being part of another family, one in which parents and siblings treated each other with respect and were kind and compassionate to one another. In that family, there was no yelling or fighting, and everyone spoke in quiet, gentle tones. Some days I wished that I were an only child, other days I wish I had never been born, was dead, or artfully disappear. I was convinced no one would miss me if I did.
Our household daily chores were assigned according to age. Since we did not have running water, it was the responsibility of the youngest children to fetch water from the public water tap—a pump established by the government, which provided the entire village with its water supply. Our task was to fill two gigantic drums located on the outside of the house, so our older sisters would have water available for their tasks. Each drum had three indentations, and my two younger brothers and I had to fill both drums to the second indentation in order to meet the daily water requirements. That meant fetching water in the mornings and evenings on school days, and all day long on the weekends. We had to fill the drum to the brim on weekends because we watered all the crops and did more laundry during those days. Our failure to fill these drums was one of Elizabeth’s greatest pet peeves.
The public tap was quite a distance away, or so it seemed for my skinny legs and arms carrying buckets of water in the sweltering heat. With time, we got so good at fetching water that we could balance a bucket on our heads and one in each hand, shortening the number of trips.
Easily distracted, I would often put down my buckets to chase or watch birds. If only I could grow wings like them, I thought, I would soar high above it all. I would fly to far away lands where no one would ever find me—ever. Taking to the air, I would devour all the yummy plump fruits and nuts growing at the tippy-top of the tall trees, living the high life.
On most days while journeying with the water, I would go sit in the fields surrounded by mangoes, coconuts, guavas, and other types of fruit trees. I liked climbing the tall mango trees to pick the fruits, while the guavas and plums were within my short reach. I was always hungry, and would sit and eat fruits in the warmth and comfort of the sun. Walking and balancing on the thick black pipes that carried the water into our area was an enjoyable distraction; these pipes were miles long. Eventually I would remember the reason for being out there in the first place and would run to gather the water. If I had really delayed Elizabeth from getting her work done on time, she would smack me. Sometimes it was worth it, though. My once-hungry tummy was now full of fresh juicy fruit and I had the pleasure of being in the peaceful outdoors away from her craziness for a little while.
My next oldest sister, Jeanette, was at one time my favorite. She was the first of all my siblings who had the initiative to make something of her life and moved to Castries to continue her education. Unlike the other young women her age, Jeanette was not waiting around for a man to support and take care of her. She attended the only vocational school in Saint Lucia, which offered a specialized agricultural business curriculum. A new and innovative college acceptance into the program was difficult. It was a proud moment for the family when she was accepted.
Jeanette had many friends and my only sister who went out on dates, or “gallivanting” as my parents liked to call it.
She rejected our mother’s Pentecostal religion and became a very active member of the Catholic Church. Our mother resented it, as she felt Catholics were unsaved and called Jeanette a jammet (slut) destined for hell. My father hated the fact that Jeanette desired to educate herself. He accused her of being pi ma ya (arrogant or proud).
I admired Jeanette’s ambition and independence. Not to mention, she always looked and smelled nice on her weekend visits. She was the one who beat up on me the least; sometimes she would even try to defend me, especially to our mother. When my mother complained about me to my siblings, Jeanette would remind her, “Well, that’s normal, how kids behave.” When I was a teenager, Jeanette even attempted to sway my mother to let me take dance classes, but there was no way my mother would allow me to do anything that would bring me joy.
Like all my siblings though, Jeanette had her dark side. She was obsessive and protective of her personal belongings: perfumes, clothes, and jewelry. From time to time, I would make use of her things, and no matter how careful I was in replacing the borrowed items, she would somehow always detect that someone had tampered with it.
When I was about ten or eleven years old, my body started to develop, even I was becoming aware of my body odor. Since my father barely provided enough money for food, luxury items like toothpaste, body lotions, and fragrant soaps were extravagances we could rarely afford. On the few occasions when we were able to purchase such products, they were gone as soon as they appeared. With little access to deodorants and soaps, Jeanette’s fancy fragrances and body splashes were exactly what my body needed. They were irresistible!
On her return Friday evenings from her week at school and work, she would head directly to her corner of our bedroom. She would examine her dresser closely and knew instantly whether any of her items had been touched. Although she knew exactly who’d done it, she’d grant the courtesy of asking, “Who touched my stuff?” Since everyone knew who the culprit was, no one answered. She’d answer her own question by screaming, “Esta!” at the top of her lungs.
Most times, I would stick around and take my punishment. She would slap, punch, and kick me wildly. Covering my face was my only defense. If I had stained or spilled something, the punishment would be worse. On those occasions, I made myself scarce to delay the consequences, hoping she’d forget or leave on a date before I reappeared. During the beatings, I felt the emotional hurt more than the physical. How could my own sister care more about her possessions than for me, her little sister? I could not, and still cannot, comprehend why she would not want her baby sister to look and smell pretty as she did.
Francisca was my only sibling who played games with me. She was born to teach, but missed her calling. I credit her for my love of reading. She read to me when I was too young to comprehend, and we enjoyed playing reading games when I learned how to read. She volunteered at the school library, borrowing books she would entertain me for hours.
I learned that I could be smart and determined just like Nancy Drew—but it was the fairy tales that gave me hope that someone would someday come to save me. I, too, wanted to
