hair” like Rapunzel, allowing my hero to climb up to rescue me. These fantasies allowed me much-needed escape. For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamt of being in other places, being another person, and live a life other than mine.
My favorite story was “Pinocchio”. At the time, I didn’t know why I liked it so much. Now I know that I related to him because I too yearned to be a boy. Life was much easier for my brothers. They had fun and freedom! I wanted anything, other than my life.
Francisca was a good daughter and favored by our mother. Timid and eager to please, she cleaned and decorated our broken-down house, making it as homey as possible. Her teen years were centered on the Pentecostal Church. She taught Sunday school classes and was devoted to them. Her commitment to the church always got her elected to many church leadership roles. Francisca and Elizabeth dressed in accordance with the church’s protocol. Pentecostals, like most fundamentalist religions, expect the bodies of their female member’s covered—long sleeves and long skirts—especially for church services. Women wore hats and veils to cover their hair. Dresses were loose fitting, not revealing cleavage or the contours of the body, especially the behind. Jewelry— except for wedding rings—makeup and pants were sins of vanity.
Our mother encouraged and was extremely proud of her girls. They delighted in talking and planning church activities together. When it came to the church, they were Jesus’ three Musketeers.
Francisca was extremely responsible when it came to church, but there was one very puzzling thing about her. When our mother could not make it to the city on Saturdays, and it became Francisca’s duty to travel to the city to purchase our groceries for the week, she would return hours later with no money and no food. She never had any explanations and refused to talk about it. No matter what questions were asked she’d repeat, “I don’t know.” When pressed for specifics, she would blow up into fits of rage and tears or sullen silence. My mother just chose to ignore the severity of the problem. The odd thing was that since my mother did not get mad at her, no one else did either. Our mother made excuses to our father as to why there wasn’t sugar, rice or beans for that week.
One Saturday afternoon, Francisca returned home empty- handed again and stormed to our room before anyone could interrogate her. After a short while, I followed, and for a few minutes, we laid on the bedroom floor side by side in awkward silence. It must have been the combination of hunger and the disappointment over the absence of the fish we were expecting for dinner that prompted me to ask, “What happened? What did you do with the money?”
She did not answer. She merely turned her face away from me, but not before I saw the pain and confusion in her eyes. I am not sure what Francisca did with the money, but I believe the responsibility was just too much for her to handle. It was easy for her to be overwhelmed by the city marketplace and she was pick-pocketed or misplaced the money somehow. I know her actions were not malicious or intentional, but clearly, she was not the right person for the job. It took some time for my mother to realize that this had to stop, and passed the torch on to me. I was about twelve when I obtained the adult task of taking the bus to the city to purchase our weekly groceries. I believe Francisca’s fervent faith and constant praying is what saved her from a fate similar to Joseph’s mental state.
Lawrence’s desire as a young man was to be as feared like our father and was my only sibling who consciously imitated him. He was defiant, vengeful, loved fighting, and did most of it at home. He bullied Elias and Francisca endlessly. I just stayed out of his way.
Pigheaded and irrational, it was impossible to reason with Lawrence, which meant every disagreement ended in a physical altercation. During his quarrels, he backed up his talk by always trying to find sharp objects. During a confrontation with Lawrence, the aim was to keep him away from jagged objects, it case he would use them, even accidentally. It was more important to block or hide these objects from him than to throw or receive a blow.
Once, Lawrence and Francisca had a fierce encounter out in the fields where a pitchfork was involved. Lawrence was threatening Francisca with it, but she managed to grab and tossed it away. As they continued jabbing and pushing each other, Francisca accidently stepped on the pitchfork and was pierce in the foot. The sight of her own blood gave Francisca strength and further incentive to cause Lawrence to bleed also. Since Lawrence had to match her renewed vigor and elevated anger, the fighting only escalated. They were two wild beasts driven by the sight and smell of fresh blood. In the end, the screaming and shouting drew the attention of a neighboring farmer, who called our parents. Only then did the fighting stop.
Lawrence’s toughest challenge was Elizabeth. When he did something deserving punishment, usually on a Saturday when our mother was away at the city market, Elizabeth would prepare, collecting necessary items: belts, paddles and sticks. She chose the safety of the kitchen, as it was made completely of wood, and broken glass could not become a weapon. Sealing the two windows and doors, she would also take the time to hide any other items he might try to use against her. Then Elizabeth would call or drag Lawrence into the kitchen. She would punish him with such fury, that ultimately, he would have to defend himself and the fracas would break out into a full-blown war. If Lawrence felt he had “won” a round, he’d come out proud and cocky. However, if wounded, he would emerge angrier and ready to provoke another fight—with someone weaker, of course.
Oh, Lawrence was mean. We were both born in the month of March, Lawrence on the third day, I was the ninth day. Our siblings would tease and annoy Lawrence by telling him that since the day I was born on was greater then the day he was born, then that made me older then him. Lawrence knew that I was not older then him, but could not quite make sense of how my greater birth date did not necessarily mean I was older. In his rage, and inability to understand, he would maliciously beat me up, even though all I had to do with it was share his birth month.
Although Elias was younger than Lawrence, Elias felt that as a boy, he should be able to defend himself. His technique in handling Lawrence was to not get him angrier. He would hit back in defense, but at the same time, try to talk Lawrence down. Elias would say things like “Stop it! Why you wanna hit me like that for? Come on, man, I didn’t do anything to you!”
The fact that Elias was being reasonable and not challenging him often took the wind out of Lawrence’s sails. Even so, he released his venom on Elias quite often. Their fights were more frequent, but shorter and less intense than Lawrence’s fights with his sisters.
Elias was dishonest, gossipy, mischievous, and never owned up to his mistakes. When I was about ten years old, a neighbor who was our cousin, accused me of killing her chicken. I tried unsuccessfully to convince her and my sister Elizabeth that I had not killed the chicken. “How could you do this? How could you kill someone’s chicken? Apologize right now to Miss Zeta!” Elizabeth kept shouting.
I insisted that, “I didn’t do it.” But my continued denial just made the embarrassing situation, and the whooping, worse.
Later, we discovered that Elias was the one who had stoned the chicken with his slingshot, and knowingly and cowardly stood by as I received punishment for his misdeed.
Elias was more feminine than I was his homemaking skills were far superior to mine. I was more interested in doing things outside the house. But Elias enjoyed household chores - considered women’s work according to the mores of the time. The fact that he was adept at these things caused him grief. Lawrence liked calling him a “sissy,” especially when they were among friends. Sometimes, when Lawrence and Elias were not fighting and actually playing, one of the games they played was “The Best Ways to Torture a Wife.” They tried to come up with ideas on how they would torment their future wives and the one who came up with the most disturbing and creative affliction would be the winner. I remember listening once and hearing one of Elias’s cruel fantasies, which involved trapping a woman in a tiny cage, starve and brand her with a hot iron, then inserting the iron up her butt. At the young ages of twelve
