Once Upon a Time I Tried to Beat My Uncle’s Ass

Right before I started the 4th grade, we got a call — my paternal grandfather had died. Moments later, we also learned that he had a second, secret family — a wife and two children — in the Philippines. Until my granddad’s death, neither family knew about the other; yet somehow, a year after his funeral, my “new” grandma, aunt + uncle moved to the U.S. and came to stay with us.

When I met my uncle for the first time, he was quiet. A high school freshman. I remember thinking that he would be shy. In actuality, he became my personal tormenter. When he thought no one was looking, he bullied me — he mimicked my voice, he laughed at the way I carried myself, he shoved and jabbed me, he told me I was ugly, stupid, disgusting, worthless. He looked at me like I was scum and made sure I felt that way, too.

Then one day, I asked him a question & he pushed me into a bookshelf. I hit my head and something inside of me shifted. I got back up, silently. I went up the stairs, silently. I unscrewed the broom from it’s handle, silently. I found a comfortable batter’s grip, silently. I headed down the stairs, silently. And it was only when my Mom happened to come in, happened to see my face, happened to say “Isabelle, what are you doing?” that out of my mouth escaped an ear-splitting, guttural scream.

I held onto that broom handle and I screamed. I screamed months of bullying; I screamed tears; I screamed daydreams of brutal retaliation; I screamed helplessness; I screamed loneliness; I screamed anguish and distrust. I screamed pinching fingers and brutal bruises; I screamed festering wounds with nowhere to drain.

 I screamed and screamed and screamed.

And then I collapsed. My legs went out and my Mom was left to hold me — this 9-year old child that was so hurt, she’d decided to use the last of her energy to try & hurt back.

My uncle was given a talking-to; he was told to stay the fuck away from me. I don’t remember my uncle bullying me again, but I also became my own planet, developed a magnetosphere, repelled his unwanted mass. At the end of the year, everyone left and I was left with a dark, angry wound. I closed the door on the memory and moved on.

Now, 20 years later, it’s resurfaced. As I wrote this, I thought it would be a funny story; when it’s shared amongst my family, it’s always with good humor — (“Remember when Isabelle tried to beat ____’s ass?”). But I was surprised how much I cried while writing this; how angry I still felt. And sad. The sadness is the hardest part. I felt sad for my younger self; sad that I wasn’t protected; sad that, at 9-years old, I believed the only way to stay emotionally safe was by inflicting violence; sad that this heavy memory was mine to hold; sad that, all these years later, I was still struggling to put it down.

In the midst of that sadness, I came across a quote I’d written in an old journal: “If you are willing to look at another person’s behavior toward you as a reflection of the state of their relationship with themselves rather than a statement about your value as a person, then you will, over a period of time, cease to react at all.” (Yogi Bhajan)

I’m not sure that my 9-year old self would’ve understood it, but my adult self does and, in many ways, feels seen by the words. While it doesn’t justify his behavior by any means, my uncle was so clearly wounded. He’d just lost his father; he’d left his home country — the only one he’d ever known; he had to navigate a second, unfamiliar language; he was starting over at a pivotal time in high school; he went from living in his own home, with his own things, to living with a family he’d never met before; and, based on his teasing, we were hoity-toity and deserving of humbling. They say hurt people hurt people; my uncle was a case study.

I haven’t thought of the memory in years, but perhaps it’s on my heart because I’m learning forgiveness. I’m learning that forgiveness rarely just “happens” — it takes time and patience and willpower. And, maybe most importantly, practice. A lot of my childhood memories are fuzzy, but I’m learning that when they do clarify, pushing them down is only a temporary fix. I don’t want my 30s, 40s, 50s, to consist of battling memories that I was too uncomfortable to sit with at 28. I don’t want to feel angry about things that happened decades ago. But the only way to move forward is to forgive. And the only way to forgive is to acknowledge the pain — feel it in its entirety and seethe and cry and rage and let it out.

After that? I imagine it becomes about accepting — truly, deeply, fully accepting — that another person’s behavior isn’t reflective of our worth. Then asking what the memory teaches and/or what we wish would’ve happened. Then it becomes about figuring out how to bring those insights into the present.

Or at least, I think that’s the process. It’s still trial and error for me, too.

There’s this poem I once read by Anne Carson. In it, she writes:

“You remember too much, my mother said to me recently. / Why hold onto all that? / And I said, / Where can I put it down?”

And I guess my hope is that when we acknowledge our pain, shift our perspective, and promise to do + be better than those haunting our memories…eventually, we’ll realize we’re not carrying them around anymore. And personally, I think that’s one of the greatest gifts we can give to ourselves. Don’t you?