Rise: How a House Built a Family(12)

But most of all, I became a dreamer, creating magical realms of Wisconsin winter igloos or summer forts that gave me an escape. And if I wasn’t able to sneak away to one of my hideouts, I availed myself of books. I read about aliens, elves, and unicorns; I spent several years believing I could develop telepathy followed by several more pretending I lived in Middle Earth. In the realms of my books, people understood one another at the end. Everyone compromised. Every problem was wrapped up nice and neat.

The endless conflict and my adopted role as negotiator had little to do with my discovery of hatred, though. I found that on the school bus and in the halls of Lemonweir Elementary School. Antibullying wasn’t a thing then. In fact, even teachers and bus drivers were bullies, and no one ever called them out for it. Maybe they had the idea that it was a way to toughen the weak, but I doubt it was anything so noble. Humans have traditionally picked on the weak to make themselves feel powerful, and there is nothing noble about that. In my mind, there is nothing forgivable about it either.

My brother was weak. He was small and his head was misshapen from a premature birth and a host of problems that went undiagnosed in those days. Getting hit by a truck while we played in a flooded, closed street had set him back even further, with a limp and less confidence. The poor kid never had a chance.

As we stepped on the bus every morning he was tripped, smacked in the head, spit at, and slammed against seats and windows. It was a ten-mile ride into school on gravel country roads. Ten miles turns out to be just the distance needed to destroy a small boy for good and take a decent chunk of his little sister along with him. The bus driver vacillated between ignoring the bullies and essentially joining them by punishing my puny brother for the disturbances. At one point she had a seat belt installed at the front of the bus to keep him safely seated; unfortunately it also served to hold him still for the poundings. There was no escape.

School was more of the same. I watched my brother’s face crack against the porcelain water fountain when he leaned in for a drink. I saw the torture on the playground and his fear of going into the bathroom, where anyone might be waiting. His glasses were continually broken by fists, feet, and flying books. He was sent to the office for punishment. He was a tiny, quiet problem.

And when we got home, the punishment continued, because his glasses were broken, because the school called again, because he might get kicked off the bus, or because he stole twenty dollars from my mom’s purse to try buying a friend for just one day of peace.

Mom was powerless, not allowed to own a car because it would take her to more religious activities. I was the smallest, skinniest kid in my class, too shy to speak, too weak to fight, a failure at the telekinetic powers I needed to attack the bullies.

The most important lessons I learned in school were how to be powerless, how to take a punch, and how to hate in silence. I learned that being a tattletale makes the bullies hit harder, and no one, not even your family, can save you.





–5–

Rise

Truth Tellers

Since sleep wasn’t on our menu at the Thanksgiving cabin, but an enormous meal was, we spent the night alternating between the stick-house design and helping Hope prepare green-bean casserole, a swanky eight-cheese macaroni dish, and a pie. For our feast the next day we would just sit back and smell it baking alongside the peppered ham. We had a lot to be thankful for.

Drew and I worked out the lower level of the house, spreading extra glue on the structural pieces and spending an inordinate amount of time getting the staircase right. I made doors with pieces of cardboard, and hinged them in place with loops of thread from the sewing kit. My library had French doors with glass panels made out of plastic wrap from a block of cheese.

Roman handed Drew a chunk of bark the size of a domino. “Swing.”

“I’ll put it right here,” Drew said, “so Mommy can watch you from her library window.”

“No. Here.” Roman moved the bark swing deliberately to the side of the house, sounding exasperated, like Drew should know where the swing belonged.

When the first floor was mostly complete, we carefully slid the structure onto a cereal box that had been cut at the seams and spread flat. I moved it to the hearth, where the fire would dry it quickly. Roman had fallen asleep by then, so it was safe from his drummer hands.

We started on the second floor while Hope and Jada made furniture out of sticks, cardboard, and anything else they could think of. A milk top made the coffee table, and water-bottle pieces had been turned into bathtubs and television screens. When I stood up to stretch at one A.M., I went for a glass of juice. I laughed at the state of the refrigerator. Foil casseroles filled with Thanksgiving treats filled the bottom two layers, which was normal enough. But on the other shelves and in the door, every container was missing bits and pieces that had been cut away and turned into furniture or decoration. The covers were gone from the mini tub of butter, the milk, and the juice. Labels were peeled away from the mustard and mayonnaise, and the entire top of the egg carton was gone. If this went on much longer they would be carving lounge chairs from blocks of cheddar.

Crafts and projects had always been part of our lives, but never like this, never so focused and certainly not with a purpose that captured the girls and Drew with equal and united energy.

I sat across from Drew and straightened a bedroom wall, but my energy was sapped and no amount of juice revived me. Jada had crashed more than an hour ago, one arm and one leg draped off the sofa. She was the only morning person in the family, so she was always the first to fall asleep, sometimes even before Roman. “I’m fading, guys. Roman will be up in a couple hours so I’m going to sleep awhile.” Drew and Hope made distant “Umm-hmm” noises without looking up. The design and division of labor were remarkably organized even though we rarely said a word aloud. We were united with a single, cohesive vision and purpose.