Girlhood Lessons by Lydia Mathis
Image by Skitterphoto for Pexels
TW: Physical/emotional child abuse
When I read The Odyssey by Homer in my ninth-grade honors class, I realized I would never be loved the way the boys in my family were. Our teacher taught us about epithets, how they could be positive or negative. She gave us examples: “fearless Odysseus,” “the conquering hero Agamemnon,” “ghoul of the cliffs Scylla,” and “dreaded Charybdis.”
As I sat at my desk while my classmates made up epithets, I became aware of the fact that I had one, and not a nice one. My grandma had provided me with my very own. She didn’t have that tenderness for me that the boys got in abundance. They were her favorites. For me, she had a sneer, angry eyes, and my assigned epithet: fast. When I was seven, my uncle and I were watching the falcons. I was hanging on his back laughing when she said it for the first time:
“Fast tail.”
She was giving me a look, her eyebrows pulled in, her nose scrunched, and though I didn’t know what she meant, I knew by the way the left side of her top lip raised that it was a bad thing to be.
“Always under these men’s nose,” she said and stared at where my arms wrapped around my uncle’s neck. I got down.
“You gone learn not to go around throwing your lil’ nasty self on anyone you see. When you come in here with a baby in your belly you might as well start packing yo’ shit and move on out of my house since you wanna be grown.”
My heart raced faster the longer my grandma’s nose flared.
“I wasn’t trying to be grown,” I whispered.
“You talking back too?”
I looked to uncle for help, but he just watched the TV. He had said earlier that the defense was on fire. We were recreating moves when grandma walked in. Now, he couldn’t be bothered with me.
“Wait til’ yo’ momma come home,” she said, stalking off to our bedroom.
Grandma had a four-bedroom house that she lived in with my uncle. Then, my father cheated on my mother and she, my brother, and I moved in. Since grandma wanted mom to have her own room—that way she could have somewhere to bring home a man so we’d eventually move in with him—and boys needed their privacy, I ended up sharing a room with her. As I watched her stomp down the hallway to our room, I knew the night would be full of her “tsks” if mom didn’t whoop me and her “mhmm, you know better now dontcha’?” if she did.
Later, I learned what “fast” meant. It meant, at age nine, I was a whore, a slut, a little girl so desperate, so nasty, that I was running after any man I could find, even my uncle. I was fast. That night, though, I learned that proximity to men would cause me nothing but trouble and the pain of an ass-whooping. However, even after the twenty licks from the belt mom gave me when she got home, I didn’t learn the lesson well enough. No one bothered to give me a schoolbook on what I needed to know or tell me what was going to be on the test. And failure always, always meant punishment.
Mom was an equal opportunity ass whooper, but grandma protected the boys. She was always trying to save my brother from whoopings whenever we got in trouble. Mom told grandma that she couldn’t do that. You can’t do to one what you wouldn’t do to the other, she’d say. One time, my brother and I decided to call the police just to see what would happen. We were told if we called them, they’d come and rescue us if we were in trouble like if the house caught fire or if a criminal tried to break in.
Sometimes, when I lay in my bed next to grandma, I thought about calling the police. I wanted them to come take her away. Roll her up in her blanket like a corndog and carry her over their shoulders and put her in their car. Then one of them would pat me on the head and tell me I did good. That I was good.
So maybe, when I asked my brother if he wanted to play a joke, that thought was somewhere floating just beneath the surface, but I didn’t think they’d come, that they could. We didn’t give them our address. We hung up when the operator answered and we giggled with the thrill of getting away with a prank. But the police showed up at our house ten minutes later. After taking a look around and finding nothing wrong, they left and mom tracked us down to where we were hiding in the shed behind our house and dragged us by our collars to her bedroom closet, grandma following close behind.
“He’s just a kid,” Grandma said, “he was just curious. He gone apologize. Ain’t that right?”
“Yes ma’am,” my brother said.
“Momma, they need to learn. Both of them.”
Grandma huffed. Mom sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, staring at grandma, then she grabbed hold of our shoulders and lead us to our punishment. She told us to pick out a belt. We had to choose carefully. If we picked one too thin, she would ask if we thought she was playing, and then she’d get the widest belt with an intricate knotted pattern.
As I stood in line behind my brother, I buried the smile I wanted to let out, so elated that I wasn’t alone in this. When we left the room, grandma had a Sprite waiting for him. She handed it to him and rubbed his shoulder. I wiped my tears in the empty kitchen.
Saying mom was “equal” might not be right. More like indiscriminate, enthusiastic even, when it came to whoopings. Threats of a beating were always on the tip of her tongue and she was quick to march us to her room, ask us which hand did it, and then sentence us to how many licks of the belt she felt fit the crime. The number of hits increased if we dropped our hand or pulled away. Making mom waste energy was a no-no.
At one of our family reunions, I was sitting with one of my boy cousins on the swing. We had pushed far back dangling over the edge of the porch and when we let go his longer legs caused his feet to hit the brick siding.
“Shit,” he said.
An aunt heard the curse but didn’t see who said it, just that the word came from our general direction. Something about me made her decide I had to have been the one that said it. Maybe it was how I was sitting—family members often said that I was a little girl with attitude, always walking around with a hand on my hip—maybe it was simply me who her eyes landed on first, or maybe it was a glimmer of the future she saw, how my chest would fill out and my hips widen, marking me as female, marking me as wicked, marking me as having the ability to damn mankind, unleashing evil on the world. She went to find my mother. Mom came outside, yelling my name. I kept telling her it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, I didn’t say that I promise. She just pushed me along, fuming. We made the long walk through the dining room, then through the kitchen, and finally to her room where I stood before her, hand held out ready to receive slap after slap.
In those moments, as the belt arced through the air, I returned to animal instincts, knowing I shouldn’t but anticipated pain making me yank my arm back before the belt could land. Then, the ten licks turned into twenty, and instead of her raising her hand till it hovered just above her shoulder, her swings took longer to land, her hand raised somewhere behind her head where I couldn’t see, gaining momentum, this time hitting not only my hand but my forearm as well, leaving behind a patch of red raised skin.
Eventually, my aunt realized it was a boy’s voice she heard, after hearing that same cousin curse again when he lost playing basketball with the other boys. My mother found out but there was no apology, no meting out justice to the guilty party. I was let out of my room where I’d been remanded for the night. I looked at my cousin while he ate his ribs and I could feel something in me ripping, like a fountain pen pressing too hard into paper leaking ink underneath, the wood table below permanently stained.
It was hard to tell if mom was on grandma’s side or mine. On my brother and I’s birthdays, mom made sure we both got presents. So, on my birthday, my brother got a gift and on his, I got one. We never had to sit back while we watched the other’s happiness. At dinner too, she seemed to be an ally. Grandma would ladle two scoops of lasagna onto my brother’s plate (“he was a growing boy!”) or give him a fat slice of chocolate fudge cake compared to my thin one (“a girl needed to watch her figure”).
Mom would come up to me take my plate and add more, saying nothing, no change in expression, like what she was doing was natural, like I was supposed to have what she gave me. Those were the times when I wanted to hold her hands and kiss her fingertips. I wanted to protect her from hurts like when grandma would ask her when she was planning on finding a man to take care of her and her kids and her face scrunched up like someone had poured cold water on her head. I wanted to hold her close to me so we could feel each other hearts beating, knocking against our chests to enter the room of the others.
But then, there were times I wanted to hide her away, because seeing how she looked at me when grandma told her I had been disrespectful, questioning her when she told me to do some chore around the house or when I brought home a B minus, my first one, already distraught at my failure, my inability to live up to the compliments my teachers usually rained down on me, and grandma said it was probably because I only had boys on my mind. It wouldn’t be too much to say that the look in mom’s eyes undid me, like I had a cork in my foot that had been snatched out and I’d been emptied. My stomach felt cavernous and loaded with all my shame.
The look was followed by the back of mom’s hand popping me in the mouth followed by “I told you ‘bout that mouth,” or “that mouth gone get you into something your ass gone pay the price for,” or maybe she’d skip straight to the belt. I’d watch her back as she walked away after the whooping with betrayal hot in my chest, so angry it’d scared me. I’d go back into my shared room, hand pounding, and lay under the covers, staring at the blackness wishing that darkness enveloped everything, was everything. I wanted it all black so that there was nothing and I didn’t have to deal with mom or grandma or my brother or my uncle or all of the things that were twisting my heart and turning my stomach.
The tears would be washing my face clean under the covers when someone would come in and sit at the edge of my bed. There would be the tinkle of something hitting the nightstand between my bed and grandma’s. They’d lean over and kiss my cheek. Mom’s sweet perfume that smelled like warm vanilla cupcakes would linger around me. When they left, I’d see that there was a Sprite on the nightstand. Then, I would be back wondering. With me or against me?
Often, it seemed like I was a part of the mystery gang, like Daphne and Fred had instructed the group to search for that week’s monster. I felt like I was peeking around corners, shaking and trembling with Shaggy and Scooby, waiting for a monster to jump out. I didn’t know where grandma might appear. I had to stay on guard. The only time I could relax was during the holidays. She was usually busy and distracted the whole day, making dinner for all the family members who would inevitably stop by for a to-go plate.
The best times were Christmas. My brother was nice, with a new toy or game and he’d play with me because there weren’t any kids our age in the neighborhood and all his school friends were celebrating Christmas at home. So, he’d bring me to his room and we’d sit on the floor and he’d show me how to play Yu-Gi-Oh or Pokémon, whichever new set of cards mom gifted him. The day was filled with macaroni and cheese, dressing, collard greens, green beans with ham hocks, corn on the cob, pecan pie, sweet potato pie, and chocolate cake. There was laughter and flashes from disposable cameras and, of course, presents.
The Christmas when I was nine, my mom and aunt gave me three Bratz dolls, one from auntie and two from mom. The dolls were those half-ones; their bodies ended below their hips and their bases were in the shape of a star. I unboxed them one by one and jumped around, cheesing, with all three in my arms. I spent the whole day staring at them, sitting them beside me when we all sat down at the table to eat. I toted them from room to room. The only time I left them was when I took a shower before bed. Grandma went to sleep by seven-thirty so I went to sleep by seven-thirty. At seven, I’d brush my teeth and hurry to bed and turn on the TV to watch as much as I could of a Disney channel show before grandma came into the room and turned on Law and Order. That night though, I didn’t even bother with the TV. I rushed through brushing my teeth and raced to my room, taking my dolls from atop my dresser where I’d placed them earlier. I was already starting to develop that sense, the sense that told me my dolls had feelings and I needed to take care of them or they’d cry all night and I’d hear their cries in my dreams.
I got out my hairbrush and set each girl in front of me on the floor. I started with the white one and divided her hair into two parts brushing each side thirteen times, my favorite number. When she was done, I placed her back on the dresser and then took the light-skinned one and brushed her hair. I placed her next to her sister when she was done. I was in the middle of the tenth brush on the right side of the brown one’s hair when grandma said from the door.
“Time for bed, put that away.”
I looked over to the clock that sat on the nightstand between our beds.
“But I still have five minutes.”
“Did I stutter? I said put that up. It’s time for bed.”
She walked into the room and pass her bed to where I sat at the foot of mine. As she got closer, I pulled the doll into my arms.
“Please, I’m almost done, I promise.”
“I’m not gone keep repeating myself,” she said, looking down at me with her hands gripping her hips.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t move. I had to finish or my doll would be sad. She’d cry and cry because she’d think I didn’t love her like the other two. I wrapped my arms around her hard, plastic body.
“Little girl, do you think I’m joking.”
She bent over and circled her hand around my upper arm and, for a second, she squeezed me real tight. It was like my arm was shrinking in her hand, like if I looked down my arm would have turned into a baby’s. Then, my doll was wrenched from my hands. My fingertips stung.
“I bought this, so you need to be grateful I’m letting you play with it. It belongs to me,” she said, voice raising, “matter of fact, they all belong to me. Who you think told your mom and auntie to get you these, huh? They would’ve got you some socks and panties. Yo’ mama a manager at Wendy’s, you think she can buy you two new dolls? You need to be saying thank you, grandma.”
She put the doll on top of her dresser; it was all the way across the room from the other dolls.
“Well?” She asked walking back to me.
“Ma’am?” I asked, holding back tears.
“You gone say thank you, grandma? Or do I need to take these back to the store? I still got the receipt.”
“Thank you, grandma,” I whispered. Behind her back, I could see my doll glaring at her.
“Now go to bed,” she said.
I scrambled up to get under the covers. I turned so I could look at the doll. She looked so lonely. I mouthed, I’m sorry, and I could tell she knew I meant it. I tried to tell her with my eyes that I would brush her hair as soon as I woke up. I closed my eyes and pulled my cover over my head so morning would come quicker, but, as I lay there, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep; I could already hear the sobbing.
---
The dolls stayed with me for a long time as I grew older. I couldn’t part with them. Their feelings were as real as my own. They stayed with me even when I began to grow breasts in fifth grade, starting my journey into becoming a woman. That year, I developed enough to need a bra, but I’d always forget to put the bra on. There was barely anything there, just a hint of fatty tissue and nipples, but it was enough to be a problem.
At the start of summer break, my aunt and her new boyfriend came over. I was lazing about the house in shorts and a spaghetti-strap shirt to endure the humid Georgia heat. I went to the kitchen to grab a blue huggie, my favorite juice. In the attached dining room, the adults were sitting at the table.
My grandma’s tongue sucked hard against her teeth and she raised a brow at mom. Then, mom was in front of me and smacking her open palm across my shoulder and I was stumbling back from the force of it. My shoulder throbbed, the pain pulsing, alive, like a worm wriggling under my skin.
“Go put on a bra,” she said with gritted teeth, nose flaring. The flaring was a family trait.
I heard grandma say, “I told you…you need to watch that girl.”
In my room, I dug into my drawer and pulled on the pink training bra with the purple flower on the front and wondered why I was the bad one and not my aunt’s boyfriend. He was in our house! I put my shirt back on and went to get my drink, my grandma and mom’s eyes following me.
By the start of middle school, I knew who my enemies were. They were all around me at school, telling me I was built like a bodyguard while also pinching my ass. They were in the classroom telling me to pay attention and telling me, after staring at my chest for seconds that felt so long, to pull the neckline of my shirt up or I would need to go home for the day.
They were in the grocery store when mom sent me two aisles over to get three cans of baked beans. They looked older than my uncle and asked me how old I was. When I told them, they responded with, “My, ain’t you so grown for your age? You a big girl, huh,” and I flinched. Being grown would make grandma mad and I had a test the next day. I needed my right hand to write.
They were in my house too, eating a hot dog and asking me to run to the candy lady next door and get them some chips, putting five dollars in my hand, telling me I could use the change to get whatever I wanted, and, when I got back, not explaining to mom they asked me to get it. So, I got a whooping because I was outside at seven at night without an adult around “doing who knows what.”
They were in my bathroom, leaving piss on the seats that grandma would make me clean, and they were in the room that I shared with grandma, pushing me onto the floor so they could get on the computer to play the dinosaur adventure game that I convinced mom to buy after multiple PowerPoint presentations, explaining how they were educational and would teach me about science and history.
They were fighting with me about some stupid thing that brothers and sisters fight about, getting angry and throwing me to the floor, sitting on my chest and covering my mouth with their hand when I started to yell, pushing down so hard that my front tooth popped out of my gums, and kept pushing until I balled my fist, hit them in the side, and ran away, tears and blood running down my face.
They were being spared from trouble again when I ran to grandma sobbing as I told her what happened. She said it was an accident and told my mom to leave them be, they didn’t do anything wrong.
They were bleeding under me this time when I realized they were going to get away with it again and I took one of their toy trucks and slammed it into their head, watching them bleed and cry.
They were in the hospital getting stitches while grandma stood beside them while I was at home getting whooped, ass bared to the world, red and hot to the touch as mom brought the belt down again and again until her arm finally cramped and gave out.
When I turned thirteen, my uncle moved out of the house to live with his girlfriend and I finally got my own room. I moved my things to the room across the hall and I got mom to paint the room pink. The first night by myself I locked the door and lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The room was mine; I could do what I wanted in it. I could play with my dolls without my brother kicking them out of my hand. I could breathe without grandma sucking her teeth at me. I could take my bra off and walk around. I was free.
I could still hear her though, from my room across the hall, the thudding of her footsteps, her rumbling snores, her punishing the boys. It was a rare occurrence, but they would occasionally incur her wrath too. I remember my little cousin getting in trouble. He was a toddler and still potty training. Maybe that’s why he got my kind of treatment. He was in a nebulous stage, he still needed to be made into a man. It was up to her to set him straight. Whenever he got in trouble, grandma would set his potty in front of her bed and she would tell him to sit, and he would be there for hours, crying, until she believed he learned his lesson and allowed him to get up.
Once, my grandma had fallen asleep with my little cousin still on the potty. My aunt had brought him and his sister to our house to play like we usually did on the weekends. His sister and I were playing in my room. I had set a doll in front of each of us so we could brush their hair together. From across the hall, we could hear him crying between grandma’s snores. My doll looked at me as I brushed her hair. We stared at one another, unblinking. I wanted to continue playing, but her eyes told me I couldn’t. Her eyes forced me to hear my little cousin’s sniffles. The sound seemed to crawl from under the gap at the bottom of my door.
“Go,” she said, “you have to help him. You have to.”
I had to.
I put my doll down, leaving her hair straight on one side and tangled on the other.
“Where are you going?” my cousin asked.
I turned back to her.
“I’m going to go help him,” I said.
“No! We were playing! Everything’s always about him. Come on, let’s play!” she said, pouting.
She picked up my abandoned brush and held it out to me. I wanted to sit back down with her, but then I saw my doll and her eyebrow seemed to raise at me.
“I’ll be right back!”
I turned around, opened my door, and walked the two steps to my grandma’s room. My armpits stung with fresh sweat as I looked at the doorknob. My hand wouldn’t stop pulling back every time I reached for it.
I couldn’t do it like that; she’d see me and I’d be in trouble too, so I laid down on my belly, reached up, stretching until my side burned, grabbed the doorknob, and slowly turned. The door opened and I saw his fat little legs, his two big toes were touching, and his hands hung down the side of the potty. He looked at me with his tears and snot.
“Come here,” I whispered, waving him over.
He leaned over and fell to his hands and his hips swayed back and forth as he crawled to me, his tiny shorts hanging off one foot. When he got to me, I moved aside so he could creep past then I grabbed the doorknob and pulled it in small increments toward me. There was a quiet click and then I got up and grabbed him under his arms, standing him up and pulling up his pants. I brought him into the safety of my room. My cousin looked at me with her nose flared and took the doll she was playing with. She walked to the other side of the room, far away from us, turned toward the wall, and started brushing the doll’s hair. I frowned at her back and then I picked my doll up off the floor, placed her on the dresser, and turned on the TV to the kids’ channel. He sat in my lap, where I held him until his tears dried.
Lydia (she/her) is completing her MFA in fiction at New York University. She has worked as a teacher for Teach for America and is a teaching fellow at Coler-Goldwater Hospital in NYC. She received A Public Space’s 2023 Editorial Fellowship and has a story forthcoming in Five on the Fifth.