True test of faith

Written Communication
September 8, 2009
True Test of Faith

My earliest childhood memories of a family were hearing my mom’s faint screams through ears covered by my cousin’s warm hands. “My heart is sore pained within me: and the terrors of death are fallen upon me. Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me.” Psalms 55:2-8
Most of my childhood was filledwith horror. Violence and screams rang through our house as bells rang at a church. Shouts of anger and pain seemed to be common and normal. I was accustomed to many strange things, no three year old should ever be exposed to.
I grew up in a Catholic family who never attended church. The only times I remember going to church as a child were for funerals or Quinceañeras. I was born in a lower class.My family had lived on my uncle’s reservation for most of my childhood. This reservation consisted of 2 houses (both owned by two of my uncle’s), one trailer (owned by my father) and acres filled with vast emptiness resembling a desert. One would have to travel for miles before civilization was found.
It wasn’t until I was older that I learned the reason for living in the environment I did. Myfather depended strictly on what his brothers told him. They believed “manliness” was proven solely through blows and beatings. They believed the wife wouldn’t listen if the words weren’t stressed upon with violence. I soon learned the desert we lived on helped disintegrate the sound of painful screams. Life was misery with a blend of poverty and fear.
Even before my birth, my father had anaddiction to alcohol. He had always been ill tempered and alcohol would only make matters worse. He was constantly unemployed and would spend the little money we had on alcohol. Sober was hardly ever a phase for him. The moments I experienced with my father at a sober stage seemed strange to me and were atypical. The few seconds my father was sober to me he was a stranger.
            Once my fatherconsumed an ounce of alcohol, anger would soon take over. My cousin would then be called over to watch over us in the next room two feet away. She would shield our ears, knowing most screams managed to penetrate through. Our imagination painted a clear picture of what was going on. It was as if my father was a professional boxer and my mother, his punching bag.
For most of my childhood mymother’s appearance consisted of dark blues and different shades of dark green. Fear overwhelmed us every night. The sound of our mom’s screams let us know she would look different the day after. We had no choice but to sit in the dark filled with trepidation as our father took his anger out on an innocent being. Every scream would send a chill down my spine and a lump in my throat. My heart would race andI would flinch as if it were me getting beat. It was only in my thoughts that I could defend my mom and stand up to my father. This thought always haunted me.
           I was young and didn’t quite comprehend that my understanding of a family was erroneous. A family for me was retribution from one parent to another. It was a constant battle between fists and screams; the louder the screams, theharder the blows. To me, a family was to never get along and always at each other’s throats.
It seemed every step we made was wrong. Punishment came from both sides. When my father was home, orders were given which were forced to be executed or else one would regret disobedience. During the absence of my father due to work, my mom seemed to take out the rage she held for him through us. Heranger was released through aggressive spankings and unusual punishments. One wrong move would send us kneeling in the corner on the hard kitchen floor. If we said something they didn’t think fit, it was a spanking with a sandal, the fly swatter or hand, whichever was closer. If word about what had happened that day managed to slip out in front of my father, he would hit her and we knew the next...