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3 Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child: Family When I was growing up in the Patterson Houses, what today would be called child abuse was the almost universally practiced form of discipline among families in the Projects. Any child who was out of line could be smacked upside the head or kicked in the pants by a parent, friend, or neighbor with no questions asked and no apologies needed, thank you. I remember my upstairs neighbor in particular, Mrs. Johnson, who could throw a mean slipper at warp speed and hit her target every time. But my mother, who was a gentle soul, hated to give us a beating, and her three kids knew it. On those rare occasions when she really got angry, she would use that threat meant to terrify every wayward child—‘‘Wait till your father gets home!’’—and we would be scared to death. My father, with his military background, expected us to obey like soldiers, but we were typical kids, always choosing mischief over obedience. My older sister Pat was particularly resistant to my father’s violent disciplinary methods: Even as young as 12, she had a sharp tongue and would make faces and roll her eyes while he was yelling at her. My father would smack her face one or twice, but, no matter what he did, she would not submit. I, on the other hand, was constantly in trouble for more serious things than talking back. When I was about 8 years old, I would ask my father if I could go outside and play. He would usually give me permission, as long as I stayed in front of the building. But I hardly ever listened to him. I would go with my friends—Mike and Ron and Bobby and 11 12 Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child: Family TC—to ride the subway and go up and down the escalators we’d find on stops like 59th Street on the IRT (Interborough Rapid Transit). When we got home, my friends would say, ‘‘Allen, your father’s going to fuck you up!’’ Sure enough, when I turned the key to the door of our apartment, the horror would begin. Even when I wasn’t misbehaving, I hated to be around my father because he always scared me. He had a heavy voice and a terrible temper that he directed not only at me, but at anyone else who crossed him. I remember one time when I was with him near the car showroom at the Grand Concourse and 139th Street. We stood outside looking at the new cars when a salesman came out and said something to my father that he didn’t like. My father punched him hard and sent him right through the showroom window, showering broken glass flying everywhere. You never knew when my father was going to explode or who was going to be the target of his rage. I remember one day, when I was about 11 years old, he was sleeping on the living room couch while my sister and I were having an argument in the kitchen. Boom! Before I knew it, he had leaped off the couch and smacked me twice in the face. ‘‘Didn’t I tell you to keep it down when I am sleeping?’’ he shouted. My vision blurred from the force of the slap, and I heard my mother screaming, ‘‘Allen, use the belt!’’ In his rage, my father then turned and hit my mother. At that point, my sister Pat ran into the living room and cursed him out good, calling him names that would chill any parent’s soul. Then my father turned toward me, smacked me again, and said, ‘‘You see what you made me do!’’ When his anger had finally run its course, he said he was sorry to my mother and called my sister a cold bitch. My mother responded sharply, ‘‘You should know. She’s cold just like you.’’ After this incident, and on many other occasions like it, my mother came to my room and consoled me. From that day on, whenever I spent time alone with her, grocery shopping or hanging around the house, she would tell me in an admonishing voice, ‘‘Junior, when you get old enough to leave home, you leave.’’ I loved my mother and was grateful for her attempts to protect me. I was—and I guess I still am—a mama’s boy at heart. My mother made...

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