His broken spine inched him closer to death. I didn’t go to see him; I had nothing to see. I knew what the world had done. Didn’t matter anyway; “Now’s not the time,” they said. His burden was still my cross to carry. 

The flash happened all at once… the breasts he juggled in my face widened my eyes, and I imagine now that it must have given him pleasure to see me squirm. He made me watch as he touched her. In my memories I see her look away in shame. I wonder if I just hoped she had. I was four, and I watched in horror and excitement as he stimulated himself and her…eventually, to my shame, I realized it stimulated me too. 

I started hunting breasts; I started to hunt for nudity, and after a time I craved to see it all again. God, I just want to see them jiggle. Does God answer those kinds of prayers too? “I am an artist” I declared as I scribbled titties, ass and penises. At five years old it felt powerful to put on paper the live action that I got to see when mom was away. I giggled at the scandal. But I got smart. I learned my mother would whip me if I left them out again.

Like a street artist I tagged my designs onto the paper I stole, admired my ofrendas, and then shredded the evidence. I grew smarter. Mom wouldn’t find these; I would not be spanked for this newest exhibition. I excelled in the class of secrets. I strategized and devised the moments I would steal away to draw and create. Lessons I carried into womanhood.

Abuse was learned as take-it-and-deal-with-it pain. I learned early on to put away the compartments of my shame and pain…without it on the surface it wasn’t cause for judgment. I became philosophical at a young age: If a man touches a little girl and no one sees, does it really happen? The child is often punished for this thought. Abusers decidedly rip through the spirit of children with their touches and stimulations. They walk the earth awakening the shame of children and no one punished them. I can imagine the sweet justice visited my uncle as he lay dying, but did it matter if no one was there to hear his confessions?