We moved to Olmsted Township, Ohio, the summer before my 10th-grade year. The first time I walked into the house they rented, it was nighttime. The rural landscape was pitch dark. I was not used to not being under the bright city lights. It was a strange reality for me at that moment. The house was older, a lot older. It had a musty smell from the dingy carpets in the living room. The house tilted to one side and this was probably one of the least of the things I disliked about this house. The laundry room off to the side of the kitchen, had unfinished wooden stairs that lead down to a clay rock floor. When it rained, the floor would get wet, and the room would smell like old mildew. It was also not connected to any form of central heat or air. So, when it was cold outside, the room was cold. The same could be said when it was hot outside (This room will be relevant later in the story.)
The bedrooms were upstairs. But to get up to them, you had to first duck under the doorway that preceded the slanted wooden stairwell. The floors creaked as you walked over them to get to my bedroom located at the end of the hallway. The room was small. It had only one window. That overlooked the front of the street. I liked that. I could sit there and imagine being in one of the cars driving away from my current situation. I spent that next week unpacking my room. (I was allowed to have all of my stuff back.) I found that one of the wooden planks from the hardwood floors was removable. When I lifted it, there was a small space underneath where I could hide some small things. This excited me greatly. Because now I knew that I could be free to write in my diary again. And feel like I could express myself without fear of my mother and her husband reading it. I would be able to hide my diary underneath the plank in the floor so that they wouldn’t find it. I could then hide the loose plank underneath a Mexican ceramic hacienda cookie jar that I used as decoration. (They never found or knew about that lose spot in the floor.)
The August before school started, I got my first job. It was at Wendy’s. And I was almost 15yrs old. I was so excited, that I was finally going to be able to make my own money. I could then buy all of the “in-style” things that I wanted. (My mom would only purchase my brother and I the essentials. One pair of tennis shoes. Five pairs of pants and five shirts. That I would rotate each week, to not look as if I had always worn the same thing. And, on top of that, those things came from K Mart or Walmart. Which then ensued the kids to make fun of me for wearing the same clothes that were also not “in-style.” I would work for most of the day each Saturday and Sunday, to not have to be around my mom and stepdad. And to feel like I had some freedom.
At the end of the month, it was time to start my new school. I went to Olmsted Falls High. It was a beautiful school with the majority of the kids being white. Who were very well off. I hated being at this school. For no other reason than I did not want to be there. And because of my racist white stepfather, I disliked the white kids at the school. I felt out of place. And that I did not fit in with these privileged kids. I wanted so bad to be back in Cleveland with my friends. I missed them. Which only made my hatred for that school stronger. As time went on, I became friends with some girls who were also not from Olmsted Falls and were minorities like myself. We had a common bond of hating the school and the privileged kids who went there. We were all in different grades, so we only saw each other in the halls and at lunchtime. When we would get together, we would complain about how much we hated the school. And how we wanted to be back at our old schools. I put in zero effort while I was at that school. I did not care about my mom. Her husband. This town. This school. These kids. My grades. Or even my life. I just wished I was 18 and able to move out and be on my own.
Things at home were still very controlled for me. Each day my brother and I had to swap out the chores we were to complete. For example, if I had to clean the kitchen and the dining room, he had to clean the living room and the bathroom. Then the next day, we swapped. He cleaned the kitchen and the dining room. I then cleaned the living room and the bathroom. Which was fine, but my stepfather each night would put on a glove and inspect the rooms. We were not allowed to go to sleep. (On a school night, with homework and all) Until all of those rooms were cleaned, according to his liking. If there was a speck of dust or dirt anywhere, we had to clean the WHOLE room back over again. And then on garbage day, it was my job to clean out the refrigerator of all the old uneaten food from the week. On one particular winter morning, before school. I went downstairs to throw out the old food from the refrigerator. The garbage can was in the nasty laundry room off of the kitchen. I would have to walk from the fridge to the laundry room door. Open the door. Walk down the stairs. Over the nasty floor to the garbage can to throw out the old food. On this one particular morning. Inside the fridge. There was this plastic bowl of canned corn, that contained water and solidified butter. I took the bowl to the trash and dumped it out. Then, I proceed to head towards my room so that I can go and get ready for school. My stepfather stopped me in the living room to tell me to go and get my only pair of shoes out of the garbage can. I turned to my mother, and say my shoes were upstairs in my room. She replied softly to me just go and get your shoes. (There was a rule. We weren’t allowed to leave our shoes downstairs. And I had apparently left my shoes downstairs the night before.) I turn back towards the cold laundry room to look for my shoes. And when I got to the garbage can, I lifted the lid, and with my bare hand, I moved around the corn I had just dumped out to find my shoes covered in the wet and watered-down corn. I completely lost it. I start yelling. I hate this bleeping house! You are NOT my father! I hate you! I wish you were dead! He hears me yelling out. He stomps towards me as he is hollering out profanities, proceeds to grab me, and as I try to fight back. He takes my arms and puts them behind my back as he pushed me face-first up against the backdoor. I am screaming and yelling to Let me go! Let me go! My mother, then comes into the kitchen and tells him to let me go.
I ended up going to school that day with dirty, wet, cold shoes. (It was wintertime in Ohio. Which meant we had plenty of nasty, slushy, cold snow to walk in.) I remember being at school sitting in class that day feeling defeated. And wondering, how could my mom let him do this to me?! You would think that I would not have been surprised by this after everything. But I was. And per usual, this would not be the last time she would not protect me from him….
Just Being Dee 