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break free from. I had no idea what a gift it was that at least I knew I wanted out.
    Something my life has taught me is not to see things in black and white. People are neither all good nor all bad. Hurt people can become hurtful, and my father’s own actions reflected this.
    The worst incident I can recall involved Atz Lee and I both one morning as we got ready for school while my dad slept, hungover. As usual we were careful not to wake him for fear of his temper. Atz Lee and I got to fighting, as we often did, but it had to be done silently. Nothing in particular got us going, just some squabble that escalated, and we began to brawl with the mute button on. Kicks and punches and bites delivered in comic quiet. He would push me so hard it would knock me over, but he would break my fall at the last minute, offering me an extended arm, which I’d take so as not to land with a crash. I would bite him, then cover his mouth as we both stopped long enough to ensure he did not scream too vociferously. It was like a silent and brutal ballet, both of us having a go at each other and yet protecting ourselves from our father. This time, however, we woke him. We both froze as we heard his voice erupt like a cannon, calling us up to his room.
    Atz Lee and I went from being mortal enemies to being children unified in fear in the blink of an eye. He was seven, me nine. I remember climbing the wooden stairs, each saying we loved the other as we clung together, arm locked in arm. We reached his door and he was standingnaked but for his underwear, his spine bent with rage. The room was tiny, just enough space for a twin bed against the wall that adjoined ours. We stepped inside, our backs to the window. I remember being vaguely aware of a willow bassinet that lay at our feet. It had been the bassinet that my grandmother carried my father in, made of willow roots. My father began screaming, I don’t care to recall what exactly, and it snowballed from there. I do remember his face being distorted with rage, barking at us like a drill sergeant. I remember veins bulging and a redness that can be achieved only by going genuinely apeshit. He hit my brother upside the face. I was next. It knocked me into the cradle. But I did not cry. I decided to deprive him of that satisfaction. I stood up and stared at him with a smirk on my face. He knocked me down again, incensed, and then dragged me to the bed. The next thing I knew, Atz Lee was there next to me, my dad straddling us both, shaking us, our heads knocking together. He kept yelling, spittle flying in my face. I thought I was going to die.
    I don’t remember leaving his room. I do remember climbing down the stairs weakly, in utter shock. In the absence of sanity, our bodies took over instinctively, and as if on autopilot my brother and I gathered our things to walk to school, my nose still bleeding. We had no idea what to do with ourselves. The episode took long enough that we knew we had missed the bus, and so we walked the eight miles to school, our faces red and stinging. I was in fifth grade, Atz Lee in third. We felt so much older, but must have looked impossibly small with our thumbs stuck out trying to catch a ride, part of us hoping a car would not come for a long while, to give our faces and our crying time to return to normal. And yet another part of us fantasized about everyone seeing what our dad had done to us. That feeling vanished as quickly as the marks did, though, as it does for any animal that senses survival is the enemy you know.
    I remember the day being dreamlike. It was so strange to witness howlife just went on. Kids made jokes, kids laughed as usual. Teachers taught, recess happened, and kids played. It all just seemed like time should have stopped and some protective force in the universe should have risen from the ocean and said, Anoint these children with love! Take a moment not to pity, but to see them so they may know they are deeply worthy of tenderness! This