Trafford Publishing: Don't Hit Me

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Don't Hit Me

by Fontella K

206 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1010; ISBN 1-4120-3183-4; US$19.99, C$25.00, EUR16.25, £11.26

Discover a journey of unbelievable, personal pain, anger, heartache, hurt and resentment- the effects of physical and emotional child abuse then walk with the author as she finds a path of healing, acceptance and self-worth.

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About the Book About the Author Excerpt Catalogue Information

About the Book

Don't Hit Me!! is the story of one woman's struggle to define herself, her life, her identity, her lack of childhood memories and why she feels so different from those around her until she discovers her own physical and emotional child abuse suffered at the hands of her birth family. As vividly portrayed by the dramatic cover, this book describes the effects of seeing her own mother hit repeatedly until one night the author picks up a piece of 2X4 board and attacks her dad with it. Attention is diverted from her mom to her which led to six years of physical and emotional abuse until almost all childhood memories are repressed, only to re-surface at the age of 50. This incredible journey shows us the compelling importance of raising and protecting our children and the effects of not doing so.

About the Author

Fontella K was born and raised in a small, farming community in central Kansas in a town of 2,500 people, which included only ten black families and, of those ten, only three beside her own that had children: one was the minister, one a cousin and one who moved away during fourth grade.
As a 28-year member of the Soka Gakkai International, a lay Buddhist organization for World Peace, she credits that organization and her mentor, President Daisaku Ikeda, with not only saving her life and the life of her second son, but also improving the quality of her life while changing her outlook towards the future to a global perspective. She loves the practice of Buddhism which places strong emphasis on the human heart and mind, the goal of which is to enable all people to build a 'fortress of peace and happiness.'
Her unique personality includes her small town flavor mixed with her love of the city. She now resides in Michigan, the mother of three, grandmother of five with her constant companion, her dog, Lady T.

Excerpt

My Life
There was a time when I thought my dad was the best thing since sliced bread! He was funny, strong enough to pick me up with one hand and could fix anything! Whenever he was home I followed him around and, being naturally curious, I was always asking him questions. I've been told that one day I picked up a little snake and when I went to show it to him, he took out running. So did I. I wasn't really chasing him; I just wanted to show it to him. I didn't know he was afraid of snakes. You can imagine what happened next and, well, I never picked up another snake.
On our farm, we had chickens in a little coop and pigs in a little partially enclosed shelter but our cows were in a field that just had a single wire around it. Of course, I wanted to know what it was, so I asked. My dad told me to touch it. To my surprise, I got a big shock. He laughed! He must have known it wouldn't really hurt me but I didn't. More than it hurting, it scared me and left me afraid of all things electrical. He was supposed to protect me. Why would he tell me to do something that hurt me? That's when I decided I couldn't trust him either.
As a young person, I was headstrong and curious. I grew up at a time when it wasn't safe for people of color to question people in authority. I couldn't make sense of what was happening until years later, when, with the unexpected help of a counselor, I learned of my own child abuse. I was 50 years old. Since that time, I 've tried to learn everything I can about it. There are many kinds of abuse, not always intentional. I don't believe my parents set out to abuse me. Even though the result was the same, their intention was 'for my own good.' In their own way, they were trying to protect me from the times in which we lived.
The 50's and 60's were an unsafe time for blacks. Civil unrest was at an all time high. Segregation was prevalent. Integration was being fought as an end to life as most people knew it. Had my parents been able to tell me the reasons surrounding our limitations and separation in society and the other issues they were dealing with, perhaps they would have not found it necessary to constantly beat me the way they did. Were they beating me because of issues of segregation or to protect me from myself? They only knew the reality of the times, the danger that could come to anyone who 'didn't know their place' or someone like myself, who felt equal to everyone else. They thought they were teaching me life lessons, raising me as they had been raised themselves- spare the rod and spoil the child. Or maybe spare the rod, lose the child.
I have learned that abuse is not just physical and not necessarily sexual. It can be mental, emotional. It can be deadly silence. Silence so loud when you're a child that you don't know what it means and you're afraid of what is getting ready to happen, much like the quiet before a storm. I was in a constant state of anxiety caused by the expectation of danger. I was frequently crippled by fear, sometimes frozen in my tracks, afraid to move. Fear can be a cold sweat, a tightness in your stomach, a nauseous feeling like you're going to throw up. Fear is jumping when something suddenly crawls by your feet or you hear the flapping wings of a bird in the darkness. The cause of fear may be real, may be imagined.
For the first eighteen years of my life, our bathroom was outside and at night, I didn't know if I could walk all the way out to it without incident or whether or not something would attack me on the way. My imagination worked overtime. I remember being paralyzed by the thought of something out there waiting to get me on more than one occasion. One particular night I really needed to use the bathroom, but as I approached the door, I thought I heard something. Listen. What was it? I was very still, waiting to hear it again. I looked out into the blackness, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. What was it? Was it still there? I couldn't see anything. Too much time passed. Before I could convince myself it was alright, that I would be all right, urine started trickling down my legs. I would have been so embarassed if someone had seen me. Fortunately no one did.
My life was so controlled as a child that I became afraid to talk out loud, talking back was out of the question and expressing myself was not encouraged. I was always afraid of getting in trouble. I knew I would get in trouble for saying some of the things I was thinking so I started holding silent conversations- in my head. Even now I sometimes don't know if I have just been thinking or if I spoke out loud. There have been times when I started talking and didn't realize I have stopped until someone lets me know it and, if I stopped, if I finished what I had been talking about. Oh well! Sorry...
Although I liked school, a series of events happened that would forever change that. It began in fourth grade when I invited my class over for my birthday. It was my first and last birthday party during my youth. My classmates learned that we had an outhouse and began to make fun of me unmercifully! At the same time, the only other black student in my class moved out of town. As if that wasn't enough, my best friend came up to me and, although she didn't know why, she told me she wasn't allowed to play with me anymore. She looked at me as if I had grown a tail overnight, turned around and walked away.
Remember we lived on a farm, right? One day my dog got in the chicken coop and killed some chickens. My dad told me to come with him. I didn't see the shotgun. He drove out further into the country where he stopped, got out of the truck, picked up his gun and walked off with my dog. I heard a shot ring out, my dog whimper, then silence. He had killed my dog! His explanation was this: "That's what happens to dogs that kill chickens." I suddenly felt that he might kill me too if I didn't stop challenging him. I had to change my ways! It was at that point that I became totally submissive. I lost my spirit and stopped fighting to be a real person. I was nine years old.
The fifth grade came and something else happened. I had just gotten up to go to the bathroom when we were told to take our seats. I did what I was told and promptly wet myself. I could have died of embarassment! Why didn't I ask to be excused? I couldn't. I had to do what I was told, or so I believed.
Then sixth grade came, and one day, during recess, a fight broke out. Before I knew it, I was getting beat up and everyone was yelling for the other girl to hit me. I couldn't believe my ears. "Hit her." "Hit her again!" What had I done? Why didn't anyone like me? I didn't know how to fight and didn't fight back. I just laid there and let her beat me up. And didn't say a word to my parents.

Catalogue Information