The Scars

The Scars I fell off the porch when I was one year old and had to get stitches in my head. Uncle Bobby was supposed to be looking after me, but he was taking a nap on Grandma’s bed. I remember falling off that porch in 1948, even though I was only one. I remember flying through the air on that beautiful summer day, landing on my head, and all the blood. I never felt anything bad about Uncle Bobby, even though he did leave me unattended. He was just really young at that time – so handsome and full of love. And besides, the scars I have on my forehead now, and the memory of that day, are things I brought with me from 1948 – like cherished photographs that one keeps in a shoebox to remind him of times long past, or to help him separate reality from imagination and dreams. They remind me of a time that was real, not imagined – when I was living at Grandma’s house, Uncle Bobby was home on leave from the Air Force, and I was unreservedly happy. Sometimes I’ve forgotten I ever was happy, what with all that’s happened since, so I’m glad I have the scars to remind me. How I Got My Stutter He hit me on the bottom with his hand at the picnic because I couldn’t say Mother. That’s how some southern men in 1949 corrected two-year-olds. And so he told me Say mother, but all I could say was Munner, so he hit me again. This went on all afternoon while my mother looked on, or looked away, and said nothing. That night they took me back home to grandma’s house, then left to resume their weekday lives. I was sick for several days after that – delirious, black and blue. Grandma took care of me, but said nothing to anyone about what happened. My mother married that man in 1950. He adopted me. They took me to live with them. They refused to let me see my grandmother for several years after that because every time I did I cried and begged to go home with her.