I know I should blame my mother but I don’t – not after what happened to her. She truly atoned for her mistakes. Being a single parent is hard, living in poverty is hard.
My brother Jacob and I were only year apart, me being the older.
I had to take care of him pretty much alone, when I was barely able to take care of myself. Our father was gone and Mommy’s boyfriend, Frank – the only one that didn’t hit us – had died in a freaky accident. We had no other relatives, at least none willing to help, and she couldn’t afford a nanny; hell, she could barely afford food and thrift store clothes for us.
“Mommy is so tired”, she’d repeat, kissing my forehead before she locked herself in her bedroom, while Jacob cried. “I’m sorry, Stella. I’m so sorry”.
I was the one that had to handle him, even if I was afraid of the dark too.
I wonder now if we would be better off in foster care, but I know awful stories about that. At least I know she loved us – she never mistreated us or hit us, and she always got rid of her boyfriends when they were mean to us, even if their lazy asses helped pay the bills; only people who lived in poverty know how little choice economically vulnerable women have when it comes to their relationships, because their income usually is not enough to house and feed their children.
I had my first period at only 10. I came home crying, confused about what had happened. I knew nothing about pads, cramps, or blood coming out of your secret parts.
Jacob was really worried about me. I took a bath and we both sat in silence until Mommy came home; back then, calling her wasn’t an option.
By the time she arrived, I was bleeding on my clothes again. It was so late and I was so hungry, but I was afraid of moving and suddenly dying.
“What happened here, Stella?” she asked in a severe tone.
“I started bleeding out of nowhere today. Am I sick?” I got up, showing the huge stain in my beaten-up shorts, and now on our old couch.
“No, darling, just…” she scrapped together a few coins. “Here, go to the grocery store tomorrow and buy something called modess. Ask the cashier lady to help you if you need, ok? Buy some bleach too”.
“Mom, I’m scared” my voice came out more high-pitched than I had intended. I wanted to be a good girl, but I also wanted to feel like I had someone to be there for me for once – just once.
She sighed.
“If Mommy asks if you’re fine, what do you say?”
“I say yes, even if I’m not” I recited, like she taught us many times.
I want to think Mommy just wanted us to be strong, but it was really, really oppressing. I cried myself to sleep, still oblivious to the nature of my condition.
On the next day, the grocery lady was really, really nice to me. I’ll never forget how much she helped me, and how a complete stranger was the one to explain everything I was going through as a girl and a future woman.
I went home and told Jacob about it while he helped me bleach the sofa.
“That’s so crazy! Will this happen to me too?”
“Of course not, dum-dum. It only happens to girls”, I said, with an air of superiority, even though I had learned all that stuff mere 15 minutes earlier.
It wasn’t easy, but we grew up. Jacob used to be a cheerful kid, but as the years went by, he locked himself in; he even became one of those weird kids that are always wearing a hoodie to cover their faces. Whenever I asked if he was fine, he would drily say yes. I thought it was simply the puberty hitting my little brother the wrong way.
I was simple-minded, and I had so many other things to worry about. I even had to get a part-time job to help Mom.
At school, I did my best not to stand off, so I wasn’t particularly bullied; my class had another target, so I didn’t know what truly suffering in the hands of evil kids was.
Even when I heard younger kids making mean comments about my brother, I was confident Jacob was strong enough not to care about random offenses.
I know he would be, if it was the case.
But it wasn’t.
I wish I knew better.
But I didn’t. And, on a Friday afternoon, I was the one to find him.
At 13, my little beloved Jacob was living through hell at school because of who he was, and he couldn’t take anymore.
He – I don’t know if that would be the right pronoun now – was too feminine.
It was the 90s, and a bad public school. Boys that weren’t traditionally masculine were bullied. Being effeminate was reason enough to be heavily harassed every day. Can you imagine what Jacob had to endure for feeling like he didn’t belong in his male body?
Jacob had been beaten by the boys at school that day, and you could see the purple bruises all over his feeble body. He came home earlier knowing what to do.
They told him to.
They said he was an aberration and he should die.
His goodbye letter to me was the most heart-wrenching thing I ever read. He knew I would accept and understand him, but the pain made it impossible for him to accept himself, and all these years having to pretend everything was fine didn’t allow him to speak up or ask for help.
I knew he was gone from the moment I saw him limp, pale figure, but I still ran to our neighbor’s house to beg for help, and to have someone dial the emergency number. As I did it, I felt the cold breeze in my face, thinking how cold afternoons with a pale sun like these were his favorites. And now my little beloved brother would never see or feel that again.
Or anything at all.
After knowing the pain Jacob was going through, the thought of him never feeling anything again was soothing.
But I still feel like half my mind, soul and body died that day.
People pretended to feel sympathy during the funeral. The school spit the same victim-blaming bullshit every school does when that happens; Jacob should have talked to them. They cared about the students’ well-being. They would never allow bullying, if only they knew.
For a week, all our neighbors wanted to cook for us, to clean our house, to go grocery shopping for us, to help us in general – even the parents of his perpetrators. After that, the community forgot about our existence once again.
While I had other people to relieve me from the household chores, I cried until I felt numb, then stood motionless, then cried again. Sleep came in small waves, always washing ashore bad dreams.
I don’t remember if it was on the third or fourth night that I heard Mom’s horrible scream, but her room was always locked from the inside, so all I could do was listen close to the door.
“Jacob…” she muttered, in shock and fear.
“Hello, Mom. Do you feel alright?”
“Jacob, my love, you know I feel awful–”, she was interrupted by a noise that sounded like a slap.
“Wrong answer. You have to say you’re fine. Remember? Say it. SAY IT”.
“I-I’m fine”.
“I am not, Mom. I am not fine. People told me I’m an aberration and I should die. And you know why I believed them, Mom? You know why I couldn’t deal with the pain they caused, Mom? Because of you. I hate you for forcing us to always tell you everything was fine. Nothing was ever fine. You forced Stella to be my mother when she was a child too. Why did you even check on us if you didn’t want to know that we weren’t fine? Answer me, Mom. I’m talking to you. We’re talking. Do you know this is the first time? I had to die to actually talk to you for once”.
“I… I am so sorry, Jacob. I love you so much, so much” she cried.
“That’s not what I asked. It’s a little too late now”.
“I… I thought I had to. To ask. Even if I couldn’t handle to hear anything else, to hear your problems. I’m sorry for being bad for you. I’m so sorry. I had so many problems of my own I didn’t have time for yours. I’m so sorry”.
On the next morning, Mom had a few bruises covering her body. This would be a constant sight for months.
When I had to go back to school, I noticed five boys from Jacob’s class were completely covered in purple, greenish and black bruises. They apparently weren’t so sorry.
As I passed them on the hall, I couldn’t resist the urge to ask if they were fine. As I suspected, they had learned a new lesson on the last few nights: they said yes. Even if they were not.