The Chicken Incident and Working Towards Forgiveness

Over a period of several pre-teen years, my parents separated, got back together, separated, and ultimately divorced. It was confusing for me. I never saw my parents argue, and in my 9-12 year old brain, I thought that was a prerequisite for divorce. They weren’t together in my presence often, so I didn’t see them really interact together very much at all. My house was generally calm. There was no yelling. It was usually just me and my mom. When my father was home, he was often drunk or on his way there. His brand of drunkard was quiet, weepy, contemplative. 

Fast forward a few years and past a multitude of violent, traumatic experiences, I found myself smack dab in the middle of another volatile exchange between my father and his second wife. Also an alcoholic but the rageful, abusive kind. All of 5 foot 1 and barely a hundred pounds, she terrified me. This particular fight was not that remarkable from the start. I was in my bedroom in their house, upstairs, hiding in my closet. (I always made sure my wireless house-line phone was charged, and I always brought it into the closet with me in case I needed to call 911. I locked every door I could between me and her. If I got lucky, I would hide in the Jack-and-Jill bathroom I shared with my new step-brother. This was an ideal hiding spot because there were more layers of doors and locks which also provided noise protection so I heard less of the turmoil swirling downstairs.) But, this time I was in the closet as I found the bathroom door already locked when I tried to hide there. He got there first.

After going as far back into the closet as I could, putting as many things in front of me and on top of myself as I could, I waited. Like waiting for a tornado to pass by, praying you come out unscathed. Only the sound of my heart beating, my breathing. Waiting. Listening. Waiting. Sometimes I stayed in there for hours until I felt it was safe to come out. That day, I heard my father yell up the stairs for me. He yelled my name, told me to come down, and that we were leaving.

I threw on some shoes and scurried down the curved, slippery, wooden staircase. As I rounded the corner towards the kitchen, I saw my father’s back walk through the kitchen, past the island, and disappear beyond the door of the dark laundry room and into the garage. He was going to the car, and I was meant to join him. However, standing between my temporary safety and freedom - was her.

It was dinner time. There was a piping hot glass dish of sizzling baked barbecue chicken just out of the oven resting on the island countertop. She was on the far side of the island from me, following my father out the door. When she heard me enter the kitchen behind her, she swirled around, that same old rage in her eyes. She yelled and screamed obscenities at me while I tried to find a way around the island and past her. A terrible game of cat and mouse we played for a minute. I’d go this way. She’d go this way. I’d go the other way. She’d go the other way, blocking my escape each time.

In this moment of blind rage, she looked at the bubbling dish of chicken on the island. With her bare hands, she grabbed the dish, and shoved it as hard as she could in my direction. It slid off the trivet, across the island, and flew off counter. It landed on the floor in front of me. Glass shattered and flew into the air and skidded across the tile floor. Dark, thick barbecue sauce splattered everywhere, including onto my shoes and up my legs. It looked like blood.

Immediately after she shoved the dish, she drew back her hands, gasping and wincing as her skin burned. This was my opportunity. As soon as the glass and the sauce settled, I ran.

I made it to the car. My dad was already inside with it in reverse. He asked if I was okay, and I told him to just go. As he started to back out, she came into the garage. Words can’t accurately capture the look on her face. Red, hot, fury, demon. She cursed and told him he better not leave. He started backing the car out. She looked around the garage, saw the coiled garden hose at her feet, grabbed it, and started to beat the car with the end of it. Over and over and over and over as he backed out as fast as he could but not nearly fast enough. A hellhound with her serpent weapon.

This is just one of countless moments I experienced in my teen years. He went back, which meant I had to go back, too. Subjected to the poor and unsafe decisions of the people who were supposed to be my safe grownups, it was years before I was old enough and brave enough to say - enough. No more. I’m not going back.

Many, many years have gone by, and my father and I have never talked about this incident or any of the others. So many old wounds remain open, unhealed. For all these years, I’ve waited and wondered if we’re ever going to talk about it. Me not brave enough to start the conversation, him too ashamed. I don’t know if we’ll ever talk about the things to which he subjected me.

Through the years, I thought our lack of communication around that period of time was what prevented me from forgiving him. Slowly, I am coming to realize that I cannot wait around for him to apologize, or ask for absolution. The forgiveness is my gift to give myself, not an honor to bestow upon him. I am still not quite ready to let go and forgive. But, I am now facing that direction, turned towards it, walking inch by inch, working towards forgiveness.