Things my mother never taught me. Part I

September 17, 2009 – 12:19 pm   |   Chicken Scratch

Throw up in the toilet. After devouring all my Christmas candy in an hour, I woke up later that night clutching my stomach. I was just six years old at the time. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I was compelled to run to the bathroom and let it happen there. My mother should be proud. Really. Instinct does not drive a child as dumb as I was to the bathroom. At least I had some sense.  I could have just thrown up on my bedroom floor, but I vomited in the bathroom sink. Well, I aimed for the sink anyway.

Throwing up for the first time is like having sex for the first time. It’s something you never forget, as you stand there listless, your mouth wide open while your brain overheats trying to categorize the experience, “Do I like this? I don’t know. What is that foul smell?” I was so relieved when it ended, and I wanted nothing more than to run as quickly as possible from the scene of the crime. Instead I ran into my mother, who stood in the bathroom doorway with a roll of paper towels. I thought she was going to slap me and then make me scrub the walls, like she did when she caught me drawing on my bedroom wall with crayons.  But she just looked at me curiously and asked, “Why didn’t you throw up in the toilet?”

Justice isn’t blind. It’s a Jewish woman from Brooklyn. My brother springs like a jack-in-the-box from the rocking chair when the doorbell rings. A young blonde boy stands at the front door, rubbing one foot on the plastic grass-like carpet that covers the porch. He’s pale and scrawny. His white shirt is smeared with dirt and hangs from his neck like a wet rag on a hook. He’s looks the same age as my 11-year-old  brother, maybe a year younger. I  peek out from behind Jason’s back to see another boy, a black boy in a bright yellow t-shirt, standing on the flagstone sidewalk that separates our yard from the street. He’s crossing his arms and tapping his foot. “C’mon,” he hollers.

“Can you help me?” the boy on the porch asks as he points to the boy on the sidewalk. “He’s going to beat me up.”

“Really?” my brother inquires.

“Really.”

My mom pulls her long brown hair into a ponytail as she approaches the door. My brother points to the two boys, who are both now standing side by side on the porch. “He’s going to beat him up,” Jason explains. My mother examines the two boys and asks what the trouble is about.

“Why are you going to beat him up?”

“He called me a nigger,” the black boy explains.

“Oh,” she replies, “kick his ass.”