Pretty Boys Don't Cry: Chapter 3

UNSAFE SPACES

Reader advisory: The following episode contains descriptions that may not be suitable for younger readers, including discussions of physical abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Story written by Carlos Anthony

Liz was eighteen, pregnant and in prison. She was only there for a few days, but it felt like forever. It was over a week since we’d been together. Once we reconnected, it was hours before we answered our phones or got back in touch with the world. Our emotions could only be expressed with passion. 

After we climaxed, she got up and brought the pregnancy test that she’d been hiding. Her eyes were full of hope and joy. As she held the test behind her back she asked, "Guess who’s gonna be a daddy?" 

I responded by embracing her. We saw this as an opportunity to be better than our parents. I could break the cycle that had haunted my family for generations and prioritize my child's well-being over my own.

Although our childhood traumas were similar, our experiences were different. My intuition was stripped from me at six, but the abuse took place before then. My parents' resentment for me came from me being an inconvenience. 

It started when my mother was being sponsored to come into the country. My grandfather had been living in Canada since my mother was three years old. She never knew him, but the idea of reconnecting with him would make up for the time they lost, and it would give her another opportunity to have a better relationship with her father.  She kept her pregnancy a secret for fear of grandpa reneging on his offer. After consulting with her sisters, who knew him better, she decided to get an abortion.

The doctor told her it was too late for feticide. I was a mistake that she couldn't correct, and the consequences would result in her persecution from my grandfather once he found out about her pregnancy. But when he did, it was too late; she was already in the country. 

He psychologically abused her and kicked her out of his home while she was pregnant with me. Luckily, her sister's friend had a spare room. Mom worked multiple jobs when I was born and travelled across town to pick me up and drop me off. 

While my mother was hustling to provide in Canada, my father was down south selling drugs and hustling to provide for his family. But that isn't all he was doing. My father's first love wasn't my mother. He never got over his first love and in my mother's absence, he was sleeping with his ex. 

He confessed to my mother. She forgave him. They got married and started the paperwork for my father to migrate to Canada. I stayed with him for two years to make up for the time we missed together. 

My father's ex, who he was still sexual with, was sleeping around and got AIDS. She passed on the virus to him and when he told my mother, her world felt like it was collapsing. She was already in a relationship with my step-father, who she met at a party, and we all had to get tested. 

Read Chapter 2 of Pretty Boys Don’t Cry

The resentment from his actions continued to build and I became more of a liability when my step-father committed to raising me. It wasn't because he and I had any connection; it was only for my mother.

My father was too far away to protect me from the resentment they would take out on me. The injuries I received at four were too suspicious for me to go to the hospital. The wounds that needed stitches would be done at home. The cast for my hand looked like pizza dough until it hardened up. Clothes hid my bruises. The cuts on my face were covered in bandaids that left scars and the psychological abuse would replace the physical abuse when we were in public. 

It only got worse as my brothers were born. My step-father's mother would move in with us to help raise what eventually grew to be four kids. It was another abusive hand that beat me like a runaway slave. She would ask me to go outside and pick a branch. That’s only if she had the patience to wait. Most of the time, no object was discriminated against when it came to disciplining me. The harder I cried, the longer the beatings would go on until I got used to them. 

I preferred physical abuse over psychological abuse. The words stayed on repeat like my favourite sad song. I thought I had to be the problem, but it was like it didn't matter what I did or how good I was or if I wasn't listening; I was getting beat for any and everything. 

Sleepovers at my cousin's house were my breaks from agony until my brother dropped the head of a garden hose on my step-grandmother's foot that sent her to the hospital. The stitches on her feet and old age slowed her down from abusing me. Arthritis in her bones got worse with age and the cold winters. She moved back to Guyana; the island weather would allow her to live out the rest of her days more comfortably.  

My brothers and I wrestled a lot when we were growing up. We tried out the moves of the wrestlers we saw on TV and hurt each other while pinning 1,2,3 for the victory. My step-father beat me extra hard because he expected me to know better. He reminded me that they were special and I wasn't when he told me not to hit "his children" or the consequences would be critical for me. To keep me in line, he threatened my life or threatened to call the police on me. 

Watching Cops, the Rodney King tape and the TV show OZ traumatized me. There were no safe spaces. 

One day my younger brother impaled the mattress with a knife while I was lying down on it. I happened to be getting up before feeling the scrape of the blade against my back. He intended to harm me. My step-father wasn't home for me to complain to; although it wouldn't have made a difference because I didn't matter to him. Not the way his sons did. My younger brother was doing him a favour by attempting to take my life. It would have been one less mouth to feed.

When I approached my mother to explain to her what happened, she was on the phone gossiping and shooed me away with her hand. Hours later, she finally came off the phone and paid attention to me. When I told her what happened, she disregarded it by saying I'm overreacting and sent me outside.  

Sitting on the deck of my backyard, I wanted to cry. I wanted to be adopted. I felt if I were being treated this way by strangers, it would hurt less. I wanted the life Annie had when she got adopted by Daddy Warbucks. 

There was no justice for me, but I would get a break from my family when I was in school. I was the shy, token Black boy in a catholic school who didn’t dare talk to girls because I didn't know what to say. 

It wasn't until the seventh grade that I had my first girlfriend. I was pressured into it by friends. Her name was Veronica. I wasn't attracted to her, but wanting to be accepted by my peers, I gave in and became her boyfriend. 

I didn't know how to treat women. My step-father was physically abusive with my mother initially, but when she threatened to call the cops, he switched to psychological abuse and insulted her about her weight. I saw how sad it made my mother feel and told myself I would be different from him. Whatever advice I didn't get from my older womanizing cousins, I took what I observed from pop icons such as Zack Morris and Will Smith. 

Desperate to hold a conversation with Veronica, I filled the awkward silence with compliments. I tried to avoid having her dump me by telling her I loved her even though I didn't. I didn't want to lose someone who cared about me. I never knew what love was because I didn't have any examples at home. My parents weren't affectionate towards my brothers or me. We weren't told I love you. We were judged by our physical appearance and how my parents thought it made them look to other people in our community. 

Read Chapter 1 of Pretty Boys Don’t Cry

We were like trophies. They dressed us up and bragged about our achievements to their peers and family in public, but they wanted us to stay out of their way in private. Any signs of affection or love were simply for show. None of it was authentic. 

Veronica would compliment me by telling me how hot I was. She was my first kiss. We held hands and kissed in corners to keep the teachers from catching us. She wanted alone time, but my parents would never let me go to her house. I used my parents as an excuse when explaining to my friends how I missed my blowjob opportunity. The truth was everything I did with Veronica was forced. My classmates were teasing me about being gay because I was sensitive, polite and a gentleman.  

Our relationship was boring outside of kissing and eventually, the words I love you didn't mean anything to her. She dumped me. When I asked my friend Rosa why Veronica left me, she said I complimented her too much and girls don't want to be put on a pedestal. The attention I was no longer getting from Veronica made me lonely. I wanted a new girlfriend. 

In an effort to feel more secure, I wanted a new look. I spent the summer playing basketball and lifting weights to prepare for a better year. I idolized Allen Iverson and wanted to look like him, so I started growing my hair. Girls started finding me more attractive. Then I used the feedback I got from my last relationship to improve my game. But it wasn’t enough.  

According to Rosa, I wasn't Black enough. When she said I was white-washed, whatever was left of my self-esteem shattered that day.  

I didn't look or act like the stereotype. Slang wasn't part of my vocabulary and I never adapted the patois dialect from my parents. Whenever I tried, they discouraged me and reminded me that I was Canadian. I was the Black sheep of my household and the token Black boy in elementary school; unaccepted no matter where I was. I compensated for not being Black enough by wearing oversized clothes, jewelry and bandanas. 

My mother brought my brothers and me over to her sisters. She was weaving her hair. I wasn't over what Rosa said. I needed someone to blame for why I was the way I was, so I blamed my family. Since they were constantly criticizing my Blackness, I would rebuttal with insults about them being welfare cases that spent their time gossiping overworking. I used the gossip I overheard my mother talking in the kitchen against them, and cut them down the way they cut me down. 

I told them that as soon as I was old enough to live on my own, I would leave and never come back.

At seventeen, Liz was my way out, and I found myself being noble, leaving my mother's house to take care of her. Our baby being on the way meant I needed to get my shit together. I thought taking care of my family with Liz instead of living up to my potential by going to school was noble. I found a job that promised to pay between five hundred and twenty-five hundred dollars a week. 

It was door-to-door sales. I was stepping out of my comfort zone and taking a leap of faith with this new opportunity. It didn't take long for me to start making thousands of dollars a week, but it required long hours. 

During my absences, Liz found comfort talking to her ex-boyfriends. I was so focused on hitting as many houses as I could that I wouldn't eat until I hit my goal. My discipline for work distracted me from my emotional obligations to Liz. The pregnancy had made her hormonal, she was miserable, and we weren't connecting the way we used to.

As time progressed, Liz and I drifted apart. When my daughter was born, I quit my job and started working in retail. I thought me being home more would bring us closer together. She was going through postpartum, but I didn't know it at the time. 

I thought after she had healed from the birth of our daughter, we would start having sex again. 

Liz wasn't adapting to being a new mother well. I had used what I learned from raising my brothers and applied it to raising our daughter. In hopes of getting our sex life back, I took on the chores of the house as part of my responsibility, but it didn't change anything. The complaints just switched to my daughter. I encouraged Liz to go out with her friends after I came home from work in hopes that being around other people her age would reduce her feelings of loneliness. 

I felt like a single father, and since none of my friends had kids, I felt alone. As Liz lost more of the pregnancy weight, her confidence was up and combined with the breaks I was giving her from her responsibilities at home, we started having sex again. It wasn't the way it used to be, but it was better than nothing. 

One day, Liz came back home a couple of hours before I had work the next day. When I confronted her, she became defensive. She blew me off and went to shower, leaving her phone unattended. I went through her phone and saw messages between her and her ex. The time I was giving her away from the baby was being spent between the sheets of another man.