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My father awakened me from a deep sleep and told me to come into the living room. I was only 5 years old,
“We thought you should see this,” my mother said as she waved me in from her armchair, motioning for me to take a seat on the C-shaped sofa, upholstered dark green flecked with red and gold. I sank into the thick feather cushion and turned my eyes where theirs were fixed.
The 15-inch black-and-white television that sat on the baby grand was tuned to Playhouse 90. A crippled boy limped across the screen on his crutch, helping his mother in their barn. He sang in a high reedy voice and his mother sang back. Some visitors came who looked like kings in robes and turbans. They sang of secret gifts hidden in the boxes they carried. I have never forgotten the words: “This is my box, this is my box, I never travel without my box...” When they revealed what was inside, I was baffled. What 5-year-old Jewish girl knows about frankincense and myrrh?
Sleepy-eyed, I sat through Amahl and the Night Visitors, an opera in English by Gian Carlo Menotti. At the end, the boy, Amahl, leaves his mother to go off with the three wise men to follow the star to baby Jesus. This is a good thing, it appeared. But back in my bed, I couldn’t stop crying.
“What’s the matter?” my father asked. I couldn’t say. I didn’t know. But I couldn’t stop. It became hysterical sobbing. My father left me to cry it out. Eventually, he came back and gave me a soft potch on my bum to jolt me out of it. The words we use now—spank, slap, hit—have a meaner feel, and somehow I knew he didn’t want to hurt me. Still, I sobbed. Later, he got me up and had me sit in the reading chair in my parents’ room while they slept.
What upset me so much was that Amahl abandoned his mother. Left her alone on the farm with no one to take care of her, no company. What startled me was the spank.
Prompt: Write about a time you were spanked, slapped, or hugged as a child.
Copyright © 2020 by Laura Deutsch.
