I carried the plastic sword as we walked along Central Avenue. Mom held my left hand and I gripped the handle with my right, swinging and slashing at overgrown weeds.
The sword was a toy replica of He-Man’s, the hero of the ‘80s cartoon show He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. He-Man was mighty. A barbarian. A cosmic superhero who fought the forces of evil led by Skeletor, a bulky dude with a skull for a head. In the show, He-Man had an alter-ego named Prince Adam who always wore a pink top, purple tights with purple undies over them, and purple boots. He was a bit of a dandy. With a clashing ensemble, as well. But his dandy-ness was a facade. When shit went down and evil stirred up, Prince Adam would pull a sword from his back, hold it over his head, and shout, “By the power of Grayskull, IIIIIII haaaaaave the powwwwerrrrrrr!” He’d then transform into He-Man. The heroic. The “most powerful man in the universe.” The man a boy like me wanted to be.
He-Man looked exactly like Prince Adam, but with different clothes. He wore furry undies and was shirtless, save for a weird armor thing on his chest. It was a real Clark Kent-esque nerdy-human-to-muscular-hero-type transition. I suppose if he looked too different, kids might get confused? I’m not sure. When I played, I would hold the plastic weapon over my head, mightily bellow the show’s famous catchphrase, and imagine myself transforming into He-Man. A strong version of myself. A defeater of evil. A master of the universe.
We were walking to St. Mary’s Church. It was about 2 miles from our house. St. Mary’s was one of the places mom went when dad got violent. I’d be playing with action figures in my room. Ones like the aforementioned He-Man, as well as Thundercats, Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Sometimes G.I. Joe too. These characters never shared adventures except in my room. There, Ninja Turtle Leonardo could partner with Thundercat Lion-O to take on Beast Man from Masters of the Universe and Megatron from Transformers. It was a jumble of ideas, inspirations, creativity, and storytelling. And safety. It was safe to play alone in my room.
But that peaceful, playful screen would come down when I heard the screams. And the smashes. And the bangs. And the crashes. And the fighting.
He would scream.
She would scream.
He would throw something.
She would scream again.
But her screams would change. They’d shift. From seething rage to abject terror.
And there would be a moment of silence.
Stillness.
And she would slam through my bedroom door, grab me by the hand, and with a red face and teary eyes, take me away. Away from the chaos. Away from the violence.
Sometimes we’d drive. We’d go to church, or McDonald’s, or the beach, or we’d simply drive around. On highways. Around town. Going nowhere. Going anywhere. Anywhere but the place where the violence lived. Anywhere but our home.
Mom would lean slightly forward, gripping the wheel and sobbing. Sobbing and muttering things. Things about him. Things I never fully understood. But I would look on. I’d watch her drive. I’d watch her drive and wonder why she was so sad. Something in my kid-brain didn’t connect the dots. I didn’t know he hit her. I didn’t know what abuse was. I suppose I thought adults fought because that’s what adults did. And when they did, it was normal for them to scream and cry and smash plates and tear the kitchen phone from the wall and knock over the fridge. I suppose I thought that was simply part of being a grown-up. I didn’t understand that my dad hurt my mom. I didn’t understand any of it.
I just played in my room.
Alone.
Safe.
Protected by the masters of the universe. Protected by my imagination.
In many ways I was safe. From him. He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream at me. He didn’t rage at me. He saved it for them. For mom and my sisters. I honestly don’t know if my being a boy saved me from the violence, but it seemed that way. He told me I was the prince. “Prince of the castle,” he’d say. I was his boy. His boy who played little league, watched action movies, and joined the Weeblos. But I was also the boy who was creative. Who told stories. Who lived in distant worlds. Who dreamed. I was a boy who never felt comfortable around his father. A boy who didn’t understand why that was. But I was uncomfortable around him. I was frightened of him. Uneasy around him. Wary of him.
On this particular day we were on foot. That would happen from time to time. We’d walk. Maybe the car was in the shop. Maybe mom had to get out so urgently that she wasn’t able to grab the keys. Or maybe he wouldn’t let her drive. Maybe he wouldn’t let her take the car. If she reached for the keys he’d crack her across the face. His way of controlling her. His way of keeping her prisoner. His way of dominating.
So we walked.
Along the road with overgrown weeds that I attacked with my plastic sword.
I don’t know why I brought the sword with me.
Maybe I brought it so I’d have something to do at church. Church was boring, after all. Or maybe I brought it to comfort myself like a security blanket. Or maybe I brought it to protect us on our journey. Maybe I brought it to protect us from the home we had to flee. To protect my mother from a man I could never protect her from in real life.
When we got to church we’d sit in the pew. We’d usually get there during an off-hour so there’d be no mass, and we’d be the only ones there. The place smelled of incense and wood polish. It was strange, but it was quiet. And it wasn’t violent.
For her it was safe. It was free from the things that terrified her. Free from the things that hurt her. From the man that hurt her. For her, church was like my bedroom.
She would stare at the altar and at Jesus hanging on the cross. And she would think. She would cry. She would pray. Pray to be filled with strength. Pray for something bigger and more meaningful. Something to bring her power. Something to make sense of it all.
And I would lay on the pew. I’d swing my sword, imagining scenes of space-faring action in which I battle Skeletor and his villainous cronies. Scenes in which I was strong. In which I could protect those who needed protection. Scenes in which I was on a mission to achieve something bigger. To do something meaningful. To defeat evil, right wrongs, and make sense of it all.
Together, my mother and I prayed, in our own ways, to have the power to be masters of our universes.
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