Aladdin’s Lamp~a poem on spanking

I want to preface this piece on spanking to clarify my intentions for the beloved reader. I had a rather good childhood. Spanking was not a daily or even weekly part of my upbringing–BUT–it left its scars and resulted in a great deal of blocked energy. When that energy was tapped, this piece came, like a genie out of a bottle. There’s a lot of talk about the “right way” to use spanking as discipline–and to my beloved father’s credit, he always used it in a disciplined manner–only my body didn’t register the difference.

Kelly Salasin

“The past is an Aladdin’s lamp which (we) never tire of rubbing,” -Phillip Lopate

Sitting in Amy’s Bakery next to a plate smeared with jam and butter,
a half mug of hot cider in hand,
the fog drifting over the river, and yoga in my
bones, I am the only one who jumps when a man drops his umbrella.
No one else even flinches,
and I ask myself:
“What’s up?”

Deep breath, and I hear the hammers banging away at my therapist’s office–yesterday–and the sound of my dad’s footsteps coming up the stairs–a lifetime ago:
belt snapping
heart seizing
muscles tightening across my back and chest

i cower in the corner of my bed in a pathetic display of humanity

my spine is filled with rage
a voice rises from the bottom of my lungs
GET AWAY FROM ME!

but that is now;
and then, i only plead,
“No, Daddy, no!”
as I cover my thigh with my hand,
and scramble to fit even further into the corner
till my spine burns itself into the wall
and still,
i don’t disappear

My Daddy towers over me,
slapping my thigh with his belt,
once, twice, three times
and i am subdued

He has won
i am silenced
scum
a dog
kicked across a floor

Left with my shame and my fury
some day
Some day!

Some day, i will escape this tiny body, this whimpering tone, and rise above him, like an evil genie out of a bottle,
green and black
terrifying
overbearing
booming with power and threat
and he will be vanquished
turned to dust

until then, i try
to speak up again and again
to fight his injustice
even though i know it always end the same

Until
the fall
of my freshman year
at college
home for the weekend
playing the white baby grand in the parlor
the theme song from “Endless Love“

He calls to me from his room above,
“Kelly Ann, Time for bed,”
My back bristles and hardens

“Kelly Ann, Did you hear me, it’s time for bed,”

But I want to finish this song
so I ignore his calls
with the hope he’ll think I can’t hear him over
the pounding of the keys

“KELLY ANN!” his voice booms louder

Deep Breath
My fingers continue moving
I am almost 18 for god sakes!
I no longer need to be told to go to bed

I no longer want to swallow

this absurd authority

My fingers quicken
releasing consequence
pretending not to hear
him scream my name
pretending he doesn’t exist
doesn’t matter
pretending I am my own authority
that I don’t hear his footsteps
as He comes
down
the stairs
for me
turning the corner
entering the doorway
stopping there
arms bent at hips
exuding all six foot four of his power
over my five feet and two inches

But as I turn from the keys to look at him,
my power
is Burning
just as strong

“If you want to see what happens then you can just keep on playing,”
he says, childishly,
exposing his hand

and with a deep breath, I throw down all my cards
rubbing the lamp of my resistance for luck
taunting his authority, the lifetime of its subjugation
repeating in my best mocking tone,
“And if you want to see what happens you can just keep on playing..”

With that
there is
silence
A moment
A stalemate
Until
He strides across the room
in just two steps, three

where I stand to meet him
to defend myself
but i am not the genie
i am just me
and i am half his size

He strikes
and i fall to the floor

i stand again
i speak
i don’t care how big he his
i don’t care that he’ll hit me
i’ve had it!

He swings again
swiping my cheek, my eye,
i fall
only to life myself up once more

There are hot words as we move away from the piano
toward the couch
toward the marble table
He hits me a third time
and leaves me there on the floor
i do not cry

I have won
or have i?

He has never hit me
like this before
not like a wife
it has always been
subordinate
splayed out over his lap
pants down, age 4, 7, 9
or bed shirt lifted up the thigh, age 10,11, 12

but this is a newer form of violence
and i am appalled
shocked
my face bruised
my eye swelling

i go toward the kitchen for ice
for a drink of water
for my keys

my mother comes
i await her compassion
but instead
without looking at me
she scolds,
“You shouldn’t talk to your father that way,“

she stands there cloaked in her robe
in her fear
in her inability to feel what has transpired
in this dark kitchen where we have laughed and confided and cooked his meals together

i am stunned
and disgusted
and sad

he has hit her too
“only once or twice when she couldn’t get control of herself“

i leave
i drive the empty nighttime blocks from pacific to palm
to my boyfriend’s house
but it is dark
everyone is sleeping
he is out

i lie down on the sectional by the window
and wait
looking out at the street lights
touching my cheek, my eye
until he arrives

He offers to go after my father
to defend me
i laugh
he is not much bigger than me
and it is too late
it is done
and i have numbed my pain
both inside and out
swallowed it whole
alone

My father often remarks
that one of us will move out
before i turn 18, adding, “and it ain’t gonna be me,”

Didn’t his mother say the same to him?
in the same room of the same house?

But it is he, who moves out, again,
when my mother takes a lover
the same age as my boyfriend
his best buddy in fact

She thinks she’ll escape her frozen life
until she realizes
it’s her soul that needs to thaw

I escape myself
to college
and when even that is not far enough
when my sisters still call
crying to say,
“Mom is laying on the lawn drunk,”
or
“There is blood all over the car and the window is smashed,”
or
“Dad has called us awful names, shouted horrible things about her,”
or
“He is threatening to send us back if we don’t behave,”

I open the doors onto Overbrook Avenue
and let out a scream
before returning to my studies,
finally putting an Ocean between us
with a semester in London
so far away, that no one calls,
not even to say
that my grandmother has died
that her funeral has already taken place

i am so far away
and alone
that i eagerly anticipate
my father and stepmother-to-be’s visit
They check out of the modest hotel that my dad had me book

and move to the Savoy at Her royal bidding

where my sister orders soup in a silver terrine
she is scolded at the price, and
when they’re out, she uses the tub and wears their thick terry robes
while at night she sleeps on my floor
and i say nothing

at dinner
we fight
my father and i
our hearts and tongues loosened by the succession of wine
that my stepmother orders

in the hope of dulling our memories

we scream about my mother, my sisters, i don’t know what
i leave our velour booth
and stumble into the dark lobby in horrific tears
on this, our last night together

Everything is lost
and i don’t know how to get it back
or even what it is that i want
i am twenty

My father follows after me in quick stride
Comes at me in the empty lobby
Raises his hand
to strike
and

My Genie
finally
appears

I become twice his size, no three times,
and a hiss leaps from my gut,
“NO!
DON’T you touch me!“

He retreats
to the dinner party
tells them
in me
he has seen both
his (dead) mother
and his ex-wife

I fold in half

because

it takes too much to be so strong
too much
to hold so much pain inside

But he will never touch me again
and of this, I am certain.

Kelly Salasin

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