I spent that entire summer reading, playing basketball, and, when she was around, spending time with my sister, Nicole. It was a period of huge intellectual growth for me. I had become fascinated by the Founding Fathers in school, and I wanted to know what thinkers had influenced them and our democracy. So I started reading the great philosophers. At first, I’d hoped that reading modern philosophy would help me develop my own grand philosophical idea. Soon enough, I realized I’d never have an idea half as influential as any of Plato’s, yet I could use his reasoning to strengthen my own.
My father saw it differently. He wanted me to take a break and have fun, and he worried about me when he came home from work and found me sitting in the same place reading where I’d been when he left early that morning. But by then I knew that knowledge was power, and it was the only kind of power I had access to. I was determined no matter what it took to gain as much of it as I could.
When Nicole was around, though, I was happy to take a break from reading and hang out with her. She was only six years old, but she wanted to do everything I was doing. So I told her to pick any topic she was interested in and I’d teach her about it. That summer we covered everything from the three branches of government to how her toys were made. As Papa had taught me, I still stopped reading whenever I found a word I didn’t know, and looked it up. I kept track of these words and used them to make vocabulary lists for Nicole. Together, we would go over these words and others she’d ask me about. We’d use them in sentences and laugh together at the funny way she pronounced words, such as bureaucracy.
When I went back to Michigan to start eighth grade, I was more determined than ever to achieve all that I could. It was a goal that helped me avoid internalizing the painful things my mom said to me. I was driven to succeed in spite of her. With my mom, there was never any room for error. She’d explode over the smallest things, like breaking eye contact or not standing upright as she berated me for hours.
She didn’t care so much about my grades, but I carried that sense of perfectionism to school with me. If it was possible with extra credit to get above 100, then I wanted to earn the highest possible grade. When I fell short, I’d be disappointed. But it wasn’t enough for me just to do well. I wanted to feel that I had earned my achievements, that I was working harder than anyone else. I couldn’t extinguish the fear she instilled in me, so I learned to translate that fear into hard work and vigilance.
That drive and competitive spirit came out on the basketball court more than anywhere. At Roeper, to get onto the high school basketball team, players had to go through something called “Hell Week,” an intense week of grueling physical training. I was only in eighth grade. I didn’t have to go through Hell Week, but I went anyway. It was brutal, but I was proud of myself when the JV coach saw how determined I was and asked me to practice with them. I also enjoyed hearing how excited my dad was when I told him about this. It was always hard to connect with my dad emotionally. He said so little, but sports were one thing we could always talk about.
I went above and beyond academically, too, spending my free period at school talking to teachers and students about a wide array of topics and staying up late into the night reading, studying, and learning as much as I could. I’d always had a difficult relationship with sleep, and it was around this time that I started sleeping less and less. I knew sleep was important for good health, but I also thought too much sleep was a waste of time. Plus, many of the leaders and thinkers I admired often worked late into the night. As I saw it, I could accomplish more, learn more, and do more if I spent less time sleeping. While that’s all true, I was often encouraged—by teachers and family—to get more sleep.
Every so often, my mom went through a good period during which she regained faith in her therapist and seemed to be taking her meds. She’d sit me down and tell me, “Mommy’s going to get better, Zach.” Over the next few weeks she’d go to therapy consistently, and then she’d stop. It was during one of these periods that she started to become concerned about my perfectionism, as she called it, and the little amount of sleep I was getting. She arranged for me to meet with Reanne Young, the psychological consultant at Roeper. My first meeting with Reanne was brief and pleasant. We talked about my goals and ambitions, and she told me to reach out if I ever felt like talking more.
I liked Reanne right away. She was Asian but had grown up in a black community. She was cool, and she really seemed to understand the world I came from. Of course, there was a big part of me that wanted to tell her more—about the constant invasion of privacy, the yelling late into the night, and the extreme discomfort I felt when my mom talked at length about sexual prowess, how my body was developing, and what it meant to be a real man. But I was too afraid. I didn’t know if Reanne would report back to my mom—my mom had been the one to set up that meeting. And she had a way of inserting herself into situations and showing up when I didn’t expect her to.
Just a few weeks later, I was warming up before a basketball game when a group of older girls came over and started talking to me. They were flirting a little, nothing major. But when I looked over to the stands, I saw my mother sitting there, glaring at me. She looked furious. If someone else had seen her, they would have thought that something horrible had happened. She stared at me with that same expression on her face throughout the entire game. I could barely focus because I was so worried about what I was going to have to face at home later.
Sure enough, that night was rough. “You pussy-ass nigga,” she taunted. “You couldn’t even score. Who the hell do you think you are, Zachary?” After going off on me, she started attacking the girls I’d been talking to, calling them low-class skanks and demanding to know in detail what I imagined doing with them.
Only a few days later, I was taking a shower after basketball practice. I got out, wrapped a towel around myself, and headed upstairs to my room. On the way, my mother called me. “Zachary, come here.” I could tell by the tone of her voice that something bad was coming. I reluctantly entered her room, holding the towel around my waist. “Take it off,” she commanded. She was lying back in her bed, smoking a cigarette. The expression on her face was a challenge. I just stood there. “I said take it off,” she repeated, her face growing angry.
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she told me. “Take it off.” Again, I just stood there in silence, trying to bide my time until I could find a way out of there. My mother sat up straight and tightened her eye contact. “Come on, now, Zachary. Let me take a peek,” she said snidely. “I am your mother. If anyone should see it, it’s me.”
I had never been more uncomfortable in my life. There were times when I was more afraid, but I had never been this uncomfortable. I’d seen that look on her face before, and I knew that if I didn’t obey, she would make me pay. I just kept thinking that if I listened, it would be over and I could finally leave. All I could think about was getting out of that room. I took off the towel. She just stared at me from across the room, tilting her head this way and that, as if to get a good look.
“Hmm,” she said, as if she were considering things. “How much bigger does it get when it’s hard?” I was humiliated, but I refused to show it. “Boy, they say you’re a genius,” she said sarcastically, “and you can’t answer a simple question?”
By that point in my life, I could withstand a lot. I rarely cried. But I didn’t trust my voice, so I held a straight face and did my best to appear unfazed. “Well, I’ll tell you this,” she said, finally seeming satisfied. “You’re on your way, but Kevin’s still got you.” She laughed. Actually laughed. “Yeah, he’s still got you. Now, go on, get out of here.”
Over the next few weeks, I did what I could to avoid speaking to my mother. At school, I continued to excel, but inside I was fed up. The question I kept asking myself was, if this was what she was doing to me now, what would be next? What would li
fe with her be like a year from now?
I tried to ignore her when possible. My strategy was to do things around the house before she asked so that she would have no reason to speak to me. Sometimes I swept the floor and made her bed or washed and ironed the clothes and shoveled the snow. I even walked to the grocery store once and carried everything home on foot. I was exhausted, but, worse, it wasn’t working. She still found things to complain about.
The following week, I passed Reanne in the hallway and something inside me snapped. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about some things,” I told her.
“Sure, Zach,” she said, smiling. “Why don’t you come to my office this afternoon?”
Once I was in Reanne’s office, I didn’t know what to say. So I went back to the perfectionism that had been the topic of our first meeting, explaining that it was important to me not to upset my mom. “Sometimes I do feel like I have to be perfect,” I told her. “There’s no room for imperfection with my mom, or else she gets really upset.”
“I’ve seen the way you walk down the hall,” Reanne told me. “I’ve seen the way you handle yourself. You don’t have to worry about what your mom thinks.” I always left her office feeling better than I had when I’d walked in. But it took a few more meetings before I felt comfortable telling her about how my mom berated me, watched me, and made me feel like I’d never be a real man. And several more meetings after that, I finally told her about what had happened after I’d gotten out of the shower. That’s when she looked at me and said, “We need to talk about the fact that you’re being abused.”
I felt my eyes go wide. That word was strong and overwhelming, and it made everything so real. “I don’t know if that’s true,” I said. “My mom’s just volatile.” Suddenly, the implications of everything I’d told Reanne hit me. If she told anyone, I had no idea what my mom would do. I was shaking when I looked up at Reanne and said, “Please don’t tell my mom. I cannot have her find out that I told you this.” Right away, she assured me that she wouldn’t.
But once the truth was out, it felt as if it had a momentum all its own. I continued to meet with Reanne once every week or so, and talking to her was helpful. She told me that she had spoken to the headmaster, Randall Dunn, about what was going on with me at home, and that he had also promised not to say anything to my mom. Randall asked to meet with me and was incredibly kind and supportive. I thought that if I had this small network of support at school, then maybe I could make it. They kept their promise not to tell anyone, yet they constantly reminded me that they were there to help if anything bad happened. I remember Randall telling me, “It only takes one call, Zach.”
Their support bolstered me, and it seemed that the more people I had in my corner at school, the easier it would be to survive at home. I had always felt a connection to my English teacher, Lisa Bagchi. I often sat with her during my free period and discussed the books we were reading in class. We had just finished reading Oliver Twist, and Lisa shared some details of her life with me that made me think she might understand what I’d been through. “Most people don’t know this,” I told her, “but parts of my childhood were rough.” I told Lisa a few details. Not everything. But I told her about how my mom used to beat me when I was little and that she tried to offer me porn. Lisa was horrified.
Until I told the truth to Lisa and Reanne, I don’t think I let myself fully absorb how bad all of this really was. I knew my mom was sick and that her behavior was deeply wrong, and I felt like I hated her at times for some of the things she said and did to me. But seeing the faces of these two grown women absolutely crumble as they listened to me talk about what I’d been through—women who were closer to my mom’s age than my own and who had surely experienced their own hardships—I finally registered how others perceived my mom’s actions.
At the same time, it was reassuring to realize that they didn’t see me any differently. I was always afraid that if people knew the truth, they’d assume I was deeply insecure and view me as a victim. Ultimately, I feared that in their eyes my mom’s abuse would detract from my positive qualities and make people question who I really was. It was comforting to know that Lisa and Reanne had faith in me.
Over the next month or so, I met with Lisa and Reanne regularly, sharing more each time. Then on a warm April day I was at the YMCA playing basketball by myself. As I was about to take a shot, I heard my phone ring. I looked down and saw that I had several missed calls, all from my mom. I picked up the phone, my heart pounding, and braced myself as I dialed. I knew that whatever it was, it was bad. But when my mother picked up the phone she said nothing. There was complete silence for about thirty seconds, and then she said in a perfectly calm and proper voice, “Zachary, Child Protective Services is here. Please come home as soon as you can.”
I hung up and called Reanne. She had told me to call her anytime, but it went straight to her voice mail. Not knowing what else to do, I jumped on my bike and headed home.
When I got there, my mother was sitting in the living room with Kevin, who had a blank look on his face, and two women from CPS. My mother was acting like the Queen of England—complimenting their shoes and offering them lemonade. I had seen this before. She could turn on the charm with ease when she wanted to. “Hi, Zachary,” one of the women said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about living with your mom.”
To this day, I cannot for the life of me understand why they questioned me in front of her. My mother had intimidated me since I was a toddler. I was absolutely terrified. Of course I lied, and I made sure to lie well. “She is a wonderful mother, and I am proud to be her son,” I told them.
They went on to ask specific questions that clearly revealed I had told somebody something: “Has your mother ever talked about castrating your father? Did she hit you with a flyswatter when you were younger? Has she ever forcefully berated you?” I denied all of it. Not only that, but I convinced them it wasn’t true.
“No,” I told them emphatically, using all the body language techniques my mom had drilled into me. “She has never done any of that.” My heart was pounding. I was sure they could tell how nervous I was, but I did my best to stay composed.
The entire time, my mom sat there looking calm and poised. At one point, she even offered to leave the room, but the women said that wasn’t necessary. Finally, they thanked my mom and asked if it was possible for me to stay with another family member until the investigation was over. My mom agreed right away and called Lola to come pick me up.
Since we’d moved to the suburbs, Lola now lived almost an hour away. I quickly realized that these women were going to leave before she got there. Inside, I began to panic as they shook my mother’s hand and told her again what a pleasure it had been to meet her. They walked outside and got into their car as my mother stood by the front door and watched them. I stayed in my seat, petrified.
When their car pulled away, my mom closed and locked the door and walked toward me. Then she pulled her chair right up next to mine and sat beside me, staring at me. The tip of her nose was maybe three inches away from my cheek. She glared at me for several minutes, and then, as if she were talking to herself, she said, “I have always been a wonderful mother to you, Zachary.”
Before long, Lola knocked on the door. Before she got up, my mom leaned in even closer to me and stared at me for another minute, this time looking me up and down from head to toe. Then she got up, unlocked the door, and went into her bedroom without saying a word.
I went up to my room to get my things. I didn’t know how long I’d be at Lola’s house, so I only packed what I needed for school and a few clothes. Then I went back downstairs. As we were about to leave, I heard my mother call out to me from her room, “You better not leave without giving me a hug.” I walked back to her room. She grabbed me and held me against her for a good thirty seconds. “I have always done my best by you, Zachary,” she told me. “I have always been a wo
nderful mother.” And then she let me go.
From the moment I got in Lola’s car, we couldn’t talk about anything except how this had happened. “I told your mother she had to stop doing some of that stuff,” she muttered as she drove. “Maybe a neighbor heard something. Or did you tell somebody something?” I told her that I hadn’t. At that point, I didn’t know how much I could trust Lola. Our relationship had changed since I was a little boy, and I’d never forgotten how she’d ultimately abandoned me after I’d confided in her about my mom years before.
Lola and my mom had always had a complicated relationship. When they were fighting, which was often, Lola stood up for me. But when she and my mom were getting along, she enabled, defended, and excused my mom’s worst behavior. Now she wavered between supporting me and castigating me for not being a good enough son.
Papa was out of town visiting family, so it was just Lola and me. Over the next few days, I told Lola more and more of the truth. She looked traumatized when I told her some of the things my mom had said and done. We both knew that CPS was going to interview me again, and Lola told me over and over that I would have to lie. “We’ve got to think this through,” she told me. “You don’t want your mom to go to jail. Use that good brain of yours to come up with a reason that she did those things.” Finally Lola told me to say that I thought I had an STD, so I’d asked my mom to look at me. When I hesitated, she threatened, “You want a place to sleep, don’t you?”
I was furious at Lola. But mostly I felt so alone. At her house, I was an hour away from Roeper. I made that commute on public transportation each day, worrying that my mom would appear around every corner. For the first time, I couldn’t concentrate at school. I was too worried about what would happen next and afraid that I’d look out the window and see my mom staring back at me. Besides Reanne, who had her own family to worry about, I had no one to turn to. If this all caved in, what was going to happen to me?
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