Playing in the backyard alone on the side of the house was my idea of a fun time. I would lay in the dirt, cold and smooth, with my little green and tan colored army men, letting my imagination run wild as the green army waged war against the tan. My life was so simple and carefree. I would always take the time to notice my surroundings; the tall trees providing shade for me, the cool late summer breeze that always blew by and reminded me of how lucky I was to be outside, and of course the blue sky as it changed color from its blue hue to an orange pink kind of color. Yes, it was a great day to be outside.

“Boy!” my mother would scream from the back door. I instantly stopped and waited for a second calling, and when it came, I got up and dusted myself off. As I walked to the back door, I kicked objects out of my way. Smiling, I leapt onto the porch. The calling was for dinner, and being a 10-year-old boy, I was always hungry. Chicken and red rice cooked together was my favorite meal, and with a glass full of fruit punch Kool-Aid mixed with grape Kool-Aid, my day was ending on a great note.

Full, and a bit sleepy, I skipped watching television and headed to my room. Isolated from everyone, I then started playing my Nintendo 64. With my only game (Super Mario 64) I could play for hours. I could hear music coming from my sister’s room, which meant she was recording music from the radio onto cassette tapes. As irritating as it was, I tried to ignore it, but it was interfering with my game play. I continued playing and began losing more than usual. My heart beat faster, small sweat beads on my forehead began to form and my eyes started to tear up. I could tell I was getting mad. I began ranting and making so much noise, I didn’t hear my father come home. My father liked it quiet when he was home.

“Boy!” Again I heard the shout of my nickname. This time it was that of my father’s voice. My body stopped in place as if I were frozen. I didn’t want to breathe or move because I thought he would hear me. “Come here!” he stammered. His voice seemed to have stuttered as he shouted. I tried to open my door as quietly as possible, but the hinges on my door made the ugliest noises and caught me off guard. I flinched and closed my door swiftly. I opened it again. Scared, this time I said the stupidest word a kid could ever shout to a parent, “What?!”

“Now!” he replied. I busted out of my room like a sprinter off the blocks. My mind was racing a mile a minute thinking of everything that could possibly happen to me. Looking at the floor, trying to be sincere and sad before I even knew what I did, I entered the living room. I stood behind the couch looking at my father. His eyes were tired, his movement was unstable and slow, and I could smell the concrete on his clothes. My father worked in a concrete plant on the east side of Fresno. From what I heard, it’s a pretty physical job. I could hear his breathing, heavy and slowed: I couldn’t tell if he was going to beat me or hug me. I just stood there wondering what his next move was going to be. He asked me why I was making so much noise in my room because I should have known he liked the house quiet. I explained to him I was playing my game and I got carried away with it. I told him I was sorry and started to walk away after a long moment of silence. He stopped me and told me to sit on the couch. I could feel a lecture coming on, so I rolled my eyes and looked at my mom who was sitting on the other couch. She looked sad, as if something was wrong. I looked back at my father and as soon as I did, I felt the toughness of his hand strike me across my face. His was voice as loud as I’d ever heard it.

My ears were ringing and face throbbing, trying to understand what the hell just happened. I looked up and I saw my father and mother screaming and pushing each other. I tried to get up, and again, my father hit me. This time, with his fist, hitting the same spot he did the first time. I burst out in tears, breathing heavy and fast. I couldn’t catch my breath. I sat up against the couch and looked at my father yell at and push my mother. I jumped up and charged my father, swinging left and right. I missed every punch I threw. I could hear him laughing as he pushed me away. My waist hit the arm of the couch and I fell to the floor. I knew I wasn’t big enough to stop him from hurting me and my mom alone, but I knew I had to try. So I got up and rushed him, leaping into the air. I swung and hit him in the face, and he stumbled and fell back, knocking over the television. I moved over to my mother who had a burgundy bruise-like mark on her face, tears in her eyes, and a busted lip. I asked her “What do you want me to do?” She couldn’t tell me. I got up and grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter. Keeping in mind my father could get up at any minute, I dialed 911. Not knowing what to say, I screamed “Help!” and sat next to my mom. Crying and hoping the police would hurry up, I heard a heavy knock at the door.

Two police officers walked in and noticed the mess in the living room; the television on the floor, my father passed out, and my mother on the couch, crying. I stood by the door as the police carried my father out of our house. As he woke up, I could see the look on his face as if he was proud of me yet ashamed of himself. That was the last time I saw or spoke to my father. After the police had talked to my mom, they wanted to speak to me. I was placed in my room until a detective came and explained that what my father was going through was not my fault and that he was under the influence of alcohol and marijuana. As he was telling me this, I daydreamed of me alongside the house playing, dirt underneath my fingernails, birds chirping and squirrels making that noise they always make. Then I snapped back to reality, face busted, talking to police officers and my mother crying. The only words I spoke to the detective were “Is my mom ok?”

Looking back, I couldn’t tell you why I did what I did. I can only say I was dumb for standing up for myself, but I reacted in a way I was proud of, a way in which I felt like I did the right thing. But at the same time, I feel like I lost my father. Because after that day I’ve never seen him again, and it’s been so long since I even spoken to him. I still have no father figure in my life, only my mom who I am very proud of for raising me, proud that she took on roles in my life that should have taken care of by my father. She is a true single parent. Since that day I’ve grown so much. I still remain independent but I have a brave heart and better soul than I would have had with my father being there. I guess it was a blessing to go through that day. The day my father’s alcohol and drug abuse hurt my pride and changed my life.