When you get together with your family members are there certain stories that get told over and over again? My family is spread out all over the place so it is not that often that we are all together but when we are, the following story is one that they love to tell.

My father never hit us. I think discipline was above his pay grade. When it came to handing out punishments my mother was the master. She wasn’t that creative though. Usually a good whoopin would handle any problem that arose. I remember one time I said “damn” under my breath. Of course, her bionic ears heard it and she washed my mouth out with soap and then tore up my legs with a wooden spoon. I think I was about six or seven years old. Most of my siblings and I have been greeted with the business end of a switch, belt, hair brush, wooden spoon and even a ping pong paddle. I did notice however that as my mother got older the beatings became less frequent. In other words, my older brother got beat more than me, but my younger sister got beat less than me. I think by the time my youngest brother came along my mother was worn out and he may not have ever gotten beat.

I shouldn’t say “beat”. We weren’t abused … we were disciplined.

Anyway, back to my father. He never hit us. And it was for this reason that he expected us kids not to hit each other. He couldn’t stand to see us fighting. But come on, if you have a household with seven children you have to expect a fight or two.

There were quite a few fights between myself and my younger sister. She is three years younger than me and we shared a bedroom. For as long as I could remember, she was a pain in my ass. She took my clothes without asking and then would return them to my closet without washing them. She had a smart mouth and I just couldn’t stand being around her. We used to fight about sleeping with the light on or off. I wanted it off she wanted it on – we would stand by the light switch and click it on and off over and over again until my mother would yell at us to go to bed. I hated my sister. HATED!!!!!

There was one particular day in the late 70s when she was really getting on my nerves. I don’t remember what the hell she was doing but she was just getting on my nerves. So much so, that the words of my father (“Don’t hit your sister") flew right out the window and I pushed her down to the floor. She landed on all fours and she was actually laughing! Laughing at me! I was trying to hurt her and this heffa was laughing. So I kicked her in the ass. Unfortunately, she was facing the leg of my mother’s piano and her face went right into it. CRASH!

She stood up and now she was crying. She had a small scratch going down the middle of her nose and it was bleeding. It didn’t look that bad but she was crying real loud. My father came running into the room and saw the blood and screamed. “What happened?” She answered through her tears, “Chele hit me!!!”

My father did not ask any questions or wait for an explanation. He knocked me to the ground in one motion. I tried to run but it didn’t work. He snatched me by the collar and lifted me up off the ground and threw me up the stairs! I landed half way up the stairs and ran the rest of the way. I went into my room and shut the door. I waited for him to come up the stairs and finish my beating but he didn’t. He was done. It was over. I was petrified. After all, my father never hit us. I don’t remember if I ever hit her again after that. Probably not.

To this day, that story just cracks them the hell up.

For the record, she is no longer a pain in the ass. She’s probably the closest friend I have.