Back in the day, I was an inquisitive little boy. Pain in the ass is probably more like it, if you were to believe my parents.
I used to question everything (still do on occasion), and my mother would pretty much answer everything within reason. Within reason because some of the stuff was not age appropriate. Those times she would just make something up.
Which brings me to today’s entry.
My mother was watching a soap opera one day and I was waiting for the soap opera to be over so I could watch more important shows. Like Godzilla. No time for love, Dr. Jones.
Anyway, one of the characters on the show was proclaiming that another character had raped her. Not knowing what rape was, I asked my mother.
“Uh,” she said, no doubt trying to figure out how you explain rape to a five year old. “It’s, uh, when you hit someone over the head with a telephone.”
That answer was good enough for me. I filed it away and continued to wait for Godzilla.
Later on that night, there was a knock on the door. My father opened it and found Skeeter, a neighbor from up the street, standing on the porch with a blood soaked handkerchief to his head.
“Oh my God, Skeeter! What happened?” My mom asked, rushing to help him inside.
Skeeter stumbled in the house. “Diane got drunk again and she hit me over the head with a telephone.”
Being the knowledgeable young lad that I was, I blurted “YOU WERE RAPED!?!?”
My father looked at my mother. My mother looked at me. “Go. Upstairs. Now.” She said. She seemed pissed.
I can’t remember how old I was when I found out what rape really was, but I wasn’t too surprised to find out it wasn’t when you hit someone over the head with a telephone.