The Punch, Or What My Mother Told Me by Janeen Armstrong
“I was heavily pregnant and he socked me in the arm”
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When I was pregnant my husband socked me in the arm. He punched me in the arm. We were sitting in the car in front of the immigration office. We were sitting in the car by the passport photo place we were sitting side by side in the the car and I pissed him off and he punched me.
I knew how to drive and he did not. I was in the driver’s seat. He socked me in the arm. Not too hard. I was pregnant. I was heavily pregnant and he socked me in the arm. We were talking about his ex-wife. I knew how to push his buttons. I knew how to hurt him. I knew how to make him mad.
My husband punched me when I was pregnant and we were out doing errands in the car. He was sitting in the passenger seat. We were parked at the curb by the immigration office and we were arguing. We were arguing in Spanish. We always spoke in Spanish. He didn’t speak English then or know how to drive or have any other basic skills for living in the United States.
We argued all the time in front of other people. I spoke excellent Spanish. I spoke beautifully accented Spanish. I was fluent in Spanish and he spoke little English and we argued at parties or family gatherings and we knew nobody else could understand us.
My mother has been married to my father for 58 years. My mother has been together with my father since she was sixteen years old. My mother is on the phone telling me about her long to-do list, how busy she is. My father is sitting at his computer. My father is sitting in his blue chair with his laptop open and he is playing solitaire. My father plays solitaire on his computer all day and he doesn’t do anything. There is so much to do.
In Morelia where I lived when I met my husband, a stranger would grab my boob or my ass or say something lewd to me every few weeks. Once when I was taking a shower in our bathroom that faced the long outside corridor that all the apartments opened onto, someone put his fingers inside the window and wiggled them as I stood naked under the shower.
I was naked taking a shower and someone put his fingers through the opening in our bathroom window. Our bathroom window was frosted and slatted. It was canted open just a bit to let out steam. Our bathroom window faced a public corridor. I wanted to take my razor and slash his wiggling fingers. I wanted to draw blood. I was afraid that it was a neighbor and there would be repercussions. I was afraid the situation would escalate.
Don’t escalate the situation. Don’t make him mad. Stay calm. Be nice. Don’t piss him off any more than he already is. It’s on you if you get hurt. It’s your fault for escalating the situation, it’s your fault it’s your fault for being a gringa, it’s your fault for making him mad. It’s your fault.
It was a sunny afternoon in Seattle near the immigration office and we were sitting in my parked car arguing and he punched me in my pregnant arm. I laughed at him when he hit me. I yelled at him when he hit me. I cried when he hit me in the arm when I was pregnant.
The baby was a year old when I left. The baby was not yet walking when we split up. The baby was just about to have his first birthday when we had our last fight. We were arguing in Spanish I called his bluff. I called his bluff and he walked out the door. I watched the door close. I heard the door click shut and I didn’t back down. I didn’t back down when he asked to come back. He kept asking me to take him back. He couldn’t believe I wouldn’t take him back. I didn’t take him back.
My mother gave me money. My mother set up an automatic transfer of money from her account to my account each month. My father didn’t know how much money my mother gave me. My mother didn’t want my father to know about the money. My mother started making more money than my father when I was a teenager.
When I was a teenager my mother sat me down and told me that boys were going to be nice to me because they wanted one thing. She said boys would be nice to me and tell me nice things. She told me I should not believe them. Boys would be nice but I should not let them have their way. Boys were dangerous. Boys were liars. I should never back down and let them have it. Under no circumstances was I to let them have what they wanted. If I got pregnant it would ruin my whole life.
When I was pregnant my husband socked me in the arm. I said nothing when my husband punched me in the arm. When my husband socked me in the arm when I was pregnant I was silent as I started the car and pulled out from the curb. I drove us home, my arm heavy and hot.
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Header image courtesy of Alyssa Monks. To see an Artist Feature of her work, go here.
Janeen Armstrong is a single mom who lives and writes in Port Townsend, Washington. She has worked as a freelance journalist and wrote a parenting blog for ClubMom. Currently, she is working on a series of poem-stories about her grandmother. She is the Reader Services Coordinator at Copper Canyon Press.