Mostly, my father’s aim was good, but at times anger would get the better of him and he would grow sloppy. Then the belt would land on the small of my back or the backs of my knees. That would bring me down from the ceiling in a hurry. Most often, though, after the first few blows, the pain would mean nothing to me at all, until the numbness and disassociation wore off a few hours later. Then, I would have trouble sitting, or sometimes even lying, just as my father had threatened I would. “I’m going to beat you so you won’t sit down for a week.” And, though I did sit down for fear and shame, I
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