I was playing down in the street the first time I was hit.
One of the girls I was playing with hit me.
I went to her house,
And started throwing rocks at it,
But she didn’t come out.
I went up to her house,
And her mother answered the door.
I went inside and started hitting her.
“Aren’t you a bold little girl?”
Her mother exclaimed.
I liked taking matters into my own hands.
But when I grew up,
My parents made me stop.
“Don’t react.
Don’t do anything.
Stay quiet.”

The other person I hit was my son.
I hit him because he went to his grandma’s without telling me,
And I kept searching for him everywhere.
He hid from me and went to sleep.
But I didn’t let it go.
I hit him with a hose.
“That’s enough!” his father would tell me.
I let go of him,
But told him,
“I’ll hit you again when your father leaves.”
I beat him up like crazy.
He could’ve died in my hands,
And I wouldn’t have noticed.
He’d cry and scream.
I’d take him inside so that no one would try to take him away from me.

You hit him,
But you’re weak inside.
He’s only a child.
He can only resist so much.
He’s not a grown man.
He’s become very sensitive.
He bursts into tears if I so much as yell at him.
He used to cheat in exams to avoid getting a beating from me.
I decided not to hit him anymore.
I try to hold myself back.
I don’t like violence.
I want to teach my children tolerance and forgiveness.