Growing Up on My Street I was about four when I learned that words could hurt me more than sticks or stones — not because of what I said, but because of who heard it. It was an ordinary day on our street. I was just a kid, playing, repeating bad words I didn’t even understand. I didn’t know my mom was close enough to hear. She was. The next moments hit fast — literally. She grabbed me, pinched my ear so hard I thought it would tear, and dragged me to the house. Straight into the bathroom. The cold water hit first. Then the garden hose. The sound of water slapping skin is something you don’t forget, even decades later. I remember my two older sisters peeking from the doorway, their faces half-hidden, like they were afraid to be caught watching. I never saw them take a beating like I did. Sometimes I wonder if they wanted me to get it, or if they were silently wishing it would stop. I can’t remember if they were smiling, crying, or just frozen. That part’s blurry. When it was over, my mom’s anger turned into something else — a different storm. She’d cry, shout, and sometimes threaten to end her life right there in front of us. She’d grab the bottle of Whitex, and the three of us would drop everything, begging, Please, don’t. I think about those days a lot. Not because I want to, but because they’re part of the map of who I am now. Those moments stay, even if the details fade.