Hello, I am Madeline -- A True Story (Part 2)

 My Father ...

I was born in a big family.

I have an older sister, older brother, younger brother, and a younger sister.

I am the middle child, who was often “unattended” by my parents, because they were too busy raising the older, and caring the younger.

But being the “unattended” child has a positive note. I was the least one to be frowned upon. They were not interested in me, and I was almost free to be who I wanted to be, do what I wanted to do.

My older brother is very smart, and he was always under scholarship program. We never had to pay for his school.

And because we went to the same school, I was always the shadow behind him.

I wouldn’t mind being just the shadow, but I was also the “lesser.”

How do you feel when your teachers kept saying, “Why can’t you be as smart as your brother? Why can’t you be as obedient as your brother? Why can’t you be like your brother?”

Was it fun? No.

Did it hurt? Badly. 

  

But as fast as I was hurt, I was also learning fast that I didn’t care, and I learned to storm it through.

My bestfriend once told me, “I think you’re the smartest person in the whole world!”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you could read Sydney Sheldon novel in one night!”

When I was little, I had a “sensory processing disorder.”

I could not eat any solids until the age of four. I was depending only on milk.

My mother took me to hospital and they had to strap my hands and feet to the bed while I screamed, kicked, and cried, begging for milk.

A week later I was released from the hospital, sworn off milk forever and ever.

At home, my father never loved me.

Why?

Because I was fat (he hates fat people).

Because I wasn’t pretty (he hates ugly people).

Because I was a girl (he is an old fashioned Chinese who believes women are from lower class).

And because he just never wanted to be with us.

My father was abusive man.

He hit, swore, yelled, kicked whoever angered him. I have witnessed his hand slapped my mother’s cheek, his foot kicked my mother’s shin so many times I have lost count.

And he never tried to hide it from us.

Whenever he’s upset with my mother, he’d hit her in front of us. No shame.

Because he thought she deserved it.

One night, he went home after missing for a few days. He brought home a mie goreng.

It was late, all four of us (my youngest sister wasn’t born at that time) were huddled inside the same room.

He called my mother, asked her to prepare him plate and spoon for his mie goreng.

She asked him where he’d been these past three days. He didn’t answer.

She repeated the question twice. He told her to be quiet. She asked one more time.

He slammed the table and threw his hot mie goreng on to my mother’s face.

The big lumpy noodles fell onto her stomach, drips of sauce were hanging in her hair.

She bent down and picked up the noodle from the floor, and he kicked her in the head.

She didn’t dare crying. She was silent the whole time.

He left us and didn’t come back that night.

I remember all four of us peeking from inside the room.

My sister was crying and wanting to run out and kick my father. My brother tried to stop her.

And I just stood there behind the door, watching my mother cleaning the mess.

Hating my father. Hoping he’d get into a car crash. Or disappeared.

Hoping my mother would just leave him.

Wishing she would just take us all out of there, away from him.

I hated my father for a very, very long time.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

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Papaku ...

Aku dilahirkan dalam sebuah keluarga besar.

Aku punya kakak perempuan, kakak laki-laki, adik laki-laki dan adik perempuan. Lengkap.

Sebagai anak tengah, aku acapkali kurang diperhatikan oleh orangtuaku, karena mereka terlalu sibuk mengawasi anak yang lebih besar, dan mengasuh anak yang lebih kecil.

Tapi tak masalah.

Sebagai anak yang kurang diperhatikan, aku malah jarang dimarahi. Aku jadi bebas melakukan apapun yang aku mau. Toh, mereka tidak memerhatikanku.

Kakak laki-lakiku amatlah cerdas, dan dia selalu mendapat beasiswa. Orangtuaku tak pernah membiayai sekolahnya.

Sialnya, karena kami satu sekolah, aku jadi berada di bawah bayang-bayangnya.

Aku juga selalu dianggap sebagai pecundang.

Coba, bagaimana perasaanmu kalau gurumu selalu berkata, “Kenapa sih kamu nggak sepintar kakakmu? Kenapa kamu nggak sepatuh dia? Kenapa kamu nggak seperti dia?”

Senang kah? Tentu tidak.

Terluka kah? Sangat.

Namun, ketika aku terluka, aku cepat menyadarkan diriku bahwa aku tidak peduli, dan aku akan melawan semua itu.

Sahabat baikku pernah berkata, “Kupikir kamu ini orang terpintar di dunia, lho,”

“Oh ya? Kenapa?” tanyaku.

“Karena kamu bisa membaca novel Sydney Sheldon hanya dalam semalam!”

Saat aku kecil, aku punya masalah dalam mengunyah makanan. Aku tidak bisa makan makanan padat sampai usia 4 tahun. Aku hanya bergantung pada susu cair.

Mamaku membawaku ke RS dan mereka mengikat tangan dan kakiku di ranjang, karena aku berteriak, menendang, dan menangis. Aku memohon agar diberikan susu.

Satu minggu kemudian, aku keluar dari RS, dan bersumpah tidak akan minum susu lagi.

Di RS, semua perawat menyayangiku. Mereka memanggilku “boneka Jepang”.  Iya, aku memang mirip boneka Jepang. Kulitku putih sekali, mataku hanya segaris, dan rambutku ikal.

Saat jam istirahat, mereka (para perawat) acap menghampiriku dan menaruhku di lututnya. Mereka mengajakku bermain.

Saat itulah aku merasa dicintai.

Di rumah, Papa tidak pernah menyayangiku.

Kenapa?

Karena aku gendut (dia benci orang gendut).

Karena aku tidak cantik (dia benci orang jelek).

Karena aku perempuan (dia adalah orang Cina totok, yang masih menganggap bahwa perempuan itu kelasnya rendah).

Namun di luar semua itu, dia memang tidak pernah ingin bersama kami.

Papaku adalah seorang pria yang kasar.

Dia suka memukul, menyumpah, menendang, pada siapapun yang membuatnya marah. Aku pernah menyaksikan tangannya menampar pipi Mama, menendang tulang keringnya berulang kali, sampai aku tak mampu menghitungnya lagi.

Dan yang paling parah, dia bahkan melakukan semua itu terang-terangan di hadapan kami.

Tanpa rasa malu, tanpa rasa bersalah.

Dia pikir, Mama memang layak diperlakukan demikian.

Suatu malam, dia pulang setelah beberapa hari meninggalkan rumah. Dia membawa mie goreng.

Kami semua berdesakan di satu ruangan, dan Papa memanggil Mama untuk menyiapkan piring dan sendok.

Saat itu, Mama bertanya. Kemana saja Papa selama tiga hari ini?

Papa tak menjawab.

Mama pun mengulang pertanyaannya, dua kali.

Papa menjawab, “Diamlah,”

Namun, Mama malah mengulang pertanyaannya.

Papa pun menggebrak meja, dan melemparkan mie goreng yang masih panas itu ke wajah Mama.

Mamaku berlumuran mie goreng.

Dia lalu merunduk dan memunguti mie goreng dari lantai, namun Papa malah menendang kepalanya.

Mama tak berani menangis.

Dia hanya bisa diam.

Papa lalu pergi lagi. Dia tak pulang malam itu.

Aku ingat, kami semua berteriak dan menangis.  

Kakak perempuanku bahkan ingin lari menyusul Papa untuk menendangnya. Kakak laki-lakiku mencegahnya.

Aku? Aku hanya berdiri di belakang pintu, menyaksikan Mama membersihkan semua kekacauan ini.

Aku merasa benci pada Papa.

Aku berharap, Papa ditabrak mobil, atau hilang saja.

Aku berharap, Mama meninggalkan dia.

Aku bertanya pada Mama setelah itu, kenapa dia tidak menangis atau membalas.

Mama menjawab, “Karena dia adalah Papa kalian,”

Aku benci Papa, untuk waktu yang sangat … dan amat lama.

(Bersambung)