“棒打出孝子。”

This is an ancient idiom frequently used by adults in China. It means “a stick makes a better child”. If you don’t trim the crooked bamboo branches early, the tree will become ugly later. If you spare your child for his wrongs during his youth, he will suffer during his adulthood. Almost every Chinese household believes in this phrase.

Mine is no exception.

My mother believes physical punishment is the quickest and most effective way to educate children. I’ve always hated her for it. That is not an emotion a person should have towards a loved one. Yet when I curled into a small ball under my blanket during the thick night; when I observed the purple and green bruises printed on my back in the mirror; when I wore long sleeves in the boiling heat to cover up the scars on my arms, I felt nothing but hatred.  

As I grew older, I started to understand the causes behind all this. Being disobedient and rebellious as I am, I realized that most of the time, it was honestly my fault. I began to reflect on my own flaws.  

I wished my maturity could repair our broken relationship.

Yet once a vase was shattered, it takes time and effort to glue the pieces back together. Most of the time, the job is too hard that people just give up.

I guess when you are used to doing something, or you’ve believed in something strongly for your entire life, it’s almost impossible to make changes. My arguments with my mother were often triggered by small things; however, no matter how hard I tried to reason things out, our fights always end with tears, sweat, and blood.

“The older you get, the harder it will be for people to change.” my old clarinet teacher used to tell me. I guess that was the most useful thing he had taught me in three years.

So now, instead of hatred, I decided to accept and endure. The best way to cope with pain is to embrace it.

There were times, though, when I could not stay silent.

In ninth grade, I used to take art classes downtown every Sunday. My mother needed to drive for about one hour to get to my school. It was usually four in the afternoon we arrived home. Unfortunately, on that day, traffic was heavier than usual so we were still stuck on the highway at 5:40.  

The air was dry inside the car. The only sound audible was the blowing of the air conditioner. Our car had not been moving for ten minutes.  

“There’s so much traffic,” I murmured and glanced at my mother timidly with the corner of my eye. I knew she was not happy.  

Nothing replied except for silence. The car still hadn’t moved.

“Ah,” I stretched my arms, “I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.” 

I tried to soften up the tensed atmosphere. It was too hard to breathe inside this small space. I decided to attempt one more time.  

I yawned, “I’m so tired. I wonder when can we go ba—”

“If you don’t want to go to school, then don’t go!” my mother exclaimed, interrupting my words. Her high pitched voice pierced through the silence, like a nail hammering through a piece of metal. I startled, my mouth still half-opened.

“No, I don’t mean it like tha—”

“Don’t call yourself tired,” she pointed at my face, “I have to drive you there, and wait outside for hours! I never called myself tired! If you don’t want to do art, then don’t do it! Same as school. Don’t beg me to drive you to school tomorrow! I am so done!”

I flashed back to those dreadful mornings when my mother refused to drive me to school because I made her furious the previous day. Most of the time, she was still kind enough to send me to school after thirty minutes or so. Due to my laziness, whenever I was late for the first period, I would always tell my teacher I was stuck in traffic—though that was usually not the case.

Feared that those troubles will repeat the next morning, I hurried up and said, “No, I’m not tired, I just wanted to start a conversation. Sorry.”

“Sorry? I know exactly what you are thinking because I am your mother,” she continued screaming, “I regret sending a failure like you to such an expensive school! It’s as if I am throwing my money into the sewer!”

Here it comes, I thought, the volcano of anger is about to explode. I looked out of the window. Instantly, I felt a burning smack across my face.

“Don’t you dare give me that, it’s so disgusting that it makes me want to vomit!” she spat the words out while clenching her teeth. It took me a few seconds to realize she had just slapped me. Something felt weird inside my nose. I hesitated, but still put my palm under my nose. Just as expected, blood was dripping down. Within a few seconds, there was blood all over my chin. Mother glimpsed at me, but said nothing and kept on driving.

I noticed we had almost arrived home. I knew what would come next if I don’t finish this business before we get off the car. But for some reason, I did not feel like defending myself. Maybe I was actually tired.

Mother parked the car and slammed her fury out of the door as she got out. I followed without a word.

She thumped the floor as she walked into the living room. I followed her.

She reached for the curtain stick she puts on top of the bookcase. She swung.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the pain in my wrist before the “woosh” of the stick reached my ears. I had instinctively put my arm in front of myself as a form of self-protection. This avoided the stick to hit my shoulder. I did not have time to check the bruise before she swung again. This time, it hit my knee. I bit my lip. Don’t let out a word, or I will kill you, I told myself.  

I knew mother wanted me to scream and beg for her pardon, just like how I acted during my childhood.

Silence was the last bit of dignity remained inside me.  

I was stripped from top to toe a long time ago.

I did not dodge. Mother would not stop until she is satisfied.

The stick struck my back, my waist, and my thigh. There were no breaks in between. I did not let out a single sound. Before I perceived the pain of one strike, another came. At one point, I just felt nothing but numbness. Another whip shoved between my back and my hip, right on my tailbone. I was about to scream, yet no sound came out because soon, another strike hit me on the left hip bone. I fell on the floor, and let out a weak, hoarse gasp.  

Mother had no intention to stop. Through the mixture of tears and sweat which blurred my vision, I could see her screaming lips and enlarged pupils. It was as if there was a beehive inside my head. I could not hear anything mother was screaming. Spit dripped out of my mouth, and down my chin, leaving traces of pain on the floor. I bent down and squished into a ball. It was as if I was suffering in hell. Every time the stick touched my skin, I was dropped down into a lower inferno. The flames roasted and tortured my body, but I was not allowed to die. My lips were sealed, so I could not cry.

The tragic thing is that who tortured me was not Satan, but my dear mother.

I lost count of how many times mother had whipped me. Thirty? Maybe more than that already. After a while, she finally stopped. She threw the stick on the ground and left.  

I could finally examine the bruises. The cut on my leg was as long as an index finger. I just noticed that the stick broke at one point, and the chipped edge had lacerated my skin. Blood was oozing out from the scars. The bruises were purple and green.  

They were fresh and warm to the touch of my fingers.

The screen of my watch had shattered. It was probably struck at the beginning when I put my arm up to protect my shoulder.  

I stood up. An odd, honorable feeling struck me. It was as if I had just survived a battle. Though I knew I would not be getting dinner tonight for sure, I was bursting with pride for not letting out a single cry. Weirdly, I hoped that my friends, teachers, my mother’s friends could watch this epic battle.

I sat down on my desk and took out the worksheets from my folder. I still had work left to finish. I took out a pen, and my eyes landed on my hand.

The scars covered my arm—those were the external voices to my internal anguish.