Hampton Street

Hampton Street1

At the end of Hampton Street, in a little yellow house, lived a family. The family, the house, and the yards were all painstakingly manicured. The freshly cut grass was encircled by raked, weed less flower beds filled with hedges and flowers of white, red and purple. A sign stating, “welcome” hung smartly on the front porch.  A red brick path led to a wide white porch, where a swing that was big enough for two swayed in the breeze of lazy afternoons. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter there. From the outside, the house was inviting, and charming much like all the other houses on Hampton Street. 2

With the exception of two retired couples, the neighborhood was filled with young families. Families with one, two, or three children, the oldest child on the block was seven. Strollers were seen as often as SUV’s. On summer nights the smell of barbeque permeated the street and on the fourth of July the neighborhood families celebrated their patriotism together with the biggest fireworks display the fathers could muster, and that eventually would lead one child or another to the threshold of utter terror.3

Every Tuesday, mothers would gather with their toddlers in the park for a morning of play. The mothers of only one child would spend half of the morning bragging on her progeny’s weekly achievements and the other half chasing the child around with a wet wipe to keep him clean. The mother’s with more than one child would smile and shake their head condescendingly at the mother of one’s arrogance, knowing it would pass with the birth of her second child.4

Most of the mother’s had the appropriate child rearing books from the appropriate doctors. All children on Hampton Street were weaned from their bottles by the age of one and all parents had the latest research on car seats, bike helmets and safety measures for the home. Children were fed nutritious snacks and watched only educational television. By the age of four, most children were on the road to achievement via dance lessons, piano, soccer, or science classes. The children of Hampton Street were well taken care of. Mothers who had different ideas on child rearing either changed their minds or kept their opinions to themselves, for fear of being known as the bad mother or being their child’s downfall.5

The occupants of the little yellow house were cut from the same cookie cutter as the rest of Hampton Street. The parents were educated. The father, an important businessman in the city, left the house in his Volvo at precisely seven thirty every morning and returned at exactly six o’clock every evening. At five thirty as the sun was rising, five days a week he jogged three miles. He could be seen mowing the lawns and trimming the hedges every Saturday. On Sunday afternoons, he washed the cars. His garage was in spotless order, a place for every tool and a tool for every job. 6

At the birth of the child, the mother had left her job at the neighborhood elementary school where she was the school’s administration assistant, or more commonly known as the school’s secretary. While in her position at Hampton Street Elementary, she had kept that school in efficient order. She knew all the children and the names of all the parents. Her files and paperwork were meticulous. The principal had been in a quandary trying to replace her. The other mothers had told her that the office had been in complete disarray for at least six months after her departure. The mother shook her head sadly at these statements. She wished she could do something to help, but it would be so unfair of her to leave her newborn son and husband. She was needed at home now, for the sake of her family. The other mother’s shook their heads solemnly in agreement, knowing their own sacrifices for domestic life.7

Just inside the doors of the yellow house and behind the red and tan striped curtains, the little boy began to grow. As was expected by the parents, the boy was an overachiever in every way. He was in the ninety-five percentile on the height and weight charts. He began rolling over and crawling long before the other children his age. Before his first birthday, he was drinking from a cup, walking, and using over thirty words appropriately. By his second birthday, he was already potty trained and recognized his name written on a piece of paper. The other mothers were astonished by his achievements. The mother worked with him daily, reading him the proper books, feeding him the proper foods, and teaching him the proper habits. His successes were her successes and his failures were her failures.8

The first time the boy wet the bed, he was swatted firmly on his bare backside and was placed in an ice cold bath for ten minutes. Every time the mother found wet sheets, the length of time spent in the bath increased by ten minutes. Eventually the mother realized spankings were not working with the boy, so soon she resorted to his father’s belt on his backside. When the boy began whining, he was given a teaspoonful of dish soap in his mouth. The boy, after being informed never to enter the house with his shoes on, absent-mindedly traipsed through the living room with mud on his shoes, and for that the mother knew it was time for the belt buckle.9

The father wondered if the punishments were slightly excessive. However, the mother knew best, this was her job and she took it seriously. She would raise this child to behave appropriately, to be respectful and courteous. She had seen far too many disobedient children in the principal’s office and it was always the parent’s lack of skills that caused the child’s wickedness. She would not tolerate that kind of spoiled, deficient behavior from her child, she knew better. Not in her house and not on Hampton Street. 10

The boy was good-natured and rarely caused problems. He learned quickly from his mistakes and by the age of three knew how to avoid his mother’s teaching moments. The boy was exceptionally tidy. He knew that if he made a mess of himself at mealtime, he was going to have to sit in his chair until the next meal. He had learned this important lesson after a spaghetti dinner, when he had spent the night sleeping at his chair at the kitchen table. He had gotten several lashings with the belt buckle that night as well; since he was not allowed to leave the table, he had lost control and wet his pants. If during these moments of teaching, he protested or cried he would get time out. Time out was especially hard on the boy. Depending on his offense, the mother would count to ten, or twenty, or thirty while holding his head under the water in the bath tub. It was his job to hold his breath. Once the mother had counted to thirty-five after he left his toys on the kitchen floor, the boy remembered that lesson. 11

When the little boy had accidentally drown the cat while pretending to punish it, the father again questioned the mother’s methods. The mother exasperated by the father’s nagging reminded her husband that the boy was the best-behaved child on Hampton Street. He was also the highest achiever. Did any other child know how to write his name at age three? Of course, not, this was due to her diligent parenting. Hours and hours, they had spent at the kitchen table, working well into the night until the boy had gotten it right. She knew how to mother, just as her own mother had known. She may not have enjoyed her childhood, but she had grown up to make the correct decisions in her life. She had always paid her bills on time, she knew about world affairs and she was more than proficient in her homemaking skills. No other house on Hampton Street sparkled like hers; no other was as tastefully decorated. How could her husband even think to question that type of excellence? The father realized his error and could not argue with his own son’s achievements. The boy, his boy, was far superior to his peers and even to most of the older children on the block. He could imagine his son’s future successes, the top of his class, valedictorian, Ivy League schools, his own business, or even law firm… His son’s life would be paved triumphs. The father conceded to the mother’s discipline techniques.12

The sun was shining hotly on a spring day one month before the boy’s fourth birthday. The boy was brought home early from Tuesday morning in the park. Not only had he started a fight with a neighborhood boy, but also when his mother had tried to separate the boys he had turned his wrath on her. As she dragged the boy home, she could feel the other mother’s disapproving eyes hammer against the back of her head. Rage bubbled from the depths of her stomach. She clenched and wrenched the arms of the screaming, kicking child all the way to the yellow house.13

At six o’clock when the father returned home from work, the house was shadowed and cool. The silence was interrupted only by the quite hum of the refrigerator. He could faintly hear the dripping of water somewhere in the house. The father was surprised by the lack of dinner sounds in the kitchen and called for his wife, and when there was no answer, he called for the boy. The minivan was parked in the driveway, the front door was unlocked, and reasonably, he knew the mother and the child where somewhere in the house. The father began his inspection and he found the bathtub full of water. As he walked over to unplug the tub, water splattered under his feet. Feeling a slight surge of uncertainty, he sped up his search, calling a little more loudly for his family. As he reached the master bedroom, he clicked on the light. His wife’s feet were dangling in mid-air. She was hanging on a beam from the ceiling, and around her neck was the belt she had used to discipline the little boy. The boy was wrapped in a towel, sitting on the bed. He was dry, but his lips were shivering. 14

“Mommy needed a time out.” Was all that he said.15

Sirens came to the little yellow house on Hampton Street. The men in the ambulance said the mother had been dead for hours. The men in the police car took the father away for questioning. Neighbors huddled on lawns speaking to each other in quiet whispers. How could this happen on our street? The mother’s mother came and placed the little boy’s chubby soft hand in her thin, dry one. Her steel gray hair sparkled like silver in the sunshine. The sharp angles of her face were familiar to the boy, and he found some comfort in her. She patted him firmly on the back and took him home to live with her.16