What would you sacrifice for a chance to win back your first love?
Danielle and I met as neighbors on Fairhaven Street when we were both ten years old. We became best friends and eventually fell in love. I came from three generations of abuse and infidelity, and she showed me a life I never knew but wanted, a life of unconditional love. When I was forced to move out of state to escape my father three years later, I gave her a heart pendant that snapped in half, each of us taking one half. I promised her I would return for her as soon as I grew up. Eight years later, I changed my looks, became confident, never taking my half of the pendant off the entire time. I had remained faithful and ended three generations of abuse, all to become the man she deserved and win her back. Over the time I was away, I was told that I was wasting the best years of my life for someone who would probably not even remember me, let alone still love me. But as I looked into her eyes once again, one question remained: who would be right?
What would you sacrifice for a chance to win back your first love?
Danielle and I met as neighbors on Fairhaven Street when we were both ten years old. We became best friends and eventually fell in love. I came from three generations of abuse and infidelity, and she showed me a life I never knew but wanted, a life of unconditional love. When I was forced to move out of state to escape my father three years later, I gave her a heart pendant that snapped in half, each of us taking one half. I promised her I would return for her as soon as I grew up. Eight years later, I changed my looks, became confident, never taking my half of the pendant off the entire time. I had remained faithful and ended three generations of abuse, all to become the man she deserved and win her back. Over the time I was away, I was told that I was wasting the best years of my life for someone who would probably not even remember me, let alone still love me. But as I looked into her eyes once again, one question remained: who would be right?
Your father wasn’t always as you know him today. I wasn’t always strong enough to pick each of you up with one arm and toss you across the couch. I wasn’t always brave enough to say what was on my mind. I wasn’t always confident enough to stand up to anyone who stepped out of line. Back when I was your age, I was none of those things, and my classmates all knew this.
In school I asked to be called Chris, but everyone taunted me with the nickname my father gave me, C.J. As far back as I can remember, I hated the name C.J. My skin would crawl every time I heard it. But back then, I couldn’t do anything to stop them.
I didn’t look as you might imagine I did, either. Though I’m tall and strong now, my shoulders were narrow back then. My face was bony with large ears that stuck out from each side of my head. When I took my shirt off, you could see almost every rib in my chest. I wore thick, black glasses. My teeth leaned inward in my upper jaw, except for the two in front, which stuck out in an overbite. My left eye was lazy and had a habit of facing inward when I was tired. My hazel eyes shifted between brown, when I was upset, and green when I was happy. Back then, they weren’t green very often.
I was a loner, and not by choice. Girls wanted absolutely nothing to do with me, shrieking in terror and running away when I would try to talk to them. Those who stuck around would pretend to like me only to suddenly say they would never like anyone who looked like I did. One even went as far as to give me a valentine with a caricature of me hanging from a noose.
I was every bully’s favorite target. The worst of them stuck together in a group of four. They used to hang out in the school cafeteria and force me to pay a toll in order to eat. Tom, their leader, towered over me, a scraggly bean pole of red hair and ill intent.
“You know the drill, C.J. Your lunch money, or else.” This was his usual bark, as he pounded a fist into his palm. His oversized metal smile leaked the repugnant smell garlic and sauerkraut left out in the trash.
“I can’t eat if I don’t have any money.” I replied, voice lowered, eyes downward.
“That’s your problem,” he retorted. “Give it to us, or we’ll pound you into the ground!”
Out of habit, I pulled out the $2.50 I had in my pocket. He snatched it from my hand before I could even offer it, shoving me hard into a nearby table. The four of them roared with laughter as I stumbled away, clutching my hip as I hobbled along. I sat down at the far end of the last table, alone, and watched everyone else eat.
Some days Tom’s gang would pat me down like I was being arrested, excitedly describing what violence they would do to me if I dared to arrive empty handed. I looked to the adults stationed nearby, supposedly there to protect me. But they were absorbed in their own little world, their backs turned, chatting enthusiastically among themselves. Only once did they notice me, and called my mother to inform her that I was not eating at lunch.
I lied and said I lost my lunch money, afraid of what my father would do to me if he knew I was getting bullied. My father despised weakness. No son of Bud Smith would allow himself to get picked on, and if he did there’d be consequences. His punishments all began the same, with the unbuckling of his belt, the hiss of leather sliding off corduroy.
But my mother covered for me. She knew he would want his money back if I wasn’t eating. Since I’d have no money to give back, that would mean I spent it. And if I spent it in ways other than what it was intended for, it was stealing, at least in my father’s eyes. He used to laugh every time he told us the story of how he put his best friend in the hospital for taking money from his wallet.
So, Mom suggested that, since Dad worked so hard for his money, she would take over paying for my lunches. This worked for a while, until one day when she was running late for work and forgot to give me the money. By the time I realized it, it was too late.
All day I dreaded what would happen at lunch. I thought about hiding in the bathroom, but the adults kept a head count. I went in that day like a lamb to the slaughter.
Tom’s fiendish grin greeted me. It was payday. I assumed the position and he waited as I searched my pockets for money that wasn’t there. Growing impatient, he thrust his own hands into my pockets, violently moving them around.
“What the hell, C.J.? You holding out on us?”
“My parents didn’t give me any money today.”
He ripped his hands back out of my pockets and brought his face within an inch of my own. His breath was especially bad that day.
“You know what happens now, don’t ya?”
I swallowed hard and avoided eye contact as he waited for an answer. Hearing nothing, his face suddenly shifted back to that evil grin. I looked to my right shoulder, feeling his hand rest upon it. He nodded to the other three, who came in close, shielding us from any prying adult eyes.
“It’s okay,” he said calmly, “I’m gonna cut you a break this time. Looks like someone got to you before I could anyway. Did someone hurt you?”
I slowly nodded; my head pointed down.
He’s going to kill you.
“Your parents hit you at home?”
Again, I nodded. Tom clicked his tongue.
“I’m sorry to hear that, man. It’s okay.”
I slowly looked up at him. He seemed genuine. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He nodded as he smiled at me.
I crumbled to my knees, wheezing, gasping for the air that had been suddenly removed from my lungs. He’d hit me in the stomach so fast I didn’t see it coming, then pushed me to the ground and began kicking me in the stomach and stomping me in the ribs. One of his friends joined him, and the other two played lookout. I curled into a ball.
“Teacher! Teacher!” the lookouts yelled after a long minute or two. The four of them scattered. I laid there coughing, bleeding and shivering. Two sets of adult feet hurried into view.
I was taken to the school nurse, who held an ice pack over my severely beaten face. The principal joined the room, and they demanded that I tell them who did this to me, but I knew better than to tell them. The only thing that could make my situation worse than non-compliance was being a tattletale. They grilled me for information but eventually gave up, seeing I wasn’t going to cave.
“Okay,” the principal huffed. “We’re going to have to notify your parents.”
The heat of my face suddenly drained ice cold. No way could they tell my parents I was fighting at school. Bud had a simple rule when it came to fighting: You better win. If you lost, he’d beat you himself.
“Please, please don’t call them,” I pleaded. “My mom is at work and my dad will kill me.”
“If you don’t want me to call him, then tell me who beat you up, C.J.”
“Please don’t call me that,” I said in a whisper.
“Why not? That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“My name is Chris.”
“Who did this to you,” he repeated slowly. I said nothing. He shook his head and went into his office next door. I watched as he picked up the phone. I studied his expression as he began the conversation, his shoulder pressing the phone to his head. I could only hear the faint, muffled sound of his voice through the sealed cocoon of his office.
Please, let him be passed out and not hear the phone.
The principal’s mouth began moving on the other side of the glass window. We didn’t have an answering machine, so that meant only one thing. As the moments passed, I saw his face shift. What had begun as a neutral expression suddenly switched to discomfort. Within moments he was saying nothing.
Then, he looked up at me. I knew that look. He hung up and came back out to the hallway. “Um… Go back to class, young man,” he said, shaken.
I was done. He knew I was done. He didn’t even know my father that well and he knew I was done. As I opened the door to the hallway, he called out to me one last time.
“Try to have a good rest of the day, okay Chris?”
Back in class, it was difficult to focus when I knew the proverbial shit had hit the fan. My schoolwork was already sub-par because I thought I was too stupid to keep up with everyone else, an accusation I’d grown accustomed to at school and at home. I buried my face in my arms, wishing I could just disappear.
Your great grandmother, the only person who ever felt like an ally to me back in those days, would always tell me, “If you don’t like something, pray about it!” I didn’t really believe in God. The whole idea of a benevolent being didn’t line up with my life experience. But at this moment I was desperate.
I prayed that, one day, I would meet someone who would love me. Just one person who would care about me and not judge me for the way I looked. And, most of all, I begged God to not be lonely anymore. Even with my ribs still burning, the sting of loneliness hurt worst of all.
I dismissed the whole thing after I was done. No way was praying to some magical being going to solve my problems. I never would’ve believed that, in a few short years, my prayer would be answered in a chance encounter that would eventually lead me to your dad becoming the man you know today. But back in this moment, all hope was lost.
The thick Florida heat bore down on me as I made my way off school property that afternoon. The mosquitos were out early, following me as I walked home covered in the scent of my own blood. As I got closer to our house in Grandview Shores, an all-too-familiar sense of terror began to creep up my spine.
Truth was, I wasn’t scared of getting beat up. Your Uncle Scott and I frequently showed up to school with bruises on us. Back in the 80's, there weren't the same stringent laws protecting children from violence like there are now. Adults might have asked what happened if you came in with injuries but didn’t press you if you just lied about it.
I had no doubt that my father was getting his belt ready, assuming he wasn’t too drunk to stand up. No doubt he would lose control in a fit of rage. As I neared the front door to our house, I stopped for a moment to take a deep breath.
A small part of me held out hope. It all came down to what kind of mood he was in. Was he in a good mood? A bad mood? And how drunk? If he was in a good mood, and only a little drunk, then we might be able to get through the night. But as every beating got progressively worse, I feared the day would come when he killed one of us. Since I was the smallest, I was the primary candidate.
I heard yelling from the other side of the door as I quietly crept up to our house.
“I'll kill him as soon as he walks in that door!”
“Honey, try to calm down.”
“Shut the fuck up! You lied to me too! I’ll deal with you after I’m done with him!”
Going through that door would commence a chain of events that would change the course of our family forever. That life of violence that I grew up with plagued our family for three generations before me. Getting through that night would mark the beginning of its end. But I had to open that door first so the night could begin, a night that would end with an ambulance in our driveway.
“Where the hell is C.J.?” He yelled, “It’s already dark!”
God, I really hate that name.
This had to be done. Taking a deep breath, I slowly pushed the door open. My head jerked backward as I was violently yanked inside.
Destiny Lives on Fairhaven Street is a book of extremes. The violence and emotional abuse endured by the author magnify the sincerity of adolescent love. Hudson opens with a scene of unspeakable brutality so graphic it comes with a disclaimer. Readers will recoil at the vicious onslaught against a mother and child, and those who are survivors of domestic violence may have a more visceral reaction.
Glimmers of light shine into this dark world. A loving, if misguided, grandmother comforts the author in his childhood and fosters in him the ability to care. The grudging acceptance of a neighboring family gives him a glimpse of a household untroubled by the chaos reigning in his home. The adolescent love of their daughter, Danielle, is the centering experience in Hudson’s young life. He clings to these threads as he reinvents himself. Already discarded as a lost cause by his father, mother, and stepfather, Hudson scales this mountain on his own and shares with us the mantras repeated year after year that sustained him.
The framework for this memoir is love. In a short foreword, Hudson addresses his two sons as if opening a letter. Throughout the narrative, he remembers them in asides annotating pivotal moments and reminding them their father’s sad story has a happy ending. Beset with callousness and ill-will, discouraged at every turn, Hudson triumphs with the determination of a boy whose heart belongs to the girl next door. As he describes heartache and temptation, he shows the coming-of-age of a young man determined to take charge of his destiny. At his grandmother’s death, his despair is especially poignant.
Fairhaven Street is a linear story, each circumstance following the last in a chronology of longing and sadness. Hudson’s ideals of adulthood, culled from an early life with few adults to look up to, may not resonate with every reader, but he is earnest in his devotion to Danielle.
In every story, a writer uses discretion. Fairhaven Street is a book written to a specific audience, laying a foundation for his boys and giving them a role model they can admire. He reaches out to the ghosts of his past, extending himself farther than he believed he could. Even so, he keeps us at bay; some wounds are still too tender to uncover. Yet, Hudson is healing. It is a joy to cheer him on.