My father died when I was 15. I barely knew him, and now, at age 54, my memory is incomplete and hazy. He was a talented man in many ways but had serious issues with communication.

A poem I wrote about the first time I broke my arm was just accepted for publication today. My father looms in this poem. To sum up, I broke my arm, made it home, told my mother how much it hurt. My mother said to my father, “Would you take her to the hospital?”

She had two other children at home, one a toddler, and was hoping he could pitch in.

My father stood up and flipped over the kitchen table.

These were the kinds of things we lived with. One day, one minute, all would be seemingly well, and the next, the crockery would be broken, the sewing machine tossed out a bedroom window, our bedroom thrashed, the mattresses strewn about. We had not maintained order.

Personal relationships we also put to the same test. One moment I was bugging my father about having someone spend the night, and then next, I was hightailing it around the public pool, trying to escape his arm. Or he was throwing a phone book at my mother. Or he was chasing me around the house because of another annoying request. I was hit and slapped and spanked. I was often scared, knowing that bad things could happen at any moment.

So I’ve known men who think that they can push and shove their way to something. I’m not sure what my father ever really got out of such behavior because, well, he died. Today, I’d ask him if I could. Mostly, I’d want to tell him about the imprint he left on my nervous system. All these years later, I’m still waiting for the crockery to hit the fan.

So I don’t want a man like Trump in office. One minute, we are casually listening to a politician. The next? A man detailing how he will grab a woman’s pussy. Or a man who laughs in our faces about not paying taxes, smirking that he’s “Smart.” A man who imitates disabled people, women with pneumonia, and the American people in general.

We are all his bitches, just sitting here waiting for him to grab us. If he is elected, it won’t matter if it’s pussy or balls. We will all be running around the pool, trying to escape.

I’m going to do what I can to ensure he isn’t elected. I really hope the rest of you will, too.

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