At nine years old, I learned to keep things to myself.

 

I learned in the five seconds it took to stuff my family into the basement, lock the door, and clamp my hands over my baby brother’s ears. It was my fault. I’d interrupted him when he was trying to teach her a lesson. I told him that he wouldn't hurt her if he loved her, and now I'm learning the same lesson that she'd learned a million times before.

 

At eleven years old, I learned to mind my own damn business.

 

If I hadn’t followed my crying mother out the front door, I wouldn’t have to know what a despicable cheater she was. If I’d gone to my room like he told me to, I wouldn’t have to hide the violet hues on my wrist from when he dragged me back into the house.

 

At twelve years old, I learned to expect nothing.

 

Begging for Mom to leave him is out of line. Calling the police is melodramatic. Avoiding him is disrespectful and I will deserve whatever punishment he and the rest of the world sees fit. I’ve considered running away to England or Finland or even Australia, where children don't have to hide because they are finally receiving some protection against the adults that are supposed to be advocating for them. But I can’t afford airfare and I can’t afford to leave my mother fend for herself. I’m just a child, but she's my responsibility.

 

At thirteen years old, I learned to grow up.

 

In China, I’d have to be eighteen to file a complaint against him, but in America, I can’t even testify. My guidance counselor told me that I shouldn’t be afraid to speak up, but the state told me that I’m not allowed to. I’m not old enough to make my case. I'm not old enough to have a case. My wounds are nothing more than superficial bruises, never mind the fearful screams that echo through my brain.  What I have been through should remain private because children should be seen and not heard and my testimony is no exception. Speech is an act of rebellion and I can’t rebel without becoming his personal punching bag again.

 

At fourteen years old, I learned to shrink myself.

 

Sticks and stones never broke my bones but his words tore me into pieces and left me as a hollow, withered version of myself. I could cry and scream and beg him to leave me alone but I’m the child and he’s the adult and the adult always knows better. He doesn’t want me to exist as anything more than a slave to his whims so I choose not to exist at all. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t speak because I no longer have enough energy to force my vocal chords to vibrate. I am silent, shaken, submissive, shocked by the concerned stares in my direction. Isn't this exactly how I'm supposed to be?

 

At sixteen years old, I learned to fight.

 

Just because I’m not supposed to be heard, doesn’t mean that I cannot speak. I’m lucky enough to live in a country of progression, not a place like Armenia where I wouldn’t even be able to choose my husband or raise my own child. Enough is enough. I’m tired of panicking because I asked a question aloud and that kind of disrespect deserves a beating. I’m tired of waiting to be old enough to understand, because no amount of ‘life experience’ will make it okay to hit a child. I’m tired of adults asking why children don’t tell anyone where that black eye came from and rolling their eyes at our cries for help all at once.

 

So please, tell me that children should be seen and not heard, that we’re too small too spineless to stand up for ourselves. But if we’re so defenseless, why aren’t you defending us?