When I was three years old, I picked up a book written by Jerry Smath. The title was “But No Elephants.” When I read the word elephants on the front cover, I felt like a grown up. It was a big word for me to read by myself, and I was so excited! I sat down to read it, and that book not only changed me, but quite possibly saved my life.
I read the entire book. It was about a lady buying different animals, and after each different animal came in, she would say, “but no elephants!” Lo and behold, an elephant came to the house, and was standing outside freezing in the snow. Of course she let him in, and being only three, I was so excited, and so happy for the elephant! Since the day I read that book, I became a bookworm and have never looked back.
That book was so important to me because it meant escape. I had no friends. I had my imagination, and I had books. When I would read, I could escape the brutal reality of my life.
For brief moments, my birth mother didn’t abandon me. I wasn’t missing a pinky finger because of my alcoholic grandmother’s pet ferret biting it off. I could escape to a land where the pain of the beating I had just received faded into the background. I could exist in a land where my first adoptive mother wasn’t forcing me to let babysitters rape me, in exchange for free babysitting for my sister and I. I could pretend for a little while that she wasn’t going to get drunk, and come in and beat me in the middle of the night, in the dark, with no place for me to run and hide.
By the time I was four, I figured out that I could pull all of the clothes out of my dresser onto the closet floor with me. I could pull all of the clothes off the hangers in my closet into the pile, and turn on the bare lightbulb. I slept in my closet with a book to read, and the light on, so that I could see a way to escape.
I was given a puppy when I was six. It was my first dog, a beagle that I named Socks. I then had two friends. I had my books, and I had Socks. I loved that dog more than I loved books. I told him my secrets, I spent every free moment with him. He licked my tears, and snuggled up to me, perhaps realizing just how much I needed love.
One day, about six months after getting Socks, I didn’t set the table properly. I had been outside reading a book to him, and was still in the land of the book, and forgot to put the forks on the left hand side of the plate. I put them on the right hand side, and the spoon and knife on the left hand side.
When my mom came looking for me outside, I could hear the tone in her voice, and I knew that whatever was about to happen, it would not be good. I assumed the shotgun in her hands was for the possum that kept getting into the chicken coop. When she told me to have Socks sit beside me, I realized that she was only mad about the possum, and felt a swell of gratitude because she cared enough about Socks to have me make sure he was out of the way.
When the shotgun went off, my puppy was dead. My mother had shot him in the head. I screamed and screamed while his blood ran down my pants and onto my shoes. The screams stopped when she hit me in the head with the shovel that she told me use to dig a grave and bury him. She set out a galvanized tub, and an old washboard that she told me use to clean my clothes, and to get all of the blood off of my pants before I dared to set foot inside the house.
That was my punishment for having set the table wrong. I finally made it inside that night, about eleven o’clock. With no more tears left to cry, a rumbling stomach because I missed dinner, and a fear that I had never felt before. I quietly crawled into the closet to wait. The pain in my heart made me feel that nothing was safe. I abandoned the Nancy Drew book that I had been reading, and curled up with my copy of “But No Elephants.” I knew there would be no comforting hug, no apology, no one to help me deal with the pain that threatened to rip me to shreds.
I didn’t have to wait long. After the first two times she punched me, I was able to grab my book, and run outside. I spent that night by Sock’s grave, and I read to him. I read that book all night long, over and over again; by morning I was hoarse and had no voice left. I had no puppy left. But I did still have my books.
Over the years, as the abuse escalated, I truly believe that the brief moments of escape into the world of imaginary characters is what enabled me to keep my sanity. I continued to read, and books continued to be my best, and only friends.
When I think back on that very first book, I know it changed my life by giving me an escape route when my reality was too hard to deal with. I could probably say the same no matter which book it would have been that I picked up, but to this day, my favorite book is still “But No Elephants.” I don’t know where I would be today if I hadn’t picked up that book, quite possibly in a padded rubber room somewhere.
Today I have animals. I have dogs, cats, rabbits, and a gecko, but unfortunately, no elephants.
