Madolyn Duncan

632 Madison Avenue

I shoved my socked foot into my old, gray Nike shoe as angry tears streamed down my round,

blotchy-red face. What are you doing? my mom angrily demanded, Youre not going now, not after

that fit. I refused to look up or acknowledge her question. I looked anywhere but at her. I looked at the

walls, the fridge, and the tall cabinets that reached the ceiling. They seemed to tower over me like my

mother did. I gritted my teeth and continued to tie my shoes as I sat on the kitchen floor. It took all of the

self-control my eleven year-old mind could muster. Answer me! she yelled. That was it. I stood up and

faced my mother. Leave me alone! I screamed, not only matching her volume, but well exceeding it.

She too had reached the end of her rope. She raised her arm to backhand my disrespecting mouth, but I

bolted out of the back door, through the gate, and began to sprint down Madison Avenue. Pretty ironic

for a girl who started a fight by refusing to go to the park to run with her family.

More tears came as I ran down the sidewalk on the side of the brick road. Many roads in the

West End of Huntington, West Virginia were made of brick. During the Depression the city had hired

unemployed men to build the brick roads in order to create jobs. After decades of economic stagnation,

the city still had yet to pave them. The dilapidated houses that blurred past me reflected the economic

decline that my hometown was still experiencing. I turned and glanced back at the red brick house,

warm and friendlyuntil you saw the six-foot fence that lined the side yard. The house was built by my

paternal great-grandparents. Owen, who was the mayor of Huntington up until his death in 1973, and his

wife Dorothy Duncan had been well-known and respected members of the community. Their two story

house had been the gathering place of the neighborhood in its prime years of the fifties and sixties.
When we first moved to 632 Madison Avenue, it had seemed safe and protected from the neighborhood

which was full of drug dealers and other questionable people. Now it just looked menacing and harsh.

The red brick didnt look warm and friendly, it looked angry and rigid. The six foot fence was less

protecting and more imprisoning. Suppressing a sob, I continued to run. I was scared. Stories of

abductions and break-ins swarmed into my mind. The heat and anger that had fueled my fire was

waning, but I still held too much pride to turn back.

Like any frightened, overweight child would, I eventually gave up. My mother, as mad as she

was, had come running after me and finally caught up with me as I sat on the sidewalk four or five

blocks from my house. Breathing heavily she approached me. My tears were now sorrowful as she

scolded me. Looking back now, I can see the relief in her eyes I had failed to notice then. Our anger had

been deflated by the scary, over-the-top experience we had gone through. We slowly walked back to the

restrictive house that was still full of people and emotions. I took my punishment and went upstairs,

retreating to my bedroom. The rage and pride I had felt not even twenty minutes earlier was now

replaced with regret and sorrow. Why did I always have to screw things up? Why couldnt I have just

given in? I sat on my bed and glanced around at the brightly colored walls and book shelves of the room

I shared with my three sisters. The pink and orange walls of my bedroom contrasted with my gray and

black mood. Their garishness seemed to impose upon me as feelings of resentment towards my parents

as well as regret for my actions took turns washing over me. This room, this house, was supposed to

give us more space for our expanding family, but it still seemed too small. Too crowded. Too binding.

And yet it only held one semi-dysfunctional family.

In my preteen years, I was the primary cause of the dysfunction. Strong-willed and pig-headed, I

could never let go, sit down, or shut up. My temper was as short as I was. It earned me the attention of
my parents, who I just wanted to leave me alone, and the resentment of my four siblings. If Madolyn

werent here, we wouldnt fight so much, was a phrase I had heard coming from my brother or sisters

more than once. I didnt realize that my behavior alienated me from the relationships I longed for with

my family members. I didnt realize that my parents suffocating rules and punishments were acts of love

and desperate attempts to figure out how best to handle my demanding personality. It never seemed to

work.

I can remember the vanity and mirror in the master bedroom, a common gathering place of our

home. My parents room was hugeabout three times the size of my room. It held a loveseat, over-sized

arm chair, and across from it was the TV. Against the beige wall, just to the right of the window, was a

small desk that held a computer. On the right side of the room, my parents king-sized bed sat against the

back wall. We spent many hours in that room watching movies, folding laundry, having arguments

followed by tearful conversations of apology. But most of all, I remember the vanity. The vanity desk

with the bright lights and mirror was built right into the wall. I spent hours sitting at the vanity,

begrudgingly learning how to do my hair and makeup. I kind of hate that thing. Dont get me wrong, it

was a nice mirror. It had three panes, each situated at a forty-five degree angle, which made it possible to

see all the way around your headvery handy for curling or straightening your hair. I avoided using that

thing like the plague. I hated looking at myself, and that mirror made it all too clear that I was indeed an

ugly child. I was overweight. My frizzy hair was always pulled into a low ponytail, and the curly baby

hairs that framed my round, chubby face were constantly pulled back by a tight headband or metal clips.

My wardrobe consisted of baggy t-shirts and loose-fitting shorts and sweats that made me look like a

sack of potatoes. My mother refused to let me stick to my tween style. Oh no, I was constantly

commanded to straighten my hair and to do my makeup. I know now she was only trying to help me

look nice, so that I could feel better about myself, but I didnt understand that at the time. I just knew
that I hated standing in that mirror and looking at myself for hours, so I resisted, whined and argued my

way out of it. When youre a preteen girl, and you hate yourself, and then feel attacked with missiles of

disapproval surrounding your looks and behavior, you fire back. I suppose that is the root of my ugly

behavior. I felt hated and attacked, so naturally, the logical decision was to fight back. So thats what my

subconscious decided to doarguing and anger became my automatic first response, and I felt that I had

no control over my behavior.

I back-talked my dad once (well, more than once, but you get the idea), and his temper was the

only one who could rival my own in its quickness. I dont remember what was said, or why we fought,

but I remember it resulting in my father, clumsy in his anger, attempting to rip the mattress off the top

bunk bed, while my mother, with her arms crossed over her chest, shook her head wearily, saying Jay,

you cant take her mattress. I had pushed my parents so far they ran out of effective punishments. But I

wasnt done yet. A couple of months later, I threw a building block through the window in the upstairs

hallway. I broke my finger punching a large, wooden book shelf my great-grandparents had custom

made for the house. I threw a shoe at the wall in my bedroom and made a hole in it. I hit, punched,

scratched, bit and slapped pretty much everyone I lived with. We were homeschooled at the time, and

Mom even had to move my desk upstairs, away from my siblings so that we could complete our school

work with minimal arguments. I can only imagine the hell I put my parents through without realizing it.

Im sure they thought that they were failing.

But I did learn. Eventually. It took nights of fighting, apologies, tears, groundings, forgiveness,

screaming matches, and constant tough love from my parents, but I did learn. It definitely didnt happen

overnightit didnt even happen while we still lived in Huntington. I went to a counselor with LDS

Family Servicesone my parents scrimped and sacrificed to pay for. Over the next two to three years I
began fighting an uphill battle that in many ways continues to this day, but my parents are always right

behind me. They are the reason I have good memories in the house on Madison Avenue. My home and

family began to seem less confining, and more comforting. I remember creating little plays with my

siblings in front of the fireplace in the living room, making Lego houses with my little brother, Noah, in

his tiny room, staying up late to watch High School Musical with my sisters, Emily and Eleanor, in the

playroom, and getting to stay up way past bedtime because Mom and Dad got distracted showing us the

music they listened to when they were teenagers. Years later, my mom asked me if I thought she screwed

me and my siblings up. I couldnt express to her enough how well she had raised usnot perfectly, but

exactly what my brother and sisters and I needed, and still need.

As a preteen, my home was never good enough. The house was too small, we didnt have many

video games, we only had one Ken doll whose head we hadnt knocked off, my brother and sisters

werent fun to play with, we werent the wealthiest family, our backyard was boring, and there were

huge, jumping camel crickets in our basement. My friends houses were always more fun and exciting.

There was so much I took for granted while living at 632 Madison Avenue. The house itself was pretty

and inviting. A laundry chute ran from my room to the downstairs closet, which as a ten year old was a

really cool thing. More importantly, there was so much history in that house. My family built it. It was

full of the furniture purchased carefully by my great grandmother. Both my mother and fathers family

lived nearby. As small as the house was, my life was changed thereor rather it began to change there.

I certainly wasnt perfect when I turned fourteen and we moved to North Carolina. I was happy to leave

Huntington, to leave the house on Madison Avenue, but sometimes I miss it. Tell me I was just a little

girl going through puberty, and that was how most silly little girls act in that situation. Whatever. I just

know that if it wasnt for my parents and the time I spent in the house on Madison Avenue, then I would

not be the person I am today.

Works Consulted

Duncan, Susan. Personal interview. 27 and 28 Apr. 2016.

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"Huntington, West Virginia." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation. Web. 02 May 2016.