“Well now,” he began, “the lawyer tells me we have to call up this enterprise zone public hearing, but we can make it quick.” His towering figure leaned far forward over the dais, and he swung his gavel like the rifle he was famous for shooting grackles with all over town. If “looks could kill” was the message in his glaring eyes that were aimed right at me. “I don’t believe there is anyone here to speak on the matter. Am I right?” The crowd tensed. The mayor was a wealthy and powerful man and ran the city like he ran his multimillion-dollar agribusiness.
I sat ramrod straight in my chair and lifted my head up higher to face him. Out of the hundred or so folks in the room, I alone raised my hand to be recognized to speak. There was an audible hush in the room. “We know what you want to say, young lady,” quipped the mayor. “We have already heard all about your tax favors and I am not inclined to give out tax breaks to you or anyone else for that matter.”
“I still request to be heard, Mayor.”
“Can’t stop you, young lady, but you got three minutes tops.” He dramatically scooted back in his mayor’s chair, theatrically reclined, and lifted his wrist to eye level so his watch was clearly visible and the crowd could witness the charade.
“Then I will make it quick, Mayor,” I began as I walked toward the podium. “I understand that your primary concern about the proposed enterprise zone is that it would give tax breaks, and you don’t like giving out tax breaks in general. But that is not completely true, is it?” I looked him squarely in the eye. His wrist came down. “Last year the city gave tens of thousands of dollars to military veterans.”
I paused because I knew my next sentence would provoke him. “In fact, you may be aware that the City of Resaca exempted several million dollars this year from agricultural interests, including yours. So you can’t really say you are against tax breaks, right?”
The mayor blew up. He rose out of his chair and banged the gavel repeatedly, then hollered, “This hearing is closed.” BANG! He turned to the council and asked for an immediate vote from the members. Slowly but surely each one registered his or her support for establishing an enterprise zone in our city. The city secretary called for a break, and I darted out of the building feeling like David who had just brandished his slingshot at Goliath. Wow, indeed! Resaca was going to create its enterprise zone after all.
Later, after the council meeting where the mayor’s vote was indeed superceded, I was home sipping some wine and thinking back on the day. “One never knows what may happen. I sure did not expect today to turn out this way.” I unzipped my office attire and slipped on my sleepwear. I winced when it caught on a swollen part of a deep scar still pink and tender. A small involuntary tear broke out on my face. I realized then that for a few hours that day I had forgotten my omnipresent pain. The adrenaline … I supposed. Now back to my bed and some well deserved sleep. “Oh!” I wished my cuts would stop itching and give me back some peace.
20
SPOTLIGHT IN THE CAPITOL
In mid-October that year, I was contacted by the U.S. Congressman representing south Texas. He called personally to let me know that the enterprise zone bill was scheduled for testimony in early November. He mentioned that I might expect a formal invitation to testify before the House Ways and Means Committee too. Wow! I mean Wow!
As I began to think through what I might say in the hearing, and how to best convey the urgent need for the proposed federal tax incentives, I thought that an elected official might be a more impressive messenger. On an impulse, I called my representative. “Is this the one, the only, the Honorable Chuy?” I was making a bit of fun.
“Oh, Ms. M. How are you doin’?” he asked.
“How would you like to join me in Washington, D.C., and testify before the Ways and Means Committee?”
He chuckled. “Going anywhere with you is always interesting. Sure, I will go with you!”
I thought he would be an excellent addition to the group as an elected official from south Texas, a Hispanic, and a person thoroughly knowledgeable about the provisions of the program. Now that he agreed, I had to work fast to get him on the panel to testify. After a few phone calls over the course of a week, I secured him a seat on the panel. I was having fun!
I touched base with my friend in the White House on my speech draft. Heck, he was a presidential speech-writer after all. We faxed drafts frantically back and forth until my friend and I were pleased with the presentation. I so looked forward to seeing him again! I felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect. He was one handsome and smart guy. “I could give him some extra squeeze,” I thought wickedly.
When I arrived in Washington, I was interviewed by journalists interested in my story and my drive to convince lawmakers to implement the program I supported. I shared with them that many of us were convinced that an official designation by the state and federal governments to use this program would be the best approach to reduce the pervasive 20 percent unemployment of our area.
My piercing intensity underscored that the stabbing had more than a physical effect on me. I expressed to the writers that I realized that anything can happen to anybody, no matter how outrageous it might appear. And if a person has a goal to achieve, there is no time to waste because “you can get run over by a truck tomorrow.” I was uncomfortable about talking about the incident, but wanted to go on record so that others might understand what I had been through and might realize that a brutal assault did not necessarily mean a person had to retreat from life, a full life. “Now, there is a cautious edge to my personality that was not there before, but I am not going to let it beat me down. Before this happened, victims of violent crimes were just a statistic to me; now they are very real.”
The big day arrived. I had slept only in fits. I was thankful I got any sleep at all. This was my first time out of town since my assault and I would not—could not—consider a hotel room. I called my Aunt Jane, who was a U.S. Army colonel stationed in the area. A smart and spry three-pack-a-day smoker, she had a caustic wit honed from years of being the only woman in groups of army officers.
Jane picked me up at the National Airport and helped me with my bags and into the car. We were both excited and running over each other’s sentences. When we arrived at her home, I eased myself out of the car and stretched as well as I could to chase away the cramps from sitting so long. Her roommate greeted us at the door. In the foyer, I glanced in a large Japanese framed mirror and noticed my facial powder around my nose needed a boost. My nose scar was a little more red and aggravated than usual. Maybe it was the stress of the altitude, or the stress of my first air trip. Anyway, I felt safe now.
Over dinner and a glass of wine, we got caught up and then Jane threw out the big question. “Did that guy try to rape you?”
Unfortunately, that was a question that was pressed on me in virtually every conversation or formal discussion about the assault. Over time I became less offended by it.
“No, it wasn’t a rape. He didn’t seem to have a sexual motivation, or maybe he did not have the opportunity. All I knew was that plastic was being stuffed down my throat and he was hitting me on my back. I did not know he had a knife until much later in the hospital.”
With kindness and concern, my aunt shepherded the conversation to the next day’s events and ushered me up to the spare guest room early in the evening. I was asleep before my head touched my feather pillow.
Jane crept back in later to take the outfit I had hung on the mirror door into her room to iron. I had selected a smart black and white herringbone fitted jacket, white blouse with a fluffy oversized bow, and a slim black skirt. My shoes were black, flat, and very sensible. Jane approved.
The next morning held crisp fall air, and the last remaining autumn leaves were clinging to bare trees. Remnants of Halloween decorations were on the occasional porch and a few trees still had tissue paper waving about between branches. My aunt dropped me off at the door of the U.S. House of Representatives. I found my way around the stairs to
an elevator. The chatty attendant saw my cane and realized I needed a little extra time to ease into that tiny space. Although I dearly wanted to proudly ascend those white stairs to the building, I needed my strength for the testimony. I made my way through the corridors and met up with State Representative Hinojosa in the Texas congressman’s office. The ubiquitous stacks of proposed bills filled the cramped outer office. Congressman “Kika” de la Garza came out to greet us both with a wide warm smile. His chief of staff, Cecelia, came to the reception area as well, with big hugs all around.
Our small entourage visited quietly in his comfortable inner office to touch bases, then we gathered our files and followed the congressman to the Ways and Means Committee room. My first impression was how cavernous and spacious the room was. I looked up and appraised the very high ceiling before my eyes swept the crowd. There appeared to be several panels of witnesses called from all over the country. I scanned the room for other women and found two or three shuffling papers. As the panel before mine concluded, the representative and I whispered encouraging words to each other and approached the table.
The committee clerk called aloud for Ms. Garrett and State Representative Juan Hinojosa. I was listed on the agenda first and I adjusted the slim flexible microphone to suit me. I impulsively chose not to read my written statement, preferring to engage the committee instead. Congressman Rangel was vice chair at the time and was leading the witness panel. His sanctimonious attitude was almost palpable when he called my name. I looked to my left and to my right at the panelists already sitting in their places. I was the only woman to testify on that bill that day.
Ms. Garrett: Mr. Chairman, a year has passed since the fall of the Mexican peso. Rio Grande border communities have yet to recover from the devastating effects of the 1982 devaluation. In Resaca, Texas, unemployment remains rampant; last month our area experienced 25 percent unemployment, the second highest in the nation. Retail trade, our second largest employment sector, continues to suffer a 35 percent decline when compared to October 1982. In actual dollars, this represents a loss of almost $200 million from our local economy this year alone.
This situation is not likely to improve without help. By the year 2000, we estimate Resaca and the Rio Grande Valley will need 160,000 new jobs only to maintain our crippling unemployment rate.
How can we create these jobs? There are two basic alternatives: Public infusion of grants, loans, or payroll or, alternatively, private investment into our local area.
If local government officials were offered the choice between long-term permanent jobs and high levels of federal assistance, they would choose the jobs. There is certainly no magical remedy affixed to our tax dollars between the time they are taken from our pockets and the time they are redistributed to our ailing and distressed areas. However, there are some rather obvious implications in giving tax credits to those who hire the disadvantaged and who invest in distressed areas. First and foremost, unless a business actually creates jobs and makes new investments in the enterprise zone, there will be no tax credits given.
Mr. Rangel: Representative Hinojosa, do you want to supplement the Resaca testimony?
Mr. Hinojosa: Thank you, Mr. Chairman.
Mr. Rangel: Do you represent Resaca?
Mr. Hinojosa: Mr. Chairman, I represent District 41 in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas. I will be brief. I was the sponsor of the State Enterprise Zone of the State of Texas and it was passed this past session and it received bipartisan support. There was not a single dissenting vote, and we had a Democratic governor, Mark White, who signed it into law, and it went into effect approximately 60 days ago.
Mr. Rangel: You are the only one on the panel that is an elected official. You have a constituency similar to mine. And your governor sets up a board to review the applications?
Mr. Hinojosa: That is correct.
Mr. Rangel: Has he appointed members to the board yet?
Mr. Hinojosa: He is in the process of appointing the members.
Mr. Rangel: Is it likely that you would know anybody on that board?
Mr. Hinojosa: Yes, I would.
Mr. Rangel: Ms. Garrett, are you going to help the representative in getting one of those enterprise zones in his city?
Ms. Garrett: Yes, as much as I can.
Mr. Rangel: You are a very lucky representative. I wish I shared the support you have.
He grinned at his own remark.
The testimony went very well, and Congressman Rangel had clearly warmed to our plea. My impulsive choice to talk to the committee instead of reading my testimony as the others had done before me had been wise. The conversations were engaging and resulted in an important change in the bill: a requirement that in order to actually get a tax benefit, the business must hire, train, and retain at least one-third of its new employees from among people with low-income backgrounds. It’s all there in the Congressional Record. My work impressed someone in the room. As I moved from my panel table to the back of the committee room, someone from the Office of the President asked to speak with me. He asked if I was going to be in town the next day and would I be interested in joining the president to speak to this issue. He further explained that my south Texas companion and I were among a very few folks who were invited to the Roosevelt Room at the White House to brief President Reagan on their ideas for tax incentives to reinvigorate poor areas of the nation. I mused that my friend, the speech-writer, may have had more than a little to do with the invitation. The quick kiss I gave him surely had nothing to do with it …
Later that evening, Chuy Hinojosa, Jeff Finkle, and I had a small celebratory dinner in a famous but subdued dark paneled drinking establishment. We debriefed the day, joked to ease our tensions, and ruminated on the sidebar conversations we had had out of earshot from each other. Jeff had some particularly good suggestions for Chuy and for my next steps in D.C. We would have to do most of them from our home base in Resaca, where both of us had pressing business engagements, Chuy more than I.
On the way back home, I grabbed a copy of the Washington Post. One of the lead stories was about a new king coming to power in the remote country of Nepal. I thought about Mount Everest and imagined the craggy mountaintop. Was it like the Shangri-La of legends? “Why did that story catch my interest?” I mused, having never been to that bucolic yet rugged part of the world. Later on in the quiet moments during the flight—and later still in contemplative soul-searchings—my gratitude for all of those who had helped me and for all the serendipity that seemed to fall my way stretched out beyond my being toward the angels I just knew were hovering close by.
21
DEEPER WOUNDS
I could not or would not sleep in hotels for many months. When I finally did, it was only after meeting the security personnel directly and putting the management staff on notice that I felt unsafe in general and required a room across from the elevator. That elevator in the Waller Hotel being so close to my room is part of what saved my life, so I was sticking by that strategy.
My mental anguish could be consuming if I let it. Sometimes, I felt this overpowering blackness wash over me like sinking mud. But still I struggled with my emotional pain. I had vivid dreams most nights. I even revisited in my sleep a horrifying dream that took me back into the household when I lived with my family on a military base in Oklahoma. I was a young girl of thirteen.
I was resting on a spectacular lily pad in a calm body of water. The water was deep, way over my head. I was relaxed, happy. The sky was light blue. Then an angular black man appeared on another lily pad. He fell, and struggled. He could not swim. I moved toward him to keep him from drowning. When I tried to guide the lily pad to reach him, hundreds of silver shiny knives came raining from the sky, which had turned angry and dark. The man slid, slowly vanishing under the water, and I knew he was not to be seen or heard from again. Turbulent waters whipped me around and out of control. The knives bore down on me, closer. Slashing, stabbing and thrown by invisible hands. Blood turned t
he water dark crimson. I saw the knives relentlessly tear through my skin.
I forced myself awake on my twin bed. Looking up at the bedroom ceiling my coffin appeared directly above me. I was convinced I was dead. Absolutely dead. When I got up and went into the hall, it felt like another parallel world. Colors were sharper, even in the dark. Sounds were crisper. I turned on the house lights. I felt the walls and the plastic light switch covers. Perhaps I was not dead after all? I went to my parents’ bed and poked them to see if they were alive.
“Mirabelle, what’s wrong, honey?” my mom mumbled, still not fully awake.
“No, nothing, I only wanted to see if you were still here.”
I returned to my bed, rubbing my shoulder along the wall of the hallway for assurance and wondered what had actually happened.
Now, these twenty years later, I recalled that dream and understood for the first time that it was a precursor of the events that came to pass. But I could not have known that then.
I didn’t fight the inevitability of traditional psychological therapy too hard and made the usual appointments with a counselor over the course of most of a year. But the truth was that I never really felt as if I needed it. I was dealing with the emotional trauma in my own way. Maybe it wasn’t the “best” way, whatever that was, and maybe it wasn’t conventional either. But I did what I did.
I had made two deep internal decisions. The first and most fundamental conclusion was that I was not going to live the remainder of my life as a “victim.” This wasn’t as easy a choice as it might sound on the face of it. In the days after my assault, it sometimes seemed like my circle of friends, family, and community would be willing to accept caring for me as a “victim,” if that was what I chose to do. At times I suspected that they predicted this, even though no one actually said anything. My outward lame appearance was disturbing to some. I was still walking with a cane, covered in scars, constantly in pain, and effectively blind in my left eye. I had no way of knowing just how much these injuries would heal over time and how many scars I’d be left with. But even given all that, I made my choice: the scars, be whatever they may be, I was going to go on with my life. Even more, someday—I didn’t know when—I might even try to give some kind of support to other people who’d been through what I’d been through. I knew that was far in the future, but I knew the feeling was definitely there.
Blood on the Threshold Page 7