Silent Cry

by Dorothy J. Newton

  An abundance of thanks to my entire Zondervan team. Although they are numerous, I’d like to single out Dirk Buursma, John Sloan, Alicia Kasen, and Curt Diepenhorst. You’ve done an excellent and professional job, and I really appreciate it!

  Finally and foremost, I thank God for opening this window of opportunity.

  PART 1

  Childhood

  CHAPTER 1

  The Storm

  Living is strife and torment,

  disappointment and love and sacrifice,

  golden sunsets and black storms.

  Laurence Olivier

  September 1965. Tornado sirens wail their warning as ominous dark clouds gather overhead. Hurricane Betsy is fast approaching, promising damage and destruction to everything in her path.

  I look around our small trailer. This is home to my mom, stepfather, me, and my brothers and sisters. Every room is a bedroom, but only three tiny rooms hold the official title. The place is crowded, and we take up every square inch of space. I sense my mother’s anxiety growing, but my four-year-old mind can’t fully comprehend why. She is packing at a feverish pace, shoving belongings into a few small suitcases. I glance at the overhead compartments in the hallway. They hold precious new pencils, notebooks, and art supplies we need for the new school year. Why isn’t Mother packing these? What about my pillow? Surely we can’t leave without my Easy-Bake Oven! Where are we going anyway? The sirens seem to be getting closer and closer, and I cover my ears to shut them out.

  I grab my mother’s sleeve as she squeezes a suitcase together and then snaps it shut. I ask her about my Easy-Bake Oven. She pauses mid-frenzy, attempting to focus calm attention in my direction. She strokes my hair and cups her hand beneath my chin, explaining that we can take only what we can carry. Tears well up in her eyes, and she closes them for a brief moment, quickly wiping the tears away before they spill down her cheeks. We don’t have a car, so our only means of escape is public transportation.

  We board a school bus heading for shelter at a navy base located in Belle Chase, Louisiana. My mother leads the way. My stepfather is a pace behind, his leg in a cast, and four small children under the age of five scramble to keep up with both of them while carrying all that our little arms could hold.

  We huddle closely to my mother, who instinctively herds us together for safety. I am afraid. I don’t understand the word uncertainty, but I feel the weight of it. The storm takes the shape of a menacing villain — and it is out to get us. Will it follow us? When can we go home? Will my things still be there for me to play with?

  My mother does her best to be calm, repeatedly telling us that everything will be alright. But her eyes constantly sweep across the parking lot, searching the horizon for something . . . only she knows what.

  When the storm finally passed, our family was safe, but we had no home to return to. All that remained of our possessions was contained in a few suitcases. We were homeless. For a short season, we took up shelter with various relatives. School started up again, but I was no longer excited about it. In fact, I was frightened to leave my mother and cried every day, begging her to let me stay with her. She tried to calm my fears and reassure me by accompanying me to Ms. Stivinson’s class. Ms. Stivinson would then place me on her lap, smile sweetly, and tell me in a soft, reassuring voice how nicely I was dressed or how pretty I was. In time, her kindness melted my fears, and my discomfort dissolved into trust.

  Eventually, we did have our own place again, but there were still dark clouds on the horizon. Hurricane Betsy wasn’t the only storm I had to navigate early in life. Another tempest was brewing, and the damage this one threatened was much more devastating than loss of property. My stepfather drank. And whenever he drank too much, he became violent. Every day, he fought with my mother, hurling physical, verbal, and emotional blows that bruised her body, mind, and soul. I did my best to shut out the abuse by pretending it wasn’t happening, but it sickened me. I had no idea how to escape, but I began to dream we all would one day fly away from him and go somewhere where we could live — happy and free.

  In spite of the abuse, my mother was a strong woman, and she took very good care of us. By 1970, we were a family with six children, and no matter how unhappy or trapped she felt, she was determined to instill good values and morals into our fragile, young minds.

  On Sundays, she dressed us in our best outfits and sent us walking down a country road to Pilgrim Rest Baptist Church. Other children fidgeted during service, drew on church bulletins, and whispered their way through Sunday sermons — but not me. For me, church was a haven. People there were kind, and I loved to go to church. My Sunday school teacher, Ms. Pinkins, allowed me to read Scripture aloud for the class and to record attendance. This made me feel special and important. By the time I was eight, she taught me how to handle tithe envelopes, count money, and keep records in the church book.

  And then it happened again. A ferocious storm named Hurricane Camille hit Louisiana, Mississippi, and the Gulf Coast in August 1969, threatening to uproot us once more. However, this time, though our home and Pilgrim Rest Baptist Church were damaged, all was not lost. The evacuation was shorter, and it wasn’t long before things were repaired and in some ways better than ever.

  I continued to thrive and take on new responsibilities at church. By the age of ten, I was the designated narrator for Christmas and Easter plays. One Sunday, I was asked to give the welcome address for our minister, Reverend Hardy, before he preached his sermon. This led to invitations from other churches to tell Bible stories, read Scripture, and even to lead the choir in singing the classic hymn, “In the Garden.” At times, I traveled with my sisters Muriel and Helaine as far as sixty miles to New Orleans or across the river to Pointe à la Hache to be welcomed as guests of other churches.

  No matter how difficult things were at home, church filled me with joy. I was safe and happy there. Scripture took on meaning and filtered through my adolescent mind to influence my thoughts and choices. I understood the importance of prayer and supplication and knew I could bring my requests to God daily. Of course, the one thing I asked for most was for my parents to stop arguing and for my stepfather to stop drinking. My relationship with God became the most important thing in my life. His overwhelming love for me would sustain me through all the storms yet to come.

  CHAPTER 2

  Keeby’s Kids

  A parent’s love is whole no matter how many times divided.

  Robert Brault

  My biological father was out of my life by the time I turned three. The only daddy I ever really knew was my stepfather, Lester. When he married my mother, she had three small children. In no time, more little ones came along, and three children became six. Gary was the oldest, then me, followed by Muriel, Helaine, John, and finally Leslie. Ten short years spanned the difference between the oldest and youngest child, so when we lined up in a row, we literally looked like little stair steps.

  Each day, my stepfather woke up and faithfully went to his job as a crane operator. He made a decent living, and for a long season, things were pretty good for us financially. Lester was a man of simple tastes, and when he came home, my mother always had something hearty and piping hot waiting for him to eat. I remember fondly the smell of red beans and rice simmering on the stove, our little trailer in spotless order, all the clothes washed and ironed, and my mother having everything just so in time for his arrival home.

  My mother’s given name was Ethel, but everyone called her Keeby. She worked hard to make sure her family was well mannered and well-thought-of. In the early days, when money was available, she had our clothing made for us. Sometimes she would take us to New Orleans to shop for clothes. Those were good, good times. She was so proud to see her children in nice things. Everybody called us “Keeby’s Kids,” and we were always dressed in matching outfits. We knew how to behave ourselves, mind our manners, be respectful of our elders, and make a good impression wherever we went. My mother s
miled from ear to ear when people commented on how well behaved we were. We loved seeing her smile, and that was reward enough. As the oldest of thirteen children, my mother learned how to cook, clean, and take care of a family at a young age. By third grade, she dropped out of school to stay at home to help take care of her brothers and sisters. She didn’t have an opportunity to learn how to read and could barely write her name, but she carried herself with dignity and authority. She was intelligent and always conducted her business as aptly as any professional woman. She commanded great respect everywhere she went. When she took me with her to the store to fill out checks, it never occurred to me that she couldn’t do it for herself. I thought she was just teaching me how to do it so I could learn. The same was true when she asked me to read Scripture out loud in the evenings. Oh, how she loved the Bible! I never dreamed she asked me because she couldn’t read.

  Because my mother was such a gifted and respected communicator, few people knew her secret. It wasn’t until I was in high school and asked for her help with an algebra problem one night that I discovered the extent of her limitations. I was forced to swallow the bitter pill of my mother’s illiteracy, and I was shocked. In my eyes, she had always been brilliant. However, when I realized how much she had accomplished in spite of this huge obstacle, I respected her even more.

  Like all the women in our family, she was strong — she had to be. Others depended on her, and she wouldn’t let them down, no matter what. Ours was definitely a matriarchal culture. The women established the moral and religious structure for the family. They set the rules, provided the discipline, and taught the lessons. They were the glue that held everyone together, kept our spirits high in hard times, and created a community that cared deeply for each other and looked after its own. And there were plenty of us to look after.

  Eleven of my aunts and uncles lived less than a quarter mile from our home. Even the smallest occasion was a reason to gather, make mountains of food, and spend long afternoons talking and playing with cousins. No one had a large home. In fact, most of us lived in trailers. To this day, I can’t quite remember how we managed to get everyone together in one place for a giant Louisiana-style crawfish boil, but we did. It was wonderful! For Christmas, we all gathered at Grandma’s house. Everyone brought something to eat, and we got all dressed up in our Sunday best. There was love and laughter and practical jokes and family gossip and drama — it was crazy and crowded and absolutely the most wonderful time you can imagine. I loved spending time with my family, and I felt very special to be part of them. It was the only life I ever knew — a life filled with people who cared about you, shared your joys and your sorrows, picked you up when you were down, and made life worth living. And God was in the center of my immediate family. Our faith in him was solid.

  My aunts were especially good to me. Auntie Melvina threw parties and often made treats for me and my friends. Auntie Helen took the best clothes out of her closet for me to wear on special occasions. Over the years, Auntie Dee Dee called to check on me and sent me letters. Auntie Red made my favorite foods as a treat and occasionally gave me just a little something that made me feel special.

  For a variety of reasons, I began to experience tension with my younger siblings during this time. Being singled out for special assignments at church and school meant I had privileges they didn’t. To make matters worse, I got good grades and was popular at school. Because I was the oldest girl in the family, it was also my job to help the younger ones with homework, make sure everything was taken care of for school, and be the disciplinarian when necessary. My “rank” clearly annoyed my siblings. They called me “Goody Two-Shoes” and “Miss Bossy.” When they were really irritated with me, they called me “Pie Face” — or the one I hated most (and they knew it): “Miss Princess La-La.”

  Without really understanding why, I pulled away from my siblings and looked instead to my aunts for companionship, particularly my auntie Dee Dee. She had gotten married when she was just eighteen and moved away to California. Even though she was far away, she wrote me letters, encouraged me to do well in school, and counseled me about things in my life that troubled me. She was my link to a world bigger than our small Louisiana community, and I was hungry to discover things outside our little circle.

  I knew I was destined for greater things. I believed God had a purpose for my life that was bigger than anything I could yet imagine. And yet there was a shadow lurking — a dark shadow that cast its coldness over everything warm and beautiful and good.

  CHAPTER 3

  Evil Drink

  Wine hath drowned more men than the sea.

  Thomas Fuller

  My stepfather, Lester, was a wonderful, loving man — until he drank. I often wondered if the alcohol revealed his true nature, or if the drink itself was responsible for his vicious behavior. Though I can’t remember a single day he didn’t get up and go to work, as I got older, there were fewer and fewer nights he came home right after work. Instead, he went into town and poured himself into a bottle until nothing of his gentle nature remained.

  The good times became careful times. The careful times became difficult times, and it wasn’t long until we were in really bad shape. Lester continued working every day, but money stopped coming into the household. Liquor led to gambling. The greater the losses at the gambling table, the greater his need for alcohol. He stumbled home late at night, filled to the brim with rage, and took out his frustrations on my mother.

  She tried everything to calm him down — fixing him hot food in the middle of the night, figuring out what she had done to displease him, and trying to change herself in hopes of somehow making him better. It wasn’t long until evidence of extramarital affairs appeared, and when my mother confronted him, things got even worse. The more his life spun out of control, the more he fought to dominate and control our little world at home. Abuse became an everyday reality, and my mother was locked in the crosshairs of his anger and violence.

  When there was no longer enough money even for food, my mother began looking for work. Because she couldn’t read, I went with her to help her fill out job applications. After weeks of searching, she landed a job as a custodian at our school in Buras, Louisiana. It was the only school in town, and everyone from kindergarteners through high school seniors attended there. My mother was so excited to have a job and make her own money. She could work during the same hours we were in school and then be home with us when school let out.

  In order to stretch our meager budget, my mother supplemented our meals with scraps she brought home from the school cafeteria. She wasn’t stealing, mind you. She brought home only what the children threw away. She prayed over it, cut off any edges that had bite marks, and developed creative ways to turn this castaway cuisine into something we could survive on. When I discovered what she was doing, I was horrified and disgusted. At the time, I didn’t see it as resourceful and brave. I didn’t understand how committed she was to our survival — no matter what.

  My mother scrimped and was frugal, but she also loved to be generous whenever she could. I will never forget the first Christmas after she had a job. We rarely received Christmas presents or birthday gifts, but my mother had carefully saved a portion of each paycheck until she had enough money to buy something special for each of us. My sisters and I received monogram rings, and the boys each got a bicycle. I’ll never know how she did it, but she found a way. No matter how tight money was or how tired she was from working or fending off my stepfather, she always found ways to do special things for us and express her love for us.

  Living in a small, close-knit community meant everyone knew everyone else’s business. When my stepfather came home raging in the middle of the night, my siblings and I sometimes tried to step in and mediate. On many occasions, one or more of us would run outside and plead for help. My older brother Gary wanted desperately to protect Mother, but he was no match for our stepfather.

  Our relatives and neighbors would try to answer our cries w
hen the fight was on, and sometimes the police would come, but my stepfather held some inexplicable power over all of them. Whenever he started talking, it was like he cast a magic spell on people. Though the evidence of the abuse was as plain as day, and we had been there to witness it all, he was always able to explain it all away. Because he had a reputation as a hard worker and was loved and respected by everyone, no one wanted to believe he was capable of such violence. His behavior toward my mother so contradicted the “daytime version” of his life that it left our family and neighbors just as confused about him as we were.

  Somehow, what happened in our home was considered a private matter between a man and his wife — therefore, it should not be interfered with. It was like some unspoken code. There was a deeply ingrained, dangerous tolerance for domestic violence in our community. The women shook their heads in sympathy and prayed silently — too many of them had also been victims of violence at one time or another.

  I coped by throwing myself into my schoolwork, carving out a place for myself in the top tiers of my class. I was involved in everything a student could possibly be involved in, and Buras High School was my haven. My drive to succeed went far beyond the classroom. I learned to channel the frustrations of my home life into the positive energy of competitive athletics, where my focus and natural abilities soon brought me to the front of the pack.

  The problem was that participating in athletics cost money, and I needed to pay for everything from tennis shoes and uniforms to registration fees and travel. By this time, we had even less money to live on, and my mother’s salary didn’t allow for any extras. I felt guilty having to ask her for money to purchase what I needed. Sometimes she had to take out small loans to keep us kids supplied. Because of her good reputation and kindness, people were often willing to lend a helping hand. But as I grew older and was increasingly aware of our plight, I often pretended I didn’t need anything so I could somehow lighten her burden.