Silent Cry

by Dorothy J. Newton

  “We can’t stay here in New Orleans anymore,” she said. “We need to go back home.”

  Silence.

  I held my breath. I wasn’t sure what to feel. Waves of emotion rolled over me like the crazy pattern of the waves in the Gulf before an approaching storm. My mind raced. Home? I thought. Is she crazy? He’ll kill us! I was holding a handkerchief in my hands, and I twisted it round and round, trying to settle my mind and emotions.

  “What is the plan?” I finally asked, breaking the silence. “When do you want to go? What do you need me to do?”

  In the next few minutes, my mother rattled off details like a military general. I could tell she had been thinking this through for some time and there would be no changing her mind. She kept assuring all of us that things would be different. She was sure my stepfather would be so happy to have us home that he wouldn’t want to drink anymore. We were less enthusiastic, but as we packed and talked about seeing our aunts and cousins again, the mood in our little place brightened. Life in New Orleans had been hard, and it was easy to believe that going home might be the best thing after all.

  Mother was right. Lester was really glad to see us. I don’t know what he and Mother talked about, but he was eager for us to move back into the trailer, and he was genuinely helpful getting us settled in.

  For the first few months, it seemed like a dream. There were lots of big family dinners, and it was lovely to see my aunts and laugh with my cousins again. Things felt familiar and safe and normal. The people at our church were overjoyed at our return and made us feel welcome. My mother got her old job back. She looked younger, and she smiled more often. My stepfather seemed to want this to work as well. He had missed us. I know he loved my mother, and he seemed to love us too. Maybe this would work out after all!

  My stepfather and I even had some good times together. He decided it was time for me to learn how to drive. We spent many hours together as he taught me how to steer and use the gas pedal and the brake. It was the most fun I had ever had with him. During my driving lessons, I imagined this was what normal dads did with their daughters. Things really were different. Everything was going to be okay — this time for good.

  But it wasn’t for good. A few weeks later, I awoke to a crash in the kitchen. It was 3:30 a.m., and an angry voice had shattered the stillness of the night. There were harsh words — something about my mother being worthless and why didn’t she have something decent ready for him to eat. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping this was a bad dream. Then another crash, and a cabinet door slammed shut. My mother was crying now. I couldn’t actually hear her, but I knew she was crying. The nightmare had returned.

  I heard the unmistakable sound of a hand striking flesh and felt sick to my stomach. I felt as though a giant hand were pressing me into my mattress. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I was bound as surely as if shackles were locked tightly around my arms and legs. “God!” I shouted. Another slap. “Jesus!” I cried. I sobbed until my pillow was wet with tears. “Please,” I whispered. I was gripped by fear and anger. I felt like I was choking. “Please, God . . .” is all I could manage to say.

  In the morning, I got up for school and headed to the kitchen. There was no trace of the fight. My mother had cleaned everything up like it never even happened. We were all quiet — deathly quiet. Even the birds were silent. No one dared to speak. Mother fixed breakfast without a word, but no one had any appetite. “Eat, children,” she commanded, but there was no energy in her words. We dutifully took a bite or two, and one by one we slipped out for school.

  The fairy tale had ended. The routine of drunken violence returned as though nothing had ever interrupted it.

  Located on our property, sitting parallel to our trailer, was an even smaller, vacant two-bedroom trailer. One day after school, Mother announced we were moving over there. It was crazy. All seven of us were going to move into that tiny space and leave the larger trailer for my stepfather. It didn’t make any sense, but none of us even bothered to ask my mother why he didn’t move out instead. We simply packed our clothes and bedding and walked across the yard to our new home.

  My mother continued to cook, clean, and do laundry for my stepfather. They stayed married, but lived in separate trailers. Sometimes he came home drunk in the middle of the night and banged on our door, screaming for my mother to come outside. Those were terrible nights. We kept the door locked and huddled in the dark, waiting for the alcohol to make him sleepy so he would leave. Sometimes he cried or begged or apologized, and my mother cried too. Even though he was terrible, she loved him.

  Eventually, my older brother Gary couldn’t take it anymore. He left school and got a job. Before long, he was married and determined to have a better life, or at least a new one. The physical abuse was less now that we lived in a separate trailer, but the emotional and verbal abuse was disruptive and damaging. Long after the yelling stopped, I could still hear it in my head.

  I often felt like I lived two separate lives. One life was at home — and everything there was mechanical. I did chores, cooked food, washed clothes, took care of my brothers and sisters, and worried about my mother. I felt trapped. I loved my family but hated how we lived. But at school, things were different. There, I was alive. I made choices for myself, and people respected me.

  Sports continued to be my passion. When I was competing, I felt powerful and in control. I was confident. I was safe. I was strong. Volleyball, basketball, softball, track — if there was a team, I was on it. I studied as hard as I practiced sports, and I got good grades. I ran for student council and won. I was involved in the school’s drama department and loved acting in plays. Though our school did not have an official debate team, there were many opportunities for public speaking and recitations. I eagerly looked forward to participating in these and enjoyed traveling to competitions. One of my favorites was called “Girls State,” where we traveled to the state capitol to give speeches, competing for political positions. You had to know politics, have a platform, and be able to give a new speech for each level of advancement. I made it all the way to secretary of state. It was such fun!

  I began to think about college and dream of bigger and brighter things. I didn’t really have any role models, because not many of the women in my family had graduated from high school, much less even considered going to college. There were times I felt lost and on my own, but I was determined nevertheless.

  During my senior year, one of my teammates and I qualified for state finals in track. I was so excited! This meant a trip to Baton Rouge and a chance to compete in front of college scouts who might offer a scholarship. I trained hard. Two teachers were driving us to the competition. As we started out, the weather suddenly turned very bad. It was raining cats and dogs, and it was hard to see the road ahead. One of the teachers leaned over the seat and asked, “Do you girls really want to go to this meet?” I just stared at her and didn’t know what to say. Of course I want to go to the meet! I thought. I had been training and preparing and planning for it for weeks. My teammate laughed and said, “Not really, why?” Just like that, they headed for Bourbon Street in New Orleans — the competition in Baton Rouge was no longer on the agenda. They pulled the car into Pat O’Brien’s and shut down the engine. I sat there in disbelief. I wanted to say something, but nothing came out of my mouth. I followed them inside, but my feet felt like lead.

  The two teachers had a cocktail, and another, and then they ordered one for my friend. I was miserable and wanted to leave. I couldn’t help but think of Miss Garlington — and all those old feelings of betrayal began to surface. Why do people act this way? I decided I was going to talk to the principal when we returned. I scripted the whole conversation in my mind as I sat there listening to them laugh. But I never followed through on it. The teachers told the school administrator that the weather was too bad to make it to Baton Rouge and had forced us to turn back. Of course, no mention was ever made of the detour and the drinking. Once again, my trust was broken. />
  Graduation! I was the first in my family — first daughter, first granddaughter, and first niece to ever graduate from high school, and my family celebrated in grand style. They were so supportive and we had a giant celebration. I really did feel special.

  I had no sense of what college to attend, but when I was offered a partial academic scholarship to the University of Southwestern Louisiana (which later became the University of Louisiana at Lafayette), it made the decision an easy one. That scholarship, combined with a Pell Grant, meant I could go to college. Once again, my hopes soared! I could hardly wait for fall to come.

  The college prepared a list of items that incoming freshmen needed. It included everything from bedding and an iron to toiletries and shower shoes. My mother guarded that list like it was a priceless historical document. Little by little, one by one, we purchased every single item on the list. She was determined I would have everything I needed to get an education.

  “You’re going to get a good education, Dorothy,” she would say. “Now, don’t you be distracted by them boys. What they want won’t help you open up your own business anyhow.” I can still hear her voice rambling off thoughts and advice as she washed dishes or hulled peas. “You’re a strong leader, Dorothy Johnson. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You make sure you find a good church and stay in it! You’re gonna be somebody. Oooooh, I’m so proud of you!”

  That summer flew by. I could hardly wait to start my first semester in college. My life, I felt sure, was finally about to begin.

  PART 2

  College and Young Adulthood

  CHAPTER 6

  College

  College is a catalyst for change, but change only comes to those willing to embrace it.

  J. Rowan Samson

  I pinched myself. Is this real? Am I actually here — in my very own dorm room, away from home, a college girl?

  It was real. I felt myself smiling, and I looked around, surveying my new room with satisfaction.

  Before my enrollment, my mother made sure we visited several nearby churches that I could attend regularly. At each one, she fired off a list of questions to the minister:

  • “Does your church have a program for college students?”

  • “Do you provide transportation for them?”

  • “How often can you pick up my daughter so she can be involved in your church?”

  • “Do you have a weekday service?”

  • “What kinds of activities are scheduled for students?”

  And on and on she went. She totally overwhelmed one poor little minister. He couldn’t answer one question before my mother asked him two more. He just shook or nodded his head a lot and then showed us the door as fast as he could! One minister, however, had answers for every single one of my mother’s questions, and I could tell she was pleased. Whether I liked the place or not, I knew this was the church I would attend. Once Keeby set her mind on something, there was little point in arguing.

  I settled easily into the dormitory but was a little nervous about having a roommate I didn’t know. I was used to living in close quarters but had always been with family — lots of family. Suddenly, they seemed very far away, and I was afraid. I felt responsible for them, and I was worried about not being there to help with chores and earning money. So much was at stake. My whole family was counting on me to be a success, and I did not want to let them down.

  As I was enrolling in classes, I discovered the school had a volleyball team. That was it! I would try out for the team. I didn’t even hesitate. I knew sports. I was alive on a court, and there was no place that felt more like home to me. My talent soon caught the coach’s eye. She was a good coach, and under her leadership I grew stronger as an athlete. She told me that if I did well that season, there was a strong possibility of a scholarship for next year. That was all I needed to hear. I worked harder than ever and was disciplined in my practice regimen, diet, and studies. I knew this was an answer to prayer.

  The campus minister my mother had interviewed also watched me with interest. The church wanted to launch a college ministry, but they needed a student who lived on campus to lead it. I was their girl. The minister and his wife approached me cautiously, testing the waters to see if I was open to accepting the responsibility. There it was again — responsibility. People always relied on me to get the job done, to sacrifice, to never let them down. I had just completed the first week of my first semester, and all I wanted was to concentrate on my studies and on volleyball. I wasn’t sure I wanted the added duties of running a campus ministry. I didn’t feel qualified. Plus, I had long-term goals and was focused on those. I was concerned that leading a ministry might negatively impact my grades and my commitment to the volleyball team.

  I’m not sure how it happened, but before long, I was meeting with a group in the student center a few times a week. I never formally agreed to anything, but the meetings began to fill my calendar. New people showed up at almost every gathering. Some were just trying to connect and make friends, but many had special needs and looked to me to help them solve their problems. It was a dilemma for me. I wanted to make friends too, and there was a level of fulfillment in helping others, but my classes were demanding, and I had volleyball practice twice a day, six days a week. I was tired and overwhelmed. I could feel the weight of my family’s expectations, my coach’s expectations, and my own expectations to excel in my classes — and now there was the added pressure to meet the needs of a growing campus ministry. It was too much.

  Just three short weeks into the semester, I was questioning everything. Am I trying to please God or people? Why am I here? Is this the right college? What’s my purpose? How am I going to do all this? Did they ask me to lead because I’m capable, or just available? Is this really my calling? Joy left me. Now it was duty, not desire, that drove me out of bed each day. I felt like a robot. I was going through the motions and meeting expectations, but nothing inside felt alive.

  It was Wednesday night, and I had just finished the second volleyball practice for the day. I had been in classes all day, and I hadn’t eaten. I was irritable and slipped into complaining. I did that more and more. Even when I didn’t complain out loud, I complained in my head. I felt sorry for myself, and I was frustrated with people around me who didn’t work as hard as I did. They seemed lazy to me. The church van was on its way to pick me up, but I was too exhausted and miserable to care. I looked at my watch — yikes! I let out a loud huff, then quickly showered and somehow managed to catch the van. I’m glad I did.

  That night began like most others, students socializing with each other. There was the familiar buzz of conversation that rose and fell with laughter and stories. I was just beginning to relax enough to engage with people when an authoritative voice cut through the chatter.

  “Young men and women,” the voice said, “I’m telling you to seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, then all the other things you need will be given to you.”

  It was the minister speaking the words, but it was God who planted them in my heart. Something stirred down deep in my soul. I felt warm inside, and I smiled. Was that joy I felt returning? “Seek God first,” the minister said, “and then all these things shall be given unto you.” Simple. From that moment on, I sought to put God first, and the pressure of obligations and expectations seemed to vanish. I was as busy as ever, but now I felt alive. The robot was gone for good. I had a purpose, and every day was new and amazing.

  When Thanksgiving came, I went home feeling so grownup. It had only been a few months, but it seemed like a year had passed since I left Buras. I was different on the inside. My perspective had changed, and going home was hard. But I was happy to see everyone, and you haven’t had Thanksgiving dinner until you’ve had one Louisiana style! It was the best food I had ever eaten — how I had missed this!

  My aunts couldn’t hear enough about my dormitory and my roommate. They wanted to know all about my classes and playing for the team, and my mother was
so pleased that I had become deeply involved with the church’s campus ministry. I felt important. Everyone seemed genuinely interested in all the details of my college life, and I was overwhelmed by their attention. The weekend seemed like a brief moment, and all too soon it was time to return to school.

  My stepfather drove for the three-hour ride back to campus. It was a little awkward. We began the trip in silence and kept to random, superficial topics for at least half the journey. Finally, without taking his eyes from the road, he said, “I don’t mean to hurt her.” I felt a catch in my throat. “I want to be a better person,” he continued. “I don’t know why I can’t stop drinking and gambling. I just can’t help it.” He grew quiet again, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I don’t want to smoke either,” he said after we had passed a few miles in silence. “You believe me, don’t you, Dorothy? You have always been such a good girl — like your mother . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Just stop drinking,” I heard myself say, surprised at my own courage. “You can be so kind,” I said. “I remember all the times you gave me money for sports and school activities, and you used to come to my softball games. Why can’t you just be that person?”

  “I wish I could,” he sighed, and the silence returned.

  Back at school, I immersed myself in the campus ministry. I hosted Bible studies and planned activities, all the while drawing in more and more people to meet Jesus. I looked forward to each opportunity and found myself inviting people daily. Within a few weeks, attendance had grown significantly. I was planting spiritual seeds and seeing fruit so quickly that it was exhilarating. I was excited, and my enthusiasm was contagious. I felt like a bright light had been turned on inside of me, and people were attracted to the warm glow.