As her tirade subsided, her voice began to grow clear. Her despair gave way to an intent to persuade, and she became eerily convincing to me as she spoke. “Okay, baby, that’s it. Mommy no take his crap no more. That’s right, we come back in the next life and try again. We do better, okay? We leave him for good. I can’t take any more, baby. Mommy get you and you brother better father next time, okay baby?”
Next time: Usually, for Buddhists like Mom, that means the next life; on this night, for her, it also meant freedom.
Everything stopped, time stood still. The first thought that finally formed in my mind was I’m only six. I’m not ready to die. Though the promise of the three of us leaving him forever and coming back to a new father, a good one, was better than I could imagine. But no, I just wasn’t ready, not yet.
As I listened to her frenzied reasonings, I became conscious that the ground was rumbling under us, that the once faint clack-clacking in the distance was growing urgent: The train was coming. I flew into a panic.
“Mommy, wait! No, no, it’s okay. We don’t have to die. We can just leave him. We’ll do it right now. We don’t have to die!” I looked up at her: “Mommy, I don’t want to die.”
She nodded slowly, understanding, but only half persuaded. She handed my brother to me, “Okay, Mommy go alone.”
I started again, “Mommy, no! It’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to die. Just leave him! You don’t want to die, I know you don’t. He’ll win if you die. Mommy, don’t leave us with him by ourselves!”
I pleaded, with my brother clinging around my neck while I struggled to keep him from slipping off me. Tears and mucous streamed out of my eyes and nose. I tugged at her wrist to pull her away from the tracks she was inching toward.
“Mommy, don’t leave me, please! It’ll be okay. Please, please, Mommy. I love you. I’ll take care of you! I promise! I promise!”
With that promise, she finally broke.
She moved away from the rail and lay flat on the ground, wailing. Her agony echoed out through the fields, toward the houses nearby, yet no one came to help. I stood there relieved, panting, watching her sob in defeat. The train sped past, so close we could almost reach out to touch it.
That was the first time I saved my mother’s life.
We understood from that moment on we’d indefinitely bound ourselves to the evil we’d wanted so desperately to escape. She was trapped, doomed to suffer the beatings over and over for the sake of her children. And it was my job, ever after, to protect her—even at the cost of an innocent childhood. We knew we only had each other. There was no one else to help us.
Sometimes I could block a punch or throw a few, talk down a gun or even brandish one. Sometimes I put a stop to it; but more often than not, he would beat her until she was nothing but a bloodied, terrified mess, crying in a corner. Yet I never gave up my attempts to save her.
She finally divorced him before I reached my teen years, thereby exonerating us both from our promise to each other. Now that he’s dead, we both know to simply enjoy the freedom and quiet that was so elusive to us in those earlier days. If you listen closely, though, you can hear our secret history in the way I still call her my “Mommy” and she still calls me her “Baby.”
d. h. wu ([email protected]) dedicates this to every girl and woman who has ever been rescued, been the rescuer herself, or who may need rescuing right now. Today no one needs to live through this abuse. Today there are people who can help.
For confidential 24-hour help, contact:
National Domestic Violence Hotline
P.O. Box 161810
Austin, TX 78716
Phone: (800) 799-SAFE (7233)
TDD: (800) 787-3224
Website: www.ndvh.org
For additional twenty-four-hour assistance in locating local services and shelters for battered women and men, call 411.
Nothing from Nobody
tara betts
Fridays were our days. When she was still tending bar at the tavern she and Grandpa owned, my grandmother would take me home with her after closing. My daddy worked in the tavern, too, and I lived and slept with my parents in the apartment above. But not on weekends. That was when we’d sit in Grandma’s orange kitchen shucking corn, shelling peas, and telling stories. I looked forward to midnight on Fridays when the jukebox stopped and I’d wait on the steps with an old, gray bowling bag packed for a sleepover. Together, Grandma and I would hop into her burgundy Buick Regal to go to her home, little more than five minutes away.
One night a stranger interrupted this memorable routine before we even got to the house. This stranger had a siren and a badge.
When most people see me, especially now that I’m older, they say I look just like my grandmother. I think so, too. Some people have a hard time recognizing it though, probably because they expect us to have the same skin color and hair texture. Instead, I have the complexion and hair of my white mother. My grandmother thinks that’s why the police officer pulled her over, because maybe he thought she’d kidnapped this five-year-old white child.
This is where she begins her version of the story, which she says reflects the Tara I grew up to be: “So, they pulled me over, and the one officer starts talking to me, and he shines the flashlight on my face, and he’s asking me questions—and then he starts asking about Tara.”
What my grandmother doesn’t say when she’s telling this story is what she must have been feeling as that flashlight blinded her. Was it humiliation at being questioned so suspiciously for simply being Black? Maybe she felt fear, because who knows what crimes white cops committed against Black women in the 1970s, on dark, quiet streets so late at night? Whatever she was feeling, I sensed it.
“About this time,” Grandma continues, “Tara, who never was one for sitting still, jumps up in the seat and goes”—Grandma makes a sideways-looking face that imitates me about to snap—“‘What’chu doin’ puttin’ that light in my granma’s face? You betta get that light out my granma’s face! What’chu think you doin’?!’”
“So, I guess he figured I didn’t steal you from nobody,” she said, the last time I heard her tell the story. She stifles her laughter when she gets to this part, just like she says she did then, when the undoubtedly bewildered and embarrassed officer wished her a good night and walked back to his squad car.
I don’t remember this incident, but I’ll take Grandma’s word that it happened. After all, she is right that it reflects the Tara I grew up to be: I won’t take nothing from nobody.
tara betts ([email protected]) creates semantic soups as a creative writing instructor, poetry slam team member, and cohost of a monthly all-women open mike in Chicago. She is currently working on a book of poems about Ida B. Wells. To this day, though no longer having sleepovers at her grandmother’s house, Tara won’t let anyone step to Grandma, or any woman, the wrong way.
I Swear!
louise civetti
A number of years ago, I was invited to attend a technical meeting at an extremely conservative corporation. When I say it was conservative, I am talking about the fact that the company had been in business for more than a hundred years, and I was the first female to attend one of these meetings.
During the meeting of the “good ol’ boys,” the air in the room became heated, faces red, collars tight, and the language, well, let’s just say, colorful. All eyes turned to me. I pretended not to notice.
Once the meeting concluded, my boss pulled me aside and said, “I’m sorry the language got out of hand in there.” I told him his apology was accepted, but that next time he’d better watch his f***ing mouth.
louise civetti didn’t lose her job for at least a couple of years after that.
You Can Take That Law and …
gwyn mcvay
During my college days, I was one of the founding officers of our local chapter of NORML, the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. I believed, among other things, that the police should concentrate mo
re on arresting rapists than on chasing basement joint-smokers, and that medical patients ought to have access to this remedy for a variety of ills ranging from cancer and AIDS to severe menstrual cramps (like I had).
We enjoyed a lot of support on campus, but the conservative local population tended to react differently. One day two friends and I were downtown putting up posters and handing out flyers for a NORML benefit concert we were holding at the VFW (those Veterans of Foreign Wars are so hip!). We were doing nothing illegal. Before long, two cops came and plunked themselves down right next to us, not saying anything, just making their presence clearly known. My friends became visibly upset.
“Are they trying to censor us?” said one, nervously picking up and putting down our pile of flyers.
“Can they force us to move on?” another asked, walking around and around in little circles.
“I don’t know,” I said. More than anything, I felt curious—and ready to be challenged. Instead of waiting to find out their intentions, I took some of our literature, went up to the men in blue, introduced myself, and handed each a flyer.
My friends were astonished; the cops accepted the flyers and in the ensuing conversation turned out to be quite reasonable and agreeable. (“Would you like to come to our benefit concert tonight?” I asked. “Thank you; I’ll think about it,” one said.)
We talked for a while, then they moved on, and we all continued with a pleasant afternoon.
gwyn mcvay was raised to question authority.
Not all gutsy acts come straight from the gut. Some make pit stops, even linger for a while in our heads. There we study the consequences, weigh the options, and make choices—not on the fly, but after deep thought. This chapter is about premeditated personal decisions. Decisions about THE BIG THINGS: health, family, career, where and how to spend a life.
In these stories, women reassess their paths in the world and subsequently map out alternate routes. They make choices and commitments that lead to radical transformations. Sometimes acting without role models or support, sometimes taking the risk of going against conventional wisdom, the women here think for themselves and let their internal strength guide them.
Listening to their inner, kickboxing Buddha, whose savvy wisdom they know to be true, makes the women in this chapter stronger, especially when, donning gloves and entering the ring, they know the match could be lonely or difficult. Trusting themselves when times are tough shows firmness of character, determination—feistiness!
So while these more pensive deeds may at first appear slower and softer than others in this book, let’s be real–they are among some of the bravest a woman can carry out in her lifetime.
Double Whammy
lynda gaines
My first surgery was a piece of cake, and necessary to remove a lump that I knew to my core would not be cancerous. In fact, the lump itself wasn’t. If it hadn’t been for those other “funny-looking cells” they shipped off to Yale, all would have been well.
Every woman who hears “breast cancer” in her doctor’s office is courageous. Keeping fears in check and making decisions under the cloud of “chance of recurrence” is difficult. So is keeping life as normal as possible while seeing a variety of specialists, doing mind- and body-altering drug therapy, enduring daily radiation appointments, and undergoing radical surgery. Even with support, one is very much alone; no two diagnoses, attitudes, and situations are the same. In the end, the individual herself makes the decisions. Brave women do it every day.
Yale found that the “funny-looking cells” were indeed early cancer. So just before Christmas, I had a second surgery to remove this material, which was then sent to my hospital’s Tumor Board for review. I tried not to let any of it impact my holiday spirit, but it did. Exhausted and frightened, I cried through office parties, family dinners, and Rudolph reruns. My surgeon tried to reassure me.
“My gut feeling, Lynda, is there won’t be more surgery.”
That’s good, I thought, because there’s no way I’ll be able to deal with a mastectomy.
Then I got the call.
The cancerous material was well dispersed throughout my left breast. The Tumor Board said the best bet was to remove the whole thing. I was in shock. The good news was that no additional treatment would be necessary. No mind-numbing, vomit-inducing therapy, no daily radiation appointments. The bad news was that after doing my homework (two second opinions), it looked like, yes, a mastectomy was in my future.
Once I had accepted the inevitable, I felt strongly that I didn’t want to have only one breast. To me, it was out of balance, and more shameful.
“I’ll feel embarrassed,” I said to my husband, “answering the door or running out for a video with only one breast. I’d always want to hide it.”
Besides, my mother had raised me to be a nudie. One of my greatest joys was going to parent-child swimming classes at the YMCA and taking a shower afterward with my two-year-old. Stripped of our suits, together we’d play and scrub openly in the shower. I’d been doing it for years with my kids. With only one breast, I feared I’d feel too self-conscious and would give that up.
No, one breast just didn’t feel right. If I have to remove one, I decided, then I’ll remove both.
That’s what my gut said, but was that the right decision? Was I being misled by my own instincts? I began talking to women who had had mastectomies. I was searching for someone who’d “cut them both off,” hadn’t gotten reconstructive surgery, and hadn’t looked back. I wanted to find a no-breasted woman who was happy: someone in whose footsteps I could follow (easier to follow than lead!). But I couldn’t find her. The closest I got was hearing about a book that profiled post-mastectomy women. I was told it included one woman who spoke of how free she felt without breasts, how the surgery had given her back that preadolescent “tomboy” time in her life. I couldn’t find the book, but it helped knowing this woman was out there somewhere in the world.
Apparently, she was unusual. Most women I talked with were excited about reconstruction. They wanted to convince me how real it looked and felt. I was glad they’d been able to come through a difficult experience feeling whole and positive about the decisions they’d made. However, my inner voice continued to say no—reconstruction did not appeal to me. Go through yet another surgery either for implants or to have a piece of my abdominal muscle cut out and stitched to my chest? For what? Breasts? Who cares? That’s how I felt.
I talked to everyone in my life. They all agreed to support me in whatever I did, but I still felt alone in making my choice. A few weeks before my surgery, I had dinner with my four closest women friends. We started joking about the advantages of having no breasts. Our Top Ten list helped me face my surgery with courage and, just as important, humor.
My surgeon was surprised by my choice for a double mastectomy. However, since he knew I could always opt for reconstruction later, he didn’t try to talk me out of it. I felt in my heart I would be fine without breasts. Even though I could find no role model I could talk to, no one who had gone before me, I did it anyway.
The surgery went well; I healed quickly. And you know what? I haven’t looked back. I feel free! No more bras! In some ways, I even feel sexier than I did before. At home I still walk around naked before my husband and children without shame, and I don’t hide myself in a changing booth at the Y. No, it hasn’t been easy. I have had to work on rebuilding my body image. I joined a gym and started lifting weights again. Though I sometimes contemplate donning a prosthesis C-cup for a special occasion, so far I am living flat-chested with absolutely no regrets about my decision.
When I talk to women now facing a mastectomy, I know the chances are slim they will follow in my footsteps. I talk about how free I feel, and they listen politely. Then they tell me they will reconstruct. I keep telling my story, however, hoping that someday, when another woman makes the choice I did, she will know she isn’t alone.
The Top Ten Advantages to Having
Both Breas
ts Removed
10. Quick way to lose a few pounds.
9. If bad things happen in threes, this counts for two.
8. Wardrobe overhaul required.
7. One less excuse for not running a marathon.
6. Guaranteed to knock six strokes off your golf game.
5. No more mammograms.
4. Makes cross-dressing a whole lot easier.
3. Every morning you get to decide if you want to be an A, B, C, D—or no cup at all!
2. “Hey, baby, want to see my mastectomy scars?” makes a great pickup line.
1. You will never be mistaken for a waitress at Hooters.
lynda gaines, manager of telesales for a small software company in Jamestown, Rhode Island, sent this submission in on a dare from her mother (the one who raised her to be a nudie, remember?). Lynda’s mama, who is also a breast-cancer survivor, feels her daughter is bold and courageous for making her choice. She thought her role-model daughter should share the experience so other women could explore all their options, too.
Divine Perfection
anitra winder
I was born twenty-six years ago to my mother, my closest stranger. Sonya was only eighteen, a rambling teenager in the projects of Baltimore. She conceived me with one of the popular neighborhood Black studs. But Sonya had a lot of traffic coming her way, so it’s anybody’s guess who daddy is. With my creation came years of poverty, regret, and upheaval. We lived a nomadic existence, never laying our heads anywhere for long.
My unstable childhood walked hand in hand with an unstable education. During bouts of depression over a lost love, Sonya would be far too miserable to see me off to school. I stayed at home and consoled her with my homemade macaroni valentines, sprinkled with glitter and love. To my disappointment, I’d later find them in the trash. I was too young to understand; my love wasn’t enough. My love was too small. It was only five years old.
That Takes Ovaries! Page 5