Separated
“Molested” is the wrong word. It gives the impression you are being bothered at a cookout by a pesky fly. The word I would use instead is “separated” because something of this nature separates you from family, from friends, from your feelings, from yourself.
A few days after writing the pages in the previous chapter, I reread “Victims” and am startled by my admission that I was molested. I cringe as I imagine my parents reading it one day and hide the story deep in a folder on my desk. But the word remains on the page, as persistent as a fly.
Retrogression 3:
September 15, 2007, 11:40 p.m.
My husband and I drink tea. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. We discuss Ada’s sobs, and Sam’s smooth little hand stroking the side of my face. We talk about Donna, her chance visit to the store, Louise’s passionate run from her car, and how comforting her presence was. We are amazed at how articulate the children were when they recounted the event. Louise, Donna, and Olivia, my sister-in-law who arrived later, said exactly what needed to be said to calm them. And what about the couple too shocked to help, and the stranger who threw her arms around me? When everything is said that needs to be said, we put our mugs in the sink, turn off the lights, and go to bed.
Chapter 3:
Reverend Conversations
May we have the courage to reject retaliation and vengeance.
And a willingness to listen beyond the harshness
To what’s really going on
Weaving webs of listening
Weaving webs of repair and restoration.
—Excerpts from a poem on violence read on September 16, 2007, in Atlanta, Georgia, by Reverend John Phillip
I had never visited a minister before. The ministers of my past had always seemed unapproachable, their beliefs so distant from mine. They were the priests my mother visited and quoted. “Yes” to life, “no” to gay marriage, “no” to birth control, “no” to women priests. Even when I was young, I felt like an imposter in those high-ceilinged buildings.
I became a Unitarian Universalist because my mother had been badgering me about religion. “Please baptize the kids,” she said, and after a while I could see she was sincerely disturbed by their two- and four-year-old unbaptized selves. So I began to shop for churches.
I discovered the Unitarian Universalists by accident. I was waiting for an allergy shot when I overheard the woman next to me explaining it to her son—a church for all kinds of people; respectful of different beliefs. There are atheists, humanists, lapsed Catholics and Jews. It sounded perfect.
I called. The interim minister who answered happened to be a former Catholic priest, so it was decided. We had a baptism-dedication ceremony in one fell swoop and that is how I and my children became Unitarians.
The day after the attack was a Sunday. Not ready to field questions without answers, and too self-conscious about a black eye, I didn’t attend service that morning. My children and I ate pancakes my husband had made from scratch while the congregation’s staff held a moment of silence for us, and the Reverend—brand new to the job—thought of my family during the service as he read a poem about violence.
So it was inevitable I visit him in his new, half-unpacked office. When I arrived, he gave me a hug. “Are you okay?” he asked. “We are all worried about you.”
I had never met John Phillip before. He had thin-rimmed glasses and a pleasant smile. On this day he wore a starched, white shirt with a straight collar and a pea-green tie that hung symmetrically down the center. I tried to figure out what to call him and decided on Reverend.
“I’m okay, Reverend,” I said. “But I do have concerns.”
“Okay,” he said and motioned for me to sit.
“I think I’m racist,” I said. “I’m worried we’re becoming racist—I and my children.”
“Well, let’s talk about it. Why do you think this?”
“The other day I drove my husband to the school where he teaches. My husband had a cup of coffee in his hand when he stepped out of the car. He kissed me goodbye and then kissed the kids. As I pulled away from the curb, a black man rushed toward us and pointed like crazy at my car. He was yelling, and at first I froze. But then I rolled up my windows and locked the door. He stopped, and I could tell he felt badly. And then I saw he was pointing above me, to the roof of my car. ‘Coffee cup,’ he said. ‘It’s on the roof.’ Reverend—”
“Call me John.”
“John, am I becoming prejudiced?”
“Christine, listen to me,” he said. “You did what any smart person would do who saw a person running toward her car. You did what any mother would do—want to protect your children.”
“But what if he had been white?” I said. “What if he had been white and instead I had trusted him?”
“If a white man had rushed your car, don’t you think you would have reacted in the same way?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Of course you would have. Of course you would have. Christine, nobody should rush your car. Nobody.”
John gave me some pamphlets and a printout of web links that explained how to help children overcome traumatic events.
“You’ve helped me,” I said. He nodded.
A few weeks after my visit with John, as I backed my car out of the driveway, I heard, “Hey” and a hard knock on my window, a white face and black blowing hair that moved from my side window farther back. I closed my eyes and tried to swallow.
“Christine. It’s Ronnie. Stop! Sam’s door is open.”
It was my neighbor from across the street.
Nobody should charge my car, I thought as I put it into park.
“Thank you,” I said as he shut my son’s door, my face still flushed. “Thank you,” I said again.
I put my hand on my chest, felt the strong, strong beat there, and slowly put my car into drive.
Retrogression 4:
September 15, 2007, 11:35 p.m.
My husband makes tea. He places two tea bags into wide mugs and waits for the whistle. Then he pours hot water over the bags to steep. He carries the mugs into the living room, places them on the coffee table, and sits next to me, putting a hand on my knee.
Chapter 4:
Interrogations
“What did he look like?” “Was he black?” “Where is he now, in jail?” “Do you think he was on drugs?” “What was he wearing?” “Maybe he’s from the Million Dollar Corner. Do you think he’s from there?”
The day after we were attacked, my cells began the work of rebuilding, reinforcing, reconnecting tissue. First the bruises on my face would turn yellow and brown and then fade away. Next, the muscles in my arms would lose their soreness. Soon I would get used to the constant tingling that was to take residence in my lips. I would have physical therapy on my jaw for months after the attack. Later, I would have a bubble in my eye removed, a liquid-filled clear thing that had formed after a direct hit in the face. Slowly, I would feel comfortable again in public places. One day I would take my children to a store and we wouldn’t talk about being attacked as we held hands and ran toward safety.
During the days that followed, neighbors, friends, and relatives all seemed to speak a language that neither I nor those closest to me would decode for months. My husband, children, parents, and brothers were the only people whose rhythms and language synced with mine, and when I was not near them, I craved their silent support.
“I was attacked,” I told Ricky when I ran into him in a checkout line with a black eye. “Just a week ago I was at a friend’s fortieth birthday party, not a care in the world. Then two days ago, the kids and I are at a store and . . .”
“A black man?” Ricky asked. “Was he black?”
“What are you saying?” I asked as I pulled up the hood of my jacket and prepared to leave.
“I’m sorry, Christine. I’m not being racist if that’s what you’re getting at. I was just curious.”
“Well, you c
ould have asked me about the kids or something.”
“Are they okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good. I hope you’re better. It looks like he got you pretty good in that eye. Hey, I’ll call you.”
“I cried all day and all night about this,” my mother said. “The next morning I went to work, a zombie. But when I told my colleagues, all they could say was what they would do differently. ‘I wouldn’t get mugged because I walk fast to my car and look from side to side.’ ‘When I walk out of stores, I hold on to my bag like a weapon and I am on guard.’ ‘Me, too. I hold my keys in between my fingers and I’m ready to punch someone. This would never happen to me.’ Christine, they seemed to ignore one thing: that my daughter had been attacked and it wasn’t her fault. They didn’t want to admit this could happen to them.”
The barrage of questions about my attacker lasted days. “What does it matter?” I said to neighbors, friends, my beloved uncle. They didn’t recognize me anymore.
“Why do they have to ask these questions?” I asked my friend Don as we walked out of the Unitarian congregation followed by our children. “Don’t they care about me, how I’m doing? What if I had fallen off a cliff? Would the first question they asked be about the scenery? About the Million Dollar Corner? What the hell is that anyway?”
“They love you. We all care about you. They just want to know who they need to be afraid of,” he responded. “You haven’t heard of the Million Dollar Corner?” he added, smiling. “It’s one of the roughest corners of Atlanta. They sell about a million dollars worth of drugs there a year.”
“Well, he was black. The police will never catch him, and I don’t think they even cared to look for him. And why would he be chasing my twenty dollars in a parking lot if he could stand on the Million Dollar Corner and sell drugs? So I guess he’s not from there.”
We both laughed and then glanced around to account for our children, who took turns rolling down a small hill in front of the parking lot.
“Besides, this was just one man,” I said. “How can one man prove or disprove anything?”
“They’re all afraid,” Don said. “Already nobody feels safe, and then you are beaten up and our whole existence is in question. Why do we want to know who to be afraid of? Because maybe, just maybe if we know, we won’t be attacked in front of our children at a store.”
Retrogression 5:
September 15, 2007, 11:15 p.m.
When we are all safely inside, door closed and locked, my husband does the only thing he can do at a time like this. He calls the locksmith and puts the children to bed. He phones the credit card companies. When all the practical details have been taken care of, he stands by the stove and waits for the teakettle to whistle.
Chapter 5:
Homeward Bound
Less than a week after the attack, I was at my cousin Cathy’s house in Massachusetts. When she heard I was going to a wedding with a black eye, she had called my mother immediately.
“Bring Chrissy over,” she’d said. “I’ll fix her up. Nobody will ever know.”
As I sat in a kid’s chair, low to the ground, Cathy patted under my eye with some kind of cream and my aunt told her to give my cheeks some color as well.
“It looks much better,” Cathy said after it was over.
I had returned home for the wedding of a friend I had known for thirty-five years. I would see people I hadn’t seen since I was seventeen. I had warned my friends Susan, Molly, and Carrie about my black eye.
“Sweetie,” they said. “It looks better than we thought it would. You look beautiful. That must have been awful.”
They held my hand. They hugged my mother. Friends from every period of my childhood were there. My now-retired high school librarian and I talked about politics, and his presence at the wedding was comforting. Like me, he couldn’t wait for the White House to change hands.
“Hillary, Obama, Edwards . . . I don’t care who it is, just let it be somebody.”
The last time I had seen the school’s librarian, I was a shy little girl who only said “nice” things. Now I was a forty-year-old woman with a black eye who had defended a dissertation on Italian literature and two small children from a man with a hard fist. During the entirety of the reception, I barely stood. I sat in a chair as longtime friends moved in and out of my circle in a steady embrace.
On the last day of my trip, I visited my grandmother. It would be my last visit with her. Grandma didn’t recognize me when I arrived, but after my mother explained a number of times who I was, it suddenly clicked.
“Oh,” she said with a giddy excitement I hadn’t seen in her in years. “Oh, oh, oh . . .”
We held hands, each with tears in our eyes, and although she didn’t say anything more, I treasured the connection we made that day. I was not surprised in the midst of her dementia, Grandma, the woman who had drawn me out of my shell as a child, would be the person who connected me to the world again.
Retrogression 6:
September 15, 2007, 10:55 p.m.
We arrive home. My children and I sit in the car as my husband walks through every room in our house, every room, searching for bad guys everywhere.
Chapter 6:
Little Man
I began to watch my son sleep a few nights after my children and I were attacked. Something about the rise and fall of his chest quieted me. One night, from this peacefulness came my unexpected sobs. Samuel opened his eyes and stared at me, surprised. He sat, kissed me on my cheek, and just as suddenly lay back down and fell into a deep sleep.
I never knew how Samuel would react to the attack, so I sat in anxious vigil. Most of the time, while I waited nervously for proof my son had been permanently damaged, Samuel went on asking the same three-year-old questions he had always asked.
“Why is the sky blue?”
“Why do cars drive?”
“Do dogs dream?”
“God—does he live in Madagascar?”
“Why do we call on phones?”
I was relieved every time a new colorful question came out, and often laughed out loud, but I still found myself standing over his bed at night, watching him sleep.
We were at an October birthday party and kids were running in circles in the park, back and forth from the playground to the picnic benches. Three dads played horseshoes, and as one man swung his horseshoe back, he gouged open the smooth forehead of his son, who had crept up behind him to watch. I didn’t see it. I was talking with a friend when the dad ran over holding his child. Blood poured from the child’s face, dyeing his and his father’s shirts red.
I had always been able to handle blood. In fact, it was my husband who paced nervously and stayed home to look after whoever wasn’t bleeding while I calmly took the injured one to the emergency room. But this time I burst into tears, grabbed the hand of my son, and escaped before anyone could see me cry.
My son and I walked through the park along a series of small pathways, farther and farther away from the gathering. He remained quiet and at times would stroke my hand, much like he had rubbed my face the day of the attack.
“That bad guy won’t hurt you again, Mom. I think they caught him and put him in jail.”
That the little boy’s blood had reminded him, too, of our attack brought on fresh tears. Finally, I crouched and slid my arm around his back.
“My sweet little man. I’m sure he’s in jail.”
We went to a family therapist.
“The kids are okay. They’re upset but not doing anything out of the ordinary given the trauma you experienced together.”
I resisted. “Sam’s not the same. He’s hitting kids on the playground. He doesn’t listen to me. He thinks I’m weak. He told me so.”
“He’s getting cues from you. He believes you aren’t strong because you don’t feel strong. Once you have healed, this will go away. You’ll see.”
“But he hides from black men,” I said. “I’m not sure what to do?”
> “Tell him what you’re thinking. Just be honest,” the therapist said.
One morning, as I dropped Samuel off at school, he turned to me and whispered, “I don’t like Roland because he wears a black shirt. It makes me nervous.”
I pulled him into a quiet area of the classroom. “Honey, if somebody is good to you or kind, that’s all that matters. If somebody doesn’t treat you right, then it’s okay to say he or she has hurt you. But don’t say you don’t like someone because of a shirt. That’s not fair.”
I paused to let it sink in.
“What if somebody said they didn’t like you because you were wearing your walrus shirt?”
“Pooh doesn’t like my walrus shirt. He’s afraid of walruses.”
“I know, and you don’t like that, do you?”
“No, it makes me sad when Pooh won’t play with me.”
Pooh, a boy at daycare nicknamed after the beloved Winnie the Pooh, was terrified of walruses and ran from Samuel each time he wore his shirt. Sam continued to talk about Pooh, hurt and somewhat defiant, and I could see he understood.
As I held hands with my son in the park, for the first time that week I sensed the blue sky still held promises for us, even in this newly discovered world where politically correct language didn’t solve real problems. Soon my son found a rock and stopped to draw with it in the sand. Then we spoke about pirates.
“Ahoy there, matey!” he said as we walked by some people.
“Ahoy,” they all said.
Then a bridge that crossed over a river became a boat and it carried us to the playground where the kids from the party ate popsicles. A little boy wore a large Band-Aid on his forehead with a scene from Snow White on it. No ambulance had come to take him away. No father sat next to his son by a hospital bed regretting a good day gone horribly wrong. It had all been okay.
All the Silent Spaces Page 2
