It Couldn’t Happen to Me!

 
   

 

 

 

 

 

You are quite sure, it’s someone else’s story. Maybe the women you counsel at church, or the women you visit at the shelters, a co-worker or two, but definitely not you! After all, you are the First Lady,* you commiserate, console, and pray for or with others, and not the other way around, at least not for this! Maybe this is just a bad dream from which you have yet to awaken?

How can the man you see with your very own eyes, heal the sick, give hope to the downtrodden, contradict himself so—by coming home to use those same healing hands to pummel you?

Sister**–Abuse doesn’t care who you are, what you look like, what job you have, what friends you keep, in what neighborhood you live or even which gender you are. Yes, it is obvious that your spouse needs help, but at this point in time, the best way to help him is to help yourself!

Get out–get help!

Then from a safe distance, you can see that he gets help. But the primary concern at this point in time—is you. No it’s not selfish. You need to be wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove. In other words, realize that your love alone cannot cure him. God’s love has the ability to cure him, but he has to submit to assistance from one of the many tools God has provided for his assistance. We call them—counselors.

 

*That’s church talk for the Pastor’s wife
**Not a racially motivated statement. If you have the necessary biological equipment, then you are my sister.

 

Flashback or “So Glad We Made It!”

 

 

“…behind the facade of a perfectly made up face, a sassy mouth, an incredible sense of style, and a quick brain (she was a junior in High School at 15) lay the broken remains of little girl who wanted to be a doctor when she grew up, but was being molested by her much older brother, with whom she lived…”

I was reading a book two weeks ago as I waited for the bus. The main character, a blonde Georgia peach, had just broken up with her fiancé.  While she was out fundraising, he had cheated on her with a newly hired co-worker–someone Ms. Georgia Peach considered to be loud, scandalously dressed, and improperly made up. Someone who, although she hadn’t all the advantages in the world, still spoke her mind and was comfortable with her sexuality. In fact, this woman was someone she, herself, had never dared to be.

O…k.

That’s the point where Ms. Georgia got me. That’s the point where we connected. Because I could remember my best friend in high school. She didn’t have much… not much hair, not much clothes, not much looks (at least not compared to me). But darn if she didn’t have some smarts, some great dimples, and some sex appeal. In fact, that’s how we met…

Picture it: Maryland, 1982:

It was my junior year in high school. I was on my way past the ladies’ room, when I decided to use it then instead of later. As I swung the door open and entered, I saw four African-American girls surrounding a petite girl. She looked defiant as the tallest and prettiest of the girls took centerstage, neck circulating and finger pointing as she spewed her venom,

“I don’t know what he sees in you anyway, with your ugly, ball-headed, fast self!â€? Ms. Pretty said. I paused, debating whether to continue any further. These folks looked kinda busy. But then I heard Ms. Pretty say, “When we get through with you, you’re gonna think twice before messing with anybody’s boyfriend.” She looked at her “crew” and barked, “Hold her!â€?

Now you’d think that, with the odds at four to one, petite little Dyan would have used those smarts of hers to talk the situation down. Nah…that would have made waaaay too much sense. She was reading them left, right, and center, and she set the record straight.

“Girl, please: I don’t want your ugly, wannabe-a-player-but-he-can’t-hang boyfriend. He’s the one panting behind me like a dog! Ask my gurl here.â€?

All six of us turned around and looked behind me. I probably would’ve kept right on looking for her gurl, but the silence kinda clued me in–I might just be the “gurlâ€? to whom she was referring. So, summoning all my “downâ€? speak, I put on my “coolâ€? face and turned around to face them.

“Yeah,” I said. “His simple behind always in our way, talking ’bout ‘can I buy you and your gurl lunch?’â€? I walked over to stand beside Dyan. How was I to know that this boy (who I, mind you, had never seen) had never offered to buy Ms. Pretty–or any of her crew–lunch? It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. En masse, the crew began closing in on us–but their main focus was still Dyan.

Then, I, with courage I’ve never exhibited before or since,  stood firm. In my most disparagingly adult voice I said, “Four to one. That’s hardly fair odds, and though I hate fighting, if y’all wanna do this, y’all gonna have to go through me first.� I was five foot six and solid, and I guess I must have presented a convincingly scary picture. The crew backed down and left the bathroom, vowing to catch Dyan when her bodyguard wasn’t around.

Do you think Dyan’s mouth was quiet through all this? Noooooo. She was on her tiptoes peeking over my shoulder as they left, shouting, “Bring it on!� I turned around and leveled a look at her that brought a half sheepish expression to her face. “I’m sorry,� she said. “I didn’t mean to get you involved, but that’s all I could think of at the moment.�

“It’s alright,â€? I said, as I wondered to myself–Did she know the guy had a girlfriend? Did things really go down the way she said? She does have a reputation. But heck, even if she was dead wrong, Ms. Thing shoulda handled it herself, instead of tryna pull a black-mama-beatdown!

Out loud I said, “Look, I’ve seen you around my area. If you want you can take my bus and I’ll meet you between classes to make sure there’s no trouble.� She shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s up to you,� but I could sense her relief.

Dyan became the first inductee into my “Save a Friend From Herself Caribbean Club.�

I later learned that behind the facade of a perfectly made-up face, sassy mouth, incredible sense of style, and quick brain (she was a junior in high school at fifteen) lay the broken remains of a little girl who wanted to be a doctor when she grew up–but who was being molested by her much older brother, with whom she lived.

My older brother and mother warned me about my association with her. She had a reputation of being fast. They couldn’t understand how she was able to come and go as she pleased. Nor could they understand why I invited her to so many sleepovers. They thought her behavior was of her own choosing. They didn’t realize that it was just the symptom of a deeper problem, a cry for help, if you will. But it was not my story to tell. So I listened, I cried, I ranted, I urged her to speak out; but Dyan’s fear and distrust held more sway over her than my advice did.

Suddenly, her popularity with the opposite sex and her earthy sex appeal were no longer sources of envy for me. But I will confess that I still did envy her outspokenness and the fact that she didn’t lose sight of her dreams.

When I encountered a similar situation a year later, after moving in with my dad in New York (against the advice of my older sister), I better understood Dyan’s inner urge not to tell. But I still don’t know how she managed her sunny disposition or held on to her dreams–unless she resorted to prescription drugs, like I eventually did.

When our most prized possession is taken away by force, not by a stranger but by a blood relative, what have we to lose? What boundaries are left to be broken? Who do we trust?

To Be Continued…

 

 

Flashback or “So Glad We Made It!”

 

 

“I later

learned that

behind the

facade of a

perfectly

made up

face, a

sassy

mouth,

an incredible

sense of

style, and

a quick

brain (she

was a junior in High School at 15) lay the

broken remains of little girl who wanted to

be a doctor when she grew up, but was

being molested by her much older brother,

with whom she lived…”

I was reading a book yesterday as I waited for the bus. The main character, a blonde Georgia peach, had just broken up with her fiancé. While she was out fundraising, he had been cheating on her with a newly hired co-worker. Someone Ms. Georgia Peach considered to be loud, scandalously dressed and improperly made up. Someone who although she hadn’t all the advantages in the world, still spoke her mind and was comfortable with her sexuality. In fact, this woman was someone she, herself, had never dared to be. O…k. That’s the point where Ms. Georgia got me. That’s the point where we connected. I flashed back to my best friend in high school. She didn’t have much…Not much hair, Not much clothes, Not much looks. (At least not compared to me). But darn if she didn’t have some smarts, some great dimples and some sex appeal. Whoooooa! In fact that’s how we met… Picture it, Maryland, 1982: It was my junior year in high school. About to pass the ladies’ room, I decided to use it then instead of later. As I swung the door open and entered, I saw four african-american girls, of average height, surrounding a petite girl, who who appeared to be listening defiantly as the tallest and prettiest girl took centerstage; neck circulating and finger pointing as she spewed her venom, “I don’t know what he sees in you any way, with your ugly, ball-headed, fast self!â€? I paused, as I debated whether to continue any further, cause these folks looked kinda busy, but then Ms. Pretty said, “When we get through with you, you’re gonna think twice before messing with anybody’s boyfriend,” then to her “crew” she instructed, “Hold her!â€? Now you’d think with the odds at four to one, Dyan would use those smarts of hers to talk the situation down? Nah…that made waaaay too much sense. Ms Thing was reading them left, right and center, setting the record straight with a pithy, “Girl please, I ain’t want your ugly wannabe-a-player-but-he-can’t-hang, boyfriend, he’s the one panting behind me like a dog! Ask my gurl here.â€? All six of us looked behind me, I’d probably have kept on looking for her gurl, but the silence kinda clued me in that I might just be the “gurlâ€? to which she referred. So summoning all my “downâ€? speak, I put on my “coolâ€? face and turned around saying, “Yeah, his simple behind always in our way, talking bout can I buy you and your gurl lunch?â€? By that time, I’d walked over to stand beside Dyan. How was I to know that this boy that I’d never seen, mind you, had never offered to buy Ms. Pretty lunch or either of her crew, at that? It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. En masse, the crew began closing in on us, but their main focus was Dyan. Then I, with courage I’ve never exhibited before or thereafter, stood firm and said in my most disparagingly adult voice, “Four to one, that’s hardly fair odds, and though I hate fighting, if y’all wanna do this, y’all gonna have to go through me first.â€? At five-six and solid, I guess I must have presented a convincingly scary picture, because the crew backed down and backed out of the bathroom vowing to catch Dyan when her bodyguard wasn’t around. Do you think Dyan’s mouth was quiet? Noooooo, she was on her tiptoes peeking over my shou lder shouting, “Bring it on!â€? That is, until I leveled a look at her that brought a half sheepish look to her face. “I’m sorry,â€? she said. “I didn’t mean to get you involved, but that’s all I could think of at the moment.â€? “It’s alright,â€? I said, as I wondered to myself, Did she know the guy had a girlfriend? Did things really go down the way she said? She does have a reputation. But heck, even if she was dead wrong, Ms thing shoulda handled it herself, instead of tryna pull a black-mama-beatdown! Out loud I said, “Look, I’ve seen you around my area. If you want you can take my bus and I’ll meet you between classes to make sure there’s no trouble?â€? although she shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s up to you.â€? I could sense her relief. She became the first inductee into my “Save a friend from Themselves Caribbean Clubâ€?

 

 

I later learned that behind the facade of a perfectly made up face, a sassy mouth, an incredible sense of style, and a quick brain (she was a junior in High School at 15), lay the broken remains of little girl who wanted to be a doctor when she grew up, but was being molested by her much older brother, with whom she lived.

 

My older brother and mother warned me about my association with her, her reputation of being fast. They couldn’t understand, how she was able to come and go as she pleased. Nor could they understand why I invited her to so many sleepovers. They thought her behavior was of her own choosing, they didn’t realize it was just the symptom of a deeper problem, a cry for help if you will. But it was not my story to tell, so I listened, I cried, I ranted, I urged her to speak out, but her fear and distrust held more sway. Suddenly, her popularity with the opposite sex and her earthy sex appeal, were no longer sources of envy for me. But I will confess, that I still did envy her outspokenness and the fact that she didn’t lose sight of her dreams. When I encountered a similar situation a year later, after moving to New York and moving in with my dad, (against the advice of my older sister), I better understood, her urge not to tell. But I still don’t know how she managed her sunny disposition or held on to her dreams, unless she resorted to prescription drugs, like I eventually did. When what we’re taught as little girls is our most prized possesion is taken away by force by not a stranger, but a blood relative, what have we to lose? What boundaries are left to be broken? Who do we trust? Darn, what essentially began as a happy and upbeat story, has once again turned into a downer, for which I apologize, but maybe, just maybe, someone needed to hear this? If you’re out there and you need someone to listen, pray with you and just love you. I’m here. *sniffing* Dee Oh and about the envy/comparison thing? This might just help: Someone will always be smarter. Their house will be bigger. They will drive a better car. Their children will do better in school. And their partners will fix more things around the house. So let it go and love you and your circumstances. Think about it. The prettiest woman in the world can have hell in her heart. And the most highly favored woman on your job may be unable to have children. The richest woman you know – she’s got the car, the house, the clothes – might be heartbreakingly lonely. So, love you. Love who you are right now… ~Anonymous