Bruises: A Litany
My mother was working, rounding out her usual 60 hour week at IBM, while one of her friends baby-sat for us. This particular friend was the owner of a lovely three-bedroom home in a quiet suburban enclave that seemed superior to our neighborhood in every way. The lawns were green and meticulously-kept, and every house in the cul-de-sac boasted pristine, glistening backyard pools. Being a fledgling swimmer, I was especially in love with the pool, which was enclosed by a screened deck, and overlooked a canal that often hosted blue herons as well as the rare sunning alligator. Better than all that, a friend of mine from class lived two houses down, so I had someone to play with when we visited. (This particular playmate was White, and apparently her parents had discouraged her from having me over…but wouldn’t tell her why. In a move of teenage rebellion and sibling solidarity, her older sister made it a point to hang out with us, make Jiffy Pop, watch movies, and invite me to their pool.) It was a Good, Safe Place. Even now, I smile wryly at this notion. No place was ever truly Good. No space was ever really Safe. But I needed to believe this. I needed to believe something. My innocence, murdered but not completely dead, in its death throes, wanted so badly to live.
I don’t know how to tell you this. There’s so much I can’t say.
On this otherwise unremarkable day, my little brother and I had just enjoyed a swim in the pool, and were now scouting the neighborhood for other kids. Our curiosity brought us to a loud fight on the other side of the neatly-trimmed bushes separating my mother’s friend’s house from her next door neighbor’s. A man’s voice, deep, loud and menacing, reached us.
“LEAVE the FUCKING dirt ALONE, Alice!” he said, his voice loud, but his emphasis and tone measured. Shocked, we both stopped mid-creep. My little brother’s eyes were saucers of anxious curiosity as he rounded the bushes.
“LEAVE IT ALONE!” the man roared, as something metal hit the cemented driveway. I heard the sickening sound of flesh connecting with flesh as my brother ducked back around the bushes.
“What happened?’ I asked him, quietly. I knew.
“She put the shovel down, and he picked it up and threw it, ” he said. “Then he hit her.” He paused, his face baffled. “She did what he told her. Why he hit her?”
I recognized the voice: this was the same man who, weeks before, had attempted to coax me and my friend from class away from our hopscotch game and into his home with promises of chocolate ice cream, chocolate cake and cable TV. All this while his eyes hungrily devoured our eight-year-old frames. (I will say here that the unsafest thing in this world to be is a Pretty Little Black Girl, something that – unfortunately – by the time I was eight, I knew.) I remember coldly informing this man that my friend already had cable and probably ice cream, so NO THANK YOU, as I pulled her away into the safety of her home.
I didn’t say that to my brother. I didn’t tell anybody. But I knew why he had hit her.
“Because he’s an asshole,” I said. My brother giggled nervously at my fearless cussing, but also because what he saw in this Perfect Place had terrified us both.
My neighbor’s partner is a tall, broad, gorgeous dark-skinned Black man. They have been together for a while. If he is indeed responsible, I doubt this is the first time. I know that I will not report this to the police. I know that so many elements of this situation fit neatly into a racist narrative. I know that I alone cannot save my neighbor. I know that my neighbor would fiercely reject any attempts I made to discuss this directly. I know that more than a little vitriol would be thrown my way (i.e., “Do you even HAVE a man? Then don’t tell me how to deal with mine!”). I meant it when I said that I didn’t want to write about this. There has been so much buzz about this lately because of recent pop star events (I’m not recounting them here). I really don’t want to add to the huge body of online work that is discussing this right now. Everything I have to say, anything I have to say, has been said. And better. Scroll down a little and take a look at my Elizabeth Mendez Berry links. SHE did this brilliantly. I cannot. Frankly, it’s too close. And while there are ways and methods to help survivors of straight-on domestic abuse, there are fewer options for those of us who have been merely “grazed” – no matter how ruthlessly or repeatedly – by the violent arm of the patriarchy. In so many ways, we are on our own.
I don’t know how to tell you this. There’s so much I can’t say.
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