Breaking the Cycle
B
REAKING
THE CYCLE
B
REAKING
THE CYCLE
E
DITED
B
Y
Z
ANE
Published by
Strebor Books International LLC
P.O. Box 6505
Largo, MD 20792
http://www.streborbooks.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Breaking the Cycle
© 2005 by Zane
“Breaking the Cycle”
by Zane © 2005
“God Does Answer Prayers”
by J.L. Woodson @ 2005
“The Break of Dawn”
by Collen Dixon @ 2005
“The Grindstone”
by Nane Quartay @ 2005
“Silent Suffering”
by Shonda Cheekes @ 2005
“Victory Begins with Me”
by Dywane D. Birch @ 2005
“The Stranger”
by Tracy Price-Thompson @ 2005
“The Lonely Echoes of My Youth”
by D.V. Bernard @ 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.
ISBN 1-59309-021-8
ISBN 978-1-593-0-9021-0
eISBN 978-1-439-1-8670-1
LCCN 2003112283
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Distributed by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Cover Design: www.mariondesigns.com
First Printing March 2005
Manufactured and Printed in the United States
1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
… Only in retrospect do I find it strange that a beautiful 13-year-old would seek out the company of six-year-olds. Yet, even as I stood there, I knew that something was very wrong—and it wasn’t my puerile jealousy anymore. Though Tisha was physically maturing into womanhood, she acted as though she were six. Gone from her play was the imaginative virtuosity of previous afternoons—maybe that virtuosity had never been there and I had only imagined it in my desperation. As I looked on, I realized that her play with the boys seemed rushed, yet calculating—as though she were on some kind of deadline. It all seemed bizarre to me; and then, she asked the little boys the question she had asked me the day before—except that now, instead of it being “Who are you angry with?” it was “Who do you hate?” The little boys rushed up to give their responses. They didn’t succumb to the hesitancy that had gripped me the day before. The boys were natural born haters—perhaps we all were. They had people in their lives who mistreated them—and even abused them. The constant trickle of resentment was easy to dam into a reservoir of hatred. Growing up in the ghetto, surrounded by poverty and people who hated their lives, it wasn’t difficult to bring forth hate. Learning to hate was essentially about learning to hate one’s self—about realizing that one was in a situation that one didn’t have the wherewithal to change. Hatred isn’t so much about what others have done to us, it is about what we cannot do to them. Oppressors may disdain those they oppress, but the oppressed always hate their oppressors. There is a power relationship there: the realization that no matter what one does, one will never be able to correct the inescapable injustice of one’s everyday existence.
From “The Lonely Echoes of My Youth” by D.V. Bernard
T
ABLE
O
F
C
ONTENTS
GOD DOES ANSWER PRAYERS
J.L. WOODSON
SILENT SUFFERING
SHONDA CHEEKES
VICTORY BEGINS WITH ME
DYWANE D. BIRCH
THE STRANGER
TRACY PRICE-THOMPSON
I
NTRODUCTION
This book is a departure from my typical books. However, in many ways, I consider this my most important contribution to the literary world. Fiction can often serve as an educational source for those who shy away from reading manuals or textbooks.
Breaking the Cycle
is a means to an end. From this book, I hope that you will walk away with a clearer understanding of the importance of compassion for others. Abuse is a major problem in our American society and throughout the world. No one has the right to lay hands on another person; yet it happens every single minute of every single day. People live in fear in their own homes. Instead of worrying about being carjacked, robbed out in the streets, or becoming the random victim of a crime, a crime is committed against them where they live; over and over again.
Domestic violence is a form of oppression. In the words of Stephen Biko, founder and martyr of the Black Consciousness Movement in South Africa: “The greatest weapon the oppressor ever has is the mind of the oppressed.” While most people tend to concentrate on the black eyes and bruised ribs, domestic violence does the most damage to one’s psyche.
No, I don’t think this book will stop domestic violence altogether. It is way too big for that. All I am asking is that you keep your mind open as you read this book. If you are being abused by someone, get help. If you are witnessing someone you love being abused, encourage them to get help. Be their support system. Let them know they are not alone. Convince them that life does not have to be a daily battlefield.
For those of you who equate abuse with love, you are wrong. Contrary to the old adage, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” people should be sorry for using their lover or their children as human punching bags. In fact, it should never happen in the first place. There are tons of people who need anger management classes, stress reduction classes, and drug and alcohol rehabilitation. I name these things specifically because often times certain behavior patterns tend to lead to lashing out.
Domestic abuse is a universal issue but this book is focused on people of color because in our communities we tend to try to sweep a lot of things under the rug. Incest, abuse, mental illness, and all the rest of the issues plaguing society as a whole also affect us.
The contributors to this book were hand-selected by me and I can’t begin to thank them enough for stepping up to the task at hand and developing magnificent stories that truly hit home. While I realize escapism is often a reason to read fiction, I implore you to read this book from cover to cover, no matter how painful it may be. It might save a life.
Please wake up and realize that we all must take matters into our own hands and assist those in need if…
… we intend to break the cycle.
ZANE
B
REAKING
THE CYCLE
Z
ANE
There are some things in life for which one can never be prepared. You can never be prepared for puberty, sexual intercourse, childbirth, death or abuse. These are all peaks and hardships in life but something beautiful almost always comes from them. All except abuse.
From puberty comes understanding; from sexual intercourse comes satisfaction; from childbirth comes the creation of a soul; from death comes the rest and peace of a soul; but from abuse almost always comes nothing positive. Sometimes, if you are strong and have a great deal of faith, you might be able to rise above abuse. Sometimes, you might be able to go on and lead a normal life. Sometimes.
Daylight. It couldn’t come fast enough for me. I had laid awake all night, pondering over every little detail. Had Momma and I thought of everything? As far as I could tell, we had.
By 7 a.m., I couldn’t take it anymore. The breeze entering through my open bedroom window was chilly but refreshing. I imagined myself soaring through the sky like an eagle. Having the sense of total freedom. How I longed to be free and, in just a few more hours, I would be.
I jumped up out of bed once I heard my mother’s bedroom shoes slapping against the wooden hallway floor. She was on her way to the kitchen to begin her morning routine of brewing coffee, frying bacon and eggs, and fetching the morning paper from the front stoop of our apartment so it would be spread open to the sports section before Josh finished getting dressed for work.
I got down on my knees and retrieved my faded green duffel bag from under the bed. It was crammed with my most treasured belongings. I had to wrestle with it the night before in order to get the zipper closed. There was so much more I wanted to take, but Irene had been adamant about the one bag per person rule. I did manage to fit my small photo album into the bag. It contained pictures from my youth, back when Grandma was still alive and Momma was reasonably happy. Back before she married Josh and turned both of our lives into a living hell.
I was going to miss my friends the most. While we had only been living in Richmond for a few years, I felt extremely close to a couple of people. There was Amanda, fourteen going on thirty, exactly like me, and the only person other than myself who believed in my ability. We spent most of our lunch hours huddled in the corner of the cafeteria discussing plans for our future. We often fantasized about riding motorcycles up and down the California coast once we got our driver’s licenses, being beach bums the summer after our senior year of high school, and starting our own jewelry company to sell the bracelets we made out of wire.
Then, there was Mrs. Cowan, our next-door neighbor. She was an elderly woman who always smelled like rose water. I loved sitting out on the balcony during the summer in lawn chairs, drinking her homemade lemonade out of Mason jars, and listening to her reminisce about her adventures growing up in the 1930s. Even though there were more than sixty years between us, I could somehow relate to her more than I could relate to anyone else. In many ways, she reminded me of Grandma and in just as many ways she didn’t. Unlike Grandma, she didn’t take abuse from men and let them brutalize her until there was nothing left. Unlike Grandma, she didn’t let her children grow up watching a man dole out ass beatings on a daily basis.
I never blamed Momma for the predicament she ended up in with Josh. It was all she knew because it was all she had been exposed to as a child. I never blamed Grandma either. The situation was the same for her. My great-grandmother had been victimized by the man that supposedly loved her as well. I wasn’t around back then but I am positive it happened. Grandma told me all about it on her deathbed. There she was, lying on the sweat-drenched hospice bed, struggling for every breath, when she admitted it. She made Momma promise it wouldn’t happen to her. That she wouldn’t allow men to beat on her until the irreparable damage affected her insides and killed her. It was time for Momma to finally live up to that promise and Irene was going to help us. I was going to miss everyone in Richmond terribly, but there were no other options. It had all come down to one simple truth. Escape or perish.
I came out of my room and headed to the bathroom to scrub my face and brush my teeth after Josh vacated, leaving the mirrors steamed up with fog. I could hear him through the thin walls, covered with peeling plaster, singing “Bad to the Bone.” He was, indeed, bad down to the very bone. He was pure evil.
He bumped right into me as I exited the bathroom. I immediately pulled the belt on my robe tighter. I hated it when he stared at me like that, with a mixture of lust and anger in his eyes, licking his lips like I was a plate of greasy fried chicken. He needed to shave and the odor emitting from his body made me wonder if he had even picked up a bar of soap in the shower. He winked at me and whispered, “Good morning,” before strutting off down the hallway to the kitchen like he was the king of the castle.
Josh thought he was fine but he was really mediocre. His 5’9” frame wasn’t big enough to handle the two hundred thirty-plus pounds he was hauling around and he needed serious help from both a dermatologist and a dentist. I never could understand what Momma saw in him in the first place. She’s gorgeous, tall, with long, wavy black hair and smooth caramel skin. I must look like my natural father, who has always remained nameless. I’m short, even for a teenage girl. If I ever get to five feet, I’ll do somersaults for weeks. I’m a lot lighter than Momma, too. I often wonder if my real father is White. It doesn’t really matter. A deadbeat dad is a deadbeat dad.
I went back into my room and threw on my typical Saturday outfit: a pair of sweats, and a baggy T-shirt. Everything had to appear normal. Josh was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them.
When I came into the kitchen, he glanced up from the sports section just long enough to leer at me and then returned to the game scores. I told Momma, “Good morning,” but she didn’t reply. She kept her back to me and busied herself washing dishes. I got a plate from the cabinet, a spoon from the silverware drawer, and sat down at the table.
“Could you pass the bacon?”
Josh totally ignored me, pulling the paper up closer to his face and flipping the page.
“Josh, can I have the bacon?”
“What do you say?” he replied snidely, exposing a mouth full of half-chewed bacon and eggs. “What’s the magic word?”
I sucked in some air through my teeth, holding back an expletive. He had a lot of nerve, correcting my manners when he didn’t have any himself. “Please!”
He folded the paper up and tossed it on the table. “That’s better.” He scooted the plate of bacon toward me and stared while I put three pieces on my plate. “Don’t waste any of that. We can’t afford to waste any food around here. Not the way I work my behind off to provide for you two trifling bitches.”
I heard Momma sigh but didn’t bother to look in her direction. She would never stand up to him and he knew it. He made comments like that for the simple reason he knew he could get away with it.
I ate my bacon in silence, opting to leave the eggs alone because they often gave me indigestion. Josh finished off his breakfast, gulped down a tall glass of orange juice in less than ten seconds, and then pushed his seat away from the table. Momma immediately ran over to retrieve his plate and empty the remains into the garbage. I tried to establish eye contact with her, but she paid me no mind.
Josh went into the living room, grabbed his heavy uniform jacket out of the closet in the foyer, and yelled out, “See you two whores tonight!” before slamming the front door shut behind him.
“I hope he rots in hell,” I blurted out the second he left. “I hope one of those stores down at the mall gets robbed and he gets shot right in his little rent-a-cop outfit.”
“Kandace, you shouldn’t say things like that about people.” Momma finally opened her mouth. As usual, it was after Elvis had already left the building. She sat down across from me at the table with both hands wrapped around a steaming hot mug of coffee. “God doesn’t like it when you talk ugly.”
“And God doesn’t like it when you sit around and let a man beat on you either,” I immediately retorted. Momma rolled her eyes and took another sip of her coffee. “So, you all packed? What time are we leaving?”
“Leaving to go where?” Was she serious? She couldn’t be.
“Today’s the day, Momma. It’s March 30th.” She looked puzzled. “We’re supposed to meet up with Irene today in D.C. so she can take us to the Safe Haven.”
“Oh that,” my mother replied with disinterest. “I forgot.”
I panicked, slamming my fist down on the table. “How could you forget? This is the single most important day of our lives. This is the day we get away from all of this.”
No response.
“It’s okay, Momma. I’ll help you pack.” I came to the conclusion that all she needed was a little push in the right direction and we would be out of there within the hour. “You can only take one bag, but we’ll make it a big one and, once we get settled in, we can get some more clothes.”
“I’m not going any damn place and neither are you,” she stated vehemently. “I suggest you drop this nonsense right now.”
“But, but, but we planned this all out, me and you. We met with Irene at the diner and went over everything. Today’s the day.”
“Today’s the day for you to clean up your room and scrub these filthy floors. That’s what today is.” She rose from the table, poured her remaining coffee down the drain and threw the mug in the sink. “Josh told me last night that he’s sick of this apartment being nasty.”
“Who cares what Josh says?” I went over to the sink, swung Momma around, and grabbed her by the wrists. “We’re leaving this place today. You promised me we would. You promised Grandma.”
My mother yanked her hands away. “Don’t bring your grandma into this, God rest her soul. She was on the brink of insanity those last few moments and didn’t realize what she was saying. I would’ve told her anything to let her go in peace.”
“Grandma was the sanest of us all,” I said defensively. “She knew exactly what she was saying and you know it.”
“Whatever, Kandace.” She headed into the living room and started fluffing the toss pillows on the couch. She picked up the universal remote, hit the power button, and started flipping through channels until she landed on some music videos.
I couldn’t believe things were turning out this way. “My bag’s already packed.”
“Well, goody for you,” Momma snickered. “You might as well go back there and unpack it.”
“Or I could go back there and pack yours.” I sat down on the couch beside her, trying to decide the best course of action. There was no way I was giving up on our plans. “Momma, don’t you realize that this all has to end somewhere?”
“What has to end?” She leered at me out the corner of her eye and that’s when I noticed it, the slight puffiness of her bottom cheek.
I grabbed her chin and shook it. “This has to end. Josh hit you last night, didn’t he? He put his grubby little hands on you like you’re his personal punching bag.”
Momma slapped my hand and then slapped me clear across the face. “How dare you talk to me like that? I suggest you remember who is the parent and who is the child.”
“You’re not much of a parent,” I mumbled under my breath, clenching my hands into fists but determined not to lash out in anger. My life had been dysfunctional and full of violence long enough. It took years for me to realize that violence is not the solution, but it had finally sunk in.
“What did you just say, you little tramp?” Momma asked, fighting back tears and wiping the corner of her eye with the sleeve of her tattered gray sweater. I could tell it always hurt her inside to hit me. She knew how it felt firsthand. She grew up in the same exact situation.
I garnered some nerve from someplace, raised my voice, and reiterated my last statement. “I said, you’re not much of a parent if you make me stay here in this type of environment. Can’t you see that this is never going to change? Josh will continue to beat on both of us whenever he feels like it until one of us ends up in the graveyard next to Grandma.”
