WORTH FIGHTING FOR!

The Secrets of my Shadows “I can hear him finding his way to me in the night. While everyone was asleep, stumbling through the darkness. As loud and as clearly as the sirens on an ambu- lance speeding down the street I can hear him crunching the empty soda cans under his feet; trampling over our trash that was scarcely taken out and maneu- vering around the old and broken toys covering our hard wooden floors like new carpet. He passed over my older brother’s room, avoided my older sister’s, and found the room of his princess, so that he could begin his ritual of kissing, touch- ing and sneaking a way to release his penis onto the chest...the belly...and into the vagina of his youngest daughter...his Baby Girl...Me. It never lasted that long but when you are a child it lasts forever. All that I could do was cry. I wasn’t tall enough, strong enough, or smart enough to make him stop but I had enough faith to wish him away, so I thought. I believed that I had enough faith to wish that his torture of my adolescent body would end and that he would begin another hobby that did not include me. Cer- tainly his sexual desires could be satisfied by another, he had my momma, wasn’t she good enough? She was young, pretty, with long hair and fair skin; she was the envy of every woman she met. Wasn’t she good enough? He had a girlfriend, several of them, some younger and some older, with careers, jobs, retirement checks and disability benefits, why weren’t they good enough? If their money was good enough to support him, why wasn’t their body good enough to please him? He had prostitutes that used their body for money, skilled professionals, of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities, sometimes his women lived with us. Why did it have to be me? What was sexually appealing about the body and the sexuality of a child? How could God allow my father to do this to me? Where is my mother? Can anyone see that this is killing me? I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Where is God? There has to be a heaven, I came from it. Surely, I believed that if I cried a little louder, held my breath a little longer, stared for another hour, sang about his abuse to a gospel tune more intently, then God would have mercy on me. I fig- ured that if I asked, God, then He would kill my oppressor; or at least remove him permanently. He did far worse to people who did far less in the Bible, didn’t He? Where is He now? I had to have faith that God would rescue me. I often wondered if I did some- thing to upset God. Maybe I needed to repent. Maybe I needed to have more faith in what I prayed. Maybe I should have believed and not doubted. There was always a maybe. There was always a way that I figured made this abuse my fault. So, I did what so many others have done, I hid. I had to find a way to get to safety, I had to find a way to hide whatever it was in me that my father was look- ing for, before the nighttime came. Where could I hide from a predator that shares my DNA? How could I tuck myself outside of his eyesight when as a child in poverty food and clothing is the reward for those in close proximity? I thought about it for a while and then I knew exactly where I should hide, where I could be safe from him... ...The dirty clothes closet. None of us looked for anything in the closets because our closets were a sanctuary for filth and debris. The closets retained their own smell because the cost of wash- ing our clothing exceeded our budget. Thus our closets carried a distinct smell. It was the smell of an adolescent boy, two girls and a puppy. Cleaning the closet consisted of throwing two or three mothballs on top of the clothes and closing the door. It usually only masked the smell and ensured that our scarce and un- welcomed visitors could not smell the filth brewing a few feet away. Our house guests were kind not to mention the obvious smell of the house to us. My classmates at school were not as gracious. They made it absolutely clear that the reason that I was not in the “in crowd” was due to my appearance, my hair style, and my stench. So, I used that to keep people away from me that I did not want to be around. This worked all to well. It kept away friends and foes alike. I just wanted it to keep my father away as well. Some nights my father would hide inside the closet and wait for me. There was no escaping him. Whenever the night time came, he began his search for me. To me, he was the night and I hated the night. The night brought him. The night brought discomfort. I begged for it to remain daylight forever, but that was a prayer that would not be answered for a long time to come. Whenever he came for me, I felt that my prayers and tearful pleadings missed heaven. I’d look up into the sky with tears pouring from my eyes, staining my brown face, and wonder if God loved me. I closed my eyes whenever he touched me, and wondered what was taking God so long to deliver me. The night ended much as it began, with my father; (James), looking for an easy way out, to avoid the guilt, of what he had done before the break of day. Who could I run to? Daybreak in Chicago was beautiful. The sun moved easily over Lake Michigan spreading its gentle glow to the windy city; illuminating the majestic skyscrapers, the plush condos, and the housing projects created for the visible poor. Finally the sun shined its way to the abandoned buildings, one in which I live.