Silent Cry (3 page)

Each day, my stepfather woke up and faithfully went to his job as a crane operator. He made a decent living, and for a long season, things were pretty good for us financially. Lester was a man of simple tastes, and when he came home, my mother always had something hearty and piping hot waiting for him to eat. I remember fondly the smell of red beans and rice simmering on the stove, our little trailer in spotless order, all the clothes washed and ironed, and my mother having everything just so in time for his arrival home.

My mother's given name was Ethel, but everyone called her Keeby. She worked hard to make sure her family was well mannered and well-thought-of. In the early days, when money was available, she had our clothing made for us. Sometimes she would take us to New Orleans to shop for clothes. Those were good, good times. She was so proud to see her children in nice things. Everybody called us “Keeby's Kids,” and we were always dressed in matching outfits. We knew how to behave ourselves,
mind our manners, be respectful of our elders, and make a good impression wherever we went. My mother smiled from ear to ear when people commented on how well behaved we were. We loved seeing her smile, and that was reward enough. As the oldest of thirteen children, my mother learned how to cook, clean, and take care of a family at a young age. By third grade, she dropped out of school to stay at home to help take care of her brothers and sisters. She didn't have an opportunity to learn how to read and could barely write her name, but she carried herself with dignity and authority. She was intelligent and always conducted her business as aptly as any professional woman. She commanded great respect everywhere she went. When she took me with her to the store to fill out checks, it never occurred to me that she couldn't do it for herself. I thought she was just teaching me how to do it so I could learn. The same was true when she asked me to read Scripture out loud in the evenings. Oh, how she loved the Bible! I never dreamed she asked me because she couldn't read.

Because my mother was such a gifted and respected communicator, few people knew her secret. It wasn't until I was in high school and asked for her help with an algebra problem one night that I discovered the extent of her limitations. I was forced to swallow the bitter pill of my mother's illiteracy, and I was shocked. In my eyes, she had always been brilliant. However, when I realized how much she had accomplished in spite of this huge obstacle, I respected her even more.

Like all the women in our family, she was strong — she had to be. Others depended on her, and she wouldn't let them down, no matter what. Ours was definitely a matriarchal culture. The women established the moral and religious structure for the family. They set the rules, provided the discipline, and taught the lessons. They were the glue that held everyone together,
kept our spirits high in hard times, and created a community that cared deeply for each other and looked after its own. And there were plenty of us to look after.

Eleven of my aunts and uncles lived less than a quarter mile from our home. Even the smallest occasion was a reason to gather, make mountains of food, and spend long afternoons talking and playing with cousins. No one had a large home. In fact, most of us lived in trailers. To this day, I can't quite remember how we managed to get everyone together in one place for a giant Louisiana-style crawfish boil, but we did. It was wonderful! For Christmas, we all gathered at Grandma's house. Everyone brought something to eat, and we got all dressed up in our Sunday best. There was love and laughter and practical jokes and family gossip and drama — it was crazy and crowded and absolutely the most wonderful time you can imagine. I loved spending time with my family, and I felt very special to be part of them. It was the only life I ever knew — a life filled with people who cared about you, shared your joys and your sorrows, picked you up when you were down, and made life worth living. And God was in the center of my immediate family. Our faith in him was solid.

My aunts were especially good to me. Auntie Melvina threw parties and often made treats for me and my friends. Auntie Helen took the best clothes out of her closet for me to wear on special occasions. Over the years, Auntie Dee Dee called to check on me and sent me letters. Auntie Red made my favorite foods as a treat and occasionally gave me just a little something that made me feel special.

For a variety of reasons, I began to experience tension with my younger siblings during this time. Being singled out for special assignments at church and school meant I had privileges they didn't. To make matters worse, I got good grades and was
popular at school. Because I was the oldest girl in the family, it was also my job to help the younger ones with homework, make sure everything was taken care of for school, and be the disciplinarian when necessary. My “rank” clearly annoyed my siblings. They called me “Goody Two-Shoes” and “Miss Bossy.” When they were really irritated with me, they called me “Pie Face” — or the one I hated most (and they knew it): “Miss Princess La-La.”

Without really understanding why, I pulled away from my siblings and looked instead to my aunts for companionship, particularly my auntie Dee Dee. She had gotten married when she was just eighteen and moved away to California. Even though she was far away, she wrote me letters, encouraged me to do well in school, and counseled me about things in my life that troubled me. She was my link to a world bigger than our small Louisiana community, and I was hungry to discover things outside our little circle.

I knew I was destined for greater things. I believed God had a purpose for my life that was bigger than anything I could yet imagine. And yet there was a shadow lurking — a dark shadow that cast its coldness over everything warm and beautiful and good.

CHAPTER 3

Evil Drink

Wine hath drowned more men than the sea.

Thomas Fuller

M
y stepfather, Lester, was a wonderful, loving man — until he drank. I often wondered
if
the
alcohol revealed his true nature, or if the drink itself was responsible for his
vicious behavior. Though I can't remember a single day he didn't get up and go to
work, as I got older, there were fewer and fewer nights he came home right after
work. Instead, he went into town and poured himself into a bottle until nothing of
his gentle nature remained.

The good times became careful times. The careful times became difficult times, and
it wasn't long until we were in really bad shape. Lester continued working every
day, but money stopped coming into the household. Liquor led to gambling. The greater
the losses at the gambling table, the greater his need for alcohol. He stumbled home
late at night, filled to the brim with rage, and took out his frustrations on my
mother.

She tried everything to calm him down — fixing him hot food in the middle of the
night, figuring out what she had done to displease him, and trying to change herself
in hopes of somehow making him better. It wasn't long until evidence of extramarital
affairs appeared, and when my mother confronted him, things got even worse. The more
his life spun out of control, the more he fought to dominate and control our little
world at home. Abuse became an everyday reality, and my mother was locked in the
crosshairs of his anger and violence.

When there was no longer enough money even for food, my mother began looking for
work. Because she couldn't read,
I went with her to help her fill out job applications.
After weeks of searching, she landed a job as a custodian at our school in Buras,
Louisiana. It was the only school in town, and everyone from kindergarteners through
high school seniors attended there. My mother was so excited to have a job and make
her own money. She could work during the same hours we were in school and then be
home with us when school let out.

In order to stretch our meager budget, my mother supplemented our meals with scraps
she brought home from the school cafeteria. She wasn't stealing, mind you. She brought
home only what the children threw away. She prayed over it, cut off any edges that
had bite marks, and developed creative ways to turn this castaway cuisine into something
we could survive on. When I discovered what she was doing, I was horrified and disgusted.
At the time, I didn't see it as resourceful and brave. I didn't understand how committed
she was to our survival — no matter what.

My mother scrimped and was frugal, but she also loved to be generous whenever she
could. I will never forget the first Christmas after she had a job. We rarely received
Christmas presents or birthday gifts, but my mother had carefully saved a portion
of each paycheck until she had enough money to buy something special for each of
us. My sisters and I received monogram rings, and the boys each got a bicycle. I'll
never know how she did it, but she found a way. No matter how tight money was or
how tired she was from working or fending off my stepfather, she always found ways
to do special things for us and express her love for us.

Living in a small, close-knit community meant everyone knew everyone else's business.
When my stepfather came home
raging in the middle of the night, my siblings and I
sometimes tried to step in and mediate. On many occasions, one or more of us would
run outside and plead for help. My older brother Gary wanted desperately to protect
Mother, but he was no match for our stepfather.

Our relatives and neighbors would try to answer our cries when the fight was on,
and sometimes the police would come, but my stepfather held some inexplicable power
over all of them. Whenever he started talking, it was like he cast a magic spell
on people. Though the evidence of the abuse was as plain as day, and we had been
there to witness it all, he was always able to explain it all away. Because he had
a reputation as a hard worker and was loved and respected by everyone, no one wanted
to believe he was capable of such violence. His behavior toward my mother so contradicted
the “daytime version” of his life that it left our family and neighbors just as confused
about him as we were.

Somehow, what happened in our home was considered a private matter between a man
and his wife — therefore, it should not be interfered with. It was like some unspoken
code. There was a deeply ingrained, dangerous tolerance for domestic violence in
our community. The women shook their heads in sympathy and prayed silently — too
many of them had also been victims of violence at one time or another.

I coped by throwing myself into my schoolwork, carving out a place for myself in
the top tiers of my class. I was involved in everything a student could possibly
be involved in, and Buras High School was my haven. My drive to succeed went far
beyond the classroom. I learned to channel the frustrations of my home life into
the positive energy of competitive athletics, where my focus and natural abilities
soon brought me to the front of the pack.

The problem was that participating in athletics cost money, and I needed to pay for
everything from tennis shoes and uniforms to registration fees and travel. By this
time, we had even less money to live on, and my mother's salary didn't allow for
any extras. I felt guilty having to ask her for money to purchase what I needed.
Sometimes she had to take out small loans to keep us kids supplied. Because of her
good reputation and kindness, people were often willing to lend a helping hand. But
as I grew older and was increasingly aware of our plight, I often pretended I didn't
need anything so I could somehow lighten her burden.

I had a friend named Deborah who played sports with me. Her mother was a friend to
my mother and was aware of our situation. When we had out-of-town games, Deborah
often paid for my meal or ordered double portions and pretended she couldn't eat
it all so she could share with me. Her generosity melted some of the hardness that
had developed around my heart. God used her compassion to reveal his love to me.
Over and over again, the warmth of Deborah's kindness melted the cold, hard knot
growing within me, allowing me to trust God and know I was in his hands.