Tell Somebody: Two Years, Four Months, One Week, and A Day: The Memories and Musings of a Battered Wife - A Trilogy, Part I

By Brenda Shaw Pirtle

"Tell Somebody: Two Years, Four Months, One Week, and A Day - The Memories and Musings of a Battered Wife - A Trilogy, Part I" is the first leg of the journey of young Stephanie Sweeney from friendship to courtship, to a perfect love, and an early marriage to her firs

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Shaw-Biz Publication
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735927015

Book preview

Tell Somebody

Tell Somebody

Tell Somebody

Two Years, Four Months, One Week, and A Day: The Memories and Musings of a Battered Wife - A Trilogy, Part I

Brenda Shaw Pirtle

A Shaw-Biz! Publication

Copyright © 2020 by Brenda Shaw Pirtle

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever

without written permission

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2021

Published in the United States by Shaw-Biz Publications

[e-mail]

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

is available upon request.

ISBN 978-1-7359270-0-8

Ebook ISBN 978-1-7359270-1-5

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Book Design and Photographs

Shannon C. Foster

First Edition

Domestic Violence

(Intimate Partner Violence or Domestic Abuse) 

Domestic Violence is a pattern of intentional behavior committed by one partner against the other partner in a relationship. Domestic Violence manifests in many ways: intimidation, threats, violence, or a combination of these behaviors, in order for the perpetrator to gain or maintain control within the relationship. The abuse may be physical, sexual, emotional, psychological, or financial. It is meant to intimidate you, to hurt you, to scare you. The perpetrator seeks to humiliate you, to belittle you, to make you comply. They often are trying to pay you back or make you pay for a perceived wrong done to them.  And, in the mind of the abuser, the victim is always to blame for the violence.  

Domestic Violence affects people of all racial, ethnic, cultural, and religious backgrounds. It affects all educational levels, all socioeconomic status, and every class distinction. Domestic Violence may occur with great frequency--daily, weekly, monthly, or it may occur with less frequency--but it still occurs. Domestic Violence is often a progressive behavior; however, Intimate Partner Violence may occur suddenly, without warning, with an outburst of anger, over a seemingly insignificant matter. It may be a simple slap or it may be severe causing serious injuries. Domestic Violence can start with an off look that progresses to an ill-spoken word in an inappropriate tone. It may be an aggressive movement or a threat of harm; then, it escalates in severity to striking, punching, choking, or to an all-out beating. The physical injuries from an episode of Domestic Violence may even lead to death.

Disclaimer

This book deals openly and honestly with Domestic Violence.

It is a work of creative non-fiction.

The events, conversations, situations, and the violence depicted

in this book have been detailed to

the best of the author’s memory, recollection, and understanding.

All of the violence described herein actually occurred.

Names of persons, places, institutions, and organizations

have been changed to protect the privacy of some individuals,

institutions and organizations.

While the experiences and life lessons gleaned from those experiences

are real and true to the author, prayerful consideration and

caution on the part of the reader and/or user must be exercised

before applying to a personal situation.

Neither the author, the publisher, nor any entity affiliated with such

shall be liable for the application of any principle contained therein. 

The violence, sexual situations, and language

may objectionable to some readers.

Reader Discretion Is Advised.

Dedication

To the God of my life

My Savior, My Lord, My King, My Peace, My Joy

Thank You, Lord, for my life.

Thank You for delivering me from my abuser.

Thank You, Lord, for keeping my mind, heart, soul,

and spirit protected

as I traveled back to the hurtful places of my younger days.

It was for a time such as this.

To My Parents Who Loved Me Dearly

Daddy – Robert Shaw, Jr.

Mother – Cornelia Ingram Shaw-Carruthers

To My Sisters and My Brother 

Pamela Shaw Caldwell

England Shaw Jones-Reynolds

Charles Donnell Shaw

I sure miss you guys!

My Sisters

Clydia

(Thank you for showing me how it’s done).

Martha

(Thank you for being there).

My Other Siblings -- Mary, Millicent, Gerald, Rik

To Shannon and Takya

(My Beloveds -  My Daughters)

To

Elizabeth - My Newest Love!

To

Scottie, Rick, Bill, Phyllis, Toney, Brenda, Myrtiss, Debora, D’Nese, Mona, Alice, Karen, Rita, Phyllis, Tangey, Ricca,

Agnes, Lisa, Carlin, Carlos,

Mother Lee and My Grace Family

My Ingram-Carter Family, My Pirtle Family, and My Shaw Family

To

Dr. Carmichael Dale Crutchfield

Elder Oliver T. Williams

To

The Women Who Have Lost Their Lives

Because They Were Unable To Get Help In Time

To

The Women Who Were Able To Get Help

And Escape Their Abuser

To

THE WOMEN YET IN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIPS

To

 THE WOMEN ABOUT TO ENTER ONE--UNKNOWINGLY

Tell Somebody At The First Occurrence, And, LEAVE!

PLEASE DO NOT GO BACK!

To

Those Men Who Know What It Is To Love A Woman

To

THE MEN WHO DON’T!

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

Musings

1 Day One - The Morning of September 20, 1974 - Wedding Day Blues

2 Day One - That Evening

3 Home

4 Day 2 — The Real World

5 Day 4 — Just Desserts?

6 Day 5

7 Day 6 — One Day In September

8 Mugging

9 Our Way Back

10 Round 3

11 The Week In Review

12 I Believe

13 The Clean Slate

14 I Am Telling You What God Loves - Ladies

15 I Am Telling You What God Loves - Men

About The Author

Foreword

With great joy and pride, I salute Brenda Shaw Pirtle for penning a story that had to be told. " Tell Somebody " is an expression birthed out of a place many didn’t survive to tell. I believe the text is an opportunity for fellowship communities to examine constitution and purpose. Each lesson learned or experienced informs an intimate view of the Negro family in the late sixties and beyond. In this text, meaning suffered violence from its kind. I celebrate you for having the courage to pen what is often unspoken and share what is worthwhile to the masses.

     In 2017, the CDC reported, 1 in 4 women and 1 in 7 men will experience severe physical violence by an intimate partner in their lifetime. Yesterday it was called domestic violence. Though the struggle is the same, today it is defined as intimate partner violence. Families are at risk today, especially the Negro Family. Father absence, poor mental health, poverty, and racism are just a few ingredients that negatively add to the  epidemic affecting the Negro Family unit. Families of color were taught theology inconsistent with the liberation given by Christ on the Cross at Calvary. Therefore, the epidemic grows weekly as social clubs and churches keep silent. Tell Somebody can create the dialogue in social organizations within community. According to the research, we have much work to do to achieve more healthy relationships within our communities. The oath to produce a beloved community will become a broken promise if we are not intentional in making steps toward the goal. Fraternities/sororities, churches, and other social clubs grow the culture of violence by allowing members to contradict familial values without accountability. Hence, the sacred bond of the brotherhood or sisterhood is often thicker than the blood on the member’s hand. Consequently, a life, or lives, is damaged, if not lost.

     If the research is true, what affect should it have on the lens of the black church? The Bible says, . . . things were written for our learning. Tell Somebody, has a glimpse of the Gospel sharing life lessons with nuggets worth exploring. From acquaintance rape to emotional trauma, the blood of victims is shed for a purpose and not just for press. The state of America in the sixties and seventies had its impact on the culture. During that time, the family unit was stronger than today. Some liken the family violence of that era to PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome) experienced within the black community. Therefore, to be beaten was an expression of love or affection. Some men beat their wives, girlfriends, and acquaintances on a daily basis. Further, the ignorance in the pulpit held on to traditional misquotes of the Holy Writ that kept her silent or incarcerated her with a text saying, her body was not her own. Even today, the King James Version critique is mishandled by those who challenge the integrity of the claim rather than the context of the critique. Some clergy would rather hold on to a translation and not the original text. In such cases, the meaning is lost and the suffering increases in the pew.

     At launch, Tell Somebody, is exceedingly timely. The COVID-19 pandemic at the dawning of this decade has increased the number of  intimate partner violence incidents in our nation. Lockdowns, loss of wages, and global economic decline are just a few reasons affecting the triggers or cues to violence. In Memphis, violence is up greater than the national average. It is my hope, victims of violence are encouraged to sound the alarm to access help and support. It’s never too late to Tell Somebody. In some cases, the perpetrator and the victim may reside in the same residence spending more time at home. The victim may also have limited resources to leave the home and/or the relationship. The variable of violence during the coronavirus season is massive.

     So, what does it all mean? Hidden under the pile of this writer's experience is a gem with prophetic potential. What if truth does not experience censorship? What if what is to be told was not retold to save face? What if the victim’s truth had as much security as scrutiny?Tell Somebody is uncut, raw, and written with intention. As a caregiver, it is my practice to accept the statement of the sufferer without judgement. The sufferer should not be censored to accommodate the pious. It is my belief that changing their truth to accommodate is another attempt to minimize the victim. The hope of our families rests in how we make intentional steps toward healthy relationships. We accomplish this goal by listening to what is told for cure and not for protest. Violence is a learned behavior. Therefore, this material can assist in our learning to become nonviolent. Though written from the lens of a female victim, the tenants of intimate partner violence are gender neutral. It is imperative for all of us to make the statement that could save a life. You never know who will gain the strength to live! Tell Somebody is a charge or a command. 

  If you are being abused, TELL SOMEBODY!

  If you know of someone being abused, TELL SOMEBODY!

 We have the authority and agency to TELL SOMEBODY!

Elder, Oliver T. Williams

Master of Arts and Religion

Master of Divinity

Doctor of Ministry

(Under Supervision for Licensure in Clinical Pastoral Therapy)  

Preface

Iwas socialized to think that if a person who has wronged you apologizes, you accept the apology because people only apologize when they know they have wronged you. They apologize because they accept responsibility for their wrongdoing(s). They apologize to make it up to you, to atone for their misdeeds. You accept their apology. I thought you had to maintain the relationship as a show of your forgiveness. You mend the breech, the brokenness, the betrayal—the relationship—and you go on from there. I don’t really think I knew, then . . . I know I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. I didn’t know that you could say, I forgive you; but I no longer want to be in relationship with you!

 Of course, I knew people broke up, separated, and divorced. I knew friendships ended; but on some level, I thought unforgiveness was the reason the relationship was not mended.

I know better now!

I knew people lied; but in my loving heart and trusting mind, I didn’t know that an apology could be a lie. I didn’t know that a person could, or even would, use an apology to manipulate a situation for their own benefit. I thought everything was all right, a-okay, copacetic, well.

It never dawned on me that a person who claimed to love me so much, could, or would, harm me. I knew, at some point, he really did love me. I never in my wildest dreams, though, thought he would intentionally try to, No!--plan to, harm me--repeatedly! I suppose he either knew the level of my naïveté, or the depth of my love for him and devotion to him.

I was a church-girl; I still am! I had planned to save myself for my husband. I planned to marry young. When I married, I planned to be married for a lifetime. I had planned to only know one man in the biblical sense of knowing a man. I planned to marry a man of God who had the same thoughts and feelings as I had about God, family, life, love, education, career, culture, livelihood, and all the important things that make a marriage. So, I wondered for years why what happened to me, happened to me . . . because after all, I was a church-girl—God’s girl!

Why, Lord, did you allow this to happen to me? I never seemed to get a real, true, acceptable answer, though it was right in my face. I have worked on telling this story for years. During the Pandemic of 2020–COVID-19–lying awake at 5:30 a.m., thinking of my brother who had died just days earlier, (it’s 5:51 a. m.) as I pen this, wanting to get in my car and head North to Michigan, but I don’t. It’s not safe. I’m in that vulnerable age group where I need to Socially Distance myself from most people, and get somewhere and sat-down, as folks used to say, and some still do! It’s Mother’s birthday, too! Happy birthday, Mother, Dear . . . Madear, to some.

I have querstions, Lord! Why is my life the way it is? Where is the love? Why is he seemingly faring well, and I have struggled, so? Oh, don’t get me wrong, now. I have had my fun, lots of it. But I see my classmates celebrating twenty, twenty-five, twenty-eight, thirty-plus, forty-plus years of marriage. Well, I can’t complain because some folks I know, who probably wanted to marry, never did. But when you start to get long in the tooth, and your steps are not as swift as they used to be, and you need your glasses on to even eat dinner . . . Well . . .

But, why, Father, did you let me marry this man? Why didn’t you change him? Why didn’t you stop me?

As clearly as you are reading this, in my Spirit was the answer . . . I tried . . . many times! Even on your wedding day . . . but you didn’t listen . . . But just like Job, I would not let him kill you! He meant it for evil; I will use it to My good. I trusted you with this experience so that you could Tell Somebody, in a day and a time such as this.

Me

Musings

Extraordinary . . . And, because I once used to love you, ‘so much,’ as you used to say to me, Telling Somebody is extraordinarily difficult, still! Extraordinary--The love I thought we had was extraordinarily special. That’s why it has taken me so long to Tell Somebody. In my heart's ear, every ‘I love you’ whispered softly, shouted joyfully, giggled delightfully, or uttered at that perfect moment--by others; well, it was a testament of our love.  A quote from our Book of Love.

Every ‘I love you’ poem was us! Every Valentine card was us! Every silly little sentiment of love was us! Every love song, every smile, every touch--it was us! It was love! In my heart’s dictionary, I even imagined your face there—as the example of love. There was no love, anywhere, at any time, that did not mirror us. Our love was the G.O.A.T. before there was such an animal . . . Or, so I thought . . . I had to relearn love—without you. Wow! An oxymoron, if ever there was one . . . Extraordinarily unbelievable . . . Because you were not it. Wow! How did I get it so wrong?

They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.

Psalms 126:5

KJV

1

Day One - The Morning of September 20, 1974 - Wedding Day Blues

The ringing sound in my ear was not wedding bells that you might expect to hear on your wedding day. It was not the carillon from the Presbyterian church signaling the noon hour, as it was not yet twelve o'clock. It was not a melodious sound at all. It was discordant. One that vibrated throughout my being with its epicenter at the left side of my face, extending to my left ear and the left side of my head. I didn’t know why it was, or what it was, I just knew all of a sudden, there it was.

As a college student of biology with aspirations of going to medical school, I instantly thought, bad reaction to the medical tests just run. Then, I said to myself, No, they only drew blood. Then, I thought, maybe the needle was contaminated. No, I need to calm down. Maybe, I have become too excited by the stress of my wedding day. I'm having a stroke, or maybe a heart attack, or an epileptic seizure. Maybe, I desperately thought, I’m dying.

In that expansive millisecond of time, I turned to my one true love, Henry Earl Henderson, opening my eyes to seek help from him as I was sure he saw me, his beloved, becoming ill. It was in that instant I saw the hand that touched me ever so gently, that soothed me always so smoothly, and that brought me to peaks higher than Pikes, become this large, square, menacing hand, like a boxer’s glove, recoil from my face. Henry, my beloved, had slapped me! This bastard had hit me in my face!

The distorted swirling and ringing in my ear alternated between high pitch and low pitch, shrill and dull, piercing and pulsating. The left side of my face, which had stung like a colony of buzzing bees taking revenge on me for disturbing their hive, now felt numb. Lightning bolts of sharp pain zigzagged thunderously through my head. In another moment, I thought I would pass out; but I did not. In the warm autumn sun, the skin of my face felt singed by the friction of Henry’s hot hand. My face seemed to sizzle--it felt like it was slipping from its pinning at the side edge of my Afro; melting, like the clock faces in Dali’s Persistence of Memory, bringing with it, the eye--which he was the apple of, the ear--in which he had urgently whispered marry me, and the cheek--he had so sweetly kissed only a few minutes earlier. The cacophony was deafening. It was all so very unreal, I thought I was hallucinating.

Knowing Henry had slapped me took on the mask of the surreal, but surreal refused to shield this egregious act, passing this mantle back to reality. I came to myself, knowing without a doubt, Henry had slapped me! This fucking bastard had slapped me! The pain and the shock of the slap catapulted me into a new reality—Henry! Earl! Henderson! He slapped me! It was our wedding day . . . and he SLAPPED me!

Up to now, I had been an, 'I'm not gonna take no shit off no man' kind of Black woman. I called myself going for bad even though I had only been in one real fight my whole life. In the same instant, though, I was ready to do something! What? I did not know, but I was surely going to scratch, claw, hit, or kick something, namely, Henry Henderson! But Henry grabbed my wrists with such unexpected strength, I was totally immobilized. One thing wasn't, though--my mouth! I was ready to Tell Somebody—Day One! I was ready to proclaim to the world what had just happened to me on the way to the courthouse to get a marriage license, to get my papers, to jump the broom, when this bastard slapped me. You don’t slap me and get away with it! Or so I thought. I hollered, and screamed, and cursed him from thee to thou!

I was sure passersby were wondering what was going on this early morning with the young couple inside of the metallic navy, almost royal blue, sporty vehicle parked beside the Woolworth. Shoppers came and went in and out of Woolworth and the bakery next door, the restaurant, the bank, and the Courthouse across the street, and the bus stops on both sides of the street—looking . . . seeing, but not seeing. No one stopped; no one questioned us; no one called the police; no one intervened--no one.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU HITTING ME IN MY FUCKING FACE, HENRY HENDERSON? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND? I demanded to know, struggling, trying to free myself from hands that seemed like a vise grip.

Henry was not a tall man or a large man, but he sure as hell was a strong one! I had never experienced this kind of strength in my life. I sure had not experienced this kind of strength from Henry before--EVER. I knew he was what I called a powerful lover, but I was just talking. What the hell did I know then about making love except what I had experienced the few times I had been with him?

TAKE YOUR DAMN HANDS OFF OF ME, MOTHERFUCKER!

Shhhhhh! Be quiet, he shushed me, trying to quieten me down. Somebody might hear you!

HEAR ME? I yelped indignantly. "I HOPE THE HELL SOMEBODY DOES HEAR ME," I screamed even louder!

Many people passed by, still pretending not to see. They saw. Yet, they said nothing; they did nothing.

Be quiet! he hissed like the snake he had become. And, be still, he commanded me! Henry constricted my wrists tighter, drawing me closer to him, painfully—unwillingly—as though restricting the blood flow to my heart, first, then my head. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t feel anything but the pain of my breaking heart--and the actual pain in my wrists. You Are Making Me Hurt You By Moving Like You're Doing! JUST BE STILL, WILL YOU, he fumed, jarring me back to reality.

OH, SO I’M MAKING YOU HURT ME, HENRY? I hollered louder as I struggled to free myself from the clutches of a man I no longer knew. "STOP! TURN ME LOOSE! LEAVE ME ALONE, DAMMIT!"

By now, I am fuming, crying, and screaming inside a car with raised windows. My pleas for help were muffled further from ears that did not want to hear, just like the eyes that did not want to see. So, I was on my own. I could tell Henry was starting to relax his grip when I realized I did have a weapon with which to fight back. Again, my mouth came to the rescue when I chomped down as hard as I could on the drumstick part of his forearm!

Ouucchhhh! he yowled, drawing his arm back.

Henry finally let go because, I suppose, he had the nerve to think I had hurt him. I quickly opened the car door, planning to run past the scale into the side door of Woolworth, hollering and screaming for safety and protection. Imagine my Black ass running into Woolworth--of all places, for safety, and for some protection--of all things.

Henry stopped licking his wounds when he noticed I was about to get out of the car ready to make a run for it. He grabbed my arm pulling me back inside causing me to hit my head on the top thing of the door. Slightly stunned, I looked around and saw an older woman walking down the street who witnessed this display of Henry’s brute strength against me; but, she looked away quickly when I looked at her, hurrying on her way. I don’t even know that I was looking for her to intervene, to rescue me, to summon help; nevertheless, she, and others, passed us by saying nothing, doing nothing.

LEAVE ME ALONE; LET ME GO! I wailed, I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE WITH YOU, AND I’M SURE AS HELL NOT GOING TO MARRY YOUR ASS TONIGHT! HELL! YOU CAN FORGET THAT SHIT! I was furious at Henry as I continued my angry tirade, Hitting ME In My Motherfucking Face! YOU MUST HAVE LOST YOUR GOTDAMN MIND!

Henry was still holding on to me, but not as tightly as before. I sat looking out of my window, when I heard this loud, Ah-Huh, Ah-Huh, Ah-Huh!

I looked around. There Henry was, slumped over the steering wheel of his car, bawling like a baby. I sat there seething, staring at him; then, I turned my gaze away from him looking out of the window. I just let him cry. Hell, he NEEDED to cry.

Peripherally, I saw shoppers and business people carrying on their normal Friday morning activities. My view of them was partly blocked by Henry’s spasmodic shoulders. The padded place, where I once found solace and strength, was now pathetically feeble, hunching up and down  uncontrollably as he continued to cry, wailing even harder. But still, I did nothing; I said nothing. My face was finally starting to regain some feeling. And my wrists, I realized, were hurting. When I looked down, my wrists were red and puffy. Upon closer inspection, I noticed they had what looked like a system of peaks and valleys beginning to form. Because they were now hurting so badly, I examined them trying to figure out what this was, and why it was happening.

My face felt like what a porcupine looks like with its quills raised! I pulled down the car visor to look in the mirror at the left side of my face. Well, it didn't look like one; at least no quills were sticking out from it. However, the pores seemed open, large enough that I could have easily stuck one into each opening. As I continued to inspect my face, the same peaks and valleys emblazoned