The Red Glass: From Abuse-Hell to Living-Well

By Pamela K. Keyser

Can an absent mother’s love save her child? Sadie rummages her memory for
every proverb her mother uttered; they become her mantras. Her ‘before-drugs’
mother always tried to see goodness everywhere and Sadie tries to emulate her,
soaking up any glints of kindness to insulate her in hard times.
Can poetry substitute for tears? Sadie expresses her emotions in poems, which
she hides away in her suitcase, and if found will cost her a beating.
Can simple objects like a red plastic glass minister to an abused child? Yes, if
you are Sadie; the glass is her talisman.
This is not just a story of just hardship. It’s about coming through hardship
with your soul intact, about fi nally triumphing and thriving. At its core it’s about
fi nding, although not understanding, forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 9, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462818341

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Copyright © 2009 by Pamela K. Keyser.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

I thank the following people:

Tim Keyser – for loving me and always always being there for me

Kyle Keyser – for teaching me it’s healthy to have boundaries and much more

Kristi Keyser – for teaching me to laugh and just be in the moment

Tyrell J Woods – for enabling me to see my own innocence, while enjoying his

Nasir Harris – for enabling me to see the world as a child again

Jimi Harris – for being the best son-in-luv ever!

Lynn Williams – for loving me, before I knew how to love back

Mike, Jeff, & Dave Keyser – for being my 3 sons – I love you as is…

Nick/Ned Partin – my only double-cousin and brother – for understanding.

Billy Lloyd – for being my psudo-son; and for marring Cheryl and having the 3

Laurie Keyser – for reading the massive ms and being a great daughter-in-luv

Lule – Londa Woody, for friendship and sharing her mom

JannyKat Ledford – SissorHands, for deepening friendship, and helping me cut

EvaStMarie – Eva McCall – for a friendship, and telling me to get rid of I feel…

Linna – For reading part of it on email.

Linda/Bobbie/Diana/Susan – for loving me when I was a hard, mean kid.

Ben Wright of UM – for teaching me to believe and to write, write, write

Paula Taylor – for encouragement – and for being a beautiful spirit.

Dekaffany – Kathy Olsen – for our love, friendship, and respect

Brother Tom – Tom Carlley – for trying to watch me when mom couldn’t

My Parents – for life and lessons and for love they could provide.

Robert Palmer – Prototype Man, for respecting a young, afraid, girl.

Charles Shirah – for being such a decent man and a good friend

Jim T. Seyfried – Being tender – understanding, and great dancing.

Marcia Dawson – for understanding me, loving and encouraging me.

Candy Pineo – for reminding me to listen to my heart and for loving me.

Michelle Matthews – for reminding me to be fearless.

Tess Shirley – who coached me into having a shoreline in my emotions

Josie Sullivan – who connected with my creativity and encouraged me

Rhonda Britten – who wrote a great book, elevating me to a higher level

Anthony Quintana – making me laugh, having like mind, and encouragement

Kathleen – for sharing herself at FLI seminars

JoAnn Young – for reading ms and being best neighbor!

Jim Valentine – for being a good ear and entertaining my ms

Pamela Baker – for great therapy. And reading this and loving it.

Bonnie Harvey – for great editing.

Katie-Scarlett O’Brien – for reading and telling me it made her laugh & cry

Debi O’Brien – for reading and enjoying

Oprah – for being her authentic self, letting me know I could be mine

Dr. Phil – for making me cry [not easy to do] and laugh [easy]

Rosie O’Donald – for being a fellow ‘motherless child’ who is doing well

To my husband – who I’ve lived with and loved longer than anybody – and who loves me forever.

These words are dedicated to anyone who has been through abuse or is being abused now. You can not only make it through, you can live abundantly and happily.

Dear Readers,

I am Sadie. Don’t let the fact that my name is Pamela confuse you. Sadie is me, but so successfully had I separated myself from the pain of my childhood that when I sat down to write Pamela’s story – nothing happened; my fingers remained still over the keyboard.

This ‘distancing’ is a tool many abused children use to survive. I saw everything that happened to me like it was on a screen in my mind, like a news-reel or a movie. I could only see it and talk about it like it happened to that girl.

I first found the key to writing about my life when I wrote a short-story about a little girl named Sadie. Everything in the story was mine: the setting, the people, the abuse. Through Sadie I was able to connect with my past. Through Sadie I was able to feel some of the feelings I couldn’t feel while having to survive them. Through Sadie I am finally able to tell my story from A to Z and feel compassion for myself.

I call this a Reconstructed Memoir because I wrote it like I saw it on the motion picture in my mind. I reconstructed the dialogue, descriptions, and attitudes to the best of my ability.

It is not my intent to hurt anyone who participated in my childhood. In order to ensure this, I changed names, locations, and sometimes the timing. But every event happened to me as written.

Please know that I made it through. Today I live a joyful life. If you are hurting, you can also. Above all, this is a story of hope.

PROLOGUE

CLOSE YOUR EYES Mommy. It won’t hurt. Promise, I said, poking the hypodermic needle under the skin of her foot. My nine-year-old hand steadily guided the tip, and I slowly depressed the plunger watching the milky, liquid-heroin, disappear down the glass tube.

There, Mommy. You feel better? Still holding onto her legs, I turned to look at my mother. Her eyelids fluttered, and she opened her arms as though welcoming it. For a minute her eyes focused on me. Mommy?

Honey, you always take good care of your old mom, don’t you?

I try to, Mommy, but you have so many sores all over your neck, arms, and legs. I think you need to go to a doctor.

No! she said, trying to rise. You know I can’t do that. You and Spice will… take… care  . . . me…

Then her body slumped, her eyes went to half-mast, and she’d gone to that safe place, a place where she didn’t feel sad, a place that kept her from me. I knew she needed the white-stuff, and I tried not to think of how much I needed her.

Tucking her hands inside the thin blanket, I kissed her hollow cheek and hurried out the door to make my fourth-grade class.

Two years later the State of California took me away from my mother and put me in Juvenile Hall. It took six months before my father came to get me. We’d been separated for three years. When I saw him I jumped into his arms as quickly as a cartoon elephant jumps on a chair to escape a cartoon mouse. My savior, my father, said he would be taking me across the country to his hometown in Vanhaven, Georgia, where I’d live on a farm with his twin brother and family; So you can have a woman’s influence. I’ll live in town and come see you often, he said. I envisioned a paradise. But we took three months getting to Georgia and twice he dropped me off with some friends of his, while he went off and drank, gambled, and did who knows what. Finally, in mid-August, after I turned 11 years old, we boarded a plane in St. Louis and took off for our new life.

I fell asleep as soon as the plane flew into the sky and woke up an hour later beside a stranger. I panicked until finding my father five rows back; he told me I had gotten up, walked to the bathroom and then sat down in the wrong seat. Why didn’t he come get me? I spent the next couple hours tearing holes in my napkin and trying to work up the courage to ask him.

Before I knew it, the plane had landed and we were walking across the tarmac; my father applied pressure to the small of my back to increase my pace. As three strangers approached us, he leaned down and whispered, Sadie, that’s your new family! I stopped short and could not be budged by my father’s push from behind. The strangers surrounded him: one, wearing my father’s face, a petite, blond woman, and a freckle-faced boy. The heat bouncing off the cement made circles of white dance in my view. With a huge smile, my father stood with the other three looking at me and said, Sadie, this is your new family! You remember Uncle Hess and Aunt Essie, don’t you? And this is Ned. He’s your age; you’ll be great friends! My father’s twin smiled at me and extended his hand. Awkwardly, I brought mine up to shake it.

The boy said, Howdy, Sadie. Did you like the airplane ride? I nodded and the circles of light danced.

Now, say ‘hi’ to your Aunt Essie, my father urged, as she smiled at me. My lips stuck to my teeth and I couldn’t get them loose. So I licked them, but by then she had quit smiling. My father scowled and said, Sadie…

That’s okay, Aunt Essie replied, We’ll have plenty of time to work on manners. I noticed that even though her mouth had smiled at me, her eyes never had.

Then we all started moving toward the terminal, the three adults in front, Ned and I walking behind. Ned talked about how airplanes fly, and I tried to swallow down the nerves that attempted to throw the cola out of my stomach. I wanted Aunt Essie to like me, but I had a sinking feeling that she didn’t. It felt exactly like when I passed from 3rd to 4th grade and knew the old teacher had told the new teacher all about me.

CHAPTER 1

SOMEONE

Someday

No one will hit me.

Someday

someone will brush my hair.

They’ll love me,

so then even

if they

hit me,

I won’t care.

Someday

no one will hurt me.

Someday

someone will want my heart.

They’ll love me,

so maybe they

won’t hit

me.

I’d like that.

Sadie/age 8

CHAPTER ONE [1]

AUNT ESSIE TOLD me to go to the pasture gate and wait for the May Company truck that would be delivering her new furniture from Atlanta. As soon as I turned to leave, she grabbed my shoulder, spun me towards her, and leaned into within an inch of my face, her flaming amber eyes boring into mine. And there’ll probably be some niggers on that truck and you aren’t to talk to them. I know you did in California, but that’s different. Here we decent folks don’t do that.

I nodded and walked away, her stare bore a bullet hole in my back.

Aunt Essie, or Esther Brooker, I nicknamed The Lady in my mind because nearly all of her lectures stated that she was a lady, and the Brooker name was a respected name around these parts and I had better not do anything to change or lessen that. She’d gone into detail about what I should not do. For example, I’d better not mention my mother’s name, bother my father for any reason, or sexually corrupt her son, Ned. She wasn’t having any wild, provocative, street-child tarnish her son. What’s corrupt, provocative and tarnish mean anyway? The words swirled in my mind.

There was no shade by the road and the sun did its best to melt me into the clay. Sitting on top of the huge wooden gate, looking down the road only put me closer to the white-bright fingers of the sun. Next, I moved down to the bottom of the gate, sitting on the ground, trying to stay in the shadow of the wooden slats. That was impossible now with the sun almost overhead. Finally, a faint drone could be heard, the kind a mosquito makes buzzing around your head when you are asleep. I stared down the farm road, commanding the truck to appear. It drove through the wiggly heat waves rebounding off the blacktop. I started jumping up and down, waving my arms, like some poor imitation of boot-camp jumping jacks to get the truck to stop.

I gave the two black men in the cab details on how to reach the house. The older man looked just like one of my mother’s friends back in San Francisco and I smiled, but he didn’t return it.

After opening and closing the gate, I walked on their tire-tracks and through their red, dust cloud back to the house and thought about my new circumstances. I hated it here; I hated it all. The bright-white light from the sun, and the humidity made the air so chunky it was hard to breathe, and the constant chores: feeding the animals, digging a new root cellar, weeding the crops, or helping to butcher a hog – indentured slavery.

My father had dropped me off here and I’d seldom seen him since. Oh, he showed up to help his brother with the farm work, but other than a ‘hello’ as we passed, we didn’t talk. I wasn’t encouraged to talk to him.

By the time I got back to the house, the two men were carrying out the old, over-stuffed, burgundy sofa. They were perspiring heavily and their short-sleeved, dark blue shirts, with May Company written over their pockets, had circles of dampness under the arms. The older man stumbled as he held the furniture up to his chest and walked backward. I held my breath and The Lady cried out, Careful now! Careful! Don’t you dare drop that davenport! I can get almost $20.00 for it in the newspaper. It’s like new!

Sadie, take ’um to the storage shed, The Lady said as she stood beside Uncle Hess who was sitting at the picnic table in the shade.

The men followed me to the shed and I held the door open for them, neither looked at me. The older man, breathing hard, pulled a blue-plaid handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped away the sweat that was running down his face and neck. I wanted to tell them to take a minute and rest, that she’d never know, and I wouldn’t tell. But before I could get the words out, his hanky was back in his pocket and we were walking back to the house. But I walked slowly hoping they’d catch their breath.

You boys go on and bring out the two chairs that match the davenport. Take ’um to the shed, The Lady directed as the men went inside.

And Sadie go get your Uncle Hess and me some iced tea.

The men carried out a chair as I was making the iced tea. They didn’t look at me as they passed. Next, I almost collided with them in mid-hall when I was ready to take the tea outside. We stood, startled, in front of each other, and we ended up doing that silly little dance people do when they don’t know who has the right of away. They quickly looked down, fixing their gaze on the glasses in my hand as they stepped aside to let me pass.

The Lady took a couple sips of her drink, poured out the remainder, and plunked it down on the table as she saw the men unloading the new rattan furniture. Hurry up, now, The Lady urged. Then she ordered me to take the empty iced tea glasses back inside.

The men were lifting the new couch out of the truck. They were exhausted now, their shirts black with perspiration.

Shall I get them some iced tea too?

The men looked startled and glanced at me uneasily. The Lady’s mouth puckered. Water. You can get them water.

I started up the stairs, following the men, and she hollered, Tap water! And use the red plastic glasses. Give it to ’um out here. I filled one up for myself. Before taking the three glasses outside, I met the Lady and Uncle Hess who blocked my path in the hallway as I balanced the water in my hands. Aunt Essie stepped forward and said, You throw away those plastic glasses those two niggers drink from, you hear me, girl? You just throw them in the trashcan beside the stoop. They’re not comin’ back in this house.

I nodded in compliance and hoped the men hadn’t heard her. I handed the men their glasses and took a sip of mine. The older man set his blue plaid hanky aside and guzzled his drink right down. The younger one took his time. All of a sudden, I grabbed the empty glass from the older man’s hand and put my full glass in front of him. The younger man looked suspicious, but finally the older fellow drank mine down too. On their way to the truck they placed their empty glasses on the porch.

Sadie, The Lady said as she came back to stand on the stoop. She stopped speaking when she noticed she had the men’s attention. They had each turned into statues, with a foot up on the running board of the truck. The Lady then took the lid off the big trashcan, leaned over, picked up the two plastic glasses, and threw them into the tin can. They landed with a loud metallic clank.

Time seemed to slow and almost freeze as the bang echoed in the still, sullen air. I paused barefoot on the red clay base of the steps, my eyes darting between her and the men. She stood there on the cement stairs holding the trashcan lid like a shield, looking like a woman warrior. She broke the spell by deliberately slamming the lid down on the trashcan.

Sadie, for God’s sake, you deaf and dumb? She asked. Give me your glass and go get the throw rugs from beside the house. I held out the red plastic glass in my hand, knowing it was not the one she wanted. She snatched it away and pivoted to go inside.

As I walked back to the house with the throw rugs over my arm, the truck drove by on its way to the pasture gate. The sun reflected off its windshield and I couldn’t see the men inside, but two brown arms came out of the windows and waved good-bye to me, one hand clutched a blue plaid hanky; it felt like they smiled at me.

The red plastic glass made me chuckle as I washed it the morning before my first day of school. I was apprehensive about going to school. So far I had not gotten along very well with the neighboring farm children I met each Sunday when The Lady dropped me off for Sunday school and church. They called me Yankee and Red because of my hair. They laughed at the way I talked and pronounced words. They said, orn and I said, iron. They called that thing that covered the top of the house, the ruff and I said, roof. I also didn’t turn one-syllable words into two. They said, ca-owe to my cow. I sometimes felt hopeless. Sometimes I felt I was from another planet.

Still, I was hoping that today would be okay. On this, my first day of school, I wanted everything to go well. The Lady had outfitted me in a brown dress she had gotten from Goodwill. It felt strange after wearing shorts or slacks all summer. However, girls in the South were not allowed to wear slacks of any kind to school. I had worn them in California, and it seemed like a silly rule, not to wear them, but one I was willing to take part in.

I stayed awake until the wee hours of the morning trying to figure things out. How can I get along with these people? What am I doing wrong? My mother always said, People are people everywhere. However, that did not seem to be the case here. I had already been instructed not to talk to Negroes, Cubans, or the Syrian brothers who ran the general store in town. The no talking rule also extended to a couple of families who lived down the road; one was ‘white trash,’ and the other family just rented their house.

My thinking session the previous night did not yield any new or remarkable ideas about how I could fit in. In the absence of a plan, I decided to just smile a lot and pretend to be friendly and outgoing. Just thinking about being sociable made me apprehensive, as I usually found it much easier to be quiet and observe. Another proverb of my mother’s came to mind: To have a friend – you must be a friend.

Sadie! The Lady hollered from the living room, Stop day dreaming and get on out to the bus stop! Ned’s already out there. And if you miss it young lady, you’ll walk the three miles into town, you hear?

I’m almost finished, I said loudly, as I carefully put the washed and dried breakfast dishes up on the kitchen cabinet shelves where they belonged. The red plastic glass was positioned at the front of the shelf. It was distinguishable from the other red plastic glasses by a small horseshoe-shaped scratch on its bottom. If I had to wash the accumulated dishes every day, at least it gave me pleasure to wash that one.

I glanced one more time at my reflection in the small window over the sink and despaired again at the scalp-hugging haircut The Lady had given me. One particularly obstinate piece of reddish hair on my forehead refused to lay flat.

Bye Aunt Essie, I called, grabbing my book-bag and quietly letting myself out the screened back door (no one used the front door here except for Jehovah Witnesses and county tax collectors). As I walked along in the already hot summer morning air, dragging my book-bag behind me in the red clay and briery grass, I reflected on the name of the little community in which I now lived. Lakeway, I muttered. Sure it’s on the way to the lake, but the lake is at least twenty-five miles away! They might as well call it Marshway, or Swampway, or . . . As I got closer to the red-clay scab by the side of the road that signified the bus stop, so engrossed was I in this pastime that I muttered the last name aloud. I finally noticed how my shoes, socks, and book-bag were full of sandspurs and distinctly said, Burrsville!

The giggling of Martell and Glynnis brought me out of my daydream.

What cha doin’, renaming yourself? laughed Martell.

I chose not to answer, bent over, and started picking the sandspurs off my socks. But, when I noticed they were still giggling and whispering to themselves, I straightened up and stared at them until they stopped.

It was a formula I had learned as a street child in San Francisco – always look at the thing that is threatening you. Always! First of all, you can probably out-stare them, and the first one to look away is always the loser. Second, if the person is bigger than you are you can tell when they are going to hit you and brace yourself for it.

Almost too late, I remembered last night’s resolve to find a way to get along with these people. They’re just people. To get a friend – I must be a friend. However, the only way of implementing this plan was to step aside and let Martell and Glynnis board the bus ahead of me. When it finally came, Glynnis looked mistrustful when I motioned her forward; she looked as if she expected me to kick her rear end or something.

As I sat in the seat in front of the two giggling, whispering girls, I fantasized about kicking them, thinking it was not such a bad idea. I had to remind myself, again, that it was up to me to find a way to get along with these people. I must make an effort. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, nothing ventured, nothing gained, I chanted silently.

The bus pulled up to school and unloaded just as the first bell rang. I ran to the 5th grade room, shown to me during the orientation. All the social groups were already formed at the back of the classroom. Looking around, I noticed that there were pieces of construction paper on all the desks with names on them. Assigned seating? There it is, Sadie T. Brooker, in the second row, second from the front. I took a long time unpacking my book-bag: pencils in the groove at the top of the desk, notebook on the desktop, and the few books handed out at orientation underneath. It seemed like hours until the second bell rang and students took their seats.

The teacher introduced herself as Mrs. Nelson and asked everybody to take out his or her storybooks. She was going to test comprehension by reading part of a story and asking us questions. This is great! I’m a good reader. Why, I’ve already read John Steinbeck’s, Grapes of Wrath. Probably no one else in the class had read a real adult book like that! Maybe Mrs. Nelson had not even read it. I did not want the class to think of me as a brain or anything. I just wanted to answer some questions correctly without my voice quivering and without anyone laughing at me. I can do this. I can do this!

After Mrs. Nelson read part of the chapter from The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett, she asked if we remembered the city where the story took place and the name of the little girl. It was another book I had read, and one of my favorites. I knew the answer! But all of a sudden my heart was pounding so loudly that I was sure no one would be able to hear my voice over the drumming of it. And someone else answered the question.

That’s okay; I’ll answer the next one. Besides, I would have never pronounced the name right – ’Maay-ree,’ instead of ‘Mary.’ Hey, maybe I should try to pronounce words like that. Maybe that would help me fit in. Then I shuddered, No; I’d probably just mess it up and be laughed at anyway. Better to stick with my own accent and say as little as I can.

Sadie, Mrs. Nelson said, interrupting my thoughts, are you paying attention?

Now in addition my heart hammering loudly, I could feel my face turn red.

Yes, I answered quickly, straightening up in my seat, trying to ignore a few giggles from the students.

What? asked Mrs. Nelson.

Uh-oh! I must not have answered loudly enough! Horrified, by the attention, this time I spoke louder saying Yes, clearly, and looked in the teacher’s eyes.

Suddenly the room was very quiet and Mrs. Nelson’s face was turning red. She told me to stand up in the aisle and she said in a harsh voice, Sadie, maybe you had better answer that question again.

I rose clumsily to my feet catching a glimpse of Martell laughing at me. What did I do wrong?

Now young lady, I want you to answer me again, said Mrs. Nelson. Take your time and answer correctly.

My mind became a blind, grasping hand, wildly feeling about for something safe, something familiar, something right. I had already truthfully answered yes to the question twice, but maybe Mrs. Nelson thought I was lying. Maybe she thinks I wasn’t listening – not paying attention. But I had been!

Uh-oh, maybe it would be better to . . . hesitantly I looked in the teacher’s red face and said, No.

No, what? asked Mrs. Nelson coldly.

I felt a new surge of hot blood fever my face and my stomach rolled with nausea. Not only was I going to have to lie and say I had not been paying attention, I was going to have to do so in detail. Then I felt a little rush of anger along with the terror and embarrassment that had already claimed most of my emotions.

I straightened my posture as I answered loudly and clearly, distinguishing each word and syllable, looking directly into the teacher’s eyes, No, – Mrs.-Nelson, – I – was – not – paying – attention.

Mrs. Nelson sucked in her breath along with the class and shook her head slightly, What we have here, class, is a Smart Alec. I have no doubt, Sadie, that you were not paying attention; however, it is your rudeness that most concerns me. Please, put your pencil down and go to Mr. Bean, in the Principal’s office.

I did as I was told – putting my pencil down, turning around, and walking towards the side door of the classroom. Suddenly that classroom seemed to be a hundred miles long and when the bottoms of my saddle-oxford shoes made contact with the floor it sounded like a series of gunshots. But I squared my shoulders, and looked straight ahead to the door, thereby avoiding the eyes of the other students, as I walked out.

My brain was thinking so hard it exploded inside my skull – causing thunder in my ears and lightning behind my eyelids. I knew this signaled the beginning of one of my bad headaches. I fought to keep the fried eggs of breakfast from convulsing in my stomach. So much for my resolution! What’s wrong with me anyway? Why can’t I do anything right?

As if in answer to my question, Mrs. Nelson’s voice followed me as I walked down the hall. Sadie, tell Mr. Bean that you are there for being rude and defiant; for looking me right square in the face and refusing to answer with a civilized Yes, and no-ma’am."

Late that night reviewing my first day at school, I thought there must be hundreds of hidden codes, statutes, and rules for living in the South. I already knew it was the rule to say Yes and No, ma’am. But in my eagerness to answer the question that morning, I had forgotten. The Lady said it was a sign of respect for children to say Ma’ am to all adults – but I was not sure all adults deserved respect. My mother had always told me to grow up and become someone others and myself could respect. So didn’t it depend on merit, achievement, and character? Then The Lady contradicted herself by telling me not to say ma’am to Negroes. Why? Aren’t grown-up Negroes adults too? The regulations were confusing. Even when I said ma’am it did not sound sincere (even to my own ears). It came out sounding stilted; I did not like being required to say it.

That morning the principal, Mr. Bean, asked me if I knew that I was to say yes and no ‘ma’am to adults. I had answered by saying, Yes… sir, with the sir getting stuck in my throat and scratching out of my mouth a full half second after the Yes. He stood up, then, and showed me the thick wooden paddle with holes drilled in its center. This is what happens to trouble makers in this school. Do you understand? he asked as he stood over me holding the wooden weapon in his right hand. At that moment, Bobby Rawlings, one of my classmates, walked down the hallway by the principal’s window, and looked inside. He was probably on his way to the bathroom located at the other end of the hall. Robert’s face blanched white as he saw Mr. Bean standing over me with the paddle. The principal demonstrated the power of the paddle by hitting it against his left hand. The whack-whack sound was loud in the quiet office. Maybe Bobby heard the whacks and thought I was being paddled because that story was whispered around school.

When I returned to the classroom every head turned. Even Mrs. Nelson looked up from her desk and scanned my face. I steadily returned her gaze as I walked to my desk and sat down. From that point on, both students and teacher thought of me as a tough kid, a troublemaker. Mrs. Nelson reacted by moving my seat in front of her desk. The kids reacted with a kind of grudging respect. They regarded me as an unpredictable and dangerous wild animal. They approached slowly, talked softly, and left quickly. No one laughed at me anymore.

Another Southern word-custom I had problems with was Mama. It seemed ordinary for many older, non-family, gray-haired, females to be called Mama. There was Mama Jones who lived down by the creek and sold produce at the side of the road, Mama Leah (The Lady’s best friend and next-door neighbor) and Mama Dolly who came to pick The Lady up monthly for their Eastern Star meetings. The word Mama also stuck in my throat, maybe because I did not know where my own mother was. I once asked The Lady if I could call them Auntie, as in Auntie Jones and Auntie Leah. She reacted as if I meant to insult them saying, "They NOT Niggers, girl! What’s wrong with you? You’ll call them Mama – just like everyone else does." That was the end of that discussion. After that, I developed quite a system of sentence contortions in order to avoid calling them by any name.

There was another issue I found difficult, knowing when to tell the truth. I had learned to lie, and lie well, as a street child in San Francisco. When your mother is a drug addict, lying well was vital to the safety of your world. I had already seen my parents get lost in webs of lies until it seemed they did not know what the truth was. I didn’t want this happening to me and the only safeguard I could come up with was, NEVER lie to myself. I could lie to others but every time I lied, I promised myself, I’d acknowledge that I was lying.

Yet, there was a part of me, pushed way down deep inside that wanted to tell the truth, wanted the luxury of saying whatever my truth was at the time. I tried to keep this compulsion under control. My most dangerous moments came when asked a question. I usually felt a strong urge to tell the truth. Of course, I recognized the times it would be dangerous to do so. When, for example, an adult asked if I understood the need for that rule, or this punishment, I knew and usually gave the expected answer. Yet, sometimes I slipped up as I had done this past weekend when The Lady took me with her into the general store in town. As we perused the shelves of sugar, flour, and cornstarch, we ran into Mrs. Wixler. She lived down the old farm road from us and was the mother of six girls. She was one of the families The Lady instructed me to avoid. Yet, she and Mrs. Wixler talked to each other there in mid-aisle. They exchanged pleasantries, and Mrs. Wixler placed her hand on my head saying, This must be Sadie – I’ve heard of you from my Ruth, thereby letting The Lady know I had disobeyed her orders of who not to talk with.

You’re from California, aren’t you? Mrs. Wixler asked me.

I nodded that I was.

How do you like Georgia? she queried.

Fine, I replied, avoiding The Lady’s stare and looking into Mrs. Wixler’s face. She had a nice face, thin with almost invisible fine lines all over it that could only be seen when she smiled. Her hand caressed the back of my head while she talked to me. It had been such a long time since anyone had touched me, except in anger, that without meaning to do so I had melted into the pressure of her hand.

"Is your mother in California?? She asked,

I don’t know where she is, I had truthfully replied.

The Lady interrupted at that point, grabbing my arm and leading me towards the checkout counter and saying, We really must be going.

I could tell The Lady was very angry. On the way home in the car she had wasted no time in telling me why; saying it was shameful to say I did not know where my mother was. Say she’s sick and in a hospital, or say she’s traveling, she ordered. It was really none of Mrs. Wixler’s business anyway, she fumed; She’s just a nosey, busy-body.

The entire exchange made me dizzy. Was Mrs. Wixler really a busy-body? Had she somehow seen through a crack in the expressionless mask I always wore? Could I be deceived so easily, just by a kind pat on the head? And why was it shameful to say I did not know where my mother was? Was it my shame because I cared and did not know? Or was it my father’s shame because he didn’t know and didn’t care?

After we arrived back at the farm, I received my first punishment with the cat of two tails, as she called the leather handle that had two long leather thongs that ended in knots. She said the whipping was for talking to Mrs. Wixler and for disobeying her orders when I talked to Ruth. She had hit me with her hand before, but this was the first time with the cat. It was for my own good, she said. It would teach me who to talk to! It would give me something to think about!

I was sent to bed right after dinner that night. She was right about one thing, though, it did give me a lot to think about. But I couldn’t make much sense out of it; all I did was wonder and form more questions.

CHAPTER 2

PRETTY POISON

I am good at

it.

I know.

I put the rubber

on your arm.

tight.

I put your hand

on the floor,

flat.

I push two fingers

around the vein.

I slip the needle

thru the skin

gentle.

I feel when it is there.

now.

I pause.

Then I push.

I watch the stuff

go into you

slow.

I take the rubber

off your arm

quick.

I slide the needle

out of the skin

clean.

I see you are

already better.

happy.

I know you could die

without.

I think it

is killing you

within.

I am good at it.

But I don’t want

to be.

Sadie/Age 11

CHAPTER TWO [2]

I WAS ALMOST safe, almost in my cave. In order to get there, I had to crawl up a little incline in the hard, scorched, hard earth, using the tall scrub grass to pull myself up the slope. To get inside I maneuvered under a huge gray slab of rock that hung almost to the earth, then over another, about two feet high.

At first, it was pitch black, until my eyes adjusted. Up high on the overhanging rock there were little pockmarks that went all the way through them to the outside of the cave. Birds had built nests in them so that diffused daylight came into the stone entryway.

Directly in front of me was another large slate wall that went straight up a hundred feet or more. A thin trickle of cool water cascaded down its surface. Through the years, the water had carved out a gentle pathway. Then about three feet from the ground it pounded into a concave surface. I guessed that once it might have been a flat surface, but the relentless water had chiseled out a shallow bowl-shaped indentation. The water then disappeared into a small tunnel it had drilled into the rock. By adding some tiny pebbles in the bowl, the water formed a pool.

Around the corner of the wall, there was a small, dark, circular chamber. It was cool in summer, cold in winter, and always dark. I had put animal skins next to the gentle curving walls and made a bed. The birds nesting in the entrance hall would always announce the coming of morning and evening with their song.

The next and final chamber in the cave was huge and round. Very high, towards the top, there was a break in the rock that allowed ventilation and a little light. This was good because a natural hot spring formed in this cavity. It was only a yard across, but the hot water churned and bubbled with heat all year long. Over this, I had fashioned a spit to cook my food. In the coldest part of winter, I would drag my animal skin bed into this room for the warmth.

Here was my secret place, my safe place; I came here anytime I was afraid or troubled. No one knew about it and no one could take it away from me. I believed it probably really did exist somewhere in the world…

When The Lady sent me to my room, whether at bedtime, or earlier in punishment, I had to conceal my relief. The bedroom reminded me of my cave. It was small, painted gray, with a dark linoleum floor, and there was only one window. I had to hide the fact that I liked being in my room. If I was being sent there in punishment, I had to trade my usual expressionless mask with one that feigned disappointments. Wearing a blank exterior on my face was easy. It was harder to substitute that with any expression.

"Sadie, no TV for you