You Have the Right to an Attorney
Over the period of half a lifetime, Southern California
By Patricia Jones
1.
It’s hovering just around 60 degrees outside tonight. The moon is full on a plum colored horizon. I can see it glowing through the thick fronds of palm. Their dark green, secret undersides are exposed by hidden landscape lighting, nestled in thickets of exotic birds of paradise. The lead singer of UB-40 is milking the radio waves, begging not to be left alone. Right now I’m anything but alone, evidenced by steamy haze congealing in the corners of the car’s small windows.
A handsome man with dark brown hair and hazy green eyes is making love to my youthful sensibilities. His breath is hot, his lips soft against the lobe of my ear. I can smell his cologne, a masculine, musky scent that entices, and reminds me I’m not with a boy. He’s dressed in casual blue jeans and a polo top of soft cotton because he looks good in these, and he knows it.
I catch occasional glimpses of myself in the rear view mirror as we twist around in the front bucket seats, trying not to get poked by the gear shift jutting up between them. I’m wearing a white sweater dress and a set of silver and turquoise jewelry mother gave me for my sweet 16.
“Oh, God. You’re so beautiful tonight.”
I start to answer him but language fails me. His eager hand is sliding up between the hem of my dress and my thigh to a place no mans fingers have ever been. The strangled sound that startles me out of a response is my own voice, something between a guttural moan and a whimper of defeat.
I put my hand down over his, pressing to slow his approach. He clutches me more forcefully. Bile rises to the back of my throat and I start to struggle. The front seat of an orange VW bug is no place to lose my virginity. When he clutches hard at my hip, I yell, “Stop!”
2.
The word takes me back 9 years. I’m standing in my aunt and uncle’s kitchen. It hasn’t been redecorated since the place was built in the early forties. Lime green cabinets grow out of a black-and-white checkerboard. The floor is cold and dirty under my naked feet. I can feel the gummy residue of spilled pop and grains of malt-o-meal stick to my toes. I’m 7 years old, and a boy twice my age is groping my breast as he tries to pull my shirt off.
“Shut her up!”
His blonde hair hangs down in front of his mean blue eyes. He wears a faded KISS T-shirt and jeans that haven’t been washed for a week. He’s my cousin’s best friend.
“Stop! Stop-it!”
I slap at his hands and claw at his chest, tearing a small hole in his shirt open wider. I’m going to hurt him, and then I’m going to tell. My cousin hisses at me, and pushes one of the big kitchen knives up against my throat.
“Shut up and be good Patty-Cake.”
It hurts, and I start to cry but I stop fighting back.
“That’s a good girl.” He crows, “Don’t make anymore noise.”
My favorite pink Strawberry Shortcake shirt is torn open by his friend after my cousin lowers the knife and slices through the collar. I look at the clock. It’s 8:45 in the morning. By 9:15 it’s over and Barbie and I hide under the back porch for the rest of the day. I stuff the ruined shirt behind a loose block in the foundation and talk to her in whispers.
“We can keep a secret,” I say, because I’m so ashamed.
3.
“Shhh. Shhh…. It’s OK, baby.”
He strokes my red curls from my face in the front seat of the orange beetle. His strong hand slides palm first down my cheek to cup my chin and bring my face back to his for a kiss. While his lips are devouring mine, his hand slides lower to stroke my throat above the collar, then just under it. His fingers are softer than the steel blade. His words are more assuring than threats of violence.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s what I tell my first real boyfriend through sobs.
“I’m sorry, I’m just not ready yet.”
“That’s OK, baby.”
He likes to call me “baby.” I like it, too. He murmurs nonsense in my ear that sounds like something reassuring, as I’m wedged slowly against the passenger door. He’s soft with me. He treats me carefully, as if I am fragile. I like that even more. After a little while he eases the seat back and lowers it slowly towards the rear.
“We’ll just rest here for a bit,” he promises.
“OK,” I whisper.
I trust him more than any man I have ever been alone with. I like how it feels when he kisses me. I like feeling wanted. I’m not afraid of desire. I’m terrified of sex.
“Maybe when you come back from deployment.”
His fingers curl harshly into the soft hair at the nape of my neck and it really hurts.
“I was thinking more like later tonight.”
“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I stammer but I don’t squirm much this time, especially since headlights have just swept through the windows above me. I don’t want to cause a scene.
“We’ve been dating for three weeks already!”
He’s never gotten angry with me before. I’m surprised by the tone of his voice, but even more surprised when he rolls over and pins me into the lumpy seat with one of his legs between mine.
“You owe me.”
“I owe you?”
I stutter. I haven’t stuttered in at least 5 years. I had speech therapy in junior high school.
4.
I’m in 7th grade, standing in a cramped cubicle that doubles as both a storage space for old files and a counselor’s office. The walls are institutional grey and decorated by a single calendar.
“You owe it to him. Show me.”
The woman behind the desk is speaking to me. Her short, tightly-permed curls give her a severe look. It’s not helped by retro horn-rimmed glasses and a starched blue shirt. A tall, good-looking boy with close-cropped, black hair and dark brown eyes is staring at me with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s leaning against one wall with a smirk.
“I just want to go home,” I plead with the counselor. “Please, I feel sorta sick.”
She lowers her glasses down the bridge of her hook-billed nose and peers at me through eyes as grey as her hair.
“You made a serious accusation. Now either apologize for blowing something innocent out of proportion, or….” She pauses and looks between us before resuming in a tone of absolute authority. “Or show me how he inappropriately touched you.”
I feel like I am going to hurl. I don’t want to touch myself. I look back at my classmate and see he’s still leering at me. I point at his torso instead.
“There,” and then motion towards his hips and loins. “There and there.”
My cheeks feel like a grimy patch of concrete baking in the summer heat and I choke back bile.
The boy laughs and says something about my mother in Spanish. The counselor pretends she doesn’t hear a thing because we’re both white and he’s not. In our school the complaint department doesn’t operate in this direction. It’s the age of political correctness.
“You’re not giving me any evidence. No proof. He has three.”
“Quatro – four.” He interrupts.
“He has four witnesses that say he was with them after school.”
I feel the tears on my cheeks before I realize I’m crying.
“Please, I want to go home. I’m really sick.”
“You owe him an apology first.” She dismisses me with a backhanded wave and crumples up the note from my teacher before throwing it in the waste basket.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out before I bolt through the door.
Later, he presses me up against the lockers in the dimly lit hallway. His hand roughly grips the back of my neck as he whispers.
“I’ll make you real sorry.”
I carry a knife to class with me for the rest of the school year.
5.
“I don’t owe you anything!”
I shove against the man who is trying to make out with me again.
“Fine, then get out.”
I feel the door give at the same time he hisses the words in my ear, then I’m falling. It’s only a short distance to the asphalt parking lot, but it feels like I’ve just been thrown off a cliff. He slams the car door. After a moment the steamed-up window rolls down and I think he’s going to apologize. Instead, he throws my white high heel at me. It finds its mark and leaves a deep scratch on my cheek.
I take the other one off and get to my feet as he drives away. I stand alone in the dark. Soon I begin to limp toward the hotel that sits a quarter mile down the bay. I can see plenty of light there.
6.
It will be another 7 years before I am walking alone in the dark again. I leave a movie screening at the Balboa Park Summer Arts Festival. On my way to the car I pass under the watchful eye of a half dozen security cameras. I wave goodnight to two separate safety patrols. I do not fear the full moon or the tall palm trees. I do not think about the low landscape lighting, hidden under tufts of exotic plants. I will only reconsider them later, in an interrogation room that reminds me of the counselor’s space.
I walk through an abandoned palazzo near the parking lots, and around the large, tiled fountain that has been my favorite since I was a little girl. When I turn the corner of the Aero-Space Museum I feel the bite of panic before the blade itself. I instantly recognize the sensation of sharp steel against my throat. A pale man in black with greasy hair is holding the knife.
“You’re not gonna get hurt – if you do exactly what I say, baby.”
Something snaps.
I will not do what I am told. When I spin around with a fist full of clutched car keys his weapon knicks my flesh and he claws my breast. I tear flesh from his face and scream loud into the night. I am swallowed by a primal urge they will later call latent hostility.
The blade is dropped and bounces off the sidewalk with a clang I do not hear. I drive him into the ground. My fingers wrap tight in his hair, pulling up on his head only to better slam the hard shell of his skull into the concrete pavement until I am the only one left screaming.
The next day I am treated like a criminal by the men who wear uniforms.
“What were you thinking?”
“You didn’t have to take it that far.”
“You have the right to an attorney.”
I think I understand them as I watch the grainy tapes in shades of grey and black, failing to recognize myself. I have no words in my own defense but I feel no guilt or shame when I point to him later in the police line up.
“He did it. That man right there. He assaulted me.”
Two days later the men in uniform apologize. The man they called my victim they now call my assailant.
“…wanted murder charges, two women were raped before their throat’s were cut.”
“…also a suspect where the young lady was left for dead in a ditch beside the road.”
“…get you a cup of coffee Ma’am? We’re real sorry for the misunderstanding.”
7.
When I get to the hotel on the bay and stumble through the doors to the restaurant and bar, the man standing behind the counter gives me a concerned smile.
“Are you OK, darlin’?”
“I’m fine.”
It’s my answer, even though I’m pretty certain I will never be OK again. On the loud speaker, Red Red Wine by UB-40 is playing once more.
I borrow 35 cents to make a phone call and wait in a booth by myself for my best friend’s sister to come get me. The bartender makes me a cherry cola for free. It stays on the table untouched. Outside, an orange Volkswagen Beetle cruises back into the parking lot and makes a lap twice before it drives off.
At 16 I think I’m a coward for not running out there to tell him I’m sorry.
Someday, that will change.
Patricia Jones is a non-traditional adult student graduating from Stephens College in Missouri with a BFA in Creative Writing. She attributes her strength and successes to the support of friends and faculty, and the love of her husband and their three children.
Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, November 14th, 2006 | Email This PostThis entry was posted on Tuesday, November 14th, 2006 at 12:02 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
24 Responses to “You Have the Right to an Attorney”
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November 14th, 2006 at 3:45 pm
This seems very real. I don’t know if this actually happened but it makes me believe it has. Well done.
Olga:)
November 14th, 2006 at 4:54 pm
Patricia,
You write like a dream but the story, in itself is staggering. What a catalogue of abuse … and yet, the personal story is overlaid by the sad truth that a large percentage of males in most, if not all, societies prey on and abuse females. I have often felt ashamed to be male.
November 14th, 2006 at 7:17 pm
This short story is powefufl, poignant and quite possibly all true. I’ve had similar experiences at different periods in my 50 years of living, too. Why I don’t hate men is beyond me but I do not. Perhaps I would’ve hated them all had I not given birth to a son. I know this much: he will be a wonderful husband and father because of the assaults made upon me during my life. Some cycles of hate can be broken. This writer seems to have snapped and ended a vicious one! Sometimes ‘an eye for an eye’ is justified.
November 14th, 2006 at 8:25 pm
Thank you all for your comments, and I want to tell you that sadly, the stories are all true. I also have a son, and a wonderful husband of 16 years. We were best friends when I was sixteen, and he became the second of the only two boyfriends I ever had.
As for hating men, or men hating themselves because of what others do, I really hope that you can take some solace in that my exploration and discussion of what’s happened to me I’ve come to forgive a lot. But maybe the most important thing I’ve forgiven was my own self loathing.
If we all continue to find the courage to tell our stories, maybe someday someone will find the courage to stop them before they happen, or at least not be silent about it for as many years as I was.
November 14th, 2006 at 9:56 pm
Patricia,
Thank you for your courage. Thank you for your beauty. Both of these qualities are evident in your writing. You are gifted, talented, and blessed, to be equipped to share these intense, heartwrenching experiences with others. Many, many people needed to read your amazing story. I am one of those people.
November 15th, 2006 at 8:26 am
I’m curious to know, did you do anything about your cousin and the spanish speaking boy? Have they taken responsibility for what they did to you?
I ask only because in my fifty plus years, I’ve had two near misses. The first incident was when I was sixteen and alone with an uncle. The second was when I was seventeen with a friend’s father. I never told. Years later I would learn that my uncle tried “something” with my older sister and even his own daughter. I should have told.
Both men are deceased now. I am a Christian and believe in forgiveness, but even today, it is hard to forget how I felt, and it is hard to forgive.
You are a couragous woman. I applaud your strength and the ability to forgive. God Bless.
November 15th, 2006 at 6:25 pm
Patricia,
This story is so well-written, so immensely painful and poignant. I wanted to cry throughout it. You are an amazing, incredible, talented writer.
I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. As horrifically painful as these experiences were for you, I’m sure some of your successes can also be attributed to the strength you gained from lessons learned. G-d bless you. Please keep writing, keep breathing, keep fighting - you’re a strong woman.
Thank you for this story.
Kate
November 17th, 2006 at 1:11 pm
You’re brave and an inspiration to women, not just for saving yourself but for the willingness to share your story. Women don’t have to shut up. Maybe the less we shut up, the less these things will keep happening. Bless you.
November 18th, 2006 at 12:49 am
Your story is powerful and moving; I’m not going to say I liked it, because I found myself revolted and angered by the contents, but I was deeply moved and affected by it. Some of the imagery will never leave my mind, not only of the acts but of the aftermath and your description of events. I found it to be deeply effective in illustrating bullet points in one woman’s life, and feel an emotional connection with the narrator because of this.
November 19th, 2006 at 8:44 pm
Wow, your story had my heart beating! Very powerful!
Kay.
November 19th, 2006 at 10:13 pm
Thank you so very much for your “stories” in your life. You are certainly in the club of so many women who are survivors. I am glad you see these events as only parts of your life, as do I. We continue on, surviving and making the best in a world that has yet to identify abusers. It may only be our justice that the men know themselves who they have touched violently and to live with that the rest of their days until their passover judgement. I know in my heart it will be more harsh than I could even dream. May the same be true for your abusers.
Thank you for having the courage to share, as so many cannot.
T. LeMond
November 23rd, 2006 at 8:19 pm
Wow. I cannot believe what I just read. Especially, the “It’s true” part, even though I knew it was. I am so sorry for what you’ve had to go through, which feels almost pathetically weak to even attempt to … I just can’t understand, how can a bigger, stronger “person” possibly justify in their minds that it is OK to force themselves on a “defenseless woman,” or anyone - the depth of cowardliness - and as a God-loving father of two kids (boys), forgive me, but I hope they pay dearly and that pain in your life could forever disappear.Bless you.
November 25th, 2006 at 12:27 am
Heartrending. While I was reading it never once occurred to me that this wasn’t exactly what you had felt and experienced, and for that it got tears out of me. It absolutely broke my heart to read, but I couldn’t stop. The last statistics I looked at said that one in three women will be sexually assaulted at least once by the age of 24. I suppose I’d find that hard to believe if I didn’t know more women who’ve had similar experiences than not. I wish I could say I wasn’t one of them. At the same time, I’ve come to value the empathy that I wouldn’t have had otherwise; the shame, guilt, and pain that I couldn’t grasp or relate to until it was me. I’m so glad to hear that you’ve been able to forgive and be made stronger by this instead of being destroyed by it. Thank you for sharing your story.
As hard as that was for me to ingest the subject matter, I also recognize it was a very well structured account with effortless transitions and vivid use of detail. You have a real gift for expressing yourself through writing, Patricia. I hope to see more of your work in the future. I pray for success and blessings for you and your family.
November 28th, 2006 at 11:10 pm
While I am admittedly biased I have to say once again that I’m proud of you sweetie, and you can see that I’m not the only one that appreciates your gift for writing.
This story was very hard for Patricia to write. It was an agonizing process and the pain was renewed through each revision of the story. She was trying to be very careful to keep the content intact while economizing on words. It can be very hard to accept the criticism of others about how you have written down something so personal. Patricia is a trooper.
Patricia keeps telling me that she wouldn’t be writing now if I was not here to support her along the way. I think she sells herself short on her own drive and determination. She is a strong woman and has earned everything along the way. There has been very little “given” to her in her life, while a lot has been taken.
I would also like to thank the people that have taken the time to write a response to your story. It is appreciated and Patricia reads every one of them and takes them to heart.
Brian Jones (Patricia’s husband)
December 2nd, 2006 at 10:28 am
Hi Patricia — you commented on a story I had posted yesterday, “If There Were Magic Words,” and I searched the archives so that I could both read your story and personally thank you for your wonderfully kind words. Your story was powerfully and creatively told and I know it took a great deal of courage to write. Thank you for sharing a story that will (has) undoubtedly helped many women. I was also quite moved by your husband’s testimony — he sounds like a great guy. I wanted you to know that your comments about my story touched me deeply — some of the responses I’ve gotten have been overwhelming (both on this site and in personal emails), but your post probably touched me the most. Thank you so much for sharing. I was telling my thirty-year-old neice about how the title to my story came about (Elizabeth chose it — thank you so much, Elizabeth — it was perfect) and she said: “See how everything comes together? The lady who spoke those words had no idea how many lives she might impact when she spoke them.” The power of the common bond we share as human beings (no matter what our experiences are) continues to amaze me. Keep writing, Patricia. I wish you peace always. And again, much thanks.
December 14th, 2006 at 2:11 pm
Your story was was touching and rings so true! I was raped at 7 by a 14 yr old neighbor. Never said a word to anybody about it. My own brother raped me when I was 14.Aagain, never told a soul. This seems to be a classic thing we females do, taking into our minds that we somehow are the cause of these things done to us. I am in a writers group now and there are 5 other women who were also sexually abused in their childhoods, in a group numbering for the most part, 10-12 at the most! ALL of these women kept their secrets, in shame, letting it eat away at them their whole lives through. I encourage all to SPEAK UP…TELL SOMEONE AND EVERYONE, LIFT IT OUT INTO THE LIGHT, TAKE BACK YOUR POWER. Only in honest open dialog will we be redeemed from our burdens. Expose them, even if it was too long ago to prosecute. Most of the time it will be, but letting them creep in secret, allows them to continue, our silence and pain, feeds them. I have just finished a book, about my childhood, and am waiting for Penguin to accept it (I hope). Getting it all out on paper was so freeing to me, and the onthers I have shared my story with have all told me how just hearing my story gave them strength. We DO have a voice, ladies, remember that!!!
December 19th, 2006 at 12:45 pm
thank you for sharing your stories. i happened upon this site quite by accident and found myself riveted to your writing. i wouldn’t begin to compare myself to you but for the first time ever i thought about my own stories, and yes, there are stories. i’ve had SIX very close calls throughout my 44 years. it makes me wonder how many of us out there are targeted on a daily basis in one way or another. i may choose to creatively write mine down as well - and then look at it in disbelief as i’m sure many of the people who read yours did.
January 2nd, 2007 at 12:14 pm
Thank you for your story - Very Powerful! More people need to hear these stories to stop the cycle of abuse. The cycle of silence surrounding abuse/rape is ominous. Keep shedding light on the truth - You are freeing people!
January 15th, 2007 at 7:19 pm
I may be wasting my time here, because I suspect that this site won’t post anything that isn’t undiluted praise.
But in the interest of truth and reality, I’m going to make the effort anyway.
I find this story less than satisfying on a couple of levels. First, the grammar and punctuation, contrary to what everyone else here seems to believe, leaves a lo to be desired. In particular, this person needs to learn how to use an apostrophe.
(Hint: Plurals almost never get an apostrophe, and contractions or possessives almost always do. In the first paragraph, the words “cars” should have one, and under #6 the word “throats” should not have one. These are just two examples; they are literally dozens of others just like these, which shows these aren’t typos, but rather that they stem from a real misunderstanding of how the language works.)
But the grammar and punctuation mistakes are not all that makes me disagree that this is brilliant writing.
There’s the matter of the plot device of the knife; it’s way overused, and not believable as fiction, much less nonfiction, which is what the writer tells us it is. The knife used on a seven-year-old, then again almost every time she is attacked? Not believable, sorry.
Then there’s the matter of how many times the heroine victim is assaulted, and how uniformly she is re-victimized by the people who she confides in. Again, not believable as nonfiction, and even as fiction it would only work on after-school Tv specials, where the bar is lowered significantly.
Then there’s the fact that this person obviously is using this story to take political postshots, which casts even more doubt on the truth behind the story. (”Politically correct,” and ” the complaint department doesn’t operate in this direction,” are clearly the point of a good bit of the story.) Word to the wise: an overt agenda makes for a lousy story.
Then there are the abundant cliches. “You owe me,” is the most obvious; no one except a bad script writer would say that.
I guess in closing I would say this: Even when the subject is one as tear-jerking, as emotionally evocative and important as sexual abuse, we need to listen with some healthy skepticism — because melodramatic manufactured stories like this cheapen the subject.
January 17th, 2007 at 6:21 pm
Jehovah Jones, I submit that you underestimate the ability of real life, in all its diversity over so many years of history, to conform to the kind of stories you apparently consider to be below your own standards. Regarding the “you owe me” bit: I didn’t realize that young men held themselves to such high standards of novelty and wit when they are trying to squeeze some sex out of a date. I, as a young man myself, find it believable enough–and I especially find that the words reflect a believable attitude. Lots of guys, believe it or not, expect sex from the get-go. Some are wise enough to take it slow at first, but don’t you find it believable that a guy who’s getting deployed soon–especially the kind of guy who has no problem going out with a 16-year-old–is going to get a bit impatient?
Patricia, I thought your story was written well. You got a good rhythm going, and I was engrossed enough that I–a reformed Grammar Nazi–didn’t give a damn about the occasional apostrophe misuse.
January 17th, 2007 at 9:39 pm
Dear J. Jones,
I want to thank you for your comments about the technical issues. I will go back over the punctuation with a fine tooth comb before the piece is released again, however I do feel you owe the editors of this site an apology. Elizabeth and James have worked very hard to create an enviornment that invites discussion, not just canned applause and zealous praise. You should be ashamed of yourself for the way you began your commentary as an attack on this site.
Now, as for the other comments. If you scroll back up the commentaries you will find that someone else questioned the truth of these stories. I told them, as I will tell you, these things happened. They happened over a period of 30 years, and they happened to me. I did not invent the knives, I did not intend to take a political pot-shot. I will not bemoan the fact you feel I have perverted the truth in order to wave some sort of an agenda, but I will tell you this. I am offended that you called me a liar. I am offended that you deny woman, and men, suffer from these sorts of acts every day. I can not change your attitude, but I can come to the page and say once more. I may have the Right to remain silent, but I damn sure will not be. Not ever again.
Now. As to the grammar and punctuation. I’m ashamed of myself for that. I guess, honestly, I was so wrapped up in the emotional context of the retellings that I paid little attention to them. I am ashamed because I intend to go on and teach Rhetoric and Composition. However, before you judge me too harshly, I think you should know something more about the woman behind the keyboard. In 2003 I was hit by a car. I suffered a bi-lateral hemmorhagic stroke which left me with global aphasia. This is the inability to communicate via written language. You can check it out at www.aphasia.org. I entered the creative writing program as therapy, not because I aspire to be a writer. My husband and children helped me to learn how to read and write, while I was teaching my husband how to walk. He was on the front of the motorcycle we were riding. I still suffer from anomic aphasia and I work very hard to produce coherant prose. Poetry is alot easier to hide things in, perhaps that is why I was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Ultimately, J. Jones, your message has been read, considered, and dismissed. Five years ago, you would have made me cry and crawl back into a hole with my teddy bear. Today, I am not ashamed, and I will never be silenced again, especially not by someone like you. I suggest you look up the video Dreamworlds, it’s very well done.
I want to thank the rest of you for your support and share something special with you all. Your comments helped me to feel safe and confident in sharing this piece locally. When I did, it was adopted as a piece to be shared at one of the local women’s shelters and at the college. A young woman who was being beaten by the young man she was engaged to read the piece and came forward, asking for help. Each one of you had a hand in helping her. Thank you.
Patricia Jones
January 18th, 2007 at 6:16 pm
What an excellent writer you are, I am both overwhelmed and cowed. I write as a survivor of incest, a former clinical therapist for survivors and currently a woman battling being stalked by a powerful married man. Yes, in this and in any other culture, it does not matter what you do, who you know, how you conduct yourself, what you wear, what your education level is, etc. by virture of the fact still, if we are female, then we are fodder. This is slowly changing, slowly, by you, me and every other artist out there who fights back. I was raped by all the males in my family for 10 years, impregnanted, illegally aborted, left to die, still expected to get all As (which I did), and be the perfect child for the neighbors to see. I literally stayed alive to see these monsters die, which they are, never ever being tried for their crimes. My own mother said nothing as she took me to the doctor, month after month for infections of every kind, nor did the doctors. Even a child pregnancy was not enough to garner intervention. They were all complicit. I was and am, ostrasized by family and childhood friends for having the guts to speak the unspeakable. I have waited to outlive this horror, and writers like yourself help shine a bright light on the perpetrators. There will be a day when even one incident, is punished. I understand every single word you beautifully write. Thank you!
Laurie Dawson, MA
www.lauriedawson.com
February 9th, 2007 at 10:44 am
Jehovah — relax, dude. Apostrophes, knives, agendas? You seem upset. Of course, it’s understandable. God knows how it yanks my chain when someone writing a meaningful story misuses apostrophes. Maybe a class of some kind (not grammar-related) might be helpful. I agree with Patricia. Elizabeth and James are providing a great service here. If churning out flawlessly written stories by authors all destined to become historically heralded masters were the goal here, there wouldn’t be much to print. And that would be a sad thing, as this site has provided an amazing space for social commentary, healthy communication among would-be strangers and healing of all kinds, in addition to some very fine writing.
“You owe me” is not a believable comment by a bullying, aspiring rapist? As the reader James Brust alluded to, I was not aware that jerks who are trying to force themselves on women took the time to carefully construct dialogue which would meet the high grammatical and literary standards set by potential readers of stories which they might find their lowly selves in some day. Thanks for clarifying and for shedding truthful light on a subject that the rest of us naive, gullible and mindless readers would have been incapable of discerning if not for your gifted insight and superior detection skills.
Lastly, thanks again, Patricia, for your story and for the comment you posted following my story on December 1st. I appreciated both immensely. Peace be with you (and you, too, Jehovah — seriously).
November 16th, 2008 at 9:51 am
Just checked back in to read any posts left after the originals - back when I first read Patricia’s story. I wonder how she’s doing now? Her terrific response to Jehovah’s criticisms kind of let me know she is doing JUST fine! It’s been a couple of years since I was here and I, too, have suffered major medical setbacks. I have to say, waking up on life support has been one of the most surprizing! Sure glad I did though!
Cheers! And, as always, best wishes, Patricia. Is hubby walking yet? How’s the aphasia? I still have to say “that thing you dial and talk on” when I can’t get the word “phone” out of my brain and into my mouth! LOLOL Hey - whatevah woiks!