Little Prayers, Big Impact

When I was growing up domestic abuse was accepted in the community, as though it was nobody’s business. A man beat his wife the police did not get involved while others pretended as though nothing happened. Perhaps it was my mother, so fearful of my dad that she would not call the police when they would fight. My father was a totally different person when he was not drinking or anger did not consume him. Although he was a loving and caring person at times he was very demanding and controlling. Everyone had to do what he wanted while opinions were unwelcomed. Speak when spoken too otherwise be quiet was his philosophy. My mother was the opposite she was quite, meek and smart. She was valedictorian of her graduating class and a great seamstress. She had many talents that were never fully developed because she did not have the chance to pursue her dream of attending college.

By the age of 24 she had five children and at age 34 my mother had given birth to nine children in all. Somewhere in the midst of having children and the challenges of feeding, clothing and sheltering, the demands of surviving seem to have taken its toll on my parents. They fought over money, women, gambling and drinking. My dad thought the weekend began on Thursdays. From my perspective it appeared that because my dad worked hard during the week to provide for us, he was entitled to go out and have some fun. My mother’s objection lead to bitter battles, which she often lost as physical scars appeared on her body while she tried to conceal the emotional ones in her heart. Eventually my mother would change from loving and caring to timid, distant and emotionally troubled as she tired desperately to survivor the abuse inflicted on a regular basis. Why she stayed in that environment when we begged her to leave? I thought if she left at least we would have a mother alive even if she did not live with us. My mom stayed with an abusive husband because she had nine kids, no college education, no money and she saw no way out. She loved her children and probably hoped my dad would change his ways.

Both of my parents had faults and the decisions they made negatively impacted my life. Anger is a learned behavior brought on over time by a wounded heart. Unfortunately those who were suppose to love and protect me taught me at an early age to hate. There was nothing more frightening than to be awakened in the middle of the night with outburst of screaming, profanity and horrific threats on one life. My dad had threatened to chop my mom’s head off with a cane knife one night. I lay awake in my bed, which was next to the kitchen, listening to the screeching sounds of the file as he ran it back and forth over the blade of a cane knife. I prayed so hard to this God I really did not know, Lord please don’t let my dad kill my mom. Make them stop. I can recall on another occasion when daddy told my mother that he was going to scald her using heinous profanity. He pulled a large pot out of the cabinet used to cook gumbo and began running water in it, then proceeded to put the pot on the stove. I went into the kitchen to ask what was wrong all he said was go back to bed, and then I saw the flames on the stove. I never knew when my dad would deliver on any of his threats. I was tortured and haunted by fear of the unknown.

At an early age I was a bed wetter, I’m not sure if it was because I was consumed with fear of my fathers treats, but every time that I wet the bed I was beaten. I don’t know how I survived between the chilling threats at night warning me of what would happen, if I wet the bed and the early morning yanking of the covers with belt in hand beatings if I did. The beatings were to make me stop wetting the bed at least that is what my father said, as lashes came with full force from the meanest man in the world, I thought. When I did my prayers I would beg The Lord to wake me up, so I could go to the bathroom, therefore I would not wet the bed again. Sometimes I was afraid to go to sleep. I don’t ever recall going to bed saying I wanted to wet the bed, so I could get a whipping in the morning. Of nine children I was the one who was different and shy, the worst grade of hair out of the girls, sores and scars on my legs, prone to sicknesses, which lead to frequent bus trips to Charity Hospital in New Orleans. I was teased for wetting the bed and was given the most humiliating nickname by my father, Pee-Pee Joe. The real me was buried beneath a sea of verbal, physical and emotional abuse. I hated my dad for the abuse he inflicted on my mother and me. I secretly hated my mom too for not fighting back and staying in that abusive environment. Eventually my prayers changed as anger was now in me. I remember praying one night that God would take my dad’s life when he was on one of his raging tangents. I just wanted it all to stop, so the pain would go away. When I was about 18 years old I was awaken to two gunshots one night. I jumped out of bed ran to the living room and saw droplets of blood leading to the door. I did not see my mother or my father.