Last night my 12 year old granddaughter, small and skinny and maybe 70 lbs. in full winter gear and soaking wet, flung herself onto the back of a man that she's known most of her life, a man she loved and trusted, and fought like a tiger in a death match to keep him from beating her mother to death. She bit him, pulled out chunks of his hair and beat him about the face with sharp little fists until her knuckles were bloody and his face was bruised and swollen. When that failed, she broke the broom and began beating him with the handle. Her step-father was so drunk, so enraged and so focused on beating her mother to death that I doubt he even felt it.
Thank God.
Because if he had noticed her through the haze of alcohol and adrenaline pumping through his body, he might have turned on my granddaughter and crushed her tender young bones in his fury.
Mom and Step-dad have three other kids besides Mandy. In fact, Mandy has seven half-siblings, my son having contributed four girls to the total (and there's a step-brother, too.) Anyone wishing to fling about ramblings on the ill-advisement of having this clusterfuck of far-flung kids should stifle it, at least for today. I know for a fact that my son was raised to fucking well know better, but despite my extensive discussions about safe and responsible sex, lectures on population growth, the difficulties of raising mass quantities of children, etc., etc., etc., he just kept breeding and I couldn't stop him. So they're here now and I love them and wouldn't trade any one of them for anything on earth, and if you've got an opinion on THAT right now I'd really suggest keeping that shit to yourself.
But I fucking digress.
Mom and Step-dad's relationship has been over for a couple of years now, but because of the shitty economy and the fact that neither one of them have the education or training to do anything that would benefit them monetarily, they are trapped like rats in a box full of poverty. They can't stand each other any longer but they can't afford to get away from each other, either. The relationship began to hit the skids when Step-dad became depressed about losing a series of dignity-stripping jobs (none of which was his fault, it was all the economy) and began to self-medicate with handy, cheap alcohol and the occasional pinch of meth helpfully donated by any of the dozens of losers huddled in the tranquil hills nearby who cook the shit up for freaked-out fun and marginal profit. What a bad idea.
To compound this, Step-dad's mother and Mom's father have both moved in with them over the course of the past two years. They're both down on their luck and trapped in poverty, too, so they all banded together in abject misery to try to survive together. Just Mom and Step-dad and Grandma C and Grandpa B and four sweet little kids trapped in a shitty house in a cesspool of a tiny town with no hope that relief will ever come. An accident waiting to happen.
The frenzied struggle began when Step-dad, drunk and belligerent, came staggering into the bedroom where Mandy was watching music videos online while Mom was snuggled down in the bed. Mandy's computer is kept in her mother's bedroom so that her mom can monitor her use. It was about 11 oclock and Mandy should have been in bed, but she's a nightowl and her mom is okay with that.
Step-dad and Mom haven't slept in the same room for well over a year now, so the fact that he's staggered into this bedroom at all means he's looking for trouble. Step-dad looks at Mandy, whirls around towards the bed and bellows "That fuckin' kid is still on the fuckin' internet! This is all your fuckin' fault!" and then swings his fist full force, connecting with the back of Mom's head. Mom flies out of the bed, whips around and shoves Step-dad out of the door and away from Mandy. Mom is understandably enraged now, too, and she's trying like hell to propel him down the stairs and away from the children, but Step-dad is in no mood to be shoved, nosiree, and he starts to swing away and Mom swings back because this is war now. Mandy snatches up her cellphone, dials 911, starts screaming her address into the phone and that Step-dad is killing Mom. Step-dad pushes himself far enough back in the door to slap the phone out of Mandy's hands and break it. As the phone flies out of her hands Mandy catches a glimpse of her eight year old sister flying down the stairs and away from the battle towards the house phone. She can't see her sister but she hears her start screaming the address and Mandy yells for her to run outside with the phone and hide but STAY ON THE PHONE. Mom's got her feet under her again and she pistons Step-dad down the stairs in the kind of adrenaline rush that only comes when you know you're about to fight for your life and the lives of your children.
But now they're out in the open space of the kitchen and although Mom is tough and she's not gonna go down without a fight, Step-dad is big and powerful and is in a blind rage and he shoves Mom off and into the corner against the cabinets and starts beating her with hammer fists in the face. Mandy is right on their heels and she remembers the tricks I taught her but Step-dad has Mom angled into a corner now where she can't try a leg sweep so she flings herself on his back and frantically tries to get a grip on a thumb. His fists are moving too fast, they're so tightly closed and so slick with Mom's blood that she can't get hold of one and she's enraged now too and goes full animal on his ass and starts pummeling and biting and yanking his hair but he just keeps pounding pounding pounding.
Grandma C flies down the stairs and tries to get between Step-dad (her son) and Mom, but Step-dad flings her away like a rag against the cabinets, breaking her hand. It flings Mandy off, too, and she desperately looks for a weapon. She sees the broom, snatches it up and swings hard and the broom handle breaks but Step-dad has regained his focus and is pounding pounding pounding. Mandy grabs the broken handle and starts swinging for all she's worth and Grandma C jumps back in to have another go, broken hand and all. They're all screaming for Grandpa B except for Step-dad who is roaring incoherently but Grandpa B is a sound sleeper and slightly deaf, so their pleas are literally falling on deaf ears. Little sister has released the dogs and comes flying in the back door with them now screaming ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK! and the dogs correctly sum up the situation and begin biting at Step-dad's arms, trying to get a firm hold. They can't get hold of him either and start biting at his back and legs. He keeps on pounding pounding pounding.
Little sister is screaming for Mandy now, screaming for help because 911 needs directions and Little sister can't remember all the streets. The town cop lives three doors down, but 911 doesn't know how to get there. Mandy drops the broom handle and snatches the phone and starts giving directions and Little sister picks up the broom handle and starts beating beating beating on Step-dad, her real dad. Step-dad strikes out to rid himself of the biting dogs and dislodges Grandma C again and hits Little sister in the process, sending her flying, but she's a tough little customer, too, and she hops right back up and goes right back to beating her father with that broomstick.
The screaming and barking have finally insinuated themselves into Grandpa B's slumber and he comes shooting out of his bedroom in his tightie whities to see Step-dad flailing away at the bloody mess of his daughter's face. She's put up a hell of a defense but her arms are too tired and beaten to defend her any longer. But Grandpa B is still a strapping man and he's got a full head of steam building. He bulldozes his way in between his daughter and this madman and manages to shove him far enough back to really get in between them. This seems to throw gasoline on the already white-hot rage Step-dad is engulfed in and he starts screaming vile things while pounding away at Grandpa B with renewed vigor. But Grandpa B spent some time in the Big House once upon a time and this ain't his first fucking rodeo. He uses his arms to defend and to shove Step-dad back into the open. With Little Sister still flailing away with the broomstick, Mandy pulling his hair, Grandma C pawing at his arms and the dogs still biting, Grandpa B finally wrestles Step-dad to the ground and pins him there. Step-dad is firmly pinned, but he's still struggling and caterwauling. Mandy snatches the broom handle back from little sister and takes a position where she can swing at Step-dad's head should he break free. Little sister takes up the business end of the broken broom and assumes a position just like Mandy's. One dog has a firm grip on Step-dad's left ankle while the other assumes an attack position right at Step-dad's throat, looks him in the eye and bears his teeth. Grandma C and Mom both slump to the floor. They all stay this way for several long minutes until the cops finally arrive to take over.
Step-dad wants to fight the cops, too, but Grandpa B has him in such a good hold that they get the cuffs on him and into the back of the cop car with relative ease. The ambulances finally arrive and take Grandma C to the hospital. Though badly beaten and shaken, Mom refuses to go because she can't afford to pay the bill so the paramedics check her over thoroughly as well as Grandpa B, Little sister and Mandy. Little Sister and Mandy are pretty much unscathed physically, save for Mandy's bloodied knuckles. Grandpa B took quite a few tough punches but like I said, this ain't his first rodeo and he'll live to defend and protect another day. Mom is pretty banged up and should really go and have x-rays to make sure there are no fractures around her eyes and cheeks. She's got a rough couple of days ahead of her but she's made of stern stuff.
When the ambulances arrive, Step-dad works his way out of the handcuffs and manages to open the back door of the cop car (you know, the ones that only open from the outside) and get out. The sheriff sees him and starts to walk toward him, hand on holster. He starts bawling and says "I just want to see them and make sure they're okay." The sheriff snorts and says "You shoulda thought of that before you beat the shit outta anyone who ever gave a damn about you, you dumb fuck! Now get your stupid ass in the GOD DAMNED CAR! You are FUCKED, son!" Mandy is oddly pleased by the sheriff's phraseology.
The two little ones sleep through it all, blissfully unaware that their father has done his best to kill their mother or that he almost succeeded.
Mandy and Little sister give their statements to the police late into the night, both oral and written. Little sister needs an assist from the policewoman because she doesn't write well yet. Everyone who reads Mandy's written statement comments on how well it's written, her lovely penmanship, her accurate use of punctuation, the clarity or her statement. ("I've really been working on the proper use of my commas, grandma," she told me.) Between the two of them, these little girls have witnessed the entire thing, there are no missing pieces to this puzzle. As they sit and wait for the process to take it's course, Mandy pulls her little sister close and strokes her hair, tells her how proud she is of her and what a good job she did.
"I'm so proud of her, grandma. She listened and did everything just right. I'm so glad she ran for the phone. She thought of the dogs all by herself, grandma. I'm just so proud of her."
"I'm proud of her, too," I say. My brave, brave girl, so proud of her little sister.
While she's comforting her sister, Mandy listens to the conversation of the cops, social workers, counselors and miscellaneous adults thrown into action by this assault. She realizes that a lot of the talk is about her, about what a remarkable girl she is.
"That one's got a hell of a good head on her shoulders."
"I'm not sure I could have given directions while fighting that jackass. I don't think I know anyone that could."
"The little one just followed her sister's lead and they fought him off until the old man showed up. That girl's one tough cookie."
"Can you believe she's only 12? Fantastic kid, that one."
(my personal favorite) "Naw, he ain't her real father. Look how smart she is! She didn't come from that dumb bastard."
And on and on.
Little pitchers have big ears, but in this case I'm glad she's hearing what they are saying. It does her good to hear that these random grown-ups think she's a fantastic kid. Because she is.
On the strength of the girl's statements alone, the judge issues an ex-parte order before even taking off his coat this morning. It's kind of a moot point at the moment because Step-dad is in lock-up at least until December 18th when he'll appear in court, but all bets are off after that. Mandy is relieved by the ex-parte. She's too inexperienced to know that waving a piece of paper and shouting threats of jail at a madman will have no effect if he is intent on making you dead. But the piece of paper is making her feel safe for the first time all day, and I desperately want her to hold on to that. There will be time to approach this from a different angle on a different day, and we'll discuss new safety measures, escape routes inside and out of the house and also more self-defense. She was prepared to use what she knew, she just didn't know enough. I'm taking care of that, pronto.
When my son gets the call, he runs to the car and speeds to his daughter. He's a remarkably gentle soul, is my youngest son, but when it comes to protecting his kids he takes no prisoners. He has time to calm down in the car, and there is no way that he'll set eyes on Step-dad today so there will be no ugly confrontations. My son and her mother both try to persuade Mandy to go home with her dad and stay the week, but she won't hear of it. Her little brother and sisters need her, especially Little sister, of whom she is so proud. And someone needs to take care of Mom. No one can take care of Mom as good as she can.
Mandy's in full caretaker mode. Bitter personal experience tells me it's best to let her act on it. During the two hours she spent on the phone with me, she told me that she hasn't cried yet. She's not letting herself be scared, she's putting her head down and pushing forward and for the moment, knowing her as I do, I think that's best. She's told her story over and over and over and she's sick of telling it, but she said that telling it to me and to daddy and to Aunt S (Mom's sister, and a much beloved aunt) really helped make her feel safe and calm. When the weekend comes she'll come to stay with dad and he'll fold her into a ball on his lap and surround her in safe, loving arms for as long as she needs it.
I'll go down to be there, too, and she and I will take a long walk in the woods (as is our wont) and she'll talk and ask me questions, and I'll give her honest answers as gently as I know how. I'll explain how I've been in her shoes, and Mom's too, and I understand about as well as anyone can how things went down. We'll discuss what it's like to fight to save yourself or someone you love, and I can tell her that I've felt all the things she's feeling right now, that I've been where she is right now and she can tell me anything, it's all safe with me, she's safe with me. And then she will finally cry and it will all come spilling out in a rush and I will absorb the flood of words and tears, the confusion, the betrayal, the terror, the anger, the desire for retribution warring with her innate gentleness and generosity of spirit. It will all flow over and through me and burn me to the bone.
The worst is knowing that Mandy will now bear a wound that will never heal. Violence crept in the back door of her life and stayed to throw a wild party. The collateral damage will be great, no matter how well we handle things from this point forward. We will salve the wound as best we can, but intimate history informs me that the best you can hope for is a scar that doesn't cripple you but reminds you every day to be careful who you love and trust, because without warning they might just turn on you and try to love you to death. My beautiful gentle girl, already grown wise beyond her years due to circumstances beyond her control, has had yet another piece of innocence ripped from her grasp. She now knows something that no adult should know, much less a child. When reason left her and her fight-or-flight response kicked in, she chose fight. And when fight proved to be not enough she found a weapon and threw herself into the task at hand. Trying to get Step-dad to stop was replaced with the desire to see him suffer, and if he died So. Be. It. He wasn't gonna kill her Mom because she was gonna kill him first.
Mandy now knows something that most people don't, and all of you without this knowledge should fall to your knees and thank whatever deity wanders by that this knowledge has been kept from you. She knows that when push comes to shove, she's capable of great violence. It won't ever be her choice to start it, but she's capable of fighting to the death to end it.
No child should have this knowledge.
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Today, November 10th, 2009 is the 29th anniversary of my first husband's suicide. While some years this anniversary is more troubling than others, this year it has been weighing me down for weeks. I've been looking around me at my neighbors, my children, this nation struggling just to keep from drowning in poverty and despair and I feel their hopelessness. I wonder how many women will relive the day I had 29 long years ago. I worry about how many children will go to bed hungry tonight, or cold. Or scared. Or dead.
And now this.
It's really no different than the hundreds of other domestic abuse incidents that happen every day in this country, in this world. It's just that this time it's happened to my beautiful, sweet, responsible granddaughter.
Ironically, I'd started working on a diary about the young women I see in these little cesspool towns and what a struggle it is to teach them to be good parents and responsible adults when the only support system they have, if they have one at all, is so flimsy. Instead you're being treated to my panicky free-association babblings while I try to restore order to the universe as I know it.
When I got the call, my first instinct was to grab my broom, drive the eight hours to the jail, force my way inside and beat Step-dad with my broomhandle until the cops from the neighboring county arrived to loan the local boys a taser to take grandma down. I'm a bit more calm now.
But I've been brooding about the incredible political blows we've absorbed these last few weeks and in the process of writing this something has solidified. The vote in Maine, the weak HCR, the Stupak atrocity, a local fight over parking spaces at the besieged Planned Parenthood down the street, the stupid and fruitless wars that never ever end, the environmental rape that continues daily, the fatcats on Wall Street bloating like disease-spreading ticks on the blood of people who have worked hard for less than nothing. I held the hand of my neighbor over the fence just two days ago as she fought back tears because her husband is working but he's not getting paid and they've used up all their savings and their utilities will be shut off at the end of the week and she has no hope, no hope, it's all gone and she doesn't know what to tell the kids.
And then I listen to these gasbags on the TeeVee and watch the despicable games being played in Congress and in elections across this nation, games that destroy the very people these parasites feed upon, and I am just flabbergasted.
Are you gonna sit there and tell me Mr. Gasbag/Mr. Congressman that that little clump of cells is a sacred treasure which must be saved at all costs and then turn around and say that providing healthcare for that clump of cells once the cord is cut is fiscally irresponsible and that the little bastard is now on its own?
Are you really gonna sit there and tell me Mr. Gasbag/Mr. Congressman that driving people into poverty so deep that they don't even have a shitty car to live in while Wall Street thieves, military contractors and environmental rapists grow ever more porcine and gluttonous is GOOD FOR THE COUNTRY and then turn around and LECTURE people driven mad with despair about bootstraps while hucking the occasional chunk of expired government cheese at them?
Are you gonna sit there and tell me Mr. Gasbag/Mr. Congressman that my gay friend's desires to have a legal joining that affords them the rights that the most basic common decency prescribes is somehow a THREAT to the kind of "TRADITIONAL MARRIAGE" that my granddaughter witnessed last night?
Because if that's where we are at this point in the conversation, then I just have one thing to say to you, Mr. Gasbag/Mr. Congressman.
FUCK YOU.
Addendum
So many here have offered places to stay, money, clothes, advice of all sorts. Someone even offered Mandy a new phone. My inbox is crammed full of messages of support and offers to help. I can't tell you how much this all means to me.
The truth is, right now things are going better than I could have hoped for. When the call went out, reinforcements arrived. I'm one of those reinforcements. We're a bunch of hillbillies, and we take care of our own.
Nevertheless, there are offers of assistance that I will be holding on to in case we need them down the road. I'll also be answering all the emails sent, but there's a lot going on right now so please be patient if I don't answer right away.
I'm sorry, I can't accept money. As I said, we take care of our own and I just can't take it. If we should find ourselves in a place where we really must have outside financial assistance I'll buck up and ask for it, I promise.
What you can do, though, is make a donation to a woman's shelter in your area. This country is drowning in Mandys and Little sisters, and the vast majority do not have anyone to turn to. The same thing goes for all of the other tangible things like clothes and phones, etc. that have been offered. I'm taking care of my girls right now, but you can help take care of someone else's little ones.
To the skeptics out there that doubt that this story is true, my initial response was to tell you to go fuck yourself, but I've had a nap, a half-assed meditation session and a cup of coffee, so I'm much more peaceful now. Having had time to get my shit together, I can see how some might think this is just a made-up story for some kind of bid for attention or money or something. I think skepticism is a good thing, I practice it myself and I respect your concerns. I wish I could tell you that it's all a lie or that I've somehow stretched the truth beyond reason, but this really happened, all of it happened.
But even if you don't believe what I've written here, I ask you...no, I beg you...please take the time to reach out to someone around you and help them. Not just women and girls in the situation I've written about, but someone, anyone, that you see that needs it. Make a donation to a shelter or a food bank, volunteer for after-school programs. Hell, just reaching your hand across the fence as I did the other day to stroke someone's shoulder and let them know that someone gives a shit can make a huge difference in a life spiraling out of control. We are living in desperate times and we need to be generous of spirit. Bad things will happen to all of us. ALL OF US. The hand you grasp in support today may be the hand that pulls you from the brink of the abyss somewhere down the road.
For many here I know this diary has brought up bad memories. For all of you who have lived through hell and lived to tell the tale, peace and blessings to each and every one of you. You'll be in my prayers and meditations. Many of you are already. Let us join hands and make a safe place to encircle those who have walked in our shoes.
And to Zwoof, (((((thank you))))). I love you, brother.