A letter to the abused

Three friends were abused by their boyfriends this summer. Two friends got the fuck out of that situation. The third did not. This is my written account of her story. 

Early in the summer of 2014, at five am on a Sunday, she was beaten so badly by her boyfriend Stephen that she had bleeding in her brain.

As a result of her injuries, she spent two days in the hospital and missed two weeks of work.

She was punched in the face, picked up and thrown on the ground. Stephen then kicked her in the head multiple times. I visited her three days after the attack. She cried about her son's future with a boot-print bruise on her neck.

She was with her son's father for six years when she missed two days of work in September 2013 after he gave her a black eye among other injuries. She ended their relationship and her family promised their help with childcare as a show of support and solidarity.

She worked as a cook, training under an internationally recognized chef after completing culinary school. She turned down the sous chef position due to her responsibilities as a mother. Her ex saw his son infrequently and contributed financially even less frequently. Her mother and sisters watched her son when she was at work. She made about $350 a week.

She met Stephen in November. He moved in with her over the winter. He potty-trained her son in the spring, a few months before beating her almost to death. Stephen has a five-year-old daughter that lives in Virginia.

 Her three-year-old son was sleeping in the one-bedroom apartment when Stephen started beating her. She was hoping he did not see any of the attack. Wishful thinking. I have been to her apartment. It is an open floor-plan. Most likely her son saw the entire thing.

She reconciled with Stephen by the 4th of July and moved to Virginia with him in August, leaving her son behind.

I wrote letters to her in July, when my fears for her future were unfolding.

July 20
On Friday, July 18 you didn't show up to work. Last night at four a.m. I awakened from a bad dream. I tried to look you up on Facebook but couldn't find your profile. I scanned the internet for over an hour, searching for proof of your presence or whereabouts.
I returned to bed as the birds began to sing their summer morning song.
I tried to return to sleep but kept wondering if you were OK.

July 22
Did you already move out of state?
Your boyfriend is skipping out on his court hearing concerning the early morning he beat you so badly he almost killed you, correct?
 Does your son's father know that his son is moving to Virginia with the man that repeatedly kicked you in the head while his three-year old son watched?
Has he noticed the speech-delays your son is experiencing as a result of the trauma he witnessed?
Have you noticed?

July 24
I get the bad boy thing.
I too have loved and fucked dangerous men.

I have never received a smack, let alone a brutal attack, from one of them.

Get rid of this guy.
I am afraid he is going to kill you.
I want you to leave him and enter into a women's shelter with your son.

Stephen is dangerous.
He does not deserve the trust is takes to move to another state with someone.

You have known him for less than a year. A year in which he beat you so badly you were unable to work for two weeks.

When a twenty-four year old single mother making  $23,000 a year misses two weeks of work, how will she be able to pay her rent? I asked you in June if you wanted friends to help with money, knowing you would be hurting financially. You said no.

Who is going to take care of your son if something happens to you?
Aren't you afraid he is going to kill you?
Do you want this guy to kill you?

I'm sorry, #mikebrown

Unarmed teenage shot six times this summer.

SIX TIMES!

WHERE ARE THE ANSWERS?
WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?

Well, he's black and dead so there won't be any.

We can't un-shoot him.

Shhh, America. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Let's pretend this was all a strange dream. 
In the morning we will pump our veins with high fructose corn syrup and our bellies with ammonia-soaked dollar menu meats and catch up on trending dog-shit.

We will not concern ourselves with the grief or heartbreak of his mother.

We will talk about his shoplifting.
Two of my siblings were caught shoplifting when they were 18. They were given stern lectures. My mother never had to worry that one of her foolish teenagers might be shot by police. We are white. Of course she didn't have that fear. And even if one of my mother's teenager's had been shot by a police officer, can you imagine the public outrage? Shoplifting would have had NO place in the post-death dialogue. But Lesley McSpadden has to listen to the callous dialogue of strangers who wish to assign blame for his death to her son's age-appropriate rebellion.

I am so sorry, Mike Brown. You didn't deserve to die. Your death sucks. And exposed how scary things are right now. So scary that we can't walk down the street without sometimes getting shot six times. You shouldn't be dead. You should have had your chance to become a man and live out your life.

Since I still have the chance to live out my life, I have to keep raising my voice.

I want peace.



I want us to treat each other with respect and as equals. I propose a blessing, a toast, a moment of reflection:

Here's to the past, looking back to make sure mistakes are not repeated.

Here's to the present, working for change.

 Here's to the future, while we're still alive to look forward to it.

I stand against police brutality, and will not rest until #JusticeforMichael is served. Join us: http://naacp.org/ferguson #NAACP

http://oogeewoogee.com/since-you-already-forgot-about-ferguson-mikebrown-let-me-give-you-an-update/