Unaltered Voices

  I screamed and cried out for help, but just as always, no one came. The lashing continued as I cried, saying I had done what I was supposed to. I swept the porch after school. As the tears flowed and the welts formed on my skin, I could hear my grandmother trying to get through the locked door. She eventually did, saying, “She swept the porch. Nookie told me earlier she was out there when I asked where she was.” My grandmother’s voice told me she was tired of it, but it did not save me. She left the room, and the abuse continued. My mother did not listen; she said I embarrassed her in front of my friends, closed the door, and continued. Yes, the reason changed. It did not matter if I was innocent; she would get her frustration out on me. I grew more assertive to stand in the chair while still tied and charged at her. Lose or win, I would do what I needed to because I was tired. We threw each other around until it stopped. I had to sit in a tub of water, bruised and crying, to die bec

  My now 20-year-old was several weeks old when we were out in the rain, awaiting a ride to take us somewhere unknown. I had no idea where we were going because the altercation that led to this was unexpected. My boundaries always made me the villain in every story my family told, and that day was no different. My mother had to uphold an image, and because I said something to her son in front of the company, the image cracked slightly. It was so slight that it led me to put my things outside to move out while my child's aunt (dad's side) held her. While taking my stuff outside, my mother blocked me from getting the remainder of my things and my baby. I repeatedly asked my mother to stop putting her hands on me; by the third shove, we were fighting. She bit a plug out of my chest because of the position she was in, and when I stumbled over an uneven step, I got up with a shoe cleaner can in hand and struck her. The gash across her face got the police called on me and my family,