Slowly the officer kneels down in front of the frightened 10-year old
black girl. Her face is stained by streaks of dried tears and her
lopsided pigtails have lost a few of their color barrettes. She tries
not to shake and she tightly interlaces her fingers and clasps her
hands together in front of her.
“What happened honey?” he gently asks.
His face is blurred despite his close proximity. Instead she clearly
sees the stern and angry face of her father behind him. His dark eyes
are piercing. His lips are drawn in a firm straight line. She would not
yet realize the depths of pain she will feel if she says anything.
“Nothing…nothing.” she somberly whispers.
“Then why were you crying?” he prods.
“Because I was sad and had a bad day.”
A few moments of the delicate dance of question and vague answers
revealed nothing of the chaos that transpired only an hour before. She
knew she would not be protected if she said anything or attributed any
emotion to recent events. So she stumbled over her words and took blame.
“I didn’t have a good day at school and I got in trouble. That’s all.”
She wanted to clutch her arms around the officer’s neck and plead for
him to take her to a safe place. She desired to tell him of the brutal
beating that left her younger brother with a bloodied nose and her with
broken glasses with a cut across the bridge of her nose. The vision of
her father holding her brother in the bushes with full closed-fists
strikes made her shudder and she felt queasy. The sting from the back
hand slap still rung in her head when she had attempted to save her
younger brother. But she couldn’t tell the warfare of pain and
punishment was a regular occurrence. No one would believe that the
family who was all smiles outside their home felt terrified of the man
who was the head of the home.
The position of father was really one of a ferocious controller who
ruled the home with a hand ready to pummel at the slightest bit of
provocation if any at all.
(c) Karen Harold 2009
