Something Like Hope (9 page)

“Maybe I don’t, but that’s no reason to clam up. Explain it to me, Shavonne. Those men who hurt you when you were a child, how was that your fault?”

“Because … It’s complicated.”

“Yes, I imagine it would be. Go on, though.”

“Look, I was bad. I didn’t listen to anybody. Like the time I stole money from one of my foster mothers and then ran away. When I got caught, they sent me to another foster home. That’s when the really bad stuff happened.” I took a deep breath, preparing for this last part. “If I hadn’t been so bad, I wouldn’t have been raped. See?”

Delpopolo doesn’t speak for a couple of minutes. Then
he asks a whole string of yes-or-no questions about that particular foster home.

“Did you like it at the first foster home?”

“No.”

“Did anybody there beat you?”

“My foster mother burned me with cigarettes and made me sit naked in a cold tub of water when I was bad.”

“Did anybody act sexually toward you while you were there?”

“My foster mother’s boyfriend and one of his friends.”

The questions go on like this for several minutes. It goes so quickly that it doesn’t upset me so much. It’s strange; maybe because it goes fast and is so matter-of-fact. It’s easier to answer yes or no without having to explain. It’s not like, “Tell me about when you were raped. Tell me about when your mom abandoned you.”

Mr. D says, “Adults are responsible for protecting children. The adults in your life didn’t protect you. I’m not being judgmental, because maybe they tried their best. But in the end, they didn’t protect you. And you weren’t safe. And bad things happened to you. People did bad things to you. And the systems that were set up—cops, social services, foster care, residential centers—all failed to protect you as well.

“I don’t blame you for not trusting anyone. You shouldn’t. You’ve had to do whatever you could to keep yourself safe, and that’s okay. But you have to know that none of it makes you a bad person, and you’re never to blame for the mistakes or crimes adults commit. Now,
cross off the things on your list that are the crimes or mistakes of adults.”

I start to cry because my mind is replaying so many of these “crimes” that I have blamed myself for. Some disgusting old man took my hand and put it down his pants, told me it was a good thing when I was just old enough to know that it wasn’t. I thought he picked me because he could see that I was bad. A nurse at the emergency room told me I had been raped
because
I had run away and wore makeup and tight jeans.
See what happens when you run the streets? You get what you deserve, always
. And all the times I got moved from one home to another because I let someone at school see the bruises and scars.
It’s because of you that you have to live with strangers who beat you and molested you. That’s what you get for sharing your business with teachers and social workers
.

This is what’s playing out in my mind as I cross the items off the list, one by one. So many black lines across the paper. My chest heaves with sobs. Delpopolo gives me a box of tissues and waits. Then he asks more questions.

“How can parents take care of and protect their daughters when they’re using crack?” he asks.

“They can’t,” I answer between sobs.

“What happens to eleven- and twelve-year-old girls when their mothers are on crack and can’t protect them?”

“They get raped.”

In this way, he explains why what happened to me happened. He says, “Your problems—bad dreams, anger, spacing out—they don’t mean that there’s anything wrong with
you as a person. They’re just what happens when someone lives through terrible things. They’re normal reactions to a really abnormal and awful childhood.” He keeps explaining and asking questions until it starts to make sense. Even hearing voices can be okay, as long as I know it’s just a part of me that is trying to protect me. It’s not necessarily crazy, he says. I’ve never had this kind of conversation before. I’ve thought things that were all wrong, and the other therapists just made it worse. They were more interested in the ugly details of who did what than in me as a person.

I’m not saying that Delpopolo is helping me. Because I’m no less miserable than I was before I started seeing him. If anything, I’m worse, because I’ve been thinking of things I never let myself think about before. But I will say that some of it makes sense. In my head it’s starting to make sense. But in my heart … it’s still confusing, and it still hurts too much.

       
C
inda is now an expert on geese. She’s got a library book on North American waterfowl. Our library is mostly filled with out-of-print books that people have thrown away. There’s nothing fun to read, like horror stories or sexy romances, but if you want a book on the life of Ronald Reagan or North American waterfowl, you’re in business.

Cinda watches the geese through our bedroom window. If you press your face against the glass (which leaves oily nose- and fingerprints), you can see the nest. It’s at the edge of the pond, a hundred feet away, close enough to count the eggs. Cinda says it’s called a clutch of eggs, in this case eight. She says if you’re patient enough, you can see the mother get off the nest every now and then to drink water and crap. Cinda uses these moments to count the eggs, just to make sure they’re all there.

She reports to me every evening about her latest discoveries.

“Shavonne, the male caught five fish today. He ate two and gave three to the female!” “Shavonne, from my math the eggs should hatch in less than two weeks!”

In a way it’s cool because it gives us something new to talk about. The geese don’t have anything to do with this shitty place. They live here too, but they can fly away. Once the goslings hatch and grow, Cinda tells me, that’s just what they’ll do: fly away.

       
A
new girl was admitted to the Center today. She’s fourteen years old, from the city. Her name is Mary and she’s mentally retarded. She has that fetal alcohol look, with the wide-spaced eyes and flattened nose. Her mouth hangs open and she talks with a lisp, though she doesn’t talk much that I can see. Mary tells us she doesn’t know why she’s here and didn’t do anything wrong. She says, “I want my stuffed bear, Jojo, but they won’t let me have him.”

Lots of girls in here are slow. They cover it by fighting or talking up the gang shit. But it’s pretty obvious when someone is retarded. They can’t read or tell time. The judges lock these girls up just as quickly as they do ones like Tyreena and me. Usually their crimes are prostitution or running drugs for some guy. I feel sorry for them because it’s not their fault. But then again, I have enough to worry about. What the hell can I do for some retarded girl anyway?

When I look at Mary, though, all my hardness goes out the window. Right off I see that she’s several months along. A skinny little thing with a big belly and swollen breasts. She has a woman’s body, but her face looks like a child’s. She wears this dumb smile like she trusts everyone and wants to be friends. If you could see that face, open and with the dumb fucking smile, it’s as if she’s been sent to this world as a test for all of us. God’s saying, “Treat this girl well and in her own way, she will look after you. She will be the test of goodness among you. Love her, and above all else, protect her. Because if she is harmed …” That’s what I’m afraid of, because this girl
will
be harmed here. I can sense it.

She stands looking straight at me, smiling, with her hands on her belly. It’s the most innocent smile I’ve ever seen. I look away and then storm off. This girl, this Mary, is bad news. You just wait and see. She’s not smart enough to protect herself, and some girl, like Coffee or China, or one of the guards, is going to use her up. And I have to either watch it all play out or get involved. Like I’m going to get involved in this Mary’s shit. Fuck that. Next time she flashes me that smile I’m going to knock it off her damn face.

But at bedtime, I find myself thinking about her and her baby. I say a silent prayer for her even though I stopped believing in God a long time ago. I never pray for myself because it doesn’t do any good, but maybe it can work if you do it for someone else.

       
T
his is my next assignment: to write about a woman I’ve felt safe with.

It’s June 7, 2002. I’m at the hospital in the maternity ward. I’m almost sixteen years old and it’s my first year in lockup. They tried to send me to a group home where I could have the baby and then learn how to be a mother, but I was too messed up. I didn’t follow the rules and eventually tried to run away.

After the cops picked me up (pretty hard for a pregnant runaway to stay on the down-low; maybe I should have thought of that before I ran), they took me to the Center. I stayed there until it was time to deliver. Then, when my water broke during lunch (pizza squares and Tater Tots), they took me in shackles to the local hospital. Once I was there, the shackles came off and everybody treated me differently.

Ms. Williams stayed with me the whole time. Even
though it took twenty hours and she has children of her own to look after.

I was assigned to this big fat nurse who was also a midwife. She was the only black nurse in the whole hospital, and I think she took a special interest in me. She said some really beautiful things to me that I will never forget. Her name was Mona.

When Mona met me, she took my own bony hands in her large soft ones and said, “Child, if I’m gonna help you have this baby, then we need to git a few things straight. First off, I know where you come from. You come from that prison for kids. And that means that you done something wrong or somebody done something wrong to you. And here you are, still a child yourself, yet gettin’ ready to have your own child.”

I wanted to interrupt, but I found that I couldn’t speak. She rubbed my hands so gently, talking in this gospel-like voice, singsongy and sweet. I just listened like a little girl at story time. Those hands of hers must have been magic.

Mona said, “Child, I done wrong too and, you know what? Don’t nobody care. Least of all God. And if God don’t care ’bout that, then why should any smaller peoples care? Certainly don’t nobody here at this hospital care what you done. You just another woman ready to bring a new person into this world. And sugar, that’s
the
most beautiful thing ever! You’ll see. And when you do, I’ll be right here with you.” She said this last part like she knew it to be true. Like she could see the end of the story and she knew it was a good story with a happy ending. Like
she was amused at my distress because she knew it would all work out.

Mona was very busy with her nurse’s duties. She bustled about the delivery room and talked constantly. She gossiped about famous people like Martin Lawrence and Denzel Washington. She said she wanted to have them both as lovers: the first to make her feel good with laughter, the second to make her feel good “any damn way he wants to!” She talked about the food she cooked at home and how maybe I could come over for a holiday dinner with my baby after I got out of the Center. She said the white nurses and doctors gave her grief because she got too close to the patients. At this she huffed and said, “Shoooot, girl, you cain’t get any closer to a person than when you help bring they baby into the world! Got your hands up in they business, that’s how close you git! It don’t make no sense
not
to get to know them and let them know you.”