Red stories

It keeps happening. In every woman's circle I'm in. School, church, social. There is always a woman resigned to living out her life in fear. Slowly the secrets unfold. During a break, during prayer, during wine.

As a writer, as a black woman I feel torn. I shouldn't but I do. My concerns are that folks will perceive me as some male bashing angry black woman. (Of course I have been called worse.) I am concerned that I will be criticized for showing the problems without solving any. But I am led to write. To tell the stories.

Our women are dying. Our sisters. Our daughters. At the hands, through the lips of our men. Our brothers. Our sons. I was in class the other night and listened to woman after woman share stories about abuse she lived through or is currently living with. Some stories I could relate to and others I couldn't even imagine. So that you know, these confessions cross color lines and age barriers.

It would be easier, I guess if there was no love. (Not easier. No.) These women were not describing vicious attacks from strangers on the street. These were boyfriends, lovers, husbands. These were about men who are, right now, living with more stress than they know what to do with, more anger and frustrations then they can process. I'm no psychologist here. I could make excuses for men who abuse women until the sky opens up. But the fact is, it's happening.

I'm guilty. Guilty of hearing a woman being beaten and I did nothing. Sure, I turned out my lights and cried and prayed. But she was beaten. I was living in Los Angeles at the time in an area commonly called "The Jungle." A neighborhood where gunshots are heard more than anyone in America should hear gunshots. Where "bloods" are posed bow legged and slew footed on every corner and drugs are sold in broad daylight. But all of that is another story.

I don't know how it started. I think I was watching the afternoon news when I heard the kicks, and "stupid bitch" this and "silly mutherfucka" that. To this day, years later, I'm so sorry that I did nothing.

I promised myself that I would never do nothing again. The stories seem to be everywhere. Every time I turn around they are there. Different faces, different forms of abuse, but abuse nonetheless. The stories are there. Testing my gangsta.
So, I haven't formed what these articles will look like yet. I have procrastinated too long. But please be on the lookout. They are coming. And will keep coming.
I will say this. You never know what someone is going through. So be a friend. Through most of the stories, I keep hearing women say that they didn't feel like they had anyone to talk to who wouldn't judge them. Who would listen.

Listen. Please.

If you are living in the circumstance of domestic violence there are hot lines. Please call. Please.
1-800-799-7233.