Tonya sat nervously across the small table from Dennis Franks. Reverend Billy sat to her left. She sipped nervously at the grande frappucino latte Franks had bought for her. Reverend Bill was sipping a bottle of mineral water, and Franks thoroughly enjoyed his latte. He had bought the same kind as Tonya, in an attempt to make her feel at ease.
But his mannerisms were those of a businessman with a task to accomplish. He didn't waste a lot of time beating around the bush.
Reverend Billy was also there to put her at ease, and to provide moral support.
"It ain't often that a rich white man comes into south side Atlanta to have coffee wid' a black girl." She looked at her coffee cup as they spoke, stealing occasional furtive glances at him.
"Yeah, well," he said, sipping at his latte, "I've never done it before. Reverend, you ever seen it happen?"
Reverend Billy wasn't as quick on the draw as his two companions. He just looked blankly from one to the other.
"So," said Tonya, "why are you here, Mista Rich White Man?"
"First of all," responded Frank, "I don't want to hear any bullshit about white man's guilt or southern shame or white privilege. If you start throwing that around, then I'm out of here and you can finish that latte by yourself."
"I didn't --"
"No, but you were going to. I'm not here because of that. You're a smart girl. You graduated from Douglass High with a 3.43 grade-point average. You ran for three years on the cross-country and track teams, and lettered every year. You were on the debate team your sophomore and junior years. And you were in the National Honor Society for four years. You were planning to go to college. What happened?"
Tonya swirled the coffee in her half-empty cup and answered in a flat voice, still not looking at Franks. "I was gonna go to Yale or Harvard. You know, Ivy League schools. I had the grades to do it. My teachers loved me, and the counselors thought I was gonna be a real feather in their cap. Then, the week before school started my senior year, a boy talked me into sleepin' wid'im. He said he was wearing a condom, but I didn't see one. Anyway, before Homecoming came around, I found out I was pregnant.
"I talked to Reverend Billy about what to do. He convinced me not to get an abortion. I didn't want to give up the baby, so I decided to keep it. Because I was pregnant, I dropped out of running. And I was so busy trying to get ready for the baby and keep my grades up, that I had to quit debate. I wasn't gonna quit high school, though. That's the one thing I didn't quit."
She sighed, took a sip, and continued. "Little Sarah was born the week before graduation. I almost couldn't walk across the stage to get my diploma, but nothin' was gonna stop me. But after that, I had to take care of my baby, so I got a job at Waffle House and I been workin' there ever since. My mama watches the baby while I'm at work, but she's an alcoholic and so sometimes I get home and the baby's in the same diaper she was wearing when I left."
She sighed again. "Ain't no way I can go to college with that kind of life hangin' round my neck."
"Where's the father?" Franks asked quietly.
"You mean the sperm donor?" she retorted angrily. "Last I heard, he was hustlin' something down on the Gulf Coast. I ain't seen him since graduation. He tried to sleep with me again after a graduation party, but I told him, number one, I'm still healin', and number two, don't you remember what happened the last time we did that? He was never a boyfriend, just a boy." Her voice trailed off into sadness.
"So, are you planning to work at Waffle House for the rest of your life?"
"Yes, unless I can get a job at Denny's instead." She looked up at him through her eyebrows, smiling at her little joke.
Franks smiled softly in reply. Then he took a long drag on his latte and said, "What if you could get a second chance at going to college?"
She snorted softly. "Do I look like I got a fairy godmother?" she asked her coffee cup.
"You might. I have a proposal for you. Have you ever heard of the Pinecone Foundation?"
Franks waited for a response and, not getting one, continued. "In a forest fire, all of the trees are burned and die, right? Well, the heat from the forest fire causes pine cones to open up, and their seeds drop out and get buried in the ash on the forest floor. Then the next spring, after lying there and soaking up water all winter, they sprout and grow into new trees. It's like the forest gets a second chance.
"The Pinecone Foundation exists to give kids like you a second chance. Tell me: what were you going to study at Yale or Harvard?"
"Accounting," she muttered to her cup.
"They told me you were good at math. How were you going to pay for your education?"
"A lotta hard work." She chuckled sadly, even though it wasn't really a joke.
"I don't think you can work enough in four years to pay for those schools."
"Yeah well, it's all a mute point now. I ain't goin' anywhere." She leaned back in her chair and fixed him with a look of despair and apathy.
"Moot point," he said.
"What?"
"Moot point, not mute. It's a legal term. It means something that's fake, or something that doesn't matter anymore."
"It sure doesn't."
He caught the wit in the reply. "You've got a sharp mind. An accounting degree from Yale would serve you well. You could get a job as a CPA anywhere. Or you could go to business school, get an MBA, and get a job as a junior executive somewhere."
"Somewhere, like where?"
"How about Procter & Gamble, in Cincinnati?"
Her eyes sparkled. "Ooh! I ain't never been to Cincinnati!" Then the sparkle died, and she slumped in her chair again. "And I ain't never gonna get there, either."
He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. Although she hadn't looked at him much, his eyes had never left her during the entire conversation. Reverend Billy sat on the side, content to be a spectator in this exchange.
"I want - the Foundation wants - to pay for your schooling. We will pay for tuition, books, Internet access, rent, utilities, groceries, diapers for your little one, day care, a computer, even a cellphone. We'll even pay for you to come home and visit on the holidays, if you want."
Skeptical, Tonya asked, "What do I gotta do in return?"
"Get accepted. Pass all your classes. Graduate. And be a good mama to your baby. That's all."
"Uh-huh. And do you get to be my sugar daddy? Do I have to sleep with you?"
Franks smiled. He wasn't offended; in fact, he had been expecting this question. He shook his head and said, "You get your own two-bedroom apartment. The only person you have to sleep with is your own little girl."
"I ain't never had my own apartment. Hell, I ain't never even had my own bed."
"I'll introduce you to Charmaine. She's 25, and she works at the foundation. She'll teach you how to cook, and clean your own apartment, do your laundry, and do your grocery shopping - in fact, she'll go shopping with you until think you can handle it on your own. She'll take you clothes shopping before school starts, because you're going to need a new wardrobe."
Tonya's eyes started to glaze over, as she allowed herself to believe this was true. "Wait - wait. There has to be a catch. Nobody's this generous - not to a total stranger, and def'nit'ly not to a black girl wid' a baby from the South Side."
Franks stared at her, not moving. Then he asked, "So, is that a yes or a no?"
She looked to the preacher: "Reverend Billy?"
"Remember what Cuba Gooding Junior said."
She furrowed her brow, thinking hard. "What? 'Show me the money'?" She laughed, but the laughter was a mix of puzzlement and crazy hope. "Mista Franks, show me the money."
He smiled and waggled his eyebrows. "First, you get accepted at a school. Then I'll show you the money." He watched the crazy hope fade away. "Yes or no?"
Franks was rather disappointed. He had been expecting a more positive reaction. Tonya swirled her empty cup slowly on the table in front of her. "If I say yes, what happens?"
"Well, applying for college is hard work. So we'll help you do that. Tomorrow morning at 9, Charmaine will pick you up and bring you to the office. You can bring your baby if you want. We have several secretaries who are grandmothers, and they will fuss over her for hours. They'll pass her back and forth, and you won't have to worry about her for a minute. You and Charmaine can sit at a computer, decide which schools to apply to, and fill in the applications."
He paused, then said, "It'll take more than one day. You might need to quit your job."
"But I can't do that!" Tonya exclaimed.
"Nonsense. Getting into school is now your full-time job."
"But I need the money!"
"Tonya, let's talk for a minute about want versus need. Yes, you need the money. But do you want to go to college?"
"Well yeah, but I can't quit just for a couple of days of applyin', and then weeks of waitin'! What if they say no? Then I got no school and no job!"
Franks smiled gently. "You still don't understand. That's okay. You will have the money. We'll give you $120 for every day you spend at the Foundation, researching schools and filling out applications. We will pay you $120 for every day that you are out with Charmaine or someone else, buying clothes and supplies, and learning how to drive."
"Drive?"
"Well, if you're going to be independent, you're going to need a car."
The girl gasped.
"And if there's still time left over, we will offer you a job at the Foundation. We have a lot of work you can do."
Her eyes started filling with tears, and then she blinked them back. Her lower lip started to quiver, so she bit it. She stared at the logo on the coffee cup she was holding, as if it were the most important thing in the universe.
"So, yes or no?"
"I really don't have to sleep witcha?"
"Really."
She glanced at Reverend Billy. He finally spoke.
"Girl, what are you waiting for? Why are you even questioning this? Think of little Sarah! Don't you want something better for her? Think of all the dreams you had in high school, the ones you gave up on. What if you could make all those dreams come true after all?"
He continued, "Do you know how much MONEY they're offering you? This is tens of thousands - a couple hundred thousand - dollars! And all you have to do is be good, and do what you do best! Don't be a fool, girl! Say yes to the man."
Tonya looked past Franks and fixed her gaze on the windows on the other side of the coffee shop. Her eyes started filling with tears again, and this time she didn't blink them away. Her lower lip trembled, her chin seemed to disappear, and her eyes got lost in the flood of tears that poured down her cheeks and on to the table top. Unashamed, she sat there, shoulders convulsing as she wept silently, having realized what was being offered and the changes it would bring.
Franks didn't move. To move would have broken the spell.
Reverend Billy, taking his cue from Franks, didn't move either. When he started getting fidgety, he played Four Tops songs in his mind, taking care not to hum aloud. He had finished "Ain't No Woman (Like the One I've Got)" and was halfway through "Yesterday's Dreams" when Tonya's sobbing subsided, she dried her eyes and the table with a Starbucks napkin, and looked Dennis Franks in the eye.
"Yes," she said faintly.
One side of Franks' mouth smiled. "You're sure?"
She took a deep breath, smiled a huge smile, and almost shouted, "Yes!"
Then the other half of his mouth smiled. "Charmaine will pick you up at 9 tomorrow morning. Don't be late." He stood up, shook Reverend Billy's hand, and stuck his hand out for Tonya to shake. She looked at his hand, then slowly stood up, wrapped her arms around him and embraced him tightly.
She let go of him and whispered, "Thank you." He smiled at her once more, then turned and walked out the door.
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Philanthropy, chapter 1
David Franks looked around the table. Everyone else looked very uncomfortable, despite his efforts to put them at ease. They were picking at their lunches, even though they had all ordered delicious items off the menu - and he was picking up the tab.
His guests were the principal at Frederick Douglass High School, three of the counselors from the school, the chairs of the mathematics, science and English departments, and the Reverend Billy Brown, from the Mount Olive Baptist Church.
"So," he began in the modern fashion, "as I told you all on the phone or in email, I represent a charitable foundation that exists to help single mothers break the poverty cycle. I need your help finding a candidate for a scholarship." That evoked a mix of reactions from his guests. Some of them made excited "ooh" noises at the prospect that one of their young charges might be eligible for a scholarship. Some of them rolled their eyes, muttering, "We've heard this one before." And two of them, including the Reverend Billy, started to get angry.
Reverend Billy spoke up first. "Wait a minute. You come down into black Atlanta, loaded down with your white man's guilt and a lotta white man's money, to try to lift some of our black sistas out of their lives of misery? You don't think we can do that ourselves? We are a community. We don't need you!"
The principal said "Shh! Reverend Billy, let's hear what the man has to say" - but one of the counselors muttered "Amen, Reverend."
Franks had expected this reaction, and he had already decided to use the nuclear option to deal with it. "Okay." He said. "I'll find another school that can help the Foundation spend its money - maybe up in Powder Springs. Lunch is on me. You stay here and enjoy it. I'll pay the bill on my way out the door." He picked up his phone and his tablet and stood up, pushing his chair back.
Before he could take a step, the women in the group were hissing at the Reverend to "keep your mouth shut" and to "let the man talk", while the principal half-rose from his chair at the other end of the long table, reaching towards Franks and saying "W-w-wait, don't go yet. The rest of us want to hear what you have to say."
Franks froze, and silently looked deep into the eyes of everyone at the table. He had already determined that if he saw antagonism or opposition in any of them, he would in fact leave. After a long 60 seconds, he sat down again.
"Now, then. Twenty-five percent of your students drop out every year. This is not the fault of the school; I understand that. Of those twenty-five percent, half of them are girls who are teen mothers. Ten to twenty percent of the girls who graduate in any given year are either pregnant or already have children. Many of these graduates and dropouts are girls who were planning to go to college, but because of the challenges of teen motherhood, they are forced to abandon that dream.
"When they drop out, they are still officially your responsibility. Unofficially, you already have enough to do, just keeping the roof on the school, and therefore many of these girls fall through the cracks. When they graduate, they are officially no longer your responsibility. However, most of them graduate totally unprepared to raise a child or get a job --"
The counselors started to protest.
"-- in spite of all of your admirable efforts to train them and prepare them for the Real World."
The counselors were mollified.
"I need your help. The Foundation wants to start something new. We are prepared to offer a full four-year experience at a nationally-ranked college or university to a single mother. If, after two years, it looks like she is making progress, we will make the same offer to two more single mothers - and two years later, to four more single mothers, doubling it every year until our accountants tell us that we are at the limit of the Foundation's endowment.
"The problem is, a white man prowling around in a black neighborhood, looking for and asking about single mothers, is asking for trouble --"
This brought smiles to all of the faces at the table. Some of them tried not to smile, but their mouths betrayed them.
" -- so I need your help identifying likely candidates. At this point, I'm not interested in academic qualifications, extracurricular activities, or any of the usual bullshit." He leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. "I'm interested in any girl who was college-bound, who could have made it, who deserved a shot but had to give it up for the baby. Those are my criteria."
One of the counselors interjected, "Then you're looking for someone who's no longer at our school."
Franks nodded. "That's right. You probably thought I was going to ask about your current student body. No, I'm asking for your help because you know all of the former students."
The Reverend Billy Brown spoke up, thoughtfully this time, "So why am I here?"
"Reverend Billy," said Franks, "you know these kids on a personal level. You know their families. You know their situations. You may be more acquainted than these educators with some likely candidates."
The math department chair spoke up. "Who decides who gets this scholarship?"
"The Foundation decides," was Franks' reply. "It's their money, and so they get to decide how to spend it. There is no application process. There is no bureaucratic waiting period. What I need from you is names. Right now. If you don't like these terms, then I'll just go up the road to McEachern High School and see if there's some upper-middle-class white girl who got herself in trouble and who needs a little help."
Franks stood silent once more. Speechless, the group looked around at each other, and then they started talking animatedly. In less than ten minutes they had come up with a list of over 20 girls' names, whittled it down to four, and then they spent the next 30 minutes telling Franks everything they were permitted to tell about the girls, their high school careers, their families, and their current situations.
His guests were the principal at Frederick Douglass High School, three of the counselors from the school, the chairs of the mathematics, science and English departments, and the Reverend Billy Brown, from the Mount Olive Baptist Church.
"So," he began in the modern fashion, "as I told you all on the phone or in email, I represent a charitable foundation that exists to help single mothers break the poverty cycle. I need your help finding a candidate for a scholarship." That evoked a mix of reactions from his guests. Some of them made excited "ooh" noises at the prospect that one of their young charges might be eligible for a scholarship. Some of them rolled their eyes, muttering, "We've heard this one before." And two of them, including the Reverend Billy, started to get angry.
Reverend Billy spoke up first. "Wait a minute. You come down into black Atlanta, loaded down with your white man's guilt and a lotta white man's money, to try to lift some of our black sistas out of their lives of misery? You don't think we can do that ourselves? We are a community. We don't need you!"
The principal said "Shh! Reverend Billy, let's hear what the man has to say" - but one of the counselors muttered "Amen, Reverend."
Franks had expected this reaction, and he had already decided to use the nuclear option to deal with it. "Okay." He said. "I'll find another school that can help the Foundation spend its money - maybe up in Powder Springs. Lunch is on me. You stay here and enjoy it. I'll pay the bill on my way out the door." He picked up his phone and his tablet and stood up, pushing his chair back.
Before he could take a step, the women in the group were hissing at the Reverend to "keep your mouth shut" and to "let the man talk", while the principal half-rose from his chair at the other end of the long table, reaching towards Franks and saying "W-w-wait, don't go yet. The rest of us want to hear what you have to say."
Franks froze, and silently looked deep into the eyes of everyone at the table. He had already determined that if he saw antagonism or opposition in any of them, he would in fact leave. After a long 60 seconds, he sat down again.
"Now, then. Twenty-five percent of your students drop out every year. This is not the fault of the school; I understand that. Of those twenty-five percent, half of them are girls who are teen mothers. Ten to twenty percent of the girls who graduate in any given year are either pregnant or already have children. Many of these graduates and dropouts are girls who were planning to go to college, but because of the challenges of teen motherhood, they are forced to abandon that dream.
"When they drop out, they are still officially your responsibility. Unofficially, you already have enough to do, just keeping the roof on the school, and therefore many of these girls fall through the cracks. When they graduate, they are officially no longer your responsibility. However, most of them graduate totally unprepared to raise a child or get a job --"
The counselors started to protest.
"-- in spite of all of your admirable efforts to train them and prepare them for the Real World."
The counselors were mollified.
"I need your help. The Foundation wants to start something new. We are prepared to offer a full four-year experience at a nationally-ranked college or university to a single mother. If, after two years, it looks like she is making progress, we will make the same offer to two more single mothers - and two years later, to four more single mothers, doubling it every year until our accountants tell us that we are at the limit of the Foundation's endowment.
"The problem is, a white man prowling around in a black neighborhood, looking for and asking about single mothers, is asking for trouble --"
This brought smiles to all of the faces at the table. Some of them tried not to smile, but their mouths betrayed them.
" -- so I need your help identifying likely candidates. At this point, I'm not interested in academic qualifications, extracurricular activities, or any of the usual bullshit." He leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. "I'm interested in any girl who was college-bound, who could have made it, who deserved a shot but had to give it up for the baby. Those are my criteria."
One of the counselors interjected, "Then you're looking for someone who's no longer at our school."
Franks nodded. "That's right. You probably thought I was going to ask about your current student body. No, I'm asking for your help because you know all of the former students."
The Reverend Billy Brown spoke up, thoughtfully this time, "So why am I here?"
"Reverend Billy," said Franks, "you know these kids on a personal level. You know their families. You know their situations. You may be more acquainted than these educators with some likely candidates."
The math department chair spoke up. "Who decides who gets this scholarship?"
"The Foundation decides," was Franks' reply. "It's their money, and so they get to decide how to spend it. There is no application process. There is no bureaucratic waiting period. What I need from you is names. Right now. If you don't like these terms, then I'll just go up the road to McEachern High School and see if there's some upper-middle-class white girl who got herself in trouble and who needs a little help."
Franks stood silent once more. Speechless, the group looked around at each other, and then they started talking animatedly. In less than ten minutes they had come up with a list of over 20 girls' names, whittled it down to four, and then they spent the next 30 minutes telling Franks everything they were permitted to tell about the girls, their high school careers, their families, and their current situations.
Restraining Order
She was studying at her desk when a movement outside the window caught her eye. She looked up to see a blue Kia parking at the end of the driveway.
Her blood went cold, and her heart clenched - the fight-or-flight reaction. It happened every time he showed up in her life.
She hadn't felt it that first Sunday, when he introduced himself, all smiles and charm. But an hour later, she had had her first sense of it when he had barged into a conversation she was having with her best friends, as if he were already part of the group and there was something between him and her.
There was was nothing between him and her - nothing except aggressive pursuit on his side, and fear and fleeing on her side. He used to text her constantly, and call her at odd hours, even though she told him not to. She put an end to that by blocking his number. Then he would text and call her friends, asking them to deliver messages to her, until they learned to block his number too.
He friended her on Facebook, and then filled her feed with bogus declarations of gratitude for their real-life friendship, compliments about her looks, and suggestive come-ons. She ended up unfriending him, blocking him, and reporting him to Facebook. She went through her feed and deleted everything he had ever written. Some of her friends also unfriended him and blocked him, but not all of them - so he could still keep tabs on her by stalking those unblocked friends.
Somehow he found out her class schedule, and he would wait for her outside the classroom. If she came out surrounded by a group of friends, which she did increasingly often, as physical protection, he would somehow force his way into the circle, try to hook his arm in hers or wrap his arm around her, and steer her out of the circle. More than once, her friends had to trip him or almost wrestle with him to break his hold - and he still tagged along.
If she studied late, and went to the parking garage after dark, he would be standing next to her car, waiting for her. He would engage her in conversation, and wouldn't stop until she said, "Um, I have to go ...", got in the car, and drove away. Sometimes he managed to maneuver in front of the driver's door, so she couldn't unlock or open it. Whenever that happened, she would walk over to the passenger door, get in that way, and crawl across the console. It was awkward and embarrassing, but he didn't seem to notice - or care. But she would shake all the way home, her eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.
When she and her friends went to the gym, he would be over on the weight machines, flexing and eyeing her.
She told her professors about him, and she reported him to campus security, but he hadn't done anything illegal (yet), so they couldn't do anything. Basically, they told her "You're a big girl; you deal with it."
She hadn't really wanted to go to the school's fall social, but her friends had talked her into it, and there was a good local band playing, so she had given in. The entire floor of the sports arena had been turned into an old-fashioned harvest festival, with bobbing for apples, fresh hot donuts and cider, pumpkin carving contests, everything but Halloween costumes. The Halloween party would be in another three weeks, but she wasn't planning on going.
She parked her car and walked in. As she entered the gym, her friend Liz caught her and gave her the customary I'm-glad-you're-here squeal and hug. But they hadn't gotten past the folded-up bleachers when she got a text from Alli: "Carl spotted you. RUN!!!" Her blood froze, her heart clenched, and her face twisted into a mask of fear.
Liz asked, "What's wrong?" She turned and showed Liz the text. Liz pushed her towards the door, and said in that faux-calm voice that some people are gifted with: "Go. I'll stop him." She didn't move. Liz turned towards the gym and saw him, running through the crowd, about halfway across the arena floor. "Go! Now! Here he comes!"
Instantly, the adrenaline hit, and she flew out the door and sprinted to her car. She got in, locked the door, started the car and put it in Reverse. Before she could start moving, there was a rattling of her door handle and then fists pounding on her window, and a man's voice shouting "Stop! I need to talk to you!"
Without looking at him, she shook her head vehemently and stomped on the gas, kicking up dirt and grass as the car jumped backwards. As she shifted to Drive, she was secretly hoping that he would jump in the way, to try to stop her in one direction or the other, so she could run over him. But he didn't. She did see him running after her, yelling something she couldn't hear.
She was aware that her purse was still wrapped around her, and that her seat belt was still undone, but she was too busy concentrating on getting away, and trying to see the dark roads through her freely flowing tears. She thought someone was following her, but if they were, they stopped about eight miles from home, so she wrote it off as paranoia.
She called her favorite uncle to ask for his advice. He lived 2100 miles away, but sometimes when she talked to him, it was like he was right next door. And she felt more comfortable talking to him about some things than even her parents.
After she hung up, she still couldn't sleep. So she stayed up all night, drinking hot chocolate and watching chick flicks. Her body finally gave out at 5 in the morning.
After three hours of sleep, she took her uncle's advice and called the police department. After they explained her options to her, she showered, dressed, and drove to the main office. A desk officer, a cross between a kindly grandmother and Gal Gadot's Wonder Woman, sat with her and helped her fill out the paperwork for a restraining order. Then they went next door to the judge's office, where the judge approved it.
She drove home, feeling relieved, like she finally had some control over her life again. But there was one little problem, a problem which sat like a persistent remnant of an ice cube, in her heart. Her address was on the restraining order. So if he hadn't already figured out where she lived, he knew now.
So when his car appeared in her cul-de-sac three days later, all of that fear came rushing back. At first, she thought, Why did I even bother getting that restraining order? Then, just as her uncle had told her, she started getting mad. How dare he run my life like this? Who does he think he is, making me run away like a scared bunny all the time? Is he too dense to take no for an answer? I guess it's time for me to enforce my own restraining order.
When she had gotten home from the police department, she had done like Kevin in Home Alone, and inventoried her house for anything that would work as a weapon. In her dad's workshop in the garage, she had found a couple of sledgehammers. She had swung them around, and decided that she could handle the one with the long yellow handle and the 8-pound head. She had also found a Boy Scout machete. Did the Boy Scouts really have machetes? Her dad said that he had gotten it when he was a kid, and yes, it had been in the Scout catalog for several years.
Her uncle had suggested that she figure out some offensive and defensive moves with the hammer, and so she had snuck down to the basement and gotten sweaty swinging it around and trying stuff on her dad's punching bag.
Her silly uncle called it "Hammer Fu". That made her smile.
When the doorbell started ringing, she jumped up out of her chair and ran downstairs, managing to hide herself from view. She heard him rattle the doorknob and then start knocking loudly on the door. Just before she stepped into the garage, she heard him yell "Katrina! Come on out, we need to talk!" For a moment, she felt a shiver of fear, but then anger pushed the fear aside.
She had had enough.
In the garage, she dialed 911, gave her name and address, and said in one of those frighteningly calm voices, "There's a man outside my house, trying to get in. He's not my boyfriend, he's a stalker. I have a restraining order. I'm afraid he's going to hurt me. Please send help." Then, without disconnecting the call, she stuffed the phone in her bra so that the microphone was free. She grabbed the machete off the workbench and stuck it in her waistband along her spine, then picked up the sledgehammer and stepped out the door on the side of the house.
She was pissed.
Holding the hammer in both hands like she intended to use it, she marched around the side of the house and along the far side of the driveway, eyes focused on the Kia, but very aware of Carl's location. He was still pounding on the door, yelling "Katrina! Katrina! Come on, you owe this to me!"
I don't owe you anything.
She wasn't hiding from him, but he was so focused on the door that he didn't know she was outside until he heard the sound of breaking glass. He spun around to see her winding up for a second blow on his windshield. He ran towards the car, yelling, "Katrina! Stop it!" as the hammer came down.
He was too late to stop the third blow. The head of the hammer cracked the unbreakable plastic headlight cover on the right side into three pieces, and then without stopping, shattered the xenon bulbs of his right headlight assembly. He grabbed her right arm and yelled "Stop it!"
That's assault, right there.
She said exactly what her uncle had told her to say. She had been practicing it for two days. "Ow! Let go of me! You're hurting me!"
As she said it, she spun to the right, backswinging the hammer, and struck him full-force on the wrist. The hammerhead compressed his blood vessels, his tendons, and most importantly, the nerves in his carpal tunnel, causing his hand to go numb and breaking his grip instantly. It was his turn to say "Ow!"
Now they were facing each other. In less time than it takes to describe it, she shifted her grip so that she was holding the hammer vertical, with the head down, both hands together near the butt of the handle, and she drove it straight down, into his instep, focused on literally driving his foot into the pavement.
Hammer Fu.
She didn't think she broke any bones, but she definitely damaged soft tissue, and the foot was instantly too painful to use. He hopped on one foot, and reached out to grab her arms to steady himself. She instantly shifted her grip on the hammer, holding it horizontally and backwards. The head was in her right hand, behind her hip. Her left hand held the handle, with the butt pointed at his stomach. She stepped forward, driving the handle deep into his solar plexus.
Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.
He fell against the car, grunting and moaning inarticulately. She used that time to walk around him towards the other headlight. As she wound up to hit it, she remembered her uncle's advice and yelled, "You're not supposed to be here!" WHAM! "You're violating a restraining order! You attacked me!" POW! After two hits, the headlight was gone, and the underlying metal was mangled.
Leaning on the hood, he maneuvered around the front of the car towards her. She moved to the back of the car. She felt a twinge of guilt, looking at the taillight LEDs, but then the anger shoved the guilt aside. As the taillight assembly disintegrated under the hammer's blow, she yelled, "Get in your car and get out of here!"
He held onto the driver's door handle, balancing on one foot, still gasping for breath, but otherwise not moving. What was he waiting for? Was he trying to think of what to say next? Or his next move?
Keep moving, girl.
"Now, asshole!" The hammerhead went into the driver's side door, inches from his kneecap. Then she threw the sledgehammer aside, reached behind her, and pulled out the machete. "If you don't leave, your tires get it next."
Asshole.
Nobody had ever heard Katrina say a word like "asshole" before. She was so clean and pure, "stupid" was probably the fiercest word anybody had ever heard her say. It startled her as much as it startled him - but it had the desired effect. He pulled open the door and dived in, started the car and put it in Reverse. For just an instant, time stopped.
Gee, this feels familiar. Except last time, that was me and this was him.
She pounded loudly on his window with the machete's handle - just for fun. Without looking at her, he twisted the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, the tires squealing and laying twin black stripes on the pavement as the car spun around. But she didn't run after him as he shifted into Drive and raced out of the cul-de-sac and down the street. Instead, she stood and watched as a police car, lights flashing, cut in front of him, just a block away.
She heard a voice from her bra saying "Hello? Hello? Ma'am? Are you okay?" Breathing heavily, she reached in, pulled out her phone, and put it to her ear. "Yes, I'm okay now."
That's how I enforce a restraining order.
Her blood went cold, and her heart clenched - the fight-or-flight reaction. It happened every time he showed up in her life.
She hadn't felt it that first Sunday, when he introduced himself, all smiles and charm. But an hour later, she had had her first sense of it when he had barged into a conversation she was having with her best friends, as if he were already part of the group and there was something between him and her.
There was was nothing between him and her - nothing except aggressive pursuit on his side, and fear and fleeing on her side. He used to text her constantly, and call her at odd hours, even though she told him not to. She put an end to that by blocking his number. Then he would text and call her friends, asking them to deliver messages to her, until they learned to block his number too.
He friended her on Facebook, and then filled her feed with bogus declarations of gratitude for their real-life friendship, compliments about her looks, and suggestive come-ons. She ended up unfriending him, blocking him, and reporting him to Facebook. She went through her feed and deleted everything he had ever written. Some of her friends also unfriended him and blocked him, but not all of them - so he could still keep tabs on her by stalking those unblocked friends.
Somehow he found out her class schedule, and he would wait for her outside the classroom. If she came out surrounded by a group of friends, which she did increasingly often, as physical protection, he would somehow force his way into the circle, try to hook his arm in hers or wrap his arm around her, and steer her out of the circle. More than once, her friends had to trip him or almost wrestle with him to break his hold - and he still tagged along.
If she studied late, and went to the parking garage after dark, he would be standing next to her car, waiting for her. He would engage her in conversation, and wouldn't stop until she said, "Um, I have to go ...", got in the car, and drove away. Sometimes he managed to maneuver in front of the driver's door, so she couldn't unlock or open it. Whenever that happened, she would walk over to the passenger door, get in that way, and crawl across the console. It was awkward and embarrassing, but he didn't seem to notice - or care. But she would shake all the way home, her eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.
When she and her friends went to the gym, he would be over on the weight machines, flexing and eyeing her.
She told her professors about him, and she reported him to campus security, but he hadn't done anything illegal (yet), so they couldn't do anything. Basically, they told her "You're a big girl; you deal with it."
She hadn't really wanted to go to the school's fall social, but her friends had talked her into it, and there was a good local band playing, so she had given in. The entire floor of the sports arena had been turned into an old-fashioned harvest festival, with bobbing for apples, fresh hot donuts and cider, pumpkin carving contests, everything but Halloween costumes. The Halloween party would be in another three weeks, but she wasn't planning on going.
She parked her car and walked in. As she entered the gym, her friend Liz caught her and gave her the customary I'm-glad-you're-here squeal and hug. But they hadn't gotten past the folded-up bleachers when she got a text from Alli: "Carl spotted you. RUN!!!" Her blood froze, her heart clenched, and her face twisted into a mask of fear.
Liz asked, "What's wrong?" She turned and showed Liz the text. Liz pushed her towards the door, and said in that faux-calm voice that some people are gifted with: "Go. I'll stop him." She didn't move. Liz turned towards the gym and saw him, running through the crowd, about halfway across the arena floor. "Go! Now! Here he comes!"
Instantly, the adrenaline hit, and she flew out the door and sprinted to her car. She got in, locked the door, started the car and put it in Reverse. Before she could start moving, there was a rattling of her door handle and then fists pounding on her window, and a man's voice shouting "Stop! I need to talk to you!"
Without looking at him, she shook her head vehemently and stomped on the gas, kicking up dirt and grass as the car jumped backwards. As she shifted to Drive, she was secretly hoping that he would jump in the way, to try to stop her in one direction or the other, so she could run over him. But he didn't. She did see him running after her, yelling something she couldn't hear.
She was aware that her purse was still wrapped around her, and that her seat belt was still undone, but she was too busy concentrating on getting away, and trying to see the dark roads through her freely flowing tears. She thought someone was following her, but if they were, they stopped about eight miles from home, so she wrote it off as paranoia.
She called her favorite uncle to ask for his advice. He lived 2100 miles away, but sometimes when she talked to him, it was like he was right next door. And she felt more comfortable talking to him about some things than even her parents.
After she hung up, she still couldn't sleep. So she stayed up all night, drinking hot chocolate and watching chick flicks. Her body finally gave out at 5 in the morning.
After three hours of sleep, she took her uncle's advice and called the police department. After they explained her options to her, she showered, dressed, and drove to the main office. A desk officer, a cross between a kindly grandmother and Gal Gadot's Wonder Woman, sat with her and helped her fill out the paperwork for a restraining order. Then they went next door to the judge's office, where the judge approved it.
She drove home, feeling relieved, like she finally had some control over her life again. But there was one little problem, a problem which sat like a persistent remnant of an ice cube, in her heart. Her address was on the restraining order. So if he hadn't already figured out where she lived, he knew now.
So when his car appeared in her cul-de-sac three days later, all of that fear came rushing back. At first, she thought, Why did I even bother getting that restraining order? Then, just as her uncle had told her, she started getting mad. How dare he run my life like this? Who does he think he is, making me run away like a scared bunny all the time? Is he too dense to take no for an answer? I guess it's time for me to enforce my own restraining order.
When she had gotten home from the police department, she had done like Kevin in Home Alone, and inventoried her house for anything that would work as a weapon. In her dad's workshop in the garage, she had found a couple of sledgehammers. She had swung them around, and decided that she could handle the one with the long yellow handle and the 8-pound head. She had also found a Boy Scout machete. Did the Boy Scouts really have machetes? Her dad said that he had gotten it when he was a kid, and yes, it had been in the Scout catalog for several years.
Her uncle had suggested that she figure out some offensive and defensive moves with the hammer, and so she had snuck down to the basement and gotten sweaty swinging it around and trying stuff on her dad's punching bag.
Her silly uncle called it "Hammer Fu". That made her smile.
When the doorbell started ringing, she jumped up out of her chair and ran downstairs, managing to hide herself from view. She heard him rattle the doorknob and then start knocking loudly on the door. Just before she stepped into the garage, she heard him yell "Katrina! Come on out, we need to talk!" For a moment, she felt a shiver of fear, but then anger pushed the fear aside.
She had had enough.
In the garage, she dialed 911, gave her name and address, and said in one of those frighteningly calm voices, "There's a man outside my house, trying to get in. He's not my boyfriend, he's a stalker. I have a restraining order. I'm afraid he's going to hurt me. Please send help." Then, without disconnecting the call, she stuffed the phone in her bra so that the microphone was free. She grabbed the machete off the workbench and stuck it in her waistband along her spine, then picked up the sledgehammer and stepped out the door on the side of the house.
She was pissed.
Holding the hammer in both hands like she intended to use it, she marched around the side of the house and along the far side of the driveway, eyes focused on the Kia, but very aware of Carl's location. He was still pounding on the door, yelling "Katrina! Katrina! Come on, you owe this to me!"
I don't owe you anything.
She wasn't hiding from him, but he was so focused on the door that he didn't know she was outside until he heard the sound of breaking glass. He spun around to see her winding up for a second blow on his windshield. He ran towards the car, yelling, "Katrina! Stop it!" as the hammer came down.
He was too late to stop the third blow. The head of the hammer cracked the unbreakable plastic headlight cover on the right side into three pieces, and then without stopping, shattered the xenon bulbs of his right headlight assembly. He grabbed her right arm and yelled "Stop it!"
That's assault, right there.
She said exactly what her uncle had told her to say. She had been practicing it for two days. "Ow! Let go of me! You're hurting me!"
As she said it, she spun to the right, backswinging the hammer, and struck him full-force on the wrist. The hammerhead compressed his blood vessels, his tendons, and most importantly, the nerves in his carpal tunnel, causing his hand to go numb and breaking his grip instantly. It was his turn to say "Ow!"
Now they were facing each other. In less time than it takes to describe it, she shifted her grip so that she was holding the hammer vertical, with the head down, both hands together near the butt of the handle, and she drove it straight down, into his instep, focused on literally driving his foot into the pavement.
Hammer Fu.
She didn't think she broke any bones, but she definitely damaged soft tissue, and the foot was instantly too painful to use. He hopped on one foot, and reached out to grab her arms to steady himself. She instantly shifted her grip on the hammer, holding it horizontally and backwards. The head was in her right hand, behind her hip. Her left hand held the handle, with the butt pointed at his stomach. She stepped forward, driving the handle deep into his solar plexus.
Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.
He fell against the car, grunting and moaning inarticulately. She used that time to walk around him towards the other headlight. As she wound up to hit it, she remembered her uncle's advice and yelled, "You're not supposed to be here!" WHAM! "You're violating a restraining order! You attacked me!" POW! After two hits, the headlight was gone, and the underlying metal was mangled.
Leaning on the hood, he maneuvered around the front of the car towards her. She moved to the back of the car. She felt a twinge of guilt, looking at the taillight LEDs, but then the anger shoved the guilt aside. As the taillight assembly disintegrated under the hammer's blow, she yelled, "Get in your car and get out of here!"
He held onto the driver's door handle, balancing on one foot, still gasping for breath, but otherwise not moving. What was he waiting for? Was he trying to think of what to say next? Or his next move?
Keep moving, girl.
"Now, asshole!" The hammerhead went into the driver's side door, inches from his kneecap. Then she threw the sledgehammer aside, reached behind her, and pulled out the machete. "If you don't leave, your tires get it next."
Asshole.
Nobody had ever heard Katrina say a word like "asshole" before. She was so clean and pure, "stupid" was probably the fiercest word anybody had ever heard her say. It startled her as much as it startled him - but it had the desired effect. He pulled open the door and dived in, started the car and put it in Reverse. For just an instant, time stopped.
Gee, this feels familiar. Except last time, that was me and this was him.
She pounded loudly on his window with the machete's handle - just for fun. Without looking at her, he twisted the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, the tires squealing and laying twin black stripes on the pavement as the car spun around. But she didn't run after him as he shifted into Drive and raced out of the cul-de-sac and down the street. Instead, she stood and watched as a police car, lights flashing, cut in front of him, just a block away.
She heard a voice from her bra saying "Hello? Hello? Ma'am? Are you okay?" Breathing heavily, she reached in, pulled out her phone, and put it to her ear. "Yes, I'm okay now."
That's how I enforce a restraining order.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Yet another warning to women: Stop arguing!
Ladies! Haven't we talked about this already? Apparently it hasn't sunk in yet, because you're still being assholes to your men.
(And guys, this is for you too, since way too many of you are still being assholes to your women.)
Why are you still arguing with the person you're supposed to love the most in your life? Why are you correcting them, arguing them, even interrupting them to do so? Why do you do it every time they open their mouths to speak?
Let me illustrate with a couple of episodes. These are real. Only the names have been changed.
---
EPISODE 1: The Texting Conversation
Your spouse or significant other just had an exciting text conversation with somebody, and they're dying to tell you about it. So they say "I just swapped a bunch of texts with Amanda Martinez," and they start telling you about it.
After a couple of sentences, you interrupt them: "Martinez ...?"
They answer, "Yeah ..."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "I don't think her name is Martinez."
---
EPISODE 2: The iTunes Playlist
You have some friends over for a party. There's good music playing. Your friends say, "This is a cool music." Your spouse or significant other says, "Yeah! It's a playlist of Phil Collins' greatest hits that I made yesterday."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "That's not Phil Collins!"
---
WHAT DO DO ABOUT IT:
Before you open your mouth to argue with your loved one, STOP. Ask yourself these three questions.
If you can answer an honest and enthusiastic "yes" to all three of those questions, then by all means, speak up! But if you can't, then SHUT THE FUCK UP!
What's your real motivation in arguing with them?
Do they really benefit from your constant corrections? Is it making them a better person?
Does proving they're wrong, over and over again, give you more power - more control in the relationship?
Do you feel a need to keep them in their place?
Do you think they really enjoy your constant picking at them? Have they ever thanked you for it? I can tell you straight up, that they usually walk away thinking, "... What an asshole." Is that really what you want them to think?
Are you just trying to shut them up?
If one of these is your reason for arguing with them, then SHUT THE FUCK UP.
WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT:
Were they always wrong like this when you first fell in love with them? And you fell in love with them anyway? Then your own judgment is terribly flawed. You made a terrible mistake. If your judgment was so bad back then, then what on earth makes you feel qualified to point out their flaws now? You're nothing but a goddamned, fucking idiot.
Are they really so terrible - such awful specimens of humanity - that you feel the need to constantly point out their flaws and their mistakes to them? If so, why did you bother to get married (or whatever)? Why don't you just get up your courage to end the relationship and walk away? If they're so flawed, I'm sure you can find somebody better.
Because if you don't, someday they will.
POSTSCRIPTS
p.s. I'm pretty sure that when their phone displays "Amber Martinez texted you," it really means Martinez.
p. p.s. I'm also pretty sure that when they searched for "Phil Collins" on iTunes in order to build their playlist, they meant Phil Collins, and they only downloaded Phil Collins tunes.
p.p.p.s. By the way, if you're guilty of doing this, then you are a pompous, self-important, stuck-up, asshole. Just thought you should know.
p.p.p.p.s. You're saying, "It's not constantly". Oh, trust me, it's constantly. You just don't realize it. Look up "fundamental attribution error" on Google, cuz you're doing it.
(And guys, this is for you too, since way too many of you are still being assholes to your women.)
Why are you still arguing with the person you're supposed to love the most in your life? Why are you correcting them, arguing them, even interrupting them to do so? Why do you do it every time they open their mouths to speak?
Let me illustrate with a couple of episodes. These are real. Only the names have been changed.
---
EPISODE 1: The Texting Conversation
Your spouse or significant other just had an exciting text conversation with somebody, and they're dying to tell you about it. So they say "I just swapped a bunch of texts with Amanda Martinez," and they start telling you about it.
After a couple of sentences, you interrupt them: "Martinez ...?"
They answer, "Yeah ..."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "I don't think her name is Martinez."
---
EPISODE 2: The iTunes Playlist
You have some friends over for a party. There's good music playing. Your friends say, "This is a cool music." Your spouse or significant other says, "Yeah! It's a playlist of Phil Collins' greatest hits that I made yesterday."
This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "That's not Phil Collins!"
---
WHAT DO DO ABOUT IT:
Before you open your mouth to argue with your loved one, STOP. Ask yourself these three questions.
- Are you sure they're wrong?
You could both be right, you know. Maybe Amanda recently got married. One of you is thinking of her maiden name and one of you is thinking of her married name. Both names are right. - Does it matter?
If your spouse is telling a story from their college days, it doesn't really matter if the trip was 30 miles or 50 miles. You may think it matters, but IT REALLY DOESN'T. Just shut the fuck up and let the moment pass. Likewise, it really doesn't matter if they refer to Amanda by her maiden name or her married name. You both know who she is. - Will speaking up about it strengthen your relationship? Or, looking at it from the other direction, will being silent about it damage your relationship?
If you can answer an honest and enthusiastic "yes" to all three of those questions, then by all means, speak up! But if you can't, then SHUT THE FUCK UP!
What's your real motivation in arguing with them?
Do they really benefit from your constant corrections? Is it making them a better person?
Does proving they're wrong, over and over again, give you more power - more control in the relationship?
Do you feel a need to keep them in their place?
Do you think they really enjoy your constant picking at them? Have they ever thanked you for it? I can tell you straight up, that they usually walk away thinking, "... What an asshole." Is that really what you want them to think?
Are you just trying to shut them up?
If one of these is your reason for arguing with them, then SHUT THE FUCK UP.
WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT:
Were they always wrong like this when you first fell in love with them? And you fell in love with them anyway? Then your own judgment is terribly flawed. You made a terrible mistake. If your judgment was so bad back then, then what on earth makes you feel qualified to point out their flaws now? You're nothing but a goddamned, fucking idiot.
Are they really so terrible - such awful specimens of humanity - that you feel the need to constantly point out their flaws and their mistakes to them? If so, why did you bother to get married (or whatever)? Why don't you just get up your courage to end the relationship and walk away? If they're so flawed, I'm sure you can find somebody better.
Because if you don't, someday they will.
POSTSCRIPTS
p.s. I'm pretty sure that when their phone displays "Amber Martinez texted you," it really means Martinez.
p. p.s. I'm also pretty sure that when they searched for "Phil Collins" on iTunes in order to build their playlist, they meant Phil Collins, and they only downloaded Phil Collins tunes.
p.p.p.s. By the way, if you're guilty of doing this, then you are a pompous, self-important, stuck-up, asshole. Just thought you should know.
p.p.p.p.s. You're saying, "It's not constantly". Oh, trust me, it's constantly. You just don't realize it. Look up "fundamental attribution error" on Google, cuz you're doing it.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Another warning to women: One word is all it takes
Most women have no idea of the power of their words. They do not understand how, with one single simple word, or even just the inflection of their voice, they can turn a good day bad, or a bad day worse.
Or just the opposite: they can salvage a bad day and turn it good, or take a good day and make it spectacular. Just one single word.
There's a Biblical verse that says, "Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing? My brethren, this ought not so to be." If you had to choose between saying something to make someone feel better and saying something to make someone feel worse, which one would you choose? Why would anyone ever choose to make someone feel worse? That is, without a doubt, one of the dumbest choices you could ever make.
A case in point: A husband and wife are getting ready for work. They're both running late, but it's garbage day, so the husband is scurrying around, emptying wastebaskets. He's not upset about it; it's just something that needs to be done, as normal as brushing teeth or grabbing a coat.
But taking out the garbage was also on the wife's list, and so she says to him, "I'll take care of that."
His reply, "No, don't worry, there's only one can left."
She could smile and say, "Thank you." She should smile and say, "Thank you." Instead, she snarls "All right ...." and they don't have time for any more interaction. She's busy with her hair and makeup, and he's already late, so he takes the trash out to the trash cans, puts them on the curb, and leaves for work.
He just gave her a gift of 10 to 15 extra minutes that morning - time that he really couldn't spare himself. It was a gift from the heart. But she didn't see it that way. For her, it was a disruption to her day's plans, and a loss of control.
And for the husband, although he couldn't put it in these words, he was hurt because his wife had rejected his gift. And the last thing he heard from her, as he went out the door, was not an expression of love, but a snarl.
Ladies!
1. Why would he want to go home to that? Who wants to go home to someone who feeds them vinegar instead of honey and wine?
2. How many more times will she reject these little gifts of love before he finally gives up and stops offering them?
Or just the opposite: they can salvage a bad day and turn it good, or take a good day and make it spectacular. Just one single word.
There's a Biblical verse that says, "Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing? My brethren, this ought not so to be." If you had to choose between saying something to make someone feel better and saying something to make someone feel worse, which one would you choose? Why would anyone ever choose to make someone feel worse? That is, without a doubt, one of the dumbest choices you could ever make.
A case in point: A husband and wife are getting ready for work. They're both running late, but it's garbage day, so the husband is scurrying around, emptying wastebaskets. He's not upset about it; it's just something that needs to be done, as normal as brushing teeth or grabbing a coat.
But taking out the garbage was also on the wife's list, and so she says to him, "I'll take care of that."
His reply, "No, don't worry, there's only one can left."
She could smile and say, "Thank you." She should smile and say, "Thank you." Instead, she snarls "All right ...." and they don't have time for any more interaction. She's busy with her hair and makeup, and he's already late, so he takes the trash out to the trash cans, puts them on the curb, and leaves for work.
He just gave her a gift of 10 to 15 extra minutes that morning - time that he really couldn't spare himself. It was a gift from the heart. But she didn't see it that way. For her, it was a disruption to her day's plans, and a loss of control.
And for the husband, although he couldn't put it in these words, he was hurt because his wife had rejected his gift. And the last thing he heard from her, as he went out the door, was not an expression of love, but a snarl.
Ladies!
1. Why would he want to go home to that? Who wants to go home to someone who feeds them vinegar instead of honey and wine?
2. How many more times will she reject these little gifts of love before he finally gives up and stops offering them?
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