I know there is nothing I can do about it. I am hers, and it is my truth. Just as I am taught to take good care of my Barbies, maybe nobody thinks she should try to take care of me. Stunned by this realization that I have no choice, no voice, and no way out... I run out the door towards the bus, I can't be late for school. I see the faces of these kids, and I am embarrassed. My mother is the only one dishing out black eyes before sunlight today. Another thing for me to be picked on about by Justin and Cody. There is no hiding my face, or my tears. Glasses don't really help to cover up the pain, but maybe nobody will notice much.....

                      I remember that day, looking back it was the day someone actually found out what I had under my clothes. . . as it was those marks that mattered. I could tell by the look on the lady's face that it wasn't something every child had, and it wasn't something I had even deserved. At nine years old, you learn quickly how to read people, especially the hardest person to make sense of - your mother.

                       The woman who saw my back, she just covered her hand and shook her head with that look that something was “wrong”... while she snapped a few Polaroids. I was going to have no warning what these bruises would mean to me, my family, and my life. She took them straight to the man with the glasses. They spoke a few words to each other, and then it was my turn to talk to him.

                                          “What you say to me in this room, it is completely safe. There is nothing or no one who can hurt you for what you say.
                         I am going to ask you some questions, and we are going to talk, if that is okay with you?”, he adjusted his glasses and looked at me
                        as though he really did care.

                                         “Okay, but I didn't mean to do anything wrong, honest.” I just knew I was going to get it when I got home.

                        “We need to know what happened this morning, and do these things happen often... Who did this to you?” handing me the photos.
                          I shuddered, because I can't believe you can actually see the belt buckle on my back. Ouch. I am definitely in trouble now.

                                     “You mean my face? Or my back? This is the first time she has ever hit me on my face... at least the first time it has left
                    a bruise. I have been slapped before, just never as hard as this.” I try hard to push back my tears, they never do anything but anger her.
                 “I was running late for the bus this morning, and remember her rushing me, that is when I spilled the cereal, and so I had to hurry to clean it up.
                  She was standing at the door, yelling at me to hurry, started screaming at me how stupid I was, and that if I missed the bus, my ass was going
                 to be sore. She got really angry and I said something about her being mean. She told me that she could show me mean. I was trying to get
                  outside, and she grabbed my arm. I was told to stop being such a bitch. I told her she was the one being a bitch, not me. Then she just hauled
                off, and my glasses flew. That is how this happened.”
               There, now I am going to be in even more trouble, because I shouldn't have spilled the cereal, or been running late that morning.

                       “And is this how your mornings normally start?” He didn't seem as upset as I thought he would be at me. Wow.

                      “Not normally, usually it is not until I get home that she gets upset. But if it is her in charge that day, I am more lucky than when
                             he is in charge.” He was the one who gave me the belt buckle across my back. There is no pain I have felt in this world close to the
                             pain of that device. I would have to tell about him, and her, and all the other things that have gone on in the house. I would go on to
                             tell him the details of things, because they were etched so clearly in my mind, and always would be. I would have to tell him about the
                           times I would find him standing in the doorway to our girls' room. Always it made me wonder what kind of man doesn't own something to
                          wear besides a pair of panties at night. (At nine, you don't know that men are supposed to wear shorts, instead of what were actually
                          thongs- though I didn't know the word for them til I got older.)

At that age, all I knew was my daddy never stood in my doorway when I was little. Not without clothes on, and not while I was sound asleep. And not grabbing his panties. I learned a lot about what was right, and what was wrong this day, as this nice guy in glasses talked to me at school.

Finally, I am not alone. Finally, I can breathe. But then I was informed that I had to go back to that bus, back to that house, and let the grown-ups try to work things out. If anything else happened, I was to let him know, and he could fix it. But if it wasn't a school day, I was supposed to call 911.



I would never know just how much help that guy with glasses would be. And I could never imagine how angry my mom would be about him talking to me...