Read other articles by Soulflower in the Archives

     Because It is Never Okay to Hit a Woman

The response to the last article was so great that I had to go one step further with my thoughts and feelings about domestic violence.  I received emails from men and women voicing their opinions about what I wrote.  I was touched by some, perturbed by others.  But after reading an email from a guy that was angry at me for “hating” on black men and athletes, I decided that I would give a slice of my life as a sacrifice so that all can understand that there is a much greater underlying issue here.  It is bigger than the paychecks that entertainers and athlete’s receive.  The emotional scars for the women and children involved in these disputes often never heal.  For every woman that is abused, there may children watching.  What message does it send to them?  Sometimes real life can be more upsetting than the images on television.

                By the time I became a senior in high school, I was hanging out on a regular basis.  My mom didn’t mind because I had all of my credits and was just waiting to graduate.  My friends and I were so happy about our impending graduation; we celebrated as often as we could.  I remember that I didn’t even go in to say goodnight to my mom on this particular night.  I thought she would fuss at me for being a little late.  I crept in through the back door without even turning on any lights.  I must have fallen asleep quickly because when I awoke to my mother screaming, I glanced up at the clock and it was only about 1:20.  I ran out into the hallway to find out what the problem was.  In my mind I wasn’t really all that worried.  My mom and her boyfriend fought constantly.  It was a regular occurrence and I was usually the one that called the police.  The first time I saw her get beating by a man I was 8 years old.  The boyfriend she had at that time drank heavily and when he did it was easy to set him off.  He made me go to my room where I was forced to listen to her scream through the walls.  I felt so helpless and afraid.  I didn’t know what to do, but I remember thinking to myself that my momma must have done something really bad to get a beating like that.  That was the first of many black eyes and bloody lips.  Once he chased her down the street while I watched from the window and snatched her shirt and bra off.  I can still hear her screaming, “Call the police, Bridgette.”  That became my role in her domestic disputes, to call the police.  It seemed to be the only thing I could do to help.

                This time was different.  My mom was standing in the hallway on fire.  Her sheer blue nightgown was quickly disappearing as the flames tore away at her flesh.  I was in horror as my brain tried to process what my eyes were seeing.  For a moment I was frozen in time, unable to move.  Her continued screams pulled me out of my momentary lapse and I tried to wrap her in a sheet to put the fire out.  Her new boyfriend’s mother and I raced her to the hospital in the middle of the night.  My mother cried and howled, hanging out of the window so that the cool air could give her a measure of relief.  We walked her into the hospital with only a sheet covering her, but by the time we reached admitting, it had begun to stick to her badly burned skin and she threw it off.  She stood naked for the whole emergency room to see covered with 2^nd and 3^rd degree burns.  It was a startling sight for anyone to see and it began a 3-month recovery period for my mother.  I held her hand many times as they sat her in this large tub and used a scrubber to scrape her skin off.  The pain medication did nothing for her and so I will forever remember the look of agony that was on her face as she tried to be strong and get through the worst experience of her life.  Though she healed, the physical and mental scars never went away.  Not for her, and definitely not for me.  I remember it like it was yesterday.

                It wasn’t until we got to the hospital and my mother had been sedated that I found out what happened.  Her boyfriend, for whatever reason, had poured alcohol on her and then flicked a lighter close enough to her to ignite the flimsy nightgown she was wearing.  The police found him hiding on top of the house that same night and took him to jail.  I was the one that called the police that night too.  After serving only 2 years of a 15-year sentence he was released and now lives in Georgia.  My mother’s pain and suffering was only worth 2 years.  She never wore tank tops or open shirts because she was self conscious about the scars.  She would never answer my daughter when asked where the scars came from.  It was too painful a memory to rehash.  It still burned even years later. 

                This issue is bigger than Allen Iverson, or Jason Kidd or the regular Joe Blow that knocks his woman around just for fun.  This is about accountability and the children that witness the black eyes and fat lips.  This about the times that go undocumented and the women who are afraid to tell the truth about where bruises come from.  This is about the cases that don’t make it to the media and the men who get off scott free because some women drop the charges or because the system is over crowded.  This is a light being shined on an injustice.  It is not a black thing or a white thing or a money thing.  It is a need-to-be addressed-thing.  Because it is never okay to hit a woman.  Recognize.  Ya feel me?

                                                                 by Bridgette Hogan
                                                                   Ya feel me?  
                                Email her if you would like to respond to this subject.

Bridgette is a contributing writer of Blacksonville.com