It’s time to do something about men who rape, batter, and abuse.
There are boat loads of them out there. I bet you can name at least five of the more famous ones. To the women reading this, how many gropers, predators, rapists, batterers have you met in your lifetime? I wager it is at least a handful. The plethora of the use of the hashtag #MeToo on Twitter and Facebook confirms the magnitude of the problem of violence against women. READ MORE HERE
On July 19 of this year, at the age of 61, I had a heart attack. 95% of my LAD artery, nicknamed the “widowmaker,” was blocked. A drug-coated springy lattice tube called a stent was inserted via my wrist to prop open the clogged blood vessel. Released from the hospital the next day, my doctor boasted I would henceforth feel better than ever, since blood was finally flowing freely between my heart and the rest of my body. READ MORE HERE
Fourteen years. That’s how long it took me to admit to myself and others that I had survived a physically violent relationship. READ MORE HERE
Published by the Hawaii Review issue #82, Ian MacMillan Writing Awards 2015
When Ruby comes across the street to our house she always comes to the side door, never to the front. She calls my mom Miss Mary, and everything she says begins with or ends with “sorry.” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says over and over while squeezing her eyes shut and biting the coral lipstick off her bottom lip. Her hands shake like she has no control over them.
“Count to ten,” my mom tells her. “Take a deep breath and count.” She gets to three and stops. Then her eyes fly open and tears pour straight out as though a mini garden hose has been turned on underneath her eyelids.
Mom twists her face toward mine and gives me a look that means “you and your sister need to leave now.” We run into the hallway and lie down on the indoor-outdoor carpet. Slowly we crawl toward the kitchen, thumping against the sheet rock wall as we kick and squirm for a better position. We peek around the corner but cannot see anything, just hear mom repeat “count to ten.” We loll around on the carpet poking each other until the side door slams shut. I run to the dining-room window and see the back of Ruby’s summer cotton shift bounce around her knees as she walks back home. READ MORE HERE