A Hateful Love

However, he would not listen to her; since he was stronger than she, he violated her and lay with her. Then Amnon hated her with a very great hatred; for the hatred with which he hated her was greater than the love with which he had loved her. (2 Samuel 13:14, 15)

When something is so broken, has always been broken, you begin to wonder where it cracked. I mean, did it all fall off at once or were there little fissures, seams so small that I didn't notice. . .

There was the first day, when the plaster splintered over my head. The day we left home and went to Grandma's. Daddy didn't come. I never saw him again. Captain Kangaroo was there though. Faithful. Consistent. Somebody should have told me then that those were the best men, the ones you could count on--the ones that weren't real.

Not that I'd have listened. Nothing could silence the man-hunger in my belly, the abandonment in my bones. I learned soon enough that men had a hunger too--a yearning. Only it was something I didn't understand. Something I still don't understand. Something bigger than a crack, worse than a splinter. Something like a wrecking ball, that orphaned me loveless.

The first man, yet a boy, lying in wait, swung the crane. Knocked down my walls. A boy from school, not one that I paid attention to. It didn't occur to me to wonder how he knew where I lived. So smart, yet so stupid. "Can I use the phone?" he asked. Needed to call his mother, to get home. I wasn't allowed to open the door, but it didn't stop me. Someone was in need. If only I'd known what kind of need.

I didn't love him. I didn't know what love was beyond Maya Angelou and my grandmother's cinnamon rolls. Laying there, saying no and not being heard, I decided love didn't exist. My mother came home.

"Did you peel the potatoes?" she asks, ignorant of my demise.

"No."

She frowned at me.

I stand broken, bleeding, wondering why she doesn't know, can't see. In a blur, I realize that she is fighting her own fight and has not eyes to spare for mine.

Two weeks later, the boy came back, stole our stereo. I guess he didn't take enough on the first visit. He never spoke to me again. He hated me more than he had loved me, if he had ever loved me at all. Ten years later, holding the hand of a friend while a police officer defined rape, I choked back a scream. That happened to me, too.

For this, I have Jesus.

And a poem, of course.

No Choice

The marchers walk over faded sidewalks in an elliptical path, signs held high, frowns firm, Demanding that she

Turn around/choose life/just say No

I stare at her, reading her hurt, in cold and wounded eyes. Eyes that tell me that she did say No, but learned quickly the word's feebleness, echoing her own weakness back in her ears, burning in her throat, unheeded. Now, her eyes said, she says nothing, only turns to the wall, counting moldy roses on basement wallpaper.

My sign, already half mast, knocks against my shoulder as she darts inside. The oblong trail pauses, the chants die to a whisper. The volume resumes.

Another girl is coming.

I step back, praying now

For her

For us

For me

For the faulty writers of empty-hearted rhetoric like pro-life and pro-choice.

If she thought she had a life or a choice, she never would have let the

robber/liar/thief

beg/rob/steal

her only treasure.

I cry for her, knowing that one day, she will grow up and find a stray diamond left between her thighs and realize

That she had a choice after all.

Copyright. Marilynn Griffith 2004.