The Fear of Believing Survivors
Many times, my mama describes to me the moment she knew my dad was plotting to kill her. The details are always consistent: the way his lips turned white, dried up, and quivered; the quiet and the chill of Riverside Park. Even though my dad used to beat my ass, the possibility of my losing my mother was too frightening to believe. It couldn’t be real. Not me. Not her. Not him. Not us. But she keeps repeating the story, the knife she felt in his pocket, the cold, his lips. How she said she needed to use the bathroom and quickly walked away. Each time she tells it, I feel her desperation to rid herself of the story, to offer me this thing I don’t want...