EXCERPT of the MONTH : Behind Closed Doors 2 : Dana's Story by A.L. Smith

Behind Closed Doors 2 : Dana’s Story : A.L. Smith

Prologue

Dana

Fear is a defense mechanism that produces a vital

response to emotional and physical danger.

Walking five blocks to and from school through the

dangerous ghetto would have intimidated any twelve year old, but

survival was a way of life and fear was my protection. There were

no immediate signs of danger during my daily journey, but I was

instinctively aware of everything around me and always prepared

to act accordingly. As my classmates sped by me on their colorful

bicycles, I grew excited about the prospect that I might finally get

one of my own for Christmas. My father gave my mom the money

to purchase the bike the previous year, but she used the money to

pay the electric bill—at least, that’s the story she told me. When I

mistakenly allowed her to see my disappointment, I received a

whipping and an hour-long speech about my ungratefulness.

“I feed you, and this is the thanks I get? I don’t hear

anyone else around here complaining and poor-mouthing," she

said.

She looked at my younger sisters and my little brother for

affirmation. I wanted to remind her of the fact that they had little

to complain about since she gave them everything. My point was

valid, but I was smart enough to know that a comment from me on

the topic would result in another lashing.

My sisters didn’t respond to the latest outburst from my

mother because they were accustomed to it. However, I could see

the paralyzing fear on their little faces. At times, the verbal and

physical abuse that I received from my mother had a greater

impact on them than it had on me. As a coping mechanism, I

learned to channel everything to a place that was beyond the realm

of feeling. I no longer responded to the physical pain that my

mother inflicted and it drove her crazy. The verbal abuse escalated

a few notches when she realized it had a greater effect on me than

her physical punishments.

This was my life for as long as I could remember, but the

intensity of the abuse dramatically increased when my parents

separated. I was around eight years old at the time. When I got

home from school that evening, I met my father at the front door.

When I noticed the suitcases and plastic bags, my heart sank. I

asked him if he was leaving for good and he said yes. My mother

came out of the house in a violent rage, which worsened at the

sight of my tears. Her eyes narrowed and she spoke to me through

clenched teeth.

“Why don’t you get your shit and go with your daddy!

That’s one less mouth for me to feed. I mean it, Bernard. Take that

little hussy with you!"

She spoke as if her words were meant for a perfect

stranger instead of her own daughter.

My father dropped his bags and knelt in front of me,

without so much as even a glance toward my mother. He gave me

a hug and cradled my face between his hands.

“I love you, Dana. Don’t ever forget that," he said softly.

He gave me a hug and a kiss on the forehead, then turned

to look at my mother for the last time. He spoke in Haitian Creole

or “patois” to my mother, who was from South Louisiana. It was

something my father often did to conceal his anger from me or

whenever he wanted to discuss sensitive information with my

mother. By now, I not only understood the language, but I spoke it

fluently. Neither of my parents were aware of this. In his thick

Haitian accent, he addressed my mother very calmly, but his anger

was apparent.

“You’re going to burn in hell for your evil ways, Diana,"

he said.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you get there,” she replied.

An evil smile crossed her face before she turned and

walked back into the house.

My father left that day and my entire world crumbled.

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