2009
There was a firm knock on the door. The only entrance to the 800 square foot ‘loft’ apartment that four of us were living in was through the small kitchen. It was a converted warehouse behind a disused storefront on Central Avenue in downtown Albuquerque, just half a block from the famous Dog House, beloved by Jesse and fans of Breaking Bad.. We didn’t get casual visitors. A caller would have to know how to find the apartment. It was February, about 6.30 in the evening, and dark outside. I assumed it was someone I knew, maybe a friend of one of the kids.
I opened the door, and in the twilight, I found two men I didn’t know. One of them, a 30-ish, wiry, smallish, African-American, hipster type, was standing on the first step of the door, a little below the threshold level, smiling at me. The other, a large hispanic man, shaved head and large Parka jacket, stood behind him, in the shadows, with no expression.
The small man, still smiling, asked for Luke.
Luke was, at this point, in the desperate throes of his heroin addiction. Our lives in that small apartment careened from one crisis to another. A few months later, Luke would go to a rehab center in southern New Mexico. He would stay, leave, relapse, and we’d start again.
That night he was not there. He hadn’t been there for a couple of nights.
I told the men that Luke wasn’t there, and that I didn’t know where he was, or when he would be back
“He owes me $150.” he explained.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you”
I wasn’t scared. By this time, nothing would surprise me about the life that heroin addiction had pulled me into. A dealer showing up at my door, didn’t scare me. It fueled the impotent rage I felt most of the time, about, for, to Luke. But I wasn’t scared.
I had never been physically threatened and didn’t recognize that I was being at this moment.
I have never been in a physical fight, never struck anyone in anger. But a lingering genetic residue, three years and a Black Belt in karate, and a Don’t Give a Fuck at This Point attitude, bolstered my self image and belief that could ‘handle’ myself if needed.
I told him again that I had no money, was unemployed and would not be settling Luke’s debts. Although I said this lightly and in as friendly a manner as I could muster, I was now feeling angry. I remember suspecting even that Luke had told them where he lived and that his Mom would have money.
“I’m sure we can work something out.” Hipster smiled.
I smiled back. Not realizing what he meant.
I was 51. I had no even passing thought that I might be in danger of sexual violence. Until he quickly followed up with,
“You’re pretty fine Mama”
My laugh was entirely spontaneous. I looked at him with a rictus smile on my face, and then looked beyond him to the Parka guy. As I did he pulled the opening of that Parka just enough to clearly show me the handle of a large pistol tucked into his belt.
Before I could move, Hipster reached forward and grabbed me. Grabbed me hard in the genital area. Fingers roughly, painfully, intruding and with a smile still on his face, he looked silently up at me.
“Come one, Mama..” He laughingly said.
They say rhetorically that your heart jumps into your mouth.
My heart jumped into my mouth. I was deafened as my ears blocked, and all I could hear was the pounding of that heart. In my mouth.
I took a breath.
“HEY!” I shouted and took a step back into the tiny kitchen, pulling myself away from his grasp..
Hipster stepped after me and stood in front of me. He was my height,and weight but I wasn’t thinking of the Black Belt now.
“I have maybe $40” I said.
“OK”
I turned slightly to reach for my handbag on the counter behind me,, and shaking pulled out my wallet. I opened it and found almost $50. All that I had. ALL that I had.
I gave it to him and he, still smiling, thanked me and turned to leave.
“Tell Luke he better call me.”
I shut the door and broke down. Fell on the white, cold hard tiles on the floor and leant against the refrigerator and shook.
I have never been in a physical fight, never struck anyone in anger.
Four or five hours later, when Luke finally came home, I was still crazed.
I have never been in a physical fight, never struck anyone in anger.
Within minutes of him walking in, high, dirty, odorous, I had knocked him down and had a knife at his throat. Literally, kneeling on top of him as he cowered and cried on the sofa, with a 7”, very sharp, kitchen knife pressing at the skin of my son’s neck.
I fell back and cried and screamed and yelled and finally left him to retreat to my bed, and sobbed.
I had never been in a physical fight, never struck anyone in anger.
I had never known what it was like to get to that point. Never, felt the cold threat of sexual violence. Never known, what millions of women have known. Never known the fear that they have. Never been able to talk about, as other have bravely talked, about their lives and the truth of their lives.
But now I can.
#MeToo