Torn From the
Inside Out 2014 Edition
Sara Niles
Literary Narrative
Domestic Violence Memoir
In 1987, Sara Niles
fled for her life in a February thunderstorm, with five small children in tow.
Read Chapter One:
Thunder rattled the
window- panes two stories high and lightning split the sky; it was as if the
whole world was in turmoil that night. My nerves were keyed up as tight as
piano strings, and in a sudden moment of stillness and silence it felt as though
my heartbeat was amplified ten times over. He was over a hundred pounds greater
than I, nearly a foot taller, and I knew he could move his muscled body into
unbelievable sprints. Rain started falling in torrents, while the storm raged
outside. I was not afraid of the storms of nature; it was the storm inside this
night that I knew I might not survive.
Anticipation was so
great that I wanted to scream at him to get it over with, and true to my
expectation he lunged for me, and my body did not disappoint me, I flew down
the stairs two at a time in my bare-feet. He stalled for mere seconds to enjoy
his pronouncement of a death sentence upon me:
“I AM GOING TO KILL
YOU—YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BITCH—STONE DEAD!” He screamed.
It was February 13,
of the year 1987, the night that I disappeared into a February rainstorm with
five children and no place to go. I was twenty-nine years old.
Many people asked
of me since that day, many ‘whys’ and I gave many answers. It takes a lot of
‘why’s’ to make a life, mine being no exception. Maya Angelou said ‘you can’t
know who I am until you know where I have been’; until you know the
circumstances and people who contributed to the making of me, you cannot know
me. We all are complicated mixes of many other people and life events. We are
all of everything that has ever happened to us. If we suddenly got amnesia, we
would cease to exist as who we were, except in the memory of others. My pain is
me, and thus my life that once was, is what made me now. I am the hungry little
girl who sat in the sand over forty years ago waiting to be rescued by an
ancient old man, I am Sara Niles, and this is my story.
The Deep South, 1957
I was born in the
bowels of the South where willow trees hang low over ponds and creeks
surrounded by the lush growth of woody fern. My beginnings were in a place
where knotted old oaks twisted their knurled boughs upwards, their majestic
leafage allowing slithers of light to penetrate the shadowy forest floors to
lend peeks upon the backs of huge Diamondback rattlesnakes; their gargantuan
size owing to seldom meeting the sight of the eyes of man, if ever at all. I
was born where the bottomland hoarded teems of wild boars known to rip hunting
dogs open from end to end, and where the narrow little graveled roads twisted
and wound their way past humble mail boxes, usually the only evidence of the
habitations miles into the forest. These humble country homes were usually only
accessible by traveling down dirt, tire-rutted roads with strips of ragged
grass running down the middle, like frazzled, green ribbon. This was oil
country, so oil wells were scattered every few miles, their slow prehistoric
movements signaling that the owners were receiving money. Neighbors lived far
apart on beautiful little farms or in ragged shacks, with a Cadillac and a
television, or neither plumbing nor electric power lines. Depending upon which
neighbor you were, you had plenty or nothing at all.
My mother had
nothing at all, except seven hungry mouths to feed. She was by everyone’s opinion
an exceptionally beautiful woman. Her mother before her was a French white
woman from New York, and her father was a black and Indian man; born, bred and
still living in the same area. I never met my maternal grandmother, I strongly
suspected that she mated with my grandfather on a purely business level. A
business that is considered to be one the oldest vices, the one I have to thank
for my very existence. My mother was a prostitute. I was an accident she had
with a client, a rich white oilman who found her little shack a convenient stop
on his trips from town, and she found in him food for her children. Things may
have been different for my mother, if a white man, living in a racist time, had
not shot her first husband in the back for the unforgivable crime of stealing
gas- gas that he swore to pay for that evening when he left the billet woods.
It was a time when racism ruled, a ‘cold war’ between blacks and whites
established the climate, and therefore no trial ever took place.
It was the year 1957,
a date that became a famous marker in the racial history of conflict between
Blacks and Whites; when The Little Rock Nine were escorted to school by Federal
troops under the order of President Eisenhower to counteract the attempt of
Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus to prevent it. Southern racial tensions produced
a supreme irony: Federal troops against the National Guard. This visible strife
between state and nation was one of the evidences of the racial turmoil of the
times. The line of demarcation between Blacks and Whites was decided by color,
and I was born on the centerline. My bright light skin marked me as a product
of the enemy, the White man in the black community. Black women drawled sweetly
to my mother that my long wavy brown hair was so pretty in tones meant to be a
reproof to her. I was unacceptable, too white to be black… too black to be
white.
We lived in what
our relatives fondly called ‘the old homestead’. It was the home built by my
great- grandparents, a newly freed slave by the name of Henry Howell and his
wife, a full-blooded Crow Indian bearing the European name Charlotte. Henry and
Charlotte had twelve children, each born in the front room of this now
dilapidated old house. Great old cottonwoods rattled their leaves noisily in
the wind in front of the house and massive oaks guarded the back, dwarfing the
little outhouse with its pitiful ‘croker-sack’ door, made of rough burlap. The
exterior of the house bore the aged gray look of hardwood that had never been
painted in its century of withstanding the pelting rains and the great extremes
of heat and cold. It was a tough, neglected old house, abandoned to my mother
to house us in rent-free. She could ill afford to care for the ancient
structure that needed attention so badly, or us. The job of watching and caring
for us fell to my oldest sister, Francine. She was thirteen years old at my
earliest remembrance of her, my brother was twelve, and the rest of our ages
ran closely behind. I was four years old.
The house had three
entrances. The front and back doors we children were allowed to use freely, but
the side door facing the setting sun was off limits to us. It was the
‘business’ door, the door that the strange men used; some used it so often they
even knew our names. On a rare occasion when my mother was absent, I was
molested by one of these men while the noon-ish sun shone through the window. I
knew nothing of what he was doing, he sounded friendly. Something was wrong, I
felt some odd shame and my heart pounded with relief when my tigress of a
sister burst through the door demanding that the ‘no good son of a dog’ take
his filthy hands off me in a voice strong with authority and rage that was
strange to hear in the voice of a child. He unhanded me without a word and fled
as all my siblings ran up to flank her in the ranks. I remembered that
incident, though I never once mentioned it again until three decades passed. I
merely held my head self-consciously tilted to one side when I walked.
Nothing stood out
in my early childhood worth remembering until the fateful day when the world
kindly changed for me. My great uncle and aunt lived on a farm a mile’s walk
through a wooded trail. Robert Howell was born in eighteen eighty-three to
Henry and Charlotte Howell in the very same curtain-less room that my siblings
and I slept in, on the pallets and old mattresses. Although my mother was
treated as an outcast in the family - never visited and quietly talked about by
the conventional ones who may have feared their heavenly reservations may have
been cancelled if they dared come near her- my uncle Robert visited us daily.
He cared little for convention and hated hypocrisy; he would not permit either
to stifle his compassion for us. We looked for uncle’s visits just as
faithfully as we expected the sun to rise, and just as faithfully, he always
came. I never remember his coming unheralded by our squeals of delight because
we knew he had candy or fruit, if not both. Our yard’s stingy spattering of
trampled grass wore a distinct trail that led to the east corner where a roof
covered water well crested the top of a steep red clay hill. Uncle Robert’s
head would always appear first, and on hot days his hat-less bald head would
bloom at the top of that hill prettier to us than any flower, because he not only
brought us gifts, he luxuriated us in his time by talking with each one of us.
We loved Uncle Robert dearly, and any one of us would have been glad to have
been taken home by him. I was selected.
The monotony of our
lives made the mentioning of the names of days unnecessary, so I don’t know
what day it was when my uncle took me home, just that it was sunny and warm. I
was sitting in front of the east steps in a pile of cream-colored sand pouring
it’s warmness across my legs when Uncle Robert came.
“I’m coming to take
you home with me little Sara. Just let me talk with your mama for a minute.
You’re going to be me and Mollie’s little girl” my uncle soothingly promised.
I felt something
that must have been excitement, although I had heard him say he would take me
home before, somehow I knew this time was different. My brother and sisters
gathered around the front door trying to overhear the conversation from within.
We could hear the muffled conversation getting louder as my mother and uncle
walked down the hall to the front porch.
“I’ll find her
birth certificate later Uncle Robert. You just take her on home now”, and as an
afterthought she added “Tell Aunt Mollie hello for me”.
And just like that,
as easily as one changes shoes, I was given away unceremoniously without tears
or protest from my mother. She never hugged me good-bye, nor did she come
outside to watch me leave. My brother and sisters gathered around me looking
sad, their bubbly excitement dying, as they followed us down the steep hill,
all the way to the ravine. They yelled ‘good –byes’ until we were out of sight.
My uncle let me climb upon a stump so I could ride astride his neck, since I
had no shoes. Uncle Robert talked excitedly, gesturing with his hat in his free
hand while holding one of my ankles with the other. I was holding his bald head
with both my thin, dirty arms. I don’t remember much of what he said, only
something about how happy my aunt Mollie would be, and all of the things they
would buy me. These golden promises meant nothing to me yet, since I had no
prior means of comparison and I was too distracted by apprehension mixed with
unformed expectations.
I knew we had
almost arrived when we reached the water spring at the bottom of the hill. The
spring bubbled up fresh water continually, with the overflow creating a running
stream of branch water that was covered over by a long plank bridge. Two thick,
smoky black water moccasins raised their ugly heads up from the water and
opened their cottony mouths in silent threat. I tightened my grip on Uncle
Robert’s head. The roof of the house appeared first as we ascended the long
incline. A large grayish brown farmhouse, surrounded by bright flowers, arose
into view. My senses became acute, recording every minor detail, while the smells
of flowers and fruit trees enchanted me, as my uncle stooped to unlatch a peg
lock on the back gate. My heart was beating faster and faster, and my blood
raced through my veins with such force that I became dizzy, my hearing muted
and time slowed.
Fear ran through me
as two large silky black Labradors ran toward us barking hysterically, the
barking giving way to tail wagging and happy howls of joy at seeing my uncle. I
could see an immense expanse of ordered property. There were pastures and barns,
cows and a big-eared mule, chickens scattering across a fenced yard and New
Guinea fowl shrieking in tropical song. There were huge yellow and gray-striped
Tabby tomcats sitting calmly upon fence posts. I was bedazzled. While my head
whirled in excitement, I was gently stood upon the grounds on legs almost too
weak to hold me. It was incomprehensible to my dazed senses that all of the
commotion was over me.
My uncle yelled to
my aunt to hurry out and see what he had, and in an instant my aunt ran across
the back yard with a spatula in one hand wearing a white apron across the front
of the prettiest flowered dress I had ever seen. I was being smothered in hugs
while my uncle and aunt both talked at once. The animals sensed the excitement
and were howling in unison. I tried to see everything at once, such as the
number three bathtubs hanging outside against the back porch wall, animals, a
smokehouse and old farm buildings. I thought I had entered a new world when I
smelled the most wonderful aroma of foods floating upon the breeze; my senses
were overwhelmed, as the hunger awakened in me, compelled me to cry. I was fed
while still caked with grime and dirt.
“Robert, I’m afraid
she’ll get sick. Don’t you think we should stop her from eating now?” Aunt
Mollie asked uncertainly.
“Nah. This child
probably has never eaten her fill. Let her eat till she bursts.” He answered
glad heartedly before they both melted into joyous laughter. For the first time
in my life, I was home.
I was scrubbed in
sudsy lather and wrapped in a towel. My only dress was so dirty that it was
discarded. I stood behind my aunt holding the back of her chair while she sewed
dresses and matching bloomers out of floral, cotton flour sacks. She sang and
talked as she wheedled her Singer treadle sewing machine. I said nothing. I was
happier than I had ever been. On Saturday, I remember because every day I was
told to just wait until ‘Saturday’ and we will go to town. On Saturday, we went
to town. My aunt bought shoes, dresses, ‘britches’, baubles, and toys, and
everything that a little girl who had nothing, would need. I remember the
things that I didn’t need the most, the candies and soda pops of all varieties
and colors. All of downtown was comprised of one street covering a couple of
blocks, so in a town of that size everyone knew Aunt Mollie. My aunt told every
listening ear, both White and Black, that she and Uncle Robert were like Sarah
and Abraham, blessed with a child in their old age.
Relatives were
notified, and they came by the carloads to see me, and brought and sent gifts.
My Aunt Fannie from California sent two huge packages of clothing and toys from
J.C. Penny, a habit she continued for the duration of my early years.
Physically, I went from nothing to everything in one week. From no attention to
being squabbled over; my emotions knew no precedent, therefore I was
overwhelmed in joy. I began to talk incessantly, ‘like a jaybird’ as Uncle
Robert said. There was so much to see and do, to taste and touch. I was
experiencing the tastes of new foods almost daily. I became a whirlwind as I
tried to enjoy everything at once in a frenzy of ecstasy.
My uncle took me
with him to visit my brother and sisters each day, they were always so happy to
see us, only now I knew that they did not have the good things I did. I used to
ask Uncle Robert and Aunt Mollie to bring them home to live with us; I was too
young to know what their sad faces revealed. It was impossible; they could only
save one, the child most likely to suffer harm. My mother moved away when I was
five years old without a word. We went for our daily visit and the house was
vacant. A feeling of loss pervaded my happiness as we stood staring in
disbelief. Years would pass between brief glimpses of any of them.
Nothing good was
withheld from me, even moral guidance was provided as my uncle read to me
nightly out of a King James red-letter edition Bible. “Them’s the Good Lord’s
words in red,” he would say reverently. These lessons installed in me a sense
of moral propriety and spiritual obligation that I would later misconstrue to
my own detriment. The strength of character I gleamed from them would enable me
to survive myself and all lesser foes.
For the next half
decade, I lived on the ‘flower bed of Eden’ as Cousin Andrew called it. The
days were never long enough; perhaps that is why I hated to sleep. Seasons came
and went in a panorama of delight. The record ice storm of the early sixties
was a great memory to me as I watched through steam fogged windows, warm and
snug, as the loud popping of snapping pine trees screamed with the howling
winds. Nothing caused me to fear those years, I felt perfectly safe as I
expected I always would.
Those days will be
forever frozen in my mind. I can still see my uncle and aunt standing among the
prized garden vegetables, amid four-foot tall collard greens reaching my aunts
shoulders. I can see the tanned sinewy frame of my uncle stretching his short
frame proudly towards the sky as he brags on the size of his watermelons. I can
hear their laughter coming from lungs almost a century old, and I can see the
twinkle in Uncle Robert’s one good eye. I could never imagine him killing the
man who gouged out his eye with a pool stick so many years before, though the
relatives said that he did. I only knew that the blue glass-eye looked odd with
his one brown one, set against his tawny gold skin, his head crowned with a
semi-circle of silky white hair with a matching heavy white mustache. I can see
the bright flash of his red plaid shirt through the school bus window years
later as he walks hurriedly to the highway to escort me home, on the cold
November day the house burned to the ground. Dirt and smut on his sad face. I
can still see them. I will always be able to see them in the vivid imagery of
my mind.
I used to wish with
a fervor that I could have held on to the past and preserved all that was good
about it, that I could have prevented my aunt the years of suffering as she lay
dying, bedridden with cancer. I used to wish that all the good years would have
never ended; time cured the wishing as I realized that the fairy tale had to
end. It was gone; I would never get it back. The sun would still rise, the
seasons would still come, life would continue. I was thankful to have been a
part of it; I would take the memories and savor them for the life ahead. I had
been given the components that would comprise the fate of my destiny; they had
aged into my soul, so that part of the past would always remain with me. They
would be there for me to draw strength from, on days in my future when death
would seem a triumph and life too hard to live any more.
It is strange how
intricately life hangs in the scales, and how unrelated events and single
decisions alter the outcomes. Some remote land ten thousand miles from me, some
land unfamiliar to me, held the key to my future. A foreign land of war, a land
besieged by helicopters, machine gunfire, and mortars, held a young man
prisoner to its boundaries. A man I would never have met if my uncle had not
become sick.
My uncle became
acutely ill when I was fifteen years old and he asked a young family that he
was fond of, to adopt me. Life had changed course for me again, and the changes
were becoming less kind as time wore on. I was about to be thrust into a
situation where my lack of experience would affect my judgment and cause a
permanent change in the person I would become. My future would become as
uncertain and unstable as a howling wind in a wasteland.