Writing

Featured

An Open Letter to Governor Gavin Newsom

As a nation, we deserve leaders willing to say, “Enough is enough.”

Dear Governor Newsom,

I’ve noticed your involvement in a number of national issues, your international representation of key messages, and your occasional role as a Biden administration surrogate. I’m curious, though—why haven’t we heard from you in advocating for an Israel/Hamas ceasefire? The ongoing events in Gaza, including what seems like genocide and de facto ethnic cleansing, alongside the killings and raids in the West Bank, are truly abominable. It’s disheartening to see the leaders I voted for seemingly ignoring the indiscriminate taking of innocent lives. Particularly, the leader of the state of California, the fifth largest economy in the world.

The events that took place in Israel on October 7th were equally horrendous. Many of us watching don’t believe they warrant what appears to be retaliatory actions taken against the innocent civilian population.

The oft-repeated talking point, “Israel has a right to defend itself,” feels like a cop-out. Sure, every country has that right, but bombing hospitals filled with injured women, children, and premature babies inside incubators doesn’t seem like a defense against any credible threat.

I’m not well-versed in geopolitical nuances or military combat strategy. Still, I find it hard to believe the military and intelligence technology available to the United States and Israel is incapable of anything more than a “whack-a-mole” approach.

The combined might of the US and Israeli governments seems disproportionately directed at what some might call a “rag-tag militia,” causing an obscene amount of civilian “collateral damage.” Equally, reports of Israeli military and police actions in the West Bank appear to be ignored and go unchecked.

Watching politicians and leaders at all levels hiding behind simplistic slogans or remaining silent is painful. As a nation, we deserve leaders willing to say, “Enough is enough.” Instead, it seems like a pathetic and disgraceful evasion of responsibility. The US has found billions to assist with Israel’s guaranteed right to defend itself. At the risk of sounding dictatorial, in the simple words of B.B. King, it seems to me the US is “paying the cost to be the boss.”

Remembering how Democrats criticized former President Trump for allegedly taking marching orders from Russia, I wonder: where do the marching orders come from now? What side of history do the administration, every elected official, and silent American want to be on when the dust settles and books are written about this “war” against Hamas? Will this catastrophe be remembered as the “Palestinian Pogrom”?

I feel powerless as I watch what continues to unfold and the images they bear. Commenting on social media posts and donating to humanitarian organizations feels inadequate.

There is little more I can do than respectfully urge you and others with your level of standing to take a bold step, use your political influence, and join other courageous members of Congress and senators, as well as countless American taxpayers and protestors worldwide, in calling for an immediate ceasefire.

The people of America want to hear our leaders use their voices and stand on the side of what is humane and necessary.

Featured

The Journey Begins

Writing can be a lonely endeavor. However, writers write because they must. Their stories eat at them, so they must make their way out into the world. Stories often teach the writer something about the world or themselves. Sharing their stories can be daring and scary because writers fear their work will unloved, misunderstood, or worse, unread. 

You being on my writing page, right now, addresses at least one writer malady. So, thank you.  Eulonda

Featured

“New Shoes”

(Life Misspelled Novel Excerpt)

The summer months had flown by, and school was starting soon. Gus had called and said he would come to get me for my birthday. I was excited but knew an upcoming visit from him meant Mama would be in a foul mood until he arrived and give me the cold shoulder for long after he brought me back home and drove away.

“He should be ashamed to show his face around here,” Mama snarked. She’d long forgotten she once loved my father. All I had to do was say his name to bring out nastiness unusual even for her. She resented his coming and going from our lives. Using “daddy” or “father” to describe him was a hard no-no in our house.

“He treated me worse than a foamy-mouthed rabid dog deserves,” she went on. 

I didn’t remember Gus doing anything Mama said he had done. So, I never believed her. He never beat Ruth Ann or me. He never showed outward affection toward us and insisted we call him Gus. I just assumed it was his way of treating us like grown-ups.

I knew he wanted to love me, but he didn’t know how. I accepted him the way he was and tried to love him anyway.

He told me once that I reminded him of Mama. He never explained whether that was good or bad. It didn’t matter. I always hoped he was a better man than the one Mama described and looked forward to the day he returned home.

“Gus’ll never change. If he stopped coming around, we’d all be better off,” Ruth Ann said. She’d long given up on him and shared Mama’s disdain for him.

I threw a dictionary at her but missed my target. She threw it back, and it hit me square in the forehead. When Mama found out why we were fighting, she made me apologize and sent me to the back porch to stew.

“Your daddy’s not worth fighting your sister over,” she said as I walked outside, and the flimsy screen door slammed in unison with her voice. 

I stayed mad at both of them for a week, right up to my fifteenth birthday, the day of Gus’s arrival. I looked forward to his visit. I desperately wanted to see him and couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought me anything.

Leading up to his arrival, Mama made like she was busy, walking and complaining from room to room. 

“Jo, you’re just ungrateful,” she rattled on. “Acting so happy to see a man who wouldn’t do right even if the good Lord promised him heaven.” 

I’d already heard everything she said that day at least six times.

“One time, he bumped a man with his truck because he’s evil,” I whispered her exact words to myself as Mama said them. It didn’t take much effort to memorize words you could feel.

“I’ll see you later, Mama.” 

Five minutes in the Texas sun felt like an eternity in hell. Waiting outside provided relief from Mama’s incessant grumbling, even if it meant sweltering in heat that melted tar. It was worth it. Besides, Gus couldn’t come inside or knock on the door anyway. 

I was relieved when I saw his black Ford pickup turn toward our house. Mama predicted he wouldn’t show up, and I was in no mood for an “I told you so.” Despite being happy to see Gus, the day was dulled with disappointment when I saw Earline and Precious, my eleven and thirteen-year-old half-sisters, sitting in the cab beside him.

“Hi, Gus,” I forced out the words and a smile as I squeezed onto the bucket seat.

“Aren’t you going to speak to your sisters?” Gus asked and threw the truck into gear and drove away.

“Hey,” I said without looking at Earline and Precious. I knew the day would be different from the one I’d imagined. 

I’d spent the entire week before combing the Montgomery Ward catalog and had already decided exactly what I wanted. When we got to the store, I went straight to the shoe department and found the black and white saddle shoes. Just to be sure, I browsed all of the shelves to prove I’d made the right decision. Saddle shoes were what all the girls would be wearing on the first day of school.

“Do you have these in size eight?” I asked the sales clerk. She nodded and turned toward the stockroom to retrieve the shoes. Earline and Precious copied me and asked the saleslady to bring the same shoes in their sizes.

“Wait a minute,” Gus said as he wrestled the display shoe from my hand and checked the price tag.

“You’re going to have to pick something else. These cost too much.”

“But these are what I want for my birthday.”

“Let your sisters get these. They’re younger. You can find something else.”

He told the sales clerk to bring the saddle shoes in Earline’s and Precious’ sizes.

That moment cut like the cruel hunger pains that often gnawed my stomach. Mama was right.

While Earline and Precious tried on my shoes, I cursed Gus inwardly as I wandered the aisles, looking for a pair that would be better than having nothing.

I couldn’t decide fast enough, and Gus got impatient. He snatched a pair of moccasins off the shelf and handed them to the sales clerk.

“Just give us these in size eight.”

I stared at the flimsy brown shoes in horror but remained silent. He had never hit me, but admittedly, I had a slight fear of him since Mama had warned me he was capable of it, and the last thing I wanted was more embarrassment. Earline and Precious snickered when I tried the moccasins on.

I was relieved when we left the store, and Gus said he had to take me home. I wanted to get away from all of them as quickly as possible. I focused on the street ahead as Earline and Precious chirped away, wedged between Gus and me.

When he pulled up to the house, I jumped out of the truck before it came to a complete stop. I didn’t say bye, and I didn’t look back. I was blinded by tears as I ran as fast as I could toward the front door. I tripped over the door frame and tumbled, trying to get away from the hurt. Mama heard the commotion and came running from the kitchen.

“He bought them saddle shoes and got me these!” I held the pathetic slipper-like shoes in the air like a trophy for her to see.

“And you were in such a hurry to jump in that truck. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Mama grabbed the shoes from me with one swoop and stomped into the kitchen. 

I watched in horror as she pulled a large butcher knife from the drawer, speared one of the shoes, and sliced the brown fabric in half the same way she gutted catfish. She went outside and threw both halves and its match into the metal drum we used to burn garbage. 

“You’ll go barefoot before I let you wear that devil’s trash.”

I stood there thinking about my only pair of shoes, which were riddled with holes. Mama didn’t and wouldn’t have money to buy me new ones before school started.

“What did we do to deserve such a pitiful life?” I asked Ruth Ann that night as I lay in bed crying, not expecting an answer. “All the praying in the world, Mama can barely do anything for us. Gus won’t do anything. What’s God doing?”

“You better shut up before she hears you.” Ruth Ann turned over onto her side, back toward me. We’d been taught it was a sin to question God, and Ruth Ann had no desire to play a role in my infidelity.

“You need to stop fantasizing that Gus is any more than what Mama says he is. It only makes matters worse,” she said and pulled the sheet over her head. 

Three weeks after Gus dropped me off, my first day of ninth grade arrived. Mama had managed to buy brown shoe polish. It wasn’t enough to make last year’s shoes look new, but they were all I had. I rearranged the bits of cardboard I’d used to cover the holes in the soles and tried them on with the dress Mama had made from bargain bin fabric. I studied myself in the mirror. I thought about the upcoming days when I’d have no lunch or lunch money. School days felt endless when you began them hungry and remained that way until the last bell rang. The thought of relying on Margie to keep my insides from gurgling underneath shoddy clothes and raggedy shoes chilled my skin. 

When I left the house for school that morning, I decided not to stop to pick up Margie and bypassed Our Mother of Mercy. I walked until I got tired and ended up in front of Ferguson’s Barbecue & Tavern. I watched as Mr. Ferguson wiped down plastic menus, placed them between napkin holders, and arranged bottled barbecue sauces on the tables. My mouth watered as the sweet, smoky fragrance of charred meat permeated the outside air. I wished I could go inside and place an order for hot links and coleslaw.

As I turned to leave, I noticed a handwritten help-wanted sign inside the window.

“I’m here about the job.” I’d never decided anything so quickly before in my life.

“You ever waited tables?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Mr. Ferguson didn’t wait for me to answer his question as he widened the door for me to enter, so I never did.

I worked the lunch and early dinner shifts that day. Before I left, I packaged up enough pulled pork and baked beans to last a week. I went home wearing a lime green dress with Ferguson’s embroidered just to the left of my heart that fit me perfectly. I had fifteen dollars in tips in my book satchel and a new outlook in my pocket.

Directions

I met a man on my way to jury duty. It was a chance meeting, and I never asked his name. I’ll call him John.

I exited the underground metro station at Judiciary Square, confused. I saw nothing familiar except the grayness of a cold winter day in the nation’s capital. I stood in place, turned a complete circle, and contemplated the direction I should take.

Where you headed?”

I answered and turned toward the scratchy voice. The stranger smiled at me with a crooked smile and collapsed top lip, a telltale sign of missing front teeth.

As he fumbled for something inside his backpack. I tried to think of what to say to avoid answering his question. I preferred to find my own way. His appearance suggested there was something about him I should mistrust. I scanned the area for an escape. There were no visible street signs, and no one in the vicinity to save me had I needed it. There was only John.

“The courthouse,” I answered, unable to think of anything but the truth. 

“That’s where I’m going. Follow me.” He slung the dingy backpack over his shoulder and waited for me to catch up. I felt a tinge of vulnerability but had no immediate solution to avoid being rude to this stranger, something I’d been taught at an early age not to do.

I fell in alongside John. The street and sidewalk were unusually deserted for a weekday morning. Being trained in defensive tactics, I bladed my body strategically. I was in the position to cold cock him with my oversized hobo bag, weighed down with bottled water, snacks, and a hardback book, if necessary. 

I kept one eye on John, alert for any fast movements. We were several steps into the journey before I noticed he was holding what appeared to be a joint. “This could end badly,” I thought.

It was out of character for me to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with a dusty, sandy-haired person like John. Someone who appeared to me to have lived a life that had not been kind. It was equally unusual for me to engage in conversation forced upon me by someone like him. For reasons I’ve yet to define, I was slightly annoyed by John’s presumed familiarity with me, but by then, I was relatively sure he was harmless.

His kindness was peculiar, and he was oblivious to what should have been obvious; I was less than thrilled to be in his company. Perhaps he understood that and wanted to walk with me anyway. The evening news and my last stint serving on a grand jury two years before reinforced my predisposition to avoid strangers on the street at all costs, particularly ones that looked like John.

“I’m going to the courthouse to take a piss test,” he said, seemingly for shock value. I turned my nose up at his candor.

When John lit one end of the blunt, I was relieved by the sweet smell of tobacco smoke. I had no idea people still rolled their cigarettes, not the legal ones, anyway. I’d quit smoking long before and usually detested the smell of burning nicotine. 

John held the hand-rolled smoke between his thumb and index finger and struggled to wrap his loose lips around it. Between drags and puffs, he shared details of his life and why he was going my way, an unfortunate run-in with the “po-lice.”

His honesty fascinated me. In a world where many go to great lengths to put their best foot forward on Instagram or Facebook, regardless of their circumstances, his transparency was refreshing.

John was an open book and had no regard for his unfortunate privacy. He divulged more details than I cared to hear; getting arrested more than once “for no reason” was of no consequence to him. His words flowed with the lightheartedness of a circus ringmaster, but the edges of his drooping eyelids told a different story. There was a pain in his eyes, yet he willed his voice to share his secrets in a sad “water-under-the-bridge” cadence. His sentences ran together as he rambled from topic to topic, as though he had saved his confessions for an entire year and wished to tell me each of them in as little time as possible.

The judge had allowed him to enter an intervention program that kept him out of jail as long as he remained trouble-free and submitted to regular urinalysis, my word, not John’s. He said it was better than nothing, even if it meant a long train ride from Baltimore, once a week, for six months.

“The cop tried to cut me a break,” he said, showing no sign of animosity toward the police officer who had escorted him from Union Station and told him not to return.

“But then, he arrested me.” He chuckled as he took a deep drag from the blunt he had smoked down to his fingertips. It was a laugh that hinted he knew he’d done something stupid and couldn’t help but laugh.

John admitted he’d been loitering in the station and had been asked to leave twice. 

“When I tried to sneak on a train, he said I was going to jail.” He blew smoke into the air, tossed the butt on the ground, and straightened his soiled backpack. 

“I guess I didn’t realize how drunk I was. I just wanted to get back to Baltimore. I like Baltimore better than DC. The police are nicer in Baltimore, plus I know the area better. It’s an easier life there. When you know people and know how to get around, it’s easier to stay out of trouble.” It was the kindest thing I’d ever heard anyway say about Baltimore.

John and I walked a few steps in uncomfortable silence. For once, he seemed to be at a loss for words.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye and noticed the etched lines on his leathery face and the yellowed fingernails of his dry and cracked hands. His pants and boots were larger than expected for a man his height. The unnatural slump in his shoulders that faltered under the overstuffed backpack.

“Yeah, I’m a drunk, but I don’t do no drugs.” His words broke the silence as he sensed what I’d just realized. John was homeless. He is not just a down-on-luck, unhoused person but someone who drinks cheap liquor until he passes out and sleeps wherever he is when he takes his last swig for the night.

“That’s good,” I answered as I remembered my grandmother’s words, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” The chill I felt was not weather-related.

“I did a line of heroin and smoked some crack once, but I didn’t feel nothing.” 

Could this chance meeting with John be a test or a joke? I checked my watch, careful not to flash my wedding rings. I had less than twenty minutes to get to Courtroom B and still be on time.

“I had liquor in me, so I don’t know if that was the reason why or not. Maybe the people I got it from gave me something that wasn’t real dope.”

He said drugs were a waste of money and preferred the less expensive numbing knock-out he got from alcohol. John was the first person I’d spoken to who admitted doing heroin and crack. I wanted to seize the opportunity and inquire more about his experience but felt it would’ve been an intrusion, so I remained quiet and let him do the talking.

I wondered whether I’d ever slipped by John and ignored him as he lay, passed out, atop a street grate as billows of steam rose from the ground, engulfing his motionless body. Perhaps he was that person I saw sprawled on the park bench, covered by a shredded sleeping bag, as brownish-yellow liquid flowed from the midpoint of his body to the grass below.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I asked.

“I’m sure,” he said quickly. I doubted his confidence. I was relieved when I saw a clean-shaven man, telltale government lawyer briefcase in hand, walking in our direction.

“Excuse me, sir, where’s the Superior Court Building?” John asked.

Without stopping or looking directly at us, the stranger pointed in the opposite direction John and I were walking.

“Thank you,” John called after the man, then looked at me with a sheepish grin. “I guess I got turned around.” We did an about-face and headed in the direction from which we came.

“I need to stop drinking. Lord knows it’s gotten me in a world of trouble.”

 “Why don’t you then?” I blurted, frustrated that he’d taken me on what felt like a scavenger hunt. 

“I guess some people are just weaker than others.” His voice floated away to a different place and time. He’d started drinking when he was ten years old and had continued throughout his life, except the time he was sober for eight years. I estimated he was sixty-five and wondered what it felt like to live most of a lifetime in a fog and why there hadn’t been anything worth stopping for. His parents were long gone, and none of his ex-wives or their children wanted anything to do with him.

“I’m going to get myself together. It’s going to take hard work and energy. I’m not sure I have either left in me.”

Suddenly, pedestrians began to appear from out of nowhere, each one staring at John and me. How unusual we must have looked together: him with his second-hand clothes and me with my black and blonde curly afro and leather moto jacket.

“Maybe it’s a blessing drugs didn’t do anything for you,” I told him, not knowing why or where those words had come.

“Yep, I’m going to get myself together,” he nodded to convince himself.

When we arrived at the courthouse, there were two winding lines of people waiting to enter through building security. A light rain had begun to fall. 

“You have a good day,” John wished me. 

“You too, and thanks for getting me here,” I told him as he walked away, then stopped at the back of the longer of the two lines, twenty feet away from me. It was an odd thing to do after having walked the whole way with me. I gravitated toward the shorter queue.

Periodically, I looked over my shoulder and back at John. He never looked in my direction. Perhaps he thought that doing so would embarrass me. He stared at the back of the person’s head in front of him in line.

I sat in the crowded juror’s lounge among an assortment of people I avoided eye contact with for the remainder of the day. I never spoke to anyone in the room, and they didn’t talk to me. We engulfed ourselves in the private world of our smartphones. I finished The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, switched to Words with Friends, and challenged a random bot who beat me six times.

After seven hours of waiting, the Clerk of Court entered the lounge and announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, no other jury panels will be needed today. You are free to go. Thank you for fulfilling your civic duty.”

When I left the courthouse, I followed the prominent direction signs to the underground metro station, which I realized was barely a stone’s throw away. I looked around, but there was no sign of John.

These days, I look directly into the faces of those I see on the street, like John. They’re never him. I say hello anyway.

Farewell Yellow Brick Road

If you don’t have a favorite Elton John song, you should consider therapy.

The Tour Epitomizes Musical Staying Power

Sir Elton John stepped onto the stage to a jubilant, sold-out crowd at Sacramento’s Golden 1 Center. The ear-splitting decibel level was so intense that it might as well have been Game 7 of the NBA Finals, with the Sacramento Kings delivering a medieval beatdown to the Golden State Warriors, but I digress. British royalty was in full display, featuring a blinged-out blazer that outshone even the most extravagant of bling.

He kicked off by teasing the crowd with a quick and powerful strike on the piano, a sound immediately recognized as the opening chord of “Bennie and The Jets.” From that moment onward, it was a non-stop thrill as he delivered one musical gem after another.

With thirty albums to his name, not to mention his numerous soundtracks and collaboration albums, everyone has their favorite Elton John song. If you don’t have a favorite Elton John song, therapy might be in order. With so many hits to choose from, it was inevitable that some fans would leave disappointed, their preferred song left unsung. He did his best to please as many fans as possible and offered apologies in advance to those whose favorites didn’t make the cut.

He poured his heart into twenty-four songs, including classics like “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues,” “Tiny Dancer,” “Rocket Man,” “Daniel,” “Philadelphia Freedom,” and “Levon.” I had intended to keep track of the entire setlist but found myself getting carried away, either singing along or waving my phone in the air with its light on. A warm and nostalgic feeling washed over me when he sang “The Bitch is Back.” I’ll admit, dating myself a bit, that back in 1974 when the song was released, I struggled to understand the lyrics and was quite upset with Sir Elton until I realized he was saying “back” and not “black.”

The show was devoid of unnecessary fluff or over-the-top fanfare, unless you count the costume change into a stunning black tuxedo jacket adorned with pink peonies and orchids. He peppered the performances with brief anecdotes about his life or the origins of the songs, just enough to keep the audience engaged. These moments reminded me of what it must feel like sitting around an old upright piano while Crazy Uncle Joe does his thing.

A massive video screen adorned the back of the stage, cycling through beautifully shot cinematic images of humanity and life. No gimmicks or elaborate stagecraft were needed when you have a lifetime’s worth of ballads that everyone can connect with.

As much as I enjoy a hot trap beat, today’s performers could learn from the enduring power of the music that Bernie Taupin and Elton John began creating together in 1967. It was heartwarming to see the Golden 1 Arena packed with fans spanning generations, from grandpas with walking canes to stylish young women in thigh-high boots, and everything in between, all gathered to see Elton, who had no need for an opening act.

I sincerely doubt that thirty years from now, in 2049, anyone will be as excited to pay and watch a 71-year-old sing about “face,” “truffle butter,” or “flexing.” Assuming anyone even understands the alternative meanings of those words by then, these songs simply won’t age as gracefully as the lyrics of “Someone Saved My Life Tonight.”

If the Farewell Yellow Brick Road tour makes its way to your city, I strongly recommend doing whatever it takes to experience it. Pure artistry is always worth the price of admission, and Elton John’s mastery on display is a “must-see” event.

Little Me

When I was a little girl, I dreamed of soaring skies,

Kind and gentle wind lifting me above the world.

A weightless feather with no concern.

All that was bad became good,

And that goodness became me.

Forgiven of childhood miscarriages

All that was left were the memories of what was.

If I was honest with the world,

Whispered prayers would be answered.

Hate and ridicule hushed in the dark,

Their voices silenced with regret.

I stared in the mirror and wondered,

When would the image looking back,

Become a butterfly, forever free.

When I was a little girl,

I dreamed of soaring skies,

Comfortable in a magical world,

Where I was somebody and the me I wanted to be.

Into the Smoke

I saw the reflection of a woman I recognized vaguely…

The clock on the nightstand read 3:59 as I lay in bed, restless and sticky from the sweat that had moistened my nightshirt and sent me to the sink to refill my water glass. It was March, but the heat that choked the room and constricted my throat reminded me of Independence Day as a child. Back then, it was customary to swelter on the grass, blanket to blanket, among the crowd of others waiting for the fireworks to begin; staring into the sky, convinced the bombs bursting in air were meant for us too.

I turned onto my left side, watching as the red, illuminated numbers increased by one digit before closing my eyes. When I opened them again, the room’s tropical air was accompanied by thick smoke. The fieriness was more intense than before. My bearings were askew as I leaped from the bed and found no floor beneath me. The next day’s clothes that I had laid across a chair, the dresser, and the mirror were barely visible through the haze. I saw the reflection of a woman I recognized vaguely, hands out in front of her body, searching for a safe path to take.

“What’s this about?” I asked. The woman did not answer. She disappeared, and I heard wood crackling from somewhere inside the smoke that threatened to asphyxiate everything I had an obligation to live for. Without using words, muffled voices dared me to go where my son lies, helpless beyond my current reach.

“He’s innocent,” I pleaded.

“Yes, but his blackness,” something replied deep inside the darkness.

The hallway walls closed in on me as I made my way through the mist of judgment toward a room I had painted blue and adorned with symbols of innocent maleness. As I got closer to where the voices escaped, they morphed into a muffled roar that grew in power and decibels. Perhaps they were the world cheering on my son.

I touched the doorknob and burned my hand. I opened the door and entered, nevertheless. Inside, no signs of encouragement were present. The callings were violent, angry, ghastly. They were the combined catcalls of the downtrodden, the helpless, the discarded. The forgotten, the given up on. The marcher, the kneeler, the locked up. All of whom had concealed themselves within the beasts that claim victory, despite futile wars of those willing to lay down their lives in battle.

I forced myself to enter the room, entirely black except for the white haze that obscured my view but not my courage. I never bothered to consider the strength I would need to conquer the beast once I faced his inalienable rights. It never occurred to me how unprepared I was to engage a monster that refused to fight fair and had inherited the privilege not to do so. A beast so diabolically evil that it has twisted declarations millions believe in and used the result to convince the rest of us that it was right, and we were hopeless.

The monster’s gruesome roar gripped my chest, frightened me, but I had no choice but to raise my sword. If I did not rescue my son, there would be no one else to do it. I would perish either way. The last time I had felt fear so compelling, I was my son’s age and had happened upon a small boy’s body sprawled at the bottom of a crystal-clear pool. I wanted to save his life too but could not swim nor overcome the fear of drowning along with him. One never forgets the sensation of profound helplessness.

This time would be different. My son was different. I was willing to hold my breath as long as it took to save his life. I pushed hard on the bedroom door, hoping to crush the beast waiting on the other side. My son was in his bed. His body was contorted by the gravitational pull of the world yet impervious to it. Something invisible had a firm grip on his limbs, but his mind had not yet been taken. I grabbed my son’s left arm and leg, determined to hold on. I wanted to pull him back from the depths of where the beast wished to bury him. The invisible monster pulled him from one side of the twin-sized bed, and I held on from the opposite side. It was an intense game of tug of war. My son’s life was the rope.

“Let go of my son,” I demanded and fought what I could not see. Heat scorched my skin from what undoubtedly was the beast’s mouth as it spewed venom.

“This one’s mine. I’m not letting him go. God wants to take everything I deserve.”

I couldn’t see my opponent, but I realized who and what he was. He never identifies himself, but he’s always there and always will be. Waiting in the wings when no one’s watching or when everyone is watching.

I struggled to maintain a firm hold on my son, determined never to give up.

It was a fight for life, a fight to the death. I could feel the rough pounding in my chest proving I was alive, and that was the proof I needed to keep fighting. The beast would not let go, and I could give up. My muscles twitched and ached from holding on. My eyes burned from the stench of the beast’s entitled breath. I gasped, lungs devoid of oxygen, heart still determined to beat.

When facing an unseen enemy who seems to hold the upper hand, one can be rendered powerless when confronted with a weapon of many forms. An instrument that becomes one thing to someone and something entirely different to another. This weapon is free, inanimate, and replenishable. Unaffected by the monopolistic ownership of other weapons and therefore available to anyone for the taking.

I rebuke you, Satan, in the name of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, a gentle spirit proclaimed in a tone that reminded me of my long-gone grandmother. I mouthed the words as the demon snarled and growled. My hands stung from his fangs gnawing into my skin, but I held on, and the gentle spirit blew a cold breeze to ease my pain.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me.” It was the only line I could remember from the verse I’d been taught to say when all hope was lost.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” I held on tight and pulled with renewed strength. I was prepared to repeat the mantra as many times as needed to win. But then, the beast released its grip, my son and I slammed to the floor, and the gentle spirit’s cool touch erased the burning in my hands.

The smoke dissipated, and the beast was gone. Hidden but still there, waiting to pounce again at a more opportune time. I carried my son to my room and laid him beside me on the bed. I watched him as he slept. I vowed to protect him for the remainder of the night and his life.

The phone rang, and I picked it up.

“Hello.” I heard a snake hiss before the line went dead. It rang four more times, and each time I answered. I will never ignore the ringing, although I know the beast never speaks honorably. His only intent is to ensure I never rest.

The phone rang one last time, and I opened my eyes. The phone rang one last time, and I awoke, opening my eyes. Panting, alone in my room, and the clock read 4:04, the reaffirming angel number.

The glow from the dawn moon spilled through the small opening between the curtains. I ran to my son’s room. The floor was steady. I pulled back the blanket and examined his black body. It was as pristine as it had been when I tucked him in the night before. I leaned over, felt his breath, then kissed him without waking him up. I would let him sleep for two more hours, then wake him and help him into the new suit and tie I had bought. He would exchange them for a white robe later in the day.

He was not yet christened, but after that morning’s Easter service, I would escort him to the front of the church and instruct him on how to tell the pastor he wanted to be saved by his Christian experience. The pastor would wade with him into the baptismal pool beneath the glistening stained-glass window, lower him into the tepid water, then declare my son a child of God forever.

The thought comforted my never-ending angst as much as feasibly possible. I understood the beast would never give up his quest for my son and that his evil pursuit would come in many forms. Nevertheless, I would fight for my son by any means necessary and teach him to recognize the weapons that have been crafted to destroy his mind, body, and spirit. I would employ countermeasures rooted in faith; the most reliable weapon mothers have at their disposal. A weapon that can be dampened for seasons but rarely extinguished forever.

For the remainder of my life, I was prepared to do battle with a force that would never abandon its need to conquer. That is what mothers must do in a world occupied by beasts that exist among us.