The Blog of dreamdancer

She was 7 when she first heard him say it,
Wipe that look off your face.
She was 7 when she was just too close, was within easy reach, the blow caught her, spun her, and like a little ragdoll flung her against the wall.
She was 7 when she first realized it was not the drunk to be afraid of but the man who was sober, whose demons chased him, consumed him
until in the bottle he found oblivion.

She was 12, the years between 7 and now were more of the same, but this year things began to change.
She had loved her little dolls all of her life, a family of sorts.
She was 12 when she learned someone can stick a knife in and turn it until the pain is so great the need to escape, retreat, becomes the whole of existence.
She was 12, the refrain always the same, "take that look off your face"
Now the price for that look this time was all the lovely little dolls, scooped up, trashed.
She looked down from her room to the trash in the alley. All of her dolls were there for the world to see and one by one the little children came, taking the dolls...at least now they had homes was her thought and she wished she had been in that trash too.
It was never the drunk who caused the pain, it was the man who was sober.

She was 13, things were no better. Staring in the mirror to find that look that so enranged him
she could not see it, she could not find it, she was thinking these days, she would not survive it
She lived in her head now with her books, tales of people named Beaney Malone, Cherry Ames, Rebecca, Ramona..., and fine authors Bronte, Austin, Alcott. Dickens disturbed her, his sagas dark, like her own
It was always the "best of times and the worst of times"
She was 13 when the knife was stuck in deep, so deep yet again, the pain almost took her way
This time is was Max, her beagle...always happy to see her, to love her, life was simple with him
This day again accused of that look,"what look, where is it, I do not see it," she screamed.
Frog marched from the house, to the car, Max in her arms...the darkness, the dread.
Cowering in the corner, Max beside her, the man, the one that was sober drove mile after mile
and suddenly stopping on a 2-lane road, no houses, no stores, no one not anywhere
He opened his door, took Max from her arms and pitched him out...I'll teach you not to have that look, I'll teach you not to talk back....
She was 13 when she turned to look back and saw Max, poor little Max, running so hard to catch up
The car sped way, Max faded away...she did not cry...nothing was said
It was not the drunk who caused the pain, it was the man who was sober.

She was 15 when she started the giving up, the wishing for dead and things just stopped,
the going to school...the living in books... now just aimless wandering, avoiding.
It took 21 days, but they caught up to her...the truant officer, the system.
She was 15 when in her mother's perfect room, the one never allowed in, they waited, the truant officer and the girl of 15.
In the door they heard the key turn...then he was there, the sober one and the other one, The Mother...
It was all explained to them, the process, what the girl had done, what was expected of them...of her.
Well that woman left, left her with them, assuming things would work out...the girl laughed...work out.
The rage in him it built and built...the going through the house, the throwing her out...all her clothes, her books, anything, everything that said she lived there, piled it high... then the gas, the match lit...she stood there watching everything burn...feeling what...not pain, not sorrow...just gratefulness that it was the stuff that was alight and not her.
She heard all the words, the terrible character assassination...slut, whore, tramp....no good, worthless.
She was 15 when the sober one threw money at her and said get out. "I'm going out...don't be here on my return" and the refrain still once again, "take that look of your face."

She was 15 when she knew opportunity had presented itself. She was a smart cookie, even if she was just to dumb to figure what what the look was and how to keep it from coming out.
The money lay there, and there it would stay...she lifted the phone...called the police...told her story
Now a squad car came...there he was her knight with the uniform and badge... but the system once again had no place for her...perhaps it would have been better to take the money and live on the street she thought.
Then placing a call to his wife, they talked... and he said to her "Come along, every thing will be all right."
He took her home to his wife.
She was 15 and that officer and his wife.. they gave the girl space, a place to be safe for awhile. She was sure they broke the rules...taking her in.

She was 15 when she decided to move forward, to not look back.
She was 15 when she left them behind... the sober one/drunk one and the other, The Mother.
She was 15 when she discovered it was really never the look on her face but the sober one's own demons chasing him, chasing her.
She was 15, and now she was free.

Elie Wiesel:

The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.

(Oct. 1986)