Page 11 - Jan/Feb 2017 FTM

I STILL REMEMBER THE CONVERSATION, her words, and especially
the look of urgency in her eyes. She approached me 10 years ago as I stood at the bottom of the stairs, my arms full of toilet paper rolls to be delivered to the shared restrooms in the multi-family units of the semi- rural American domestic violence shelter. The first thing I noticed was the lack of a tiny hand in hers; a rare occurrence. Whatever she wanted to discuss was important enough that she had found someone to watch her child while she slipped out to catch me. Before I could assure her that toilet paper was on the way, she calmly and quietly broached what was concerning her.
“May I ask you something? I don’t know if you know the answer, or if I want to know the answer. But I need to ask.” Her hands were shaking, but the rest of her reflected the steady strength for which she was known at the shelter.
“Of course, of course!” I said, and we ducked behind the slatted stairs. I remember that a TP roll tumbled out of my arms and bounced across the floor, but neither of us cared.
“I need to know. I need to know. Is it always going to be like this?”
She gestured sweepingly to the units of the shelter. “Am I going to keep facing this over and over again? And, if so, is there at least something I can do to make it different for my daughter? It has to be different for her.” She did not break eye contact as she waited for my reply. Her face was still and her body braced for an answer she might not want to know.
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