‘I Am Free Now’

The city stepped in to protect my kids and me.

Until a few years ago, I was living with a man who terrified me and our children with his jealousy and violence. I met him a few months after I came to the United States from Mexico, in May, 1992. The day after I arrived in this country I began to work in a clothing factory in New York City. There I met a man who I never imagined would become abusive.

I Felt So Helpless

Soon after meeting him I went to live with him. He prohibited me from everything. I couldn’t have friendships with anyone. I couldn’t linger at the store. I knew it wasn’t a good situation, but by then I was pregnant. When three months had passed, he began to beat me. I felt so helpless. At that time, my ignorance was so deep that I believed that I loved him and had to protect him.

Now I look back and feel guilty for having permitted the beatings by not leaving. I blame myself for being ignorant, for believing that he would change, for accepting him as my partner although he treated me badly. But in truth, it was not my fault he hit me. Many times we argued over our finances, because he didn’t like to work, although we soon had two children to support. When I worked, that bothered him a lot. On two occasions he grabbed me by the hair as I was leaving for work, and once he got in my face and told me, “I dare you to leave this house. If you do it, I am going to break your face.” “And why don’t you get out of bed and go find yourself a job?” I said. “It’s your responsibility as a father to go out and work.” “Who are you to tell me what to do?

Why do you want me out of here— so you can go out with other guys?” When I went to the check cashing place, he took the money right out of my hands. I’d say, “This money isn’t yours!” But he hit me when I tried to keep it from him. He’d say, “Shut your mouth. All you want to do is argue and argue about everything.”



Hurting Our Children

Soon the abuse escalated, so that he wasn’t hitting only me, he was also hitting our children. He was impatient with them, and when he was upset, he lashed out. During the times when we weren’t fighting, I talked with him about why he was like that. I told him, “Look, Pedro, you have to change if you want to be happy. You have to be loving with the children. You have to worry about them and their future. Why don’t you think about how this affects the little ones?” He’d agree, but the next day he would return to the same behavior.

Taking the Punches

Once I called the police, even though I was afraid to because I’m an illegal immigrant and I thought I could get sent back to Mexico. But when they came to my house they didn’t believe anything I said. My boyfriend’s sisters were there and they defended him. Domestic violence makes your strength turn to weakness. I felt there was nothing I could do. So I decided that life was unjust with me and I needed to live only for my children. I needed to be strong and take the punches. I felt that God was with me all the time and that no matter how difficult my life was I would survive. Then one day a social worker from the foster care system arrived at my house to investigate what was happening to my children. That afternoon when I got home, I found a terrible notice—a letter that spoke about child abuse. Believe me, at that moment I wanted to die. For a moment I stayed frozen, feeling like my life had come to an end. Then I said to myself, “My God, help me confront this big problem. Clearly, to protect my children, I have to do everything they ask of me so nothing worse happens.”

Taken From Our Hell

I went to the agency and they asked me various questions. The worker told me, “Don’t fear. We’re going to help protect you and your children.” I asked them, “Where are you going to take me?” “To a shelter that’s secure,” the worker told me. “If you don’t want to cooperate with what we propose and you return to your husband, we’ll have to bring your children to a place where they’ll be safe and protected.” “What about my things?” I said.  “Forget your things,” she told me. “You have to leave them. Our concern is that these children don’t keep getting abused by their father.” I went with them. We got my children. They took us out of the hell that I couldn’t leave. When we arrived at the shelter, it was night. As I walked into the place I was crying silently. My son asked, “Where are we going?” He sounded like more of a man than he should’ve at age 7. In the shelter the women met once a week with the counselors to talk about what it had been like living with our abusive partners. The counselors asked each of us how we felt about leaving home and living in the shelter. Did we feel protected or were we feeling fear? I felt fear and sadness, mixed with relief and hope. I cried a lot at night, and often asked myself, “Why did this happen to me?” I was fearful about going out into the street. I feared that my ex would appear if I went out alone. But the counselor told me, “Don’t fear anything. This is a good protected place.” Even so, I told my worker that I couldn’t get this image of him pursuing me out of my mind.

Traumatized and Shocked

After about a month the therapist sent me to a clinic to get therapy with a psychologist. She asked how I was doing emotionally. “I feel very nervous,” I told her. “In the first few weeks I felt as if life were a dark crystal ball.” The trauma of what I’d been through and the shock of being moved to a new place was so much that I had a lot of difficulty talking clearly.  The therapist told me, “This is very important. Little by little you’ll go on letting out all that you feel.”

My Son Blamed Me

The hardest thing was that my son blamed me for separating from his father and leaving his father alone. It was hard to make him understand why we had to leave, even though he saw his father beating me. He was very small, and couldn’t make sense of the situation. I told him, “As you grow up, you’ll realize the separation was not my fault.” But he continued insisting that he wanted to return to his father. “My love, we can’t return,” I said. Other times I asked him, “Do you want him to keep mistreating me?” He told me, “No, Mama. He’ll change. He’s not bad. He’s not going to do anything to you.” I had to change the conversation. “Mi hijo, let’s talk about our new home. It’s very pretty here. They give us everything, they give us food, and I can take care of you better here.” My daughter said to me, “Yes, Mami, I like this house. Nobody yells at us, nobody tells us nothing.” “Yes, my love. We’re going to start a new life in this place where we’re treated well.”

As the days passed, I began feeling more tranquil, taking things more calmly. I gave a lot of attention to my son and treated him with love, and he began to feel better, too. The social workers and staff at the
shelter treated us well, but you know something? After we’d been there for a while I began to feel as if we were locked up in a jail. The rules were strict: nobody could visit our family, and when we went somewhere we had to say where we were going and when we’d be back. Plus, none of the children could walk alone through the hallways or get wild with each other. It was hard to live under so much control.

My ‘Mansion’ in the Bronx

Finally, after five months they moved me to my “mansion” in the Bronx, an apartment that has become my home sweet home. Only God knows why we succeeded just at the moment when it seemed like our nightmares would never end. I haven’t forgotten the past, but I’ve learned a lot about fighting to keep moving forward. Now nothing and no one will deter me from ensuring that my children and I are protected and surviving. My life has changed because now I feel free to make my own decisions and I am not under anyone’s control, not my ex-boyfriend’s and not the shelter’s. I am taking classes to learn English, and I am involved in an organization of parents who have united to improve the schools in my neighborhood in the Bronx. I have helped the community, and I’m active in my children’s education and growth.

‘I Am Free Now’

I also joined a group of parents who have been involved with the foster care system and are fighting to make sure parents are treated fairly. As part of my involvement in this group, I had the opportunity to write my story. Believe me, I never could have imagined myself seated in a chair in a writing group, telling the story of my life. Sometimes my daughter says to me, “Mama, why do you do so many things? You have us going to so many places with you!” I tell her, “My daughter, you have to come with me. I am free now, and I want you to be free to know the world.”

Source:- http://www.risemagazine.org/PDF/Rise_issue_6.pdf