9780982307403 by Gregrhi Arawn Love Page A
Authors: Gregrhi Arawn Love
Tags: Memoir, There Is An Urgency
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shit to me? Shit!” Bobby said triumphantly
as he paced in front of the door. The officers’ visit
had sobered him up, and his speech was clear and
condescending. “Baby, get my shit and cook us
up,” he ordered. Debbie moved quickly toward
the bedroom.
“You two go to yo room and play,” he instructed,
waving a burning cigarette at us. We got up
quickly. Bobby called Matthew over to him. I
walked into the hall and waited closest to the
edge, where I was out of sight of Bobby and
Matthew.
“You did a great job, son. I’m proud of you. Stay
out here with us. You can watch TV with us.” He
said cheerfully. I moved on down the hall to the
bedroom.
Several weeks later, the police returned,
accompanied by a social worker I had seen
before. They interviewed Debbie in the kitchen.
Debbie held Ruby in her arms to give the
appearance of being a loving mother. The police
158
walked through the apartment, inspecting each
room in turn from Ruby’s small, toy-filled room
to the bathroom. Matthew and I were
interviewed separately in our bedroom by the
social worker with a police officer standing guard.
She asked about the incident at the store, and I
repeated the story of the officers’ visit later that
same night. She asked about fighting with
Matthew and if anyone else ever hurt me. I told
her that the boys in the neighborhood often beat
me up and that Matthew and me fought all the
time: all things I had been coached to say. The
visitors left before Bobby came home, but when
he did arrive, Debbie told him what had
transpired. He was angry until he spoke with
Matthew and me and heard our versions of what
had happened and what we had said. He
dismissed me without comment but congratulated
Matthew and spoke of the pride he had for his
son.
159
It was March 20, 1979 when the police returned,
this time accompanied by more social workers.
Bobby and Debbie were both home. The social
worker who had interviewed us earlier explained
that they were temporarily taking Matthew out of
the house, as it had been determined that I was
unsafe with Matthew in the home. Upon hearing
their words, I collapsed into tears and frustration.
My grief was irrepressible. I begged them not to
take Matthew, but they all assured me it was for
only a little while. They promised I would be
back together with my brother in no time at all.
My crying and pleas got louder and more
incomprehensible. I couldn’t explain that what I
really wanted was to be taken away myself
without having to explain why. The social
workers and the police officers all tried to calm
me, but there was no consolation for the betrayal
I felt. The police, the social workers, and the
teachers at school: I was sure they all knew what
was happening, but they left me and took the
160
favored son away. I was more frightened than I
had ever been when the door finally closed and
Matthew was gone.
I ran to my room and closed the door. Collapsing
on my bed, I tried to stifle my tears, but they only
came harder. Debbie entered my room and sat
on the bed, rubbing my back. Her voice was
shaky, and her words were incongruous with her
quivering body. She tried to assure me, like the
police and the social workers, that everything was
going to be all right. The words only intensified
my fear, as I thought about being home alone
with Bobby.
The torment I feared never came. With Matthew
gone, it became apparent that there was no one
to blame for my disturbingly battered
appearance. The daily beatings ended
immediately. Bobby’s kindness that was so
frequently showered upon Matthew now
transferred to me. He brought me with him
everywhere he went, in and out of the Village.
161
One night we sang “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village
People over and over at the top of our voices as
we drove a stolen van to a drug buy. He sat me
on his lap and let me “steer” the giant vehicle on
the way to buy. Sitting in the van
as he paced in front of the door. The officers’ visit
had sobered him up, and his speech was clear and
condescending. “Baby, get my shit and cook us
up,” he ordered. Debbie moved quickly toward
the bedroom.
“You two go to yo room and play,” he instructed,
waving a burning cigarette at us. We got up
quickly. Bobby called Matthew over to him. I
walked into the hall and waited closest to the
edge, where I was out of sight of Bobby and
Matthew.
“You did a great job, son. I’m proud of you. Stay
out here with us. You can watch TV with us.” He
said cheerfully. I moved on down the hall to the
bedroom.
Several weeks later, the police returned,
accompanied by a social worker I had seen
before. They interviewed Debbie in the kitchen.
Debbie held Ruby in her arms to give the
appearance of being a loving mother. The police
158
walked through the apartment, inspecting each
room in turn from Ruby’s small, toy-filled room
to the bathroom. Matthew and I were
interviewed separately in our bedroom by the
social worker with a police officer standing guard.
She asked about the incident at the store, and I
repeated the story of the officers’ visit later that
same night. She asked about fighting with
Matthew and if anyone else ever hurt me. I told
her that the boys in the neighborhood often beat
me up and that Matthew and me fought all the
time: all things I had been coached to say. The
visitors left before Bobby came home, but when
he did arrive, Debbie told him what had
transpired. He was angry until he spoke with
Matthew and me and heard our versions of what
had happened and what we had said. He
dismissed me without comment but congratulated
Matthew and spoke of the pride he had for his
son.
159
It was March 20, 1979 when the police returned,
this time accompanied by more social workers.
Bobby and Debbie were both home. The social
worker who had interviewed us earlier explained
that they were temporarily taking Matthew out of
the house, as it had been determined that I was
unsafe with Matthew in the home. Upon hearing
their words, I collapsed into tears and frustration.
My grief was irrepressible. I begged them not to
take Matthew, but they all assured me it was for
only a little while. They promised I would be
back together with my brother in no time at all.
My crying and pleas got louder and more
incomprehensible. I couldn’t explain that what I
really wanted was to be taken away myself
without having to explain why. The social
workers and the police officers all tried to calm
me, but there was no consolation for the betrayal
I felt. The police, the social workers, and the
teachers at school: I was sure they all knew what
was happening, but they left me and took the
160
favored son away. I was more frightened than I
had ever been when the door finally closed and
Matthew was gone.
I ran to my room and closed the door. Collapsing
on my bed, I tried to stifle my tears, but they only
came harder. Debbie entered my room and sat
on the bed, rubbing my back. Her voice was
shaky, and her words were incongruous with her
quivering body. She tried to assure me, like the
police and the social workers, that everything was
going to be all right. The words only intensified
my fear, as I thought about being home alone
with Bobby.
The torment I feared never came. With Matthew
gone, it became apparent that there was no one
to blame for my disturbingly battered
appearance. The daily beatings ended
immediately. Bobby’s kindness that was so
frequently showered upon Matthew now
transferred to me. He brought me with him
everywhere he went, in and out of the Village.
161
One night we sang “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village
People over and over at the top of our voices as
we drove a stolen van to a drug buy. He sat me
on his lap and let me “steer” the giant vehicle on
the way to buy. Sitting in the van
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