My Mama

My mama was raped.

She was a freshman in high school. Her time was spent hanging out with her friends, playing softball, studying for tests, and learning who she was as a person.

He was a middle-aged man teaching geometry and coaching track at a high school in Florida. His time was spent talking to students, hosting parties for the track team, and watching teenage girls walk down the hallways.

It was a normal day at school. My mama went to geometry class, as she did every day. She completed her class work, talked with friends, and probably flirted with a boy or two. The bell rang, and while the other students gathered their things and loitered in the hallways before their next class, my mama was asked to stay behind for a "quick chat".

He told her of the track team's success at the previous meet, which had taken place the night before. His pride had already planned a party to celebrate, and he wanted my mama to celebrate with him. All the best students were going to be there, and he considered her to be one of the best.

Being one of the best was enough for my mama.

She grew up in a home broken in all the ways you would not expect. Her eyes had captured the salty sight of tears in her own mother's eyes. Her nose had felt the burning stench of alcohol that was dispersed by her father's hug. Her parents had divorced when she was just a baby, but her brain learned the way of drugs by watching them both. Being one of the best was a privilege, something never experienced in her family.

Her heart fluttered as she accepted the invitation, popularity just in her reach.

He felt a flutter too, when she accepted the invite, but the flutter was not in his heart.

The last bell of the day rang, and my mama was the first one out of her desk. His address was smeared across her hand, and she could still make out the name of his street, which was all she needed. Excitement pulsed through her body, giving her such an energy boost that she was the first student to arrive at his house. She knew she was early, but her fist was rapping on his front door before she could stop herself. He opened the door and welcomed her in with a smile, a smile that she read as, "You're important to us!". She strutted inside with a smile of her own, a smile that screamed, "Thank you for wanting me!" If only they had communicated properly, she would've understood that their definitions of 'want' were not the same.

I know this won't seem true, but my mama was not a stupid girl. Yes, she did sit on his couch, believing that he was only setting up refreshments, and that her friends would soon join her at the party. However, it only took a few minutes for her to realize that she was not the first student to arrive at his house, but possibly the only student to arrive at his house.

Despite his reassuring promises of a full house, of an evening laced with laughter, a celebration worth remembering, my mama got nervous. Her excitement was soon overrun by fear, and her young mind began mapping out possible escape routes.

She was stuck in her own head, but a loud "click" brought my mama back to reality. Locking the door wasn't something you always had to do back in the 90's, not unless you were trying to keep the world out and something in. Her body froze, and her breathing quickened, as she knew all her escape routes had been blocked.

Within an hour, my mama went from being a teenage girl, desperate for some extra attention, to prey, desperate to escape the choke-hold of the predator she trusted.