Joan and the Scary Book

by Kathleen Hoy Foley

Image credit: Payton Tuttle on Unsplash

An assemblywoman

A hero in high heels and nail polish

A rock star among pinstripes and grey worsted

marching up to the podium

like she owned it

Woman In Hiding—my book—

clutched in her fist.

Assemblywoman Joan

a woman of power.

Prestige. Status.

My words in her voice

echoing into officialdom

FOR ALL TIME!

The bliss! The joy!

The Rapture!

18k gold on my bony fingers!

Peasants clean the halls of power

never get our voices heralded

there…

among the esteemed.

Oh, give me a moment lest I forget…

I was bred in the pews and confessionals

of the Catholic Church:

good fortune begets bad luck

It’s the law.

Misery was headed my way.

And it didn’t take long

before

Assemblywoman Joan turned feral

burned through her stateswoman’s facade,

slapped on the lead gloves

and pummeled my heart until it bled.

Seems book #2 was not received with

grace, decorum or even a yawn.

Apparently

Breaking Through Silence

lit Joan’s eyeballs on fire

attacked her hair with a flamethrower

and buzzed her knickers with fireworks

because

I posed a threat to her…to her family

to every driver on the roads and byways of New Jersey.

Out of nowhere

a stun gun to my skull

via a power elite.

Was I in danger

for writing an unflinching book—

evidently a scary book—

that displeased Assemblywoman Joan?

I was now a menace to society

because abuse trauma is so damn hard to manage?

Maybe.

Abuse trauma does not disappear

just because

a powerbroker commands it.

That’s the point.

Abuse trauma devastates everything it touches.

And it touches everything.

Abuse trauma is a bomb

wired to explode.

Atomic? Nuclear? Pipe? Cherry?

Does it matter?

Tick…tick…tick…

Breaking Through Silence—

a raw traverse through venom and fury,

the aftermath of the unspeakable,

was not the victory lap

through sexual healing

Assemblywoman Joan was expecting.

Where was the sex? she demanded.

Joan wanted boozy wine

and sizzling bedroom romance.

I gave her road rage.

(Page 60 for the curious.)

Breaking Through Silence was garbage!

And if I didn’t want my book back,

Assemblywoman Joan was going to burn it.

Presumably, she did.

How could I—

an invisible woman from the sticks,

an obscure, self-published

writer of indelicate matters—

have ignited a fuse

that detonated a firebomb

inside this politician’s heart?

Assemblywoman Joan—

her clout,

her considerable privileges,

her exalted success,

her power

intimidated me.

Erased my light

as if it never existed.

Somehow I—

wearer of Birkenstocks

author of an unpretentious book—

threatened Joan?

Was Breaking Through Silence that scary?

How could this be?

As it happens,

beyond the reach

of power and privilege

prestige and influence,

the hell already lived

survives.

Hearty and healthy.

Even within the body of a leader.

Anyone’s hell

abandoned to the winds of chance

breathes still

and waits

inside a simple book,

a humble word,

in the drop of an unexpected tear.

Anywhere its brutal cry for help

might be heard

by its host.

It is the violent ride of emotional carnage

left unattended.

A forever cry of fix me.

A scary book burned.

A scary book reduced to ashes.

But isn’t it fitting revenge

for a book that caused so much trouble.

I don’t know, though...

ashes do their own thing.

They bury secrets,

but not very well.

And weird stuff tends to rise up from them.

If I were you,

I wouldn’t trust ashes.

Just ask Joan.

***

Kathleen Hoy Foley

Through my writings, I bear witness to the unallowed truths of abuse trauma – my own and others. Exposing the invisible, elemental secrets of trauma allows for the possibility of seeing and understanding for both individuals and our culture.