There’s nothing sweeter than the quiet moments, early in the morning, before Lettie awakens. Peaceful and serene. I have my routine – hot coffee, peanut butter on toast, and the paper. I’ve been circling help wanted ads. Daily, for months. One of these days something’s gotta come through for me. For us. Lettie’s counting on me.

Today, as I readied myself to sit down at the kitchen table, I saw Officer X’s face on the front page. Smiling, for the photo. Smirking, rather. He was promoted to Sergeant. His eyes still dark. His head still bald. I was immediately transported back to when we first met. I think of him as Damn Officer X. I’ll never forget the day be booked me. I’ll never forget the day I found the crumpled poem* in Lettie’s dresser drawer. Folded four times over, tightly, into a compact square. Bouncy to the touch, just like Lettie.

—

Lettie and I had gone on a drive. A short one, touring around town and some empty lots. Mainly just enjoying the fresh air. And each other. Teddy, Lettie’s favorite stuffed bear, came too. Best friends, they went everywhere together.

Sweet Lettie. I can still hear my daughter’s laughter. She was overcome by the rush of sweet, warm, wind-speckled air, the kind that kisses your face with pure happiness and grace, streaming through the side car window.  As we drove, Lettie held her beloved Teddy out the window, stretching as far as her pale, soft 5 year-arm could reach.  The pink thread the decorated the fabric of her new spring jacket danced in the wind.

“Teddy loves to fly”, Lettie sang. Her eyes lit brightly with glee. But then a speed bump jostled our old car and its rusty underbelly. Lettie’s cherished stuffed bear fell to the ground, as the car and the music carried on. My raging vocals and the rock n roll streaming at full volume from our radio, led to an unfortunate delay in my response.

“we was born“, “ livin on these backstreets“, “running – for our lives”, “always feeling defeat”, “livin”, “on fire”…. **

I never got the words quite right, or in the right order.  Like my choices, try as I might. Didn’t matter. Nothing, and no one, could stop me from trying. Or singing along with Bruce. Other than Lettie.

Oh, Lettie. As soon as the sound track faded, I heard her sweet cries for help. “Mama, Mama, we need to help Teddy…” Ever since Lettie was born, I promised to make her happy. We were determined to find Teddy.

We hadn’t gotten far, no more than a mile. We returned to the lot. Lettie hopped out of the car, then back in. Tiny little legs powered by love. Blue denim bottoms, frayed at the edges, masked the subtle shaking. Dark brown eyes betraying her positive stance. We were on a mission to find our missing Teddy.

I slowed to a mere crawl as we retraced our path in the lot, looking for the lost bear. Soon, the sheer adventure of the quest calmed little Lettie’s tears. A cop car approached. I thought the officer was coming to help, so I welcomed him with my usual grace and broad smile. Southern hospitality runs deep.

“Officer, Officer. Thank you, Sir. I hope you can help us. We lost a…,” I started, as I reached out my right hand to shake his.

But no. He cared only about his numbers and our lack of seat belt buckles.

 “Ma’m. I need to see your license. Now,” he cut me off. And ignored my outstretched arm.

“My license, why? Sir, we’re looking…,” I replied.

“Now,” he answered.

I complied. I always do. But didn’t yet fully understand what was happening. Despite our painfully slow and methodical crawl through an empty parking lot, Officer X saw no reason to be kind. Nor to explain.

He told me I’d be arrested, for failing to ensure my child was in a seat belt restraint.

“But, officer,” I pleaded, to no avail. 

“Open the door, and step outside. Slowly,” he commanded.

My face frozen in place in a state of disbelief, my legs shook like Lettie’s old baby rattles as I complied with his demands to exit the car. My insides withered. My faith shot. Now Lettie had real reasons to cry.

“Two hands on the car. Now,” he ordered. His hands traveled up and down my sides.

“Officer, please. My baby’s comfort bear. Her favorite… please. There’s no one around”

“M’am. It’s your lucky day. I’m right here. Charging you with a violation of Statute section 12-603.1…..”

“A charge, like for real?” I replied.

“Turn, now. Arms behind your back. You have the right….”

“Mama!!!”, Lettie wailed.

We would have slid backwards had I driven any slower. Damn. These backstreets are ours. No one else around. No one else cares. Other than the rigid officer. My begging made him cringe. Lettie hiccupped, then started to sob. Full throttle. Louder and louder. I thought my head might implode. Officer X started writing. Stopped. Looked through some spiral bound notebook. Then scribbled something I’d never get to see with my own two eyes on his notepad.

He never said a single word to Lettie. Nothing. He just let her cry, hysterically, while he tended to the details associated with my arrest. All done nonchalantly. Stoically, in fact. Just a normal day for Office X. His pen scratching judgment and ignorance across his official notebook.

When his heavy work boots and metal armor felt too close, too much, I looked down. I saw my tears drop, then hit, a discarded cigarette butt next to my big right toe. My toe was poking through my sandal. The bright red nail polish (Lettie applied it earlier that morning) clashed with my darkening mood. My tear left a slight blemish that darkened the hot concrete. For a moment. Then my impact faded. Not everything was out of sorts that day.

Angered that I let his presence shake me, I crushed the butt. But not my tears. Nor my fears. Man, this whole thing hit me like a rock. Hard. Deep in my gut. He booked me. Later, I kid you not, I was forced to plead guilty and had to pay a fee. We never found Teddy. Ask Lettie. “Desperation” – always hiding in my backyard. “Livin – barely – on the backstreets”, these backstreets. And now, the only music that follows me is the depressing tune of my off-key record.

–  – –

My coffee had gone cold. My mouth felt dry. My dog grabbed the toast. A confluence of dark memories clouding my thoughts. Lettie’s bedroom chatter brought me back. I can’t find myself a job – nothing – while he gets a promotion. Smirking all the while. And I’ll never be able to erase my booking, nor Lettie’s memory.

—

Love, Lettie*

My Mama was arrested

by an officer.

We call him Officer X.

I see him in my dreams,

even now. Five years later.

He’s tall. With dark eyes.

My Mama was arrested

while we searched

for my missing Teddy

in our backstreets.

I remember my trembles.

My fault. Not Mama’s.

I unbuckled my own restraint.

To find Teddy.

To stretch my neck 

out the window.

Mama talked fast.

Pleading to be heard.

Officer X heard nothing.

Not Mama. Not me.

I know the words now.

Terror. Desperation.

Defeat. Invisibility, too.

Like playing Hide n Seek,

a game I used to love.

Now hate.

Forever. Always. Daily.

Never seen.

Never found.

Always present.

Always invisible.

Even in our own backstreets.

Love, Lettie

* Found in Lettie’s dresser drawer 5 years after meeting Officer X

** Bruce Springsteen, ‘Backstreets’

Reborn (and Battle Scars)

I started journaling while stationed overseas. I penned haikus. Short, tiny bits of text. Daily snapshots in a world with no electricity. Perfect to fill our short, tiny bits of free time. I hid my work. Later, after Ron found my notebook, I shared.  At night. When we should have been sleeping.

I thought Ron, a fellow soldier, would laugh. All 6 feet, 5 inches of him stood still. Staring at the words on the yellowing lined pages. Instead, he cried. I watched. Frozen, first in fear, then disbelief. Ron’s eyes welled as he faced me. Silence. Turns out we all feel. Even those who act like nothing scares them.

My writing was hopeful back them. Now, it’s an outlet for darkness. “Let it out. Don’t hold back”, Sally (my therapist) urges. I comply. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Sometimes I wish it were harder.

11:12 AM: I use the same journal. Deep brown, worn leather. Frayed at the corners. I flip through, reading some recent poems.

Born and raised stateside.

Buddies. Fought hard. Overseas.

Strangers with no home.

—

Proud war veterans

Lost limbs.  Haunted dreams. Ignored.

No degrees. No jobs.

11:24 AM: Being out of work is rough. That’s why I’m back in school. VA benefits pay for my courses. Online. From my kitchen. Nobody sees my battle wounds.

When I was overseas, I’d write home. Over time, my letters got shorter. Then stopped. Words hurt. Waiting for responses even worse. Now, trying to erase all I’ve seen, I’ve lost my ability to write. Gone, like my former self.

“Write what you feel”, Sally advises. “Others understand.”

I try.

11:47 AM: My first assignment wants a bio. I start drafting.

11:48 AM: “Hi, I’m Dom”. Awful. “Hey, my name is Dominique Joseph and no, I don’t like DJ.” Worse. “Hello class, I’m Dominique, a Vet from Missouri.”

I keep trying.

The clock’s minute hand completes two full circles. When did everything become so hard?

1:52 PM: I try everything. Coffee doesn’t help. Springsteen on and the dial turned to the maximum only takes me back to a foreign land.  

“Born in the U.S.A.”*… most days I feel like a stranger in my “hometown jam”*. In my own body.

2:48 PM: A smoke outside gets me thinking. Just as dangerous as not. Maybe the doubters are right. My dog is more consistently productive than I am. Ah, Daisy. Needs a walk and food.

4:22 PM: Back at my kitchen table. Cold coffee and two more clock rotations. For my efforts? Nothing.

4:28 PM: Same story. Different place. “Nowhere to run. Nowhere to go” roars*. Spontaneous laughter. Drunk on caffeine, something clicks in my broken mind. Starting with nothing, I have nothing to lose. Cliché? Yep. Freeing? Oh, yeah.

4:30 PM: I start typing:

“Hi everyone. I’m Dominique (but call me Dom). Life hasn’t been easy. I figured I might as well share, as I really don’t know how not to. My past is as much a part of me as my present. I’ve made mistakes, but learned from them. I’ve served. Our country. Other ways, too. I’ve lost everything. I frazzle easily. My patience is gone. I struggle with trust. Despite everything, I’m still here. It’s a message, I’m sure. Going for my B.A in Human Services. I’m gonna give back and share what I’ve learned. For lost friends, like Ron. The bills, too. I need work. My life – no more cover-ups. Thanks for reading.”

4:42 PM: I pause. Glance at the clock. Woah. Ten minutes and over one-hundred words. My story. I clicked submit and my words reappeared in the classroom portal. I feel giddy and hopeful.

4:49 PM: A quick dance with my tiny pug. She’s my hero and I’m hers. Then, back to the books. Ready to tackle my next assignment.

4:59 PM: Elation is short-lived. Always.

No book. No readings. Another obstacle. Damn flashbacks don’t help, either.

Four steps. Stop. Smell air.

Burnt rubber. Bacon. Bodies.

Jumbled thoughts. Need help.

—

5:00 PM: At my last session, Sally reminded me to reach out. Ask instructors my questions. I try. Via email. This instructor’s name is Ashley.

5:02 PM: Email sent. “Ashley – Hey, it’s Dom. I need some help.”

5:16 PM: Nothing yet. Maybe it didn’t go through. “I’m one of your students. I’d really like a reply.”

5:54 PM: Losing my cool. “Ashley, what the heck is going on here, and why am I always assigned women instructors?”

6:58 PM: One more. “FedEx screwed up. The app scheduled delivery for 5:00. They left a note on my door at 3:00. I was walking Daisy. I have no book.”

10:15 PM: “Nvm my last email, the truck just left.”

11:00 PM: “Ma’m. I’m flippin mad. I ordered a new copy of our text. They sent a used copy. I’m afraid of germs. Can’t touch it. It’s going back.”

11:16 PM: “My head’s tired from the stress. I’m calling it a day.”

12:22 AM: “I can’t sleep. Darn PTSD. I’m sorry about what I said. I know it was wrong. I’m working to manage my emotions. Now, they manage me. Please bear with me. And please accept my apology.”

12:40 AM: “I know you don’t need another email, but the bookstore is sending me a new copy. Maybe there’s hope for me, after all. I’m going to take this as a positive sign. Good night.”

—

9:00 AM: Ashley hadn’t logged on since 5:00 PM the day before. Coffee brewed. The computer powered up. Log-in accepted. Emails loaded.

Easy, quick replies. Ashley confirmed receipt of a late submission. A yes to a student seeking a summer internship. Several questions about a project topic. One needed an extension.

Then, a whole bunch from one address, a new student. Teaching courses on criminal justice, Ashley was no stranger to emotionally charged discussions. Ashley scanned the emails, debating how to respond. Ultimately, Ashley saw an apology and, with that, inadvertently let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Another human facing demons no one should have to battle.

Ashley started typing.

9:14 AM: “Dom – Thanks for reaching out. Good news on the book delivery. There’s things in life both of us can’t change, it seems. I’m here to help. Best, Ashley”

Ashley paused, then typed once more

9:16 AM EST: “Dom – one more thing. Have you seen Gone With The Wind? As Scarlett O’Hara said, probably referencing Ashley Wilkes, “After all, tomorrow is another day.” Let’s make it the best we can. Ashley”

9:20 AM: Hey, Teach. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I do what I do sometimes.  I’m trying. I really am. Sometimes, my memories get the best of me. This class, this program – it’s my second chance. Going for another proud battle scar. My “another day”. Reborn. Right here. In the U.S.A. Online version. I don’t want to mess it up. Thanks again. And Ashley, you’ve got a cool name. Dom

*Bruce Springsteen, Born in the U.S.A.