Surviving the Silence: Black Women's Stories of Rape by Charlotte Pierce-Baker

From the Publisher

It opens with the author's harrowing and courageous account of her rape and includes the stories of the author's own family's response, plus the voices of black men who have supported rape survivors.

The Women's Review of Books - Linda M. Williams

[The book conveys] the damage wrought by [black rape victims'] silence...and should be read by anyone who cares about women and rape....[M]akes a major contribution to a literature that is devoid of research on or detailed accounts of the [womens'] experiences....[The stories] tell of survival.

The Women's Review of Books - Linda M. Williams

[The book conveys] the damage wrought by [black rape victims'] silence...and should be read by anyone who cares about women and rape....[M]akes a major contribution to a literature that is devoid of research on or detailed accounts of the [womens'] experiences....[The stories] tell of survival.

Kirkus Reviews

A haunting collection of potent first-person narratives. Herself a rape victim, Pierce-Baker discloses the intimate details of her rape experience, along with those of ten other African-American women. Each of the accounts is singularly harrowing. While Pierce-Baker was raped and sodomized by two men who broke into her home and proceeded to burglarize it in the presence of her husband and son, other stories tell of rapes by relatives, acquaintances, and dates, as well as by strangers. Despite the wide variation in circumstances and ages (the youngest victim was four), certain recurrent responses emerge. The lives of rape victims are almost always thrust into havoc. Many of the women drop out of school or the work force, plunging into deep depression and avoiding social contact, especially with men. Sexual involvement, even with loving partners, is often shunned. As black females, many of the victims are unwilling to speak out against their black perpetrators; they don't wish to further demonize the black man in a society deemed racist; as a result, the women feel powerless. And while many black women who do speak out don't trust the judicial system to take them seriously, this is especially true in the case of women who have been raped by dates or acquaintances. Eighteen-year-old Grace, for example, who was raped by an acquaintance when she was fifteen, explains that she hesitated to share her experiences with anyone because she feared that "they would say it was my fault for not speaking up louder or for not kicking or punching him in the face." What does help each of the survivors, and particularly the author, is the act of disclosure. Sharing their stories is often the beginning ofhealing. Supplementing the women's narratives with the voices of five sympathetic black men, including her father and son, Pierce-Baker presents an honest and moving portrait of a painful subject too often closeted.

Product Details

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Table of Contents

Read a Sample Chapter

Chapter One

A WOUND
TO THE SOUL

I just lay there, in the early morning light wondering where God had been last night.

—P. J. Gibson, "Masks, Circles: Healing the Pain"

On September 6, 1981, the evening of a gorgeous late summer—early fall day, the kind with winds that catch ceiling-high curtains and whip them gently against the window sills, I was raped. Horrors occurred in a house that only hours before rang with the giggles and laughter from my own child and other neighborhood children. My husband and child were in that house. The violations, humiliation, and wounds of that day changed me and the course of my life. It changed all of us.

    With the sun high and the breeze in our faces, my husband David (a pseudonym) and I relaxed in conversation at the kitchen table, watching our nine-year-old, passionately playful son, Matthew (a pseudonym), run in and out of the back door playing "catch me if you can" with his best friends. We scanned the local newspapers for good Labor Day sales. We tore out an ad for a microwave at a super low price, and we planned to buy it the next day. We felt pleased with ourselves for holding out for the right time. A microwave would give our son, Matthew, a sense of independence—he could "cook up a pizza" whenever he wanted. And so we sat and talked, not concerned about dinner, which we always prepared together on weekends. It felt good sitting there enjoying the warm breeze, with no pressing agenda and nothing immediate to worry about. We neverpurchased the microwave oven.

    As the light in the sky began to fade and the air to cool, we turned our attention to dinner. There must be something in the freezer we could scare into a decent meal. The freezer was in the basement. As I got halfway down the stairs, a chill swept over me—yet there was no window open. I stopped. I was afraid—but of what? With great haste and determination, I crossed to the other side of the basement, opened the freezer door, snatched out three fancy, gourmet dinners, quickly ran back up the stairs, latched the door, and picked up our conversation where I'd left off. I didn't mention that queer sensation I felt in the basement. I convinced myself that my fears were "childish." Even today I wonder if things might have been different if I had listened to my instincts. Told my husband of the strange chill in the air. I wonder how long he had been waiting down there?

    We ate dinner and then began Matthew's preparations for his first day of school in fourth grade. The beginning of a new school year signaled, of course, the end of summer. And Matthew was reluctant to return after spending a week with indulgent grandparents.

    As I write this, I remember how the light in the evenings shifted that time of year. The air always had a touch of crisp promise. I now bristle when the light in the sky begins its seasonal changes and I hear the song of geese.

    Finally, with clothes laid out, plans made for pickup on Tuesday, David and I discussed what our full schedules would look like for the next couple of weeks. And then, Matt was in bed. Asleep? We could never be sure. Matt was a thinker even as a small child. He would spend hours planning his next super-hero feat to be executed with his best friend, Jimmy. David and I settled down about 11 P.M. for the late news, sleepy and content from the day's relaxation, enjoying the comfort of being home together.

    Nodding in and out of the late-night sports coverage on the sofa of our second-floor family room, we both jolted to the sound of a loud crash—no, a blunt thud—like body against wood. We were on our feet in an instant. At that moment I knew the meaning of the word "nonsense." We had already locked up. The winds had calmed. We exchanged glances. David went to the hallway to listen. "Check Matt," he said. I headed for the third floor where our son slept. Perhaps he had fallen out of bed? Without my knowing, David headed for the first floor.

    Matt was sound asleep—or pretended to be. But when I returned again to the second floor to make my report to David, he was nowhere to be found. It was now extremely quiet. I called to David. No reply. As my adrenaline pumped, my ears and neck began to burn; I could hear my head pounding. Something was not right; I just knew it. The lower half of my body became too heavy to move. I called to David again. This time, his voice returned. Weird, calm, almost matter-of-fact, he said: "There is someone in the house. Don't do anything. He's got a gun." This only happened in movies. His words couldn't be true. Should I push the alarm panic button? I suddenly couldn't remember whether it would sound aloud or silently. I couldn't remember anything. I couldn't think. So---I just listened. At that moment my mind went on vacation, my body on automatic pilot. I listened for orders—for directions. Anything to make me move.

    In the midst of my mind sorting, I heard a second voice—not my husband's—and then I knew that this whatever "this" was—was real. Options? Strategies? A plan? All I could think of was, "I don't want to die. "I heard a voice say: "Get down here, bitch, and open this door." He meant the front door. I could see it from the top of the stairs where I had been standing—where I had been waiting, it seemed, forever. Then I saw him. He had a gun at the base of David's head. With the gun he pushed David along the downstairs hallway as he shouted obscenities at me. He glanced upward from time to time, ordering: "Get down here and open the fucking door."

    My mind tried desperately to make sense of chaos. Where had he come from? How did he get in? What had been the loud noise we heard only a few minutes earlier? Did we forget to put on the alarm before coming upstairs? How thoughtless. And then I looked to the front door and saw that the red light was illuminated. The alarm was on. How did he get in? I deliberately, carefully walked down the stairs as ordered—head erect, eyes half closed—feeling with the toe of my sneakers the turn of each step. I was carrying the alarm keys in my hand. As I made my descent, David kept repeating, "Don't do anything. Just come down and do what he says." The voice said: "I'll kill him, bitch, if you try anything." The intruder seemed agitated, and I definitely did not want to make him more nervous. I remember thinking to myself, "If I walk slowly, it will calm him. "As I approached the bottom of the staircase, I kept my eyes narrowed so I wouldn't fall. I kept repeating slowly, calmly, and (I think) loudly, the mantra pounded in my head, "I can't see you. My eyes are closed. I can't see you. I'm coming to open the door. Don't hurt us. I can't see you." I could see everything.

    When I got to the bottom of the stairs in the hallway, the man pushed David to the floor and put the gun in my back nudging my unwilling body along to the front door. "Open it and the alarm better not go off or I'll blow your brains out," he threatened. When David tried to speak consoling words, the man kicked him twice in the face. "Shut the fuck up," he said. I shakily and hurriedly began to disarm the alarm and open the front door, thinking that the intruder must want to get out after gaining access. I must get him out as quickly as possible. Did I think he had gotten into the wrong house? Somehow I managed to delude myself that he had. With quivering fingers I worked assiduously to unlock the two locks. I never screamed. Time slowed, and the instant the door parted from its hinges, it was forced inward, knocking me to the side. I saw another face—the second man. He was much darker of complexion, stocky, with a black knit watchcap covering his hair. He shoved past me into the hallway. It was then that I realized two things: our porch light was not on, and this was not the end.

    The mayhem began. Scuffling, shouting, pushing, confusion—orders, obscenities spat in our faces. Do this. Do that. "Stand still, bitch." "Motherfucker if you want to live, you better shut the fuck up." Still Matthew had not appeared. One of the two men asked if there was anyone else in the house. Should I lie? Finally, I said our son was sleeping. "Get him down here!" they ordered. "Please," I begged, "please, don't bother our son." They talked over each other. Loud, obscene voices. Shh-shh-shh ... you'll wake him. They rustled about, looking for what was not there. "Where's the money? Where's the safe? They said you had a safe. Where's the safe?" The gun was waving about my face. I said softly, "There is no safe." A safe? And who are "they"? "There is no money." And I got louder, "Take what you see and get out. We don't have anything. We don't keep money in the house." Then one man spoke up again, pointing at me: "Get the boy down here."

    They shouted orders to one another. The first guy in the house was clearly in command. One man even called the other by name. Remember the name. You might need to know it. Remember the name. I still, to this day, can't be sure of the name I heard that night. But I remember thinking it was such a soft-sounding name for someone so brutal, like Billy or Jimmy or Bobby. It was the name of someone I knew—and liked.

    Prompting us with his gun, one of the men told David and me to lie face down in the hallway. Without questioning we immediately did as we were told. David and I couldn't see each other, but I knew my husband was there. I could feel his presence. I gazed upward, and then I saw Matt. He was leaning over the third-floor banister in his two-piece, colorful super-hero pajamas, quietly watching and listening. He said nothing. He just stared. He looked so small. It was eerie. Now I know why in the movies at moments of trauma, filmmakers use slow motion for effect. Our world slowed down to almost stopping. Every gesture, every shift of the eye registered.

    As the first man ran up the stairs toward my son, I reached out my hand and said, "Come down, honey. It's okay. Come down and get on the floor here with Mom. It's okay." What a lie. All of it. I pleaded with the two men not to hurt him: "He's only a kid." One guy, the thinner one—the one with the gun, the first one to smash through the basement door into our first-floor hallway—met Matt at the top of the stairs. They disappeared for a few moments. Oh God. Don't let them hurt him. And then they reappeared—just a couple of minutes later. As they descended the stairs that night, I saw only my son, one step then another step, then another—even though one of the men was at his side. So slow. Was his hand on my child? Please don't let him touch my child. Not even his arm! I held Matt's eyes with my own; I didn't want him to be afraid. I knew my own fear. I wanted it to be enough for the two of us. I wanted him to believe—however falsely—that I could protect him, that I could make it all all right. It took forever for him to reach my arms; it felt as if someone or something might snatch him before he made it. When Matt got to the bottom of the stairs, I pulled him to me, brought him to the floor and held him close, whispering comforting sounds—as if my nine-year-old son were a baby. But at that moment, he was my baby.

    The two men proceeded to search the house. They rummaged through closets and bureaus, boxes and desk drawers. They took the diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band off my second finger, left hand. It was the most beautiful diamond I'd ever seen. Not big; just right. I remember it caught the laser beam at the museum and sent blue prisms dancing about the walls. I remember the Christmas David gave it to me. Later they robbed me of the thin gold neck chain I wore—another gift from David. They were ever so careful as they unlatched it. I later learned that they could sell the chain more easily if it were unbroken. They did not take David's wedding band. Strange. More shouting, running, frantic movements. I've not worn a diamond since.

    I now know that I was in shock throughout the trauma of that evening. But I do remember trying with great effort to overcome my chilling fear and to make myself remember everything for later—and then promptly forgetting everything. A self-silencing. It has taken me years to reconstruct situations and sequencing from that night. It has taken me years to learn again how to focus, how to concentrate, how not to let my mind wander. I remember that night making myself try to remember the names I had heard. I must remember. I must remember everything. What I did remember well at the end of the evening was the face and shape and feel of the body of the first man. I knew his approximate age from the smoothness of his body against my own. I remember being surprised. How could such a young man be so cruel? And I remembered the peculiar smell of the second. That smell lingered in my clothes, on my body, in my hair—a sour mixture of old vomit and cheap dead cigars.

    The first man ordered my husband to the second floor with his partner. Matt and I were left on the first floor in the living room. I had no idea what was to happen next. The mind protects. I shivered as I crouched on our new, gorgeous, rust-colored velveteen sofa. We had loved it on sight. We had not bought a new sofa since we were first married fourteen years before. We had just finished paying for it. And there we sat, Matt and I, huddling for warmth on a pleasant September evening as if we had been abandoned on a tundra. I could feel the almost imperceptible quivering of his slight body next to mine. He seemed so tiny, so fragile. My heart pounded for us both.

    The first man began to hurl the same questions again. "Where's the money? Where's the safe? Where're the valuables?" There were none, I said, over and over. I told him that I did have silver flatware—a wedding gift—in the dining room. I told him I had "good dishes" (china) and some "good sterling", but that was all. "Take anything. Take it all. Just don't hurt us." And his refrain: "Shut up, bitch." After some time, the second man rejoined his partner on the first floor. They moved hurriedly through the rooms of the dimly lit house searching for loot. David had not returned; he was nowhere in sight. I couldn't even hear him, but my mind did not allow me to think of anything horrible. I knew I had Matthew with me; and if they intended to hurt him, they had to hurt me first. I knew I had to get through the next minute, and then the next ... and then the next.

    The two men appeared and stood before Matt and me on the sofa. They exchanged whispered words, snatched a small goat-skin rug from the floor, tossed it behind the sofa and ordered Matt onto the rug: "Lie down, and be quiet." They were going to take him from me! NO. I wouldn't permit it—somehow. NO. You cannot have him. At this point I thought we were going to be shot. I held Matthew tightly and possessively as he wiggled about; I wanted him to be in my arms when they killed him. I also knew I did not want him to see my death. If we were to die, we would die together. Perhaps if I hold him, it will hurt less, I thought. He won't be alone. They were insistent. "Get on the rug." They tried to pull him from me. Matt and I clung.

    My mind and body split; my gut knew that something terrible was about to happen. My mind just didn't let the rest of me in on it. But I felt Matt had a chance of surviving if he could get out of that room. He could not be a part of "it," whatever "it" was. Again I gripped him tightly; I lied hysterically, "He's a problem. He'll scream and make noise if he's alone. You don't want that, do you? Someone might hear him yelling. And that would be terrible. The police might come." Please let someone hear. I begged them to take Matt upstairs with his father. For whatever reason, they did. A blessing. The short, darker man took my son to the second floor. I watched Matt slowly ascend. And then ... I was totally alone ... with a stranger in my own home. And then began the humiliations: the groping and raping and shoving, oral penetration, and repeated attempts at sodomy. And my son might have been there.

    The thin man, the first one to break through our basement door, shoved his gun in my face and threatened: "Take off all your clothes." I remember exactly what I was wearing that evening. White jeans and a bright aqua tee shirt. I liked the outfit. "Will you leave us alone, if I do that?" "Yeah," he said. "You promise you won't hurt us?" "Yeah," he repeated. I believed him. Undressing quickly, I felt relieved that it would soon all be over. I only had to undress. Why ever would I believe someone like this? I needed to believe. As I undressed, I remember carefully taking off my sanitary napkin and shoving it under the cushion of the white mock-leather chair in our living room, wondering all the while if the blood would stain the fabric underneath. I've never been sure why I hid the napkin. In trauma, one tends to regress to earlier taboos. Perhaps to hide the blood. The gun-wielding first man then said to me, "Now be quiet."

    And then on my newly purchased, recently paid for, gorgeous velveteen sofa, I was raped and fondled, handled and humiliated. All with a cocked revolver pounding at my temple. I remember hearing the click of the hammer cocking into place. Ready. I've never been sure why it never fired. Tears burned inside as he pushed and manipulated me as if I were a slab of meat. He whispered obscenities, and "Move, bitch, move." He kept warning me, "Don't yell. Don't make a sound. You don't want your husband to know that you are doing this, do you?" As if it were my choice. With the gun at my head, I whispered, "No." I promised to be quiet. I could see the streetlight through the shutters at the living room window. I tranced. I tried to think of other things. Let my mind drift to other places. I remember the blunt sound of rhythmic thumping as my head repeatedly hit the end of the sofa. And ... I remember the slicing pain between my legs. Wherever Matt and David were, I didn't want them to know that this was happening in our home. Please—let it end.

    But there was a second part to the evening. The short stocky, somewhat older second man reappeared with that awful, sickening odor. The two men exchanged places. The second man had a knife quickly at my throat and held it there as he pushed me to my knees. I knew; and immediately a dizzying wave of nausea engulfed me. This can't be happening. What will I do now? I'll be killed—I can't do this. He ordered: "Open your mouth—wide." I did. I retched. I can't do this. I screamed inside. "I'm going to throw up," I said. I felt the knife push harder against my throat. "Do it. I dare you to throw up." A nightmare's nightmare. Each time I gagged, I was reminded with the tip of the knife. I don't know if he ever ejaculated. At that point I could feel nothing. I was nothing. His partner returned aggravated, chiding, "Hurry up. What's taking you so long? It's getting late." The corners of my mouth hurt.

    I remember it all. But it took many years before I knew that none of it was my fault, that I was not paying for some past sin. That it was all right to be alive.

    Afterward, I was told to hurry up and get dressed. "Don't say anything to anyone." I obeyed quickly, leaving the sanitary napkin under the cushion. My husband was to know nothing. The one man said again, "You wouldn't want your husband to know what you were doing down here, would you?" I only knew that David would go crazy, and I was afraid of what he might try to do. I was then shoved up the stairs where I discovered that Matt and David were together, but tied up—David with heavy cord and Matthew with gift-wrapping yarn, faceup on our king-sized bed. I found out later that the men had told my husband I had been tied up in the next room. David's mind, he told me later, had not let him entertain any thoughts of further violence. Me—they hog-tied with white stereo wire, pulled tight. They put me on the same bed with David and Matt, face down. Perhaps this position was reserved for the woman of the house. I said nothing of the downstairs horrors. I had vowed silence.

    They covered us with the bedspread so that we could no longer see. But since I was lying face down, there was a space at the end of the spread that allowed me to follow the movements of the men about the room. We were all tied up in the main bedroom, and that's where they found our ATM (automatic teller machine) card. And under the press of the revolver at his head David was coerced to give our personal identification number (PIN) to use in the machine. One man kept watch over us while the other left the house in search of money. It was a long time before he returned. When he did—cash in hand—they began to ruthlessly grab at things, swiping the tops of dressers and tables—jewelry, TVs, medicines, radios, whatever was not pinned down. They ripped the stereo from its wall wiring. One emptied a bottle of aspirin into his mouth. They even took clothes, coats, shoes. "What size do you wear?" my husband was asked. They took everything away in boxes and in our suitcases. I remember the sound of dragging cardboard over hardwood floors. I also remember that my two suitcases were yellow. Gifts from David after an illness. Later, I only allowed myself to miss things as I looked for them and couldn't find them.

    Under the bedspread—I was thankful we had not been separated—David continuously whispered to me and Matthew as the men wildly ran about thrashing through our personal belongings and trashing the bits of our lives. Matt was extremely quiet. (I had no idea that he was planning, as he told me later, in one of his supe-rhero fantasies what he would do when the men left.) David was softly encouraging, "Be calm. Breathe deeply. Think of someplace else." My hands and feet began to tingle and go numb. The wires were so tight. "Wiggle your toes and fingers. Keep the blood circulating," he told me. He helped us to pray quietly. With the fear, the heat, and numbness setting in, I began to feel panic. My first "feelings" since my arrival upstairs. Whenever the men heard us talking, they pounded the bedspread, not caring what they hit, "Shut the fuck up!" David would stop a few moments, and then begin again his litany of comfort, checking on each of us, not waiting for answers. "Speak to me. How are you feeling? Stay calm. Matt, can you hear me? Keep breathing—deeply." And when he heard our deep, labored breaths, he said, "That's it. That's good." And then he began to pray. I'd never heard David pray aloud. "`Our Father, who art in Heaven, ...'" I can still feel the soothing of his voice.

    I remember the eerie calm that came over the room. I knew the next sound would be a gunshot. I prayed that Matthew be taken away first. That way, he would not for an instant have to deal with the murder of his parents. I knew we were going to die. It was only a matter of the order in which each of us would be killed. Why would they let us live after all they had done? Did they really believe I would not tell my husband I had been raped and sexually abused? Did they really believe we hadn't seen their faces? Even now, thirteen years later, it is difficult to say I was raped and that my husband and child were there. It still hurts so badly. Did they think we would just become another black-on-black statistic? I have no idea why they didn't kill all of us. I have always been amazed.

    We all heard what we thought was a final slamming of the front door. After waiting an interminable amount of time, we cautiously emerged from under the bedspread. The house was in darkness. Matt had freed his feet from the soft yarn and was outwardly calm. He dashed downstairs—in super-hero fashion—to get a knife from the kitchen. By the time he returned, David had white wire covering embedded between his front teeth from biting away at the stereo wire on my hands and ankles. With the knife, Matt proudly freed his father's hands, and David sawed through my wires. He then called the police and went from room to room relighting our house. We waited at the front door for their arrival as if we were about to receive guests. When the lights came back on, I remember seeing the ojo de Dios ("eye of God") weaving we purchased in New Mexico that dominated our upstairs hallway. I wondered if it had saved us.

    The flashing lights of the patrol cars appeared quickly in the silence of the night. Then once again our home was contaminated with more boisterously loud voices and the thud of heavy feet. This time with mostly white male faces and swaggering bodies prying into our personal lives. I remember the glib, "Boy, you sure were lucky." I guess that meant because we were alive. Our home teemed with police and detectives. It reeked of the already stale smells of violence.

    When I realized the police squad was about to leave, I thought they should know there had been more than a burglary. With reluctance and trepidation, I pulled David aside and told him—the first time I'd said the words—"They raped me." I hated doing that. Our home and family had already been violated. And now there was more. David looked stunned, but immediately reported the news to the police, and their departure was delayed with further questioning. One policeman seemed vaguely amused by this new information. Reaching for the telephone, with an enigmatic smile he commented offhandedly, "Then I guess we'll be needing the Sex Crimes Unit." David never flinched at my revelation. He merely held my face with his hand and said, "I loved you before, I love you now, I'll love you forever." That was it. With a look of "nothingness" on his face, he turned toward the noise of police leaving.

We left the house also, but our evening continued. I was taken to Episcopal Hospital for medical treatment and then to police headquarters. Matthew asked to stay with his best friend next door. They had stories to swap.

    In the weeks immediately following the rapes, I often thought, "Why didn't someone send me flowers?" For some reason, I had needed flowers—lots of flowers. I kept waiting.

    The "incident of 1981," as we often refer to it, almost cost us the trust and equilibrium of a son—our only child—and of our marriage. It was a long time before I understood what havoc the rapes and our silence and silencing had wrought. Since that time in 1981, I have learned a great deal about the give-and-take of love.

    In September 1989—eight years after the rapes—I wrote the following words in my journal:

... I can now feel the smoothing out of the ragged edges, and I now have a sense of wholeness and of possibility slowly returning. And I am excited (and scared) about what lies before me, now that there is a glimmer of light. I don't know what's lurking in the darkness of my own creation. I have been silent for so long, I only know the sound and feel of fear. I will never forget. And I will forever move with a new caution and a restraint of feeling....