A DIFFERENT KIND OF COURAGE

Trigger warning: this content contains references of domestic violence.

It was the summer of 1995. I was eleven years old, and I honestly don’t remember a whole lot about that year other than the O.J. Simpson trial had been going on all summer. It was also the last summer I got to spend with my younger brothers and really most of my father’s side of the family.

My parents divorced shortly after I was born. Contrary to a few opinions, no one had to convince me my father was a monster because it was his badge of honor. Every other weekend, he proved them right by himself.

Let’s go back to the summer of the O.J. trial.

I wasn’t a stranger to being fearful of my dad, but I was certainly a stranger to his physical abuse. I couldn’t tell you why he never hit me. However, as a 42-year-old woman, I can assume one of two things:

One, he was afraid of what my Daddy Arliss—my stepdad, although I’ve never called him that; —might do to him if he touched me.

Or two, my mama’s prayers of protection were over me each time I was with him. 

Frankly, I think it was a mixture of the two.

That particular day, I had spent most of my time outside with my younger brothers while my dad and stepmom, who also protected me as well as she could, stayed inside watching the O.J. trial.

The day was coming to an end. My stepmom had just finished cooking dinner. My father’s drink of choice that day was straight vodka, and judging by his speech and actions that night, I’d say he had been drinking it all day.

My stepmom was at the sink washing dishes. My father was sitting in a dining chair positioned in the middle of the kitchen with a half-gallon bottle of vodka beside him. My brothers and I were sitting on the living room floor with our plates and drinks that we had just been given. My dad believed we should finish all of our food before we got to have a drink, but that night was different.

Everything seemed to be going seemingly well.

Until it wasn’t.

My youngest brother accidentally knocked over his drink and spilled it on the floor.

My father launched out of his chair and, with all of his might, hit my little brother so hard that it threw him across the room.

I looked at my little brother.

Then, I looked at my other brother, who was bravely asking my father to stop hitting him.

I watched bravery leave my brother’s face and fear took its place.

My father decided it was okay to hit him too.

My stepmom was next. 

I stood there trembling.

And for the first time, I felt like it was about to be my turn.

In an instant, I stepped in and asked my father to stop.

He did.

He didn’t hit me.

Instead, he returned to his chair and asked me to come sit on his lap.

He started asking me questions.

“Do you love me?”

Fearfully, I said, “Yes, Daddy.”

“Do you love me more than your mom?”

Again, shaking, I said, “Yes, Daddy.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Do you want to live with us and your brothers?”

Crying and scared to death, I trembled, “Yes.”

“Good. Tomorrow we’re going to call your mom and tell her you aren’t going back to her house.”

Thirty years later, I can still feel the pit in my stomach and the fear in my chest when I think about believing I might never see my mama, Daddy Arliss, and my little brother again.

I don’t remember much else about that night other than I didn’t sleep a wink. I was filled with anxiety.

Little did I know, fight or flight was about to kick in.

The next morning, we went to my Granny Rose’s house to call my mom and tell her I wasn’t coming home.

I was terrified.

My granny kept reassuring me that everything was going to be okay.

You see, my father was nearly deaf. So when he asked my Granny to call my mom, she sat me on her lap and had me hold the phone to my ear with my left hand while she whispered into my right ear, “It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna take you to your mama.”

Time stood still until my mom answered the phone.

“Mama, I’m not coming home. I love my daddy more than you, and I want to live where my brothers are.”

My mom, on the other end of the line, simply said, “Baby, I’m coming to get you.”

The phone call seemed to be over as quickly as it started.

My granny looked at my dad and said, “Why don’t you leave Chauni here with me for a little while? I’ll bring her up to your house later.”

They hadn’t been out of the driveway very long when my Granny Rose called my mom. The two of them made a plan to meet each other and got me back to my mom.

My mom and I lived in Oklahoma, about five hours away.

I honestly don’t remember the trip to my mama. 

But I remember the conversation the second I got into the car with her.

“Mama, I’m so sorry. I promise I don’t love my daddy more than you. I promise I didn’t want to live with him.”

And then I did something I didn’t have a name for yet.

I made up a lie. A lie big enough that would keep me from ever having to see him again. 

I knew that if I told my mom this lie, there was no way she would send me back to his house.

So, I looked at my mom and just blurted it out. 

At eleven years old, that was my first instinct of survival.

I wasn’t trying to hurt him.

I wasn’t trying to punish him.

I wasn’t thinking about what would happen to anyone else.

I was terrified.

I was trying to get home.

And in that moment, telling my mom that lie felt like the only way I knew to make sure I would never have to go back.

When we got home my mom called my aunt, who was my dad’s sister, and my granny Rose to tell them what I had said.

I don’t think any of them really believed me. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t that.

But they knew exactly why I had said it.

A couple of years later, I admitted to my granny, my aunt, and my mom that I lied.

I told them the truth.

And this is the part that is difficult to explain unless you understand what was happening inside an eleven-year-old girl:

The accusation was false. The fear was not.

I really was afraid.

I really did believe I might never see my mom, Daddy Arliss, or my little brother again.

I really was desperate to get out.

And I really believed that saying those words was the safest way to make sure I never had to go back.

The lie wasn’t born out of revenge.

It was born out of fear.

It was born out of a child who had already learned that there were some things adults took seriously enough to remove you from danger.

And I knew exactly which words would make sure I stayed safe.

I knew it because I had lived through it before.

I knew it would work.

And it did.

It kept me from never having to return to my father’s house again.

Fight or flight is survival.

It is your body saying, Get safe. Do whatever you have to do. Protect yourself.

That summer I became hyperaware.

Independent.

Protective.

Quick to react.

Quick to fight.

Quick to run.

Quick to take control.

Some things I thought were personality traits were actually survival skills I learned as a little girl.

But survival and courage are not the same thing.

Survival taught me how to protect myself.

Courage taught me how to stop living as though I always had to.

Because eventually, I had to do something harder than survive.

I had to tell the truth.

And that, to me, is where bold and courageous begins.

Joshua 1:9 says, “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.”

For years, I read that verse like God was telling me to be tougher.

Now, I see it differently.

He wasn’t promising Joshua there would be nothing to fear.

He was reminding him that he would never face it alone.

And that has become a very different kind of courage for me.

I don’t have to manipulate every outcome so I can feel safe.

I don’t have to fight every battle.

I don’t have to run from every hard thing.

I don’t have to prove that I’m tough.

I can trust God.

And I can be afraid without believing fear has the final say. 

Looking back now, I don’t just see the frightened eleven-year-old girl.

I see a little girl who stepped between her father and her brothers while she was trembling.

I see a grandmother who quietly protected her.

I see a mother who came for her.

I see prayers that covered her when she didn’t even understand what prayer was doing.

And most of all, I see a God who was there before I ever knew how to call out His name.

That little girl learned how to survive.

The woman I am now has learned how to live courageously.

Not because I am fearless.

Not because I am always strong.

Not because I always know what happens next.

But because He is with me wherever I go, and I finally understand what it is to be strong and courageous.

CHAUNTELLE MAYBERRY