 |
| Photo by Ian Pratt |
I pull up to the gates of the community to see a man pushing an empty shopping cart across the street. The security guard asks for my I.D. and checks it without making eye contact. Children play football in the fields next to the dumpsters overflowing with trash. I distinctly remember just one family. Just one girl. Her name is Raevin. Raevin is seven years old.
I usually avoid being in the projects just before sunset. But today, it is late in the afternoon, and I have decided to hang out with this family in their apartment. We are watching TV in the family room. Raevin is laying across the carpet. Her older brother, Keyshawn, is sitting cross-legged against the coffee table. Her mother waits on the only couch for her boyfriend to come home. I sit on the opposite side of the couch.
Typical of most children, Raevin asks to play a game on my phone. She giggles as she looks at the screen. I go over next to her to enjoy her innocent laughter. Unfortunately her glee derives from anything but proper. An older man is saying inappropriate things to her about his body. I grab the phone from her. It drops to the floor. When I reach for it, I unknowingly pick up a different phone. The screen is broken. I gasp out in frustration and feel a swell of anger arising before Raevin’s mother tells me it is not even mine. It is her phone. I feel a moment of relief, but it does not last long. I pick up my phone. Similar cracks all over the screen taunt me.
Raevin still wants to play a game. I finally agree, as I grow weary of her begging. Wanting to keep a watchful eye, I hold my phone for her this time. As we tinker with my phone, a drunken man from outside taunts a little girl about her missing finger. “Four Fingers! Four Fingers! What is ya momma gonna do with ya!? Four Fingers!” Her mom, although big and strong, helplessly stands next to her.
Hearing this harsh teasing, I know trouble is close. I head outside and walk toward my van with Raevin following right behind me. Infuriated with a knife in hand, her mother runs towards the drunken man. A clumsy throw misses him by a few feet. He escapes down the road.
Even more enraged, she turns around and looks directly at me. I feel like a new target as she runs towards me. When I realize the doors are locked, I panic. I race around the van, trying to beat the mother to unlock the doors. Raevin is trying to help me. I get her into the passenger seat and run around to the other side, but Raevin never unlocks it in time. My instincts tell me to run away from the van to get the mother off of my trail.
I finally get into my van and pull away as fast as I can. My hands are shaking as I try to grip the steering wheel. I look over to Raevin. She stares down at the ground. I ask her, “Are you okay, Raevin?” She nods as we drive away. My heart hurts for the shame I know she is feeling. As I am pulling out of the apartments, I wake up from this awful nightmare.
Laying in bed, my startled mind races about these situations Raevin and her friends face everyday. All I can think about are the children that are in abusive homes. These young and innocent children do not deserve to be treated this way. Unable to defend themselves, adults take advantage of these children as a pathway to release their own anger. This breaks me.
Today I realize that the Lord gave me this dream for a reason. I need to share this dream with others. My heart feels for these people. In the dream, the screen on my phone breaks. I realize that these cracks represent my heart breaking for what has already broken Raevin’s heart and so many others that are in abusive situations.
Edited by: Manya Makoski
