Today

I think of all the men I know who have been kind to me, who have been good to me. Men who like me, love me, whether they’ve ever said the words or not. If they haven’t, I hope one day soon, they will. Those are words I need to hear right now. Men who are and have been friends, lovers, companions and others. Partners of all kinds, from domestic to creative to sexual. I think about all the times I have cried on manly, broad shoulders, releasing my anguish. I recall all the men who came to me when I called, or even when I didn’t. I think about those who have physically removed me from harm’s way, carrying me to safety on their shoulders. The ones who visited me when I was utterly despondent, ensuring that I was safe and sound. I remember those who have loved on me emotionally, spiritually, psychologically, and even physically. I think of men friends who do not have a daily presence in my life, but would come to my side without hesitation if I indicated that I needed them. I see their faces, their eyes, their smiles. I thank them. I appreciate them. I love them all, individually and collectively. I firmly anchor them in my memory, so that when my rage spews forth, I can use precise language to expound upon my hatred of men who bully, hurt and harm women. I want to be clear as I make note of everything I am seeing, hearing, feeling, experiencing right now. And those men, those honorable men, deserve precise language from me. It is the least I can do to honor the goodness they have brought, and continue to bring, to my life.

I am at 500 North Calvert Street with my daughter. She and I are requesting orders of protection against her father. He has always been the classic textbook deadbeat dad – absent financially, emotionally, and every other way a parent can be absent from their child’s life. On the few rare occasions when he has attempted to be in her life, he has damaged her, almost irreparably it seems – damage she is trying to work through with therapists and counseling. He has made horribly disparaging comments about her weight, her looks, her demeanor, and has said even more horrific things about her that I won’t get into here. But imagine the worst, multiply it by a thousand, add three, and you would be in the general ballpark of how foul he has been when interacting with her. I used be one of those women who felt it was entirely my fault that my daughter’s father was so awful. I was one of those women who believed in the “you should have chosen better” mantra. I don’t anymore. I was no more ready for parenthood than he when I got pregnant. I was a pretty, juicy, well-built party girl whose weekends began on Wednesdays and lasted until Sunday. I lived for music, dancing, drinking and being out and about. I was not ready to be a mother at all. But guess what? When my daughter arrived, I changed my life so I could be the mother she needed. He was supposed to do the same – change his life in whatever way he needed to in order to be a father. He didn’t do that. His decision to not do that is in no way my responsibility. Period.

My daughter has always had conflicted feelings about her dad. As she has become an adult, I’ve encouraged her to not feel that she “owes” him an opportunity to re-enter her life. As an adult she has every right to keep him out ofher life if that is what she wants. Or needs. And I think it is what would be best for her. But I cannot make the choice for her. She has always held out hope that things might get better between them. So when he has made his awkward attempts to speak to her, she has always received him, despite my warnings. Then he would inevitably hurt her beyond all reasoning, and she would run away, to me, to start trying to heal. Again.

For the past four days, he has come to my door, knocking and ringing my bell, asking to see my daughter. The first two days he knocked, a Saturday and a Sunday, I was not at home, but saw his face on the video camera in my doorbell, and I immediately became engraged. My neighbor immediately called me to let me know he was at the door. My daughter did not answer the door. On Monday, when he knocked, I answered. When he asked to speak to my daughter, I called her to the door. I told her that while she might want to try to reconcile with her dad (again!), she could not do it here. I did not want him at my door again, and I expected her to tell him this. She did not want to see him, but did not want to cause a scene, so she asked to his cell phone number, and gave hers. A few minutes later she was on the phone with him. I could hear him breaking her heart again, and I turned away, hoping maybe this time she would learn the lesson and take it to heart.

Eventually she came to me, saying she’d told him she didn’t want to speak to him anymore, and told him not to contact her anymore. She said she would reach out if, or when, she was ready. But by the next day, today, he was back at my door. I told him to leave. He said he had every right to be at the door because his daughter was in my house. I told him to leave, that she did not want to talk to him, and if he did not, I would call the police.

That’s when the threats began. He started getting loud. Trying to scare me. Threatening to kill me. To kill my daughter. To have us beat up. To key my car. To have his “home girls” fuck me up. Saying I better watch my back. I yelled back that I didn’t give a fuck about him or his threats, and that he didn’t have anyone who gave enough of a shit about him to fuck with me on his behalf. (To be clear, I said none of this as politely as I am describing it here. I am a foul-mouthed and supremely vulgar when I get angry. #VirgoShit)

I told my daughter to call the police. As she picked up her phone, she found him on the line, making more threats, saying he didn’t care about going to jail and this and that. Real ‘ra-ra shit’ as they say. She hung up, and I told her again to call the police. That she needed to finally stand up for herself. So she did. Four masked officers quickly came to my home, and on my front porch (because COVID) we filled out the necessary paperwork to start the process of getting orders of protection against him for me and my daughter. We drove down to 500 North Calvert Street to finish the process, and left with temporary orders of protection for me and for her.

This is not my first visit to 500 North Calvert Street. Two years or so ago I was here, doing this exact same thing, because my ex had decided to start stalking me, threatening to set my house on fire and leaving a big red can of gasoline on my back porch to make his point. I remember how afraid I was that I would not be able to protect myself, my family, from him. I remembered my relief when they arrested him, and when the process finally played itself out in court. Once I had the final order of protection, I was able to get a big discount on the ADT alarm system I purchased for my house. When the technician came to install it, I had to show him my final order of protection to get the discount. He flipped through the pages, saying “restraining order huh? Stalking?” He looked back at me, looking me up and down appraisingly. “Damn. What did you do to that man?” Exhausted after everything I’d been through, I could only manage to give him a withering look as I snatched my paperwork back. He walked away, chuckling a little to himself. “It’s always the redbone ones snatching niggas souls.” I know I should have reported him to his supervisor, but I really just wanted it all to be over, fo rhim to leave. When he very suggestively handed me his card when he was done, saying to “call him for anything I needed,” I hustled him out of my house, crying the minute he left.

And I’ve been to Calvert Street on other occasions too.

And so tonight, as I drive home, I am angry. Really, really angry. I am not angry at all men, because, as I said in the beginning, there are too many men I truly love and admire and respect. But right now, I don’t feel I can really call on any of them. That’s not their fault. Once they hear about this they’ll ask why I didn’t call. They’ll say they at least would have offered me moral support if nothing else. A few would have gone with me to Calvert Street. (A few have gone before.) Some would have texted, called, told me jokes to make me laugh, ordered me pizza, gone with me for a long drive to help me calm down. But the one thing all of this reminds me of is that as an unprotected Black woman – and by that I mean a Black woman who doesn’t have a man, be it a boyfriend, a husband, or whatever – certain types of men feel more inclined to bring me their aggressive energy, because they feel there is no man in close proximity to me that is going to stop them. Because there are men out there who think they need to pay a woman’s “no” any mind. Just like her father did tonight.

TO BE CONTINUED…