Three years ago today, on November 10, my Aunt was murdered by her common-law husband. Inspired by this Brave New Traveler article titled A Moment of Reflection For Women The World Over, I decided to share this experience for the first time online.
I logged onto Facebook today to see status updates from aunts and cousins, reflecting on how the world changed because of this event. I thought about my father, whom I still haven’t seen cry, and how his life has been affected. I think about her children who have to deal with the consequences of one man, and I think about their children who will grow up never knowing their amazing grandmother. Because of one man.
The following is an essay I wrote for a creative non-fiction course two years ago. I was completely unprepared for the difficulty of reading the piece aloud, but my peers were incredibly supportive and it still remains one of the most raw essays I’ve ever written. The strength of my family is unfathomable, but this essay is mostly about how it changed the dynamics of “home” for me. I’ll perhaps never share it with my family, because it’s entirely my own thoughts and reflections, which I feel is somewhat selfish compared to the magnitude of devastation that hit her children.
As Christine Garvin quotes about the regeneration of the soul: “But what can also help it to regenerate are the men who understand it’s not about protecting the women you love – it’s about changing the mindset of the men who don’t love women.”
****
God’s Country
A year ago I headed home anticipating a familiar bed, warm hugs and a hot supper. I squeezed myself between twelve other students on the bus and we sang songs for six hours. We turned onto the Bay d’Espoir Highway and our sighs were collective as the sky cracked open and the sun reflected the clouds with ice-cream colors of pink, and purple, and blue. God’s Country, my home.
But I awoke the next morning to the panicked voice of my mother, and the telephone ringing. I peered out the window at my father, leaning against the rail of the patio while a friend delivered the news. His face was pale, eyes downcast.
My father’s family began pouring in from all corners of the country, relatives I hadn’t seen in years. They still found time to compliment me, to comment on my hair, to engage in conversation. Nearly a family reunion, twelve brothers and sisters, until my aunt’s children showed up in a flurry of tears.
A week went by before funeral arrangements could be considered because the circumstances were complicated. The day the funeral home was opened, we were allowed in groups into the small room where my aunt’s casket lay open for just one evening. I took my father’s hand.
She didn’t look like any relative of mine; her red curls were all wrong, her face too waxy. The smell of embalming fluid was overpowering, like green peppers mingled with the stench of roses and too many flowers. I couldn’t tear my eyes off the purple silk scarf covering the gaping hole in her neck.
I wanted to be strong for my father, so when the tears slipped from my eyes and over my cheeks I felt guilty that he was tearless and patting my shoulder in comfort. Then the guests began pouring in, mourners offering their goodwill, but the outside world was as obscure as the events that had taken place that night on the hill.
The man who committed the act is unheard of, unimportant, although he had been a part of our lives for years. His memory was extinguished once he finished himself off, just seconds after aiming the high-powered rifle at my aunt across the street. Enough force to kill a deer from a mile away, and the witnesses certainly knew it. They certainly knew that her life was over while they cowered behind the water tank, splattered in blood, crying for fear that they would be next as the SWAT team moved in. The thing that hurt my family the most was the image of her laying there, for nearly a full day, while the investigation was carried out. Just laying there in the rain on a patio all alone, her curls sodden while the town passed rumors.
The preacher told us not focus on the nature of the death, but to celebrate her memory. But in a community of 1200 people, rumors build steam until they erupt into ghost stories. My father bought her little blue van, and my brother’s friends refused to ride in it. I sat in the driver’s seat, thinking it didn’t matter who drove it last. I pulled open the ashtray and there was a single cigarette butt with a red rim of lipstick around the end.
My family spent as much time as they could together in that week. Food came from all sources and so we busied ourselves by eating molasses buns, hot chili, and chocolate cakes. Somehow my aunts and uncles still found things to laugh about, and somehow my cousins laughed too.
My grandmother who suffers from Alzheimer’s does not remember her children’s names, so nobody thought she would remember her daughter’s face in the casket. Months later she was still rocking back and forth in her little rocking chair beside the wood stove, mumbling her daughter’s name. I remember my uncle’s shaking hand as he placed it on the casket, lingering it there like just one second longer would make a difference; I remember my father quietly sipping his rum and coke on Christmas Eve, whispering, “Jenny’s comin’ on strong tonight.”
All this, in God’s Country. My home.
25 comments
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November 11, 2009 at 3:54 am
Stephanie
I’m so sorry Candice. My mother lost her brother suddenly a few years ago and I can see how it profoundly affects her at the randomest times. Loss like that never really goes away I think.
That Brave New Traveler article really spoke to me too. I think it’s very brave of you to share this and to remind us that even in this day and age, in first world countries, there is still horrific violence being perpetrated against women. Your story illustrates the problem on a very personal level, and shows how the hurt radiates to affect so many people. It’s hard stuff, but it’s so important to remember.
November 11, 2009 at 3:54 am
Abbie
wow, that’s incredible. thanks for sharing.
November 11, 2009 at 11:08 am
Sabina
I’m sure this is a tragedy from which no one who was close to your aunt will ever entirely recover. Her poor children. I’m sorry for you too, of course.
But Candice, this is honestly the best piece of writing of yours that I have ever read. The images you use – pulling open the ashtray to find the lipstick-rimmed cigarette, your aunt lying in the rain all day, your grandmother rocking back and forth months later rembering her daughter – these little snapshots paint powerful pictures in and of themselves. This is a beautiful piece. Maybe you’ll feel comfortable trying to get it published somewhere?
November 11, 2009 at 12:51 pm
neha
I’m so sorry for your loss Candice. This was hard to read, and I can’t even begin to imagine living through violence and tragedy of this magnitude. I guess the only way to get through it is to celebrate the life and the vibrant memories left behind.
November 11, 2009 at 2:24 pm
significantowl
I remember when you read this piece for non-fiction class, I found it hard not to start crying in class, very powerful piece. Again now it hits the heart, when I read the part where you sit in her van and find the cigarette with a red rim of lipstick… it perfectly captures the intense feelings of grief and pain that surge through people when they go through such a tragic event.
xo
November 11, 2009 at 3:30 pm
*uncorked
Such a terrible circumstance Candice, I’m very sorry that you and your family had to go through that. I think your writing was beautiful and raw. I could feel the emotion spilling off of each sentence. Thanks for sharing.
November 11, 2009 at 3:36 pm
Danielle
Candice- I am so sorry.
I went on a ride along a few years back and one call that we had was a women that was murdered by her boyfriend. I remember hurting for the family. It has stayed in my mind this whole time.
Your story makes me see the feeling behind it and the reality of these tragic deaths.
This is amazing and true: “But what can also help it to regenerate are the men who understand it’s not about protecting the women you love – it’s about changing the mindset of the men who don’t love women.”
November 11, 2009 at 7:39 pm
Sherri
Candice,
Firstly, I’m so so sorry that your family had to suffer such a terrible loss.
Secondly, this was such an incredibly powerful piece that you’ve written and I admire you for opening yourself up, both in your writing class – and here. Thank you for sharing it.
It’s interesting to think about – we all have blogs and most times, we are being funny or silly. Yet, we all have stories that no one else would know about if we didn’t share them. Thanks for sharing such a personal side of your life.
November 11, 2009 at 8:27 pm
imerika
I never know what to say in these cases…I actually work a lot with crime victims’ groups and their pain is always so raw and potent, no matter how many years have passed.
Thank you for sharing such a beautiful essay.
November 11, 2009 at 9:52 pm
linlah
A beautifully written I was expecially moved by what your father said at the end. Thank you for sharing.
November 12, 2009 at 2:09 am
Carissajaded
Candice, I really don’t know what to say. I am so sorry for your loss. What a terrible tragedy.
But your telling of the story seriously moved me to tears, it made my heart hurt. You are a beautiful writer. It sounds like you have a wonderful, strong family….
November 12, 2009 at 3:43 am
angryredhead
Thanks for all the comments and supports, friends. Each and every single one of you made my day. It’s so nice to hear that people care, even three years later. My aunt was an amazing woman, kind-hearted and a fantastic mother, and I still find it difficult to grasp what happened to her. Posting that essay fired up a lot of emotions.
Sabina, I considered publication, but I think I’ll wait awhile until the wounds are less fresh, you know? I’m kinda terrified one of my family members will stumble across the essay and will be disturbed by the images. But thanks! It is definitely something I’ll do in the future.
My family is amazing! They are the strongest people I’ve ever met. And Sherri, you’re totally right, it’s interesting what you learn about some people, eh?
November 12, 2009 at 4:06 am
ClassroomConfessions
I have chills and goosebumps right now. I cannot believe that this happened to your family. Death is always hard, but murder is just something else entirely. I think you know that a student murdered another at the school I work at this year and it was really difficult for everyone. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have it happen to someone so close.
Your piece is beautifully written and the emotion you convey can’t be faked.
*hugs*
November 14, 2009 at 2:54 am
angryredhead
Thanks Cammy. Yeah, the whole idea of “murder” is incomprehensible to me, and everyone I’m sure. And those witnesses, some of whom I know, had to see it all firsthand. Ugh.
November 12, 2009 at 3:50 pm
Nancy
My words can’t convey my sorrow for your family or awe in the courage it took for you to write and share this. This article will stay with me forever. Thank you for sharing these profoundly beautiful words and emotions. It honors your Aunt’s memory so powerfully.
November 14, 2009 at 2:56 am
angryredhead
Aww Nancy, thank-you! I was afraid by posting this I’d be pinned for being a sympathy hog, but yeah, feels great to put it out there.
November 12, 2009 at 11:22 pm
Rob
Powerful words Candice, very well written.
Sorry about your loss, we never realise what we have until it’s gone, your Aunt sounds like any other normal woman trying to get along in life. It’s so tragic such a life can be ended so suddenly.
November 14, 2009 at 2:57 am
angryredhead
Thanks Rob, I appreciate it. I think at some point I’ll write a piece more focused on her, and her personality, rather than the general events of the night.
November 13, 2009 at 5:11 am
J
Beautiful, girly.
November 13, 2009 at 3:28 pm
nashe
Loss like these never really go away, huh? I haven’t really experienced anything like it in my life, but it must be crazily trying.
November 13, 2009 at 9:29 pm
Chelsea Talks Smack
wow, thank you so much for sharing your story. beautiful and i’m so sorry for your loss
November 13, 2009 at 11:53 pm
Kate
What a tragedy. I wish for you and your family that you have and continue to heal.
November 14, 2009 at 2:59 am
angryredhead
@J: Thank you!
@Nashe: It certainly changed a lot of things for me, and I think it made me a lot less naive. Fortunately I have an amazingly strong, supportive family!
@Chelsea and Kate: Thank you both, I hope someday I can let the rest of my family see how much other people care, even if they didn’t know her.
November 14, 2009 at 1:55 pm
Belle
Such beautiful writing. So sorry for the loss though. I think your aunt’s children would appreciate it, not consider it selfish of you.
November 21, 2009 at 7:48 pm
christine garvin
Wow, Candice. Like I did when writing my piece, I am again sitting in a cafe, crying. When I wrote my reflection, my tears were for the pain of the women of whose stories I was gathering. This time, it was for both the pain you so eloquently relate without specifically saying “I’m in pain,” but also the strength that shines through.
I can’t imagine what that week of waiting to have the funeral did to your heart. But I do think the ability to at least begin sharing these experiences helps us to not only heal our own pain, but also some of that all expansive pain throughout the world.
I would like at some point to gather stories like these about the effects of violence against women with this little idea in my mind that somehow, someway, people would start to “get it.” I’m not sure how much things would change, and yet how could they not with this amount of rawness? I can’t help by think it has to impact even the most hardened of hearts.
As everyone else did, I thank you.