Garden of Shannon

A story about marriage, race, colorism, and grief

WARNING: This story touches on sensitive topics such as religion, racial injustices, abuse and violence. All photos are my own. Take care, enjoy and thank you for reading my work!

The man I married five years ago has become a monster. I soothed myself with prayer for the past six months in hopes that God would give me the strength to handle my matrimony diligently. I have licked a lot of my own wounds in this relationship, and it was time for me to share some of that hurt with him. The verbal reprisal was worsening and my love for him was waning. The lack of love I have for this man is so severe I will not mention him by name – that would be giving him respect that I was running scarce of. For the remainder of the story, I will refer to him as Oaf.

When I first came to exchange pleasantries with such a man my perception of him was iron willed, irreverent and of rustic charm, yet tall and somewhat handsome. Oaf is a forty-three-year-old biracial man who sells homemade furnishings and comes from a family with means. I am twenty-six years old of dual ethnicity as well with no pedigree. Sharing black ancestry with Oaf, I thought it would bring us together. Unfortunately, it became a slow segregation of morality and beliefs. The other side of Oaf’s culture seemed to lack racial open-mindedness. Oaf being of white lineage, he considered it a privilege being a duplicitous man.

My father thought it would be good for me to marry and be a virtuous woman to a man of means. My father was up in age and his health declined quickly. Madre left me all her belongings, including a beautiful white dress that I wore on my wedding day before her passing – three months after my father. At least they got to witness our matrimony before their time was up. My father gave Oaf a few thousand dollars to help our union as newlyweds. Oaf bought a car a week after our wedding and totaled the ‘pretty little red thing’ three weeks later, driving it like a bat out of hell and landing in a ditch near our home. He blamed me for his wreck. ‘You probably prayed that it would happen.’

On our wedding night I remembered seeing and feeling a change in his character as soon as we were intimate. It was the effervescence of an overlord rather than a husband. The words that would follow intercourse would be confirmation of his true being. ‘You would be pretty if you were lighter, you’d probably have an easier life.’ It was Oaf’s first time verbally accosting me. I lay in bed cracked; too bemused to retaliate. He would continue to tell me that ‘I did not look like any of the black beauties in the movies.’ I am bony, have a wide nose, tumbleweed for hair, big lips and skin dark and unaccepting. This is my husband. A man that is supposed to love me. He did not accept half of my being. He might as well have given me the paper bag test before we jumped the broom. Later, his racial undertones would progress and fester in our union like a fetid wound.

Three years later our marriage was not getting any better. Oaf was drinking more than usual which always put him in a vicious mood that turned on me. There were times I was able to talk my way out of his grip; most times I was unsuccessful. Every day I sought ways to avoid him as much as possible. It was against my religion to divorce – it was the biggest sin. I could not avoid Oaf completely and there was no room for abandonment. I had to remain in constant communion with a venomous man. He worsened throughout the years. From sunup to sundown was another day of surviving my husband, Oaf.

I will never forget the first day of November. Two years ago, I was exhilarated by autumn and all the festivities that accent the season so well. Nature was at its finest. Oak, maple and birch leaves gave off beautiful hues of yellow, orange, red and brown with the trees giving off a vibrant fall portrait. The weather was cold and there were plenty of hot, delicious drinks to keep warm – apple cider, hot chocolate, and many flavors of tea and coffee. Our closest neighbors were a quarter of a mile apart in all directions. Pumpkins filled the neighborhood lawns accompanied by witches, ghosts and skeletons to show celebration of Hallows Eve. People always seemed to be in a state of repose around this time, it was a lovely fellowship. I was in good spirits preparing for All Saints Day. Which is widely celebrated in the Catholic Religion. As I remember it, my mother, grandmother, and I would attend mass, visit loved ones at the cemetery, and tend to their graves – light maintenance with fresh flowers. After we cleanse, decorate and pray at the family altar at my grandmother’s home, where we would end the night with a small feast of Chile Colorado, tamales, beans, rice, bread of the dead, and Atole. It has been familial ritual for as long as I can remember.

The first thing I did after waking was go to the market to get all the ingredients for the feast. It had been a busy morning in the city considering we lived on the outskirts of town in a small log cabin with low-cut grass, wildflowers, a scarecrow in front of the yard and a carved pumpkin with a spooky grimace sitting on the porch. After a few hours out I gathered back to commence the All Hallows Eve ritual. I shared my plans with my husband the night before in bed where he responded with acceptance instead of the usual rejection and ridicule. He added that his parents would be coming for dinner to share the tradition with us but not attending the mass; he said his mother’s words were ‘I do not feel up to visiting a gaudy museum.’ I was not too fond of Oaf’s mother. I wanted to feel impervious to the bad commentary his mother spewed out, but that would be a disservice to myself.

His parents were known to be respectable people of the community. His father, a white man who Oaf was a spitting image of, was of bold character yet strangely calm, He owned a car dealership and sold top of the line automobiles. His mother (a light skin black snooty southern belle with the looks of a prized heifer who dressed well) was still pretty for her age and weight and happened to be a housewife – the only thing we had in common.

Oaf did not come to mass; he shares the same sentiments as his mother. Instead, he sat at home drinking and complaining about what he had and what he did not. I come home to these distressing disquisitions, usually including me in the worst of ways. ‘Sometimes being married to you is like being married to a tree stump; useless and barren’ he would say. Then he would stand up in an arrogant way with his bottle in hand, walking clumsily around the rooms, going on about my no goodness. ‘Your daddy should have given me more money for you. That couple of thousand wasn’t enough to deal with a mutt like you. That man owes me big time; he gave me the runt of the litter, but I guess a dead man can’t pay no dues.’ I was not useless when I first met Oaf, I was a strong tree bearing good fruit that he picked along the way until there was nothing left to pick, like a fool, he could not reap a good harvest. The tree suffered and was chopped down into a stump that sits in a backyard like an old dog in his last days.

Later that same evening after visiting my folks’ resting places, we sat together at the table as a family. Oaf told stories about working on the small land that we had and possibly building a storage room out back so he could have his own wood workshop instead of working in the backyard with the sun beating on his back all day. His father agreed and they talked each other up about the future shed. They also talked about prices of furniture being sold. His father wanted to verify that his son was keeping to family values. ‘Sell furniture to our people at good prices. Raise the price for the ebony folk. They won’t know the difference. They are happy enough to share the same comforts as us, finally. Our kind won’t say anything to them. That is how we stay in business.’

‘I sold a dresser to one lady for ten dollars and sold the same dresser to this one negress for fifteen. They are fools with money.’ Oaf humorously shared his salesman tactics with his father who looked proud, sipping his cup of Atole.I thought to myself, this is where he gets it from. Cheating black folks and other minorities out of their hard-earned money “because you can.” Today, black folks barely speak up about such things due to violent consequences. The way Oaf went on with his father was disturbing. While the men talked and ate their food without any complaints his mother decided to chime in on the food that I spent all evening making.

“My son works hard all-day buildin’ furniture outdoors in the hot sun to sell to folks and this is the Mexican rubbish you make for my boy?” Oaf’s mother picked around at her food, looking at it in disgust. Father and Oaf were quiet at the table until his mother spoke out of turn once again.

“You couldn’t make a steak or fried some fish or somethin’?” Monster in law was slowly sticking the knife into my chest with each comment.

“Ma, she is trying this little tradition she has with her family.” Oaf spoke nonchalantly, dismissing the things I most cherished in life as if this whole day meant nothing.

“Well, I cannot eat this. You should have married a woman who can cook, son. She’s half a negro and can’t cook soul food, a damn shame.” His mother stood up from her chair, took her plate of food from the table, threw it in the trash, and returned the plate to the sink.

“Not all em’ can cook good, plus I don’t want that negro rubbish myself.” Oaf responded. His father tittered.

“Well, I will make myself somethin’ good when I get home. I appreciate your efforts.” Oaf’s mother scoffed. I sat at the table bewildered by Oaf’s response to his mother, who is black. I wondered if she was unsusceptible, indifferent, or agreed with her son. I was living out an episode of an infamous show where folks experience disturbing and unusual events; my day was filled with surrealism.

“I think the meal was fine. I never had it before, but it was decent.” His father sat there sucking his teeth trying to balance out his wife’s behavior, but lightning struck his way quickly.

“Good enough for dogs. Are you a dog? You can eat and sleep right on the floor with em’, tonight.” Monster in law corrected her husband. For the remainder of the visit, he only spoke to Oaf while his wife sat on the couch flipping through the newspaper. His mother tried to shame me for my efforts. I stood tall in my beliefs.

“Well, I apologize if my food is not good enough for your taste. Your son seems to enjoy it just fine. You will not come into my home with your nose up in the air and disrespect me or my traditions,” I tried defending myself to a woman who would never see me for who I was and had no intention of changing that.

“This is not your home. This is my sons’ home.” She retorted and sat the newspaper down on the coffee table, looking at me with ill intent.

“You are poisonous! Someone needs to cut the snakes head off!” I was fed up with her antics.

Oaf walked up to me and slapped me across my face. “Watch your mouth,” he said and sat back down on his raggedy throne he calls a recliner. My left eye stung from the blow, lips swollen and cheek tender to the touch. Tears ran down my face as I walked into the kitchen to start cleaning up, wanting to be left alone and unseen. I was married to a man that would never defend my honor. My life was a balloon that was slowly deflating.

“Wives need to respect their husbands and his mother. That is law. We would like a cup of coffee before we leave back home too,” Oaf’s mother, the overseer, was thrilled by her son’s treatment of me; the look in her eyes said it all – satisfaction.

“These mix breeds think they are so cute, but if she wants to be part of this family she will learn soon enough. Our son is gettin’ her in line.” Oaf’s mother continued to insult me. I sat once again at the kitchen table not wanting to be near them, stewing in my emotions, thinking of sin. In that moment I wished Mother Maleficent was lying under six feet of dirt, but instead here she sat proudly on the sofa chair, boastful like a fat queen.

Oaf’s mother seemed to be a troubled woman. She had to be. What woman received pleasure from another woman’s downfall, her misfortune, her bad lot in life? All I could think was something unfortunate must have happened to that woman because she has never healed from it. Instead, she spread her affliction around like a virus, infecting people with her ways and refusing to look in the mirror to see her own truth. I wondered what Oaf’s father had seen in such a woman. Maybe he was the reason she carried herself this way. Maybe he tried to save her from what was hurting her but failed. Maybe he enjoyed such a being until he no longer did.

El Padre spoke on difficult persons in mass a few weeks ago, ‘We can see Christ suffering in others and we can help them shoulder a small piece of their cross through our presence in their lives.’ But my cup was empty. It had been for some time.

Coffee was quietly served. I sat at the kitchen table while the rest of them were in the living room discussing what Oaf’s mother was making for the church bake sale next Sunday. Godliness was around her, not truly in her. I waited patiently for his folks to leave. Around nine o’clock at night they were finally gone.

“I did my best today. In return you put your hands on me in front of your folks to watch like some picture show,” I remained sitting at the kitchen table expressing my pain and frustration while I rubbed my swollen knees.

“You were running your mouth. Go get in the shower and get ready for me,” Oaf says coldly. There was no use going back and forth with such a man. I had one last wifely duty to complete before praying at my altar and turning in for the night.

A few months have passed since All Saint’s Day, but the beatings are still frequent. I dread what the day would bring. I woke up to rain tapping on my bedroom window. The day was already crying so I might as well go outside and share in the sadness. I turn over and watch Oaf lie on his back, snoring, mouth agate. I ponder my own death. I have dreams of my husband, Oaf, no longer breathing. I think of St. Ambrose of Milan and his philosophy on death; Death was not part of nature; it became part of nature. God did not decree death from the beginning; he prescribed it as a remedy.

There was a need to restrain Oaf’s evils; there had to be an antidote for his wrongdoings. He was a fallen man, and this kind of man needed salvation from his confused, biracial spirit. The man I married would never accept all of himself and he had only accepted half of me. I could no longer live in a state of imposed self-hate and disconnect due to a man’s masked identity and unwillingness to see himself as black but solely white. I could not have him perpetrating these racial ideologies onto my being. I could no longer live through his covert prejudices – it was a slow death for me.

I pull the covers back, getting up quietly and calmly so as not to wake the beast. As I pass the mirror I see my reflection. I see a black eye that is healing up nicely and a bruised lip. I have enough self-love to believe that I may be battered, but still beautiful and holding on strong to my faith because I know God has other plans for me. I always pray. I pray for strength. I pray for my sanity. I pray for those who prey on me – Oaf being the apex predator. I walk quietly to the closet to open another one of my mother’s precious belongings passed down to me before her death. I heard the words she said when she gifted it to me. ‘Que Dios te bendiga.’

I grip the cold instrument with warm hands and stare at it, praying for courage; the strength I never knew I needed was sitting in this closet for years. Today, the end of endurance and the beginning of a deep transformation. In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit, may your soul finally rest. There were four gunshot wounds in Dillan’s body – his forehead, lower chest, and both shoulders. I put the pocket pistol back into its box and into the closet. I got myself together patiently, made myself a cup of coffee, and sat on the porch wearing my Sunday’s best while enjoying the rain. New life was about to begin; purification would ensue for me. I would hear the sirens soon.

-S.B. Garner