I Had a Voice. I Didn’t Use It.

Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?

The fortune teller’s ball is crystal clear on this one, and as I look at it, my eyes widen in terror.

It happened at a diner. Its name—I’ll remember as I go. On the walls, coffee cups hang, none the same shape or size, each with different words—a Cheers-like vibe for the locals to hang their hat—er, cup—on the wall.

On each table are the items needed for your stay: ketchup, Tabasco, salt and pepper, as well as my—and likely every other patron’s—favorite, Ben Goode’s books. With titles like 857 Habits of Highly Irritating People, The Joy of Being Broke: The Book for People Who Would Be Rich If They Just Had More Money, and How to Stay Humble When You’re Smarter Than Everybody Else, the pre-meal conversation is easily maneuvered.

The Liberty Cafe—that’s the name!

Seated across from me in the booth is the worst of my ex-boyfriends. I add the detail of who is with me mainly because our lack of closeness likely added to how much more shitty the fallout from what happened next is.

To our right is a circular table with four chairs, three of which are occupied. A small boy, aged anywhere from 4 to 8, sits behind a large black Stetson-hatted man and an older woman. Both adults are like the boy’s grandparents.

The feeling in me is here—the rustling of the leaves—as we arrive at the dark alley of the story. As a too-sped-up tape statics out and the picture distorts, so does my memory. The boy with his pancake. My bite of biscuit and gravy. The hand cocked back. The boy’s head whips from the grandpa’s backhand. The boy’s frozen-in-shock face. His eyes meet mine. Mine meeting his. His eyes water, lip quivering, no longer eating. The grandma hissing, “Oh, hush up!” The black, large-billed, hatted man—a Mack truck of a man compared to the micro-sized boy, seated stiffly, arms crossed against his chest.

All of it swirls.

I didn’t do anything. The lesson for that young boy, at least on that day, is that even if someone sees suffering, they will not do a single thing to help you.

And because of this, and the years of wrestling with what I would have done differently, I now have my finger on the trigger. I know I will shoot. Not literally, but figuratively. I will call 911. I will get help. Because if that’s what happens on a Sunday morning breakfast in a mountain town diner, what goes on behind closed doors?

No longer do I fear the man’s anger, but my own lack of advocacy. And I will call 911.

Action matters. Knowing where the lines are—and what we do when they are crossed—matters. You matter. But so do the people in our communities. Because if the people in their own house aren’t protecting them, who is?

We can do hard things, together.

Love always,
Jaclynn