My Mom Was an Underground Railroad for Abused Women: What She Taught Me About Feminism and Fear
As a child, I didn’t understand most of the midnight phone calls to my mom, or the times women would come over with children in tow, sometimes even in pajamas, and I would be told to go entertain them while Mama ensconced herself in her bedroom with their mother.
Once, my mom spotted a bruised woman with three children holding a cardboard sign in the Wal-Mart parking lot. It was pouring down rain. I was seven.
“Stay in the car,” she said, locking me in. She went to talk to the woman. I was so uninterested in what was happening; we were on our way to Wal-Mart to get a new something-or-other for me, and this weird stranger and her crying kids were delaying our mission.
I was even less enthused when Mom got back in the car and said, “We have to make a little trip first,” and then drove, with the woman in her own car behind us, to either a battered women’s shelter or a food cupboard.
I couldn’t remember which when the memory came to me, so I called Mama and asked her.