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I traveled to Detroit over the holidays. I don’t recommend it. Every mile away from Murphy gets flatter and more industrialized. Smokestacks replace silos, and cars cram in against each other at alarming speeds and sometimes aggressive attitudes. Everybody seems to be in a big, important hurry.
The city itself is majestic, built with thoughtfully consider architecture and fine details of stained glass and artistic tiles paid for from the buckets of money the town once enjoyed back in its Motown days as the global automotive center in the early 20th century.
I stayed in the guest room of a glorious apartment building built in the 1920s. It’s a dazzling place, regal and refined. I always bring my prettiest dresses to Detroit, as I find it impossible to sit in the tiled sunroom for my morning tea, for example, in anything less than formal wear. To do otherwise would surely disappoint the ghosts of the tailored women who sat there before me.
On my first morning, a city thing happened. It was very early, maybe four thirty and I heard a woman screaming, almost howling. Had I been back home, I would have thought it was a vixen from the woods behind my little cabin. But no, this was a human. A woman, and she clearly was in distress.
I did what any proper country girl would do. I ran to the window and peered out. I couldn’t see anything but the parking lot, but the woman was yelling now. She was outraged. I cracked open the window to listen more closely. I wanted to be armed with enough information to justify a call to 911, should that become necessary.
“Stop. Just stop!” the woman screamed.
I relocated to the sitting room, a spectacular place adorned with a whole wall of windows. I could hear her more clearly from this vantage point, but because of the tall buildings on either side couldn’t pinpoint her location. Her voice seemed to echo through the alleyways between the buildings, the city version of a canyon, I suppose.
“Stay away from me!” I heard her yell.
She was enraged. My hand was shaking as I poised my thumb above the 9.
“How could you?” she said.
This little clue informed me that she knew her assailant. So this was a domestic issue. I remembered hearing something from Reach of Cherokee County Inc. about the 16,000 women who are murdered every year from a domestic partner. I pressed the 9 but suddenly, her tone changed.
“Why are you doing this?” She had burned through her fury, and what remained was agony. She was weeping now. The violent kind of crying; the seconds ticked by as her body shook in silent sobs. If you’ve ever seriously cried, then you know the pain of it can feel like a drowning.
“You don’t care anymore,” she wrenched. “Why don’t you care anymore?” The question was quieter, pressed out between sobs. I had blatantly opened the window by then, the side of my face pressed so hard against the screen I had a momentary crisscross pattern across my cheek.
“You don’t care about me,” she cried, softly now; this was a lament. “I loved you,” she said in an almost-whisper and I suddenly felt ashamed at voyeuring such an intimate, tormented moment in this woman’s life. I wound the window closed and back away. I was overcome by her distress, her raw emotion. I fell into an inviting leather chair and, as an emotional pallet cleanser, turned my attention to the happy Christmas tree, all joy and jolly.
To me, the world has turned into an unkind place where micro-rages flare up over insignificant trivialities, a parking space, a slow-moving cashier. And even the bigger issues, we seem to have drained our cups of kindness. People puff up over community issues, like school consolidation, for example, and turn what could be a meaningful discussion into a bloodied battle. We are so quick to anger, so quick to express that anger.
When did yelling at somebody overtake what we all learned in kindergarten about listening? That woman in Detroit, in her initial communication, was crazed in wrath. But as she wrestled it all out, the root of that fury was fear. She was afraid of losing something precious to her. Afraid of rejection.
Is that what our collective rage is masking? Is fear fueling the public temper tantrums? If so, what have we become afraid of? Losing a sense of control in our lives, maybe, or fear of becoming anonymous in an automated world.
I’m rooting for a kinder new year. I’ll start by talking less and listening without a ready rebuttal.
Who knows, maybe the Butterfly Effect Theory is real, and I can affect profound change in the world simply by choosing to listen more. I listened to the hurting woman, after all, and have already learned something from her. I hope I can find her bravery to shatter the armor of anger to discover what it is protecting.
To the woman in Detroit, if you should ever read this, I heard you and, for a little, stood sentry over your pain. You are not alone.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.