May 1, 2010

• Black eye, number 4

  “Rachel Winzeler smiled for the police photos.”

  Facebook status’s. After days like today, I wonder if I plan crazyness just to put up a good status. Or to think of something new to say. Because I haven’t thought of that one before.

  I am nursing a black eye and neck scratches. My knee just got better from the last fight at the center. This is my fourth black eye, although the first at the youth center.

  Black eye number one was in Mississippi. I went with a friend to her family reunion…me being the only Caucasian I saw in the state. Boy, did we eat good. At the pool, a little kid kicked me in the eye on accident. I told everyone I was just trying my best to blend in.

  Black eye number two and three was from running into a parked car. Yep. Totalled both cars, got two black eyes.   

  Blake eye number four. We had a good day at the youth center. played a lot of dodgeball, broke up potential fights, got my toes dirty. After Bible study, three kids raised their hands, wanting to know more about Jesus. Somebody didn’t like that.

  I got to pray with these three kids–please pray for them: O, K, and C. K’s brother was taken home, while we were still talking, so I told her not to worry, we would take her on the next trip. She went to play with her friend. Not five minutes later, a mom comes to the center. Worried mom–check. this happens a lot.

  “Where’s my daughter, K?” she asks. “I believe she is playing outside, we were just about to take her home…” we look around and cannot find her daughter. I am worried too–trying to think who she was with, figuring she must have walked home with them, instead of waiting like I asked her to.

  The center is open door. We cannot stop the kids from coming or going. We also cannot see when every kid comes in or out. The mother and I walk out to the front, and the van pulls up. I am trying to figure out where she could have gone when the mother starts yelling “Where is my daughter?”

  In seconds the clouds roll in–I was the last one to see her daughter, this is my fault–she comes closer. I try to calm her down. Where is this girl? The mother’s hands are around my throat, and a good punch to my eye by the time my co-worker gets her off of me. Two other ladies (I think they were with her) hold her back.

  She is fighting to get loose. I am trying to find my contact lense that is somewhere in my eye. I figure I should leave now, and I get into the center, into the office, and close the door. I figure the lady will calm down better that way. I hope they find K.

  The director says we need to file a report, but that I don’t have to press charges. I get it–worried mom, takes the worry out on the closest thing–me. Wait for the police. Why does it feel like you are the guilty one when he is writing down your name and socal security number? My co-worker and the officer go to her house to identify her while I wait for pictures.

  Pictures of my neck scratches and pretty shiner that I am icing down with two freeze pops in a brown paper bag.  I smiled. Then I remembered that I probably shouldn’t be smiling for those pictures. So I laughed for the next two pictures instead.

  The mother wasn’t at the house. I still don’t know for sure if K is alright, but I am assuming so. The kid that was there gave the policeman enough information that he knew her. Apparently, she is well-known by the cops in that area. She has a history. The cop said that if it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else. That made me feel a bit better.

  He circled the number on the little yellow card. “For if you want to call a detective,” He said, since she wasn’t home. But I don’t want to press charges. I just want for K to be okay.

  • 12:11 am
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