Stop Fighting Me

By Opal Cavitt

In the late '60s a racially mixed woman arrives at a workshop on Social Change along with a South African white man. On scene are black militants demanding change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Opal Cavitt
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311896896

Opal Cavitt

Clinical psychologist, M.S. worked at Manteno State Hospital worked with epileptic population, and maximum security, Municipal Court Psychiatric Institute of Chicago, and House of Correction evaluating people for the court, Chicago Child Guidance clinic, Chicago Reed Hospital Residential service chief of adult crisis intervention intake, Woodward State Hospital for Developmentally Disabled Adults as Treatment Program Administrator, Church Council of Greater Seattle as Director of the Employment Project. Author of Flight for Life A Matter of Life and Death. Sculptor.

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STOP FIGHTING ME

By

Opal Cavitt

Copyright 2016 All rights reserved

ISBN:9781311896896

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CHAPTER ONE

Sometimes you know better than to expect your day to go easy. There are just days when you know it’s going to be bad. You feel it some place deep inside your bones like a dull ache that won’t go away. It was one of those mornings. The air felt cold and damp all around Myra as an eerie blanket of mist hung over Sunny Side Camp. An almost overwhelming silence seemed to confirm her isolation and only remote ties to organized society. Dressing quickly, she caught a glimpse of something strangely curious outside of her window.

Myra could hear the redundant dance of crickets and the moan of the frogs as if they were all that existed. Straining her eyes through the wet streaked window, she could see the faint outline of red shingled white cottages suspended in cool mist. Then her eyes fell on a thicket of green jerking quickly as if some beast was trapped and attempting to break away. No sooner than she started to turn, she heard the sustained cackling laughter of a woman. A naked black woman emerged tip-toeing through the candy cotton like mist then quickly darted behind another bush. Myra plunged her face deeper into the window, furiously wiping away the moisture that had collected during the night. She could hardly believe her eyes! Two men dressed in painters clothes were in close pursuit. What in the world? She wiped faster as the woman sprinted across the midway toward her cottage like Sheena of the jungle. In only split seconds, she was savagely running through the corridor thrashing a huge stick across each door.

Suddenly, the door of Myra’s small room opened and slammed just as quickly depositing a frail Chicano woman in a smocked night gown. It was Anna Marie, her dark face filling up with horror and helplessness further accentuating telltale signs of a woman already aging faster than she should. Outside the door, the hallway reverberated with hideous wild screams and loud thrashing like an infuriated hyena caged and demanding release. All hell broke loose. Anna Marie and Myra bolted for the window. It was hopeless; they were on the second floor with a good drop to the ground level. Suddenly the wild one was on the balcony next door.

The chaos was overwhelming. Myra’s mind went blank. She felt paralyzed as her blood seemed to shoot through my veins like a powerful electrical current. Her heart thundered in her ears. She weakened where she stood as her hands went wet and a balmy as I clasping her ears. Her voice escaped me her as she tried desperately to fight back the fervor of panic and hang on to Anna Marie. The cacophony of fury outside the door continued relentlessly threatening all semblance of sanity. Where in the hell am I, she whispered. Not twenty four hours ago, Myra Peters, clinical psychologist had left Chicago to come to a community leader’s workshop. She had left her crisis unit behind and here she was paying good money to be emotionally shot through the grease. Outside off her window, she could see Sunny Side Camp come alive with madness as a flurry of women crawled out of windows and went screaming for the cover of nearby bushes. Others, now awakened by the clamoring noise, were beating a path to the scene.

The wild woman seized a small balcony just to the left of her window and was now holding the painters at bay with her stick and shrill, hideous screams. They began to back off now as she began chanting an echo-like riddle. I once was white, and now I’m black. I guess I’m never ever coming back. Her naked body danced furiously as she quickly drew her huge stick back and forth on the bars of the small balcony. Her eyes were painted red like fire and her long stringy hair gave clue to her repetitious riddle. The black naked body continued to undulate rhythmically with the chant, "I once was white, and now I’m black.

Distraught, confused people jarred out of bed prematurely, gathered excitedly below the balcony, but at some distance. Like Myra, they were workshop participants who had checked in the night before to attend various human relations conferences. Excited whispers flew back and forth. Who is this woman? Someone has freaked! Somebody do something!

The painters seemed to give up and come out to join the group below the balcony. One of the men explained, We found her down by our shed. She was painting herself with our dark brown deck paint.

Ivan, a squat, balding frog of a man frantically ran to the scene. He was one of those pretentious intellectuals who would apparently run only under duress and obviously without pleasure. Huffing and puffing, he quickly demanded, What’s going on here?

One of the distraught painters explained, We caught her painting herself. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life!

Frightened pleas came from the anxiety ridden group, Please do something! Then Ivan turned on them with outrage, Why should I do something?Then he quickly attempted to regain his professional composure by reconsidering the issue. It looks like we’ve got a community problem here, he said coolly You should be deciding how to handle it.

As Anna Marie and Myra huddled inside they watched will truck up to Ivan like a big Bull Moose bellowing, Community problem, my ass! Aren’t you supposed to be in charge here?

Ivan seemed to cower with intimidation; he stammered, We’re all involved in this, and I think the group ought to decide how to handle it.

Will backed off and paraded about apparently uncertain as to how to relate to the whole scene. He continued, Well, if I had a copter and a fish net, I’d swoop down and carry her away.

By this time, Bill was on scene. He never seemed to let anything get to him. The more bizarre the situation, the more together and sharp witted he appeared. Myra was amazed at his cool. He looked up at the still dancing, chanting figure on the small balcony. Being black, he spoke with some authority on blackness and attempted to set the group straight. That’s no black woman, he reported looking as if he half enjoyed the frenzy.

Ivan’s mouth fell open in astonishment as he groped for words, How do you know?

Bill coolly laid it out for him, I guess I ought to know my own people!

By this time, Myra caught hold of herself and was able to see the situation in all of its absurdity. Anger pulsated through her as she began to feel she couldn’t take it anymore. The psychologist in her was welling up as she vividly recalled how her folk used to take Sunday afternoon drives about five miles out of town to an asylum with huge overpowering iron gates. They would take their place alongside others who had come to watch the crazies. They looked so pathetic, poking their arms through dark bars begging cigarettes and candy. It all seemed so cruel. It was then and there that she made up her mind to somehow, someway get behind those gates and help free some of those poor souls.

Myra bolted out of her room and bound down the stairs to make her way around the corner of the building. The mist had lifted and the sun was beginning to set on that dark stained, dancing, chanting figure. Bickering had soared to an all-time high. The excited, anxious crowd pressed on chaotically contributing to the madness while at the same time hoping it would end.

Myra’s blood was boiling; she saw red as she shouted at the top of her lungs. Surely, she felt as crazy as this wild woman. Myra marched right into the crowd in a relentless rage screaming, Why are you standing around gaping at this poor woman?

All of a sudden, the wild woman stopped her tormented chanting and the dancing came to an abrupt standstill. Riveted to the ground and now trembling with rage, Myra shouted, Can’t you see this woman is in crisis? Everyone seemed stunned, including Myra. Stunned by the screaming, or stunned that the chanting had stopped.

The wild woman came over and leaned on the balcony obviously enjoying the curious group gathered below her. For an instant, the wild woman may have figured Myra had lost it . . . gone mad with her. She eyed Myra carefully and pouted, Yeah, can’t you see? You tell ‘em. . . you know.

As Myra turned to walk away, the group fell into laughter. Myra caught herself. Turning on her heel she hurled a vicious, That’s enough out of you! The wild woman threw up her arms as if to recoil and shield herself from those biting words. She skulked back into the building only to periodically peek out and cause the group to giggle and laugh. Myra felt foolish just as if somehow she had unwittingly become a competitor for the spotlight. She had tried to rescue the wild one and now she was cleverly making sport of her. Myra struggled desperately trying not to lose it altogether. She doggedly refused to be thrown by this crisis and confusion. She began to slowly count to twenty-five while the group lingered about waiting for the next move. After a few minutes she was composed and offered what might have been the only rational solution to the problem, Why don’t we call the State Hospital and have them send out an ambulance?

Will, a big bull moose of a guy readily took on the responsibility and called for help. Still caught up in the uncertainty of the hour, the onlookers shielded themselves behind the nearby bushes and walls. It seemed obvious they feared this woman might be possessed by the devil or some other evil force and could bring them great harm.

In no time an ambulance arrived. One of the painters explained the situation to the attendants. Everything seemed to be in capable hands. They quickly proceeded into the cottage. At the top of the stairs, an attendant caught the woman’s attention. Despite a thick coat of deck paint, he immediately recognized a familiar face. He called to her, Sara, aren’t you tired of playing with these folks?"

A huge grin swept across her black face. Like a small child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, she flippantly confessed, Yeah, guess so. You know, this dancin’ is tirin’. . . those painters, won’t hardly let a lady do nothin’.

The attendant motioned to Sara to follow him. Just as someone handed him a robe, he turned to Sara and coolly said, How would you like to take a ride with me? We’ll see if we can get you cleaned up. Without further event, they got into the ambulance and silently sped away.

Awhile later, everyone congregated in the library where the Community Leader’s Workshop was to take place. Myra was still a little upset, but found a seat in this unassuming library with its faded green carpet and maple colored tables and chairs. In the center of the room, stood an unused fireplace and just above it there was a picture of George Washington gazing across the room into the sad eyes of Mona Lisa. The walls on either side were girded with books that served as old standbys for youthful minds: Encyclopedia Americana, Mark Twain, Gulliver’s Travel, My Friend Flicka, and many folklore and seafaring tales of days gone by.

Others came in and very quickly the idle chairs tucked under the tables were drawn into a circle of confrontation. Questions shot about the room: What in the hell was that all about? Who let that crazy in here? We’re paying good money to be here!

Again, Will confronted Ivan with his earlier question: Who’s supposed to be in charge here? This time, he wasn’t going to let up without a satisfactory answer. Others joined him echoing the same demand. Where’s the damn leadership of this outfit?

John, a small statured Caucasian with dark hair stood up and attempted to calm the group. He smoothed his hair then spoke in even, calm tones. You asked who the leadership is. My name is John; I’m a group leader. He motioned to the squat bald man who had earlier seemed to be skirting responsibility, Ivan, is another leader. John turned to Bill, the specialist on black. He was a trim, slick looking guy with a wide afro, a dashiki and about three gold chains thrown around his neck. Bill is the third group leader for this workshop.

Near the back of the room, Milton, an over-dressed Jewish man from New York jumped up, Okay, okay. Now that we know your names, what do you have to say about this morning’s craziness? Others rallied around him pressing for some rational explanation.

It was starting to get crazy again. John was shouting at the top of his lungs, Hey, everybody! Let’s get a grip. All of you know these workshops deal in human behavior. It’s not always possible to predict what will happen.

Myra sat close by Anna Marie, who still seemed intimidated by this whole business. Together, they quietly watched the protracted confusion. Myra couldn’t take her mind off of Sara blazing down the highway to the dark confinement of a mental hospital. What could have happened to make her go so far? She tried to tune out the craziness of the group, and trembled with the thought of harsh chemicals stripping her thin white skin. A cold chill shivered up her spine bolting her back to the reality of the angry bickering about her. She tried to quickly collect her thoughts. Before she realized it, she was