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  • Written by Connie May Fowler
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Written by Connie May FowlerAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Connie May Fowler

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On Sale: February 19, 2002
Pages: 288 | ISBN: 978-0-385-50541-3
Published by : Ballantine Books Ballantine Group
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Connie May Fowler is known to the world as the author of bestselling novels and powerful essays—but no one knew that for years she was the victim of brutal abuse and relentless humiliation. Now in this harrowing, spellbinding memoir, Fowler finally tells her own story.

The daughter and grand-daughter of battered women, Fowler found herself irresistibly drawn to a man who was bent on destroying her, physically and emotionally. Despite her youth, spirit, education, and wonderful talent, she was trapped in a cycle of violence and despair with no way out. Until the day she adopted an incredible puppy she named Kateland.

With stunning candor, Connie May Fowler reveals how the unconditional love and loyalty of this dog helped her turn the corner, find a safe place, and reclaim her own life. A work of extraordinary passion and courage, When Katie Wakes holds out hope and inspiration to anyone who has ever dreamed of starting over.

Excerpt

She is hiding under a blue tarpaulin. Her siblings, all tan and brown, run and hop, nipping at each other, uncaring whether I choose them or not. They have a good life. They live outside and have sticks to play with. If it rains, they seek shelter under the house. Shade is there, too. And so is Mama. Mama with all that milk. But she's drying up, and these long-boned, orange-grove Crackers know it. In fact, she doesn't look very healthy at all.

Skin and bones and skin and bones. Where do you run to when you're nothing but skin and bones!

"The paper said you had black Lab puppies."

He points at the tarpaulin. "She's over there."

I look at the lone black pup and then back at the Cracker with his sky-colored eyes and sunburned face. Two barefoot boys, maybe three and five, chase the pups and giggle wildly each time they bait one into a game of tug.

"Their daddy is a Lab. That there is the mama. She's a shepherd. We only got one black one."

He smiles, as if her rarity in this litter makes her extra special, and I wonder two things. In the classified ad, why did they credit only the father's bloodline? Especially since five of the six puppies bear no resemblance to their Labrador side. And why isn't the black puppy playing with her siblings? Is she sick? Hurt? An outcast based on color? Size? Temperament?

"Hey, sweetie," I say to her from across the yard.

I approach slowly and kneel beside her. "How are you, little bit?" I ask, trying to make my voice comforting, as though a gentle nature is something all humans possess.

A star-shaped patch of white gleams on her chest. Other than that, she is tip-to-toe black. I offer her my hand. She looks at me warily and then averts her gaze. I take her into my arms. At my touch, she tenses. I understand from both the cautious posture of her eyes and the rigid trembling of her body that this dog, just weeks old, knows about mistreatment. She begins to whimper. Low, baleful, constant.

"It's okay, baby, yes, everything is gonna be all right."

I hear the Cracker say, "Looks like a keeper to me!" and he laughs loudly. It's a laugh made fat with good-ol'-boy intentions.

"Has she seen a vet?" I can see from her distended belly that she's wormy.

"Nah. I thought I'd leave that up to whoever is lucky enough to take her home. Besides, seeings how we ain't got room for no more dogs, we're probably just gonna croakersack whichever ones are left past this weekend. Back in the creek, you know." He nods toward a slow-moving rivulet of brown water that flows at the edge of a cane-break, sucks his teeth, and then yells toward the house, "Gracie, get me a beer." He looks at me. Slow. Up and down. "You want one?"

I shake my head no, flushed with rage, unable to match his blatant gaze. I feel his violence. It is palpable in each tremor of this puppy's underfed body.

"She's mine. I'm going to take her," I hear myself say as I ferry the dog to the car.

The older of the two boys is stomping, yelling, "Bye-bye!" The pups are scattering out of his path. His brother snags one by the scruff and carries it through the dirt as if it's a rag doll.

The Cracker yells, "You sure you want only one?"

Gracie steps onto the porch. She is as thin as the shepherd dog. I don't know if she's the Cracker's daughter or wife. He takes the beer from her and slaps her fanny. She slumps on the porch steps, arms folded in front of her, and stares at the dirt.

I am unbelievably grateful when the engine, after three sputtering tries, finally cranks.

My new dog is curled on the seat beside me, a tiny black curlicue, frightened and not understanding. As we travel out of the grove--even as my car shakes violently, banging along on its nearly nonexistent ball joints--I tell her, over and over, my hand stroking the bony ridge of her back, "I'm gonna take good care of you."


I name her Kateland, after Caitlin Costello Price in the movie The Verdict. I identify with Caitlin. She's long-suffering, and even though it takes forever, she finally does the right thing and testifies.


When I tell the receptionist at the vet's office how to spell Katie's name, I don't intentionally mess it up. But once I realize my error, I feel no compulsion to fix it. Katie doesn't care how her name is spelled.


She is a kind dog. She sleeps with me, on my side of the bed, right up against my belly. Every night before dozing off, she licks my hand. When the lights are out, I cannot see her. But I cling to her. And I think, she to me.


You pick her up by her scruff and inspect her as if you are an animal know-it-all.

"Don't handle her like that," I say.

You measure your words evenly, as if speaking to a child who is hopelessly dense. "That's the way it's done."

"No, it's not."

"Jesus, Connie, my father was a vet. I know what I'm doing."

You set her down and then try to force open her jaws. She squirms out of your grip. Quickly, I pick her up and hold her to my chest. She"s trembling as much as on the day I brought her home.

You look over my head and say--that old arrogance shining through--"l'll have her trained in no time."

"I mean it, leave her alone."

And in my mind I'm saying, You motherfucker. You motherfucker.

You look at me with a bored, superior gaze and, for the first time in months, I stare right back, certain that if you hurt this dog I will kill you.


I am fixing supper. Katie lies on the floor, ever-watchful for any morsel I might toss her way. I spice the ground beef (I have given up my vegetarian ways, living with you). Salt, pepper, garlic powder, Worcestershire, and finely chopped onions. I mix it together with my bare hands, the raw meat cold and bloody against my skin.

You have been missing in action since about three yesterday afternoon. Still, here I am, preparing an evening meal, as if this domestic ritual will set my world straight. I have fantasies, like maybe you've been killed in a car crash, and I don't know whether to be upset or joyous. Each time a car slows in front of the apartment I peer out the window, hoping against all odds that it is you returning home.

Maybe I'll call the sheriff. Maybe I'll say, "Are there any accident reports involving a slick silver Audi driven by a drunk?"

Why should I fear being abandoned by you? I should hope and pray that you're gone for good. I slap the meat into patties and try to remember how long my mama has been dead. Two, three years? I can't recall. Same with Daddy. People ask, "How old were you when he died?" and I shrug my shoulders.

"I'm not sure. Little."

And they look at me as if I were a loon for not pinning down how old he was, how old I was, how old Mama was.

Maybe I can't remember because the numbers frighten me. They are cold, unchangeable. The opposite, I hope, of life.


Here's a memory to choke on:

"I'm little. How many years I am slips around me. Sometimes I grab it tight, sometimes it skitters away. Five? Five and a half? Maybe even six. One, two, three, four, five, six. I can count that far! Even to ten but I don't feel like it. Oh well, doesn't matter, I'll figure everything out later, on my fingers.

I have on a decent outfit--a new shorts set my mama sewed for me. It's blue with tiny yellow rocket ships zooming between all white stars. Mama can sew good, except she makes me thread her needles --cause she says she's blind as a bat.
I've got my doll with me. She's sitting beside me in the back seat of the Rambler. A little smile on her face. She's perfect. I like her white underwear.

Mama is driving and smoking and cussing Daddy. Deedee is riding shotgun. That's what Mama calls it. She ain't got no gun, though. She's just helping Mama find Daddy's car. She's a big priss, sitting up front, peering out her window, acting like she's better than me just 'cause Mama told her that one day she'd let her shave her legs.

My doll has good legs. If she were real, she'd end up marrying a leg man. I stretch mine out. They're freckled from the sun. My toes ain't got no paint on 'em, either. When I get big, I probably won't be attracting no leg men. But how about--

"Constance Anita May, get your goddamned feet off the back of my seat before I smack you!"

I do as I'm told, but I'm not happy about it. Mama is a meanie. I hate her! I pick up my doll and whisper right in her face, "I weren't hurting nobody."

Mama slows the car and I stretch my neck to see out the window. There's a pretty sign up there. Words written in diamonds.

"There it is!" Deedee says as if she's just won a treasure hunt.

"Bingo!" Mama stops right in front of the bar, but she keeps the car running. "Connie, go in there and get that son-of-a-bitch father of yours."

I don't want to go. I don't like the way those drinkers look at me. They cuss a lot. Bars stink and floozies live there. Mama said so.

Mama turns around, her hand raised, her green eyes shifting back and forth--a sure sign she's about to blow. "What did I just tell you!"

I leave my doll in the car. She'll probably thank me for it later.

There ain't no ladies in here. Just men, drinking, laughing, playing pool. And a lot of smoking. I stand right inside the door. I don't move. I just look around. With my eyes. Nobody has seen me. Maybe I'm invisible. I like that jukebox over there. It's lit up. Yellow. Red. Green. I gotta pee. Bad. I don't know where my daddy is. Maybe that weren't his car. Maybe Mama was wrong.

I look with just my eyes one more time. Pool games. Tables. That back room through all this smoke. Maybe this is Hell, right here where I'm standing. Mama says her grandma believed in Hell on earth. The bar. It's crowded. Maybe he's down on the end and that's why I don't see him.

"Henry!"

That's my daddy's name! The bartender with his belly floating like a balloon above his pants. He said it.

My daddy swings around on his barstool. "Hey, sunshine!" He's grinning like a jack-o'-lantern. No wonder I couldn't see him. His back was to me. "Come here. Don't be scared. Nobody's gonna bite."

I inch on over to him. I know about inchworms. They're everywhere. Sometimes I let them crawl through my arm hairs. Daddy seems real happy to see me. He lifts me onto his lap and introduces me to his buddies.

"This is my baby girl. Ain't she the pertiest thing you ever did see!"

They all say yep and the bartender reaches over with his ham-sized paw and shakes my hair. I press my face against Daddy's shirt. It smells like starch and sweat. Mama's gonna claim that's the stink of women and liquor.

"What do you want?" Daddy asks. "Cherry Coke? Pickled egg? How about a Slim Jim, sunshine?"

I shake my head no. I try to make him understand. I do my serious face, the I-mean-business face. "Mama's waiting out in the car."

"She is!" Daddy seems real surprised. Does he think I walked here? "Well, what's she doing out there?" He tosses some paper money on the bar. "Let's go get her. Later, boys," he says.

I'm too big to be carried, but Daddy don't pay that any mind. To tell the truth, I kinda like it. Maybe these bar fellas think I'm some paralyzed child--all weak and pale and pretty like my doll--and Daddy's being the hero, walking us straight out of Hell.


From the Hardcover edition.
Connie May Fowler|Author Q&A

About Connie May Fowler

Connie May Fowler - When Katie Wakes
CONNIE MAY FOWLER is an essayist and screenwriter, as well as the author of three previous novels, including Sugar Cage and River of Hidden Dreams. In 1996, she published Before Women Had Wings, later a successful “Oprah Winfrey Presents” TV movie, winner of the 1996 Southern Book Critics Circle Award, and paperback bestseller. She lives in Florida.

Author Q&A

Q: You've been open about the fact that your personal life--and
abuse--informs your fiction. How was it different recording
your experiences and feelings in a memoir, rather than in a
novel?


A: Novelists have tremendous freedom. We invent time, reality, perceptions,
even spatial constructs. And the paradox is that within this
fantasy world, verisimilitude must reign supreme. Memoirists, on
the other hand, must remain faithful to an external set of facts and
then convey those facts with all the flair and craft of the finest fiction
writer. So I was extremely preoccupied with recording events
accurately, honestly, unaided by fiction's wavy glass.

Q: You spent time as a journalist and editor, then embarked
upon screenwriting, novel writing, and this memoir. While you
were writing When Katie Wakes, how did your professional experience
come into play? Did you feel like a reporter recording
the facts, or was it an emotionally fraught experience?


A: Both. I had to be a reporter. But even the best reporter, from time
to time, becomes emotionally involved in her story. And it usually
turns out to be the best work of her life.

Q: How long did this book take to complete? Did you devote
yourself to it on a constant basis, or did it take shape over time?


A: It took less than a year to write. It was like being shot out of a
cannon: sudden, surprising, thrilling, terrifying--and all the while
praying you'll survive, that you'll have a soft landing. Katie wasn't a
book I had planned to write. But when my dog, Kateland, died, I
knew I had to write this memoir. I had to do something that might
honor her life.

Q: Your dog, Kateland, plays a central role in the book. What
does the title When Katie Wakes evoke to you? Were there other
titles you considered?

A: I kicked around quite a few titles, all of them awful. Then I
reread the memoir, looking solely for lines that jumped out at me,
lines that said, "Hey! Look at me. I'm the echo that doesn't let the
reader sleep." And as I did that I realized that Katie exhibited a
pattern: She never slept if I was in danger. She became my
guide. Ultimately, after one long and violent night, after my
abuser's rage had subsided, she napped. I did not. I waited for her
to wake. When she did, I gathered my courage and together we
left. So the title, for me, speaks to my awakening consciousness
and resolve.

Q: In the book, you say you first saw Katie cowering under a
tarp, separate from her siblings. What immediately drew you to
her?


A: I understood her loneliness. And her fear. I thought maybe we
could help each other.

Q: Kateland often escapes out of the yard, but never runs away.
Did you consciously see this image as a metaphor for your own
situation, or is that something that occurred to you while you were
writing When Katie Wakes?


A: At the time I was living it, I did not consciously see Katie's escaping
ways as a metaphor for my own life. A conscious reading was
impossible given the mental and physical terror I was experiencing
on a daily basis.

But, in retrospect, I do believe it was subconsciously needling
me. And that's why it flowed naturally onto the page once I set out
to write the memoir.

Q: Why did you decide to write the book in the present tense,
with the memories of your childhood in the past tense?


A: I wanted to address my abuser in present tense because I wanted
the reader to feel the immediacy of the situation. My goal was total
immersion: Here you are in this horrendous situation and you are
scared and panicked and beaten. Now, what are you going to do? Are
you just going to pick up and leave? No, you're not, because the simplest
decisions are beyond your grasp; forget trying to make monumental
ones. Because your abuser has cast a barbed net over you.
Every movement--whether it's toward freedom or placation--could
kill you. As for the childhood memories, they are also in present tense
much for the same reason. In the "Connie as a young woman" sections,
I occasionally slip into expository prose in which I look back
onto my childhood. These sections are necessary because they allow
me to reflect on the past and my upbringing and to begin to make decisions,
discern patterns. They also provide context, so I think they are
helpful to the reader.

Q: In the book's acknowledgments, you mention the "tragic
lives and unintentional sins" of your parents. At the end of the
book, however, you express your eternal love for them. Why do
you feel that they often resorted to violence? Which of their
good characteristics do you hope to emulate?


A: They did live tragic lives and commit unintentional sins. That
doesn't obliterate my love for them. They were flawed humans, as
we all are. And while I will wish with my last breath that they had
found other means to express their sorrow, rage, helplessness, I will
not be bitter that they were unable to do so. I will remember. I will
try to give the good more weight than the bad. At their best, both
my parents were smart, talented, charismatic, and deeply in love. At
their best, they loved life. At their best, they approached life with
astonishing zeal and vigor. That is what I'm learning to do. I'm learning
that I can't turn all the dross into gold, but I sure as heck can
insist upon claiming my own happiness.

Q: What themes of your childhood were echoed in your life as
a young adult?


A: My love of animals and the fact they were and are a source of infinite
joy and solace. My love of nature. My fascination with myth and
religion. My desire that we treat each other fairly, with good intentions,
with open and honest hearts, and with clear-eyed empathy. I
have always believed that if we daily nurture our empathetic impulses
that racism, fascism, and other forms of meanness will wither.

Q: You never name your boyfriend in When Katie Wakes. Why do
you refer to him as "you" throughout the book? By making that
choice, did you direct the book's content toward him, like a letter
or epistle of sorts?


A: Oh, yes, the memoir is surely an epistle of sorts. Do you know how
empowering that is? For a victim to be able to address her abuser and
say, "This is what you did to me. You will listen. You will know." It's incredibly
cathartic. You see, men who batter women do so out of a need
for power. And part of the power play is to render their victim silent.
By writing down my story--by saying, "This is what you did to me"--
I took back what he had stolen from me. My voice.

Q: In When Katie Wakes, you remark upon the dichotomy of your
identity--the struggle of the professional young woman versus the
cowed child who became an abused adult. How adept did you become
at living, in essence, a double life? Was it difficult to learn to
leave that behind?


A: All abused children lead double lives. It is, first and foremost, a
survival mechanism. It is also something our abusers demand. And,
there is something about the human psyche--particularly that of a
child--that insists we are to blame and must protect the abuser at
all costs. So, sadly, I have always been extremely adept at hiding the
realities of my personal life. As for leaving it behind . . . it is something
I'm just learning to do. Every day I wake and remind myself
that I will not engage in relationships that are hurtful. Every day I
school myself on how to recognize the warning signs. Every day I try
to undo a lifetime of negative learning.

Q: Of conversations with your sister, you say: "We never get to
the truth. We glide to the surface, afraid." How did you begin
to delve deeper into reality, not only with your sister, but with
yourself ?


A: Very simply, through my writing. The act of telling the tale has
always been an exercise in salvation.

Q: How did the need for orthodonture--and a whole new jaw--
affect the way you felt about yourself? Was there one event that
spurred you to begin the arduous process of fixing your mouth?


A: I don't want to go into the long, sordid tale of how that made me
feel. And there were many events that contributed to my desire to "fix
my face." What I want to concentrate on is the me of today--a person
who deals with the world head on, honestly, and who expects others to
do likewise.

Q: It seems as though fate did play a role in many events in your
life. Why do you sometimes classify fate as "payback"?


A: During the time period in which Katie takes place, I often felt that
I was the cause of whatever problems came my way. I was taught that
I wasn't worthy of happy experiences, that whatever came my way in
terms of unhappiness was because I was a bad person. I suppose if we
look at this from a Buddhist perspective--whether the events be positive
or negative--we are talking broadly about karma. And karma,
given what I'd been through, can be a very slippery slope.

Q: Do you feel that your fiction and nonfiction writing is still
influenced by your poetic passions? Do you still feel like a poet
at heart?


A: Yes, I do consider myself a poet at heart. And I look upon my novels
and this memoir simply as long-form poems.

Q: In your opinion, was there one turning point in the abusive
relationship when you realized you had to leave? A series of
small ones that accumulated? What were they?


A: I always knew I had to leave. From the first abusive accusation to
the final physical assault, I knew I had to leave. The key for myself and
anyone who is in a similar situation is finding the pathway out. It is not
easy. It is extremely difficult for so many reasons. The most dangerous
time for a woman in an abusive relationship is when she leaves--that
is when the majority of domestic violence homicides occur. When I
say domestic violence homicides I am talking about the murder of the
wife, or the children, or the family pet, or the combination of all three.
And the battered woman instinctively understands this. Add to the
mix the many complex issues of family, money, transportation, children,
pets, jobs, shelter. It is a crime to ask the question, "Why doesn't
she just leave?" The question ought to be, "Why hasn't society insisted
he be put in jail and sentenced to mandatory counseling?"

Q: When you finally do leave your boyfriend, you think to your-self
that you don't want Mika to be the reason you are leaving--
you want to leave because you are a strong and independent
woman. Why was making this distinction so important to you?

A: Because I didn't leave my abuser for another relationship. I left
my abuser because I had finally discovered not only the pathway
out but the strength to embark upon that long and dangerous journey.

Q: You mention in When Katie Wakes that you "inhaled books."
Which authors--both fiction and nonfiction--have had the
most profound influence on you and your writing?


A: As a child, Lois Lenksi's Strawberry Girl. As an adolescent, St.
Augustine's Confessions
and the poetry of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton,
and T.S. Eliot. As an adult, well, it's hard to name just a few. I
guess I'd have to say Flannery O'Connor, Katherine Anne Porter,
Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Pablo Neruda, Federico Garcia
Lorca, William Faulkner, Zora Neale Hurston, Harper Lee, Marjorie
Kinnan Rawlings, Virginia Wolfe. This is a woefully incomplete
list.

Q: It's heart-wrenching that you had to put Katie to sleep. Have
you ever considered getting another dog?


A: At the time of Katie's death I had three other dogs. A year after
her death I adopted a fourth, Kula Buwili, an Australian Kelpie. My
dogs are Atticus, Scout (both schipperkes are named in honor of To
Kill a Mockingbird), Cocoa Lupina, and Kula Buwili.

Q: Your Women with Wings Foundation is dedicated to helping
women and children in need. How did you come to start this
foundation? What's its mission, and do you remain involved
with it on a day-to-day basis?


A: I established the foundation when Oprah Winfrey made my
novel Before Women Had Wings into a film. Basically, the foundation
is me and whoever I can cajole into giving their time. We've
established a medical clinic at Refuge House, the domestic violence
and sexual assault shelter in the greater Tallahassee area. We
have helped fund a new emergency shelter for Refuge House, held
fundraisers, worked to get books donated for the children . . . that
sort of thing. I love the work I do in the domestic violence community.

Q: You and Mika recently decided to separate. How does this
event mark another watershed moment for you? How does it inform
the ending of the book?


A: This is a very difficult subject for me to discuss. Of course, it is a
watershed moment for both of us. It is extremely sad and upsetting
and horribly complicated. As for the ending of Katie, we will both always
love Katie. So she will always be honored. By loving Katie we
ascend. That will never change. I live in the cottage where we buried
her. So I look out upon her daily, and weed her grave, and plant flowers
around her, and love her with a purity that I hope transcends
death.

Q: Did you write this memoir with a specific audience in
mind--battered women, for example? Or was it more of a
cathartic exercise for yourself?


A: Neither. I wrote it to honor Katie. And if it speaks to people, if
it helps a battered or formerly battered woman to heal, if it sheds
light on what it is like to be in that situation so that the reader
gains greater empathy, then I will have done my job and so much
more.

Q: Do you plan to write a follow-up to this memoir, of your life
with Mika and beyond? Or do you plan to tackle another novel
next?


A: I am working on a new novel, The Problem with Murmur Lee. I
am anxious to delve back into novels. It is where I am most comfortable.

Reader's Guide|About the Book|Author Biography|Discussion Questions

About the Book

WHEN KATIE WAKES Reading Group Companion,
Copyright 2002 by the Doubleday Broadway Publishing Group
A Division of Random House, Inc. RG Logo
All of our reading group companions are now available on-line at www.randomhouse.com/resources/rgg.html
Doubleday Logo Doubleday * 1540 Broadway * New York, NY 10036

About the Guide

As a young woman, Fowler found herself involved with a man whose behavior disturbingly echoed her mother's. The man she lived with alternately displayed a desperate need for her and rejected her as if she were worse than useless. With heart-wrenching candor, Fowler records the abuse she suffered at his hands, from his constant attempts to undermine her self-confidence to his acts of brutal physical violence. The unconditional love she longed for finally came - in the shape of an adoring Labrador puppy named Kateland. With Katie at her side, Fowler was able to withstand her mistreatment and the crushing weight of her childhood and, miraculously, managed to create a small refuge amid the horrors that surrounded her. This is the story of her decision to end the years of mistreatment and even to open her life to a new, gentle man, whose love and understanding helped to transform her.

Well known for her work with victims of domestic abuse through the Connie May Fowler Women with Wings Foundation, Fowler now offers a strong helping hand to women everywhere in this startling, revealing, and ultimately inspiring memoir.

About the Author

Connie May Fowler is an essayist, screenwriter, and novelist. Her previous books include Sugar Rage, River of Hidden Dreams, and most recently Remembering Blue. Her 1996 novel, Before Women Had Wings, won the Southern Book Critics Circle Award and was made into a successful "Oprah Winfrey Presents" TV movie. Remembering Blue won the Chautauqua South Award for Fiction. She and her husband are cofounders of the Connie May Fowler Women with Wings Foundation, a nonprofit organization dedicated to aiding women and children in need. She lives in Florida.

For More Information about The Connie May Fowler Women With Wings Foundation, please contact:
PO Box 31
Lloyd, Florida 32337
(850) 553-5046
www.conniemayfowler.com


The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence
PO Box 18749 Denver, CO 80218
303-839-1852 ext.102
www.ncadv.org

Crisis Information Call NCADV Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE


From the Hardcover edition.

Discussion Guides

1. Domestic violence is about one person using emotionally, physically, sexually and psychologically abusive tactics to gain power and control over another. What forms of abuse did Connie suffer at the hands of her abusive partner? Her mother?

2. During her relationship with her abuser, Connie rarely defends herself. But the day she brings Katie home Connie says to him, "don't handle her like that" and "I mean it, leave her alone". Why do you suppose she's willing to stand up to him for Katie? How dangerous was it for her to do this?

3. What does Katie mean to Connie? What roles does she play in her life and why was she so important that Connie wanted to write about her?

4. There is often a cycle in families that repeats violence from generation to generation. How many generations of violence does Connie reveal from her history and what are the different ways that she expresses her understanding of the cycle? Why is understanding the abuse by her mother so important in understanding the abuse by her partner?

5. Typewriters have an important role in this story. Connie is not allowed to use her abuser's and Mika later gives her one as a gift. What do you think the typewriter means to Connie? Why do you think she risks using her abuser's in secret? What does she mean when she says "this typewriter helps me be independent?" How?

6. What do the braces mean to Connie? The surgery? Why would her partner not be supportive of her getting the dental work done?

7. Why does Connie think she wants to kill herself? Considering how hard her life was with her mother, wouldn't you think she would be grateful to have freedom? Why does she say in the book that she doesn't want to live without her mother? What does this tell us about child abuse?

8. Connie talks about how she, just like her mother, will not call law enforcement for help. Why not? What happened when her mother did? Do you think law enforcement's response to battered women has changed since then?

9. Just before her mother dies, she says to Connie, "go to hell". And Connie thinks, "maybe there is time left for me to still be a good daughter". Is Connie responsible for the abuse by her mother? By her partner?

10. The number one question asked about battered women is "why don't they just leave?" Why didn't Connie "just leave"? Is this a book about staying or leaving and why?

11. Did Mika save Connie or did Connie save herself? Who is the hero and why?


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