Within The Walls Of A Shattered Home - A Spoken Word Poem by Marcia P. Samuels

Let's Discuss Domestic Violence. It transcends social and economic boundaries, disregarding color, class, creed, and race. All too often, it remains hidden behind closed doors.

Just three months into my marriage, one night my husband violently threw me to the ground, bound me with a phone cord, and began to assault me. As I lay there in tears, struggling to free myself, I made a promise that this would be the last night I would ever endure such treatment, and it was. The following day, I filed for divorce and never looked back.

What empowered me even more that night was the vivid recollection of Mrs. Mulligan, a neighbor from my childhood in London, England.

I vividly remember the first time I encountered Mrs. Mulligan and her family. A moving truck arrived in front of the three-story building where the top floor had recently become available. I was puzzled as to why the movers left all the furniture on the sidewalk. It later became clear that her husband had opted not to pay extra for moving the items up the three flights of stairs.

With boxes, bags, and various unpacked items strewn across the sidewalk, Mrs. Mulligan directed her six young children to sit on the steps and remain there. At thirteen, I felt a strong, unspoken desire to assist and offered to watch over them, even though I hadn’t been asked.

Mrs. Mulligan began the laborious process of hauling boxes up the three flights of stairs. After about ten boxes, I wondered if Mr. Mulligan would arrive soon to help with the larger pieces of furniture, but hours passed without his appearance.

In between attending to the children and changing a diaper or two, this petite woman managed to carry every item up the three flights of stairs—beds, dressers, chairs, and a dining table—all on her own.

I didn't grasp the the cruelty of her husband, until around dusk, when a tall, well-built man came over to the children and shooed them up the stairs. I overheard him telling Mrs. Mulligan, "I hope my dinner is ready." 

Over time, my mother and Mrs. Mulligan developed a friendship as neighbors (I refer to them as neighbor friends because after we moved, my mother never saw her again). Mrs. Mulligan would often visit my mother for a pleasant cup of tea, and occasionally, they would share breakfast together.

During these visits, Mrs. Mulligan opened up about her life. She revealed that Mr. Mulligan was the love of her life. By the age of twenty-two, she had already given birth to three children, and by thirty, she had six. Most of her children were old enough to lead their own lives, while two teenagers remained in Ireland with her mother. She expressed that her children had endured suffering, and although they felt sadness for her, they could not forgive her for staying with him. They struggled to understand that, in her view, divorce was a sin in the eyes of God, and that belief was unchangeable.

The conversation that left a lasting impression on me, many years later as I lay on the floor, was one I overheard between my mother and Mrs. Mulligan. In that exchange, Mrs. Mulligan confided, "Every morning when he leaves for work, I pray that God will send a lorry to hit and kill him. Each day, when I hear his footsteps coming up the stairs, I wish I had the courage to do it myself."

Many years later, mum told me,  she heard that Mr. Mulligan had passed away, "It took forty years...but she is free now" mum said.  Then she added, mine took fifteen. Promise me, she said "If it ever happened to you, you'll leave the next day"