trauma group – Minna Hong

Rainbow Connection; chapter ten, part one

Posted on January 9, 2020 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

The next few days are a blur of work and talking on the phone with Lyle and Paris. Despite what he said, Paris is grateful that Lyle made the trip to Memphis, even if it means Lyle staying at a nearby Holiday Inn. Mr. and Mrs. Jenson refuse to allow Lyle to stay in their house which pisses Paris off no end. Lyle is the one who calmed Paris down, making him see that it wasn’t the time nor the place for a hissy-fit. The funeral is set for Wednesday. It will be a quiet, family affair, and there is a battle raging on whether Lyle will be allowed to attend or not. Paris has already threatened not to go if Lyle is barred from the proceedings. Half of me is glad that I escaped the drama while the other half is sorry that I can’t be there to support Paris and Lyle. When I’m not on the phone with them, I’m worried about them. For all the good I’m doing the agency where I work, I might as well have made the trip South.

Tuesday, I’m keyed up for group. I don’t want to be the cops’ spy, but I don’t have much choice. I drink cup after cup of coffee at work to get through the day after a terrible night of not sleeping. It discourages me that I am regressing back into the land of nightmares after I thought I had put it behind me forever. I have four nightmares Monday night, each scary enough to wake me with a pounding heart and dry mouth. It takes a half hour to fall back asleep after each one. Needless to say, when the alarm finally rings in the morning, I don’t greet the day with enthusiasm. In fact, I seriously consider skipping work, but as I said, my cred at the agency has maxed out.

“Hello, everyone.” Carol is smiling her usual smile, but it’s frayed around the edges. Even she is finding it difficult to keep up her soothing therapy voice in the midst of the drama that is our group. “I hope you’ve all had a restful week.” The group members are stealing looks at each other, but no one is saying anything. Carol has her ubiquitous notebook out, which doesn’t help the confidences flow. Carol sighs but tries again like a good facilitator. “I think we need to clear the air before we can get back to what this group is really about. Who wants to talk about what’s on her mind?”

“I will,” Sharise says, thrusting her chin out defiantly. “It be hard to think about what we here for what with all this murder business going on. I come here thinking, ‘Am I going to be next?’ I be looking over my shoulder all the time, waiting to get KO’d, you know what I’m saying? I’m thinking this be my last time here.” She sits back, folding her arms across her chest.

“Ok, Sharise. I’m glad you’re being open. That’s what the group is for, after all.” Carol nods encouragingly. “I’d like to remind you that you were against shutting down the group last week. What changed your mind?”

Rainbow Connection; chapter four, part two

Posted on November 28, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Name’s Sharise.” She pronounces it with a hard ‘ch” sound. “I’m here because my man was killed during a robbery attempt. He was the cop who caught the squeal.” Her eyes fill with tears, but she steadies herself. “Motherfucker fired on him ‘fore he even had a chance to draw his piece. Been seven months now, but might as well been yesterday.” The woman to her left squeezes her hand, garnering a venomous look from the Latina who had spoken earlier. I am confused. Sharise had talked about the community earlier, so I assumed she was gay. Perhaps bi. I, of all people, should not be making snap judgments about anyone’s sexual orientation.

“Tudd.” A white woman in her late thirties with short hair and a stout neck barks out her name. She is sitting on Sharise’s immediate right. “Dad wanted a son to carry his name, Todd. Got five girls instead. I was the last one.” She pauses her gray eyes going cold. “Was raped on the way home from work. Teacher. Elementary school. Three months ago. Had to give up teaching for now.” The anguish on her face is excruciating to watch. “That’s all.”

“Jennifer,” the Latina with the wild hair, but prim lips spits out her name. She is in her early twenties, but acts like she’s three decades older. “Like Jennifer Lopez, only not such a whore.” I shift my eyes and see the cross around her neck. “I am here because, well, my father, uh, touched me until I left for college. I didn’t even talk about it the first year I was at State. When I did, the counselor recommended this group to me.” She pauses before adding, “I have to repeat that I’m uncomfortable with lesbians. It’s a sin.” There is a collective groan in the room.

“Yeah, well we’re fucking uncomfortable with right-wing bigots like you!” Ashley sneers. Even though she is not next in line, she goes, anyway. “Fuck, I’m Ashley. Like, my school counselor practically ordered me to get some help, or he threatened to throw me out of school. I don’t need this bullshit, though. Three more months and I’m out of here.” Counselor? School? She must still be in high school.

“Ashley, don’t forget to tell Rayne why you’re here,” Carol interjects gently.

“Like, fuck. So my mother fucking died a couple months ago. So fucking what? The bitch hated me, anyway.” Despite her tough words, tears gather in her eyes. She lets out a stream of curses so creative, I look at her in admiration. Everyone turns to look at the Latina sitting next to Jennifer as she is the next in line, but she stares resolutely at the floor.

“Rosie?” Carol says softly. “Please introduce yourself.”

“My name is Rosie,” she says with great difficulty. “My son, he is dead. Shot. Gangbangers think he down with Surenos. They down with Nortenos. They no bother to talk—just shoot.” She is a thirty-something year old woman already beaten down by life. “Ten months ago, this happens. I think about him every day. My sister, she works here. Tells me to come. She makes me.” She stops, her face wet with tears. She sobs noiselessly as if she’s used to holding it in. “My baby, he is only twelve. No reason they must shoot him.” I vaguely remember reading about the case; it happened not far from where I lived. There is a moment of silence before the black woman next to her speaks.

Rainbow Connection; chapter four, part one

Posted on November 26, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“I’m here for the trauma group,” I say softly to the sympathetic-looking receptionist who nods her head encouragingly at me.

“Spreading Our Wings,” she says, patting her red curls. The name tag on her desk reads ‘Tessa Simpson’.

“Pardon?” I am unsure what she is trying to convey.

“That’s the name of the group,” Tessa says with a wide smile.

“I can’t call it that,” I protest. I think for a minute before adding, “You do realize that the initials spell out S.O.W.?”

“It was done that way on purpose,” Tessa assures me earnestly. “Think of all the hard work a sow has to do. Birthing her piglets, feeding them, nurturing them. Watching them get taken away to be used as food. Talk about your traumatic events! How would you get over something like that?”

“You’re kidding me.” I am unsure whether to take this woman seriously. She looks at me for a minute before bursting into laughter. Relieved, I join her.

“Yes, I am,” she confesses, still smiling. She has fine wrinkles around the corners of her hazel eyes which are gazing at me in friendly interest. “I love the look on newbies’ faces when I spin that tale for them. In reality, Carol—Ms. Sayers—just liked the way it sounded and only realized belatedly the unfortunate acronym. I’m the one who thought up the sow story.” Her open countenance invites me to laugh with her, so I do. “Carol should be out here in a minute. Have a seat.” She nods at the wooden lobby chairs. They look as if they would barely hold my weight, so I remain standing. I’ve never been in the A Ray of Hope building before, and like most nonprofit agencies, the building itself is not prepossessing in the least. There are the usual drab paintings on the beige walls. I pray the room the meetings take place in is not this boring. I spy a painting or two done by a kid, which I always enjoy. At least kids put some feeling into their art, unlike many adult artists. There is a coffee machine in the corner with the usual Styrofoam cups. I grab a cup of tepid coffee and stir in plenty of milk and sugar. It doesn’t help; the coffee is undrinkable. I toss the cup in the garbage and finally sit down to wait. The chair is sturdier than it looks.

Ten minutes pass. I am annoyed. Ms. Sayers had asked me to come a half an hour earlier so she could do an intake before the meeting. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me as time in a nonprofit agency is notoriously fluid. I sometimes joke at my agency about them running on CP time, but nobody finds that very funny. They’re a bunch of stiffs who wouldn’t know a joke if it bit them in the ass, though, so I don’t take it personally. I lean back in my chair and try to breathe deeply. There is a tightness in my chest that won’t loosen no matter what I try. I inhale through my nostrils for a count of seven, hold it for a count of four before slowly releasing it through my mouth for a count of seven. I don’t know how I came up with those numbers, but it does the trick nine out of ten times. Wouldn’t you know it, this is the tenth time?

The root of my discomfort is my dislike of groups in general, ‘the girls’ not-with-standing. I also find it daunting the idea of spilling my guts in front of not one, but multiple women. I remind myself that I don’t have to speak if I don’t want to, but that is small comfort. Intellectually, I realize that if I want to get something out of the group, at some point I have to participate. I bolt up in my chair. Some groups make their members speak. What if this is one of those groups? If so, I’m not sticking around. It is one thing about us Californians that I will never understand—diarrhea of the mouth. As a Midwest person I know once said, ‘Back home, you could know someone for fifteen years and never really know what they’re thinking, while here, you know someone fifteen minutes, and they tell you their whole life. story’ My response was that I must be a Midwesterner, then, because I hate people who impart their whole life stories the first time they meet you. Actually, I think it’s my way of rebelling against the openness of my hippie parents.

“Ms. Liang? I’m Carol Sayers.” A voice jars me out of my thoughts. I look up at a slim, forty-something woman with blond hair cut in a fashionable bob and green eyes that gaze at me with friendliness. She holds out her hand, and I rise before taking it. Her handshake is firm, but not punishing. I check her out discreetly. She is wearing jeans and a white Oxford shirt. Not exactly professional, but that’s California for you. Go with the flow, man.

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