engleză
Her name is Diane Jones. Today her presence is calm and warm. I knew her as a quiet, terrified child struggling to grow up, nay, even to stay alive in a large violent matriarchal family.
There was no father figure, only a sequence of men. Diane was thirteen years old when I first met her. Through a program in the California Department of Social Services, I had been assigned to be Big Sister to a younger sister of Diane. This younger sister was also badly abused both in maternal violence and in sexual abuse, as was Diane, but to a much lesser degree. I thought of Diane's mother as a raging bull with massive mood swings from manipulative and charming to a cruel, mean and evil woman. I myself was afraid of her. If I had known what was really going on during the years I worked with the family, I would not have had the power to do anything about it. My only hope and motivation at that time was to give them a view of what life was like from a different perspective and thus help them be kinder to their children. I am always appalled by the fact that Social Services felt it was best to keep children connected to their families no matter how monstrous the evil in the home. Twenty-six years later, we are all wiser.
