As a toddler, Mary sustains an injury to her left eye. In elementary school, she is diagnosed with a traumatic cataract caused by a shattered lens and is advised to always wear glasses to protect her better eye. Not wanting to be teased by peers, she disguises her impairment by wearing tinted shades of various hues. These camouflages affect the way she views life and alters her perception of people and events. Believing that everyone encountered would initially focus on her eyes, she limits her social interactions and becomes an avid reader. After ending an abusive marriage to Chico, her high school and college boyfriend, and later identifying with the Hebrew Israelites, she decides to take off the colorful blinders and face life, with all of its complexities, clearly focused by going on a Caribbean cruise to reflect on her experiences in order to resolve the inner conflicts which led to years of unhappiness and deferred dreams. The Creation story in the book of Genesis guides her thinking as she desperately attempts to recreate her life by analyzing over thirty years of experiences in seven short days. It begins with her understanding the causes of her blurred vision and ends with an enlightened sense of self pride, purpose and spiritual awareness. Throughout this true adventure, she uses her visual impairment as a metaphor for the blindness she suffers as she journeys along life's path. The book is filled with tales of her family structure and social values; issues of marriage, domestic violence, infidelity, deception and divorce; the challenges of single parenting; the frustrations of religious persecution and professional discrimination; the disappointments encountered in attempts to establish friendships and develop intimate relationships; and finally the blessings of finding true love and restoring trust.

SHATTERED LENS

A Tale of Domestic Violence and Redemption through LoveBy Mary Alice Beasley

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Mary Alice Beasley
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-2785-2

Contents

DUSK: PSYCHOGENESIS............................................1The Inner Child................................................5Hindsight......................................................12Blind Faith....................................................66THE FIRST DAY: ON THE SEA......................................79The Teacher....................................................81The Professional Class.........................................84The Line.......................................................88The Passover Plot..............................................91THE SECOND DAY: ON THE SEA.....................................97The Exodus.....................................................99Crimestoppers..................................................106Passing the Word...............................................110Wearing White..................................................115Black on White.................................................123Discipleship...................................................126THE THIRD DAY: PUERTO RICO.....................................131The University.................................................133The Entourage..................................................139The 70th Floor.................................................150Crisis Investing...............................................157THE FOURTH DAY: ST. THOMAS.....................................163The Sacrificial Lamb...........................................165Marked for Death...............................................170Getting My "House" in Order....................................174The Crucifixion................................................177The Death Wish.................................................180In the Tomb....................................................182THE FIFTH DAY: ST. MAARTEN.....................................185The Tarot Reading..............................................187Close Encounters...............................................193THE SIXTH DAY: ON THE SEA......................................201The Agate......................................................203The Healing Process............................................215Reprogramming..................................................218SUNDOWN........................................................221The Dream......................................................223The Resurrection...............................................227THE ELEVENTH HOUR..............................................231A New Name — A New Teacher...............................233Blossom........................................................243DAWN...........................................................249Insight........................................................251No Coincidences................................................255Realization....................................................258THE SEVENTH DAY: SUNRISE.......................................265The Upper Room: A Higher Order of Thinking.....................267Self Actualization.............................................270HOME: MY DEBUT.................................................273The Cotillion: A Dream Fulfilled...............................277BLESSINGS......................................................283My Beloved: The Rock...........................................28320 / 20 Vision.................................................298Post Script....................................................319CONTACT INFORMATION............................................320

Chapter One

DUSK: PSYCHOGENESIS

The feeling of fluttering butterflies in my stomach makes me want to change my mind and stay home but it's too late to cancel. After a most demanding school year, I should be jumping with joy anticipating a relaxing seven day Eastern Caribbean cruise to San Juan, Puerto Rico; St. Thomas, Virgin Island; St. Maarten, and Antigua aboard the M.S. Celebration, one of Carnival Cruise Lines' most impressive ships. What a paradox! What should be a joyous occasion is going to be a very somber one for me.

This is my first vacation alone. I'm so accustomed to traveling with family, close friends or groups. I don't know anyone in any of the ports of call and I don't even know the identity of my cabin mate. That's what happens when you book as a single passenger. I'm so anxious.

"Ok girl, get it together," I voice loudly talking to myself. Double check your list. Make sure you haven't forgotten anything important. Identification cards, travelers' checks, credit cards and tickets are in my purse. Vitamins, camera, sunglasses, tape recorder and books are in my handbag. My books are so important. Without them I'll find it difficult to appear preoccupied. For so long I've used them as props to isolate myself in social settings.

I force a smile when my kids, Renee, Juanita and Lonnie and two of their friends, Damon and Kristy approach me.

"Got everything?" Lonnie asks. He knows me so well he can almost read my mind.

"Yes, and I'm ready to go."

"I'll put your baggage in the trunk of the car."

"Thanks Damon."

"And I'll drive," Lonnie announces as he chivalrously opens the car doors. "All aboard for the Port of Miami!"

Lonnie senses my anxiety and kisses me on the cheek as I get into the car. Then bowing as if he were a chauffeur he says, "At your service, ma'am."

"You are so funny," I chuckle.

The girls get into Renee's car and follow.

I sit quietly staring out of the window at the beautiful scenery as we ride across the causeway to the port. Seeing the ocean has a calming effect on my nerves. I glance over at fabulous Bayside in downtown Miami and see the skyline of the wonderful attractions and realize how little time I've spent enjoying the amenities in my own city.

We arrive at the port in twenty minutes. It takes another thirty minutes to get through the procedures for boarding. Finally we enter the gangplank and stop briefly to pose for the traditional picture.

Damon and Lonnie carry my bags to the cabin. My anonymous roommate has already been in the room and declared squatter's rights by placing her luggage on the lower bunk. I look around the cabin and think, "Why didn't I pay for an upgrade, a bunk bed?" I sigh.

"Just place the bags against the wall. I'll unpack later. Let's take a tour of the ship before departure."

"This ship is beautiful," Renee remarks.

"It sure is. It's a floating luxury hotel."

Knowing that I might not ask strangers to snap my picture, I say in a commanding tone, "Let's hurry! I want you to take lots of pictures of me on board in various locations."

As we stroll from deck to deck, I think, "I wish that they were going with me. It's so obvious that I'm the one holding on; but this is one phase of my life's journey that they cannot help. I'll have to do this alone."

An announcement from the public address system interrupts my thoughts: "Attention all visitors. Please return to shore immediately. The ship is preparing to set sail promptly at 5:30 p.m. Thank you for being our guests."

"Ok everybody. Come quickly and give me a hug."

Sensing my separation anxiety, Renee says, "Relax and have a good time."

I hurry to the upper deck to catch a glimpse of them and wave goodbye until they are completely out of view. I sigh as my thoughts quickly revert to my cabin mate. Will she be much younger or older; Black, White or Hispanic; friendly or reclusive?" It's time to meet her. I slowly return to the cabin.

Beth, a Jewish legal secretary from New York, is warm, friendly and a seasoned passenger. This is her fourteenth cruise. S he dates one of the co-captains and sails often, using her vouchers, to spend time with him. We are the same age and have lots in common.

"Other than being in the room to shower and redress, you will practically have the room to yourself Mary," she states.

I think, "Great!" I earnestly want to be alone so that I can concentrate. I have to find solutions to some major personal problems and I want to think clearly without being distracted.

After dinner, I'll look for a quiet spot on the lower deck where I can begin introspecting. I must get myself together without any advice from relatives, friends or the clergy concerning relationships and biblical interpretations, my two major areas of concern.

I don't wish to go on like this any longer. I've been looking at life through a shattered lens for too long. I must begin to see people and situations as they really are, not as I want them to be.

The sun is beginning to sink below the horizon. It is now dusk, like my past, dim and unfulfilling. I quickly explore the ship in search of a place to meditate. Great! I see the perfect spot near the life boats. Armed with books, notepads and pens, I position the lounging chair so that I can put my feet up on the railing.

As I sit down, lie back and stare at the darkening sky, the smell of the ocean's breeze and the motion of the waves begin calming my agitated mind. How do I begin my self analysis? How can I adequately reflect on more than thirty years in just seven days and come to some reasonable decisions about how to proceed in the future?

As I look up at the stars, the creation story in the book of Genesis overwhelms me. As I recite the verse, "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth," I realize that thoughts are things that are brought into existence. My mind has created my dark world of despair. If I want a better brighter world, I must recreate it by thinking more rationally. I smile as the word "psychogenesis" comes to mind. Yes, I must go back to the beginning of my childhood and remember any incidents that affected my way of thinking positively about life and its possibilities.

Knowing that this was not going to be an easy task, I remember the story of Nicodemus's clandestine meeting with Jesus and his comments. I laugh aloud as I also think, "It would be easier if I could just reenter my mother's womb and be born again," as he suggested.

My laughter quickly turns to prayer. "Oh God, please help me through this process. I want to be happy now, in this life. I want to love and be loved unconditionally."

As I begin to cry, I sense the Spirit of Truth moving upon the face of the waters. The concept judgment day permeates my mind. Yes! This is my day of reckoning. I wipe the tears away and close my eyes. Amazingly I see sparkling particles of light as my mind is flooded with colorful images of the past. It's as if a video recording of my life has been projected onto a screen and someone has pressed the play button.

My memory is enhanced as I ease into a state of reflection. Sensing that someone is whispering in my ear, I place my fingers behind the lobe and listen. I smile knowing that my prayer is being answered. I relax, confidently pick up the pen and begin to write.

THE INNER CHILD

I was in the fifth grade at Holy Redeemer Roman Catholic School. Every day was pretty much routine. We gathered on the basketball court and played until the nuns arrived. Then we lined up by classes, there was only one class per grade level, and followed our teachers to the devotional area in front of the flagpole.

Once assembled, the entire student body simultaneously greeted the faculty of all white priests and nuns, recited the Pledge of Allegiance, prayed and performed other prescribed rituals. Mother Superior would end with special announcements for the day. A standard of excellence was instilled in us every morning. We were required to speak correctly and in complete sentences at all times, but we could not talk unless we raised our hands and was recognized. Our behavior was to be in accord with a strict code of moral conduct. The consequence of disobedience was immediate expulsion.

Whenever priests, nuns or any adults entered our classrooms, we were required to stand immediately to greet them and would remain standing until prompted to be seated. Usually the visitors would just motion with their hands in a downward move to indicate permission.

Our daily class schedule was highly structured and followed strict protocol. Prayer was performed before and after each subject; when we left the room for lunch; when we arrived in the cafeteria; and when we returned to the classroom after recess.

We attended Mass every day. We prayed fervently for the service to be over quickly as we had to kneel on unpadded prayer benches for a very long time while the priest went through the liturgy in Latin, the Stations of the Cross or the Rosary. Our knees were so sore when Mass was over that we even prayed for them to stop aching as we hobbled back to class.

We recited a prayer of safety and protection at the close of the school day and were reminded to pray before dinner, before bed and when we awakened in the morning. We prayed a lot. I also prayed as I walked home from school alone. The public school kids joked about the yellow and white uniform that I wore, the cap on my head and yes, the black and white saddle-oxford shoes. They laughed, called me unkind names and teased me all the way home.

If I responded to their criticism, they would mock my speech, grammar and pronunciation. "She talk so white and proper don't she. Who you thank you is? You thank you bettuh than us, don't chuh?" they taunted.

However, one day there was a slight change in our school's daily routine. Even before Sister Justella told the class what was going to happen, we knew that this day was different. We saw uniformed nurses from the public health department in the building. Small groups of children from each class followed the nurses to the school's clinic across the street from the basketball court. We could see them walking in a single file line from the windows of our classroom on the second floor. Soon it was our turn.

This was exciting. We were being given vision and hearing screening tests. We had not had this service at our school since my enrollment. As we waited in line, I carefully observed the nurses. When it was my turn I followed the procedure exactly as the others had until it was time for the vision examination.

"Close your left eye and read the letters as I point to each one," said the nurse.

"E,G,K,P,T," I proudly read. I was doing fine.

"Now close your right eye and read the letters." This was just too easy I thought. As I attempted to follow her directions the lighting changed, images became blurred, colors faded, and the letters seemed to merge on the chart. Some letters completely disappeared. What was happening to me? I squinted and refocused again and again.

"Read the letters please," she reiterated.

"They are all blurred, ma'am. I can't see them clearly."

She stopped the test and directed me to another nurse who looked into my eyes with a lighted object, then handed me a note to take home.

"Give this letter to your parents to read," she instructed.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered. As I took the paper, I knew immediately that something was wrong with my left eye.

At the age of six, my older sister Elizabeth took charge of my rearing. I was born during Liz's freshman year in college. After graduating with a degree in Nursing, she returned to Miami to care for the family because mother was stricken with polio, placed in an iron lung for treatment and confined to an isolation ward at Variety Children's Hospital in South Miami for several months. At that time, I was attending Liberty City Elementary School. Liz, who had converted to Catholicism in college, decided to enroll me in Holy Redeemer Roman Catholic School.

The letter was given to Liz who took me to "Historic Overtown" on 3rd Avenue to Dr. Brown, an ophthalmologist. After the examination, the doctor looked disturbed, then asked, "When did this injury occur and what medical treatment did Mary receive?"

Liz replied, "I'll have to call mom on the phone for the answers. I was away in college during her early years." As she dialed the number, I listened.

"Mom, what happened to Mary's eye?" she inquired.

"She was hit with a soda bottle after her first birthday. The eye was bloodshot for months so I put some salve on it and kept it covered. When it cleared up, I thought it was all right," she reported.

"Did you ever take her to see a doctor?"

"No, I didn't."

Liz looked upset as she relayed the information to Dr. Brown. "What's the diagnosis?"

"She has suffered a blow so severe that a traumatic cataract has formed on the lens of her left eye," he explained. "There is lots of scar tissue around the injury. Her lens is so shattered that surgery will not reverse nor improve the condition. In that eye, she is legally and medically blind; her vision will always be blurred. She'll have to wear glasses for the rest of her life just to protect her better eye."

"Why didn't we know something was wrong before now?"

"The injury happened so early in her development that the brain adjusted to the difference very quickly. It shut down most of the signals of the left eye and her right eye compensated. To her, everything is normal."

When we returned home from the doctor's office, more information was provided about my accident. It seemed that the household was in a state of turmoil because my father had abandoned our family of eight children and moved to Boston, Massachusetts where he also had another family of two children. Because he worked in various capacities for the Seaboard Railroad, he traveled frequently.

After my birth, he was frustrated with the crowded conditions and was often heard asking my mother, "Mattie, what you gonna do with this "hundered" head of chi'ren?"

Apparently, I was the straw that broke the camel's back. I was one too many to deal with. With his desertion and lack of financial support, my older siblings had to assume more chores and responsibilities when mom, who had not worked, had to become the wage earner. Perhaps accidental or unintentional, my injury resulted from their inner frustrations. Not only was I hit in the eye, the right side of my face was pressed against a kerosene heater and severely burned during another rage of anger. Being the last child, twenty years younger than the oldest sibling, no one wanted to baby-sit, so I was shuffled around and told to "stay put in the corner" and in later years "to read a book." Obviously, I was a burden to everyone.

As I listened, I felt that my birth had been the cause of their unhappiness. Though these incidents happened years earlier, and I had no memory of them or of the pain that must have accompanied the blow to my eye and the burns to my face and neck, I now decided that I would be quiet around them. I began to seclude into my special corner. The characters in my books became my friends.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from SHATTERED LENSby Mary Alice Beasley Copyright © 2010 by Mary Alice Beasley. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.