By Dana Frank
It's 1989, and I'm 25 years old. On my way to the courthouse, I'm listening to Janet Jackson's hit song, "Control." The irony isn’t lost on me—today is all about control. It's a typical rainy day in the Pacific Northwest, and like most Seattleites, I don’t carry an umbrella. I arrive disheveled. I sit next to my mother and see the back of my father’s head. When Daddy turns, our eyes meet. He looks so handsome and through his pearly white teeth, he shouts, “You just can’t keep that knife out of my back.”
I squeeze my mama’s hand. She squeezes mine harder. “Don’t let him bite,” she says.
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