Power

My parents always referred to Ireland as ‘home’. I took that to heart and thought we were home, not understanding this was just a holiday. And being home in Dublin, meant we also had to travel down to my mum’s hometown, Enniscorthy, and visit the relatives there. The trip down was four kids, my mum and dad, two aunties, and my grandparents.

We traveled down in one of those big cars with a bench seat in the back. Nobody wore seatbelts in those days so as we traveled along the winding country roads we’d slip and slide and pile up on each other in a heap, made even more fun because we did it mostly on purpose.

When we arrived, we all gathered at somebody’s house and there was lots of tea and cakes, and everyone was talking, and a hundred kids were running around and playing. Well, maybe there weren’t a hundred, but we were all darting about and running into thousands of grownups. The problem was that my cousins thought Katie was a stupid name and besides, I talked funny. The teasing just didn't stop. It started with a dumb old rhyme, 'Katie Katie bo batie banana fana fo fatie me my mo matie, Katie.' In sing-songy voices relentless and loud. That was ok, I could handle that, sang rhymes of my own, darting under tables laden with food. But the teasing just got bigger and louder. They were chasing me, pulling at my hair, pulling at my legs, my arms, any part they could get hold of, and they were getting mean.

See, I had this white-blond hair, and they all had brown hair, and my name was Katie and that's not a saint’s name, and on and on and on. Where was my brother, one year older, he was s‘posed to protect me, and my sisters, who were four and five? They had become part of the pack. I was hunted and afraid. Where were the grownups?

Power

Someone. Anyone. Please. But there was no help. Not from anywhere. We were kids under the radar of the grown-up world. I had no one to help me but me. So, I did. I helped me. I found a way. I didn't think about it, I did it.

I stopped running, turned back on my tormentors, curled my hands into little fists, and bunched them up on itty bitty hips, and with eyes blazing fire, I roared.

"STOP."

I saw the fear that had been my fear become theirs and it felt good. The fierceness blazing out of my eyes melted them. They were unable to move. My nostrils flared and my arms crossed, and I glared at each and every one of them, memorizing them, marking them.

They stopped.

Everything stopped.

I was ten feet tall.

A moment went by, then two. My shoulders and my arms relaxed. I was just a little girl again. And ok, so I didn't actually melt them, but I did stop them. Everyone in the house that day took a step back or sat up and took notice. I had become the center of attention.

Years later, my father told me, “That was the day you found your power". And it was. I had found my power.

Our trip ‘home’ eventually came to an end. I didn’t understand, but I was changed. Finding my power had changed me.

I was besieged by dreams. One dream. It started after we got back to America.

Power

I’m standing at the top of the stairs leading down into the basement. Green, the stairs are painted green. I don’t know why I remember that so clearly. I’m standing at the top of the stairs, facing into the blackness below. The kitchen is two steps up and to the left of me. The backdoor is behind me. Outside six concrete steps lead down into the back garden. Curtains obscure the window at the top of the door. The stairs down to the basement are steep, wooden, not solid, the back of each step open. I don’t know why I’m standing there, why I have to go down, but I have to go. I have to get to the bottom of the stairs past the landing at the bottom of the last step. I have to get past that three-foot square space at the bottom of the stairs because it’s not safe. The room beyond is safe, and the laundry room to the left is okay but it’s still scary because it leads to a space under the stairs. The room to the right is our playroom and there’s the freezer where my mom keeps meat and beyond that is my dad’s workroom. It has too much stuff in it but that’s okay too. Danger can come from anywhere and I have to get past, get clear of that square landing, and into the open room. I have to get down there and I have to get past it, and I have to go now.

But I cannot. Let. My. Feet. Touch. The stairs. If I let just one foot touch one step something, HER, in the deepest, coldest, darkness beneath the stairs will reach out and grab me, pull me through the opening in the steps, and drag me into the beyond. I cannot let that happen or I will die. Or worse. I have to get to the bottom. It’s dangerous not to go. Life or death. So, I let go and start down the stairs, but not touching them. I step out onto the solid air. Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, be quiet. Don’t wake HER, an evil spirit intent on revenge. Step above the stairs and descend into blackness. Descend into the depths of cold.