Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: & / Personal / Stories / Others‘ /
@ K. 2005 03 28

A decade and a half ago I met a woman who came to trust me, despite my intellectualism, culture, what-have-you making her uncomfortable. She was a pretty big woman by my standards: taller than average, and what I’d call fat. She worked nights mopping floors for the county. After work she’d stop by and we’d jaw a bit, maybe shoot some pool. Before too many such nights had passed she told that she’d killed her mother. Then I got a whole string of stories all at once: her childhood, doing the deed, going to jail as a minor …

I’m not interested in naming her. Anyone dedicated enough could match clues at K. and then simply research it to a conclusion: presuming her story was true and that she was convicted and did time. I doubt if there were more than one floor washer in my area who’d been convicted of matricide. Many of her stories seemed to me to be male fantasies of dominance. There were no stories of dolls or gossip; there were stories of chopping wood, of smashing things, of frightening people. So I’ll call her a name with associations both male and female: Dufarge: Dickens’ knitter during the French Terror.

Just briefly — I want to get to the central fact of the story other than the matricide itself. I’ll flesh more details later: Dufarge as a girl loved her father. She loved to hang around on the farm where he was working, watch him tune the machinery, try to help out. Her mother was jealous, picked on her, accused her of all sorts of things.

Her father died. Her mother went on picking on her. When she was eleven her mother decided that Dufarge was pregnant. Was the implication that the pregnancy was by her father? It’s been a while since I heard the story. If I see her I’ll ask her to tell me again.

Her mother beat her for a confession. Still didn’t get one. Her mother decided to abort the fetus. With a coat hanger.

Somewhere in the bloody mess her mother realized that Dufarge, nowhere near puberty yet, was indeed a virgin. So she used the coat hanger to vent her frustration.

Dufarge’s mother permanently sterilized her.

Dufarge brooded for a few years. Her mother knew she had gone too far, lay back a bit.

When she was sixteen, her mother griped her again.

Dufarge got the shotgun. Cleaned it. Loaded it. Went to her mother’s room. Her mother looked up from the bed.

“No more, Mom.”


Dufarge refused an attorney. Dufarge refused to explain. Dufarge refused to apologize.

Convicted, Dufarge was sent to some women’s farm. Since she’d only been sixteen years of age, the sentence was for a mere several years. Or she got out for good behavior.

I say “only”: four hours of prison must be too long for almost anybody.

Anyway, when Dufarge had finished the story, I simply said, “You’re my hero.”

Imagine what the matricide rate would be if motherhood weren’t so sanctified in our culture.

Many an ill, including with mothers, still wouldn’t be fixed. There’s endless room for mayhem in the human psyche. But some mothers might behave themselves with a bit more discretion in some circumstances if they didn’t feel quite so bulletproof among their children.

related: Convicting the Innocent

2008 04 23

And boy oh man, now that I’ve been in jail myself do I ever have more stories to tell: on all these themes: convicting the innocent, matricide … every kind of -cide.

She lay down by the sewer
And by the sewer she died
And at the coroner’s inquest, Why,
They called it “sewercide.”

One maniac bragged and bragged about how he’d run a guy down with his truck, deliberately: ran him down, backed back over him, ran him over again … and so on. He used his drug wealth to hire two slick lawyers. “Everyone in the court room,” Terry bragged, “the judge, the prosecution, the defense, every member of the jury, knew I was guilty: and everyone saw that they wouldn’t convict me: ’cause everyone else wished they done the same”: to the other dope-dealing scum.

I’ll try to tell more Terry stories soon: He loved me, but I too wound up having to run from him: sooner or later he’d kill anyone within reach. (It would have been handy if Terry had been able to reach the guards!)

Stories by Age by Theme by Others

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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