We’ve just read a page from my novel Where You Belong, a scene where the father is beating his teenage son. Some of the kids have gone quiet; others are getting restless. I don’t think they were expecting this. What business does a white lady from the suburbs of New Jersey have writing about domestic violence? What could she know about it.

A lot more than they do, at least that’s my hope. But James Monroe High School is on 172nd Street in the Bronx—about a mile from Mapes Avenue, where I was born—and like most of the borough, the neighborhood has its share of crime and poverty, and those disadvantages often accompany hard times at home. So the “lesson” I’ve planned for this senior English class is to explore what it feels like to witness violence. I’m the school’s Writer in Residence for the week, sponsored by the National Book Foundation as part of its efforts to promote reading among young people.

I start out asking them to describe how they feel when they watch violence on television or in the movies. The discussion is lively. They talk of good guys and bad guys, soldiers and sinners, explosions and shoot-outs.

When I ask if they’ve ever witnessed violence out on the street or in a public place, once again they have a lot to say. Quite a few share first-hand accounts of fist fights over parking spots or gang members protecting their turf, often with weapons. The tone is serious, the details vague, no names or places. They’re careful, and it’s easy—and disturbing—to understand why they don’t feel free to share specifics.

Finally, I ask if anyone has witnessed violence in their home, the way the character in the novel did. No one raises a hand. No one wants to admit having seen such things. No one offers any first-hand account of that kind of ugliness. The room is silent, and I hear loud and clear the shame left behind once you’ve seen your mom or your brother get hurt that way, the damage done to your sense of security once you know you could be next.

I let the silence speak for itself, not surprised that they prefer to sort out their reactions on their own. But when the classes end and the school day is over, more than a few of them ask to speak with me privately. Alone with me, they share some of the violence they’ve seen, the injuries they’ve sustained, encounters with cruelty that no longer takes them by surprise.

I listen to their stories. I tell them some of my own, knowing that nothing I describe, no book I recommend, no counselor they speak to can ever really help them to forget. But I ask them to stay in touch with me, so I’ll know they’re okay, so I can go on believing that someday their fears will be no more than memories, no less than the stuff that makes them strong.

Mary Ann McGuigan’s

creative nonfiction has appeared in Brevity, Citron Review, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. The Sun, Massachusetts Review, North American Review, and many other journals have published her fiction. Her collection Pieces includes stories nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net; her new story collection, That Very Place, reaches bookstores in September 2025. The Junior Library Guild and the New York Public Library rank Mary Ann’s novels as best books for teens; Where You Belong was a finalist for the National Book Award.

Author’s website: https://www.maryannmcguigan.com