DV Awareness: Say Their Names: Zephyr Smith Scott & Beatrice Shiloh Anderson

PublishedOctober 30, 2025

Written By: Nahshon Dion

As We Observe Domestic Violence Awareness Month, Say Their Names: Zephyr Smith Scott & Beatrice Shiloh Anderson

Violence. Domestic. Intimate Partner. Sexual. Intra-community. Physical. Self-inflicted. Verbal.

We are all affected by it—some more than others. Violence is as present as the air we breathe. For me, it has always felt inescapable, almost like an inherited gene—passed down the way some families inherit red hair or a squeaky voice.

As a child, I learned that in 1923, my great-grandfather, Precious Scott, furious that his wife, Zephyr Smith Scott, filed charges against him for unmercifully beating her, and after seeking a divorce, decided it was better to shoot her dead than let her go. Seven bullets silenced her on a dusty east Texas road in Longview, near Hebron Baptist Church. According to the District Court of Harrison County, Texas, while attempts were made to save Zephyr’s life, police recovered a 38 caliber blue steel Colt revolver from her body.

Precious defense was that he shot her while she was walking down a road with two men because she drew her pistol first. Precious’ mother, Fanny, testified, as did her brother, John Dee Scott. Fanny claimed she was unaware of the abuse. My grandfather, Obzine Scott, often proudly showed me a black-and-white photo of his mom, Zephyr, somber and unsmiling. At the time, I didn’t understand what I was looking at: a portrait of a domestic violence victim.

As an adult, while researching my family history, another portrait of domestic violence emerged: I learned that after Precious served a few years in prison, he married a woman named Mattie Jones—and later stabbed her to death in 1928.

On my father’s side, the story echoed. In 1934, my paternal great-grandmother, Beatrice Anderson, was gunned down at the dinner table in Beaumont, Texas, in front of her three children, including my grandmother Betty. Decades later, I learned Betty herself endured abuse at the hands of her second husband, my father’s stepfather. Violence claimed her mother, scarred her childhood, and shadowed her adult life.

Both Zephyr and Beatrice’s murders left their children motherless and their husbands imprisoned in Huntsville for decades. The absence of Zephyr and Beatrice left a void, not just in our family but in the world, erasing the potential they held and the legacies they might have built. Violence. It can be grim.

It should not have surprised me then when my own mother—known for her meekness—snapped upon discovering my father’s affair with our neighbor. She pulled out a gun and fired. She missed my father, but shattered the television. The message was clear: even the quietest waters run deep, and silence can conceal unbearable pain. Violence. Domestic. Vengeful.

Violence takes many forms. I first felt it in words when Uncle Tommy told my mother, within earshot, “He gon’ be a faggot!” I was six. I didn’t know what the word meant, only that it hurt. Words can bruise as deeply as fists. Violence. Verbal. Sticks and Stones.

My grandparents’ Altadena home reflected both love and chaos. Twice a month, the Sheriffs broke up fights between my relatives. Curses flew across the lawn, my mother sprayed the water hose in a futile attempt to cool tempers, and I stood in the Saint Augustine grass, hoping our roses would survive. I hid my heartbreak in silence, relieved only that no one was ever shot.

Growing up in Altadena and Pasadena, I often accompanied my mother on visits to check on my teenage sister, Shennea, who was involved with an older man. I didn’t understand that what my sister was experiencing also fell under domestic violence.

By 1995, when Nicole Brown Simpson’s murder and O.J. Simpson’s trial filled the airwaves, I began to understand that domestic violence cut across lines of race, class, and celebrity. Over the decades, my struggles with post-traumatic stress disorder deepened my empathy for those who’ve suffered abuse. Later, I learned about places like the Genesee Center—shelters where women could escape the fate of Zephyr or Beatrice.

In 2022, I reconnected with my former John Muir High School classmate, Tunisia Offray, a Domestic Violence Counselor and Co-Founder of Shepherd’s Door Domestic Violence Resource Center in Pasadena. I told her about the history of violence that has haunted my family since 1923. She then shared something deeply personal:

“I was date raped in high school. It left me traumatized. I didn’t trust men, but I trusted you. I never knew if I’d see you again. Thank you for being someone I could trust and feel safe with. You mean more to me than you know.”

Her words were unexpected and heartbreaking. I later invited Tunisia to be a guest on my YouTube series, TRANSBRATIONS. In our four-hour interview, she spoke about her life—her upbringing, motherhood, career, beauty rituals, finances, being shunned after her assault, and her advocacy work. The conversation was raw, moving, and full of sorrow and strength.

Through our reconnection, I learned even more about domestic violence—its nuances, its trauma, and its long-term impacts. Tunisia later invited me to serve on the board of Shepherd’s Door in 2024, an honor I accepted with gratitude, knowing it was another way to honor the women in my family who never had such a refuge and to contribute to the fight against domestic abuse.

My heart remains with all survivors—especially Black women—who often face compounded barriers when seeking justice and safety.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month in the U.S. It’s a time to honor victims and survivors, raise awareness, and support the fight to end abuse in all its forms. We mourn the lives lost, celebrate the courage of those who survive, and come together as advocates and allies.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, remember: love shouldn’t hurt. Reach out to the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). Help is available. You are not alone.