When I think back on being molested as a child, while the experiences were traumatic, the worst part of that aspect of my life was not being believed. Between my earliest memory of the sexual abuse, age 8, and when my mom gave me away to the foster system, age 13, I had been molested by four people: a male cousin, a male family friend, and two female family friends. The night I told my mom about my cousin, she was preparing to beat me for wetting the bed the night before. That morning, like many others, she was very angry with me for wetting the bed, and promised to beat me when I got home from school. As she came in my room with the belt, I think I had something of an emotional and mental breakdown. I began crying hysterically. This was a bit shocking to her because it had never happened before. Before she could hit me, I suddenly blurted out my cousin Frank had been raping me. (I used the term "rape" because at that time, I'd never heard the term "molestation.") This revelation stopped my mom in her tracks. I can remember the look on her face clearly. She looked as if I had slapped her across the face. Without saying a word, she left my room. I heard her on the phone for a few moments, and then she came back. She told me to get dressed; she was taking me to the emergency room. A few moments later, my godmother arrived, and my mother and I silently got in the car. We arrived at the emergency room, my mom filled out papers, and then we waited. Soon after, a nurse showed us to a room, gave me a paper gown, and advised the doctor would be there soon to talk with us. By this time I was still crying, but a little less hysterically. I sat there not really sure of what would happen next. A male doctor came in, spoke with my mom, and then asked her to leave the room. I was afraid, but there was nothing I could do; so when he asked me to lie back on the examination table, I did as I was told. The doctor examined my body, and then began to perform a vaginal exam. I cried harder, and prayed for it to be over. In my mind, I imagined I was in the country with my brother Jonathan. I imagined I was not being touched. Following the exam, the doctor left the room. He was gone for some time. I never saw him again; instead, my mom came back in the room. There was a look of fury on her face as she told me to get dressed through clinched teeth. I did as I was told, and she dragged me to my godmother's car. The ride home was silent and tense. Once we were back in the house, my mom told me to go in my room and take all of my clothes off. I was deeply confused, but too afraid to not do as she said. She came in the room with the belt (the kind weight lifters wear with holes in it that would suck my skin) and began to strike me. There was no focus to her rage. She swung wildly and the belt hit my face, chest, legs...everywhere. She began yelling that I was a liar. That I had told her a lie about being raped, and made her look like a fool in front of "that white man." I don't know how long the beating lasted, but by the time she finished, I could no longer cry, I was bleeding, and once she let me go, I fell into a heap on the floor. She left the room. I could hear her on the phone making calls, and soon her family started showing up at our house. She told me to get dressed. She took me outside in the front yard. Some of her sisters were there. They were saying I was a liar. Then her mom came. She told my mom she needed to get rid of me. She told my mom she needed to choose: it was either her family or "the liar." I was twelve. I never told her about any of the others.
My Papa
Growing up as I did, I was a fearful child. To me, the world, my world, was a frightening place. I inhabited a space where the people who should have protected, loved, and advocated for me failed to do so. As such, it seemed all to plausible that people who had no such perceived obligation to me could and would take any opportunity to harm me. My nerves were a wreck, and it seemed I was in a habitual state of crisis. There was very little chance for me to have the ability to "just be." Can you imagine what that feels like or does to one's psyche? This is not to say there were not brief periods of respite in which I was not on guard for an assault on my person, mind, or spirit. In fact, one of the few moments I cherished as an interval from the hostility of my life was when I spent time with my grandfather, my Papa. In all my life, sharing time with him was something which gave me a glimpse of life as a pleasant place. My Papa was a wonderful man, and, to my mind, one of the very few people in my childhood who truly loved me and never hurt me. When we were together, there was peace. He was a very handsome man, but his heart and spirit were beautiful beyond measure! His laughter gave me chills as it was so rich and truly sincere. I can recall spending hours with him in his garden learning how to appreciate the bounty of the earth. He taught me how to have an appreciation for nature that I carry with me today. He had and I would walk through the rows of his garden with him pointing out the different vegetables and fruits he'd planted and talk. He listened to me. I am sure my child-conversation had little bearing on his life, but he listened. He never made me feel as if I was not important. Each time I got to visit with him, I got to forget about all of the sadness and pain I carried deep in my heart. Looking back, I wonder why I never told him of the things I was enduring. What would he have done? I can't imagine he would have sat idly by and allowed his grandchild to be abused, but I never told him. Perhaps, I didn't want him to be or hurt, or maybe I just wanted to completely separate the two parts of my existence? I don't know the answer to those questions. Knowing him gave me a counter-balance to all of the ugly things I came to expect from others. With him I was loved. He and I explored the world around us and nothing else mattered. I loved going to yard sales with him. He would point out a thing any other person would view as garbage and teach me how to bring its beauty back. He taught me how to respect living things as an extension of my being kin to it universally. He taught me it was okay to lose myself in books, and liking Opera music were not bad things for a little brown girl. My Papa was a good man. I loved him, and he loved me.
Never to Reconcile
My mom died on September 22, 2000 from breast cancer. Her death was not the end of the emotional roller-coaster that was our relationship. She died, and I was left never having had the ability to really understand her from her perspective. In times prior, after I became an adult, I tried to ask my mom why she didn't want me, but never got an answer. So, as I stood over her coffin, looking down on the one person in the world who's love and acceptance I craved more than any thing in this world, I knew I would never have it. She had always been lost to me, but now she was lost to me forever. There would be no more day dreams or fantasies of her one day seeking me out to say it was all a big mistake, she really did love me, and she wanted to have me in her life. There was no more chance for me to belong to her, to be loved by her, or to hear an apology. It rained on the day of her funeral. It was a cold, bitter rain. I sat in the church and listened as all of the people in her life wept. I heard their memories of a kind and generous woman, who every year brought a homeless person into her home for Christmas dinner, of a woman who sang in the choir, never missed a service, was also there for any one in need, and who would give love and kindness to anyone she encountered. I listened, and I wept. I wept because I didn't know that woman. I needed her,that woman, but she was never available to me. I missed years of Christmas' with her, waiting in Group Homes, for her my own "miracle" that never came. I missed the sound of her voice as I lay awake in stranger's homes afraid to sleep. In that moment, I hated her. I loved her, but I hated her, and I hated me for loving and hating her. I, once again, wondered why I wasn't good enough to know the woman everyone in the packed church had the privilege to know? She had God children who told stories of the fun times and love she had given them. Elders who spoke of her tenderness as a nurse. Friends who choked back tears as they shared the joy of knowing her. And there I sat, broken. Afterwards, a friend of hers came to hug me and give me condolences. She looked at my outfit, and laughed. She said, "You look just like your mom. You know Honey had style," as she wiped away tears. My mom did have style and I had chosen my outfit to mirror that style I'd grown up admiring: Black J. Crew skirt suit, black gloves, big black hat that mostly hid my face, and black stiletto heels. I did look like my mom, but more importantly, I felt like her: dead.
My mother
I grew up in a home where the motto was: "What happens in this house, stays in this house," and, boy, did a lot happen in my house. My mother had four children, three living. I am the only girl, and the oldest after the death of my oldest brother. (He died from Leukemia at 4 years old. He and I were the only two who had the same father. Being the only girl meant I was responsible for my younger brothers. My childhood was not one filled with love and laughter. Instead, I grew up being mentally, physically, emotionally, and sexually abused. I grew up feeling afraid of every one and every thing. I wish I could say I had a close relationship with my mother. I really do, because I loved her more than any other person in this word. My mother was a beautiful woman. She stood less than five feet all, had a radiant smile, and, to the outside world, she was an angel. The thing I loved most about my mother were her eyes. I loved looking into her almond-shaped eyes because they were so complex. In her eyes, I could see so much: pain, joy, hurt, passion, sadness, and above all, mystery. To me, she was a mystery. Throughout my childhood, my mother suffered depression, though I only know that now because of my own struggle. There were times when I would stay up at night, sitting outside her closed door, and listen to her cry. I would stay there until she fell silent, and I believed she was asleep. I am not sure if she ever knew I did this... While I loved my mother and felt a strong need to protect her, I also feared her. I feared her because where I was concerned, she had a volatile and violent temper. My slightest action, or inaction, would send her into a rage. A rage that always resulted in my being beaten, bruised, scarred, and at times bloodied. Though a small woman, my mother was a force; especially when her target was a small child. My mother was short, and she was also bow-legged. Her favorite way to beat me was to place my head between her legs, and squeeze my neck tight as she whipped me with a belt or whatever was on hand. The more I struggled, the less I could breathe; so I learned not to struggle. No matter what I did or didn't do, there was no pleasing my mother. She once told me, "I knew from the moment I saw you [birth], you were going to be trouble." She hated me. I wanted her to love me, but, to her, I was most unlovable. I was not wanted. As a child, all I wanted was to feel as if I was wanted; as if she wanted me. I would never know that feeling.
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