My mom was two years old when she was adopted; while her father was in jail, my grandmother beat and killed my mom’s little baby brother in front of her and my aunt. Then my grandmother, in a drunken fit, left them on the Michigan court house steps in the freezing month of November because she didn’t want them anymore. So, my mom has no clue who her family is or what her nationality is except what she can guess from her paperwork.
The family that adopted my mother seemed very nice, but they turned out to be one type of person in public and another at home. My mom’s adoptive father raped my aunt until she was 16. As soon as my mom could, she escaped – before she could be next. My mom was to be a world-famous pianist playing at places in New York and even London. Bill Cosby himself and his wife personally gave my mom a scholarship because of her skill. While my mom was on campus at her music school, heading home under the street lights in Wisconsin, a man came out of nowhere and tackled her down. A man hidden in darkness pulled up her skirt, ripped her shirt and raped my mother, taking her innocence with him. Three weeks later, my mother found out that she was pregnant with me.
My mom called her adoptive mother to find help. She was only 19 and she didn’t emotionally know how to handle any of this. Her mother asked her, “Did you wear revealing clothing?” and “What did you do to provoke this man?” To say the least, they don’t talk anymore.
I was born from a single encounter of violence. I do not know if I am black, Puerto-Rican, Irish, Scottish or English, but if asked I will claim all of them based on the little knowledge I do know. I have been called a bastard, devils seed, incomplete and many other names. For I am the product of rape. I am half of a rapist. I deal with the fear that I could at any moment turn into the monster whose seed helped create me. He was never found and to this day could still be out there. This monster people would call my father. Father’s Day is one of the days I wish I could celebrate, but also have come to hate.
Courtesy: Chelsee McLean
I lived with my adoptive grandparents until I was nine years old with my two brothers. During that time, I was shy and had no real friends. I was a kid with a mixed race and no mother or father, in a small town where everyone knows more about you than you even do when you’re a child. I lived on a farm in the country. I had a tree house and tire swing and got to roam around freely. I was my grandfather’s favorite. He would gently bathe me with bubbles and a soft rag. He would dress me up like a china doll with my Shirley Temple curls in ribbons. My skin was kept glossy and I was treated like a princess. My grandfather never laid a hand on me in anger. Only gentle caresses. He was molding me from a young age to be his perfect everything. That scared my mother to death. She didn’t want me to deal with the horror my aunt experienced at the gentle but firm hands of my grandfather.
I was nine when my grandmother gave us back to my mom. I thought life would be great, but that was a childlike dream. My youngest brother’s father lived with my mom and she loved him. He was a crack addict and was getting worse every day. He became violent and abusive. I once snatched the belt away from him and ran to protect my siblings. My mother was giving my little sister a bath.
Once he beat me so bad I had bruises the size of melons all over my body. I heard him yelling, “I thought I told you to stop playing in the damn house” to my little brothers and knew that he was going to get the belt. I ran from the living room to my brother’s room and stood in front of their door. “You are not going to hit my brothers. You are not our father.” I glared at him as I spit out the words. I was pissed that he thought he could dare raise his hands at my siblings and that I would just watch. I snatched the belt from him and ran to my mom’s room closing the door and locking it. My heart was beating a mile a minute as I ran to the closet and hid.
I was fiercely protective of them like a mother hen with her chicks. No fox would every lay their teeth into them when I was around. My little brother’s father kicked the door in and entered like a bull seeing red. I knew I was dead and I froze in horror as he came closer to the closet, praying to God to save me. He opened the door and snatched the belt out of my hands causing burn marks from the leather. He beat me with the belt while holding me in place with a death grip. I screamed with each lash of the whip, and tears ran down my face with each crack. I thought the pain would never end. I had welts overlapping welts, causing the bruises to spread and grow deeper in color until they looked like purple melons on my back, thighs and arms. When I was finally released, I ran to my mom showing her my bruises and the first words out of her mouth were, “What did you do?” At that moment, I lost complete trust in her, and stopped looking at her from a child’s perspective. This is when I became a full adult, with no childhood innocence ingrained in me.
We moved to Florida in 2000 and we were homeless, being forced to live in a church and sleeping on hard pews. I couldn’t have friends during that time and raised my four siblings. I made sure to pick them up from their bus stop and made sure they always ate, sometimes not eating myself so they had enough food. I became the parental figure while my mom worked like a dog to replenish the money her drug-addicted boyfriend kept spending.
I then entered the foster care system two weeks before my 10th birthday. I was scared, hurt and sad. My siblings were mad and wanted to stay with my mom. My mom cried the whole time. I was the only one relieved to be away from her and the man she loved more than me. I feared that belt more than any feelings of protection or love I had towards my family. I wanted to survive and knew I would be dead if I stayed with her.
I stayed in foster care for five years, and in that time I lived with two wicked step-mothers and their wicked children. I also attended two fourth grade classes, three elementary schools and three middle schools. I was kicked out of one home after one year. In their house I could not leave the table until I finished my food, so I would put it down the drain. I was forced to bear the abuse of a 17-year-old girl that was their child they had adopted. She was two years old when they adopted her, but she loved to exaggerate her life to get attention. I hated the way she acted because every word was like a whip of that dreadful belt. I was the only one who would yell and fight with her, which caused me to always be in trouble. I would stand up to her for other kids because I hated bullies and promised myself I would never be walked on again.
So when I became too much for them to handle, off to another home I was shipped. Forced to leave half my toys and belongings at the previous foster home. My clothes smelled like garbage bags to me when I took them out when I arrived at my new home. The only good thing was that I was with my brother. I thought this home would be better, but this house turned out to be worse.
The D Family was my second home. I transferred to my third elementary school. I was in my second fifth grade class. It was spring of 2002 and I was now 10. Here I learned the survival method many foster care children implement. I was in a home with 12 children that were mostly boys and I was the only girl. They had two children of their own. Their son was a cruel jock who loved to intimidate us and their daughter was another manipulative step-sister. She was only eight years old and very evil.
I was slapped, hit and made to do push-ups like I was in a military boot camp. I was mentally abused here too. I remember when their daughter got into a fight with my brother. She slapped and spit at him because he broke up with her and in retaliation he hit her. She ran screaming to her mom. She manipulated the situation until my brother was the villain and she, the innocent maiden. I had to watch as the older son slammed my brother against the wall leaving a dent the shape of my brother. They screamed, choked and punched my brother, who was only 11. Mrs. D made me watch, threatening me with the same punishment if I did anything. My instincts screamed inside while I cried from the rage building up in me. I knew I couldn’t explode though because unlike before, there was nobody to save me from this life.
I was told I was a sl*t, whore and a simple nobody who would amount to nothing if I didn’t change. I was accused of being a thief and a liar. I was never pretty enough and my clothes were never right. I was smacked every time I said a remark she didn’t like or a teacher would call and ask for Mrs. McLean, not realizing that I was a foster child. Finally my brother was sent away. He got to be set free from this horror house, while I remained behind.
My mom received custody of me when I was 14. I came back to a home with a parent I still barely knew. I didn’t trust her and felt no parent/child connection. It was like having a younger sister who couldn’t stop “falling in love” with the typical drunken half-wit. I had no choice, since the judge saw no harm in his decision. I did though, since during my visits with my mother while I was in foster care she had a different man almost every time. At first, as usual with my mother, everything was great. But then the yelling, screaming and fighting started. From the age of 14 to 20, I have had four dads who were drunks and only cared about the free-living my mom gave them, since they lost more jobs than they gained. It was always awkward when asked if that was my dad. It was too much explanation to say, “Oh that’s my mom’s boyfriend of the year.” I went to four different high schools and moved almost eight times. I had to be the rock for my mom, which caused me to miss out on a lot of things. I lived in a constant war zone never knowing what bomb would be set off. I lived with physical and mental abuse from my siblings who were all younger than me.
At this moment today I am dealing with work, school and organizations on campus while trying to keep an internal balance. My mom was recently diagnosed with cancer, my red-headed brother is in a prison where people frequently get killed by other inmates and my youngest brother is mentally handicapped dealing with racist issues from an all-white school. So, I wear a smile to cover the stress of life. When people see me, they see a smile on my face all the time. Not a single bit of sadness shows, but deep down in the depths of my soul I struggle with all these emotions built up over time and all I want to do is cry. It’s easy to disguise tears behind a smile because most people do not look deeper than the mask you put on.
So ask yourself, what mask are you wearing when you leave your house? Do any of you have tears hidden with a smile?