PART THREE: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

     Although  my soul often felt empty, I began a period of peace and reflection. It was during these quiet and peaceful times of reflection that I sensed the presence of God all around me. I sensed His presence in a gentle breeze, the rustle of the trees or the gentle blush of dawn. My soul was at peace and others would often comment and observe my new manner. I could spend hours when I was not at work or class sitting on my sofa gazing at the sky, a soft smile upon my face as though I were listening to something. I cannot actually explain this period of time in my life without seeming odd because my spirit comprehends it fully while the rest of my being just accepts it. I felt that God and I had a tight relationship. When RoJacks took over Edwards, they severely cut the hours of veteran employees like me instead of outright laying us off. I found myself short on funds due to lack of hours but, for some reason, I had faith that God would help me. I had no one else to rely upon but Him. I recall one time, I was unable to pay my rent which was due in a few days. My prayer to God was like a conversation with my best friend. I thanked Him for all that He had done and promised I'd thank and praise Him for helping me. After I had finished with my prayer, I had confidence that He would help me and He did. Before the rent was due, I received a refund check of twelve hundred dollars-far more than my rent- from my college loans. I rushed to the bank and was not only able to pay my rent for the month but for a few months. I did not forget to thank and praise God and I could not believe that He actually answered my prayers. Despite my relationship with God, I still had a void deep within my soul.

     I continued to long for the companionship of another human being to replace the lack of love from my parents. Many people on campus didn't fully understand me and some even labeled me "odd". I didn't want to be a mystery to others but I didn't want to let them get too close to me, either. I had the bad habit of looking for love in the wrong places because love was something I wanted more than anything. In regards to boyfriends in college, I had only the one who went into a cult and that relationship happened by accident.

     I was walking home from working at the library one night and I saw him dancing and walking simultaneously ahead of me.  He and I went to high school together and were the same age. Due to some personal problems he and his family were having, he didn't graduate when I did. He had appeared in my life a few weeks before this particular night when we were riding the city bus and he invited me to his breakdancing performance. I brushed off his invitation and hadn't seen him again until this night. At the time, I wasn't aware he was staying with his mother and her boyfriend who just happened to live behind my apartment complex. When he noticed I was behind him, he laughed and said, "I didn't know you were behind me, Candace. Color me red!" I laughed as well. He walked me to the door of my apartment and asked if he could visit me one day. He told me that he promised not to try anything and he held true to his promise. We became good friends. I felt comfortable around him. Our friendship was all so innocent. The attention he gave me was sweet. One afternoon, he had asked me if I'd be his girlfriend and I agreed. He was the first guy who had ever kissed me. I liked the innocence of holding hands and was devastated when our brief relationship came to an end. I felt in my heart no one would ever like me like that again. He didn't run away when I told him about my abuse as a child and, after he left for the cult, I felt like a fool for bearing my soul to him. I promised myself that I'd never do that to again, a promise I did not keep.

     Unfortunately, my desperation for love was written on my forehead and people could often read it in my eyes before my lips spoke anything. This was bad for me as it often made me the one used and tossed aside by men claiming to love me. During one of my college years, I thought I was dating one of the basketball players on campus who was extremely kind to me and even professed to love me. Despite his claim of love for me, I refused to give up my body to him. He continued to be kind to me, and came to my apartment one Christmas Eve with a gift for me and a pile of gifts for his family that he and I wrapped together. Shortly afterwards, he landed a main part in a play on campus and his kindness towards me began to fade away. Nevertheless, he continued to tell me he was still interested in me but was just so busy with the theatre, basketball and classes. I didn't realize what was actually happening until  two friends of mine had asked him what he was going to get me for Valentine's Day during a Valentine's Day sale in the cafeteria. In response, he told my friends that he had nothing to do with me and that people "needed to stop going around saying he and I were dating". When word of this got back to me, I wrote him off without even telling him. Afterall, we weren't really dating, now were we? He had no idea I knew what had transpired that same afternoon when he came to visit me at work as he had always done in the library. He was angry when I treated him as if he were just another library patron looking for some help and angrily stormed out of the library. One of my friends who lived on campus had called me at the library telling me that he had called her screaming and asking her what she had said to me because I was "being cold to him". She didn't answer him directly but played the same game I had and asked him why he was so worried about someone he was not even dating.
     This basketball player was very popular on campus and had many girls attracted to him and he was well aware of it. Although I felt very sad because he was ashamed to let others know he was dating me, I  continued to walk go about my daily routines. I cried a lot when no one was around. Why didn't anyone want to be with me? Was I that hideous that I was an embarrassment? My friends were very encouraging and actually felt sorry for me. I had allowed myself to be hurt yet again. Maybe my father was right when he said that I was "only good enough for one thing" and that no one would want me for anything else but that. If I didn't let them have my body, then they had no use for me.
     I did continue to see this basketball player on campus and he continued calling me and tried talking to me  but each time, I gave him the coldest of the cold shoulders. A male friend of mine would pretend to be dating me whenever the basketball player tried talking to me. He'd put his arm around me or sit close to me and stare the six-foot four basketball player straight in the eyes. These actions often created an awkward moment for the basketball player and a humorous one for my friend. One day, my friend wanted to talk to me about a problem he was having and decided to walk me to my apartment talk to me while he was on his hour lunch break from work. I noticed  the basketball player and his basketball buddies walking behind us on their way to their dorm which was close to my off-campus apartment. Aware of their presence, my friend suddenly grabbed me, pulling me close to him and shouted, "Candace, I NEED you!" which sent me into fits of uncontrollable laughter. I wanted to see the reaction on the faces of the jock crew behind us but didn't want to make it obvious. They stopped at their dorm and sat on the stairs which were in full view of my apartment at the bottom of the hill. They watched us walk down the hill to my apartment.
      Looking over his shoulder, my friend said, "Let's go inside for a bit."
      Aware of how he wanted this action to appear, I exclaimed, "Are you crazy? They"ll beat you up!"
     "Yeah, but this is going to be fun." he replied, puffing out his chest. After a half hour of him playing with my new kitten and him glaring out the window at the crew who were still sitting on the steps, my friend decided it was time to leave.
     "Don't walk me out." my friend said. My friend smoked and his girlfriend who was also my good friend had been trying to get him to quit and he was making great progress. I reprimanded him, when he reached for his cigarette and lighter in his back pocket.
     "What are you doing?" I screamed.
     Winking at me, he walked toward the door. "Watch this. This is gonna be fun. This is for you." Standing outside my first floor apartment door, he lit his cigarette, puffed a few times and headed up the hill past the crowd of basketball players sitting on the steps. When my friend arrived at work, he called me to excitedly tell me how he confidently walked past the crew, puffing his cigarette and how the basketball player who was my ex glared at him and mumbled something to one member of his crew. My friend and I had a great laugh. I needed a lot of cheering up. I had been so embarrassed that, at times, I felt as if everyone on campus were secretly laughing at me.
     When was I going to learn that no one but God could replace the emptiness within my soul? Why did I continue to try to bandage the hurt with human comfort? I had to first deal with my past and understand them before I could truthfully love myself before someone could truthfully love me in return. I wasn't done making mistakes and getting hurt. During my senior year of college, I made a very big mistake that eventually cost me my tight relationship with God. I truly believe that I had let the devil himself into my little world and almost paid for it with my life.

PART THREE:

     Chapter One

     As the distance between my brother and me grew, I buried myself in working two jobs and going to college full time. I worked in the Circulation Department at Adams Library on the Rhode Island College Campus and at Edwards Supermarket on Niantic Avenue on the Providence/Cranston line. My days were a blur of classes and work. I'd get up at 5a.m. after working until midnight at the library the night before and catch the bus to Edwards where I was known as a speedy and friendly cashier (and, because of that, was often graced with ringing up in the Express Lane). I hid my sadness by giving my friendliness to customers, greeting them and making them feel special. It made me feel good to cause others to smile.
     Because I was always working and going to classes, I lost a lot of weight very quickly. I was down to a size 4 then a 2 and, finally a size 0. Many people began to notice and wondered if I were ill. An guy in one of my classes with whom I was friendly happened to see me working at the library and bluntly asked me in his Italian accent, "Hey, what's the matter with you? You sick?" I was shocked that he even had the nerve to go there. He continued, " Why you getting so skinny? To be honest, you'd look better with a little more meat on your bones." I was hurt. I was happy that I was skinny but I hadn't realized just how skinny I had gotten. I was working so hard. I walked almost everywhere except to Edwards alhtough I often walked from Edwards on Sundays when I missed the last bus. It was a long walk in pumps but I somehow, didn't feel the pain in my feet. Sometimes, I even walked carrying two bags of groceries (paper AND plastic, of course).
     The guy I was seeing broke up with me after only two weeks of dating because he was convinced by a campus cult to give up everything and everyone and follow them. He told me that I was causing him to sin and that his parents never really loved him. It was so unexpected. He came to greet me at my new job at CVS at closing and, on the way home via the city bus, he said to me, " God doesn't want us to be together anymore."I was so shocked and then angry. We were having a great time and I could see that it was hurting him to break up with me. Before we had even broken up, I had a dream that we went to a playground in North Providence, RI but the strange thing was that there was only one swing and the swing set and it was gently blowing in the wind. I knew it was a sign from God but I didn't know what it meant. I had never been to that playground  until a few days following the dream. It was an odd feeling. I should have knew at that point that something was going to happen and that I'd be left alone just like the lonely swing that moved with the breeze. I tried to convince him that the cult was wrong and even went to the Chaplain on campus to ask for help. The Chaplain was aware of the cult and told me how they had managed to convince many students to surrender cars, money and even courses of study to go with them. I left a Bible at my boyfriend's house with a few passages marked. The Bible was returned to me with a lengthy, heart-wrenching note. He was going to Louisiana and he wasn't interested (or so he said) in dating me anymore. I cried as I remembered how he once said I could trust him and how we used to go for walks in the warm August weather and run through sprinklers on lawns of houses and businesses. I had opened my heart and I had been hurt.
     My heart felt numb. I had managed to harden it so that I wouldn't get hurt. I was afraid of getting too close to anyone but, nevertheless, wanted someone to love me anyway. In my walks about campus, I'd look at all the young, attractive college girls chatting up the guys and felt so ugly. I didn't have nice clothes. I didn't have a car. In fact I got my driver's license late because my father called my driving trainer school and told them I felt uncomfortable driving with a male teacher which was totally incorrect. The driving school dropped me and I had to wait until after I ran away to explain to the school what had actually happened. I was so embarrassed.
     I carried that embarrassment with me throughout my college years. I had no desire for sex, just for someone to love me purely. I knew it was only a dream but I liked to dream. I knew people began to think I was a bit strange. I sometimes felt eyes pierce into my back when I'd walk by the cafeteria windows. I knew no one would want "the weirdo" on campus. It seemed all anyone cared about was figuring out my ethnicity as I was repeatedly asked, "What are you" instead of "What's your name". A group of girls who had someone found out I was part Native American screamed at me as I walked into the college cafeteria, "You stupid Indian! Go put a feather in your head! Heya, heya, heya!" They followed their loud comments by even louder laughs, causing heads to turn in my direction as my face and neck burned from embarrassment.  Weeks later, I returned to my spot in the library where  studied to find, "Stop educating niggas" and a swastika spray painted on the wall. Horrified, I ran, tears streaming from my eyes. What did I do? I was not the only person of color on campus. What had I done to be so despised? How I wanted to die! I was beginning to believe that I had actually been cursed. What was this hell on earth that I had been drenched in? Would it ever get any better? When would my days get brighter?

Chapter Four

     As promised, I wrote my brother a few times a week. I never wrote my return address on the envelopes and I assume that sparked suspicion within my father. I discovered that my father was hiding all of my letters in a cabinet drawer much like he started hiding all of the mail addressed to me while I was still living at home. It reminded me of a certain scene in "The Color Purple", a movie he repeatedly forced me to watch while, his eyes invasively crawled all over my body. During a sex scene in the movie, he would always say, "That's why I'm trying to teach you."My brother would not be forced to watch the movie. He was free to play and hang out in his bedroom.

      My brother never received the gifts I sent him for Christmas. I wondered why he never said, "thank you". I never heard from my brother and assumed he was angry with me for leaving him. Once again, I was sad. I loved him so much. Why hadn't he sent a response through my half-sister? I’d never forgive myself for leaving him.

     I phoned my  half-sister and arranged a day when she could bring my brother to see me. I remember how anxious I was about seeing him again. I couldn't wait to throw my arms about him and squeeze him with all my might. The meeting was not as great as I had thought it would be. He was angry and I didn't know why. Through his anger, however, I sensed sadness and fear. Why hadn't he taken my mother up on her offer and go live with her? He was her only son and a favorite of hers, so she'd do anything for him. She'd lavish him with gifts and would probably send him to the best schools, at least this is what I though.

     When my brother also discovered that I was dating a guy who was half white, he started yelling at me. It was obvious he had inherited my father’s hatred for white people. He was so angry with me and I was so hurt. I knew he, too, was hurting and I assumed my father bad mouthed me. There was my little brother, tall, handsome and muscular eyes red with sadness and his face etched with pain. Why hadn't I taken the chance and taken him with me when I ran away? What had happened to him? He was the only person I loved. Why couldn't he love me back like a brother should his sister? 

     Eventually, my brother and I lost touch and it hurt deeply. I poured myself into working two jobs and doing well in my college courses. I didn't have much of a social life outside school. I didn't go to clubs like many others did on Thursday nights. In fact, I was working the midnight shift.  My college years were years of growth, development and self-discovery. I was often inspired to write poetry that echoed my sadness with the situation of my brother and my abuse. I often asked God for answers. I wrote my best poetic pieces when I was engrossed in reflection. It was during these years that I was the most at one with nature. I was my most spiritual self, whole and receptive to the natural world around me. Much like my Native American ancestors, I was able to “communicate” with the natural world and draw strength from it. I was labeled "odd", "eccentric" yet many wanted to be friends with me. I feared getting too close because I feared my secret being discovered.

       I was finally free. God had delivered me. My father would hurt me no more. I was safe and I was going to be something in the world one day, I'd tell myself. No one would insult me daily and tell me how ugly I looked or how stupid females were. I didn’t have to hear disgusting sexual noises at night. The peace that I so longed for was upon me. This was a new life. This was a new beginning.

Or was it?

    

Chapter Three

     My freedom was at hand and I was finally feeling happy. My new apartment was cozy and furnished. My rent was $450/ month and my only expenses were electric and telephone, both of which were surprisingly low. I told my brother the date I’d be leaving. I could sense his fear. He was afraid of my father but he had the option of living with my mother, an option I was never offered by her. All he had to do was not come home after school and go meet my mother. I, on the other hand had no such luxury. It was as if my mother left me for dead.

     In an unmarked moving van, I sat almost breathless as we awaited the arrival of the police. I had called the police just in case my father got crazy and grabbed one of his many guns he kept in his bedroom. For some reason, my father looked as if he knew I was leaving. He came out the front door and got into his car, driving away from the house. I noticed my brother walking down the street. His face was tight and his cheeks were streaked with tears. He blindly walked passed the unmarked van.  When the police escort arrived, they questioned a neighbor about my residence and I was allowed to unlock the door and frantically gather my belongings. My friends had my things packed in the van in less than a half hour. Before I left, I turned to my brother whose eyes were red. “Take me with you!” he wailed and my heart was instantly torn in two. At the time, I knew that since my brother was under legal age, I’d get in trouble for taking him with me. My safety would be jeapordized and there was no telling what my father would do once he found me.

     I hugged my brother and placed my copy of the key on the dining room table.  My brother said that he had seen our father’s car circling the neighborhood so I had to hurry. The police officer questioned me about my father. My father could make anyone believe he was an innocent old man as he did many of the Providence Police Officers, especially those who were unaware of the many public fights at our former house on Sumter Street. He often waved at the police officers while he aimlessly leaned against the porch watching life pass by. He had a lot of people fooled and then there were some closed lipped people whojust turned a blind eye to what was in front of their faces.

     “Good luck.” My brother whispered as I tightly hugged him goodbye. I told him that I would be in touch. I loved my brother so very much despite the mean things he said to me. I knew he just didn’t understand. I loved him more than I loved anyone at the time. A flood of emotions washed over me but I remained strong. I didn’t cry until I was in the van and we pulled away.

Chapter Two

     Every dime I earned at my two jobs, my father collected. He said that he needed it for gas. I was only making about one hundred dollars because I was working part time. He expected one hundred dollars every paycheck and always left me penniless. How was I going to escape if I didn’t have any money? He took and cashed my brother and my social security checks and spent them. He wasn’t spending them on us and we lived in a section 8 housing with rent that was forty dollars a month, everything including except prorated electrictry. He was getting good money but we never saw any of it. I never got anything for my birthday (but my brother did) and when Christmas came, he always gave us the speech about him not being able to afford anything.

     Since, my father had been in a car accident (a blessing from God, I know), I was able to start taking the city bus to school and work. I was so happy! He could no longer follow me. I managed to get more hours at both jobs, lying to my father about increased classes. Every pay period, I gave him the one hundred dollars he expected and then stashed away the rest in a bank account I opened at a bank in downtown Providence where I caught the second bus to Rhode Island College.

      During this time, a love interest developed with someone on campus who seemed to be everywhere I was. I wasn’t aware of it until one day, a friend of mine and I were studying like we did every day before class in our special section in the campus library where we both worked. My friend had gone to the bathroom and upon returning, she whispered to me, “There’s a bunch of guys watching you from behind the bookshelves!” I had heard books being moved behind me but assumed it was one of my coworkers doing stacks as I often did as a first year worker. I was seated with my shoes off crossed legged, reading my textbook. My friend motioned for me to follow her. Suddenly, there was a lot of commotion as several guys poured from the bookshelves and raced downed the stairs of the balconey. All but one lingered behind, the one who had been interested in me. Placing my hands on my hips, I looked around for more of the guys and saw my admirer smile, lower his head, fix the strap of his backpack and slowly head down the stairs.

     I couldn’t believe this was happening! I never thought of myself as a beauty and having a pack of guys follow me around campus all the time was a bit more than flattering. My admirer was indeed handsome but couldn't he find someone else on campus  besides me? He had neatly cut  dark shouldner-length hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows and a nice smile. He seemed very nice and he seemed to be everywhere I was. He was shy and so was I when it came to guys. I figured out who his friends were and they always ended up in my classes. I overheard him one time on campus say to a friend, “there she is…I think she’s cute.” I thought I looked horrible in my long blue skirt and white t-shirt. Because of my situation at home, I knew that it could never happen . I’d just be putting him at risk. The fact that he was white would only make my father hurt him more. My father told me once, “Don’t you ever bring some white guy home!” I couldn’t bring anyone home, for that matter, white or otherwise.

     One night, I overheard my father cussing someone out on the phone and, by the way my father was swearing, I assumed that someone had somehow gotten my home number and was asking for me. I wondered if it were my admirer who seemed to be great at detective work.

     One summer, I was in class with my admirer but I was too shy to talk to him . He’d sit next to me on the wall outside during our break from class and look at me. He even followed me after class and asked one of the guys who was friendly with me something about me, which until this very day that I am unaware of. I think it was a note that I never received. I was flattered about having an admirer, especially someone as handsome as he. His color made no difference to me since, having gone to Classical and private school, I was accustomed to those who didn’t look like me. I just thought that he would be in danger and could do a heck of a lot better than me. What was so special about me? How could anyone like or even love me?

     I always felt bad about the situation with my admirer but other things began to occupy my mind. I had saved six thousand dollars and began to plot my escape from home. I had managed to take a few days off from work, telling my supervisor the issue at hand. It was agreed that if my father came looking for me, my father would be told that I was busy in the stacks and they couldn’t reach me. After I managed to get an apartment down the hill from my college, some friends and colleagues of mine helped me trasport the furniture to my apartment. I had paid for my apartment four months in advance while I moved things in slowly.

      When it was getting close to my big escape, I confided in my brother. In disbelief, he said to me, “You’re never leaving!” I was shocked that he was so cruel to me. He wasn’t happy. Although he appeared angry, I think that there was a lot my brother didn’t understand and he was also afraid. I had to leave. I knew that if I didn’t my father would see to it that I never graduate from college and I needed to be sure that I succeed. For once, I had to think of myself. My brother was about sixteen years old and I thought he was old enough to take care of himself. I promised him that I’d be in touch, write him often and make a way for us to see each other without letting my father know my whereabouts.

     When my oldest half sister came over to pick up her daughter after work one day, I told her of my plans. She said to me, “How are you going to survive on your own? You’ll end up being a prostitute to take care of yourself!” Why was I being bombarded with negative comments? Was this a way of trying to prevent me from gaining my freedom? Despite her remarks, she wanted to see my apartment so she devised a plan.

     Everyone, it seemed, was always lying to my father. That’s the way we had to operate in order to live. My oldest sister told him on Saturday that she was taking my brother and me out. He liked that. It gave him freedom to have his women over and act nasty all over the house. We went to my new apartment and my brother was visibly upset. I reassured him that I would never forget about him and that I’d always be there for him. I kept my promise, but he shut me out.

     When my sister dropped off my brother and me at home, I tried my key in the lock and, for some, reason, it wouldn’t turn. Outside the house, was a yellow car, the car of one of the many women my father was seeing. At night, my father always put a wooden door block on the lock to prevent anyone from opening the door from the outside. I assumed he didn’t want us inside and I didn’t want to imagine the nastiness that was going on inside. My sister  yelled, “Come on!” and my brother and I returned to my sister’s car. 

“…and grace will lead me home”

PART TWO:

Chapter One

     College offered me a totally different world. There were people from all over the globe! There was so much eduation! I had a work-study position at the library which helped me get over my shyness. Best of all, because of the makeup of the college campus, my father couldn’t stalk me!

     I felt like I was someone important in college and I made a promise to myself that I would graduate and make something of myself.  I felt like I belonged there and that others there were also trying to make something of themselves. It was as if just by walking on the campus, I could feel the education surrounding me. There were people of all ages on the campus and they had an interest in what I had to say! Thanks to my education and hard work at Classical, writing papers and being involved in discussions came very easy to me. Sometimes, I was teased because I didn’t have to study as hard as others did. Oftentimes, I was so tired, that I just read my notes and was able to retain everything I had learned in class and read in my very small notebook.

     Unfortunately, my father tried to ruin my chances of doing well and I was aware of it. Just like in high school, he would demand that I drop my studies and scratch his extra dry scalp, cut his hard and very dirty toenails and pick the scabs off his feet and clean , cut and file his hard fingernails. It took so much of my time and, when I was finished, I was covered in dandruff from his very flakey scalp. For some reason, his scalp peeled and flaked so, when I scratched it with a comb, the flakes were Corn Flake size and they'd popped into my face or on my clothing. I always had to scrub my hands and take a shower afterwards. I was so very tired so many nights. He would go to bed and I’d sit up in my room late into the night working on school work. I was determined to do well and I prayed often for strength to get through these difficult times. Refusing to tend to my father’s demands had very bad consequences and I was filled with so much anger that if he ever touched me again, I’d put him in his grave. I swore to myself that I’d kill him if he ever touched me again.

     One night, my brother was crying as I got out of the shower and he said to me , “Daddy is choking Keesh”. For some reason, my father got a Keeshond and we named him Keesh but when my father saw that we were paying too much attention to the dog, he became violent. I could hear Keesh struggling to breathe and I walked into the living room to see my father strangling Keesh with a leash. My father had no idea I was in the room and the rage he exhibited as he choked the dog was breaking my heart. No one, not even an animal should have to endure that. Holding back tears, I crossed my arms and firmly said to my father, “What did he do to get treated like that?” Taken aback, my father shouted, “What the fuck did you say?” I repeated my question undaunted. He said, “He wasn’t listening to me!” I told him that it was still not a good reason to choke the dog. “What the fuck did you say?” he shouted. I could hear my brother crying in the background. I felt bad because my brother was always afraid. He feared my father more than anyone I knew had.

     My father’s bloodshot eyes burned into mine but I remained unmoved. I was waiting for him to touch me so I could beat the shit out of him. I no longer feared him and he knew it. After I repeated what I had said, he rushed towards me with the blue leash he used to choke Keesh outstretched as if he were going to choke me. If he expected me to run or to be afraid, he was disappointed because I stood still, arms folded and dressed in a floor-length blue cotton nightgown waiting for him to put his hands on me. Our eyes locked as he raced towards me and suddenly he froze about an inch away from my face. I smirked. “Do it.” I said calmly. He stared at me for a moment, cowered and went outside to stand in the night air. I looked at Keesh who rushed into the comfort of my bedroom where he spent the rest of the night. Poor Keesh. I didn’t know what type of abuse he suffered when I wasn’t around.

     The abuse of Keesh didn’t end there. After a long day of classes and work, I came home to meet my brother who was again I tears. “He’s going to get rid of Keesh!” he wailed. Overhearing my brother’s exclamation, my father hotly said, “He’s been itching and bitting himself. The doctor said we have to put him to sleep.” Keesh hunkered behind me and I was shocked to see one long and even empty patch down the middle of his back. It looked as if someone had taken an electric hair clipper and just ran it down his back exposing his skin. How could Keesh do that to himself? I knew it was my father and I told him so. He insisted that Keesh did that to himself and was going to be put to sleep tomorrow. The one joy we had in our lives, my assine father was going to take away. He couldn’t stand to see us happy. My brother and I loved that dog and we hated our father. No one in their right minds would want to love my father. He was cruel, violent and abusive. He struck fear into the hearts of many just by glaring at them. I knew that once my brother and I left for school, that my father would kill Keesh. I felt it in my bones. Just like he had ran over the stray kittens we had found and befriended when we began to take in and feed the momma cat. My brother looked at me with pleading eyes and begged my father, “Please, don’t take away Keesh! Please!” My father said sternly, “He has to go. Tomorrow, he’ll be put to sleep.”

     That night, I cried. I pet Keesh who always slept in my bedroom. I remembered when we lived on Sumter Street before the divorce and how my father would keep our two dogs tethered to long, heavy chains. We had a big yard and neighbors who walked by would complain about my father dragging out our big dog Jesse from his dog house and beating him with a steel shovel. That poor dog would howl and people often stopped by the gate and stared in shock. It was so embarrassing. Where were the animal rights activists when you needed them? I knew poor Keesh didn’t stand a chance and I wondered why my father had to dominate and be brutal to animals. He always claimed to “have God on his side” but the God I prayed to every night didn’t approve of devils like my father.

     Sure enough, Keesh was gone by the time I came home and my father replaced Keesh with a hamster. He told us it was a girl. He had the whole tank and ball thing set up and he acted happy. He said, “Look, it’s a girl” and he rubbed her seductively. I was disgusted. Neither my brother nor I cared much for the hamster. My father would allow the hamster to roll around in the ball and delighted in everything about her. He always rubbed his finger in her private area and would smile when we’d stumble upon him doing it. I supposed he was trying to make us jealous because he pretended to love and dote upon the hamster so. To me, it was just an indoor rat and I really didn’t feel like petting a rat.  One day, the hamster bit him severly. She must have held on because his finger was profusely bleeding. He bandaged it. I was secretly happy. The hamster was suddenly very aggressive towards him and he stopped playing with her. Eventually, she disappeared as well.

After The Darkness: “…but now am found…”Chapter...

After The Darkness: <!--StartFragment-->
“…but now am found…”Chapter...: “…but now am found…” Chapter Three My mother did eventually return to rekindle a relationship with my brother, but not with me. I ...

“…but now am found…”

Chapter Three

     My mother did eventually return to rekindle a relationship with my brother,  but not with me. I felt so all alone. She’d take my brother out, buy him things and make empty promises to him. I wondered why she didn’t want me. I assumed I was too ruined for her to want anymore. I’d watched my brother excitedly tell me how she promised him the latest video game system after one of his evenings out with her. I became bitter and would be angry with him for being so foolish as to believe that her promises could erase the fact that she abandoned her own children. As I had suspected, she let him down and kept none of her promises. My brothers tears were ineveitable. My mother never came around anymore and life continued.

    Since my father couldn’t sexually abuse me anymore, he’d make me feel uncomfortable by glaring at me as I’d sit on the sofa watching television or as I did anything in his presence. He forced me to clean the entire apartment every Sunday morning and do all of laundry, all of this without any help. I hated touching his nasty underwear that were often caked with semen and had traces of poop. He taught me how to fold all his socks and stained underwear and T-shirts a certain way and told me in which of his bureau’s drawers each article belonged. I had to get up at four in the morning just to be able to have all the chores done by supper. I did all of this with no help while he sat and watched fishing all day on television and while my brother played video games in his bedroom. My father told me that females were supposed to do all the house work and I became a sort of Cinderella, scrubbing the feces-stained toilets (we had a bath and a half in our new section 8 apartment), floors and bathtub. He was not setting a good example for my brother who never offered to help me. My brother  began to act like my father's treatment of me all was normal.

     Since my father vomited often due to the various medications he was taking, he made a mess in what became his bathroom and he never cleaned up after himself. Every Sunday, I’d have to scrub and scrape the stiff bits of vomit that painted the sides of the toilet. My father further humiliated me by forcing me to clip his yellow-crusted toenails, scratch the dandruff from his scalp, clip and clean his fingernails, pick the scabs from the bottoms of his smelly damp feet and scrub his back. All this I did in silence for fear of the beating he always threatened to give me. I once was so tired that I didn’t put away his clothes. I left his clothes on his bed and, when he discovered what I had not done, he began swearing at me, calling me lazy, fresh, and grown. He told me to “put his shit away before he slapped the hell out of me”. Tiredly, I put away his clothes all the while enduring his verbal insults. After I had finished putting away his clothes, he followed me to my room hurling more vulgar insults at me. I wanted to cry but waited until he was gone before plopping down on my bed and crying into my pillow.

     The next day was Monday again and I was excited to be getting away from him and going to school. At this time, my father had gotten into car accident with his brown 1986 Fifth Avenue Chrysler Coach and didn’t have car insurance so it sat in the driveway from season to season.  I was in the car the day a pickup truck smashed into the vehicle, flinging me towards the windshield and causing my niece to roll onto the floor (she was asleep in the backseat and I had just removed my seatbelt). I saw the accident as a blessing. My father couldn’t drop me off at school anymore nor could he prowl the  school grounds in search of me.

    I attended Classical High School, a college prep school in Providence, Rhode Island. I was an excellent student and saw education as my way out and away from the life that was my hell. My father would walk my brother and me to the bus stop every morning, the whole while criticizing or reprimanding us for one thing or another. My brother was still in middle school due to having to repeat the third grade so, he took the yellow bus to school. I took the city bus to school. My father would walk me to the bus stop last, telling me that I was fat and that my butt was getting big. He would flirt with the young girls who were at the stop as well, so much so that I became embarrassed and concerned for their safety. One very attractive young Afro-American girl about my age was a regular at the bus stop. When she was not within ear shot, my father would say how she had “pretty legs” and how I should be more like her. He always found a way to put me down. When he’d talk to her, she’d blush and shyly smile, all of which my me sick to my stomach. I suppose she saw my father as a silly old man and not for the predator that he was. Even at home, he’d talk about that girl as if he were in love with her. He’d go on and on about how “pretty” she was and that I didn’t look like her. It wasn’t long before I never saw the girl again at the bus stop and my father suddenly stopped talking about her. I never found out what happened to her.

     At school, I was happy although I hurt deep inside every single day. I drowned myself in my studies in order to numb the pain I felt. I excelled in my classes because I dreamed that someday education would be my ticket out of my nightmarish life . Many said that I would fail out of Classical and some even joked that I’d be sent to the neighboring Central High School, a school whose reputation at the time was a school that was not academically challenging. May father told me horror stories of girls getting raped in high school and said that it would happen to me. I became afraid of every dark corner in the hall and locker rooms. I was afraid of making friends with boys because of all the stories my father told me.

     My father wouldn’t allow me to do my homework uninterrupted at home. I had to lie that school started at a certain time in order to get it done before class. Every night, he’d ask me to type something, to read something, to clip his nails and scratch his head or anything he could think of to distract me from my studies. I would complete whatever task it was that he wanted and then tiredly try to do as much of my homework as I could. It was as if he were trying to make me fail after I worked so hard to pass the school’s entrance exam so I could attend the school.

     I held my composure at school as long as I could until I broke down my last year of high school. I felt so all alone. My father would never stop harassing me and it had finally gotten to me. During every meal, he’d laugh and say that I had a “big butt”. My brother even began to join in on the ridiculing and that really hurt me because I never stopped being my brother’s biggest protector and supporter. I endured the terrible meals in silence, refusing to say anything as my father would tell me I was fat and that women were “stupid” and were “only good enough for one thing”. Despite my efforts to ignore him, I began to internalize all that he said to me resulting in me refusing to eat all of my meal. I lost weight rapidly but this only increased my father’s criticisms of me. He began saying that I was “ too skinny”, that I  “looked like a skeleton”, and that I “didn’t look cute”.

      One morning , as I boared the city bus while my father’s morning insults echoed behind me, I cried uncontrollably. I turned my face to the window in order to conceal my face from the other passengers on the bus. When I arrived at school, my math teacher who was my favorite teacher in the school, spotted my tears. I blurted out all of my pain to him, all of my secrets because I needed to and I had no one else to whom I could turn. My teacher listened and suggested that I see the school’s counselor.

   I was afraid the school counselor would try to take me away from home, making it impossible for me to protect my little brother. I begged for them not to do it and I didn’t want social services to come and split up my brother and me. I felt safe at school knowing that my teacher and counselor knew of my situation. While I was in the safety of the school walls, I could pretend that life at home did not exist. However, just as soon as I exited the city bus at the top of my street, my heart would begin to beat rapidly. I could see my father standing outside the house frowning as I walked with my other classmates who lived in my neighborhood and took the same bus home. My father would glare at me and I was instantly afraid. He didn’t like me talking to anyone at school, especially boys. Three of the four kids who got off he bus with me were boys and they were nice boys who always treated me with respect as did most of the boys at my high school. I wasn’t seen as one of the girls who guys wanted to date but rather, a little sister who was looked out for. I could never tell my father that I talked to boys.

     My father would wait until the last of the bus kids had walked to his house at the end of he street before he started yelling at me and accussing me of “fucking around” with boys. While his rants followe me into the house, I held back tears. I hated my father so damned much and I so wanted to get away from him. He called me all sorts of names while he accussed me of doing something that, thanks to him, I thought was absolutely disgusting. I would pray every night behind my closed bedroom door that God would deliver me from the nightmare I was living. Sometimes, I even begged God to kill me. I never saw any way out and my father would kill me if I  ever tried to leave.

     My father didn’t allow me to talk to friends on the phone. In the days before caller ID, I’d wait until he’d leave the house and then stand by the window while talking to a friend on the phone. My friends understood and never made fun of me for it. High school was completely different from the years I spent at Saint Matthew School, the parochial school I attended for grades kindergarten through eight in Cranston, Rhode Island. When I saw my father coming home, I’d hang up and then dial our home number so he couldn’t trace the call if he somehow found out I was using the telephone. My brother and I kept our calls our secret. My brother and I, through our experiences, became closer and I loved him more than anyone.

     I decided to bring to the light my abuse one evening while my father yet again ranted and raved as he stood over me at supper. My brother had developed a habit of pushing his face as far as he could into his food without actually touching it and, when my father would get angry, my brother’s hands would visibly and uncontrollably tremble. On this particular night, my father went on and on about my messing with boys and “don’t think just because I was going to college” that he “couldn’t slap the shit out of me”. I had grown so accustomed to his rantings and accusations that I didn’t cry about it anymore but, instead, I housed a fury so hot deep with my soul and I awaited the opportunity to unleash it upon him and make him pay for what he had done to me. This night would be the beginning of my standing up to him. I slammed my fork on the dining room table and stared into his bloodshot eyes, my body buring with rage. I asked him why would I “mess around” when he stuck his “nasty penis into me” and made me do nasty things and did nasty things to me. “Thanks to you, I hate that stuff!” I screamed and I saw tears stream from my brother’s face who had learned not to say anything and who continued to look into his bowl and shove food into his mouth. My father lowered his eyes and said, “I don’t remember” which only made me even hotter. He quickly walked outside and stayed on the porch in the dark well after we had finished supper and had gone to bed. Before going to his room, my brother whispered to me, “ You gotta get out of here! Why are you still here? I think you wanted it.” Even though his words hurt, I wasn’t angry with him because I knew he didn’t understand what happened. I said to him, “I’m still here for you, stupid.” I spun around on my heels and went into my room to try to get some sleep.

     The next morning, my father came to me while my brother wasn’t around and said that he had had nightmares about what I said to him and that he “shouldn’t have done that to me”. I said nothing because I knew he didn’t feel truly sorry for what he had done. Although the abuse had stopped, he continued to verbally bash me and grab and slap my behind whenever he was within reach and when my brother wasn’t around. I’d tell him to stop but he’d just laugh as though I really didn't want him to stop. I’d pray that he’d die so my brother and I could be at peace.

     Death was knocking on his door when, one day, he ended up in the hospital with a collapsed lung while we were at school. It was May and I was a senior in high school. My father once bragged to everyone that I didn’t want to go to my Senior Prom when that was not the case. One of his fishing buddies who was a parent of four managed to convince him to buy me a dress to go.

      When my father landed in the hospital, I was hopping he’d stay in long enough for me to have fun with my friends. One of my friends asked me to the Prom and I had to tell him “no” because depiste his Portuguese heritage, he was too white for my father and my father always said that I “better not bring no white man to the house”. I really wanted to go with my friend and decided to go alone. No one asked me to the Prom until the very last minute. and then there was more interest in asking me than I could handle but none of them would fit my father's liking as I knew he was very racist. Since one of the boys was Black, I agreed to go with him. There were rumors that one of my Asian male friends wanted to ask me but I was glad he didn’t because I didn't want to have to explain to him my situation.

     When I returned home from the Prom before midnight, my father was standing in the dark waiting for me. All of my fun instantly vanished at the sight of him. He glared at me unmoving and when I gave him a kiss goodnight as he still made us do. He angrily wiped his cheek and said to me, “ I know you been kissing up on some boy!” I just continued into my room and closed the door, locking it (our old apartment didn’t have locks). He then shouted at me as he always did when I had my bedroom door closed, “I’ll take that door off the hinges!” I never budged because I knew that I had something over him and, that if he tried anything again, I’d make him pay with his life. I was getting stronger, feuled by anger and bitterness and if he ever touch me again, he’d wish he hadn’t.

      I used my newfound attitude to shield my brother even when he may have thought I didn’t. My brother was afraid to stand up to my father and, at times, would visibly tremble whenever someone got close to him. It seemed he was always afraid.

     Finally, it was high school graduation and I had made it through a very challenging school despite the obstacles. I had been accepted to Rhode Island College and looked forward to my freedom. Despite my enthusiasm, my father managed to spoil even this glorious day for me. When my name was called to receive my high school diploma, there were no cheers for me like there had been for the rest of my classmates. I was sad. My brother, father, older sister and niece were in the audience but no one applauded. After a pause that seemed eternal, one of my friends blurted out a cheer and was joined by some of my other fellow students. The thought was wonderful and I cried because not even my asshole father or brother could applaud my accomplishment. My father was even angry when I wanted to take pictures with some of my friends after graduation. When I was hugging some of my friends and bidding them farewell, my father hovered in the background, a scowl on his face. He then shouted at me, “Let’s go! I’m hot!” Embarrassed, I raced to the car not wanting anyone to see me crying.

     All the way home, my father cussed me out, again accussing me of “messing around” and saying that I shouldn’ t think that I was grown “just because I turned a little eighteen”. Some friends and I had conjured up a lie about a teacher and student celebratory dinner that night and my father fell for it. My friend’s family owned  a restaurant and she and her family invited a bunch of the graudates to a free meal at their restaurant. I wanted to see everyone one last time. My father dropped me off, again, cussing  me out throughout the entire car ride. Not once did he congratulate me. Not once, did he say he was proud of my especially since he wasn’t allowed to go to school and got not further than the third grade. For some reason, he continued to accuse me of sleeping around when, thanks to him, I had an aversion to sex and all that it entailed.

     Arriving at the restaurant, I jumped out of the car , angrily slamming the door. My father rolled down the window and hurled threats at me. He said that he was going to “knock the shit out of me” if I slammed the door again and that I shouldn’t “think I was grown”. I rushed into the restaurant, not wanting to listen to his foul mouth anymore.

     Unfortunately, I was not able to enjoy myself at the restaurant. My friends noticed that I was upset and I briefly told them what had happened. We ate and then took some pictures outside. Returning to the restautant, I noticed my father’s car parked outside one of the large restaurant windows. “I have to go!” I said to my friends. “He’s outside!” I whispered. Trying desperately to conceal my tears, I rushed out the door, followed by some well-meaning “Good luck’s” and “We’ll miss you’s” from my friends. Before I even reached the car, I noticed the intense anger on my father’s face. I knew I was in for it once I got into the car. Why was he so angry? Wasn’t that bastard proud of me for being the first member of his countrified family to graduate from an elite high school, a college-prep school? I was going to college! Didn’t that mean anything?

     As I sat in the car, my father went on about how he was watching me and saw me kiss a boy. I did no such thing. I did think one of my male friends was handsome but I knew that it would have never been possible. It took the end of the school year, my last year of high school before some of my absolutely handsome male friends, “my big brothers” I called actually thought about asking me out. They had trememdous respect for me and treated me like a little sister. They let no one disrespect me. I think they felt sorry for me because of what I was going through. I even overheard a few of them one afternoon questioning my prom date as if he were on trial making sure he didn’t disrespect me. My father didn't allow me to have a boyfriend and, thus, I was only left to daydream. How I wanted someone to tell me I was pretty and to love me without the sex, to love me and cherish me. It seemed no one in my life did so I always felt that I were missing something. I thought all of this as my father insulted me, threatened me and cussed me out during the ride home from the restaurant.

     Every little girl dreams of her handsome Prince wisking her away from her present life and taking her away to a beautiful magical kingdom somewhere in fantasyland. For me, my imaginary prince was named Buck. I created Buck some time during my early high school years. Many of the men in my short romantic pieces were modeled after him. He was tall, had a very firm and mature voice. He had long, flowing dark hair, dark eyes and he could sing and play the guitar. He was handsome and he was madly in love with me. He treated me like his queen and no one could ever love me more than he. I spent many hours thinking of Buck when things at home caused me to want to just give up. I thought of him when I was trying to sleep and block out the disgusting sexual noises of my father either masturbating in the bathroom or having sex with some woman he brought home in the living room. How I wanted to leave! I cried many nights because I didn’t know what to do and no imaginary Buck could or would ever save me. I had to pray and take actions to save myself. Not knowing what I’d encounter in the real world, I had to finish college so I’d have a leg to stand on.

      I thought that I would get away from him somehow. College would offer me a new life and new opportunities. It was my only way out. God was going to finally set me free.

“I once was lost…”

Chapter Two: “  Muddy Waters”

     Two days after Christmas while I was in either fifth or sixth grade, my father loaded up the personal belongings of my little brother and me into a moving truck and we were taken to a grimy, roach and rat infested apartment on Houston Street, on Providence’s South Side. This would be our new home without our mother. There were a buch of kids in the neighborhood  with whom we would eventually become friends . The landlord lived on the third floor of our three family apartment building. He had a heavy Jamican accent and hardly ever spoke to us, except to yell at us for running in the backyard. Since we weren’t allowed in the backyard, we played in the streets along with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood.

     I didn’t like our apartment nor was I happy living there. I had to sleep with the lights on because I was afraid of the roaches. At night, I would watch them crawl over the wires on the floor of my bedroom and across the top of my bureau. In my brother’s room, the roaches seemed to take comfort in crawling into his bed sheets. My brother would laugh when he’d find one squashed beneath the bedcovers the next morning after he had rolled over on it. The roaches came in all shapes, sizes and colors. I even spotted that I thought was an albino cockroach as it that slipped beneath the door of my brother’s  bedroom closet. These roaches didn’t discriminate in regards to where they chsose to hide out, either. They sought refuge beneath the telephone, beneath the bathtub, in my underwear drawer and even in my schoolbag. The apartment was exterminated every so often and we’d have to empty our drawers and cover up everything in order for that to happen. The roaches always returned, usually within a day or two.

     In addition to having the roach problem in our apartment, we also had a mouse problem and my father took joy in catching them. He would hide glue traps around the apartment and, at night, I would hear a desperate mouse screeching and struggling to get free only to be met with my father’s deadly hammer and nail. Once my father grew tired of setting the glue traps, he graduated to the standard mouse traps. He would lace the trap with fresh peanut butter smeared on a peanut and, each time, the mice would fall for it. In the middle of the night a loud “snap”  would awaken me. Sometimes he’d show off his catch much to my dislike.

    My mother began visiting us usually on Sundays. Since my father forbade my little brother and me to attend church, we were always at home on Sundays. Early on Sunday mornings, my father could be found listening to Gospel music on WBRU on the radio in the kitchen, puffing cigarettes with the window closed. His Gospel radio station was our only exposure to church music for many years since we had stopped attending church with my mother years before my parents were divorced. My father would record the Gospel songs on radio religiously every Sunday and my brother and I began to learn the songs.

     My mother would stop by in the afternoon after she has finished with services at the church she attended. She became a member of a large church in neighboring Massachusetts called Faith Chritisan Center. My sister Chole and my mother's new husband also attended this church with her. My mother would come to our apartment, give me some maxi pads that looked more like Depends, bathe my brother and do my hair. I didn’t really know much about menstrual cycles just that it happened before we were forced out of her house and, in that instance all she told me was “Get a pad and always wear one. You never know when it can come on.” I wore one all the time. She told me to wear these underwear that looked like fish nets and they hurt my thighs. Since I wore the underwear along with the pads all the time, I began to develop broken veins in my legs, something that remains with me until this very day.

     I didn’t really fully understand why my mother and father weren’t living together. I also didn’t understand the consequences of divorce and the impact it can have on families. My mother was quiet when she came over, only speaking when necessary. She would give my father money to take care of us but for some reason, we were still poor and still lack many things. Even our private school tuition was not fully paid which lead to many arguments between the education staff and my father.

     Sometimes, when my mother would leave on those anxiously anticipated Sundays, my parents would argue. My father would demand more money. In fact, my mother was the one who was granted custody of us but, for some reason, she surrendered her rights to my father who became even more of a tyrant. My mother was afraid of my father who threatened to kill her on numerous occasions. She could have gone to the police . Even now, as a wife and mother, I still don’t understand how she could have left us with him. Why didn’t she fight harder for us?

     My mother’s visits became increasingly less. One evening, my mother came to the house with a pie for us. I remember that the pie was very dark colored, almost black. I wasn’t familiar with a pie of that color. Through the living room window, I watched my mother extend her arm out to him with the pie and my father refused to take it. “Get the hell out of here with that voodoo shit!” he screamed at her. He shover her down the concrete steps, continuing to yell at her. He told her to never return and they continued to publicly yell at each other until my mother sped away in her car. Many years would pass  before I saw her again. When she finally did returned, I was in high school and she only came back for my brother, enticing him with gifts and money. She never came back for me. By then, the nightmare that was my life had already been in full swing for some time. I had assumed that I was too far ruined for her to even love or want me.

    

     During the years following my mother’s absence, were the years of my abuse and rape. I had just turned thirteen. It all began one afternoon, when my father told my brother and me to take a nap on his bed. We obeyed because we were afraid of him. I had always been a light sleeper but, for some reason, I drifted quickly into a very deep sleep.

      I was the furthest from my father but when I awakened, I found myself right next him. I felt him rubbing his penis on my butt and he then he stuck his hand into my panties and reached up into my vagina with his index finger. I struggled to get away from him but he would not let go and my brother would not awaken.

     I did not like the way my body tingled and I tried to get away. Finally, crying, I rushed to my bedroom screaming “No!” He followed me. I hunkered down on the other side of my bed on the floor. I felt gross. I tore off the blue sweatshirt he had given me months ago revealing a T-shirt. He bent down in front of me and said, “What?” I  hysterically cried and screamed and pushed him away from me. All throughout this, my broher remained in a deep sleep. “ I was asleep.” my father said. My response was more screaming. How could he do that to me? How could he make me feel disgusting?

     “God will punish you if you don’t forgive me.” I continued to cry and became suddenly afraid of being punished because I would not forgive him. I hated him for what he had done to me.

     For days, I felt awful remembering what he had done to me. I thought about the times when he would grab my brother’s penis in public and say, “I got that hot sausage!” much to my mother’s horror. My brother would defend himself by crossing his arms in front of his private area. I knew something was wrong with my father and I was afraid. I hated myself. Things began to get worse.

     Since my mother left us, my father said that it was his duty to see to it that we bathed propely. He would not allow us to lock the door when we took baths. We were only allowed to take one bath per week.  All other days we had to wash up in the sink. I would bathe first. He would come in while I was still naked in the tub. I was thirteen, for Goodness’ sake! I knew how to wash myself! My brother was just turning ten, he was old enough also. My brother would bathe second , my father would only be there for a few minutes with him. I could hear him yell, “Make sure you wash under your arms!” and then he would leave to rape me in my room.

     I remember the first time he started raping me during baths. He came into the bathroom while I still had on clothes. He filled up the tub and demanded that I strip. I did. He grabbed me by the waiste and pulled me towards him to kiss my stomach. I slapped his hands hard. He slapped me across the face so hard it stung. Tears poured from my eyes. He said that I was "getting too fresh" and  was "acting too grown". I was so very afraid. He said he needed to “open up my hole”. He demanded that I pull down my pants and painties and made me straddle the clothes hamper in the bathroom. He stuck his uncircumcised penis into me and I screamed. He pulled out. I whimpered, “Stop.” He left the bathroom. After I had bathed, I ran into my bedroom with clothes on. When my brother was in the bathroom bathing, he opened the door of my bedroom and announced that he needed to see if I were clean. He ordered me to take off my clothes, panties and all and he made me lie on the bed. He spread my legs and began playing with my vagina with his finger. It tingled and I didn’t like it. This procedure would continue for some time until he decided to progress unto the next level.

     One afternoon while doing his usual intimate checking procedure of me, he bent down and kissed my vagina saying that it “tasted like sugar”. I was afraid when he did it and instantly made a protest but he left my room. I had no idea why he had to do that to me. He later said that he needed to see if I were “fresh”. This was just the beginning of something that was very horrible. I didn’t like the way my body felt and I was too ashamed to tell anyone although there was no one I could tell. I felt so alone and I knew fighting back was just not the answer. 

     My father’s “checking procedures” became ever more uncomfortable. I despised Sundays, the only day we were allowed to bathe. I wondered if my brother knew what was going on as he splashed around in the bathtub waiting for my father to go and check in on him. I wonder if he ever abused my brother like he abused me. My father began to menacingly lick my vaginal area claiming he had to do it in order to “get me clean”. I hated it. I braced myself for the unpleasant tingling my body was enduring, willing myself to not feel it. I hated it so very much and I hated him for what he continued to do to me.

     Not only did my father rob me of future adult sexual pleasure but he also stole my innocence. He would repeatedly stick his uncircumcised penis into me night after night saying he was trying to “widen me for the boys” in the future. Finally, he tore me and I bled. He said that if I got pregnant, he would tell the doctors that I had been messing with some boys but I still had to have his baby! God must have been on my side because it didn’t happen.

     It was also during my years of abuse that a classmate whose mother was friends with mine began spreading rumors about my abuse around school. I didn’t know that my mother knew how my father was since he had a history of trying to mess with young girls. I was in eighth grade when my mother called claiming that I was walking around with see-through clothes on, enticing my father. It was also during this time when all the students in my class somehow found out about my abuse.

    As usual, I was sitting alone in the school cafeteria when a crowd of students assembled in a corner of the cafeteria. I could feel eyes upon me but that was a constant feeling as my classmates were always poking fun at me and ridiculing me for some reason or another. The girl whose mother was friends with mine, called me over to the group and I foolishly went over there. I asked what they wanted.

      “It’s about you and your father” another girl said. I could feel my face turn hot from shame.

       “You’ve been sleeping with your father!” the first girl screamed. My eyes welled up with tears and, although I tried to deny it, I knew that the truth showed on my face. Embarrassed, I ran back to my table and cried. From then on, I was treated like dirt. The girls laughed at me, wrote fake letters to the principal pretending to be my father verbally bashing the school. The boys called me names such as “slut” and “whore”, to name a few. One boy whom I had always been fond of and who later became a big brother to me in high school, said that I was disgusting. I never felt so alone. I hated myself and the fact that I didn’t always smell fresh due to the fact that my father forbade us to bathe more than once a week added to my shame and increased the ridicule from the girls.

     I tried numerous times to kill myself, even attempting to swallow an entire bottle of Bufferin. Needless to say, all of my suicidal attempts failed. I would pray, begging God to take me from this world. I cried a lot, especially when I heard my father entering my room late at night. He didn’t care that I had school the next day, all he cared about was getting off on his own daughter. My sadness turned into rage and I pondered ways to kill him. I thought of slicing his throat one night as he sat on the sofa with the machete that was in the kitchen drawer.

    My father seemed to have an unbridaled sexual desire because I’d hear him bring women into the apartment late at night and have loud sex with them as my brother and I were supposedly asleep in our rooms. He’d also talk dirty and make sexual noises to women on the telephone seemingly uncaring about his children who were in the same building. Sometimes, I would hear him jerking off in the bathroom, making gross panting noises as he did. I hated living there and I wondered why my mother didn’t come to get us.

    In ninth grade, I put a stop to my father’s abuse. We had moved into a section 8 apartment on the city’s West End. I had a lock on my bedroom door. One night, he pushed me on the bed and said he hadn’t “checked me” in a long time. I was so full of rage that I snapped and pounded him in my chest with the heels of my feet, flailing my arms and screaming, “NO!” He seemed afraid and quickly hustled out of my room. He never tried it again. I had become angry and was waiting for the chance to kill him. He would never—NEVER—hurt me again.