PART ONE, Chapter One: "Still Waters Run Deep"

PART ONE:

"Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me..."

Chapter One: "Still Waters Run Deep"

     What a frigid day it was on February 27, 2001, the day of my father's wake. I choked back tears as I sang, "Amazing Grace" in font of my father's coffin. How pale and non threatening he looked. The fiery eyes were now closed and gone forever. I was suddenly lost in memories of childhood. I could see him ranting and raving, beating my little brother until he cried or was scarred. I recalled the many nights my father would creep into my bedroom and would force me to have sex with hm. I remember the time I slapped him because I was tired of being "nasty". How I used to hate him. Yes, hate. Lying there in his coffin, he was helpless. Never again would he hurt anyone. NEVER. I didn't even know why I was shedding tears for the man who helped to mentally destroy my adulthood. It was because of him that I had low self-esteem and had trouble with men. It was because of him that I was filled with enough rage to cause five world wars. Why was I crying for that bastard? I was crying because I felt sorry for him, really. I felt sorry because he was a person who spent his enitre life hurting other people because he had been hurt. I cried because he had hurt so many people who had to live with the pain and large therapy bills because of the pain and heartache he had inflicted. My tears were real. As a child, I used to fantasize rejoicing over his death but on this particular day that was not the case at all. Years later, I learned from reading a Joyce Meyer book that "hurting people hurt other people". Never had it occurred to me that my father was a man who suffered numerous years of pain and was angry at the world for his situation. In order to discover that, I had to do a little researching of my own.

     My father was born on October 1, 1935 in Choctaw County, Alabama. From an early age, he was forced by his father to farm the land in order to help support the family. My father resented the fact that he was the only sibling who wasn't allowed to finish school. At one point, he mentioned that he was thirteen and still in the third grade. The third grade was the highest level of education my father had and he was always bitter about it. Numerous times, he attempted to run away, using his bike as an escape method but he was always found by his father and returned home. Still without an education, my father once tried to sign up for the military but, just as he was having his physical, his father found him and demanded that he return home.

     From this point on, the story about my father's life isn't clear until he reached Rhode Island.  He spent years running from the law, being incarcerated and hurting other people. He had been married three times (to my knowledge) before his death in 2001. He met my mother while working at a medical institution in Rhode Island. Prior to his relationship with my mother, he had been married to a woman form Alabama and had two sons with her. He beat her, drove her into the woods and held a knife to her throat and threatened to kill her if he discovered she was "messing around" while he always had plenty of women on the side. This woman layered herself and her children in several pairs of clothing, took the next bus out of town while my father was out of the house and, eventually, ended up in New York.

     When my father met my mother,  my mother was already married but she was somehow convinced by my father's lies that he had a  lot of money and houses so, she left her husband and ran away to Alabama with my father. My mother had two daughters with her husband and had gotten pregnant with another girl, a pregnancy that had ended in a miscarriage due to physical violence from my father. Her second pregnancy in Alabama resulted in another girl and I am that girl. My mother somehow ended up back in Rhode Island and tried to convince everyone that I was her husband's child. Even though her husband knew I was not his, he moved back in with my mother and helped her raise me as if I were his. He was such a wonderful and caring man and treated me well. I really believed that he was my father until, one day, my real father showed up at our doorstep. He had been in jail in Alabama and was somehow free. He told everyone that he escaped from prison and that "no jail could hold him" and for some time he was wanted in Alabama. Great hostility existed between my father and my mother's husband. My father did not move in but, instead, got an apartment on the other side of town. Soon afterwards, my mother and her husband were divorced and my parents did not marry until it was time for the birth of my youngest brother who is three years younger than I. When my father moved in, he was always moody, never home and always had negative things to say about women for some reason. I didn't understand nor did I like this stranger who had taken the place of my mother's husband, whom I thought was my real father.

     My father was a truck driver and later a crane operator for a  local ship building company. He stayed away days at a time and, when he'd come home, he'd stink of alcohol and would argue with and beat my mother. My half-sisters lived with us and they, too, were subjected to my father's violent rages. Much of his anger and resentment stemmed from his own childhood experiences, things he had never dealth with properly.

    

     I was told that as a child, my father was molested and raped by his own mother. When her husband wasn't around, she would force my father to have sex with her, performing various sexual favors for her. He hardly ever spoke of his mother but would tell us that his grandmother was beautiful with long, black hair that cascaded down her back. He would tell us how tall, beautiful and thin she was. I used to try to imagine what she looked like and how soft her hair may have felt.

     My father was proud of his Choctaw Indian heritage. He was also Afro-American and there were some traces of Irish in previous generations. He would tell us stories about his life on a reservation that was not federally recognized and all the challenges he faced. It was during those storytelling times that my father appeared to be happy. Gone would be the bitterness in his voice that resulted from years of suppressed anger. From those talks we learned so much about ourselves and our history. When I grew older and was surpassing my father's third grade eduation, things began to change.

     My mother divorced my father when I was still in the third grade. I remember reading the divorce papers to him because he couldn't read. At the sound of the word "divorce", he hung his head. He was visibly sad. Although my parents were divorced, my father remained in my mother's house for about two more years.

     During the years prior to the divorce, there were constant fights. My father would come home usually drunk and we would hear my parents yelling and screaming. One time my older sister Linda had a friend sleeping over when my ftaher began yelling at my mother. I ran into the kitchen to see my mother sobbing at the kitchen table begging my father not to hurt her. He had pulled out the knife drawer and displayed a variety of knives on the table. He picked up one knife and flasehed it before her throat, threatening her. My sisters and I began to cry. My sister's friend became angry and picked up our telephone to call the police. When the police came, most of the neighborhood was already listening to the cries that echoed from within our home. It was a hot summer day and many of our neighbors on Sumter Street on Providence's South Side were outside doing various activities. They could always count on a show from our house. This day was no different. The police officers grabbed my father who pretended to wrestle from their grip shouting various profanities at them. Years later, these same police officers would become friends with my father, making any accusation against him difficult to prove.

     Staring out  the porch window of our large Victorian home, I cried as they dragged my father away. I remember saying, "Don't take Daddy! Is he coming back?" My sisters, crying, mumbled something to the effect that they hoped he didn't return. I was young and didn't understand why my father was always so angry and why he frequently beat up my mother. After he would beat her up, he would buy her nice things and be sweet to her. I didn't understand why my mother didn't appreciate any of his acts until I became an adult.

     Shortly aftr the arrest, my father was back in the house and nothing seemed to be any different. One evening, while my father was at work, my mother was looking in his pants pocket. She called my sisters into the room and showed them a hotel business card with a name and phone number on the back. She called the number and asked if the person knew a "Rivers Cunningham". I supposed the person responded in the affirmative and asked her about her identity because my mother said, "This is his wife!" and hung up the phone. I never saw my mother confront my father about that matter or about any other infidelity matters.I suppose my mother was afraid of what he might he might do to her if she had confronted him. She knew he cheated and would even drive to the houses of the women he saw, noticing his car in the driveway. Aware of all this, she would act like nothing happened and continue on. I suppose that her way of dealing with it.

     Both my parents began to spend a lot of time out of the house separately working. My father was on the road and my mother was an RN and was, thus, often not at home. Once she got the courage to file for a divorce, she began to spend nights away from home. My little brother had already been born but he was still too young to understand anything that was going on. We became "Latch Key Kids" and stayed home alone for hours after school. We'd go to sleep and neither one of our parents would be home. My sisters would cook and make sure we did our homework. Since we all went to the same parochial school which included kindergarten throug grade eight, it was easy for all the siblings to get home at the same time. When my sisters entered high school, we would have to wait a little longer for them to come home and watch my little brother and me. "He-Man" and "Thundercats" became our comforting television shows as we huddled in my bedroom at the foot of my bed doing homework.

     The atmosphere in the house was constant chaos. My sister Linda ran away a few times, causing my mother to worry. During one of Linda's disappearing acts, my mother even put out a MISSING ad because she had no idea where she was. Many times, Linda would be found at one of her friend's places. Finally, Linda left and never returned. She began to live her life the way she wanted to do. Chole, my oldest sister, became pregnant when she was fifteen. My parents were upset with both of my sisters but what could they do since, they, themselves lacked responsibility for the four of us? No wonder there was so much chaos! No one being taught and no one was being cared for. We weren't being raised because may parents spent so much time doing their own things and being angry with each other. Eventually, my sisters left home and only my brother and I remained. At times, my sister Chole would leave her baby Rachel with us while she worked and went back to school at night. It didn’t upset me until years later when I discovered that my father raped my sister before she had her baby and, knowing this, she still left my neice alone in the care of my father. It really hurt me to think that he may have harmed my neice also. What was my sister thinking?

     When I was a student in the fiifth grade, my grades began to slip. A lot was going on at home and I had a difficult time concentrating. I was always a bright student but no longer did I care about getting good grades. After my father was injured in a crane accident at General Dynamics, the company he had worked for, my mother began  going out a lot and supposedly working double shifts.   Since my father was on disability due to his accident, he was around a lot. He never worked again. He had more time to see the women he saw behind my mother’s back and still managed to follow my mother around. I recall one night, my father made us stay up late to witness my mother stroll out of the house, nose in the air, dressed to kill in a fancy cocktail dress. We hadn’t eaten supper and, although my father could cook, he chose not to on this particular night. I wondered where my mother could possibly be going so late at night. I also wondered why my little brother and I were forced to witness this event and then sent to bed hungry. It was as though my father were getting even with my mother by allowing us to go to bed without any food.

   

     My aunt Sheryl, my mother’s younger sister would allow my little brother and me to sleep over her house on weekends. My cousin Cassandra and I became as close as sisters, she being younger than I. We had many adventures and would wrestle and play outside for hours. I couldn’t wait for the weekend to come in order to be away from the dark cloud of depression that loomed over our home.  Sometimes, my cousin Cassandra would call and we would spend hours on the phone laughing. Those moments made life so worthwhile. I thought my aunt Sheryl was the coolest woman alive. She always had something to eat for us and treated us like we were her own children. She and her then husband would always provide more than enough food for all of us. Her house was always filled with noise and people having a good time. She would go relax in her basement which had been transformed into a lavish entertainment room which sported a bar and recessed lighting.

     My cousin Cassandra had an older sister named Nicole. Nicole would usually take over when my aunt went into the basement after a long day or working to relax and have a drink or two. We’d watch television or play around upstairs with their numerous toys. My aunt’s home was so beautiful and we always seemed to feel right at home there. It was a refreshing getaway that both my little brother and I would eagerly anticipate during the entire week.

     It was during a late night arugument that my father decided that we could no longer go to my aunt’s house. My aunt’s husband had confessed that he had always been a homosexual and had been secretly seeing men. My father despised gays and wouldn’t allow us to go over there anymore. I didn't understand and, years later, both female and male homosexuals would become my friends. He made me call my cousin Cassandra and tell her that we would no longer be going over her house. Sobbing, I told my cousin the news and then my parents argued, my father jerking the phone out of my hand. The little fun that was allowed in my little life was gone forever.

     My close relationship with my cousin dwindled down to nothing until we were at odds with each other. She began to put on a lot of weight. Both of us had been very skinny girls who would romp, play and climb trees just like boys. It was odd for me to see her gainig weight. I had mentioned it to my mother one day and she told my aunt and my aunt told my cousin. Cassandra called our house angry and argued with me on the phone. I don’t know what my mother had said to my aunt but I was really hurt that my cousin and I were no longer best friends. It wouldn’t be until we were adults and Cassandra would be married and had several children and I, a young public school teacher that we would reconcile but our relationship had been ruined forever.

     For some time, my parents weren’t around each other enough to argue and figth. Many times, when my mother was home, my father wasn’t and that provided for less argument. It was good when my father wasn’t around because he was always drunk and would then beat on my mother or us. One time he hit me across the face so hard, that my Mickey Mouse sunglasses fell off. Another time he smacked my little brother on the leg hard enough to leave his handprint. My mother did nothing about either one of those incidents.

     Once my parents’ divorce was final, my father no longer hid his affairs. He took many trips to Alabama for numerous reasons. Once he took my little brother and me on one of these trips. My mother didn’t go. He left us with some relatives and didn’t come back to get us for several weeks. We spent almost an entire summer in Alabama at my great aunt’s house. I didn’t really understand why he left us there and  why he didn’t come back for some time but he’d call my great aunt’s every so often to check up on us. I remember one time when he called, I asked him where he was and he said that he was back home in Rhode Island. I was upset. Why were we in Alabama alone then? The fact that my father spent three days driving down to Alabama to drop us off only to drive back didn’t make any sense to me. I was too young to fully comprehend the lies that my father told in order to cover up his unfavorable actions.

     My younger brother and I spent a lot of time at our great aunt's house with two of our cousins who stayed there. We had another cousin, the daughter of my father's half-sister, whom I wasn’t very fond of. I disliked the way my father would tickle her and act unusually affectionate towards her. I wouldn’t realize until years later that my father’s actions towards my cousin were very inappropriate and hinted at his immoral behavior towards young girls. I cried once because I thought my cousin was trying to steal my father away from me. In the family store owned by my grandfather, I spotted my father making a suggestive grab at my cousin  who laughed and made an attempt to push his hand away. It seemed as though my father’s actions were acceptable to the rest of the family in the store because no one said anything or even looked in his direction.

     On the night of our final stay in Alabama as children, my father had come to pick us up from one of our relatives’ houses. We had been moved from our stay at our great aunt’s to a stay at our first cousin’s beautiful home near some train tracks. In the passenger seat of my father’s car was a heavy-set woman who had milky brown skin and dark hair streaked the color of ash. From her fingertips dangled a cigarette and she smiled at us. As my brother and I were hurriedly rushed in the back seat, my father introduced us. The car smelled of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Both my father and the woman were high on liquor but the woman seemed to be more affected by the alcohol because her voice was unsteady and her words drawled from her large red lips.

     At the time I didn’t know why my father as in such a hurry to leave Alabama on this particular night. I was told years later that my grandfather  had pulled out a shotgun and  pointed it at my father one day saying, “You take those bastard kids of yours and get out of here!” I don’t know what happened to bring this about but my father was always involved in something that was immoral. I don’t know if something happened between my father and my father's niece, who was my grandfather’s favorite. The next thing I remember is that we were back in Rhode Island and the drunk woman with the ash-streaked hair was gone. I remember seeing my mother at home when we returned. As my father unloaded the car, I told my mother all about the trip including the details about the drunk woman. Once all the bags were brought in, almost immediately afterwards, an argument followed between my parents. My mother questioned my father about the woman and my father, as was his custom, denied it.

     My father left for Alabama yet another time and, this time, my little brother and I were left behind. The house was quieet, unusually quiet. There was no fighting and my mother seemed to be in a better mood. A strange man entered our house one night while my father was away. My brother and I were at the top of the staircase where we usually were, playing with toys. I put aside my paper dolls I had created from my mother’s various fashion magazines and followed my mother’s voice to the double parlor. Noticicng me, my mother smiled as she introduced me to her male friend. I was angry because he was sitting on the couch, something my mother forbade us to do. We had to sit on the floor. The strange man’s skin was very dark and he had a heavy accent, an accent I had never heard before. He was from Ghana and was a very well-educated and wealthy man, at least according to my mother. He seemed friendly. When he smiled at me, I angrily stormed out of the room.

     The strange man had a niece who always seemed to be around. My father was gone for a long time, so my mother seemed more free to allow these people into our home. I didn’t like the man's niece because she was allowed to sit on the plastic-covered furniture that we were not allowed to sit on. Even dogs in some houses are allowed to sit on the couch. My mother always seemed to be taking her somewhere and doing fun things with her. I suppose she had to make an impression upon this man so that he would marry her and take her away from the life of pain that she lived with my father, the only consequence would be us. I thought the girl's hair smelled funny and that her hair was too greasy. When she rode in the back seat of my mother’s car with us, her Jeri Curl juice would be smeared on the window she was sitting next to. I didn’t like the fact that she was always around and that my mother seemd to treat her better than she treated us.

     My father has returned from his trip to Alabama and, yet again, my parents argued. My father soon found out about my mother’s new man and the man's niece. My mother did not stop her actions, however, as her new life with her new man was becoming a reality. She continued to disappear on weekends. Occasionally, she would take my younger brother and me along to one of their outings.

      One night, my mother took my younger brother and me to a function held in the basement of a church. There were games and pizza. A young man gave me a piece of pizza and sat with us. I had no idea he was the much younger brother of my mother's new man. I felt very uncomfortable. I could see my mother looking at me from across the room, a smug smile danced upon her face. I was no more than ten years old at the time and I wasn’t enjoying this time at the function. I felt odd around the unfamiliar people who seemed to be nice to my brother and me. At the end of the evening, my mother took us home without offering a word of explanation as to why she had taken us to the event. Upon entering the house, we encountered my father who sat at the table, awaiting our arrival. Glaring at my mother, he began to yell. Afraid, my little brother and I raced upstairs away from their developing fight. We heard our father accuse her of having voodoo in the house. Later, she would accuse him of the very same thing. Voodoo was also the culprit, according to my father, of the marital destruction of my aunt and her husband. There always seemed to be something evil lurking around in the dark corridors of our old Victorian house. Years later, I would discover that, as a young man, my father had played around with black magis, unleashing spirits he had no business messing with. It was said that these spirits followed him around and he was forever running from and fighting them. Once, he even said some kind of prayer in order to loosen a tooth from my mouth while I was half asleep. The tooth fell out and into the palm of my hand which seemed to act upon its own, clasping around the fallen tooth. There were all sorts of weird voodoo-like objects that my mother found around the house. She even found a blackened bone that looked like a chicken bone to me. My father would always accuse someone else of practicing voodoo when he was the one deeply rooted in it all along.

     The night we returned from the event at the church with my mother, the house seemed hauntingly dark despite most of the lights being on. We hid upstairs in our rooms crying. I had a small nightlight in my room because I was afraid of the dark and shadows frightened me. Since my sisters had moved out, my little brother no longer shared my bedroom but had his own room at the head of the staris on the other side of the house. My room was at the back of the house, across from the larger apartment-like attic (which actually had more rooms with closets compartments that we would crawl into and investigate) and my parents’ bedroom. Later, I sneaked downstiars and saw my father sitting in a chair and my mother behind him with her hands wrapped around his throat. Afraid, I screamed, “No” and rushed in, throwing my arms about my father. I was so afraid and I wanted everything to be ok and for my parents to get along. Rolling her eyes, my mother stepped back and muttered something inaudible. “Nothing is gonna happen.” My father said to me. I went back to bed.

     Upstairs, I huddled in the bedcovers, shielding my eyes from the possibility of witnessing a shadow moving across the walls of my bedroom like I had done on various occasions. Leaning over my bed , I strained to hear sounds form downstairs but herd nothing. My eyes fell upon two blood-red marbles on the wooden floor beneath my study desk. I covered my face and then uncovered my face to take a second look. I bent to look at the two blood red marbles and noticed that they were not actual marbles on the floor at all. I became afraid , so afraid that I grabbed a large book from my study desk and slammed it on the eyes that threatened me from beneath the floor's surface. Nothing happened. Shortly afterwards, my faather entered my room holding back tears. I told him that I was afraid of the eyes I saw on the floor. He said that it was just the devil and that I should go to sleep. 

     The next morning, my mother called me into their bedroom and said to me, “I don’t love you anymore.” I was stunned. She also said, “Don’t let anyone ever touch you.” I didn’t understand what she was saying. How could she not love me anymore? What about my brother? I was her daughter. Those words would remain a painful wound for many years to come.