In I AM WOMAN, I journey through the muddy terrains of life, finding the details of my life in the pages of my autobiography. It entails how in my 30's I found my voice and gained the courage to visit my stepfather in prison to confront him about molesting me as a child. I hope to encourage other women and men to face their demons with the people who violated them. I also dealt with not being acknowledged by my father, while growing up with a mother who always found herself in abusive relationships as she battled drug addiction. My entire journey is proof that no matter how difficult life can be, whether we choose it or not, there is always hope if we continue to work toward our dreams and keep the faith. I am not interested in chasing paper, my only interest is chasing my purpose. My purpose is to stand in my truth with authenticity, while encouraging others to do the same. I believe in holding on to my dreams and pursuing what God has placed in my heart. My voice has been unsilenced! Let the truth be told and our voices be heard!
I was walking into a large room that reminded me of a high school gymnasium. In this dim room there appeared to be hundreds of people asleep, either on the floor or on cots. As I looked around the room for my daughter, I thought I spotted her asleep with her father, asleep right next to her. I could tell her father was moving back and forth as if he was having sex with our daughter. They were both lying on their left sides and her back was towards him. I immediately started walking towards them so I would know for sure what I thought I saw, as it was dark, and the only light was a glimmer from under the closed door into the hallway.
I was screaming to myself, “he’d better not be messing with my child!” I did not want to make any assumptions, so I figured once I got to where they were I would pull her father off and I would check to see if his penis was wet. When I got close enough and could see it looked like he was having sex with our daughter, I grabbed him off her and felt that his penis was wet!! My MAMA BEAR instincts rose inside me, and I got so much strength that I literally grabbed his penis with my right hand and yanked it out of its socket, right from his body! I then flung his penis all the way to the wall and blood splattered everywhere! My heart was beating so fast out of my chest. I did not realize what I had done, or where this strength came from. Then I woke up; sweating profusely, panting uncontrollably and realized… it was just a dream, Tasha… breathe. It was just a dream.
In April 2006, shortly after my divorce from Charles, my child’s father, I decided I would visit my stepfather, James Garner, who was in the Lakeland Correctional Facility outside Grand Rapids, Michigan. Charles never thought it was a good idea to visit James when we were married.
“What are you expecting to get from him, an apology?” he’d ask with cynicism. Charles never supported me anyway, except in small endeavors, but nothing too challenging, so I was not surprised at his response. As soon as I separated from Charles, I decided to move forward with this plan.
James had been convicted - a LIFE sentence without parole - for a Homicide/Felony Murder charge. I was having a conversation with my Auntie Terri, who helped me find him on the prisoners’ website. I then called and spoke to the warden of that prison and she gave me instructions on how to go about paying my stepfather a visit. I was told I would need to write him a letter and request he add me to his visitor’s list. Since the divorce between him and my mother had been finalized almost 30 years ago, I was technically not considered a family member, and as a former stepdaughter, I would not be allowed to visit without his permission.
I did what she advised me to do and wrote him a letter telling him I would be in town looking at some real estate in the area and would love to see him. I was a real estate agent and had been investing in real estate for several years at this point in my life. James quickly wrote me back in a matter of a week telling me how happy he would be to see ‘his daughter’ again, and he sent me the application to fill out in order to be added to the visitor’s list, which I immediately sent back completed. About a week or so later I received a letter from the prison warden stating I was cleared to visit James, and giving me the days and hours of visitation.
On the same day I received that letter, without hesitation, I booked a flight to Grand Rapids, Michigan, to visit my former stepfather. I booked a hotel, rented a car, and the next day I was on my way to the Gerald R. Ford International airport. I would only plan to stay for one night.
On Friday, April 7th, 2006, at about 9 a.m. in the morning, I checked into the Holiday Inn and Suites in Grand Rapids. I did not bother to unpack anything from my suitcase and spent the majority of my time there going over the conversations in my head, and pumping myself up to have enough courage to do what I came here to do.
On the hour and a half long drive from Grand Rapids to Lakeland Correctional Facility, I wondered if I had made the right decision. I had not seen James since I was about ten years old, well after he and my mother finally divorced when I was about seven years old, almost 25 years ago. I also had never been to visit anyone in prison, so this would be a first. The prison was located well off the beaten path and I suspect if someone did find a way to escape, they would have a long way to go to reach civilization, and they would probably be apprehended by then.
As I drove up to the prison gates, it reminded me of the prisons I had seen on television, tall wired gates with barbed wires at the top. I wondered if those wires could electrocute a prisoner to keep him from escaping? I surely was not planning on finding out! After parking the car, I started to feel a little bit of anxiety, so I began to pray. I prayed that God would give me the courage to do what I set out to do and then decided to call my grandmother to let her know where I was. I also called three of my aunts, Terri, De-De, and Nita. I informed them I was at the prison to see James to have this much-needed conversation. They encouraged me to carry out my plans which gave me the confidence to continue this journey I had embarked upon, knowing each of them had their own experiences with the likes of James.
I finally got out of the rental car, closed the door, took a couple of deep breaths, and began slowly walking towards the front door of the prison. I took a moment to look around the parking lot and did not see a single person walking, no car was moving, no birds chirping. It was like everything was at a standstill for an entire five seconds. I even appeared to be walking in slow motion! Everything except my breathing, that is! I began to pray again as I felt like I was having heart palpitations. “God, I know you are with me, I know that you have called me to stand up and do what is right, even when it is an extremely difficult thing to do. Not just for myself, but for others who have come before me, and those who will come after me. I’m here now, God! I showed up, and I need you to take it from here.”
I then noticed people walking, having conversations, cars were moving again, and birds were chirping. I even noticed the sky was blue with no clouds, the sun was shining bright, and the air was crisp and clean. “These deep breaths will do me some good,” I said to myself. I walked into the prison. I was screened and given a locker to put my personal items in, along with a visitor’s badge. The locker room was damp with a hint of mildew and the stench of anxiety in the air from all the visitors. Whether we were there to visit a loved one, or a not-so-loved one, the tension in the air was evident. We were then directed into a room that resembled a high school cafeteria. The walls were cinder block and painted a dingy off-white color. The room was filled with guards at each station and there were cafeteria tables throughout the room. Some of the prisoners wore orange jumpsuits and others wore street clothes. I had no idea how they chose who could wear street clothes or not, or if they even had options. The room smelled of musk and was filled with anticipation. Most prisoners looked excited to see their visitors. Most visitors appeared burdened and worried. The tables were angled in such a way that each guard at each post was able to watch the prisoners’ every move. All prisoners had to sit facing a guard at all times. The inside of this prison was nothing like I had imagined. I thought there was going to be a plexiglass between us, and I would have to pick up the phone to talk to this man while he was on the other side of the plexiglass. I probably would have felt much safer, but hey, I’m here now. This facility seemed extremely relaxed compared to what I've seen on television. Housing convicted murderers and all; but then again, television is the only experience I had to compare it to.
I stood around waiting for about 15 minutes while they went to retrieve the prisoner. Observing the passersby, I wondered what this or that prisoner may have done to get here, and what type of burden his family carried for him to have to visit him. Palms sweating, heart-pounding, yet feeling a level of achievement I had never felt before. I was grateful I had even made it this far.
James was escorted into the cafeteria by a guard, in handcuffs. He wore his street clothes which consisted of a nice button-down shirt with animal prints, and a pair of black slacks with black dress shoes. It looked like he was going to Bible study or something; I guess he dressed up for the occasion, I do not know why though. He was looking like a sneakin' deacon! Whereas I came in my jeans and tennis shoes, ready to ‘tho’ down!’ James stood about 5ft 8in, 225 pounds, medium build, with a dark brown complexion. He was not a very attractive man at all, with his wide nose stretched across his face and extra full lips. Most people would say he was ‘strong in the face!’ Not that there is anything wrong with a wide nose and big lips, as some of the most beautiful black people have such features, but on his face, nothing would be a compliment. He possessed these shifty eyes as if he was always up to no-good. He had the kind of coarse hair that his mama would have to put a straightening comb through, just to be able to comb it when he was younger. I swear he looked just like ‘them Stricklands,’ which is what my family would always say about him and his family.
Once inside the room, the guard removed the handcuffs and directed us to one of the cafeteria tables where James had to sit facing a guard, as those were the rules.
James started in on the small talk while I just listened. While strolling down memory lane, he reminisced about how we were the perfect little family, and how he really missed having his family in his life. He particularly spoke about how adorable I was as a child and how I was such a good little girl who never gave him any problems. He looked at me, leaned in, and spoke as if he was just catching up with an old friend, reminiscing, shooting the breeze. I just stared at him, mean mugging, not even believing the audacity that he pompously attempted to paint this perfect picture of my childhood; when the truth is, it could not have been further from the truth. As he continued the small talk, I realized he was wearing cologne. He actually wore cologne! A nasty, smelly, moldy, funky, musk cologne from the early 90’s. I guess he had not had a chance to update his collection since he had been in prison. I am surprised I did not notice the smell earlier, as I am usually very sensitive to odors. Perhaps it was the words that were spewing out of his mouth that made me nauseated, or perhaps just the look on his face. He was probably wondering why I was here, or maybe he was just happy anybody would come to visit him. I was still trying to muster up enough courage to just say what I needed to say. However, for now, I would allow him to chat me up to buy me some time.
“I remember when you were just a little girl, you were nothing like the other kids,” James began.
He had a light, high voice for a man which I never noticed as a child. When young, any voice coming out of a man seemed big and boisterous. But today, he sounded like a little girl! I do not know if his voice was always this high, or if it got this high since he had been in prison. I guess he bent over and picked up the soap! (Hint, Hint).
“You never liked to go outside and play in the dirt because you never wanted to get your clothes dirty,” he went on. “You always wanted to wear dresses to daycare and look pretty. You did not like anybody messing up your clothes or your toys, and your hair always had to be combed before you would even go outside to play. The other kids were rough with their toys, and always tearing up their clothes and breaking things, but you, no, you were the only one who was very particular about yourself and your things.”
Wow! He was actually right. When I was growing up, I did feel like I was different from my other siblings. I almost felt like I did not belong to this family. Maybe I was adopted? I liked things one way; they liked things another way. I liked things neat and clean, like my room. They kept their rooms messy and dirty. My little sister Punkin and I shared a room, and her side of the room always resembled a pig pen. She was Messy Marvin’s sister! I also had an older and a younger brother.
I liked to do certain things, like reading books and playing school, while they liked to do certain other things, like playing in the dirt and climbing trees. We were like oil and water and just never seemed to mix. To sit here and listen to James confirm who I am and apparently who I always was even as a little child, was both enlightening and torture! Why should I sit here and let him scurry down memory lane while tormenting me with the memories of the past, all with a smirk on his face? If he wants to have small talk, then by all means, I will be more than happy to oblige….my way!
I started out by asking him, “So what were you convicted for?” Of course, I had already done the research, so I knew why he was in prison. But he was talking way too much, and I was determined to get the purpose of my visit back on track.
He hesitated before answering. “Well, what had happened was……” the notorious chatter people do when they are about to lie… “it was really self-defense,” he stammered.
“But you’re not in prison for self-defense. I asked what were you convicted for?” I’m pretty sure I would have made a good attorney as I am great at drilling people with questions.
“Murder,” he finally said, hesitantly. “But I am appealing the conviction of life without parole because the police officers tampered with the evidence.”
The sad part is, I knew there was a possibility he was telling the truth, at least the part about the police tampering with evidence, especially when dealing with convicting a black man. Why were they always trying to take out the ‘Black Man?’ Why did they feel a need to tear down the ‘Black Family structure?’ This has been going on indeed since slavery, and is deemed a form of systemic racism. It is a known fact many black men have been arrested for no apparent reason and convicted for crimes they did not commit. Black men pulled over by the cops, gunned down in the streets, shot in the back, wrestled down to the ground, tased until paralyzed, knees on neck, and cries of, “I Can’t Breathe!”
Life sentences and death penalties for crimes they did not commit, all because the police tampered with evidence. Additionally, a black man with a prior criminal record won’t stand a chance. However, I also knew this man, James, was more than likely guilty of the crimes he was convicted of because I had experienced his level of violence first hand, and knew what he was capable of. No, he did not need the police to destroy him and his family; he was successful at doing that all by himself, with no assistance from the cops. Matter of fact, he was probably finally paying for some shit he had previously gotten away with.
“So, who did you kill?” I asked very matter-of-factly.
“My girlfriend's uncle. But this was in self-defense, which is the reason why I feel like I have a chance to appeal.”
“How was it self-defense?” In all actuality, I could care less why he was in prison for life without parole. I was merely warming up the conversation, trying to keep my emotions under control.
“My girlfriend and I were having a domestic dispute.”
"Of course," I thought.
“And she left and went to her uncle's house. I came over there asking to speak to her so that we could work out our differences. The situation got physical and the uncle went to get his gun. He pulled his gun out on me, so I had no choice but to fire my weapon. Unfortunately, he died and that is how I got here. He threatened my life first, and I had no other option but to defend myself.”
Hmmm-mmm. James had been in prison before and did a 10-year sentence for the same type of incident. He was reportedly in a domestic dispute and shot someone who was trying to help the woman, when a police officer was caught in the line of fire. The police officer was shot, but survived the gunshot wound. James was no stranger to domestic violence; this seemed to be his forte. His relationship with my mother lasted all of seven years. The worst seven years of my life, full of nothing but violence and abuse.
My mother and James had gotten married after only knowing each other for a few weeks. James was home on military leave from the United States Army, and was on his way back to the base. I am not quite sure where they met, but I would assume it was at a local bar. My mother was 18 years old with two infant children. My older brother, Lewis, was 18 months old, and I was literally only a couple of months old when they were married. James was stationed outside Tacoma, Washington, and that is where we lived for the first two years of my life. My sister, Punkin, was born there. My mother experienced a lot of physical, mental, and emotional abuse from this man throughout the entire marriage. He was ‘rotten to the core.’
I was tirelessly listening to his stories as they bore a resemblance to me watching a Charlie Brown cartoon, wha-wha-wha-wha-wha… “Your lips are moving, but you just ain’t saying nothing,” I said to myself.
“Let me interrupt you so that I can get to the reason why I’m here,” I boldly said. “About a month ago I was watching this movie called The Antwone Fisher story. This movie was based on a true story about a young man who was mentally, emotionally, and physically violated by his foster family and needed to confront them about what they had done to him when he was a child. I am here for the same reason, to confront you about molesting me when I was a child.” I am pretty sure I got all that out in one breath.
When James repeatedly molested me, he would sneak into the bedroom, careful to not wake my little sister, as we shared a twin bed. He would carry me out of the room into the hallway on those creaky wood floors and then to the kitchen.
“Where am I going?” I would ask half asleep.
“Shut up!” he’d reply in a mean whisper.
James would lay me on the kitchen table, pull my gown up and pull down my panties to my ankles. He would cock open my thighs and begin to rub his hands up and down my body. I became numb, paralyzed, at the act of him touching me. It would be like scorpions crawling up and down your body from head to toe. Frozen. Dead. Silenced. Then I began to hear noises, sounds, awkward moans coming from his voice, as if he was delighting in the torture he bestowed upon me. He would begin to kiss my inner thighs up and down my legs, then into my vagina. I did everything I could to keep myself from throwing up. I did not move, I did not open my eyes, I did not make a sound. As he used the tip of his tongue to lick my private parts until he was good and satisfied, I attempted to hold my breath until this heinous act was over. Until he had had enough.
I slowly began to open my eyes to see if he was done with his business. As he was getting up from the kitchen table, wiping his mouth, he snatched my panties from around my feet, put them up to his nose and began to inhale my scent with his eyes closed. He then put my panties back on me and stood me up on the floor. My body was limp as a rag doll and my head was spinning from holding my breath.
“Now you make sure you keep your mouth shut. If you ever breathe a word of this to anybody, you know what will happen, right?” he would say while grabbing both my arms and shaking me.
“Y-y-yes.” I would reply, whimpering. I knew what he would do to my mother. He would beat her bloody and try to kill her, like he had done so many times before. And what happens when he succeeds?
“You don’t want your mother to die, do you? Do you?” Once he stopped shaking me, he stood up and hugged me, pressing my face against his hard penis.
“N-no,” squeezing the tears from my eyes and turning my face away. He finally released me to return to my bedroom.
That’s the one thing I remember the most as a child, that I didn't want my mother to die. It wasn’t the molestation, the violation, the abuse. I just did not want to be responsible for him killing my mother. It was a massive burden to bear.
The thought of James killing my mother haunted me for years. Because of him, I could only see my mother in this light:
Black eyes, bruises, arm in sling, swollen jaw, busted lip, cries through the night, forced smile, sadness, depression, no friends, scared, trampled over, low self-esteem, no self-love. I often wondered if my mother thought that if James killed her, would she be better off? I never understood why she would not fight back, not even try. Almost as if she had given up before the fight started. Now, I may not win every fight, but you best believe you would know you have been in a fight with me!
“Oh no!” James exclaimed. “You were really young when I was married to your mother. You were too young to remember anything like that. I don’t know where you’re getting this from.”
Although he tried to sound surprised that he was being accused of such a thing, he was not fooling me! I believe he knew why I had come to see him, but he was hoping it was not true. I bet he was up all night rehearsing his lines, just like I was! Sounding all robotic and whatnot! It was now about to be curtain time for this stage play called This is Your Life!
He was right about one thing; I was very young when the molestation took place, between the ages of 3-7 years old. I remember because I was in a Head Start Program from 3-5 years old. During the latter time in this program, I can recall an incident where I had gradually become extremely reclusive when it came to socializing with the other kids. One day, I overheard the owner of the daycare speaking to one of the staff members and they were talking about me and the possibility that someone may have been “messing” with me at home.
“Have you noticed anything different about Tasha in the past few weeks?”
“I have. She’s no longer playing with her friends, not even with her favorite toys.”
“Yeah, normally she’s the first one to grab the little black baby doll with the long hair, but it’s still sitting on the shelf.”
“She won't even agree to read when I call on her anymore, she just stares at me with tears in her eyes. When I ask her if anything is wrong, she just shakes her head with a firm NO!”
“I think something is going on at home. I think somebody’s ‘messing’ with her.”
“I think you’re right, but what can we do?”
“I have tried to call her mother, left her several messages. I even drove by their house one day and left a note on the door, since the Daycare van picks her up and drops her off at home every day, we never get to see her mother.”
“Did her mother ever call you back?”
“It’s been two weeks and I’m still waiting.”
“Damn shame.”
“Damn shame, indeed.”
I wanted so badly to speak up at the time, but could not because I was afraid James would kill my mother. Of course, I believed him because he did not hesitate to physically abuse her right in front of my siblings and me. Did I really want my mother's blood on my hands? No! I would never let that happen! So I remained silent, in exchange for the burden I would carry for my mother, until this moment, when I was able to release it.
Since my mother married James when my brother was a toddler, and I was just a newborn baby, we always assumed he was our father. I am not sure if my mother wanted us to believe that he was, but James surely wanted us to know he was not our real father. My mother never made mention of our real father. James is the one who told me my father's name for the first time. I guess he thought it was not as bad if I was being molested by my stepfather instead of my real father. Also, to slightly ease his guilty conscience, he would give me a dollar to put under my pillow after each violation.
“Here, take this,” he would say, handing me a $1 bill. “Put this under your pillow and you better not tell nobody where you got it from, you hear me?”
“Yes,” I’d say shamefully on my way back to my room. I honestly did not know what to call what was happening to me. All I know is, I felt filthy, dirty, grimy….unclean. I stopped by the bathroom and closed the door as I took some toilet paper from the roll and wiped between my legs. The tissue was wet, I mean really wet and I threw the tissue in the toilet and flushed it. “Yuck!” I then ran to my room and closed the door. I jumped in the bed with my little sister who was still sound asleep. I curled up in a fetal position and began to cry myself back to sleep. I hated feeling dirty…unclean!
Either James thought he was paying for my silence, or he thought he could buy my silence with a dollar. Regardless, I could not risk my mother's life by telling anyone. So this $1 bill would have to do, what other options did I have?
My mother would sometimes ask me, “Tasha, where did you get that money?”
“I found it.” Yes, I had learned to lie at a very early age; the stakes were far too high not to. I would take that dollar when we went to the store and buy myself some candy, and not share it with my other siblings. “They don't want this dirty candy, bought with this dirty dollar,” I would think to myself. I needed to keep them at bay, as far away from this dilemma of mine as possible. Just like me, they had enough to worry about. I am sure I had managed to acquire over $100 throughout this time period prior to reaching the first grade. One hundred filthy, dirty, nasty, disgusting one-dollar bills! How dreadful!
I continued to press the issue with James, no matter how much he resisted. “We lived in that white house near the railroad tracks on Willow Road in Kankakee, IL. When Mama was working the graveyard shift at A.O. Smith, you would come to me and my sister’s room and get me out of bed.”
“No, you are mistaken!” he was on the defense.
“You would carry me into the kitchen and lay me on the table under this low-hanging chandelier,” I continued.
“I’m telling you, that was not…” James attempted to cut me off.
“I remember because the bright light in my face would awaken me each time you did it,” I continued.
“No, that wasn’t me, I would never do that!"
“On that metal kitchen table, with that light in my face, spreading my legs with your face between my thighs…”
“You’re confused,” he tried to silence my voice yet again, but I was relentless.
“No, I am not confused; you were just banking on me not remembering because I was ‘so young.’ I always pretended to be asleep, but you would sneak into our room and pick me up out of bed, carrying me into the kitchen and lay me on that kitchen table. You molested me! As you stroked my baby clit with your grown-ass, manish-ass, nasty-ass tongue!”
I refused to let up. Once I got started, it was hard to stop.
In my mind, I would pretend I was outside playing hopscotch, or jumping rope somewhere out in an open field with the sun shining down on me, and the wind in my face to keep myself from being present during these periods of violation.
“Month in, month out, year-end, year out, for four years until my mother finally divorced yo’ sorry ass! No, I’m not confused, I’m well aware of what happened. I was there! I was put in a position of fear and shame! I was a helpless, vulnerable baby girl with no voice, because of your threats on my mother’s life! I have had to carry that burden all of my life because of you!”
I was really getting emotional and raising my voice until I saw the guard look over at me to pipe it down. I reminded myself again, “Deep breaths, Tasha, deep breaths.”
James appeared to be shocked, but not really, because he had to play out his scene. “I’m telling you that couldn’t have been me because I never lived with you all in that house near the railroad tracks.'' He attempted to defend his position. I guess he had to try to come up with something. “Me and your mother were already separated. You may be thinking about my brother, Weetie. People always said we looked just alike and your mother was cheating on me with him. That had to have been him because it was not me!”
Perpetrators will ALWAYS try to place the blame on someone else. They will do anything to not have to take some responsibility for their actions. I definitely was not expecting James to come clean with me and confess the truth. Why would he? He’s a liar, abuser, molester, and murderer, among other things. If he did, he would also have to offer up an explanation, which there would never be an explanation good enough to cover such heinous actions, right? Some people will never be able to accept the truth of their wrongdoing. My purpose for being here was not to coax him into apologizing for what he had done. My purpose was to face the hardcore facts about my experience with him and to look him square in the eyes as I did it, so that I could be free. I deserved that!
I was on a mission! Now it was time for me to fire my backup bullets!
“Not only did you molest me, but I have had conversations with three of my aunts who said you also either molested or attempted to rape them, too. My grandmother has even expressed that when we were living with them when my grandfather was at work, you came and slipped into her bed one night, trying to rub up on her, pretending to be my grandfather! So you mean to tell me they were all too young to remember, too? Could they possibly have thought that it was somebody other than you, like your brother, Weetie? I think not!”
Yes, I had his ass cornered now! I had punched him in the jugular, and had him right by the balls!
So he thought all these years had passed and the women in my family would have never shared our stories with one another? Never shared our pain? Our fears? Clearly, he was banking on that, but this was not the case. Not with the Bostic women!
He pathetically looked down towards the floor, sadly, as I stared right at him with ultimate disgust. Not even batting an eye. I didn’t know if this melancholy demeanor was authentic or not, but I honestly did not care. I would let God be the judge of that. We sat there in silence for moments until he finally spoke.
“Well, if you feel like I've done something to you that hurt you, then I apologize for that,” he stated reluctantly, in his high, girly voice. While he looked despondent, with solemn eyes, shoulders humped over and head hung low, his energy gave me manipulative vibes. These are his rehearsed lines for the stage play as he had been awaiting my arrival. He had played out in his head all the different ways this could go. His last resort was to apologize if he could not get me to budge. He was playing checkers, not chess, and he had one last man on the board and it was not a King.
“I am not here for your apology, and especially not the lame one you are trying to give. If I feel like you hurt me? What kind of statement is that? My purpose for being here is to look you in your face and let you know that you did hurt me, you did violate me, you did molest me as a child, yet you did not destroy me. You must live with the sins you have committed against me, my mother, and my entire family. This life sentence you are serving is not just because you murdered, you abused, you controlled and manipulated, but you have violated every woman in my family and you will pay for it as you rot in your prison cell for the rest of your life! You and your violent acts have not been able to steal my joy, my confidence in ME, or my ability to strive to bring about healing to my family, and to other women in this world. I am a survivor! I have survived you and I will continue to elevate myself above my experiences until I breathe my last breath! Now you shut up!”
Ha! Umph, I guess I told him!
So many years of suppressed anger, emotions, hurt, pain, and devastation was unleashed onto James at this moment, but with dignity and a smidge of class. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing tears flow from these eyes, or seeing that little girl, afraid with no voice. Yes, when I first arrived, I may have been nervous and scared, but TODAY my courage more than outweighed my fear of him. I refused to give him the authority to control my emotions! No, I was not about to do that! He had controlled enough of my life up to this point, but the buck stops here! What James was experiencing was the grown woman who came to visit him in prison and sucker-punched him dead in the throat, with the most powerful uppercut that I had been building up the strength for over the past 30 years! He got what he deserved. I got what I came for. My inner child that he had instilled such fear in, had to be put on the back burner. The fear that James would kill my mother, the fear that if I ever spoke of the molestation my mother’s blood would be on my hands. No, no, no, not today! Today, I mustered up just enough courage, put my ‘Big Girl Panties’ on, got my emotions in check, and SLAYED!
Looking dumbfounded, James could not say a word and obviously did not know what to say. As I stood up to walk towards the exit door, he stood up along with me, and I happened to glance downward and noticed his ass had a HARD ON!
“Really? You damn pervert!” I begin to walk quickly towards the exit to get away from him. Can you believe this nasty bastard was “getting off” on the conversation of me describing the molestation to him! Motherfucka!!!
The guard was following us to the exit and watching us very closely at this point.
Since he knew he was being watched, James finally stated, “Well I hope when you're in town again you'll come by for another visit.” At this point his voice was reminiscent of Mickey Mouse.
“The hell!” I thought. He must be hard up for some company, nasty bastard! “You don't ever have to worry about me coming for another visit.” Period!
Oh! My! God! I exited out of that cafeteria room and had to take a couple more deep breaths. I felt like I had been holding my breath the entire time with anticipation. But now that I have had an opportunity to release all that pent-up energy, it was time for me to exhale. Grinning from ear to ear, almost laughing out loud, I ran outside to the parking lot to get back into my rental car, with my shoulders back and my head held high; that is exactly what I did… exhaled. The wind was now blowing through my hair, the air was now nippier as the tears flowed down my face. Not tears of joy, not tears of sadness, but tears of relief! Tears of mental and emotional freedom! Suddenly, life seemed bearable, brighter, easier. I felt like I could conquer the world! I was so proud of myself! I was proud I was able to face my perpetrator. Courage is the ability to do something even when it frightens you. Trust me, I was scared shitless to face this man, but I did it anyway. Through all the fear, I did it! Courage is not a given. You have to fight through some demons in order to obtain it. I was able to muster up enough courage to put this demon to rest, in order to bring closure to that chapter in my life. I was immensely proud of myself! Proud of the brave woman who lived inside of ME!
Who Will Cry?
Who will cry for the little girl?
Lost and all alone
Who will cry for the little girl?
Abandoned without her own
Who will cry for the little girl?
She cried herself to sleep
Who will cry for the little girl?
She never had for keeps
Who will cry for the little girl?
She walked the burning sands
Who will cry for the little girl?
The girl inside the woman
Who will cry for the little girl?
Who knows well, hurt and pain
Who will cry for the little girl?
She died again and again
Who will cry for the little girl?
A good girl she tried to be
Who will cry for the little girl?
Who cries inside of me
This is my rendition of the poem from the Antwone Fisher story and the response is, “I will cry for that little girl.”