Chapter 11

The winter of 1991/1992 I was 15 and about to have my "Sweet 16".  I was beginning to feel more comfortable in my own skin  It became easier at this age to hide the dirty little secrets I had at home.  The filth of our apartment never went away, but I could make dang sure it would not show.  I was borrowing cute clothes from my brother and friends, I was wearing makeup, and the awful perm I got at 14 was FINALLY growing out. It had been now only 2 years since my father passed away, yet it felt like an eternity.  Actually, it was almost like he never existed.  My mom would stay up all hours of the night getting high and writing me letters. I didn't know it at the time because she didn't give me the letters until many years later.  Looking back on it now I know that my Mother didn't talk about my Father because she didn't want to keep reopening the wounds.  She knew I had guilt, but she had no idea the real reason or just how deep that guilt went.  In her mind I felt guilty for not going to visit him in the hospital on the day or two before he died.  I remember the moment so clearly.  I was 13 and my Mom comes barrelling into the apartment in a mad rush.  She was collecting items to bring to my Dad in the hospital.  I came out into the hall, the same hall where I came upon his twisted body just a few short days earlier.  She was rummaging through one of the two hall closets.  Closets in my house were never used for what they were intended for.  In fact, I didn't even know what a "linen closet" was until I was an adult.  The closets were jam packed with plastic bags filled with dirty clothes, shoes, odds and ends and just plain junk.  I only remember going into either of the closets maybe once or twice to look for my Mom's big red/brown leather boots with tassels that I liked to dress up in.  And even then, it was a 45 minute search to find the pair.  I always remember this day and think of how insane it was that she was trying to collect items from these closets.  The clothes in these bags were filthy, yet there she was pulling out crumbly, crinkly, old, dirty underwear to bring to the hospital for my father. She was obviously distraught, but when she saw me she stopped what she was doing and started talking to me tenderly.  

"Daddy was asking for his little girl.  He would love to see you, I'm going back to the hospital in a little while.  Do you want to come with me?"
I can't remember exactly what I said, if I made up some dumb, childish excuse or if I just flat out said no.  I remember that she was so loving and concerned about me.  She was supportive, not pushy, but I could also feel how much she wanted me to go.  
"That's ok, you can come with me tomorrow."
Tomorrow never came, and I think in her mind that is where my guilt stemmed.  

I never had a chance to talk to my mom about this or about the true feelings of guilt I had surrounding my Dad's death because I wouldn't process them until much later in life.  I often wonder what that would feel like to bare my soul to her and feel her arms embrace me.

Now, where was I? I got side tracked! Yes, Winter 1991/1992.  Just two short years later with an eternity in between.  I was 15, I had a boyfriend, I had my best friend, I had my freedom, it was a good year.  Justin and I lasted for a while after the crazy 6 weeks we spent playing house while he had mono.  We would take the city buses and visit each other and spend cold evenings on the phone talking for hours.  I had just discovered Faith No More, Nirvana and Pearl Jam that winter and would play that cassettes over and over and over.  I was in Monday night religion classes that my Aunt made sure I attended.   I met so many people that winter, made so many friends and have many, many memories from all of them.  I will be honest, most of the friends I made that winter were boys.  I was *kind of* boy crazy at this time.  I was getting attention, and for the first time it wasn't the bad kind.  I wasn't being pointed at because I was dirty and disheveled, I was being looked at because I was cute. It was quite the opposite of what I was used to and I was soaking it up! The more options I had in the neighborhood, the harder it was to keep interested in my boyfriend who was a 40 minute bus ride away.  I began to skip our evening phone calls and instead of getting on the bus I would walk around the neighborhood with my best friend, Marie.

It was one of these nights walking the neighborhood, up and down Woodhaven Blvd, bundled and huddled up with Marie that we came across a group of boys.  Oh, fun! I was getting bold by now.  Marie, not so much.  As soon as we saw the boys I could feel her attitude change.  She suggested we cross the street so we didn't have to walk through them.  That wouldn't be any fun! I convinced her to stand our ground and walk by and that I wouldn't make eye contact or say a thing to them.  Well, I didn't have to.  We walked past, but one, two, or all called after us.  Marie pulled my arm, but I couldn't help but stop and turn back.  There was a bunch of the usual:
"where you goin'" The boys would call out
"none of your business" I would say with a smile and a bat of my lashes.
I guess I got one of the boys' attention, because before we made it to the next corner he appeared next to us on his bike. He would tell me later that this was not the first time he had noticed me in the neighborhood.  We made our introductions, he told me his name was Adam.  He lived less than 10 blocks away, in the same neighborhood, but I had never seen him before. There was something about him that I  was drawn to immediately.  

I wish I remember exactly how it happened, who made the first phone call, when was the next time I would see him, but it's kind of a blur.  I know that I went home that night with butterflies in my stomach.  I remember seeing him on Jamaica Avenue one evening when I was at the laundromat doing my laundry.  He knew I was there, somehow, and he mozied right in and sat with me.  We talked and I laughed and then he would just disappear.  He was aware that I had a boyfriend and was respectful of that, but seemed too interested to let it go at that.  I began running into him more often, which led to more talking and lots more laughing.  We had the same taste in music, the same sarcastic sense of humor, and best of all we lived in the same neighborhood.  Adam gradually started to convince me that having a boyfriend so far away maybe wasn't ideal.  He made me a mix tape of songs that I must have played to the cassette tape shredded. The mix was gut wrenching, he found every song ever made that could possibly relate to us.  One song in particular really got into my head.  It was George Michael - Heal The Pain.  It was as if it was his heart speaking directly to mine.  With that song Adam won my heart.  (I am listening to this song now on YouTube and I am bawling my eyes out. Heal The Pain Video ) Heal the pain? I don't know if he realized how these lyrics went well beyond just the pain of a broken heart.  I had a broken soul.  I had a broken spirit.  This song. . . let's just leave it at this,  Adam was something special.  He made me feel like a princess just by the way he looked at me.  He listened to me in a way I had never been heard before.  He knew my heart.  It didn't take long after that for him to win me over, but that never stopped Adam from trying.  He was a true romantic.  I was still with Justin and was faced with my first love triangle.  I had no idea how to handle it.  I did not want to hurt Justin, and honestly I still cared for him so very much.  We shared something special, and I wasn't just going to drop him and run over to Team Adam.  It took me months (could've been weeks, which feels like months to a 15 year old!) to get through this awful transition, and I am sure if you asked either one of them they would say I was just stringing them both along.  That's not true though, I just could not make a decision that would end up hurting someone I cared about.  It was awful.  

January 19, 1992 was my 16th birthday. I spent the day at Marie's house watching TV and preparing dinner with her to celebrate.  I was sitting on her couch peeling potatoes into a garbage can, talking to her about how we could not believe I was 16 OH MY GAWD! I was daydreaming and sliced a piece of my finger off, I still have the scar to seal the memory.  We spent the day and evening together, watching music videos and being silly.  Later that evening I saw Adam.  He had bought me a dozen long stem white roses and a beautiful silver locket on a long chain.  When he gave me these gifts I was in utter awe.  I had never been given anything so extravagant. so romantic and so beautiful.  He was definitely making his case, and it was a damned good one!  A friend of mine ran into me on Jamaica Ave, saw the roses and locket and had a million questions! She snapped a photo of me and while the actual photo is who knows where, it is like it is a file I can pull up in my memory.  I see that photo in my head vividly.  My huge smile, my eyes full of wonder, hanging around my neck a silver locket and in my hands the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen

Edit: I messaged my friend who took that photo and asked if she still had it.  By some miracle, she DID....here it is: (side note, please remember this is 1992 here haha What was I wearing?!)

    

Within the next month I  ended my relationship with Justin.  And the chapter of Adam would begin.  Once it was officially over with Justin, Adam put forth his plan.  He didn't officially ask me out the minute I was broken up with Justin.  It was a couple of days at least.  The day he did finally ask me is a day I will never forget.  February 22, 1992.  Being this was Adam we are talking about, it wasn't just a simple "Hey, will you be my girlfriend", that would never do.  No, instead, he waited until 2:22 on 2/22 to ask me to be his girlfriend. Armed with a small square jewelry box, carrying a gold ring with 6 red garnets, formed into a crown.  Garnets are my birthstone.  Of course he would have THAT detail covered.   It was all just so perfect.  Too perfect.  How did I ever deserve this much thought, this much attention, this much adoration??  The best part was this wasn't just for show.  This was Adam, to his core.  There were no ulterior motives, just true romance and love. Puppy love still counts as love! 

We spent the rest of the winter getting to know each other more and spending every day together.  This meant having to meet his parents. EEK! The first time I had dinner at his house with his parents was completely surreal. I was so nervous walking up the 5 stairs that led to his front door. Little did I know then that I would end up spending so many days in this house, but at the time I was just wondering  how was it possible that I lived only 8 blocks from this gorgeous 2 story home?  Seems silly now, but I was so fascinated by how meticulously his house was decorated.  I felt like I walked on to a TV set.  It was the absolute opposite of my apartment in every sense.  From the cleanliness that my apartment was lacking to the amazing scent of a home cooked meal that filled the air, a meal cooked for ME! To say I was intimidated would be a drastic understatement.  His mother was sweet, but I could tell she was feeling me out.  His dad was busy cooking dinner and making small talk.   The dinner table was set and looked like a photo in a magazine.  I bet I looked like a deer in the headlights the entire night. I can't say what the dinner conversation was about or what kind of awkward impression I made,  but I can say that I was  invited back, so it must have been ok.  Not only did I come back, but this beautiful house quickly became my second home.  No, actually it was my first real "home", more of a home than I had ever known.  This is the home where, while I may not have lay my head down at night, I did lay the foundation for the woman I would ultimately become.  It became my safe haven and my sanctuary.  The table where we had our first of many "family" dinners became a poker table over the long hot summers. Where I sit next to Adam as he played cards with his group of neighborhood friends.  Over the winter, around that table we would thaw from the snow and ice outside, safe and warm with hot chocolate in hands.  During the school year I would sit at that table and help Adam with his homework assignments, typing his chicken scratch into a word processor.  His home quickly became my home and it remained that way for 3 years and 2 months.  In those 3 years I would accomplish so many things. It's no wonder to me now, since his was a house of comfort, love, encouragement and safety.  A place where I felt I belonged.  

By the time of our first dinner in February 1992 I had already quit high school.  I went through the motions occasionally, but I couldn't go back, it was too late.  Before long my issues at home and absence from school came to the surface. Yet, instead of making me feel bad about myself or my choices, Adam and his Mother encouraged me to get my GED.  Things with Adam and I were serious by now, we were set in stone (and cheesy, hot pink. mirrored double heart key chains) His Mom, Elvira couldn't just look the other way and certainly couldn't let me just sit at home all day when I should be in school.  She urged me to sign up for a GED test prep class, but not only that, she did all the research, helped sign me up and even drove me to the class on Tuesday nights. This was effort and follow through like I've never experienced.  How could I possibly reject her offer? I took a class or two to prep me and on the evenings where there wasn't a class I would study from this gigantic GED Prep workbook.  At least that's what Elvira thought. In reality, Adam and I would just hang out in his living room or dining room and pretend I was studying when Elvira peeked in.  Who was I kidding? Study? For a TEST? Let's get real, that wasn't how I rolled.  I had no flipping idea how to study and the thought of taking a test of any kind scared me so much that I just goofed off and avoided it.  During the few classes I took I would scribble and doodle, not paying attention, I was only there because it was the right thing to do.  I was totally blowing smoke and hoped that the whole thing would just be forgotten and go away, that's how things went in my house anyway.  Except, this was not my house, and Elvira was not my mother.  She followed through on promises.  She never stopped believing in me.  She didn't allow me to retreat and accept defeat.  This woman was flat out amazing, and oh man did she piss me off.  How dare she make me do this!!?? The more she believed in me, the more angry I got, the less I studied - that would show HER! Then the day came, the day I had been studying for for months (not!)....test day.  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  What's scarier than opening  a book and studying things that seemed like they were written in Greek? Opening up a test booklet and realizing I'm pretty much screwed.  It was the middle of winter, but I sweat like a pig while taking that test.  I just wanted to get out of that building as fast as I could.  I finished the last question and walked out with my tail between my legs.  What a disaster.  I don't remember how long we had to wait for the test results because as soon as the test was over I deleted it from my mind.  I wanted to move on and not look back.  There, I took your stupid test, now can I just go back to .... whatever the heck it was I was doing? Then the day came, the envelope was in the mail, and if I remember correctly, I think it came to Adam's house.  GRRREAT, I can't even hide the damned thing!  We sat at that famous table and opened it up together.  There I am with a lump as big as a grapefruit in my throat.  This must be what it felt like to have a normal family and a Mother who actually held you accountable.  

<Shred> The envelope opens.
 <Wince> The mortified look on my face. 
 <Gulp> The sound of my nerves making their way down my throat, around that huge grapefruit.  I look down at my shoes in shame, waiting for the sigh of disappointment.  The moment when I have to face the consequences.  I felt like there was a red hot spotlight on my forehead.  
<Cheers> "I knew you could do it!! I'm so proud of you!!"
<Shock> Wait, what?!  I snatch the paper and have no idea what I am looking at.  Elvira shows me my scores.  Not only did I pass, I did amazing.  I knocked that test straight out of the park.

This is a huge moment for me.  I had never felt so proud in my entire life.  And it was all because of the love of a woman who was not even my own Mother.  My own Mother was a few blocks away, no idea of the accomplishment I just achieved, unable to see the look of sheer shock and pride on my face. This woman, who wasn't my Mother, taught me so many lessons that night.   I had been fighting tooth and nail for weeks, maybe months, all because I did not believe in myself.  I seriously thought I was stupid and that I could never pass.  Adam and Elvira never gave up on me through it all. They saw through all of my protective shields and knew I WAS smart and I could do this.  If it weren't for them, I would have quit after the first class and before I even got the study guide.  This would prove to be only be the tip of the iceberg, the first of many times I would be challenged and succeed.... all because some boy followed me down the boulevard on his bike, remained steadfast and loyal, fought for me and won my heart.

Chapter 10

Where I lived, in Woodhaven, Queens, there is a tremendous boulevard that stretches for miles.  It starts (or ends?) at Queens Center Mall, This boulevard is 8 lanes and very intimidating.  When I was a little girl, as young as 8 or 9, my best friend and I would take the Q11 bus from Woodhaven to the mall, where her Mother worked.  We would bravely walk up those bus steps, put our coins in the coin collector, find our seats - usually in the back, where we could hide with the fumes from the exhaust - and look out the window.  We couldn't miss our stop because it was the last stop on the bus. We were always the first ones out.  It was freedom! Queens Center Mall sits on the corner of two huge boulevards, Woodhaven Blvd. and Queens Blvd.  To give you an idea of how scary Queens Blvd. is, it's nick named "The Blvd of Death", I kid you not, look it up! We would jump off the bus bursting with excitement and somehow storm our way across Queens Blvd, and into the mall.  We would find Macy's, where my friends Mother worked.  Back in those days Macy's had a diner inside it.  My friend's Mother worked as a waitress there. We would eat french fries by the heaping plate full. It was glorious!  French fries were a delicacy to me! It was like hitting the food lotto! Most of the time, that would be the only thing I had eaten or would eat in the span of a day or two, especially in the summer when I wouldn't get my hot lunch at school.  

After we would stuff our bellies to capacity we would wander around Macy's.  We loved sitting in the show room couches, pretending we were sisters.  Then there was the gigantic wall of televisions in the electronic section.  It towered over us like something from a sci-fi movie.  Our favorite thing to do was go to the computer section and play with the Apple computers.  This was about 1985, so these computers were so high tech to us.  We would run over, hoping nobody was there so we could get two computers next to each other.  I loved typing in my name, but never my real name, always my pretend name, Stephanie. After we got kicked off the computers we would head into the mall and look at all the stores wishing we had money to buy stuff.  When we got older we stopped looking at toys and started looking at clothes.  And boys. Of course, boys. 

The bus to the mall became a staple in our lives.  The weekends were made for the mall.  When we were teenagers and just getting into New Kids On The Block we would cut out our favorite photos from magazines and bring them to the mall to turn into buttons.  It was what we did every weekend.  All week we would try to find that perfect magazine photo and rush to the mall for our buttons.  Every weekend, we would walk out of our favorite store, Fan Fan, joyfully pinning our buttons to our shirts and that's when the hunt would begin.  Around this time was when we started noticing the same gang of boys every weekend.  Week after week we would repeat this same routine.  I became infatuated with one of the boys in the gang, Tommy.  The mall was a big circular building, with stores all around the sides.  You could see all the floors from the top floor.  That's where we would stand and scour the floors and the escalators.  It was a game, who would spot who first.  One week my friend and I were going up the escalator as the boys were coming down.  I'm sure this was quite strategically planned.  This is how I found out my beloved Tommy's name, finally.  It had been months, or so it felt, since we had been playing cat and mouse at the mall.  One week we exchanged names and went home to obsess about it.  The next week we would find out where we were from. The boys were from Sunnyside, a neighborhood close to Manhattan on Queens Blvd.  Eventually, we exchanged phone numbers.  

Tommy was my first crush.  I still get butterflies in my belly when I think about him and how innocent and sweet that time was.  

We would talk on the phone, very awkwardly, and arrange times to meet at the mall.  I eventually began venturing further than the mall and into Sunnyside.  Once I knew his block that was all the incentive I needed to get out of  Dodge.  The Q11 bus would end right where the Q60 bus began.  I would transfer buses at the mall and get off in Sunnyside a whole new person.  Tommy was far enough away from Woodhaven that I could pretend to be anyone I wanted.  I started primping myself with hairspray and makeup.  I would ride those buses with a huge knot in my stomach.  The knot was anxiety and butterflies and first crush emotions, along with a tinge of shame and embarrassment.  What if he found out who I truly was, who my parents were, where I lived.  No, HOW I lived. Sometimes I would just go to Sunnyside uninvited and unplanned.  I was so desperate for an out that I just went.  I would knock on his door.  His Mom was so sweet to me.  Tommy would come out and we would talk on his stoop.  It was great! But, it didn't last.  Tommy began to get tired of me.  I wasn't telling him about anything going on at home, and even if I did, he wouldn't understand the real reason why I was there on his stoop at all hours of the night.  Eventually Tommy made it very clear that I was smothering him and he wasn't interested in my surprise visits anymore.  I was heartbroken.  I cried for months.  Yet, I still took that bus to Sunnyside as often as I could.  Sometimes I would just pretend I lived there and walk around the neighborhood alone. 

My trips to the mall never stopped.  If Tommy didn't want me, I would find someone who did.  There were plenty of cute boys at the mall to flirt with and play hide and seek with.  One Saturday I ran into a friend of Tommy's, Justin.  At first I was so excited to see him because it brought me that much closer to Tommy.  We would sit on the steps outside the mall and talk and laugh.  I would ask about Tommy, until one day I didn't anymore.  Justin was much sweeter than Tommy.  He asked me questions that Tommy never did, about ME.  Justin and I became inseparable.  

Justin and I started our clumsy relationship when I was 15, when I was discovering my own femininity.  I think my Mom was just as excited about me having a boyfriend as I was.  She began to give me makeup and hair lessons. Lessons on etiquette and demeanor.  Where to place the perfume so that it would last all night.  Exactly how to put liquid eyeliner on, so that it would go between the lashes.  She taught me how to shake Justin's Dad's hand before I left for his house to meet his parents for the first time.  She told me NEVER to cut my hair short, boys LOVE long hair.  When Justin called, she would talk to him for a few minutes before giving me the phone.  She would break the ice for me, make him laugh and we always started our conversations talking about how silly and cute my Mom was.  All the while, she would be singing "Just in time, you came Just in time" in the background.  It was an exciting time in my relationship with my Mother.  These little lessons she taught me when I started seeing Justin stuck with me forever.  

This was a time of innocence and excitement tangled up in a web of innocence long lost.  I was keeping a secret in my heart.  I was hiding a deep wound from everyone, including myself.  Being raped at 14 years old changed me.  It changed me before I even knew me.  I quietly started forming a defense mechanism.  I convinced myself that I lost my virginity as a willing participant.  A protective instict started.  I became the initiator and the aggressor in my relationships.  I would not be caught off guard again. I could not be raped again if I gave it up before it was taken.  I don't know just how much this defense mechanism helped form my new relationship with Justin, or how much of it was "normal" teenage relationship.  A few months into our relationship, Justin got sick with mono.  He was home from school every single day for weeks.  Every single school day I would leave my house, pretending I was going to school and march right onto the bus to Sunnyside. Nothing stopped me. I waited for the bus in rain, snow, wind, and sleet.  I won't go into details, (mostly because I don't remember most of them) but it was a very sexual and crazy time for both of us.  We became more like live in lovers than the kids we actually were.  With no parents all day, we would spend our days in bed, then into the kitchen to raid the closets and fridge, then cuddling on the couch with a movie.  It was actually wonderful.  I felt truly loved.  I felt safe.  I felt like I was living in a dream.  I would pretend we were married.  I would walk around his apartment and fantasize that I could have these things someday.  Like all good dreams, this one ended abruptly.  Justin got better and had to get back to real life.  For him, that meant a prep school upstate somewhere.  For me, that meant hiding on the roof of my building.  

I will never forget this chapter in my life. I wouldn't change any of it. I had so much to learn about life, love, intimacy and relationships.  This was the first step I would take onto the  confusing, conflicting, turmltuous path to womanhood.  

Interlude

With every good thing that happens to me comes this little voice in my head that says "you don't deserve this". Every time somebody is nice to me, every time somebody is generous without wanting a return for their generosity, every time something good happens, I question it and there is that voice. I know whose voice it is. It's the voice of a little girl that still lives in me. The voice of a scared 10 year old, living in an even scarier world. A world where good things don't just happen. It's like there are two of me living in one body. One is that untrusting little girl. The other is a strong, confident, secure, powerful and empowered woman. And because this is the only reality that I've ever known, a dual existence, I wonder if one can exist without the other. Can a woman be so confident and empowered without that shy scared, timid little girl living inside her? When I hear her tiny voice in my head, the mother I've become embraces her. I gently tell her to be patient. I rub her hair and tell her she is worthy. Yet, no matter how many times I remind her, she persists. I know why;  I need her. She keeps my feet on the ground. That little girl keeps me honest and humble.  I don't know who I'd be without her. 

What I wish for my children is to never have to hear that voice. Because I know they ARE worth it, as I'm sure my mother felt for me. But, how do you teach this?  How can I separate myself from my past and keep the confidence that took me decades to find? How will my son's find their power, yet remain sweet and kind and without judgement?  Will they ever have the kind of insight and enlightenment that I have? How could they? They will never know first hand the pains and struggles I have endured. Those obstacles that I had to overcome made me who I am. It's a strange thing to wish hardships on your children for the sake of perspective. I must find a way to be life's substitute teacher on this one.  They will get the protection I did not get. I will never let them go hungry. I will stand up for them, advocate for them and raise hell for them. They will know my story. They will be made aware of the reality of neglect and abuse, without ever having to feel it in their hearts. Somehow, we will find a beautiful harmony between my past, my present and their future. I can't wait to see how it all unfolds. It will be a beautiful symphony. 

Chapter 9

I've been watching the HBO series "The Wire" lately.  Since the first episode there has been a personal connection for me to these characters.  In case you've never seen the show, it's about drugs and crime on the streets of Baltimore. (It's much more than that, tho, you should check it out!)  In Season 1 there is a character named Bubbles, or Bubs.  He is a heroin addict, he lives on the streets, but most of all he is a sweetheart.  His genuinely good nature shines through.  He is funny, clever, sarcastic and smart.  He is my mom so much that I tear up almost every scene he is in.  He makes me miss my Mom one minute and in the next minute feel so sad that he is caught up in this life. . Or is it sad because my Mom was caught up in that life? They are one in the same.  My feelings for Bubs are my feelings for my Mom.  Every time I see Bubs on the screen I want to hug him, I fear for his safety.  I worry where he will sleep.  What will he eat? Every time they show him shooting up I say "No, Bubs! You're better, you're more than that!" There is so much more to my connection to Bubs and how it mirrors the life my Mom led.  But, I need to process some other things first.

Season 4 concentrates on the street kids and the public schools.  Every night, I sit on my soft leather recliner, from the comfort of my beautiful home here in Arizona and I get transported, back to a time in my life that feels like never could have actually happened to me.  I almost feel like I should be in these episodes, sitting in the corner of the classroom  The only white girl, dirty, self conscious and scared out of her mind.  I share so many of the character's traits and actions. Cutting school at the first sign of insecurity.  Not caring about what the hell the teacher is trying to say because there is just too much more REAL shit to be thinking about.  Like, will I eat tonight? Will there be electricity when I get home? Why does this teacher think I will ever amount to anything? When will I ever need to know algebra? Doesn't he know I'm invisible?

There is one character on the show, Dookie, who really just gets me straight in the heart and brings back so many memories.  More than memories, actual pain and sadness comes over me.  He is an awkward boy, poor and dirty.  Living in poverty, both of his parents are drug addicts.  He's smart, yet insecure.  He's sweet, but misunderstood. He's picked on by his classmates for having dirty clothes and for smelling, and he just timidly takes the abuse.  He never fights back. Probably because he knows that what they are saying is true.  He is dirty.  He does smell.  He is awkward.

He is me.

In one episode a student tells his teacher that he doesn't have any school supplies or uniform shirt because his parents sell them for money for drugs.  I almost had to excuse myself from my own living room to process the feelings this scene brought up.  I wanted to pause the show and magically be transported into that classroom and hug Dookie.  I wanted to tell him it can be ok.  Not it WILL be ok, because honestly, that's just not always the case.  A lot of things have to fall into place before he will ever be ok.  Before I ever would be ok.  But I am living proof that it is possible.

I often wonder about how little things that happen to you as a child can have such an impact on you as an adult.  In elementary school my school would have a "Candy Sale" every year.  It wasn't like it is today, where you can pay by credit card.  I didn't have my parents on my side, rooting for me to sell the most candy so I could win the bike on page 4.  My mom wasn't bringing the catalog to work and asking her friends to order, so her daughter could succeed.  Instead, my parents would shove me out of the house, with my little collection box, to sell candy.  More importantly, to bring back cash for them to buy drugs.  I remember going to every apartment in the building with that catalog.  Every house on the street.  And the next street.  And across the avenue.  As far as I could go to fill up my box.  I was so completely awkward and shy, I wonder if people bought from me out of pity.  No, I shouldn't wonder, I know this is why.  Especially when year after year I would never return to their house with the chocolate they paid for.  Yet, every year, they kept buying from me.  I would come home after dark with my little box jingling with cash and coins and hope that I could sneak it past my parents.  I was just as naive as my neighbors, they would never get their chocolate and I would never get that bike.  I wouldn't even turn an envelope in.  Why did I continue to knock on neighbors doors? I try to figure this out, but I just can't get into my little 10 year old head.  Did I just want to please my parents? Was I so desperate for any kind of attention that I humiliated myself for them?  Did I really believe I had a chance at that bike? It could be any or all of these things, I don't know.  That brings me back to my original point - how does this seemingly small incident impact who I am today? I think about this one childhood memory often.  Why? Is it the humiliation I felt? Is it the hurt and complete disregard from my parents? Is it because I am a parent now, and I am trying to wrap my brain around the whole scenario? Maybe I will never know.  I do know that it has given me great perspective as a mother.  I cannot even fathom doing something like this to my boys.  That's like comparing apples to oranges.  My life compared to my boys' lives just isn't a fair comparison.  I can only hope to use my past experiences to teach my kids some valuable lessons.  Lessons they may never have the opportunity to learn without my experiences,  How my old life will support my new life remains to be seen.

Chapter 8

It's summer time here in Arizona.  No matter what they say about it being a dry heat - it's still scorching! It's 100+ before 9am.  Sure, no humidy does make a difference, in my hair at least, but it's still too hot to do anything.  Having a pool is mandatory and I am so grateful to have that luxury.  I still sometimes cannot believe my kids get to grow up with a pool! What cluelessly spoiled punks! The first time I saw a pool was the summer I was taken away by Child Protective Services and stayed with my Aunt on Long Island. There was a cluster of family out there, all within miles of each other. Family by name, but strangers in reality. I knew we were related, and how, but I didn't know any of these people.  They lived fairy tale lives.  It was like a television show or something.  Dinner on the table, as a family.  Ice cream sundaes on Sunday night.  Picnic lunches by the water. All of this was so foreign to me.  There was absolutely no resemblance of a routine in my life as a child.  Quite the opposite, actually.  Chaos from the moment you woke up.  Over the summer on Long Island I slept at one Aunt's house but would spend most of my time during those summer days bouncing around the neighboring Aunt's houses.  We would walk to my Aunt Arlene's house a lot because she had a pool.  The walk was long, but we always stopped half way, either for pizza or Nathan's hot dogs.  I remember this so vividly.  We were often walking with, or met there by my younger cousin.  Both of us would hope and pray to stop at the pizza place because there was a boy who worked there that we were obsessed with.  I remember getting butterflies in my belly and giggling with my cousin as we watched every move he made.  We had a name for him, but I can't remember how he got it.  We called him Rico Suave.  Maybe that song was popular that summer? Maybe he looked like him? Maybe we were just silly little girls.  Yeah, that's probably it.

One of the most prominent memories about that summer was with my younger cousin.  Swimming with her (she probably had no idea this was my first experience in a pool), Flirting with pizza guys with her. Sleeping over at her house and sharing stories about "the buildings" where I lived.  I thought I was hot shit.  I was 12 and already had my first kiss.  I told her that story of my first kiss at least 100 times that summer.  I told it so much that I don't even remember the actual kiss anymore, but I will always remember telling her all about it.  She would ask me what his name was, how it happened, where it happened, how did it feel.  The scary thing is I was way too young to have had such an experience already.  But, that was life in the buildings.  I grew up too fast and have way too many memories, wildly inappropriate memories, of making out in those hallways.  Hiding under stairs and behind cement pillars to experience things no pre-teen should.

Summer time in the buildings was like 2 months of mayhem.  The courtyard would be humming with music and kids laughing and running around until all hours of the night. There is one summer night I will never forget...

Like most nights, my parents were locked in their bedroom with whoever the house guest of the week was, doing drugs, listening to music, talking about non sense.  I can still hear the drug drawl that would spill through the door. At night I would always be the last one standing of my friends.  I would beg them to stay out and play with me, but they of course couldn't.  I would lurk around the courtyard, bored and not wanting to go home.  The heat in the house was unbearable without air conditioning.  The smell of dirt and bugs stung my nose as soon as I walked in the door. The emptiness and loneliness of not being missed and knowing nobody was looking for me made me to stay away as long as I could.  This particular night was about 1987, I was 11, I think.  It was before I was taken away, I think the year before.  My Dad was still alive at this time. My mom, Dad and their friend "Uncle Charlie" were locked up in their bedroom in the apartment.  The courtyard was empty. There are two archway/tunnels on each end of the oval courtyard.  I was in the archway that was closest to the park and elementary school across the street, PS 60. I could hear a ruckus in the distance, the sound of a lot of people talking and laughing at the same time.  It was a group of older, teenage kids that hung around the neighborhood.  The 60 Park Gang. Everyone called them the '60 Park Gang' because that was where they congregated, usually in the darkness of the secluded park, after hours when the little kids were all in bed.  All the little kids, except me.  I don't know why I didn't skiddaddle out of there and run home before they got closer.  I know I was scared, but I guess it was better than going home.  I stayed put on the stoop of the "F" building, hoping they would walk right past the tunnel and not see me.  No such luck.  Instead, they turned into the tunnel.  I started to get up and walk towards my building, but I could feel them behind me.  One of them was making disgusting remarks about my body and butt.  He kept getting more and more inappropriate and my heart kept beating faster and faster.  I wanted to run, but thought that would be too dangerous.  I got to my building and opened the steel door.  I usually had to ring the bell to my apartment to be buzzed in, but in the summer there was always a piece of cardboard in the lock, holding it open.  At this point I start to run, but one of them followed me in.  He was too fast for me.  I turned my head to see where they were and saw him right behind me.  To the left was a short 4 steps going up and just a few feet was my apartment.  But, he stopped me before I made it up those stairs.  He pushed me against the wall and put his arm next to my face, with his hand against the wall.  He was saying things that still make my heart race, to this day.  I wanted to throw up from fear.  He took his other hand and tried to reach up my shirt. I could not let him do this, not here, just a few feet away from my house.  I lifted my knee and probably only grazed him in the crotch, but he was so surprised by it that I was able to run up the stairs and into my apartment.  There was no lock on the door and he was just right in the hallway.  I didn't know what to do.  The first door in the long hallway inside my apartment was my parents bedroom.  I pounded on the door so hard and fast, it almost matched the beat of my heart.  I called for my Mommy to help me.  She was out of the room in the blink of an eye.  One thing about my Mom.  She was FIERCE.  She would come out of a coma to my rescue.  This wasn't the first time she was jolted sober by the sound of my fear and pain.  If there was one thing I knew, it was no matter how high she was, she would always protect me.  Sure, sometimes it came a little too late, but, better late than never.  I told my Mom what happened and I could see her face twist with anger.  She started out the door, my Dad and Charlie trying to stop her.  There was no stopping her.  Someone has messed with the wrong kid.  My Dad and Charlie ran to the kitchen window that looked out into the courtyard.  You could see through the archway and tunnel into the street and into the park from this window. It wasn't long before I heard complete mayhem happening outside.  Screaming, bottles breaking, cursing.  After a few minutes, I snuck next to the men and peaked out the window.  What I saw there will never be erased from my brain.  The street lights had illuminated the street between the buildings and the park.  There was a gang of teenagers beating my mother on the ground.  It was horrifying.  One of them had a mini motorcycle, scooter, moped thing and ran it over her face.  They were running her over,  And over.  And over.  I don't remember what happened next.  I don't remember if I said anything to my Father and his friend, but I know in the 30 years since I have wanted to say plenty of things to them.  How could they let this happen and just WATCH from the window!?!?  Maybe I cried, but probably I went into shock because I cannot remember anything else from that night.  I only remember the next day, or maybe the day after that even.  I remember the door to my parents room being closed. There was nothing new about that, but there was something new about the silence that lurked behind it.  I remember my Father telling me to go in to see my Mom.  I remember being petrified.  I remember the guilt that weighed heavily on my shoulders.  I was taken in to see her and it was even worse than I imagined.  Her face was unrecognizable. It was twice the size and it was a deep shade of purple.  One, or was it both, eye was completely shut and looked like there was a grapefruit shoved under her eyelid. I wanted to run, screaming from the room.  Instead, I closed my eyes and let tears run down my dirty face.  I could hear her talking to me in gurgled sounds.  She told me not to worry, that she was fine and would be fine.  She told me how much she loved me.  She told me it wasn't my fault.  That was a joke.  If not my fault, then whose?

That's the funny thing about growing up in such a dysfunctional environment.  I was a child, just a baby, and by the time I was 13 I had the weight of the world in guilt hanging on my heart.  Not only this incident.  Not only the guilt I felt about my Father's death, or being taken away by CPS.  It felt like the guilt never ended.  Of course, I know now how far from reality that is.  I was not ever responsible for ANY of these things.  I was merely a product of my environment.  I'm no psychologist, so I don't know why I bore the brunt for so many years.  Maybe I learned too young that the grown ups held no responsibility.  Who knows.  It's like that saying "If I only knew then, what I know now"  I would save myself a lot of innocent years wasted in the wasteland of guilt.  Then again, would I be who I am today without it? If I didn't hold that guilt in my heart, would I instead be cold hearted? Maybe end up going down another road? I think guilt is what saved me.  If I had gotten angry at such a young age, where would that get me? I can only imagine a life of misery and pain.  A different kind of pain, pain that hardens your heart.  I am glad my heart was never hardened.  In a way, the guilt is what carried me through these experiences.  If I truly blamed the ones who deserved it, it would have resulted in a me I don't think I like.  I am happy to say that I have gotten through and past that guilt now.   I ended up in a place of forgiveness and love, and that is exactly where I was meant to be.

Chapter 7

After my 15th birthday I don't think I went to school more than a handful of times, if that many.  I didn't care about truancy officers anymore, and my Mom just gave up trying to make me go.  Some mornings she would make idle threats about making me go to school, but never followed through. Other mornings, I guess the mornings she didn't feel like taking the subway ride to Jamaica alone, she would tell me I could stay home only if I went with her on the train.  She belonged to an outpatient methadone clinic and had to go to Jamaica for her methadone.  She would make me pee in a cup for her, so that she could pass her drug tests and ensure that she still had a spot in the clinic.  I don't know what happened on the days I couldn't be there to pee in that cup, but I know that she was high pretty much 99.999% of the time and she was never kicked out of the program, that I am aware of.

Let me talk about the J train for a minute.  The J train runs underground starting in downtown Manhattan, comes above ground through Brooklyn and into Queens, then underground again for it's last stop in Jamaica Center, Queens.  I lived in Woodhaven, and was right in the middle of the route. Woodhaven was a pretty nice place back then.  Not the BEST, but certainly not the WORST.  Yet, boarding that train was just not one of my favorite things to do.  I would have to take it towards Brooklyn on the rare occasion that I rode it to school.  It would usually be filled with a mix of working people commuting into lower Manhattan and a bunch of rambunctious teenagers taking it to Franklin K Lane High School.  I never fit in to either category.  Was I the only one who didn't quite fit in? Probably not, but I was riddled with self doubt and so self conscious and that made me a target.  It was not for many more years that I would build up confidence and self awareness and be able to attack the J train without anxiety.  To make that anxiety worse, add taking the train with my Mom to the mix and you can imagine the feelings I had.  Apparently, even this was a better option than going to school, so I would take that ride with her.  My mom was normally, on a sober and rare day, very reserved and quiet, shy to the max, but always quick witted, sarcastic and funny as hell.  When she was high her shyness disappeared.  She was still quite funny and the sarcasm grew even more abundantly.  Sure, she was basically the sweetest, most loving woman you'd ever meet, but she was also quite the jokester.  Because she was always high when I would take that train with her, she was out of her shell.  She would take this opportunity to make fun of me.   I am sure she could see how awkward I was, and she used it!  She would talk in weird voices, loudly, to get people to look at her, and WORSE, look at me.  Saying loudly in an unknown accent "Whatsammater Rawbin, are you embarrassed by your Muhther? Come sit next to your Muhther RAAWBIN"  It was awful.  She thought she was funny tho.

We would arrive at Jamaica Center station and go upstairs, into the streets of Jamaica, Queens. These were, and still are, tough streets.  Drug dealers around every corner.  Crime, poverty, you name it-Jamaica has it.  Most people used this stop on their journey to transfer to the railroad into midtown or to another subway into Manhattan and wouldn't dream of surfacing above ground at this stop.  For my Mom, this was just another day.  For me, I cringed, I shuddered, I was honestly petrified on those streets.  The closer we got to "The Program" (what she called it my whole life) the more sad souls you would encounter.  They huddled on street corners, making shady deals. They met up there before going in to ask about which case workers were in that day.  Then would meet up again after to make trades, one's methadone for anothers Valium (my Mom's favorite) They would stand there and make their small talk and I would shrink inside myself.  I should be used to it by this age, I had been tagging along to The Program since I was still small enough to be carried.  There was always something in me that made me feel uncomfortable in those surroundings.  I never allowed myself to let it feel "normal".  I don't know how or why that is, but I am sure grateful.  I certainly was around people who were addicted to drugs often enough.  For as far back as I can remember it was just part of my environment.  My parents always had someone staying with us "for a few days".  My mom never turned anyone away if they needed a place to crash.  Maybe she knew that if it weren't for the generosity of my Dad's side of the family, we would be the ones looking for shelter.  I can't even imagine that someone had it so bad, that our roach infested, filthy apartment was a step up.  If it weren't for welfare, we would never eat.  Wait, I take that back.  Even WITH welfare, we didn't eat.

I can remember the end of the month rolling around and my Mom saying "just a few more days til check day, we will go to Pathmark and go shopping! I'll make stew!" Check day is what she called it when we would get our welfare allowance.  It was Food Stamps back in the day, not a debit card like they have today.  I had a love/hate relationship with food stamps.  On one hand, it allowed us to buy groceries and fed us.  On the other hand, I was mortified every time I was sent to the store with food stamps.  What if someone saw me? Someone ALWAYS saw me, even if it was just the cashier.  I would get that look.  The sad "poor little girl" look. I hate that look!  That was if we were lucky to ever see a penny of the food stamps to begin with.  Check day would roll around, my Mom would be practically dancing with excitement that morning and send me off to school with promises of fried chicken dinners, or a pot of sauce to come home to.  Almost every time I would instead come home to a quiet, dark house and her bedroom door closed and locked.  I would always rush past my Moms bedroom door, to the kitchen to look for the food and there would be nothing.  My heart  and stomach would drop.  I would go back down the hallway and knock on the door.  First quietly, hoping for her to open it up, greet me with a hug and say "let's go food shopping".  That never happened.  Ever. (ok, maybe twice?)  Every month was the same thing.

<knock knock>
"Mom! I'm home! Are we going to Pathmark?!"
"Hey, sweet girl, I'll be out in a minute! Go get the shopping cart ready"
I would get the cart, which we would walk to the grocery store, fill it up and wheel it back home
<knock knock>
"Got it! Let's go!"
"Ok, sweetie, I'll be out in a minute"

Minutes would turn to hours.  Of all the months and years of this happening, I remember ACTUALLY going shopping maybe twice.  Once with both my parents, at which time they were caught stealing cheap, no frill sneakers, as we shopped.  Security pulling us aside before we were able to leave.  My parents fighting with security, arguing that they paid for them.  Back and forth, while I snuck Tastee Cakes out of the shopping cart.

I realize now that on check day, by the time I would get home from school all of the food stamps were gone.  Traded for drugs.  The door being closed and locked was always the first clue.  Yet, every month I held on to that glimmer of hope.  She was so convincing! She always made me believe that this time would be different.  What else could I do? She believed it herself so whole heartedly, that I had no choice but to believer her as well.  Sure, she had good intentions in the morning, but was always seduced by the temptation of escape.  In the meantime, where did I get to go to escape? A filthy apartment, old toys and an empty kitchen. There came a time that I started rolling my eyes when she would start with all the food we would get when check day come.  Eventually, check day was a delusion that she kept for herself. In her world every month she was going to get clean and do the right thing by her babies.  She believed it, she had every intention of doing it and I believe that.  Sadly, addiction does not work quite so easily.  I can only assume that every month, after making that same choice of her addiction over her kids would only make her need to retreat even stronger.  I cannot imagine the hell she lived with.  The torment her soul felt on a daily basis.

I am so extremely grateful that through it all, my Mom was always able to express her deep love for me.  That never, ever wavered.  Even tho I went through these neglectful situations, I can honestly say that I was lucky.  Lucky to have such a beautiful, sweet soul for a mother.  That love that was instilled in me, is the absolute center of me.  It is what gave me the strength to persevere.


A few pictures of the J train.

Chapter 6

Winters in New York.  Not Fun.  I can remember always wishing my birthday were in the summer, where I could enjoy it.  Every year on my birthday I would be sick to some extent.  I hate winter viciously! Winter made going to school even harder.  I would have to wait for the J train in the cold, then cram into the car with a bunch of other sick high school kids.  Just being around other high school kids in general gave me anxiety.  I was always so awkward and self conscious.  I was sure they were looking at me, judging me.  Honestly, it wasn't a very far fetched thought, there were times I WAS picked on, even as a teenager.  I remember riding the bus down Queens Blvd, going to the mall with my best friend.  We were talking, minding our own business, both of us were quiet and fairly timid.  A group of girls spotted us and started talking loudly about us, making fun of everything they could.  Naturally (for me), I kept quiet and took the abuse. I was also no fool.  These girls would have destroyed me.  Queens/Brooklyn teenage girls were not to be messed with, especially the type that target other girls and start fights.  In fact, they were down right scary! I had been called many names on that short train ride to high school.  Then there was the walk from the train to the school, in masses that were broken up into clicks.  I didn't have a click.  I didn't even have any friends, aside from one, who was in honors and got to school way earlier than me.  I was ALWAYS late. I was always alone.

January 14, 1991.  5 days before my 15th birthday.  I somehow made it to school this day.  I remember having the classroom with  the windows overlooking the cemetery and just losing it. Between the frigid cold air that had beaten me on the way in to school, then the sight of that dreaded hill where my father was buried only a few months earlier.  I had to get out of here.  Somehow.  Some way.  Soon.

This is the only day that I remember a lunch period. Probably because I was usually out the door by then, or absent completely.  But, this day, I remember this day.  It was a separate lunch room from the rest of the school, it was in the basement.  Ya know, being that we were "troubled truants", we had to be hidden away.  I was sitting at a table looking at one of the boys I had a crush on.  My escape from reality.  He must have noticed me looking at him.  He probably noticed it more than once and on many other days.  Teenage girls can be quite obvious about that stuff.  I don't remember him coming over to me, but I am fairly positive that I did not approach him,  The conversation immediately went to the escape plan.  Something along the lines of:
"You wanna skip the next class?" (which meant the rest of the day, really, who comes BACK?)
"Yeah, how do we get out"
"The door by the west side hallway has no guard"
or something like that.  I don't remember the actual conversation, only that he had an escape route, and I needed an escape.

So, here I am, this awkward and timid 14 year old girl, ditching school with my crush.  I was so excited! He was older than me by at least a year and he was so cute.  Not just cute in comparison to the rest of the program, an actual cutie! He looked like a football player.  Broad shoulders, muscles popping underneath his tight knitted sweater.  Blonde hair, light eyes.  I was living in a dream!

We snuck out of school, my crush, his friend and I.  I followed their lead, they seemed to know exactly where they were going.  We head towards the cemetery,  No! Not the cemetery! I wanted an escape, not another reminder!! They say there is a shortcut this way that leads straight to Myrtle Avenue, which is apparently the way we want to go.  I follow along.  I am so happy when we find a hole in a back fence and finally get out of the cemetery and back to civilization.  We start walking down neighborhood streets. Instead of stores, there are houses on all sides, packed like sardines next to each other.  I soon realize we are heading to his house. He lives with his Mom in the upstairs apartment of a two story house.  The boys lead the way and the next thing I know we are out of the cold, sitting on a warm couch watching skateboarding videos.  They both were skaters and to them this was interesting.  Me?  Not so much.  I was just happy not to be at school.  I was more interested in sneaking glances around his apartment.  It was so clean and neat.  It wasn't big at all, but it was so homey.  I do this any time I go to someones house, even still to this day.  It's like I will always be a little girl in awe of how normal people live and all their "nice" things.

I fall asleep on the couch, laying on my crushes lap, while his friend sits on the floor watching TV.  He nudges me and takes my hand.  He leads me down the hall to his bedroom.  It's a small, cluttered room.  His bed is against the wall on the left, long ways, with the headboard touching the far left wall.  One of the things I immediately notice is how he had such clean sheets.  Pure white, clean and comfy looking.  The bed is disheveled from when he woke up for school that morning.  The rest of the room is just kinda messy-stuff thrown around- boy stuff.  It was all so exciting! We sit on his bed and start kissing. I loved kissing.  I was good at it! It was like the ultimate Calgon bubble bath.  I could just forget everything and lose myself in it.  I had a few kiss-mates by this point, but that was as far as I had ever gone.  We are kissing for a while when he starts to get a little more feely and wants to touch me.  I pull back and say no, without actually saying it. Making it clear I just wanted to kiss.  He wasn't having it.

"Come on, you know you want to"

Do I? I don't think so.  I'm not sure.  I don't even know what he thinks I want.

"You're so beautiful. <kiss> Take your pants off"

Umm...WHAT? No.  OMG.  I feel terror.  I am thinking so many things.  I am dirty.  Are my underwear clean? Why do I have to take my pants off? Can't we just kiss?

"Come on, it will be fun.  It's ok. We won't do anything you don't want to"

Oh, ok.  Well, maybe? I am unsure, yet also kind of excited and definitely nervous. I'm shaking.
I let him take my pants off.   I instantly regret it.  I'm cold.  I'm exposed.  I'm petrified. I kiss him for a minute or so more and try to make my move off the bed to get my pants and go back out to the living room. He is not having it.  He holds me down.  I squirm and now my heart is beating out of my chest.  This isn't fun anymore.  I want to go home.  He is holding my arms up over my head, kissing me, but I am no longer kissing back.  Then he has to let go of my hands to take his pants down and my underwear.  He never gets off of me, I am pinned.  I start saying "No. No. No." over and over.  He doesn't hear me.  I try to push him off, but he is gigantic.  He's too strong.  He puts himself inside me and I don't know if I screamed, but I definitely cried. OWWWWWWWCCCCH.  This is when I start punching him as hard as I possibly could.  In his face.  In his arms.  In the chest.  Anywhere I could. It's like I am not even there.  He doesn't even register my blows.  I'm crying, I'm in pain, I'm confused.  What is happening to me??? This hurts SO BAD.  Then, just like that, he stops.

"Quick, get up! My mom is home! Go out my window and hide on the rooftop"

What? I'm shaking.  I'm terrified.  I look down and there is blood everywhere.  All over me.  All over his once clean, white sheets.  I grab my clothes and try to figure out what is going on.  I put on my underwear and they are instantly soaked with blood.  He is trying to push me out the window! No! I can't go outside, I need the bathroom. I need to get cleaned up.

"Get OUT! My mom is home!"

I get my pants on just as I hear the door to his apartment open.  His mother sees his friend in the living room and storms her way into his room.

"What the fuck is going on here?! Get the fuck out of my house! You whore! Get out of my house NOW"

"Can I please use the bathroom first" I am shaking.

"No! you can leave NOW" ( I believe there was a bitch thrown in there too)

Blood is trickling down my legs. I'm frozen. I have no idea what to do, where to go.  How can I leave like this? Where am I? How do I even GET home?  I'm in shock.

His friend must have taken me out of the house because the next thing I can remember his friend is telling me he will help me get home.  He takes me to the bus stop and gets on with me.  I get off at my stop leaving him on the bus.  I don't remember talking with him at all.  I just know that he saved me that day.  I will be grateful to him forever for his gentle caring of me. There was no judgement in his heart or eyes.

What happens after this event is completely unclear to me.  I can only try to put the puzzle pieces together from my sporadic memories.  I don't remember seeing him in school again.  Is that because I avoid school even more now? I honestly cannot remember.  I must have been in actual shock.  I remember needing to talk to somebody about what happened, so I bring it up to my best friend.  Only, I am unable to confront it just yet, and instead of me telling her about the awfulness of what actually happened, I make up a fairy tale instead.  I gush about how I was no longer a virgin.  How I "did it".  I act proud and puff up my chest, when in reality I am hiding in the basement of my heart.  Once I come out with this fictional story, how can I go back? I am now living a lie.  My friend sees him on Jamaica Avenue and thinks it's great, it's exciting, it's fun and I play along. We had a nick name for him, and for the life of me, I cannot remember how it formed, but we called him Turtle.   We see Turtle skating through the neighborhood. We see him skating in the dark, under the train tracks, down cold, snowy, icy Jamaica Avenue and we play hide and seek with him in the local Five and Dime, all to go along with this lie I created.  I block it out.  I let it go.

Eventually, finally, winter ends.  No longer am I noticing him around as much.  It isn't until almost a decade later that I see him again. Or maybe I do and just erase it from my memory to spare myself the pain.

It is now 2000 or 2001, I can't remember.  It's winter again.  I had moved away from Woodhaven and gotten my own apartment, but have recently moved back to my old neighborhood.  I am walking my dog on a chilly winter night.  My dog, Reggie, would attract everyone,  He was the friendliest, most loving dog ever.  He catches the eye of a young man about my age, he stops to pet him.  I have my head mostly down due to the chill.  I pick it up and make eye contact with the man petting and loving on my dog.  It's Turtle. My heart stops in  my chest.  He smiles at me, tells me how cute my dog is, gives him one last pet and goes on his way.  Instantly, I am 14 again.  I am frozen.  I watch him walk away in shock then scramble for my cell phone.  But, who do I call? What do I say? Should I call 911 and have him arrested?? That's what I want to do. But, of course, I don't. By this time I've shared it with a select few people, my boyfriend at the time was one of them.  I call him.  When he answers, I don't even know what to say or how to say it.  So I just do.  I am now leaning on the nearest car, cell phone in hand, jaw still dropped.  I tell my boyfriend I just saw the boy who raped me.  I think I expected some kind of knight in shining armor response.  I don't get it.  I get barely a reaction at all.  Leaving me alone to deal with these confusing feelings, again.

In the months after running into him it's all brought back to me.  What I start to think about most is how I reacted after the incident.  How I created this fantasy tale of a perfect "First Time".  This tale I created troubled me just as much as the act itself.  I needed to figure out why I did that. I had been walking around with this lie for too long, I needed to process.  I talked it through with my Aunt and she made me realize that it was a defense mechanism.  I was just unable to emotionally deal with the reality of the situation. This is when I start the true healing and forgiveness process.  I begin to accept my reaction and understand that I did the only thing I knew how to do,  I needed to process this and let it go.  When I was done with that, I moved on to him.  I spent a decade making excuses in my head for him.

"I didn't make myself clear enough"
"I should never have gone to his house."
"I shouldn't have gone in his room."
"I should have hit him harder"
"I should have screamed louder"
"He's just a guy".
"I led him on."

Enough is enough.  I did not ask for this.  I begged him to stop.  I punched and hit him.  These were clear signs that I did NOT want it.  But, what now? It's ten years later - - what now? Now, I move on. It's almost like running into him forced me to face this, to release it and find my peace.

Now that I am a grown woman, a wife, and most importantly, a Mother, my perspective shifts.  I think about my son.  I need to teach him to NEVER ever ...I can't even allow myself to think it.   I will teach him respect.  I will teach him love.  As a Mother, I can't help but think of how Turtle's Mother reacted to this scenario.  I cannot imagine speaking such words to a young girl.  This is when I realize that my son could never be like him.  He has me.