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.