The First Puzzle Piece

Being raised in church was the best life lesson my mother could’ve given me. I learned the fruits of the spirit, the Ten Commandments, how beautiful being kind to others felt, how fulfilling human service is, how powerful the Word is, and the real and TRUE greatness of having Faith. I also learned that hypocrisy was real, wolves roamed in sheep’s clothing, man was flawed, trust in anyone other than Yahweh would lead to inevitable heartbreak and that religion was ungodly. At times it was awakening, many times it was disarming, most times I woke up and was amazed that I was chosen, wondering if I had purpose- I don’t know, maybe this is it. This may be the way to my Victory, this blog may be the way to my healing and the healing of my family. However there were, and still are, so many questions about where I came from and this is the hour of the unmasking.

See my mother was also my father’s mother. Although she made it clear that I was her daughter, legally adopted and in her heart, I also knew there were secrets being kept that made my life a living puzzle. This blog is an attempt to put those puzzle pieces together. Some of my writing will come with disclaimers because, you will learn, as I have, my life and my family are full of secrets that are so obscene it will not be suitable for all readers. It may be a trigger for those with issues of addiction, rape/molestation, domestic violence and more. Please be careful as you read. If you are a person that needs help with any of these issues please stop here and reach out to someone that can help.

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As an “only child”, being raised by my paternal grandmother I was very sheltered. I wasn’t allowed at sleep overs, to be on my own anywhere or with anyone, but I also wasn’t allowed to know anything about my past, much less question where my parents were. As far as I knew, by the time I was 10, my biological mother died in a car accident when I was born. I don’t think anyone told me that story, I think I just made that story up so that I would have an answer for the kids that asked why my mom was so much older than theirs and I was forced to tell them she was actually my grandmother. I eventually got tired of trying to explain why I was adopted, because honestly, at the time, I had no idea myself, so I came up with the story. It went something like: “My mom died in an accident and my grandma adopted me and now she’s my mom so shut up.” I got in trouble in second grade for telling a boy to shut up so I had to modify the story, then I just started telling kids to mind their own business, until finally they just stopped asking. No one ever questioned where my father was, it was rare to find a friend with a father in their life anyway. I never thought to ask my mother, somehow I knew it wasn’t a subject she was ready to speak about. I just knew she loved me and I loved her. At the moment- that was all that mattered.

in middle school, somewhere in Hialeah, in 8th grade, during a school day I had asked to use the restroom. There was this boy named George in my class, with big ears- too tall to be in 8th grade I remember thinking. He decided it would be a good idea to ask to go to the office and follow me to the bathroom. The way our middle school was set up, we had the girls bathroom right next to the hallway- then a smaller pathway to get to the bathroom door, where if positioned correctly, no one could see you from the actual hallway. George caught up to me right as I got to the girls bathroom door. He grabbed my arms and pushed me up against the wall so that no one would see him pressing up against me, and before I could yell he pressed his mouth on mine and dug his tongue down my throat. I could barely breathe; I don’t think I did breath. I didn’t know what to do he was so much bigger than I was, he towered me, as I squirmed trying to loosen the grip from around my shoulders. When I remembered I had legs, I tried to knee him but he positioned his legs between mine. He then pressed my face against the wall covering my mouth with his big ass hands, and the other grabbed at one of my thighs moving towards my crotch or his pants, I couldn’t tell. I could feel his hot breathe in my ear, my tears steaming down my cheeks as I stared at the light coming through the gap of the bathroom door, trying to register what the hell was happening, why anyone wasn’t coming out of the bathroom. Surely someone had to have heard my whimpers, surely someone had to use the bathroom. It seemed like time had stopped, as I stared at the door hinges, I pictured my bedroom, my bed, my Garfield plush that I slept with, and prayed that I could just be there at that moment. I finally found my teeth, and bit down, HARD, kneed him in the groin, HARD, and ran to the nearest classroom.

I told the teacher that I felt sick and couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Being so disheveled, she quickly had another student escort me to the office. I couldn’t speak what had just happened because I had no idea how to articulate what had just happened. I called my mom and she came and picked me up. Funny thing about that woman, my mom, she knows me. She knows my ups and downs. I would like to think that I can hide shit from her but the truth of the matter is, she knows every single thing, always.

I told my mom I didn’t feel well. She brought me home and made me tea, soup and let me lay on her lap. As I laid there, my tears welled up and fell, for hours, as I watched whatever she was watching- but really staring off beyond the television, replaying everything that had happened earlier, over and over again in my head. I fell asleep for a while, then jumped out of my sleep like a true trauma patient, at which point my mother decided it was time to confront me.

“What really happened?” She said.

“What do you mean?” I muttered, I knew she knew that I was holding back. She knew everything. I could hide nothing from this woman.

“Something is wrong and I need to know what happened. NOW” She wasn’t forceful, just firm, with a touch of compassion which is amazing to me because I have never met anyone like this woman in my life. After about 20 minutes of denial I broke down and told her what happened. Even then I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the extent of the situation, I gave her the PG version if there is such a thing. I told her about him forcing his tongue in my mouth and pressing me up against the wall but I didn’t give her anymore details. I told her I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t face him, I was terrified.

She let me take the week off. We spent that week doing fun stuff, like shopping and going to church. She let me spend the night at my friend’s house from church and I was able to be a kid with other kids. Then Monday came and that terror returned. My mother took me by the hand and walked with me across the street to school that day, she met with a police officer and the Principal at the entrance of the school. I was told to sit in the Principal’s office by the conference room. I was secluded but I still had a view of my mom if I sat next to a big window where I could see the grownups talking.

I saw George there with his head down, my mom looked at him furious. I somehow felt bad for him, I think it was his mom there yelling at him. The Principal stood at one end of the conference room by mom and the police officer stood between George and who I think was his mom. The yelling continued for what felt like forever. My mom did something so brave but so confusing, she walked over to the yelling mom and put her gentle hands on her shoulders. The woman collapsed into my mom’s arms and cried. My mom comforted her, they hugged for a while. Then just when I thought it was over, I saw my mom walk over to George and lift his bowed head with one finger under his chin, I don’t know what she said to him, but I know he instantly started crying. Before I was able to leave the office, the police escorted George and his mother out of the school and the Principal told me that I would never have to worry about having to have another class with him. She asked if I wanted to go home with my mom or if I was ready to go to class. I just wanted it to be over so I trotted to class and quickly found out that those hallways would never let it be over. The next few weeks would be even more trying.

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Kids are resilient, they have a way of bouncing back and relentlessly pushing forward in an attempt at living. I was doing just that. I thought I had a good grasp at it. I had successfully forgotten what happened; well successfully compartmentalized what happened, and continued with my studies. But coming home every day, something had changed. My mother wasn’t the same. She was in bed every day. I caught her crying in the mornings before I went to school, her face wet when I would go to say goodbye. She wouldn’t get out of bed like she used to, she wouldn’t come outside with me to watch me cross the street like she used to. She had the neighbor watch me to make sure I was safe. And when I would come home she would have food ready for me, but she would be nowhere. Weeks passed and she became a shell of a person. Months passed and summer came, now I was home all day. I watched her sleep all day, I watched her force herself get up just to make sure I ate and bathed then slump back to bed. She would force herself to grab a mop bucket after I swept to make sure the house was clean, then go back to the slumber she was fighting with. Until one day I couldn’t handle it anymore. I was confused. Did she understand what I had gone through? What was happening? How could I cope with my trauma when I had no idea what that trauma was? And no one to tell me what to do?

I let it build up so much inside that one day, as she stood with the mop in hand, I asked her for the last time “What is wrong with you?”

“You want to know what’s wrong with me? You want to know?” she yelled, shaking and kicking the bucket of water towards me. I stepped back hoping I didn’t saying anything wrong. I’ve heard my mother scream before but this scream was something unnatural. It came from the pits of her stomach. She slumped on the sofa and looked at me holding onto the mop between her legs as if it were her support. And through her tears she told me the first secret that would change my view of my family forever and would start my journey on this search of puzzle pieces.

Before me, my mother had raised six children, my father being the youngest boy of the six. My mother was one of five girls, and only one other of her sisters had six children like her. My mother tried her best to do everything for her children, even when she wasn’t given the best. Somehow, throughout all the debilitation, she was able to make it out of an abusive relationship with all six children. Albeit with emotional trauma, nonetheless they all made it out. Yet somehow, someway- her sister’s husband, the sister with the six children of her own, set his eyes on my mother’s oldest daughter. I wasn’t given all the details, nor did I ask, but I do know that that filthy man raped my aunt. EVERYONE KNEW ABOUT IT AND NOTHING HAPPENED. No jail time, no prosecution, no accountability, nothing whatsoever.

I sat there and listened to my mother vomit this pain coming from her box of secrets. She went on to tell me that her sister, my aunt, was beaten by this man who I called uncle. She wanted to hold him accountable but felt that it would only make things worse for her sister and her sister’s children, children she helped raised, children she loved. Then he got so sick and was going to die, so my mom walked into his hospital room one night and forgave him on what she thought was his deathbed- he didn’t die then…. He’s dead now. I sat there and thought of all the holidays we spent together, laughing and enjoying each other's company, at my aunt’s house, with the rapist there. How many other times had he done what he did to her or to other women?

Now I understood. Now I got the fact that my experience would dredge up these memories for her and cause her to relive the pain and anguish she felt when she learned her daughter was raped by this man in our family. That day we sat there and cried together while she, once again, became my strength, and I became hers.

I was 14 at the time I learned this, I am 38 now, and I have never met a woman so strong and so brave as my mother. There are things that she has gone through no mother should have to endure, from fatal encounters to losing 3 children and everything you can imagine in between- I will write about all that I know. She is 87 now and is leaving me, slowly. I talk to her and painfully understand my time with her is limited. My mother was, is, the driving force behind my rescue and my survival, she didn’t always make the right choices but she did the best with what she had, and I’d say she did pretty damn good.