Sunday, October 14, 2012



I remember the trailer that we lived in; my brother, mother, father and me. It was a single wide deal behind my grandmother's house. We had puppies and dogs and cats which ran round our trailer and played. One thing that sticks in my mind is walking from my grandmother's house back to the trailer with a plate of green sweet peas. As a very young girl, I loved sweet peas. I remember that mother was hanging out sheets on the clothes line as I walked back to the trailer to eat. Our trailer was very old and falling apart. I cannot even remember my room. So, at some point we got rid of the trailer and moved into the house with my grandmother; and there I was raised.

My cousin George always came to my grandmother's house to play with my brother Allen and to eat whatever my grandmother cooked. At first he only smiled at me and tickled me every once in a while. It didn't take him long to start picking me up and carrying me around like a toy. I just remember somewhere along the way, when I was just about 4 or 5 years old, he took a special liking to me. He was thin, tall and wore coke bottle thick glasses. He dipped skoal and had short black hair. I don't think I could ever forget what he looks like.

After my father built his store we would play there. Me, my brother and George would eat bologna sandwiches from the big stick of bologna that my father had to make sandwiches for the customers. We would play hide and seek and go outside to play war. One day George took me in the bathroom and locked us in. He said he wanted to show me something. He unzipped his pants and showed his penis to me for the first time. I was horrified and started to scream. It looked like a big worm to me so I ran out of the bathroom. I will never forget the look of confusion on my brother's face when he seen me running from the bathroom screaming. I do not know what he said to George or did to him but I ran outside and up to my grandmother's house. It was a while before he actually did anything to me with his giant worm. Unfortunately, he did.

Most might think that there is nothing wrong with what he did seeing that we all played together, but it was. You see, he was mentally handicapped but he was around 18 years old and I was only 4 or 5. He was almost an adult.

My father and mother both worked factory jobs during the day and my grandmother took care of me. She saw nothing wrong with George visiting every day and playing with me in my room. Every day he touched me and tried to penetrate me. Sometimes he would succeed. He would never say a word. He would just sit beside me as I played with my dolls and slowly move his hand toward me. He would touch my dress, or my pants then he would move toward my private area. I scoot closer to him and let him touch me. One day he bent close to my ear and whispered ot me. "Do not tell anybody or I will hurt you." I believed him too.

Sunday, October 7, 2012


Sometime in the late seventies
I remember my sister's visits. The days she would come and go, bringing her baby daughter with her. My little neice was not so much smaller than I was at the time. Babies held no real fascination for me either. I just vaguely remember my sister and her child Paulina. OH, I grew to love Paulina much later but then I didn't really know love. My sister was still so young and full of life. Her black hair fell far down her back in bone straight strands. I loved to watch it sway when she walked. She always kept it in ponytails and I imaged swinging from its shiney brilliance. MOm's hair was similar to my sister's strands. I would look down at my wavy red hair and frown. I would wonder why I was caught between my mother and father; a mixture of colors and textures. I didn't know, at the time, that my sister had a different father.

My father was good friends with a man named O.V. and they loved to go fishing together. I have fond memories of laughter and fish frys and of being doted upon by O.V.'s wife. They were an African American couple and it matters not to me but apparently, it did to everyone else in the small town of Ashland Ms. I asked my father why they never stayed the night with us when sometimes it was so late when they left. I will never forget his words in his reply. "They can't stay, blacks don't sleep over with whites."

My aunt spoiled me when she got the chance. When I was very small she lived in Nashville Tn. She would bring soveniers and toys when she came to visit. I remember one time I hid in her car when she was leaving. She got to the edge of town and realized that I was in the back set. She called my mom and, when verifying that it was alright, took me to Nashvill with her for a couple weeks. There, she spoiled me even more. I learned that she worked for the telephone company, AT&T. I met her friends that worked with her and her neighbor. I remember two names even now as an adult. I remember Dot and Ms. Armstrong. I would hold my arm up and make a muscle when my aunt said her name. Then I would giggle.

I loved to go to my aunts house. No one touched me there.

But life was not all light and all smiles. NO, even then when life was at its purest, life was not all it seemed to be.

 I was young and fresh and almost untainted. It was a canvas of flowers; pink ones. They were soft and they billowed in the breeze. I ran through this feild of flowers in my little dress with the bells sewn in the hem. My little patent leather shoes would carry me far far from home into the beautiful natural heaven of flowers and birds and frogs...and things like that. I little white ruffled socks would make me even prettier as would the bows in my long auburn hair. My black eyes would twinkle with soft innocent wonder.
Something spilled upon the canvas, dark ink. It spreads quietly and furiously dragging through the swaying grasses eating the flowers whole in its disease. It crept and pulled the light into its gaping maw of darkness. It devoured the beautiful innocence. But it is being that which eats in rage or starving hunger but something much much worse than that. It is slow death not even born yet. It is clowing sweet nectar not yet soured and rotten. It touched the hem of my dress and I gasped. And it started.
I started to like what was happening to me. I thought it was okay. I thought it felt good and that someone really special loved me. I took the hand and guided it to where it was supposed to be. I helped him to taint me. I became friends with death at an early age. Much too early to really comprehend what it meant for me.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012


I do not remember exactly in which the events of my early life took place. I can guess somewhat by the nightmares, how things happened to me.

I do, in fact, know that he started touching me when I was around 4 years old. The memory from 4 is scattered and fragmented but it retains significant events that the adult can remember.
The physical feelings that arose within me was not that of a normal child of my age. I felt physical pleasure and arousal at an early age of 4 years old.

The first event that can be remembered was the time that George spent the night with me and my brother Allen. It seemed innocent enough. I do not recall my brother sleeping with us and the foot of my parent's bed but I remembered George smiling and how I begged mom and dad to let us sleep in the floor. I remember lying there next to him but do not remember him touching me at that time, not yet.

One night while everyone was asleep, I used a pair of children's scissors to arouse myself. I noticed how it felt like electricity was passing throught the metal scissors and onto my flesh. I was so very young to feel this sensation. I remember that it felt curiously irritating and good at the same time.
Not long after this incident, George started to touch me. I think he was between the age of 16 and 18 years old.

A brief desription of myself as a child.

I was a cute child, maybe even beautiful. At birth, my hair had been coal black and my eyes almost the same depth. I was pale because of frequent sicknesses. As I grew older my hair lightened into a light auburn hue. My hair grew long and wavy down my back. I had a very cute smile which seemed to light up my face. At times in photographs though, it was obvious that some dark thing was already taking residence.

The store

My dad owned a store that he built from the ground up. I used to love to play around the store build things in the dirt. I remember building frog holes and little dirt houses. I even loved to make mud pies and harden them in the opening in the Coke machines. I played with bugs and spiders and ate many unedible things growing around the store building. I loved to be around my father and he doted on me. I remember his pleasantness at an early age.

There are so many things about the store that I remember. Especially how the customers rarely paid him. My father was always so good to others, sometimes better to them than his family. I know it is mean to say this but it is true. He often let them pay by way of credit and has credit booklets to keep up with it. But, most of the time, they never paid him. We lived on a hill surrounded by cousins and aunts and such and they didn't think that relatives should pay for anything from another relative. I think they just signed the credit booklet to humor my dad.

I remember that me, Allen and George used to play inside the store. You see, George and Allen were friends and I don't think my brother knew that George touched me.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012


I recall my daddy holding me in his arms. I remember seeing the store building and how it was built up from the red clay dirt. And I remember how proud my father was at what he had built. With very little help, he built the whole building and I knew he had lots of pride invested in his creation.

I remember finding a butterfly that had a broken wing but it was still alive. I carried it with me in my hand as I walked down the hill to where my father was preparing the cylinder blocks for the store. He was laying the foundation. I remember walking around the area looking at everything and my father watched me making sure that I did not get hurt. I felt bad for the wounded butterfly so I placed it inside a hole in one of the cylinder blocks. I thought it would be safe here and it would heal itself. I went and played elsewhere and forgot about the butterfly.

I remember some time later, I noticed that my father had completed the floor of the building. I remembered that the butterfly was in the cylinder block and I immediately panicked. I ran to daddy and told him about the butterfly and said that we had to go and get it out of the block. It was too late, the floor had been built over the butterfly and surely it would die. I cried for the butterfly.

I remember eating dandelions by the back porch steps while momma washed dishes. I remembered that they did not taste very good.

I vaguely remember all the dirt that I played in when they reconstucted the road in front of the house.
I remember kindergarten and how a lunchlady actually told me that apple juice was urine and I got sick and went to the bathroom.

I remember pictures of purple dinasaurs, maps and tunnels underneath the trailer that was used for the headstart building.

I remember one time I had a doctor's appointment and afterwards, my daddy took me to the store and bought me a tea set. It was complete with tea pot, saucers, cups and eating utencils. Then he took me to headstart and told me to be good at school and that I could get my tea set when I got home. That was a happy time in my life.

I remember having a swing set

I remember my cousins Karen, Sharon and Frieda playing with me when I was very very young. They were nice then....well except for the time that Freida thought it would be funny to break the leg off my barbie just to watch me cry. That was mean.

Why is early life  made up of so many fragments? It seems to be as if something was broken that we desperately try to put back together with so many missing parts. The above scenaries are parts that I have trouble filling in the gaps with and they fall as they have fallen in my memory...broken and unbalanced, even sometimes placed out of order in the time machine of my mind.