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Started Off Wrong

I can not say that my story starts any differently from others born to teenage parents. I can not say that I had a beginning so terrible that the events to follow were expected from me, due to my upbringing. In fact, quite the contrary.

My mother was 17, and my father was 16 when I was born. My father, a gorgeous young man. To say he was a “bad boy” would definitely be an understatement. Raised by a demonically cruel father and a mother who could not be defined as anything under angelic, my fathers confusion in life began at his birth.

My mother, a beautiful and popular young woman, highly inaccessible, though locally prominent, my mother was the exact opposite. Raised by a strong, assertive, conquering mother, and a sweet, kind, attentive father, whose notability at the time was far reaching. The difference in household was one of outstanding range.

My parents, entirely ill equipped to be parents, tried their best at marriage and the creation of a familial unit. Unfortunately, the drugs that my father intended to sell, he began to use. This led to heavy violence and turmoil aimed toward my mother, though most assuredly, extensively detrimental to my progression and development in life.

My mother’s parents and her best friend, my Godmother, were an undeniable cause of the almost detrimental base of my life being bearable. Through their intense and adamant insistence on interfering with the abuse and neglect I received, I was removed from the center of the battle more often than not.

My parents' destined separation came from the birth of my younger brother. My mother was diagnosed with preeclampsia in her fourth month, which caused her to be admitted to the hospital in an emergency from the fluid building in her body. My grandparents and I were at the hospital with her. Learning of her condition and what the options for treatment were. My father walks in at the moment the doctor is relaying that my mother would need a blood transfusion to save her and POSSIBLY my brother's life. My grandmother, who was a Jehovah witness, is informing the doctor that we do not accept blood transfusions. My father, completely inebriated, but still slightly mindful of whom he was challenging, rudely interjects, from a safe distance from my grandmother, and informs the doctor that she is his wife. Therefore, the decision or interest of my grandmother was of no concern to him. He informed the doctor he is to do “whatever he has to do to save his son”.

With that, my mother was given the blood of a 65 year old man suffering with severe high blood pressure, which would cause her the need of a kidney in her later age, and saved.

He is Born

My brother was born and rushed to a children's hospital where she would reside until Christmas day. September 26, 1985. My brother was 2 llbs 2 oz and the sweetest little thing I had ever seen. At 5, I vowed he would not experience the cruelty of my father. Where I was normally silent about the ever exciting events at my house with my parents, I was given a black and white composition book, 3 fat pencils and taught to write in calligraphy.

This was the escape which helped me deal with the happenings of life at such a young age. Though I was under the impression that my grandmother really didn't read my “journal”, I only released the thoughts, emotions, and incidents that I was told to keep private, there. I did not mention every fight or argument. I did not mention the words that I heard spewed at my mother or the names that I was called by my father. I never cried to my family about the utter and undeniable abuse and dysfunction that I experienced at home to my family. I wrote about it. I processed it. I utilized the information, love, care, and subsequent TRAINING that I received from my grandmother and god mother, who were no strangers to abuse themselves, and lived in the protection of my mother.

Now, I have another person to protect. He is so small and tiny. I was there from conception and I know the battle that he endured just trying to survive. I changed his teeny diapers and held him through the incubator gloves. I was the one who picked out the cabbage patch doll diapers, because they didn't make preemie then. I made it a point that he would not feel the effects of prior to his arrival.

Until one day. My father, his sister, brother and best friend were all in the living room smoking, what I now know, as crack. I was in my room watching He-Man and She-Ra getting all the power of Greyskull I could stand. My door was open, and I happened to glance into the living room. My attention was captured by noticing my father inhale and blow the smoke into the face of my brother who was sitting in his car seat. I then watched my aunt do the same thing, then my uncles.

I did NOT keep that information to myself. I could take it, I knew at 5 that my mother was choosing to take it. But, to blow smoke into the face of a child that almost did not make it to this world? That was an absolute NO! I called my grandmother expeditiously and informed her of what atrocity was taking place. And she absolutely did not waste any time getting there. She arrived about the same time that my mother arrived from work. Joyce was nothing to be played with, then or ever. So her arrival, nor statement made thereafter, was questioned or contested.

Peace TF Out

My grandmother told my mother my brother and I were going with her. She was welcomed to remove herself from hell, but there was no stopping her from removing us. My mother didn't think too long or hard before packing and retreating with us. She left my father and we restarted our life.

From then on there was some tragic instance or another. My fathers abuse or neglect ended, especially now that he finally had a son. The attacks were cold, calculated, menacing and tormentive. And the Prince George's COunty police officers that were constantly called to my grandparents' quiet suburban home informed us every time that there was absolutely nothing that they could do. We moved to Houston and Dallas. Relentless is an understatement. I endured this infraction of a failure regularly until he moved to South Carolina with his mother. There was some peace from 8 years old until 12.

This is where the largest adaptation to change became required. I had lived in a home with my mother, grandmother, grandfather and brother since the day my grandmother interfered, when I was 5 years old. My mother dated, a few were supposedly serious, but, we never had a cohabitating, step parent situation. A situation which I was not only ill prepared for, also unfamiliar and unexpected. My mother met my stepfather and we were quickly swept an hour away, down to Virginia. A part of Virginia that was not fully integrated, was in the beginning stages of revitalization. We were moved from the inner city to the country in the blink of an eye. I was not aware of the disasters that were to come, but I was happy that my mother was finally being loved and getting to experience that family life. Although it was to my detriment and expense.

Virginia is for Lovers

Within 3 years of moving to VIrginia, my mother and my relationship was completely tattered. We were no longer close or sisterly or even cordial. She had me arrested several times by now for running away to my grandparents, home, her parents house. I stopped running there and began to run elsewhere. Through my rebellion of, what I felt, was complete discardment, I began to delve deeper into the life that I had always been on the sidelines of.

I knew of drugs and drug dealers.I knew of cops and robbers. I knew that there was another side of life. I also knew that the chances of being involved in the thick of things was a choice. I had prominent family members whom I never knew, but always knew, if that makes sense. I was not in a position prior to this where I needed to fend for myself. I did not have to worry about electricity or food or eviction. I was raised well, educated, fashionable, and cared for. I was not in the business of acting out of necessity. I understood the horrors and triumphs from both sides. Which means, at 12, I also knew the consequences and what is required. None of which was I any need for.

Unitil 12. I had to find many ways to make sure that I maintained a certain way of life. Because I was a “runaway” or not, I wasn't sleeping under any bridges and I damn sure wasn't attracted to the drug scene. The music of my generation, whether good or bad, was that of a hustler. The music and entertainment of any generation is the stage that forms that generation.

My music was Big, Pac, Outkast, Black Moon, Tribe Called Quest, Lil Kim, Foxy Brown, EVe, DMX. There was a certain monster that was created during that time. The undeniable position of loyalty, honor, and respect was the catalyst for the movement of that time. And I was all in it. WIth the heavy in loyalty, because to me, my mother traded me for a “family”. A family we already had and I was in admiration of.

Summertime High

During one of my escapes from bondage, Summer 1996, I was in a relationship with a man that I was living with. I was 16 years old, he was 24 and I LIED and told him that I was 18. Since my circle was about that age at the time, and the freedom of roam that I encompassed, why would he believe any different? I lived with him for 3 months. Completely emerged in his life. Gaining a relationship with his mother, helping him take care of his 2 boys, who were 1 and 2 at the time. I called myself cooking, I cleaned, I settled into the position that I thought I wanted.

Within those 3 months, I caught and addressed a few discrepancies. This particular night, I was contacted by a female who knew of me, had seen me with him, and just thought that she should let me know that he just left her and what underwear he had on, for proof. I thanked her with the promise of later abuse, grabbed the metal baseball bat, and sat in the dark in the living room until he arrived. This particular evening, I was going off and not taking it anymore. I sat in the dark thinking about all that I had been through to that point. I did not deserve to endure more.Especially from a man.

As he entered the apartment, I hit him in the knee with the bat at the same time I was asking him of his whereabouts. His tall 6’4 frame was flailing around the living room in the dark falling over furniture trying to get away from me. A thought that I had planned for and maneuvered in the dark living room as if I created it myself, keeping him stuck in the corner behind the door and one of the couches. When I finally paused for him to drop his pants, and I confirmed the information I was given, I continued to wail on his ass some more with the bat. Maintaining focus on the legs and feet he used to walk about in the other woman's home.

I, of course, accepted all his apologies and excuses and stayed. For 3 more days. In conversation with my then best friends, N & A, I was hit with the thought of disease. Considering my mother was a private OBGYN nurse, I knew all too well about the possibilities of disease and infection. The major killer during that time was AIDS. I have never believed the “Magic is cured” announcement, mainly because I wasn't always convinced he truly had it. But that is another story.

I was immediately mortified and made an appointment and went to the Women’s clinic to be tested for infections. I knew the type of person he was with me, why would I believe he was any different with anyone else. One Friday morning, he was supposed to be at work, and I went to the doctor. I wanted to make sure I was clean or GET clean IMMEDIATELY if I was not. I did not think for a second I would get a dose of baby with my chlamydia. Who knew?

I Want My Mommy

I went to N & A’s house and paced the floor as I decided what I needed to do. I had already made my decision at the clinic that I was not going to have an abortion. I made the mistake of not protecting myself, and I did not see my pregnancy as a mistake. I genuinely immediately saw it as my purpose. I knew that I was carrying someone special. Besides, I wanted my baby girl, which I knew from the moment I was informed that I was pregnant.

I went home later that evening and HE was not there. Since this was pre-cell phone abundance, I was compelled to make my round of calls to the places he would most likely, and had better, have been.

I reached him and he was elated. In the same sentence that he announced his excitement, he informed me that he would see me in the morning because he and the boys were going to the beach. Well. I was absolutely enraged, I called my mother, informed of the addition to the family. She immediately offered for me to return home. I obliged with a ferocity. I was scared. I was not saying or showing it. But, I was terrified. I needed and wanted nothing more than to get home to my mom’s arms. I needed that. I needed my mother more than anything.

So I went to her. I thought that the reception was open, loving, welcoming and warm. And it was. For one day. I made it clear that this was my child and that I was going to do all that I needed to not only provide for her, but also to progress myself as an individual. I returned to school, contacted my mentor at the time, and began to rebuild my life. I was put out of the high school simply because I was pregnant, and my mother decided to threaten me with sending me to a Nuns home for pregnant and parenting mothers. I was mortified. I returned home because I thought she really wanted me home. I returned because she asked me to and I thought that, finally, she was going to be the mother that I needed.

To no avail.

Here Goes The Bullshit

When they put me out of school, she told me that I needed to figure it out because she “aint taking care of no babies' ', and I quickly reminded her that not only did I not ask her to, I did not intend or even think of it. I wasn't the happiest with the parenting I received so why would I want to put my child, the child I CHOOSE to have, the child that I was almost forced to abort- to the mother that I knew, and was refusing, counseling and pursuing the betterment of herself.

I was adamant and determined. I enrolled myself in an alternative school where I could take parenting classes and development classes to be a good mom. I enrolled in a school that arranged for transportation to pick me up and take me home, with the option of being able to bring my baby to school with me whenever wanted or needed.

I got a job at McDonalds, but quickly decided the KMart cashier was better for me. I always made advancements, whether job, career, position in life. I always was determined to not become the “piece of shit-Shitmere” that he used to call me when I was little. The way that he would berate me for the fact that I was smart and more knowledgeable than he could control. I fought him and for my mother, the youngest I remember is 2. I took beatings and beratings but I was not a victim.

I did not come over too well with adults that saw me as a manipulatable and mutable child. That training I can thank Joyce for. I was never conformed to accepting the unacceptable.SO I did not.

I got myself a better job at a sneaker store in a big mall, selling a few pairs a week out the back to substantiate the small income. I got myself healthcare, at my mothers instruction, until I was given an unnecessary exam from a state doctor. My mother did interject then and I was taken to one of the top black OBGYN’s in NoVA. I gained daycare coverage for my baby, placing her in a major daycare company, whose director at the time was my stepdad’s (dad her out) parents friend from church. I also made sure that I obtained any financial or subsidiary offer that I qualified for, which would remove any and all responsibility from the hands of my mother.

That ain't no Dingo after my Baby

I noticed the advanced attention from dad’s mother. An attention that she tends to give to young mothers with young, beautiful female children. There were many, including the effort with me, prior to my pregnancy. I just was not able to see the plot so early on. I accepted the help, “love”, and assistance that was offered, under the presumption of genuinity. This was not the case.

Upon the arrival of my daughter, which my mother went to work during my labor and dad and N helped me deliver, I noticed the shift. The thought that my child would be the family offering I immediately shut down. All of the angst and anguish that I suffered through my pregnancy, with no real support from my mother or anyone else in the home, I was not about to allow my baby to be taken from me at their will.

I was frustrated to the point of no return when dad bought mom a brand new truck, and she gave her Oldsmobile to the church, under the impression that she was doing so much better than I was. Not knowing that she was known for sucking dick in the cars in the mall garages. Regardless of who she was and what my mother knew, the act alone was the recurring slap in the face, physical and euphemistically, that I received from her at every effort or extension of my hand.

Now you see

A few weeks later my cousin came to visit from Jersey. We were very close growing up and this was his first time seeing my daughter. We are only 2 years apart, so he was my closest confidant, beside my best bestie, that I told any and everything. I was removed from all the friends that I had grown up with, in my mothers effort to change the previous narrative to fit her immediate need. I was more or less alone, definitely with people that I knew I could not trust.

During the first week of his visit, he was becoming more and more aware of the environment I was immersed in, but was not inclined to ever defend or speak up about the things he witnessed and endured himself. It was all jokes to everyone, mainly because I rose to the occasion, every time. So, to everyone outside looking in, I'm not accepting punishment and rebelling and making it hard for my mother. A bunch of blah blah bullshit, that was later confirmed to her through therapy in her 40s.

I made the decision to take my daughter to see her father. I knew that my mother tried to have her father prosecuted prior to her birth, which I negated by adamantly and unequivocally letting it be known that not only did I lie to him about my age, but I also stayed with him for 3 months with no issue or missing persons filing from my family, as well as pointing out that my mother did not file those charges until she was upset with the items that he delivered for the baby upon first meeting them.

What I did not know is that my parents were told that, because I am taking responsibility and refusing to incriminate him, they would not be able to prosecute him unless we were in contact again. Humph. Now how much sense does that make? So, I requested the assistance of an ex-boyfriend who had become an ally due to the things he had witnessed, and asked that he take my baby and myself to see her father. He obliged. my closest NJ cousin came along. My baby was 6 weeks old. That was the only time that she has been in his physical presence, not solely his own fault.

Upon arriving home that evening, against the begs and pleading to stay with her father, I returned home as if a regular evening had just commenced. Only to be met by rage, anger, humiliation, abuse, threats of homelessness and jailed. I was met with yelling and hollering of how I could dare take her to see her father. ANd reminded that she would handle the situation.

I was only saved that evening because my closest NJ cousin was there. I promised not to see or talk to him ever again. If she would just please allow me to stay.

After torturing me for a few hours, until early into the morning, as I am locked in the bathroom holding, rocking, and crying with my baby in my arms, she obliged. And I was determined to obtain a good grasp on my life and reclaim control of it.

What you gonna do Fat Rodney?

First thing was my independence. I genuinely thought that my mother would have given me her old car, especially considering my circumstances. I was excelling at school, making the best grades I had ever made in high school, outside of the semesters I stayed with my father in 10th grade, I was maintaining my job, gaining access to opportunities because of my actions and works within the school and my community there. I was a good mother, seeking and requiring little to no help from anyone. I didn't want any help. I didn't want to go out without my daughter. When my mother could not control that, she decided to give me a curfew, locking me out the first night I was late with my daughter. This didn't bother me either. The one good thing about the move to the small town, was that I was too big for it. Everybody knew me, my mother, our infractions and my endurances because of it. I was always protected, Thank Jehovah, and always cared for. So, that night, I just went back to where I was and me and my baby slept comfortably and well.

Nothing was going to make me become the person they were trying to make me out to be.

So, when I got an offer that week to take a trip to Jamaica for $1000 all expenses paid, for 3 days. At the end of the trip, upon my return, I have to bring back the product. I initially accepted without thought or pause. The initial trip that N took was the week my closest NJ cousin arrived. Even though I had mentioned it to him, I did not get too deep into it. Until the day I first got to listen to this CD he had brought down NJ for me to hear.

Reasonable DOubt. We sat and discussed and I divulged all the information surrounding the trip. He was floored and immediately went through all of the ramifications that I would endure if I was inevitably caught.

I decided he was right, remember, neither of us were strangers to life or the consequences there after. I made the call and rejected the offer. I could not do something that would send me away from the one thing I finally love more than myself. I could not leave her like that. I made my final decision and relaxed. I would just have to adjust to progress. Until the phone rang back. Again. We weren't even to the 5th song on the CD before my life was faced with a real life or death situation.

I aint GOT to do shit! But I gotta do This

I was informed that upon notifying the organizers, I would not be able to back out for risk of retaliation against me and my family if anything was to go south. Ain't this a bitch! Now, my grown ass is under the impression that drug lords are going to come after me IF something is out of my control and absolutely I would never do it, because I want a car.

Fuck.

I inquired how they would get to me if I'm not involved, and was quickly informed, I'm already involved.

my closest NJ cousin is sitting next to me the entire time this situation is unfolding. Completely in disbelief. As am I. But now is not the time for that. I have to get into action.

I called the young lady that my mother gave her old car to for a ride to the meet. I didn't want someone I cared about hurt or involved, and at the time, the angst I had toward her honestly wasn't her fault, I didn't see it that way at the time. I packed our bags, dropped off my baby and headed to the spot.

I wasn't nervous or scared at all. I made the decision. After all I had endured at that time, this was simply another hurdle.

I had a cover story and made up the backstory as we sat in a hotel in Baltimore with a handler, preparing for the flight to Jamaica in the morning. I remember his girlfriend, whom I understood to be our handler originally, highly pissed that he is in a hotel with 3 women she doesn't know, understandably suspecting what was absolutely NOT happening.

That was not my concern, The details were. What airport we were going through and why. Who was picking us up and from where. What would our accommodations be once we arrived. And, most importantly, who, what, when and where paid? Once those items were addressed, I was in effect mode.

WELCOME TO JAMROCK

The next morning went well, as it should have, us arriving in beautiful Jamaica. I was in heaven. We were picked up by a driver and driven to this beautiful compound in the hills surrounded by acres and astonishing landscaping. The home was regal in stature. It had enormous columns and archways. I was amazed because I was informed that we would be staying at a hotel like the batch before us.

Instead, we were welcomed into the home for guests of the week and showed to our quarters after being properly introduced to our host. The leader of the large organization. A small man in stature, with an aura larger than the grand entrance we were standing in.

I was given a private room, with my own bathroom and balcony overlooking a private pool. The other two were ushered past my suite to a shared accommodation to the rear of the house. I was overwhelmed. As I freshened up for dinner, I couldn't believe where I was, better yet, why I was there. I missed my baby so much already, but, kept in mind my purpose. I would be able to independently provide for my daughter and, soon, be able to move on with life without the bondage of my mothers vision for herself, whether i fit in or not, to me, she wasn't concerned,

The place was vibrant and full of color. The staff were nice and the fellas were respectful. I was immediately treated with the courtesy and respect of a guest of importance, quickly noticing I was the only one of the 3 treated in this manner. I associated it to my age,, and silently appreciated the consideration, which I obliged by maintaining a decorum befitting the treatment.

I remained close to him, in a manner of protection. He was very mindful of where I sat and how I was spoken to. He tended to his business during the day, while my associates were sleeping in, I enjoyed a leisurely start of each day with delivered breakfast, shower and lounging by the pool taking pictures, all of which I have never once seen.

I remember not having a thought other than getting home to my beautiful brown baby girl. The trip was so relaxed and ultimately uneventful that I genuinely believe I forgot my purpose of attendance. We were taken out every evening. The first night was a strip club. The first time I had ever been to a strip club, which shouldn’t be hard to believe, I was 16 years old.

It was Memorial Day weekend 1997.

I'm young, beautiful, and out of the country with a major drug dealer, enjoying my life as if I had not a care in the world. To me, at the end of the ordeal, I would have the money I needed to get a car and finally be free from the requirement of my mother in raising my daughter. I am educating myself, preparing to graduate the following Fall, because of the advanced classes I had taken that year. I was a good mom, my baby loved me and all I could think about was all the things that I was finally free to do with and for her, without the constraints of my mothers assistance, or discretion of.

I was so happy that I would no longer need my mother to transport my daughter back and forth to daycare, it was more time that I could spend with her. I would be able to get home from work earlier, instead of taking an hour and a half bus ride after school and working until 930 at night. I would be able to get home in time to at the least put her to bed myself.

I was never removed from reality to the point that I did not know that I did require the assistance of my mother. I knew that she was a necessity in my success. I knew that I needed her to make it through daily life. I needed her help, after she's worked an 8-10 hour shift, to provide care for her while I went to work. I did not lose my dream of becoming a lawyer. I still aimed for that because I was never told that my life was over because I had a child young.

I mean, I came from a successful teenage mother, who came from a successful teenage mother. Why would I believe that I was any different? This trip was going to change all that. My mother would see my desperation to be a good mother, accepting her help, but not relying solely.. That was not how she raised me. So surely she understood my position. Soon, we would be able to bond over a child that would, now that I have shown my strength and determination, help our family come back together. I truly believed that this was the beginning of a positive progress in my future. DId I believe what I was doing was wrong? By the standards of law, yes, but I was a very educated and knowledgeable young lady, in many different subjects.

Law and history were always my favorite. Researching and learning about things that protect or advance me has always been a past time, so, in the effects of legality, yes, I was wrong. I just honestly did not feel that I was hurting anyone. I said before, I understood the choices that people make, which lead them to situations of detriment or success.

I was raised around a blended assortment of good and bad. I also understood variables and different circumstances of situations.

I understood, from home, that everybody in my community, nearby and distant, was knowledgeable of drugs. Knew what they were, who had it, how much it cost, and most of all, what it would do to you. Again, we get to variables. Marijuana and Love Boat are NOT the same drug. The base back then was marijuana for love boats, this I knew, and also knew the difference in scent, taste and effect. I learned this by accident, in a separate incident I don't have time to delve in now.

Point is, to me, you have choices in life. You also have circumstances that restrict the choices in some circumstances. I can not tell the desperation of another, it is not my emotion. For me, I was desperate. I needed the win honestly, and, as far as I was concerned at 16, these people made the choice to add themselves to a product not so easily accessible. But neither were cuban cigars, and I had seen plenty of respected elders and family members eagerly and excitedly partaking of those just the same.

So, to me, the only difference was the product. And that I am simply associated through supply, demand, and governmental restrictions. Same as with a Cuban Cigar.

If I could relieve my life's tensions, by providing what will be provided whether I assist or not, then why not?

That did not take much processing to reach that conclusion. I was raised with an alcoholic whose addiction did not ruin his family and a crack addict whose addiction still continues to damage lives he encounters or creates.

The Queen Has Arrived

I experienced the treatment that I had grown used to in prior years. I was respected. I was treated with regard and….acceptance. I was the one that was seen as special. That was a feeling that I missed and had not experienced in years.

I was never into older men because I was looking for love. I didn't lack that. I know that older men like young girls and I could use that to my advantage, when need be. In this situation, I did not have to in any way. I was never approached with sex or spoken to in a manner which even resembled the interest of such. That, I also was not used to. I had learned early the basis of their affection and their desired outcome.

His treatment was different. There was no creeping into my suite or inappropriate touching or insinuating comments.

The second night, we attended a party on the beach. The area was full of natives and little pop up truck shops. I smoked marijuana, but I did not drink often, if at all. I knew my limitations and hated the sight of a drunken fool. I did not ever want to be in that position. Especially in that environment..

At the beach, my associates enjoyed themselves with a few of the other guys that were in attendance with us, both leaving me with Him while they traipsed to the water. I stayed put.

I had one drink, a kahlua and creme, and smoked so much that I got in the front seat of the car, let my seat back, and dozed off. He was standing right outside the door when I drifted off, and was in the same spot when I awoke. There was a sort of connection that he was drawn to with me. I did not know or truly understand it then, I'm not even sure that I understand it now, but, it was definite.

I remember him saying to me that night, “you aren't like those other girls. Make sure you never become.”

I remember thinking about that comment for a long time after. It was actually a statement that has stayed with me since. The next day went the same as the 2before. I remember taking pictures of myself in the different outfits that I never wore on the trip, a habit I sometimes still do. We weren't going to do too much that night, we had to prepare to leave, the flight was noon and we had to get strapped. With the product.

The Things Games Say

We had KFC delivered that night and I was introduced to a game by one of my associates called ‘Questions?’ Which utilized the playing cards as tarot. All of the aces were the oracle which indicated the answers to your questions. The answers being yes, no, maybe and definitely. I have always believed and, not like Hollywood, but seen spirits. I was not sure what the shadows I used to see were until much later though. I just knew they were “something”. My mother had an experience as well when I was younger, I believed.

I asked the cards a few questions to see if the cards were actually aligned correctly. To my surprise and immediate focus, they were. I mean, they were. We played for about 20 minutes before I asked the question that we were all dying to ask, but they were afraid to.

I asked the cards where we were going to get caught. The cards said DEFINITELY. We looked at eachother, gave a nervous giggle, and I asked the question, 2 more times, in different variations. ANd they were ADAMANT that YES, we were DEFINITELY going to get caught and NO, there was not MAYBE about it. Of course everyone brushes that to the side sitting together at that table. I know for a fact it made it hard for all of us to sleep. I confirmed it in the morning after I dressed and prepared for what, we assumed, would be the taping down of the product to our bodies. This, also, was not the case.

Packed on theWeight

He called for me to be brought to him upstairs and on the other side of the house. A side that we had not had the privilege of entering prior to this moment.

He spoke to me calm, clear, and soothingly, to ensure that I was ready for the intended trip. I told Him that I was, until he told me to take my pants off and lay on the bed. Record skips the Emergency Broadcast system bells are alerted and I am immediately stiffened in place. He noticed my internal panic and directed his associate to pause. He asked if I was ol. I said yes but I was still bleeding from the recent delivery of my baby. He said that he knew that when I previously told him the age of my baby, but there was not any other way. He assured me that this was the safest way to ensure that we were not suspected or questioned, that and the route through Charlotte, which guaranteed the absence of ANY of the Alphabet Men.

I assured him of my silence and cooperation but what if I refused. He told me that was purely my choice. I visually relaxed before the “But.” The big ole “BUT” was that I could refuse, but, I would remind there, with him, on the compound. He had no other way to ensure the success of his mission or the guarantee of my silence. I then asked him, didn't he tell my associate that came the week prior that I HAD to come because you knew my address and would come and get me if need be because I knew too much information. He laughed and told me no. He told me that he would have never done that and he knew that his brother in America would not either, there were too many girls eager to take the trip. I was easily replaceable. He also informed me that my associate was given an additional $500 for the referral of her sister and myself.

This was news to me, as well as the fact that all the beautiful landscaping that I was overlooking the whole trip, were marijuana and cocoa trees. Not the beautiful shrubbery I naively assumed it to be. In those 10 minutes that I was in that room, I was overloaded, once again, with information pertaining to me being crossed by someone I thought cared about me so much. I immediately began to think about that card “game”. I thought to tell him, but. What if it didn't happen and he missed an opportunity or felt he wasted expenses. Or, what if he thought the only way I would know would be if I was undercover. Or, even worse, he could think I was crazy and laugh at me and really insist, in a harsher manner, that I allow the insertion of a rock hard, water bottled sized contraption inserted into my vagina by a man I do not know, but, I know for SURE is not medically trained to do so. Meanwhile, I am bleeding like a stuck pig from giving birth 5 weeks prior and am disgusted that I have to allow someone in between my legs for something medically unnecessary. I was losing my shit, on the inside. I could not allow any thought of fear or pretention to be shown for fear of all the many possibilities my brain can fluster in a matter of seconds.

I reluctantly laid my ass down, closed my eyes, felt the most excruciating pains I have ever felt in my vagina, and took it on the chin. I had no choice. Wings could not fail me now.

As I was rejoining with my group, we departed and dropped off at the airport, with a certain watchman to ensure that we got on the plane safely and without a hitch. I told my associate I thought to be a friend, my fear, thoughts, reminding her of the cards, every bit of evidence that I could muster to support us going to the bathroom and removing the dope from our person. Though she made a very valid point, what if this is just me being paranoid? What if we dispose, get through without a hitch, and arrive in Baltimore with nothing? What will be the outcome of that scenario? I told her that I was aware of all of the variables, but everything in me said to dump. She basically says do what you want, but I aint fucking with them peoples. I could only agree.

Then on the plane, we were not seated together, but I made it my business to give “the look” at least twice, to ensure that we were doing the right thing by NOT relieving ourselves of the product.

Flyers Remorse

We landed in Charlotte to switch flights. As we exited the plane, I noticed that there was a long hall which seemed to only have your normal batch of agents to hurriedly get us through to our connecting flight. There was a long hallway, with a bathroom right at the plane's exit. The wall went all the way to the corner and then bent in a pattern to shuffle you through the scanner and on your way.

I literally heard, “this is your last chance”, but ignored the warning because of the claims of completion as we neared the end of the walkway. I chose not to go into that bathroom, against EVERY alarm in my body, and dispose of the product. I was literally thinking, idgaf if we make it or not, at the least I can guarantee I would not be caught with a shit ton of pure cocaine on me. Instead, I allowed myself to believe in a human. And as we rounded that corner to, what we thought was home, we were met by every single alphabet that you could think of. All lined against the wall. Some with K-9. We were specifically told that there would nOT be any K-9 in that airport because of how new it was. I remembered because I asked the question myself. Everybody watched cops back in the day, I knew about them dogs.

There they were. Standing there looking like they were waiting specifically for me. I was nervous as hell. Running through different scenarios in my mind, realizing aint no escape. Though I had perfected the skill of eliminating myself of any and all unwanted environments, even those supposedly secured, locked, and guarded. If nothing else, I was an escape artist. This was not going to be one of those times..

Nowhere to run to the baby, nowhere to hide permeated my ears, but there wasn’t an audio outlet in sight.

The realization was not yet evident. I was not accepting the reality that not only was I going to jail, I was a news alert, and now, officially, an International Drug Trafficker. A bad ass I did not feel. I literally wanted to see my mom turn that corner at that very moment so I could apologize, hug her tightly and assure her that the simulation worked, commend her on the realness of story line and In that very moment, her every demand would have been gladly, graciously and expeditiously would be met. I just wanted my mommy to go home. I knew I wasn't imagining

Unfortunately, for my perfect, fool-proof, guaranteed success, precisely detailed and questioned plan, this was NOT a test of any damn thing.

But my word and my nuts, literally. Cause this shit was real and an escape is absolutely NOT happening.

Snitches Get Stitches

This is where I quickly stepped into thought. I have been able to quickly assess environments, rooms, people, smells, curl of lip I had associated with men who were rapists. I wasn't “aware” of this then, but I always paid attention and, essentially found, processed and associated to maneuver, literally minutes. ONCE I realized there were things to look for that were repetitive in this person or that person, I was able to judge at quite a young age. Dirty old men, dirty cops, whatever it was, it was for protection and departure- whether immediate or without notice.

I quickly got into character as the students returning from a parent financed trip, earned by straight A’s ofcourse, topped with a Graduating student celebrating a full scholarship, all but our “cousin” chaperoning was true.

I lightly chatted with them, trying to not noticeably be seen watching the clock, counting the last few people effortlessly going through the detector and departing. Merrily about their itinerary.

Meanwhile, I am watching as the police are unpacking my bag, carefully, slowly placing each and every individual item onto the x-ray machine, all focused in hypnosis as each item showed on the screen. They were sure that we were coming through, they knew the location of the product, and , essentially, this would be a breeze.

To this point, not a puppy or pal moved from against the wall, chatting amongst themselves, as 2 customs agents were now comparing our IDs, deciding the first of us to be taken in for “fright tactic”, I wasn't saying shit, I wasn't new to the code. Since elementary school, I have always known and vowed that it is true, snitches do indeed get stitches. I'm a thinker though, now that I KNOW I'm not going to a single solitary place, I began to formulate a story that after wouldn't trip over too much. I knew the story, I have been known to be a very eloquent and quite convincing character when it comes to these kinds of interactions.

I am 16, so I am still a minor. They couldn't use my comments anyway. Shit, they could make me continue to BWI, and once an informant always a rat.Nah, not my kind of stick. I have now been in this room for 1 minute. An interrogation room in Mecklenburg COunty International Airport, a ¼ kil of the finest and purest product stretching my cooch beyond later measurements, and a 6 foot black woman in uniform and a white middle aged blond hair FBI agent.

This was going to be easy. I need to find out who is a “good” cop and who is a “bad” cop. Once I get those roles, I know what my move will be.

The agent is speaking to me, rather direct and sternly.

“I don't have time to play with you, we’ve wasted enough time searching, so youre gonna tell us.” She paused, giving me that stern look of authority with no kids or experience with kids, to support their position and tone.

I laughed and said, “What?”

She repeated herself adding, we got a call from Baltimore they were alerted of your intended arrival, connecting through Charlotte into Baltimore.

I did NOT expect that. But, fuck it, we into the script now, and her ass aint lying. They were confused though. The information they received was that it would be sewn into our hair.as a weave. Seeing as one had a Page Boy, I had a Toni Brax cut, and the other a weave, identical to the one she had in the exaggeratedly different video of our initial flight change in Charlotte to Jamaica. The beginning of the trip.

I couldn't focus on that right now. I gotta stay shocked and confused. Our story was tight, verifiable at resort, and air tight. They could “know” what they want. I hadn’t a clue.

The agent said, softly, “Look, I know these guys target you young beautiful girls and use you to do things that you don’t understand. Forced to run their drugs for them against their will and I think it’s simply horrible.”

I immediately thought “BINGO!”

We’ve got a winner AND a story premise. A 2 fer! I began to think that this might not end so badly after all, seeing as there is NO escape from this attempt at taking my twenties.

She paused and looked in my eyes. Searching for that “she wants to talk” glimmer. No ma’am. Not me. I just stared back. I waited to see where she was going, giving her a soft blnk.

She continued to inform me that the girlfriend of the man who so violently forced me to go to Jamaica and come back with his drugs, subjecting me to presumably horrific and tawdry conditions not fit for an animal. I allowed her words to seep so that I could muster tears. The first one fell as she finished her verbal motion of my discovery. I knew I was an abused, forced, unable to refuse child that was taken from America to Jamaica by “bad men” to do the work they were too “cowardly” to do.

As she spoke, I replayed my trip and my treatment throughout. SHe could not have been more wrong. But, it was her show, I was given my role. I played it to a tee and made sure that I added all the falling shoulders, hand over face, shame and embarrassment mannerisms. As she reminded me, her satisfaction would require her support in helping me out of this “mistake”.

I still did not tell or divulge the location of the product. I think I truly believed there was a way out, today, still. She told me that they would not be prosecuted by them and could not use my statement in their case. I laughed to myself. Yea right. What they don't use the state will abuse and, unfortunately, this was not my first rodeo and I was beyond familiar with their tactics.

Gimme The Loot

They begin questioning about the whereabouts of the item. I told her I didn't know. Her frustration growing, my patience growing, she demanded, “It's either in your hair, you swallowed it, which could rupture and kill you at any moment, or….” She slowed and asked me genuinely and almost in fear.

“Wait, didn't you say that you have a 6 week old?” The red rushed from her face, immediately changing its color to gray.

“I said yes. Why?” I asked, almost getting scared from her look, definitely in excruciating vaginal pain, still hoping to be released to hurriedly expel the package.

No such luck.

She grabbed me and turned my face to hers, very close to mine. She sternly whispered; “Chimere, listen to me, if you have that package in your vagina you need to tell me right now.”

I stared. I could not understand.

“What are you talking about? I don't know what youre talking about.” I couldn't even turn away, the pain would be evident. I was seated in the seat and one move would make it obvious.

“If you do not get it right now, I'm going to have this young lady go get it.”

She lightly gestured toward the other female officer. She had not spoken one word nor looked in my direction once during this 20 minute interaction. I hadn't forgotten her presence, just occupied with good cops' generosity. I needed to keep up with her story to play my role right. Gotta please her right?

The officer walked over to me while snapping her left glove onto her hand. Without pause or thought she grabbed me up, took me in the bathroom, and cut the water on. SHe got close to my face and spoke very slowly and saft.

“Baby girl, there is nothing that is going to get you out of this. They know and are not letting you go home. I can get it out for you, or you can make this easy and give it to me. Either way, I'm getting it NOW, because you do not understand the danger you are in.” She looked softly in my eyes. 45 minutes into this ordeal, and I was sitting on the toilet, pushing out my cocaine baby.

I was in shock because I did not feel the pain anymore, from the adrenaline volcanoing through my body.

They immediately panic. Frantically speaking amongst themselves, comparing shock, and asking me if the other girls have anything. I didn't hesitate to inform them that I, personally, did not think so and was not privy to the certainty of that knowledge.

I had no choice, I was a minor, I just gotta accept….. Accept….. Oh hell I wasn't sure what I was accepting. The others had a chance that was immediately lost when they pulled our chaperone in next. Within seconds into the room she not only provided all the missing information, her statement pretty much confirmed the story the agent provided for me. You know the forced, didn't know, blah blah blah story. She also proudly got her ass on that airplane and walked them right to the “predators”.

She walked past them, without acknowledgement, and headed straight to the phone. Shocked to see her emerge, the snitch walked right up behind her, verbally and physically irate, inquiring of how she made it through and she had called Baltimore to let them know that she was on the plane? Including the fact that she even provided the clothing description.

Though the rider TRIED not to acknowledge the foolish temper tantrum which intercepted our travel, it would be the very same outburst that caused her federal arrest and conviction on the same charges she created for us.

Meanwhile, the other & I checked into jail, with her checking out after three days on Fed Probation. She really was a great kid, focused, goals, and a fat hateful malicious sister who held my left leg as my dad held my right giving birth to my daughter, who almost ruined her and my chances for a future.

I went to population at the North jail. I instantly began my lesson of felonious training. I learned that instance how the two judicial systems differ.

I was being held longer because her court date would be further, extensive and she had many co-defendants. On the other hand, I was being charged alone, the feds were not taking my case, therefore Im on state rules, and a lesser charge. Instead of International Trafficking II of a Class G substance, it was simply trafficking II of a Class G substance.

In my case, I was the only one charged by the state. International Drug Trafficking is not a case that can be tried in a state court. It is only tried in federal, as my other co defendants were charged. My dad, who drove through the night to be at my arraignment at 7am, was only visible through a camera and, almost before he reached the podium, I was given a $250,000 bond and a bond reduction hearing in early July. This was the Tuesday after memorial day. I might as well settle in.

You Have A Call

I went back to the pod for lockdown after court. Kind of still in shock of it all. Alone so far and I have to analyse and adjust quicker than a mf, before Bertha claim me and anal rape me with a wooden chair leg for not being her bitch.

Yea, none of it was ever even CLOSE to that.

I returned to my cell, closed the door and sat there in shock. About 20 minutes into my mental drift, I heard the now familiar whir of the door unlocking. It was just mine.

A tall brown skin woman, who can't recall seeing again, opened my door. She slowly peered in and informed me that I had a phone call.

WOw, I thought as I ran to the dangling receiver hanging from the box.. I thought for sure it was my mom or dad. Yes. That naivety, I answered the phone, almost excitedly.

“Hello?” I had to tone it down some, and didn't want my parents to think I was having fun.

“E-lo.” The unfamiliar slowly replied. “You're a good girl, you have a nun to worrembout.” The receiver disconnects.

I'm shaking baby right now. My head is squirming, I'm confused. I wanted to call back and make sure that he KNEW I was the one that did NOT fly them back and I was NOT on their case. Ahhhhh. I almost had it. I caught the guard walking toward me, semi smiling.

“Are you ok?” She asked, as she assisted me up from the chair and lightly aimed at me on my way.

“Yea. I think so.” Half smiling, half curious,totally NOT asking.

I settled in for the ride and prepared for the lessons, adjustments and, in my mind, all the fights and rapes and mapping routes from the slither of the window teaser attached to the steel door. I noticed the fresh paint and steel tables below and on my walls. I was one of the first women to be incarcerated at Charlotte, Mecklenburg County Detention Center, NOrth.

FOr the next month and a half, I was happy, sad, scared, told everything from state gonna drop and Fed pick up because we made the news to a GUARANTEED 14-20 year sentence. I quickly learned not to tell them bitches shit. They act concerned to gain your information to fill your head with wild, unfounded, ideas which they didn't have the slightest bit of knowledge about. Essentially, speaking harm into your situation, under the perception this will somehow help them, or intentionally looking for information to tell agents or officers to clean them up to ensure their next release, #6653, is REALLY the last one.

That was rarely so the case, ever. And the perception that I was an easy prey was a wrong assessment.

Set Me Free… Please!

I was released on a $250,000 fine, which my dad put the house up for my release, with a directly issued promise from the DA to “drive to VA myself and drive you back in the trunk of my car” if I failed to return for the trial.

My reputation has preceded me, I see. I was amused, yet, pretty sure he was NOT playing.

My mother had gained an attachment to my daughter. So that, along with the embarrassment of my case, and my refusal to submit to the demand of relinquishing my parental responsibilities, or conforming to HER vision and choices in her care, the demolition of our relationship began. Both fueled by stubbornness and refusal to submit, I was at a loss. I was home on bond made possible by “her husband”, with my actions displaying one who was unpredictable, her belief in my incompetency, though false, was justifiable.

I went to stay with my “homegirl” who was in possession of her mothers townhouse, with all full intention of returning in time for court, but not wanting to keep up with the battle.

I was, again, on the run from the system. Understanding the ramifications of me not returning to court, the severity of the case and the ownership of my parents home on the line for me, I thought if I went away until time for court, I wouldn’t ruin, what I thought, was my chance at doing NO jail time.

That was never a possibility. This was also, in essence, a strong example of the description of issues I suffered from. Confirming, at least for the district attorney, that I was a child without control and bound to the lowest possible future. I was a “lost cause”, they didn’t understand that I was actually the only one making a true effort in achieving success. I was a 16 year old mother alone on that journey, though full of promise, and not lacking the parental ability to assist in that success. They just chose not to, and that was ok too.

She Tryna Make Me Flip

I thought, genuinely, if I could just stay out of that house and away from my mother, I could worry about emancipation after trial.

My “friend” was the mother of a 3 year old. The father of that child was recently incarcerated, along with HER mother, for the same type of charges I was fighting. Arrested in the very home that I sought for refuge. I never thought of the connection, absolute stupidity in choosing THERE for “refuge”, as well as not realizing the connection to me assisting in my own prosecution maintaining these ties. Especially out on bond and, essentially, fighting for my freedom. I left my daughter, so that I could not be accused of “putting her in danger”, thinking that would help so I could plan for the next.

I just wanted to be unfound until I had to return to court.

I made it in 3 weeks.

Early one Sunday morning, about 2 weeks from trial, there was a knock on the door. I had the entire basement and NORMALLY peeked out the window over my bed before answering the door. This time I did not. Pissed that someone was knocking at that ungodly hour, I just swung the door open, not even asking who was on the other side, fully prepared to let this verbal cannon loose without restraint.

I immediately froze at the one woman badder, under my grandmother in my eyes, staring quite evilly might I add, back at me. I couldn't even slam the door or speak, or move my legs for that matter.

She simply said, “Get your shit. Let’s go.”, then turned to walk back to the car.

I didn't even notice my dad's presence until I realized it was him walking behind her back to the car.

I did just that. Without the single utterance of a syllable. I really wasn't sure what was going on. I didn't dare ask. I entered the car to find my daughter in her car seat next to me in the back.. At that moment I really didn't care. I immediately turned into her. I had missed her so much I just wanted to kiss and touch and hold her. SInce I couldn't hug her, I just held her hand and did not let go. Somehow, at some point, I dozed off.

The Banana in The Tailpipe

I woke up about 2 hours later when the car stopped. I looked around and noticed that we were in North Carolina and IMMEDIATELY thought of my escape. Until my baby cooed. Instantly, I was defeated. I knew then that they were returning me early. I also know that there was nothing that I could do about it. It would only make things worse. It was not worth the little girl sitting next to me.

I realized that I just needed to go in and get it over with. Anything else would lose me my baby. That was what I had been fighting so hard to maintain all along. My irresponsibility had been in question this entire time. I didn't realize that my actions for proof were actually not helping my proof, but there's. This was the time for me to truly show I was responsible. That can only be done by jumping this hurdle, learning the lesson, doing the time, and moving forward.

I knew what I did and needed to get the price and pay it in order to move on. So, I sat back silently. For the last hour and a half, we continued not to speak. I simply stared at my baby so that I could have that remembrance until I came home to her.

My mother and he stayed in the car as my father took me to the magistrate, informed that he was revoking the bond, handed me a bible and left. The whole encounter took all of 5 minutes. Just like that, what I was trying to avoid, I manifested.

The Green Mile

On September 5, 1997 I was sentenced to one year, calculating time served, to be followed by 5 years supervised probation, no male contact or interaction and a $250,000 fine. Which was welcomed seeing as an hour before I was called to the courtroom, I was visited by my public defender. She quickly and regretfully informed me that the best agreement that she could get for me was 14 years. Alone in holding, I took that time to get that breakdown cry out, because I wouldn't have the chance to do so again, and accepted that as my fate.

There was no one in the courtroom for me that time. As I approached my position, I had a feeling of relief, unexplainable, but relaxing all the same. I absolutely was expecting 14 years. SInce sentencing happens in month description, I thought that was the total of the months read off by the judge, until my lawyer tapped me, shocked herself, and whispered;

“Oh my God. You go home in 6 months.” Excited, surprised, but genuinely did not know herself.

I knew that was nothing but a second chance blessing and vowed to not miss the opportunity it afforded me.

I was soon to learn, I had a harder battle ahead. Though I would win, every ounce of this “non-traditional training” would be required in order to not only have the mindframe to help myself win, but also the strength, faith in all I was being taught and would learn in the future, in order to do so.