I was reminded this past Mother’s Day weekend that not all mothers give a good got damn about the children they birthed. I’ve read Facebook post about how isolated some mothers felt because their children didn’t wish them a Happy Mother’s Day. Now, I’m not sure what that is all about, but I’m pretty sure that is probably a beef or some mother/child(ren) internal tension that didn’t begin on Mother’s Day. I’ve seen post where Mother’s wanted to see their children, but couldn’t for one reason or another. But this blog isn’t about any of that, this blog is about something much deeper.
I’m going to take you all on a journey. I may have allowed you all to peek behind the curtain earlier in my blogdom; however, something was brought to my attention, and so I’m going to peel back the curtain a little more for everyone to see my truth. I won’t talk length of said actions, only how it made me feel, and that is by design.
Let me begin by saying I am a beautifully flawed person. I am a very sensitive and vulnerable person. The walls I have up are extremely hard to penetrate, regardless of who is trying to tear them down. And even if I do allow you into my life, those walls will still be there.
Growing up in the beginning I was a very innocent, trusting, caring, and loving child. I had an imagination that could rival anyone’s. I loved sports and I hated being home. In one fell swoop that trust and innocence was gone. It was then I became a “victim” of the #metoo movement before it even existed and didn’t even know it.
I was terrified. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to keep it our “little secret” like he asked? Or was I supposed to tell and risk no one believing me, like he said no one would. So I remained silent. There are other examples, but I’m going to stop right here.
Fast forward some years, with shame and embarrassment in tow, I’m diving head first into my first round of risky behavior. It’s the start of years of unconsciously horrible decisions, but they were my decisions and mine alone. So I’m lying on my back before school starts and my schoolmate is on top of me. I didn’t make a sound. I’m not sure if I was getting pleasure from this interaction, but he looked like he was having a good time, so I went with it. Did I consent, ehhh? I didn’t say no, and I wasn’t coerced to get undressed.
This wasn’t the last of my risky behavior, not by a long shot. There was a slew of “events” that took place throughout my life as a result of what happened to me as a child. Engaging in sexual activity out in the open, and when I say out in the open I mean out in the open, day or night it didn’t matter. Sneaking a guy in the house when I was in need of a good fuck, which was just about every day. I was fucking other chicks' boyfriends all the time and had not a care in the world. It came down to a chick squaring off on me over a dude and because I have a slick mouth, I said some mad disrespectful, reckless slick stuff to her, and she swung on me. Now had I gotten to my machete, I wouldn’t be able to write this blog, but that’s another reckless blog post for another day. What’s so senseless about that entire altercation is the guy meant nothing to me at that time, he was just another fuck when I needed a fix.
Fast forward a few more years, and the risky behavior only escalated because I started picking up dudes at the club or in the parking lot of the club and taking them home. By this time I was living alone. No names were exchanged, just a condom was given, and a night of wild, unbridled sex, and when I was done, they had to leave. I saw nothing wrong with it until I started scrolling Craigslist. I never went that far to get with a Craiglister, but it crossed my mind. At least until the Craigslist Killing happened, and that scared me off of Craigslist.
I know you are wondering, "Why didn’t I just get a boyfriend?" Well, I’m actually really shy, an introvert, and the piece of shit that raped me did a fucking wonderful job on my self-esteem to the point that I didn’t think anyone would want me. It’s funny because a few years ago I found out that the guy I had the biggest crush on in school had a crush on me too, but neither of us said anything. Anyway, I had boyfriends, but I would always find a way to sabotage the relationship. With one boyfriend, I kissed another boy, not that I wanted to be with the boy I kissed but just because, that relationship blew up before school started the next day. Had a few others, but I was usually with more than one at a time and one or both found out. Not due to my carelessness, but because I could not care any less. You would have thought that I would have stopped when I almost lost my best friend because I was fucking her cousin. We weren’t in a relationship we were just fucking, and she didn’t know. Choosing between your best friend and some good sex would be a no brainer to most, but for me it was a hard decision to make.
Want to know what I found out as an adult? I didn’t really like having sex. That’s right, all that fucking I was doing, and I didn’t even like it. I was more interested in the guy’s reaction and the feeling, a feeling I could give myself; if we wanted to be perfectly honest. So I started on a quest to teach myself to enjoy sex. And after a year or, so I learned to enjoy it. But I still wanted sex all the time. And back to the parking lot pimping and picking up nameless guys up from the club I went.
All of this because some nasty ass fuck couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and decided to make me a part of the #metoo movement before there was even a movement. I didn’t memorialize everything or everyone that was a part of my sexual tryst growing up, but at the age this all began, I shouldn’t have known what any of this was. I shouldn’t have known to lay on my back before school. I should have never had to keep a bag of condoms in the car, next to my bed, or on my person because I never knew when something was going to jump off.
I’m a flawed person. I’m a broken person. I’m a black woman that goes to counseling because I was raped by an older black man. I have an addiction that I shouldn’t have.
Why did I tell part of my story? Because I saw a little girl this past Mother’s Day weekend who has been showing signs that she may have had something of this magnitude done to her. The same things I did as a child, she is doing. Some of her actions are indicative of how I behaved around my family. I don’t want her to travel the road I did, while dragging the labels of embarrassment, shame, and vulnerability with her. I don’t want her to wait until she’s in her 30s to realize that she needs therapy for something that happened to her when she was a preteen/teenager.
I started out saying some mothers don’t give a good got damn about the children they birth. But I really can’t put it all on the mothers, the fathers have to do their part, regardless of whether they are with the mother or not. There are too many little girls AND boys who are being raped by relatives and family friends. Stop telling your children you don’t believe them when they tell you that someone has touched them or said something inappropriately to them. And if your children are touched or raped, please by all means take your child to to the doctor for a physical exam and to counseling. Counseling is not a white thing, it’s a mental health thing, it’s a let’s heal the community thing. And if your child needs counseling take them. Don’t talk about you can’t afford it, because if you can afford to go and turn up in the club, buy Jordan’s, pay for cable and buy lottery tickets, then damn it you can afford to take your child to counseling.
In our community, shit like this gets swept under the rug, or at least it did when I was growing up. Families knew there was a person no one wanted to leave their children around. Or was cautious of that neighbor down the street that was just a little too friendly with the little girls in the neighborhood. Don’t continue to perpetuate the cycle. Your daughter isn’t a fast ass little girl, and your son isn’t mannish. If you think about it, I mean really think about it, they weren’t acting like that before they were dropped off or before they went where ever and now they no longer wish to go over 'so and so’s' house or care to be around 'what’s their face' any more. Ask questions, be concerned. Don’t act like your child’s safety, welfare and mental health is a chore.
We as a community nor our child(ren) don't need to be a #metoo movement statistic. We belong in the statistical category of college graduates, entrepreneurs, Blacks in tech, and lower incarceration rates in the Black community. We have to do better for our children, ourselves, our community, and our culture. It’s just that important.