Facts to a Story

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© 2011 Kimberly Jordan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 4/20/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7688-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7689-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7687-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010913649

Printed in the United States of America

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This book is dedicated to my loving mother Janie Mae Whitsey.

With each copy sold a one dollar donations will go to

The Bullard Foundation Hands That Care

in great recognition of a A Better L.A.

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Introduction

The days are felt as the coldest winter ever, great admiration to Sister Souljah.

Daliah thinks out loud and recalls the pain she has been through and says in her mind,

What type of helpless men do I belong to? It makes you question yourself, your self- esteem, your future and what you expect out of life. The perpetual non lasting relationship, I have endured.

As Daliah drives through her adventurous and defiant love life and abandoned childhood of unrequited love and unworthiness, she molds who she really is; an intense and evoking character throughout this book that will connect you to her fears and how she empowers herself to keep moving on with no regret.

The temporary insanity she thinks in her mind forces her transformation back to reality to prove her sanity. Daliah creates the fearful soul living within her since she was 5 years old. She has harbored and isolated her feelings and she has cornered her adult life. Watch her live life through the many mistakes and long suffering nights of loneliness, as she finds the conscience of a beautiful woman, reaching a finale that seeks deceit and revenge from the past hurt. Become entertained by how Daliah becomes this woman despite the challenges of living in the ghetto, the absence of her father, the loss of motherly love, and the numerous times she attempts suicide. The many adversaries she overcomes build in her to ignite the soul of a strong black woman who values life again.

Chapter One

First I have to start from where I believe my character has stemmed from.

I was the youngest of seven and never could I remember a father figure because my father was absent from the home. Most of my youth memories were shared with my brother John. I experienced a tremendous amount of pain, crime, fights, arguments, and child molestation just to name a few. Dealing with these different trials as a youth was difficult and disturbing. It was thought that cooking big meals, partying, drinking, and having family celebrations would be therapeutic to the many family tragedies we were faced with on a daily. Who could ever know and feel how deep the pain was driven in our souls, and how severely our hearts were suffering? The lack of love and family unity drove us further and further apart.

I moved around a lot. We lived in many different cities throughout the Los Angeles County, from four families in one black owned home, to living in the housing projects, where life and priorities could easily be placed in their wrong perspectives.

At the age of three I witnessed a man cutting my Mom with a razorblade under her chin from ear to ear. My brother John and I were there, a scary and horrifying time for us. I can remember it like it was yesterday; blood pouring through her hands and in between her fingers as she held her chin. The night was cold, the whisper of its wind appearing when you talked. When the police car pulled up to the scene the commotion became more intense, the police lights ricocheting off the walls of the apartment. I cried tears of rescue me as the policemen escorted my brother and I away from everything, secluding us from the awful environment. We looked back at our Mom in pity, but it was too late because we were already traumatized.

Because we were so young, we had no idea what led to this shocking crisis, but later on, when I got older I found out the story. My Mom was dating this man, and he was very jealous. On that particular night she did not want to go out with him, but he was obsessed with her and thought out a way to be at her front door once she returned home from the club. He told her she still owed him some money for some drugs he had sold her, even though she had already made plans to pay him, plans that he was well aware of. He used his malicious thinking to provoke his anger, and before my Mom could answer the question where’s my money? he pulled out the razor and sliced her under the chin from ear to ear over a twenty-dollar debt. He fled from the door immediately with the razor and they never found him or the weapon. It was a senseless and dangerous thing for all of us to overcome.

As the years passed, my Mom married a man named Frank. Maybe if her choices in men were different then my own relationship choices would have led to success and longevity, instead of the poor relationship decisions I have put myself through over the years. Her husband was definitely a mentally sick, persuasive, abusive, and controlling man. My mom said he had everything planned out; what he wanted, he accomplished it. It was his destiny to molest me and bribe me with money. I was only six years old, my innocent body touched by his disgusting and despicable hands. Him molesting me caused the distant relationship my mother and I have today. Since the time of the molestation until I was about 27 years of age, I felt my Mom did not love me because I was under the impression that she never filed any legal action against Frank. He never went to jail, and there was never any justice served and he was free to molest again. After about 20 years I found out my Mom did in fact go to the police, only for them to respond that there was not enough evidence for them to pick him up for the accusations. In my thoughts I replay the same questions till this day; So, how can you question one taking the law into their own hands? How is the victim supposed to feel? What about me?

It still hurts today, yesterday, then and in the future it never ends. He consciously fondled with my genital parts and watched my body squirm. If I knew any better, I probably would have barfed. But, as a kid I was taught to be obedient to my elders, and low and behold, I trusted him to physically rape me with his hands and his dirty mind. The way he looked at me with those disturbing eyes of guilt, but also eyes of comfort as his hands began to touch my private parts and rub me vigorously. As I saw the rise to his dick, and the more vigorously he rubbed me, and when I let out an annoying holler, he covered my mouth with his other hand and continued with a firm look on his face signaling me to be quiet. I obeyed his intense and disgraceful stare.

Imagine a grown ass man letting your daughter feel what she don’t know is part of a man’s penis and a man’s sperm.

Well he placed it in my mouth and wiggled it inside as far as it could go or maybe I’m just a sick and abused little girl and being an adult telling the story, I have subconsciously forgot the details, so let me pause a moment…

He laid me alongside him and pretended to talk to me with innocence. He told me not to tell and in return he would give me money. It happened, I’m sure, many times, but my disrupted memory only allows me to remember about four of them. I knew this had to be wrong, but I guess I thought it would stop and things would get better; that maybe I would not have to feel weird because I would be intimidated to keep a secret that battled my honesty within. I became numb and managed to block out what happened. Even at that young age, my subconscious prepared to help me protect myself by covering over things or imagining that they never happened. So, my subconscious has delivered me from blame or guilt and I was temporarily free to feel that this hateful time had never happened. Although at the moment, I think its over, from within I can see myself as my own enemy because the emotions I felt were real, and will always be there to hurt and haunt me in the long run.

Thank God my conscience spoke louder than the secrecy and the fear. So I built up the confidence and courage to confide in John. I remembered the words of my grandmother; always tell the truth, because the truth will set you free. My grandmother was a very special person in all of our lives. A portion of her soul in some way is carried within her children and grandchildren. She was recognized as the neighborhood Mom. When new people were introduced to her she said, Hello, I’m Momma. I love that lady so much and I miss her something terrible, R.I.P. A lot of her I see in me.

Come to think of it, it’s crazy that the son of a bitch offered me a dollar not to tell anyone what he had done! So, as a kid when you get money and your other siblings have none you go and tease them about what you got.

So of course my brother said, Who gave you that dollar I want one too. As I began to tell him the story his eyes got big as he hollered Ohhh! Ohhh! I’m telling Momma! And here I am standing wondering why I would be in trouble with momma when my stepfather was the one who told me not to tell! So now I’m crying because I’m scared I’m going to get a whooping by my Mom and my stepfather. I cried a cry that let everyone in the house know something was wrong.

So immediately when our stepfather heard me he came running saying, What is wrong with her?

Ummmm, Thomas hit her. My brother lied, knowing he couldn’t let Frank know that he was aware of what Frank had done to me. Frank decided to remove me from the room as if he was the one who could protect me better, and there I was thinking this is the muthafucker I’m scared of the most. Soon after,John managed to get the information to my Mom. She was at work trying to keep food on the table while her no good ass husband was at home molesting her daughter.

Upon my Mom knowing what her so-called husband had done to her precious daughter she was in turmoil and hurt but did not have money to get back to California. However, she was not confused about getting me to safety, it was a must. She called to California to many friends and family to get money to get back home. She knew she had to play it safe because Frank was not only a molester, but also a woman beater. He would always fight my Mom something terrible. My Mom made arrangements to get on the Greyhound bus leaving two of my brothers behind to get me away from this sick man. She jeopardized the safety of the other two kids because she only had enough money for the two of us and she would send for them once she got back to California, thinking to herself I’m sure he won’t molest boys. But I was so young then, and wasn’t sure of all the details. I blamed my mother from that day forward because I thought she stayed with Frank, even after she found out what he had done to me.

****

I never got to know my biological father while I was a child but I dreamed of being a Daddy’s Girl. In my mind I needed him at this break of my life to protect me and beat Frank ass.

Anyway, after my Mom swindled the child molester out of her life she became very religious as a Jehovah’s Witness. She never brought another man under her roof to live or spend the night after what Frank had done, and from then on I never remember seeing another man seriously in her life.

Prior to the Frank incident, my mother associated herself deeply with the 70s lifestyle where pill popping and selling drugs was the thing to do. I could remember Mom fighting with her boyfriends over drugs, and how her own drug usage altered her behavior as a parent. We were in and out of foster homes as a result. My Dad’s life was no better. He was a heroine addict so even if he was around, he wouldn’t have been no help. My sister Dee and I shared the same father and mother, but I was always envious of her because my grandmother took responsibility to raise her due to the life my mom was living. Periodically my other sisters and brothers would also reside with my grandmother, but not John and me. We were the step-kids.

My father also stayed in and out of prison. By the time my siblings and I built a relationship with him we were grown and he had been diagnosed as HIV positive. About ten years later he died from complications due to pneumonia. Before that tragedy he had the chance to see all of his kids meet one another, despite that fact that most of us had different moms. He always expressed so much concern about his kids. He wanted us to share in each others lives, and despite our differences we carry that legacy on to this day. We spent immeasurable, priceless moments with him before HIV controlled his health. I got to know his love of music and his fascinating character, a side of him that I myself have.

In his last days at St. Francis hospital, we all spent time with him. I cleaned him when he pooped.

I remembered him saying with the weakest voice I’ve ever heard,

Baby I feel so embarrassed that you have to clean me.

The tears that filled my eyes couldn’t even fall because I was so elated by the feeling of helping him when he needed me the most.

I replied to him Daddy you’re my daddy no matter what and if you need me to do anything I’m here for you.

The statement released whatever guilt he ever felt for not being there because at that moment he was reassured that I love him. Momentarily the silence was felt and I begin to straighten his bed and wash my hands.

He continued bravely, saying, Baby, I’m scared and I don’t want to die. His voice was muffled, trying to refrain from crying. Tears filled both of our brown slanted eyes, and I tried to hold them back as they fell down my round cheeks in abundance. It felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had to keep my composure, for as I looked into my father’s eyes, he looked worried as if he wanted to say sorry for what he had no control over and for what he thought he could have made better. Instantly I grabbed and held him and said Daddy, you will be ok. I couldn’t let him know that I too was scared, and from my medical knowledge, I knew very well that he was not going to make it through. I had to lie to my Daddy to make him feel the comfort and ease he needed to go without suffering anymore. Daddy passed four days later without me by his side, but with all the care and love I gave him in those last days, I felt I had earned the title of Daddy’s Little Girl.

My older brother couldn’t deal with daddy’s death. He would walk off alone saying I don’t wanna see Daddy like this. He lost his mother to cancer when he was very young, and seeing his father ill caused a rebirth of the hurt he felt because of his mother’s death. As life opens a new wound as an elaboration of old ones, some can’t endure the intensity, and my brother became a victim of this. He committed suicide three months after we buried out father

Chapter Two

At the age of fifteen I began to feel the wiggle between my legs, wow it drove my desire for a man. Peculiar, though frantically familiar was the tingly sensation that came from within and I was confused about whether I was a virgin or not, as Frank appeared from the haunted past through my damaged and hurtful memories. Consciously, my mind played tricks on me, making me believe he was the reason I felt exotic and not