Spotlight Story: Reflections Behind Bars
 

I got creative one time when it came to getting a whoopin’. I put on extra clothes so I wouldn't feel the burning, stinging pain of the switches as they impacted my legs, arms, back, and my butt. But I couldn't do anything to avoid the wild swings that often caught me in the face. I cried and screamed, flailing my arms and legs, and even grabbing ahold of whatever I was being whooped with. I would be held out of school until the marks and the swelling were gone.

 

Between the ages of 8 and 9, my sisters and I went to another foster home but we were eventually separated. They were picking on me and I started acting out and running away. I felt all alone, unloved by my sisters, and I hated them because they were being mean to me. In school, I had a teacher who every day would check our fingernails and hands for grooming and cleanliness. One day, my fingernails were all jacked up and my hands needed some cleaning. The teacher would have us line up side-by-side, extend our arms out, with our fingers pointed out. He took his yardstick and hit my fingers several times. I remember crying and the other kids laughing and making fun of me. When I refused to hold my hands out any longer, I was sent to the principal's office where I was spanked with a paddle off of his wall because he was told that I wasn't following the rules. After being hit several times and being filled with pain, tears and fear, I ran away from school. When I got back to the foster home and walked through the front door, there was a stack of switches on the floor next to the recliner chair, which meant that I was getting another whoopin'.  

 

At age 10, I was placed in a home called Children's Baptist Home (CBH) in Inglewood, which housed boys and girls. My mom came to visit me, and she brought my oldest sister who was about twenty. To this day, that was the only time I could ever recall seeing her in person and I remember her chasing me and trying to kiss me. I would learn later the dark family secrets that she kept.

 

At age 11, I was sent to a place called McClaren Hall where I ran into one of my sisters that I hadn’t seen since I was eight. I met a girl there, Tina Mitchell. She was housed in Sr. Girls and I was housed in Jr. Boys. That was the first time I believed that I felt in love. We messed around and then she broke my heart by hooking up with another guy. It made me feel used, unloved, abandoned, rejected, and unworthy, which is how I felt before I met her anyway. I eventually met another girl, Tammy Eades. We also messed around, and she also broke my heart. I felt angry and that I wasn't worthy of love. I didn't know how to love myself or to even feel good about myself, but something in me kept me going.

 

When I was 13, I was placed into a co-ed group home in L.A.  "Fresh meat," they would call me. I was scared of bullying by the other boys. A number of girls had expressed their desire for me, and they would tell other girls that I belonged to them which started to cause me problems and stress. 

 

While I was there, I was sexually molested by a male staff who had gained my trust. One night I was feeling alone and depressed. I was alone in my room when Jay came in and sat on the edge of my bed and talked me into relaxing. He told me that he cared and was there for me, and he gave me oral sex. I began to struggle with my identity. Who was I? What did I want? Why did I allow this to happen? I am so stupid. I was so confused about a lot of things, and I was withdrawn because I felt so much shame for what had happened. I felt it was my fault because I was vulnerable and l should’ve stopped it before it happened, or I should've told someone after it happened. But I didn't want to get anyone in trouble and I was afraid that others would pass judgment on me, or worse, do something to me. Jay told me not to tell anyone because he was my friend and that no one would believe me anyway.

 

I started working in the kitchen with a lady cook who REALLY liked me. She flirted with me and teased me with her body in the way she moved up against me. She would wink and even lick her lips as though she wanted to devour me. I was cool with that -- it was like a fantasy. I found myself wanting her and looking forward to working with her because I wanted to believe that I was special to her. She was at least twice my age, maybe in her mid-thirties. I was fourteen. She would call me handsome, run her fingers across my face and tell me how soft my skin was. We never did anything beyond hug, which was all I needed. That comforted me, made me feel safe, but my fantasies took us well beyond hugs. When I was 15 and in another group home, she convinced me to go to her apartment with her and we had sex.

 

By now, I had very little, if any, respect for girls, women, and even for myself. All she wanted was sex with me due to my age and the attention I had shown her, but I wanted something deeper. I wanted love and have a real connection, and I believed that was what she was going to give me. I never got into drugs or alcohol to feel good because sex was my drug of choice. I think the physical contact was my way of making up for the affection I didn't receive as a child. There were more girls that I also hooked up with, and now there was more physical contact than I knew what to do with. But my feelings would eventually get involved because I wanted more than sex. I wanted a connection with someone which seemed more than what any girl or woman was capable, willing, or able to give. I didn't know who I was without someone to make me feel something other than what I already felt about myself which was, no good, worthless, used, abused, and thrown away.

 

At 14, I was in and out of various Juvenile Halls in Southern California as well. I was sent to a Juvenile Camp for six months. After six months I went AWOL in one of the Camp's vans and I was chased by the C.H.P. up in the mountains from the camp. Next thing I knew, I was involved in an accident where I went over a 200ft cliff in Lake Hughes near Castaic Lake. It was around midnight and there were no lights on the long and winding road. As I attempted to further my late-night daring escape, I missed a turn and went over the edge. I still have no knowledge of how it happened. I was unconscious and came to about a month later only to discover that I had had a serious head trauma—my left eye was swollen shut, my right collar bone was dislocated, and I had a compression fracture in my lower back that almost paralyzed me.

 

At 14, while yet in another group home, I ran away because I couldn't take it anymore. There was name calling and bullying because I didn't act like everyone else. My clothes weren't name brands and were the wrong size. I had to pay for school meals with meal tickets which made it obvious that something was wrong with me, or so I believed. The high school students were very harsh towards me and I felt as though I had a target on my back to be bullied. I was a square because I didn't fit in, and because I was from a group home. I felt embarrassed. I felt a great deal of shame. I felt alone, hurt, abandoned. I was angry at everyone. I hated and blamed myself, and many times I just wanted to die. 

 

So I split to where my mother lived. But there was no room for me there and my mom told me to go to my sisters and stay with her and her dad. I hadn’t seen my sister or stayed with her since we were really young and I had no memory of our time as children. I didn’t even know who she was prior to my mother telling me about her.

 

I called her and her dad to see if it was okay. I explained my situation and they said it was okay to come. I went to stay with them but eventually I screwed up a good thing by stealing, lying, and manipulating. That was who I had become, how I learned to survive. She was my sister but at the same time I really didn't know her. I didn't have any love for her as my sister because we didn't grow up together and I believed that she was like everybody else who really didn’t care about me. Her dad pulled a knife on me, and I was afraid for my life. The irony was that all I wanted to be loved and cared for, to be held and told that I meant something to someone, that I mattered.