EXPLOITED :The Voice of A Victim"

As far back as I can remember which I believe was about the age of three. I was a bright-eyed, whitish blonde, curly haired little tomboy. Everything my big brother did I wanted to do. Everywhere he went I wanted to go. He took me under his wing and helped me escape what I seen and experienced in my own home, my brother’s name is Robert. But we called him Bobby. There was one more child she was my sister, her name is Stephanie. We were stair steps, meaning our father impregnated our mother every 4 months. There was 13 months and 1 day between my brother and my sister, my brother being the oldest. There were 13 months and 5 days between me and my sister with me being the youngest. We all looked alike. We were all these little curly haired toe heads with big bright bluish gray eyes. My grandmother showed me a picture once of all three of us sitting in front of a big birthday cake with red shirts on and blue shorts and you couldn’t tell which child was which.

Little did I know until later in life that there was a fourth child. My mother had been raped by her own father and she had given birth to his child. It was a girl also. I can’t remember what my mother said her name was. She died of double pneumonia before she ever really had a chance at life. She was taken away. God had called his little angel back home.I was the youngest of nine grandchildren and my grandparents’ namesake.

I took to my brother more than anyone else in my family. He was fun! What he did was exciting! Even if most of it did lead us, mainly him into trouble. But he took me away from all that I had to endure at home. I remember times when he would creep into my room at 5 or 6 in the morning and shake me and say come on time to get up little girl, you’re coming with me today P.J.; I would be so happy!

And oh, the adventures he would take me on! They were wonderful, exciting, and sometimes scary all at the same time. For instance, the Ohio Historical Center was one of our favorite places. We loved looking at the dinosaur bones and fossils and such. It would be nothing for him to take me and my sister in tow and cross a four-lane highway early in the morning just to get us there. We were very young at the time. I think we were 5,6, and 7 years of age. There were times he would take me fishing, sneak into our neighbor’s pool, explore a burnt down building, our adventures were our escape from the insanity inside of our home, and the secrets kept inside of us.

You see when I was very, very young I remember probably since the age of three my father drinking constantly and flaunting women in front of my mother and abusing her. My father was an abusive, violent alcoholic. In turn, she abused us and took her anger out on us. I remember him bringing this fiery red-haired woman into our home on numerous occasions with his hand in hers. He didn’t care what we thought or our mother either for that fact. The problems in our parent’s marriage never began until our father began cheating on our mother. This redheads name was Mary with long spiral curls, fiery red hair and milky white porcelain skin.

My father worked at an auto parts store for most of his life. After coming out of the Marines. He eventually worked his way up to manager. Although I will never know how he got that position considering the way he drank. It didn’t matter to my father Robert when or where he drank. For many years he carried a flask full of Seagram’s Seven right in his jacket pocket and used to mix it with his coffee first thing in the morning when he woke up or when he got to work. He was a cruel man, a relentless man when alcohol was in his system, in his blood. He never even wanted me to be born according to our mom. I won’t sugarcoat my father’s behavior for anyone, I’ve held all of this inside, lived in silence for long enough. If his family happens to read my story I’m sure they won’t be pleased with me exposing our father Robert Roy Smith for what he put us all through. I was told that my father wanted his story to be told about the devastating effects of alcoholism and the damage it did to his family, his finances, his children, also to his health and well being.

My mother told me when I was about ten or eleven how he beat her and punched her and threw her down the stairs when she was pregnant with me. Because he said he already had his boy and his girl and he didn’t want any more children. My father tried to kill me while my mother was trying to carry me in her womb according to our mother.

I don’t really recall the abuse he put us through until like I said around the age of three. I’m sure there was much more that my mother, brother, and sister went through that I don’t even know about. How he grew up to be such a mean, cruel, evil man I will never know. If you were to meet his mother, his father, his brother and his family, you would question it yourself.

These people were the salt of the earth. They are a wonderful family, with good morals, good values, and a strong family bond. As a matter-of-fact they were the only ones in my life that ever offered any type of normalcy in my life. My grandmother loved to cook. Everything she did she did from scratch. I used to spend countless hours in the kitchen with my grandma, watching, listening, and learning how to prepare food.

People would call and order food from her. When I went for a visit I would eat so much I would be sick on the ride back home. Her name was Stella Josephine. But you better never call her Stella! I loved her so much. She was a tough, strong woman. She loved life, her husband, her sons, her grandchildren, but most of all she loved God. His spirit shined through her like a light. She played the organ at church, she played on the woman’s soft ball team and she sang his praises every day. I truly loved that woman.It was my grandmother and my Aunt Donna Jean that helped me build a relationship and a foundation with God.When you are taught to have a relationship with God at a young age, it is instilled in you forever.

Even if you sin, backslide, our turn your back on God by losing faith in Him and in yourself; that relationship, that foundation that your parents or grandparents helped instill and build in you never dies and never fades.When difficult times come along in our lives is when we lean on Him, or pray to Him the most in our lives.

My heart though, my heart was with my grandfather. His name was Paul. My granddaddy was my knight in shining armor. He was a man with a heart of gold. He would do anything for anybody. Everywhere my grandfather went you could best believe that this bright-eyed little toe head wasn’t too far behind. I would be walking in his footsteps lingering a little behind. My grandfather meant everything to me. He was exactly what I wanted in a father, but couldn’t have. I was named after both of my grandparents. When my grandfather looked at me I could see the love in his eyes, which is something I really didn’t experience much with my own father.

I spent hours upon hours with my grandfather when I could, whether it would be at the nearest fishing hole, going to the dump together, or going square dancing at the senior’s center with people four or five times my age!! It didn’t matter to me what we were doing that day, what mattered was spending time with my granddad. My name is Paula Jo Smith. Paul is my grandfather’s name and Josephine is my grandmother’s name. Although my family has always called me P.J. or Paula Jo; I prefer just being called Paula.

My favorite times with my grandparents though was in the garden they had out back, hanging clothes on the line, or snapping green beans on the front porch in their double-seater swing. These were the times I felt peace, these were the times I felt my families love, the times I listened while they talked, times when I experienced and admired the bond of love between two people teaching their grandchildren their life lesson’s. These are the times I cherished most during my childhood. These are the times I connected with God and His spirit, they were the only ones that brought that out in me, the only ones that truly nurtured that in me.

Uncle Dan out or my Aunt Donna Jean had a huge dairy farm in Racine, Ohio. My uncle had eighty-eight cattle back then and owned 400 acres of farming land. My Uncle Dan rented and farmed another 500 acres of the county. My uncle auctioneered in Ohio and West Virginia for 37 years and drove a school bus for 33 years. He is one of the most amazing men I’ve ever met.Before he sold his dairy farm, he had 500 cattle. He has never allowed this world to change him from being the man our grandfather raised him to become.

The last time I spent time there with my uncle and aunt each one of my cousins had their own vehicles and most of them had their own homes. My uncle was the type of man who rewarded my cousins for all their hard work. It wasn’t an easy task getting up at 4 or 4:30 every morning feeding the cattle and hooking them up to the milking machines. That doesn’t count the horses, the pigs, the chickens and such. On top of that I remember my uncle having acre upon acre of corn and hay, which was more responsibility. But my cousins did everything they were asked to do. Yes, there were times when they didn’t want to or they may have put up a fuss, but each one of them knew they had to do what they had to do to maintain the farm; it was their livelihood, their bread and butter.

They were raised and came up to be beautiful human beings three boys and three girls. My oldest cousin was Don a truck driver and farmer. He had a wife named Mary and they had two sons. The there was Bonnie a nurse. Next came my cousin Faith a school teacher and her husband Terry and they had two little girls; Jenny and Bridget. Then there was my cousin Tim he was always the quiet shy one. The last two are my cousins Ted and Tammy who also became a school teacher. I was closest to them probably because of the distance in age between me and my other cousins. I loved being on the farm and working side-by-side with all of them. Being with them, all of them, showed me how a real family should function. Like I said before these people offered me the only normalcy I’d ever experienced in my young life. I learned from them that a “divided house will not stand.” That when a family worked together, prayed together, worshipped together, that a family stayed together.

You see in my home it was nothing but turmoil, hatred, and resentments. I believe my father resented the fact that he married my mother. I believe he resented having the responsibility of us children I think he was one of those men that either just married my mom because she was pregnant with his child, or thought he wanted a family but we slowed him down. We hindered his life; we were nuisances, stumbling blocks for this man whose only real concern was when his next drink was going to be.

I remember so many times my father coming home from work drunk when he walked in the door. He would curse my mom out or beat her, grab the newspaper and fall asleep on the couch, never having time for his children. Barely acknowledging we were even there. I mean sure he might come in and kiss me on my forehead or say, “How are my girls doing?” But other than that, there was no real physical or emotional love displayed by my father.

There were times I wish he would have never came home. There were times I cringed when he walked through that door. Not knowing what type of mood he was in, or which one of us was going to suffer abuse that evening because he had a bad day.

I’ve seen my dad pick my brother up and throw him up against a wall and knock him unconscious at the age of seven or eight, just because my brother took a little money to entertain his sisters, to keep us busy and out of trouble. I’m not condoning my brother taking the money, but to have to suffer such abuse from this man was a huge price to pay.

There were times I’d be afraid to come home from school, not knowing what I’d find when I came home. Not knowing whether my father had taken lunch that day and had come home and beaten my mother. I was always afraid of that. There had been times I’d seen my father beat my mother as high as three times in one day. This was continuous. It never ended. The slightest thing would trigger this man’s temper, such as waking him up off the couch and telling him it was time for dinner. He would come up swinging, cursing, and hollering at us.

My brother and my mother suffered most of the abuse by the hands of my father. My brother would step in to defend our mother and he would beat him and my mom, all at the same time. These are images that used to be hard to shake! These are memories that used to bring burning tears to my eyes or wake me from a sound sleep. I remember when I was a little girl I feared of my own mother’s death and I would have nightmares of our mother being killed.

Our father broke our mother’s nose nine times. He blacked her eyes so many times I lost count. He was an angry, abusive, and violent alcoholic who caused a lot of pain, hurt, trauma and frustration for every one of our family members. Domestic Violence doesn’t just affect the victim, it affects the entire family. Another time I remember significantly is the time my mother was across the street at her best friend’s house, sharing a drink with them. It was fine for my father to drink and gallivant with women, but it was not fine for my mother to do the same in turn. Her responsibility was in the home; taking care of the house, us children, and making sure his food was prepared when he finally decided to come home.

I remember this beating so clearly, like it was yesterday. My mother came home bloody that night, severely bloody. He had split her head open! He had gone to her best friend’s house beat her, and split her head open on their bar. I believe it was close to a hundred stitches my mother had received that night to close up her head. I remember her driving, all three of us kids in the car, and her crying and screaming in excruciating pain. How it used to break my heart to see my mother go through all that she went through with my father.

I’ve seen him break her nose, black her eyes, leave bruises all up and down this beautiful woman’s body. My mother was so beautiful. I remember seeing this picture of my father and mother together not too long after they first met. They looked like they should have been in Hollywood. He was in his black suit with his arms around her slim waist. She with her striped pleated skirt and starched white shirt. They were so striking together, but my mother’s beauty was extraordinary in that picture. She was a tall lady, she stood about 5’10” in height. She had a wonderful smile, hazel green eyes, and a figure to die for! She was gorgeous. She weighed about 150 pounds most of her life. To think that he scarred her, beat her, abused her, and ruined that beauty in our mother Anita Elaine Light makes my stomach wretch.

Her name was Anita. She came from a large family in California. I have three uncles and two aunts that I’ve never met. I have never had that opportunity. You see my father was a Marine. That’s how he and my mother met. But immediately after marrying her in San Francisco, he took her back to Ohio. We settled in the state capital; Columbus, Ohio. I know that she came from an affluent family. We are Junior Pioneer Granddaughters of Seattle Washington. The story is our great-great grandfather helped found Seattle Washington and began the Pioneers of America Foundation. I know our great-great grandmother was a full-blooded Lightfoot Indian. According to our mother she claims that there is a Lightfoot Arkansas and that our grandmother’s side of the family founded that town too.

There were many, many more of these days that the abuse continued in our home before my parents were divorced. I remember my dad not just taking things out on us, but he had hurt a family pet of ours on occasion as well. One time I remember so clearly. We had a dog named Spiffy. She was like Lassie, she was Collie and German Shepard mixed. She was a wonderful dog. She was with our family for quite a long time. She’d been struck by a car on two different occasions. One of the times affected her sight. The other time she had a splint in her leg. I remember when her leg healed, rather than taking her to the vet to remove the splint; my father decided he was going to extract it himself! She cried, she yelped, and she hollered! I remember all three of us children standing at the top of the steps crying, begging, and pleading for him to stop.

I guess the abuse bothered me so much, because after my father would hurt my mother; in turn, she took it out on me. You see I was the baby of the family, which meant I was around my mother a lot more than my siblings. Not only that but I believe my mother sort of faulted me for the down fall of their marriage. My father never wanted me to be born.

There were two occasions our mother beat me which I won’t forget. The first time I remember clearly occurred when I was five years old. I had been at school that day and needed to go to the bathroom. I raised my hand and informed the teacher. She told me I’d have to wait for five or ten minutes because we’d be lining up for the bathroom shortly anyways. Well my body couldn’t wait that long! It had to go now! Well by the time the lined formed….it was too late. I was so embarrassed! The school principal called my mother and told her she needed to come and pick me up, I’d had an accident in my clothing.

When we returned home, she took me in the bathroom and began to wash me up. Then she began washing my undergarment. The whole time she was she continued to get louder and louder with me. Next thing I know she turned around and shoved me. When she did I fell backwards and split my head open on the windowsill. I can’t recall how many stitches I received or even if she bothered to take me to the hospital I was so little then.

The other time I recall occurred when I was eight years old. It was pretty much along the same lines, only this time I had an accident during the night. She was so mad when she went to make my bed that day. When I walked in from school she started yelling. The next thing I know she reared her foot back and kicked me. She had a pair of these thin, hard fronts, flat sandals on. It hurt! Blood started pouring out from under my chin!

She never took me to get stitches this time. Instead she took some butterfly bandages and used them to close the wound. She lied to my father when he got home that night and told him that I fell on a saw he’d left in the yard. Really though I was afraid to get up in the middle of the night at that age. This was the period right before my parents divorced. My mom said she meant to kick me in the stomach not in the face. Wow! She could have rupture my spleen.

There were a lot of things taking place when we children were supposed to be sleeping! Like drinking, partner swaps in the living room and the use of drugs as well. I remember sitting with my dad counting pink hearts and white crosses. I remember my brother having me pocket a few for him. I didn’t know then what they were or what they were for. I thought they were candy; it wasn’t too much longer after that when I discovered the truth.

My father didn’t ever care what he exposed his children to. It never seemed to matter to him. He wouldn’t know what the word protective meant if it hit him in the forehead! On top of everything else there were the beatings. They became more and more frequent and more and more violent. Like the one incident, the last time he beat my mother while they were still married. Three times in one day! I’d never seen anything like it before. He smashed a cantaloupe with cottage cheese inside into her face, he stripped her naked, he beat, kicked, and punched her. Right in front of this red-headed woman he’d been flaunting in front of my mother for five years now….and his three young children. He left our beautiful mother curled up in a ball, beaten, bloody and naked right in our entry way.

My parents were too busy indulging themselves in drugs, alcohol, and sex. They were too self-absorbed to care about what was going on with their children. I remember one time when my father wasn’t home and my mother was across the street with her friends drinking. Their son Artie was supposed to be babysitting us children. I was around 5 or 6 years old. He tied my brother to a chair and made him watch as he sexually assaulted and raped me. I remember my brother crying and screaming. I also remember the very serious threat this young man made to me and my brother. He told us he’d kill us both if we ever told anyone what he had done. We never did! I believe he raped my sister that night too.

I remember my older sister Stephanie Ann being jealous of me ever since I was born. I remember her beating on me, throwing things at me, locking our bedroom door and holding me down and punching me. My mom said that when I was born Stephanie went from walking back to crawling, she went back to taking a bottle, she threw things at me when I was in the playpen. One time when I was four months old she bit my fingers until they turned purple. As a child, a little girl I experienced abuse from each one of my immediate family members, father, mother, brother, and sister.

Before their divorce, there was a period in my childhood that my parents left us children. They left us with this woman we called Ma’am Maw and her son Harry. They were so mean to me! The things they did were cruel; mainly the son, Harry. Harry had these games he’d play with us. One was a card game. If you picked the wrong card he’d spank us or crack our fingers with a ruler. Harry’s other favorite game was blindfolding us and sticking his fingers in our mouth and making us guess which finger it was.It wasn’t always his finger. I’m sure you get the picture and I don’t need to elaborate!

I remember one time when my parents came to visit us there. I had lost a tooth! I was so excited to know my parents were coming.I believe it was the first tooth I ever lost! I remember showing it to my mother and she said, “Oh that’s great honey.” My dad slipped me a couple of bucks. They were getting ready to leave. I held onto my mother’s legs so tight. The last thing I wanted was to stay there. The last thing I wanted was for them to walk away! It hurt so bad to see them climb in their car and drive away. I cried many, many tears later when I was all alone.

I believe they claimed they were working on their marriage. They needed time and space. We did come back together as a family.Things were better for a while. My father once again began to drink every day. He still cheated on my mother. Nothing had really changed. I think he was just doing things undercover for a while, so my mother and his children would believe he’d changed.

I remember similar incidents with men later in my life, when they made empty promises never to hit me again, never to hurt me again. I believed it and made the same mistake as my own mother. I went back, stayed there and endured the abuse for a little while longer. There comes a point in time that you have to stand up for yourself, escape, leave, move on to something and someone better for your life.

If you don’t have peace within, if there is turmoil, fights, belittling, arguments, cheating, or abuse it’s best to leave the relationship you are in. Just like our mother Anita tried to do when I was eight years old.

I’m not saying that they were always abusive. I’m not saying that my entire childhood was bad. I’m saying it was extremely difficult for me growing up, and it seemed past that point it only began to get harder and harder for quite some time, at least until the age of 24.When I woke up! When I changed, when I decided to change. When I decided to take a stand for me and my life!

We can’t force anyone in our lives to change. That must be a decision that someone makes for themselves. The willingness to change comes from within. People try to change each other through criticism, judgments, and ridicule. People try to change each other through constant nagging and putting pressure on that person to change. Eventually a person must realize on their own accord to Change I Must or Die I Will. Our father never changed, never wanted to change. Our mother ended up leaving and divorcing our father when I was eight years old.

There were some very good times growing up as a child. I remember all the long road trips and the time spent at my grandparent’s home and how happy and normal those times were! They were very happy, fulfilling times for me during my childhood.

I also remember fishing on Lake Erie and the Ohio River with my father and the rest of my family. I remember times alone with my grandpa on the Ohio River fishing by his side as well. I remember great Christmases when our home was usually filled with family friends. I remember trips to Delaware Beach and Sea World. I remember kissing Shamu the Killer Whale! These were great times as a family and they are the memories I like to remember. I remember days when that closeness with my family, those fun times together were days I wish didn’t have to end, times I wish could last just a little while longer. I remember being the one crying because I didn’t want the day to end, the trip to end, I wasn’t ready to leave yet!

That was because I knew once we returned home things were going to be the same as they were before. Screaming, cursing, arguing, and fighting amongst my mother and father was going to continue. Sometimes we didn’t even get home or didn’t even get in the door good before my father started yelling at my mother for something that happened during our trip, something he didn’t like.

I used to have nightmares as a child, that would wake me up screaming and crying. I remember one night when I had one of my nightmares my father came and picked me up and put me at the foot of the bed and covered me up. My parents ended up separating and divorcing when I was eight years old after that horrible beating occurred. Their divorce was a more traumatic experience for us than even the marriage was! All three of us children stuck in the middle of our parents very nasty divorce.

I’ve had these visions almost all my life of my father making us all come into the living room and him lining us up from youngest to the oldest, me being the first in line and my mother being the last. He came around to the side of my head and put a pistol up toward my temple area. He made his threats toward my mother, she began to scream, to beg, to plead for him not to do it! I believe his intention was to kill us all in front of her and then beat on her some more before he finally took her life. There was a similar incident involving us children and our dad a few short months later.

I really don’t know whether the first incident happened. Those times were full of turmoil. There was constant hatred between the two of them. My mom had Tommy her boyfriend; my father had Mary his girlfriend. I think the only reason why they were trying to make like everything was fine was for us children, I think it’s the only reason my mother stayed as long as she did. That and the constant fear she had of this man; I happen to know what that fear feels like, I experienced it myself years later with someone I was involved with.

I remember one of her friends that lived across the street said that someone had gone into our old house after we left and my dad had footprints all over the walls. Things were broken and destroyed. I was glad I never had to go back there again. Those days in that house were the worst! All I can remember was being a very frightened little girl as I observed all that was happening around me.

My dog Sir Lance-A-Lot had been poisoned by a neighbor. My brother had become more and more confrontational with my father which meant he got knocked around even more. There were them flaunting their new mates in front of one another and the partner swapping in the living room, lots of alcohol, and lots of drugs.

My father didn’t ever care what he exposed his children to. It never seemed to matter to him. He wouldn’t know what the word protective meant if it hit him in the forehead! On top of everything else there were the beatings. They became more and more frequent and more and more violent. Like the one incident, the last time he beat my mother while they were still married. Three times in one day! I'd never seen anything like it before. He smashed cantaloupe with cottage cheese inside into her lovely face, he stripped her naked, he beat, kicked, and punched her. Right in front of this red-headed woman he’d been flaunting in front of my mother for five years now….and his three young children.

The incident that happened a few months later was when the three of us and two close family friends wanted to walk to the store. You see when my mother left my father she didn’t go running back home; she turned to her friends for help! I'm sure it took a lot of courage for her to finally leave and escape the abuse at the hands of our father; a man she loved so much.

My friends and all of us children had talked our mother, and my mom’s close friends; Mike and Sue into letting all of us walk to the local corner store. It was a nice little walk to get there. Well I remember we were on our way back when I spot my father’s car, my brother did too, almost at the same exact time. We both shouted run! My brothers voice louder than mine. I remember hearing shots whirling around us, all of us running as fast as we could. I remember making it back to their home. I remember the shots now piercing the door and the sides of the house! I remember Mike shouting all of us get to the basement, find cover, or get low. I was so scared! I don’t think we ever went out again alone. At least not until my mother found an apartment of her own. Even then we lived in hiding for the most part, whenever my dad did locate us again there was always a beating waiting for my mother.

I remember living in the same kind of fear our mom must’ve felt when I was in Washington D.C. during my young adult years. I didn’t have children to protect then though. Just me, little ninety-seven pound me. I didn’t do the protecting then, God did! One of the things about my childhood growing up that I am most thankful for is the fact that my elders helped me build a relationship and a foundation with God and taught me scripture. If it wasn’t for my grandma, grandpa, elder cousins, aunt and uncles instilling this in me I don’t believe I would’ve lived to tell my story.

My brother Bobby had been through so much in his young life. He had seen so much more than what me and my sister did. You see Bobby would always be the one to confront my father. He was always the one to step in between him and my mother. My brother had done the best he could to protect all of us from our father when we were growing up. There were numerous times that I can recall where Bobby would stand face-to-face with my father in defense of one of us. He took many, many blows at the hands of my father. I watched this little boy show so much strength and courage. I watched this little boy stand up to a man and take the blows of a violent alcoholic. It broke my heart that we couldn’t just be kids, that we couldn’t just be children. All three of us had to grow up way too soon.

Each and every blow that my brother took from my father was a big deal to him though, because it changed him. It changed my brother tremendously from being this free spirited, fun loving little boy, who loved to have fun and entertain his little sisters. It made him hard, cold, and bitter. He got to the point where he’d been hurt so much that my brother Bobby didn’t care who he hurt. He was out to strike back! He didn’t care who he lashed out at, or who he hurt. Our brother became a hurt, troubled, angry young man behind all he had to witness as a little boy growing up in a household full of women he had to protect from a violent alcoholic, and cheating husband. Our mother finally mustered up with the courage and strength to leave our father when I was eight years old, my sister Stephanie was nine, and Bobby was ten.

When we were young our father used to drag all three of his children in and out of bars. It was nothing to see Robert or Anita with their three children in tow. They'd dress us up all cute and pretty sometimes when they took us with them. I remember drunk after drunk in our faces talking about what pretty little girls we were. I couldn’t stand it! I didn’t like it, I didn’t like them being in my face, smelling their stinky breath. I didn’t like the way my clothes smelled when we’d leave either. I couldn’t wait to get home and take them off. I felt gross!! Like I said before my parents weren’t protective at all. It didn’t matter to them what they exposed us to. They never acted as if they cared what we were learning or picking up from their actions!

I almost lost my brother Bobby on three separate occasions. One time he was about 8 or nine years old. He hitched a ride on the back of a family friend of ours van down to his friend Jerry’s house. My brother fell off of the back of that van! My father gets a phone call from the family friend’s screaming for my father to hurry. All I can remember was my father carrying my brother home with blood all over him and all over my father. My brother’s curls were entirely soaked with blood as well as his face and arms. My father is hollering, “Why Bobby why?” I thought we were going to lose my brother that night.

Another time was when my brother and I both had pneumonia. My brother was so very, very ill. He could barely breathe and I could barely move myself. He wanted me next to him but my mother was keeping us apart. We both had walking pneumonia. This old house we lived in was drafty. There were water spots in the ceiling, the door never seemed to stay closed properly, and it wasn’t good living conditions.

They had to stick a tube in my brother Bobby’s side to drain some of the fluid off of his lungs. I remember him lying there on the couch with wax so thick coming from his ears it was a shame! I would come wandering out in the living room and over to the couch and lay my head down next to my brother and say “It’ll be okay Bobby. Hang in there big brother!” He’d say, “I love you sissy.” I’d tell him I love you too! Both of our little heads burning up with fever! My mother was very worried for us both. She’d already lost her oldest daughter to double pneumonia.

Another time I remember I almost lost my brother was when he was hit by a bus. I think it was one of those days Bobby was going on one of his adventures alone. I have a baby boy that thinks he can do the same! He takes off in a heartbeat. I can’t remember what busy intersection my brother was trying to cross that day. I told you he was fearless just like my middle son is fearless. They think their indestructible! Anyways the bus didn’t see my brother in time. He walked around in almost a complete upper body cast for quite some time. I think one of his legs were broken too. It’s been so long ago.

This doesn’t include the times my father would beat on my brother or pick him up and slam him against a wall so hard he knocks him unconscious. We'd seen a lot as little children. More than we should have ever had to witness and go through as little kids. I loved my brother so much he was my protector back then. I remember an old black and white photo my mother had shown me one time of my brother Bobby dressed in a fashionable little suit. He was holding me in his arms, and my sister Stephanie was sitting at his side. My sister and I dressed in pretty little dresses, sitting on a bench. He was special to me growing up; he was always special to me! After our parents separated and eventually divorced my brother Bobby wasn’t in our lives as much anymore. He went to live with our father and we went to live with our mother, Stephanie and me.

I remember one time my dad was inside of this bar called the Tip Top. It was his favorite watering hole. We were all walking to the store with my mother. It was just a few months before she lost custody of us. Bobby said he was going to go see if our dad was inside when we walked by and ask him for some money to help my mom with buying some groceries. We stood there and waited for my brother while he went inside and checked for my father. The two of them came walking out of the back door. I see them talking. The next thing I know my father’s fist goes flying into my brother’s face. My father had sucker-punched my brother so hard he busted his lip and his nose in one blow!

My brother Bobby just turns around and walks away. I'm watching him. Blood pouring down his face, tears welled up in his big eyes. My father turns and walks back inside. Like what had just taken place between him and my brother was no big deal.

Little did I know that when our parents divorced not only was I losing a father figure in my life, but I would also be losing the closeness and the bond I had developed with my big brother Bobby. He went to live with our father. Our relationship would never be the same again. My brother Bobby was no longer that care free, spirited, happy little boy. Swinging as high as he could swing as he sung “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog." Now he became a dark, scary, mean young man. He was becoming more and more like our father.

Our mother loved to write too. She had approximately 3 notebooks full of poems that she wrote. I used to sit and read our mother’s poetry for hours. She was a talented writer, but she never had the opportunity to pursue her dreams and have her work published.

In honor of our mother Anita Elaine Light I would like to include a poem she wrote to our father that has stuck in my mind still after all these years. This is my mother’s poem she wrote right after their rocky marriage ended:

“Unforgotten”

I took each golden memory,

That you and I have shared,

I locked them in a treasure chest,

As if I never cared.

And as if we never met,

But in the stillness of the night I seem to see you yet.

It’s when the rain is falling,

Or when the moon is low,

Or when I walk down Memory Lane,

It’s then I seem to know.

How much you really cared,

And how much our love could grow.

You are unforgotten.

Written By,

Anita