There Goes My Social Life (4 page)

FOUR

THE VOICE NO ONE HEARD

Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong.

—Winston Churchill, quoted in the
Chicago Tribune

S
ometimes people look at me—with my California home and my Manhattan television gig—and think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. That my views on politics must have come from a place of privilege. After all, I'm black. How did I get the “white man's” politics? Was I raised by someone who indoctrinated me from an early age—teaching me the ways of William F. Buckley from the womb?

Hardly. In my case, there was a spoon, but it wasn't silver. It was gold and hung around my mother's neck. She wore it like some mothers might wear their children's baby spoons around their necks to remember the first few months of life. I loved the
way it lay on her chest, the way it caught the light in certain rooms. Turns out, it was more utilitarian than decorative, because she used it to snort cocaine.

As a child, I didn't know that, of course. I didn't understand the challenges of drug addiction. I didn't know that I came along when my mom was just a teenager. I had no comprehension of the stress my parents must've been under as a couple trying to make it in the Bronx with a new baby. I don't remember exactly when they decided that I was too much for them, but I guess it could've been when I was two. That's when they bundled me up and dropped me off at another family's home in the projects . . . people, by the way, I'd never seen before. I walked in the door and the house smelled like urine. Above the pungent smell of poverty, the home also had a lingering smell of
sofrito
—a sauté of green peppers, onions, garlic, oregano, and bay leaves that seemed to be the basis of all the food they cooked. The smell permeated everything in the house, lingering even after the meals had been consumed.

“Clean your plate,” the mom would say, making sure I finished every crumb before telling me to go play. The father was strict and volatile—he'd give spankings for almost anything—but the mom did her best to take care of my physical needs. She always wore white, because the family practiced Santeria, a voodoo-like mix of Catholicism and superstition. I'm not sure whether my parents knew the family they had left me with practiced Santeria, or whether it would've mattered. But surely they must have noticed that the mom always wore white—like a ghost—and that there was a black
muñeca
, or spirit doll, perched in the kitchen window. The doll, with large creepy eyes, was supposedly protecting the home with her spiritual power. It didn't work. I sensed a bad spirit in that house . . . something foreboding and dreadful.

“If he calls you to his room don't even think about going.” The mom was speaking to me, very sternly, about the family's teenaged son. Her tone scared me, and so did her ominous message, which caused me to keep to myself.

After I had lived with the family for a while, my parents showed up. I breathed a sigh of relief and ran into their arms. I thought I'd be going home, that the past month was a mistake . . . maybe something came up and they needed a babysitter. An emergency. However, after a quick visit, they took me right back to that house.

“Don't leave me here!” I didn't have the vocabulary to describe why it was so bad. My mom looked at the other mother, whose eyes narrowed a bit. “Oh, go on,” she smiled. “She'll be fine.”

I scraped at the inside of the closed apartment door, screaming in my despair.

“I want to go home!” Then, I waited, silently hoping that I'd hear my parents on the other side of the door.

“Mommy?” I waited, hearing nothing. “Daddy?”

I could hear the sounds of normal life outside on the street. Kids playing, horns honking, traffic buzzing. But inside, I was trapped in a home that felt unsafe, that smelled of garlic, oregano, and pee. I propped myself up against the door, hoping my parents would return because maybe they would realize they'd forgotten something. Like, for example, me. Eventually, the dad came over with a leather belt and spanked me for crying.

For years, I spent most of my life cooped up, completely dependent on strangers. If I needed to cry, I'd go to the bathroom, sit on the toilet. The walls were peach. Occasionally, my parents would show up with big smiles, but they'd always bring me back when Sunday night came. I did go to preschool, which was a bright spot in an otherwise dreary existence. That's when I began to love education as a way to escape the bad hand I'd been dealt. I'd come home from preschool and watch cartoons. The girls in the family were too old to want to play with me. They were nice enough, but were more interested in boys, clothes, and hair than playing with a toddler.

One night I was playing with an old toy I'd found under a bed.

“Stacey, want some candy?” the brother called from the bedroom next door. I was bored, ignored, alone, and abandoned. If someone offered me candy—someone I saw every day, someone who was a part of what I viewed as my “fake family,” someone I trusted as much as anyone else in that house—I was going to take it. For one second, I paused. What was it that the mom had told me? Oh right. I wasn't supposed to go in there. I had obeyed that instruction for a year. In fact, I'd never even seen his room. But what child can turn down candy?

I know. Cliché, right? I wish I could've told you that he pulled off an elaborate trick to entice me to come into his room, but a simple offer of candy caused me to put down the raggedy toy and walk right in. He shut the door behind me. My eyes probably scanned the room to see what sugary treat he had, but found none. I don't remember exactly what happened in his room—this forbidden, off-limits place. But I do remember what happened when I left the room about a half hour later, my tights full of his ejaculate.

I ran my hands through this sticky stuff, but it wouldn't come off. So I came out and walked over to the mom with my hands up in the air. I'm sure I looked like any small child needing help washing up, perhaps before a meal. But when she saw what was on my hands, the mom gasped.

“Why did you do that,” she cried. “I told you never to go in his room!” I was filled with shame and regret, though I had no idea what the substance was. I began to cry, as the mom desperately yanked off my tights and ran a rag over me.

I was never the same.

At preschool, I didn't want to be around the rest of the children playing—the children who were so obviously cared for and loved . . . their moms walking them to school and waving sweetly as their kids disappeared into the school building. Instead, I'd go off by myself and watch the other girls and boys joyfully chasing each other and jumping rope.

The experience of sexual abuse has shaped my life in ways that I can't really calculate. That feeling of “being used” by someone is not easily shaken. Even now, I'm haunted by it. And that deep-seated feeling of dread was exacerbated by a sick story that came out in the news.

When it was reported that outspoken conservative Josh Duggar—the oldest son of the
19 Kids & Counting
family—had molested five girls, everyone was shocked . . . especially to learn that four of the victims were his sisters and one was a babysitter. Immediately, I felt sick to my stomach. I always do when I hear of abuse. However, it's even worse when outspoken conservatives and advocates of “family values” are involved and don't handle it straightforwardly. (Later, of course, Duggar was exposed during the Ashley Madison hacking, being revealed as someone seeking an extra-marital affair. . . . This was after he let his family testify to his character and to how he had changed since he was younger.)

The reaction of conservative Christians and Republicans—some of whom seemed to be angrier at the reporting than they were at the abuse—was so distressing that it caused me to momentarily pause and think, “Do I really belong to a group of people who seem so unfazed by molestation? By crimes against children?” Republicans spend a lot of time bellyaching about the way that the liberal media hurts us by mischaracterizing us. In this case, however, we managed to embarrass ourselves without anyone's help.

If Republicans want to be taken seriously, we had better start actually dealing with sex and sexual abuse in a real and meaningful way. Victims of sexual abuse don't want to sit by and watch “celebrity Christians” or famous Republicans minimize sexual crimes. They certainly don't want to see them pouring out an elaborate amount of sympathy for the abusers instead of the abused.

Can God forgive Josh Duggar? Of course. I rely on God's grace as much as or more than anyone. But what Republicans cannot do is mimic the “cheap grace” of modern life . . . where “celebrities” make public apologies, then are immediately applauded for their “humility.” Then, after they establish that they're sorry—really sorry!—they simply go right back to their lives without consequences.

Yes, Mark Sanford, I'm talking to you.

Do you remember that guy? He was governor of South Carolina when he disappeared for four days—the police and even his wife had no idea where he was. His staff said the governor claimed to be hiking the Appalachian Trail during this time, though he wasn't answering his phone and didn't call his family on Father's Day. Turns out, he was with his Argentinian mistress, whom he claimed was his “soul mate.” Oops. He had betrayed his wife, his family, and his state, but he still managed to apologize his way to political redemption. He won a congressional seat and then unceremoniously announced on Facebook that he had broken up with his mistress.

By the way, when he was “hiking the Appalachian Trail,” he led the Republican Governors Association.

Now I know that Republicans are not the only ones who have had their sex scandals. Of course, I've read all about the Anthony Weiner, Barney Frank, Eliot Spitzer, John Edwards, Kwame Kilpatrick, Bill Clinton, and John F. Kennedy Jr. affairs and cover-ups.

But here's the thing.

Republicans should have a higher standard. We should deal more honestly with our failings. We should hold ourselves to a higher criterion. Conservative voters should demand better.

When we dismiss sexual misconduct—and crimes!—just because the predator was one of “our tribe,” it plays into the Democrats' misleading “War on Women” meme, minimizes the pain of the victims, and is just plain wrong.

After all, aren't we the ones who preach about fidelity and family values?

FIVE

THE DECISION MAKER

[This nation was created by people] who are free, and who mean to remain so.

—Thomas Jefferson

“L
et's go home.” I lived at that family's house for about three years, until one day my dad showed up and said those three wonderful words.

My
real
home was a walk-up on the fifth floor in the South Bronx. Though I hated walking up five flights of stairs, I didn't complain. I never wanted to be sent away again. When we walked into the house, it smelled of Florida Water, citrus mixed with clove and cinnamon. By now, there was another member of the family: my little brother, who was about four months old. Darien was beautiful—big chocolate eyes and tiny little hands. I was delighted. I loved holding him and wrapping him in blankets. I was overjoyed at having a family—a real family of my own—to love.

In the matter of one day, my life had changed. I had a mom who dressed stylishly, and who also happened to be drop-dead gorgeous. Plus, I had a slender and handsome father. I'd curl up with him on the couch and watch
The Brady Bunch
. He would hold me so close in his arms, and I'd breathe in the woody, masculine smell of his Aramis cologne.

“Daddy, wake up!” I'd say when he'd invariably nod off while sitting next to me on the couch. “You're missing the best part.”

What I didn't understand was that my parents—the people who had rescued me from the family's home—were the same people who had put me there in the first place. I was too young even to read, so I certainly didn't have the ability to process the dynamics of my very dysfunctional family. I guess, in retrospect, it wasn't all that complicated. My parents were druggies.

My mom smoked pot like other people smoke cigarettes. She always had marijuana in her hands, not that she suffered from a lack of versatility. She smoked coolies, which are joints with coke inside. Or, she'd put cocaine in regular cigarettes. Or, to switch it up a bit, she'd sometimes simply freebase. My dad's drug of choice was heroin, which is why he always fell asleep before Jan Brady had a chance to whine, “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” Since I was only five, I just figured he was tired from working so hard. Somehow, he had secured a job at Harlem Hospital as a—wait for it—drug rehabilitation expert.

Even though I was not yet old enough to count proper change, my mother used to send me to the store to pick up cigarettes and milk for her. I realized that I was no one's priority.

My mother's brother, Uncle Ferdinand, was the only exception. Even though I was a small kid, he'd take me aside and teach me little life lessons.

Don
'
t be anybody
'
s trick
.

Don
'
t settle
.

You can do anything you want
.

You
'
re special
.

Your life doesn
'
t have to be limited to the Bronx
.

When the Jesus train comes
,
make sure you
'
re on it
.

Uncle Freddy was always at the house, always looking out for me, and always surrounded by beautiful women. In the neighborhood, he had a certain swagger. Everyone showed him loyalty, honor, and respect. And people who didn't follow that code had to pay the consequences.

When Uncle Freddy and I walked down the street, people on the sidewalk stepped out of the way, made sure they said hello to him, and made sure they shook his hand. When I sat on the front stoop of my building, I'd hear people say, “Don't go over there. That's Freddy's niece.” (Later, I can't tell you how many cute boys didn't come talk to me because of my relationship with Uncle Freddy.)

He seemed to be the only person in my life who cared about teaching me how to live. He gave me a vision to see beyond the Bronx, to dream larger dreams, and to never ever let people boss me around. Plus, he was hilarious. “Hey Stacey,” he said. “Did I tell you the one about the parrot who kept getting annoyed his owner offered him a cracker?” Then he'd go into a long joke—more like a story than a joke—and throw his head back laughing at his own profane punch line.

He was really the one who should've been responsible for me. But he wasn't my parent. One night, Uncle Freddy was over at my house, along with my aunts, other uncles, and a few other people. The place was hopping. My dad put a record on, and everyone was smoking, drinking, and laughing. I sat in front of the television in a room adjacent to all of the festivities. Back then, television sets weren't meant to sit unobtrusively above a fireplace or hang discreetly on a wall. Instead, they were big pieces of furniture that took up half the room. There was a little space between the screen and the wood casing that held our television. After a few hours, I'd grown tired of watching cartoons, so I went up to the glass screen and put my hand on it. I'm not sure how, but I got my little pointer finger stuck between the glass and the case.

“Mommy!” I cried out. “Daddy!” I could feel my pulse in my finger. It was so firmly lodged in that small, unforgiving space that I didn't know what to do. “Help!”

But no one heard my small voice above the cacophony of the party. I cried and cried, as loudly as I could, but the laughter and music drowned out my voice. That's when I realized nobody was listening. I was alone. One hour passed, then another. Finally, I decided to stop screaming, simply because I'd run out of energy. It wasn't helping anyway.

Was anyone ever going to come for me?

Then I heard a voice—not
above
the noise of the party, but
instead of
the noise of the party. Though it was different, it was a voice as clear as anyone's I'd ever heard. Immediately, I recognized it as the voice of God.

“It's just you and Me. Pull your finger out.”

And so, I took a deep breath and ripped my finger from the television. The skin peeled back and blood began to pour down my hand. I walked into the room where my parents were, and my aunt gasped.

“Linda, come quick!” she said, alerting my mother.

I never told them how long I'd been screaming for them. As my mom hastily washed my hand off and put a bandage on my finger, I looked at all of her friends. They were holding half empty glasses, looking through squinted eyes, laughing at things that were obviously not funny, and stumbling around.

This is it
. I thought.
I don
'
t want to be like any single solitary one of you
.

But that incident gave me more than just a determination not to be a partier. It confirmed that I was—in fact—not alone even when it seemed like I was. This was knowledge I would come to rely on, time and time again.

I didn't have the security of knowing where I was going to lay my head at night. Once, my parents took me to my babysitter's house for a nap and didn't return for a week. Another time, they dropped me off with my cousins and didn't come back for a month. And when I was home, things weren't that great anyway. My parents would get into raging arguments that would chill me to the bone.

One morning after a terrible late-night argument—Darien was in his crib, I was watching television, and my teenaged cousins were watching us—my dad told us on his way out the door for work, “Don't wake your mother. She's sleeping.”

She was always sleeping.

However, a five-year-old was going to let her mother rest only so long. I was hungry, and I wanted my mother. Sometimes, when my parents were sleeping, I'd wake up, watch cartoons in the dark, and eat cake all day. It was the only food I could find.

After Dad left, I crept into my mother's bedroom and crawled into her bed.

“Mommy,” I whispered. “My stomach's growling.”

Her eyes were shut, and her mouth was slightly open.

“Mommy!”

She wasn't waking up. I got on top of her and started shaking her.

“Mother!”

When I realized she wasn't waking up, I took my little fingers and pried open her eyes. They were rolled back in her head, so I started screaming.

“Help!” I yelled to my cousins. I couldn't control myself. I didn't know anything about drugs or suicide, but I'd seen death, and I knew I was looking at a shadow of it once again. My cousins ran in and found me screaming while sitting on top of my mom. Next thing I knew, she was being taken away in an ambulance, and Darien and I were sent to my grandparents' house on Long Island.

That was fine by me. They had an acre of land and a teeny house that I saw as a mansion. There was a tall fence behind their house and a sprawling forest—a fun place to explore during the day, but I was always careful to come home before twilight. I had heard the story of Hansel and Gretel, and I didn't want any part of being lost in the woods. My grandmother served us breakfast, lunch, and dinner, which we'd eat at a table . . . not in front of the television. My grandmother was always singing and tap dancing. She would teach me the steps, and we'd belt out duets. They signed me up for tap dance class, and then came to watch me practice every Saturday. I loved it and was good at it. That's when I really got the dance bug.

Once, during the year that we stayed there, Dad came to visit. I watched him as he put his luggage down in his room. There, in his things, I noticed his bag of drug paraphernalia. I didn't know what the bag contained, but I resented the way the contents seemed to make him act. So I took his gear, climbed the fence behind my grandparents' house, went out into the woods about half a mile, and buried it.

That night, I was sitting on the bed as he unpacked and we chatted about the day. He became increasingly distracted.

“What's wrong,” I asked. “Did you lose something?”

Dad dumped the whole bag onto the floor, his hand rifling through socks and tee shirts like he was searching for a grenade that might go off any second.

“No, I'm just unpacking,” he said. Then he turned and looked at me. “Did you take something out of here?”

“Like what?” I asked. He must've sensed I was up to something.

“Stacey!” he yelled, grabbing me by my shoulders and shaking me. “Tell me!”

Even though it was already dark, I ran out into the yard, horrified. I'd never seen him like that. I went out to the fence, placed my feet in the slots, and flipped over it. By retracing my steps from that morning and feeling around, I eventually found the place where I had buried his drugs. I still didn't understand what was in this package, but I knew that my dad really needed it.

I returned with the drugs and plopped them on the bed. He grabbed the bag and began digging through it like a man in the desert lunging for water.

So, no.

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth and I wasn't raised being taught Republican principles. I never heard my parents or friends talking about politics, because it was downstream from where we lived. But Margaret Thatcher said it best. “The facts of life are conservative.” I think I know what she meant.

When my parents decided to do drugs, there was a consequence for them, for me, for our community.

Consequences. That's something I've tried to teach my kids. Consequences are embedded into the way the world works. Liberals try to dull them by coming into our communities with programs to help. Whatever problem you have, the government has a mealy-mouthed, ineffective solution.
Let's take a look at what the government has already done, supposedly to help people like me with one of the problems I encountered as a kid: rampant drug use. While I appreciate that the government wants to get people out of that horrible cycle, their well-intentioned program has turned into a quagmire. Over the past forty years, the federal government has spent over $1 trillion on the War on Drugs with almost nothing to show for it. That's $51,000,000,000 per year.
¹

And the social costs are even more staggering. Between 2001 and 2010, 8 million marijuana-related arrests were made. Not only do these arrests cost millions of dollars, they also brand many black kids as criminals forever. A recent study showed that blacks are nearly four times as likely as whites to face arrest for pot-related offenses. I know what you're thinking: black people do and sell more drugs. Not so fast. The study showed that blacks smoke pot at the same rate as their white friends.
²
Fifty-seven percent of those in state prison for drug offenses are black or Latino.

Undoubtedly the “war on drugs” has caused the number of incarcerated Americans to skyrocket.
³
In 2013, there were 2,220,300 people in federal, state, and local prisons and jails. That's one in every ten adults! Did you know America has the highest incarceration rate in the world?
⁴

Last, the heavy-handed government show of force in the War on Drugs has done a lot to make America look more and more like a police state.

This is what happens when the government tries to save us from ourselves. I guess we should marvel that it only took them forty years to fail this miserably. Growing up surrounded by drugs and addiction, I didn't have a political bone in my body. Yet I knew from experience that the government wasn't going to help me find a better life. I was the person best positioned to solve my own problems.