My Aunt Kay was acutely aware of the dangers I faced when I wasn’t under her constant watch. My aunts and uncles would come through the house at all hours, often in various stages of inebriation. There was also one uncle who posed a genuine threat. In her attempts to keep me safe, my aunt used fear as a tactic. She told me that if I left the yard, a train would run me over; if I got out of bed at night, rats would bite me. She never attempted to spank or hurt me; fear was simply the only way she knew how to protect me. I listened to my Aunt Kay—and I still do.
My mother aged out of reform school the following year but did not return to her parents, who had mistreated her. I knew their disdain for her all too well, as I often witnessed their rants against her. Because my mother did not want me, I earned the nickname “Orphan Annie.” They probably didn’t realize the damage they caused by telling me I was unwanted, nor how their constant use of the phrase “Poor Little Orphan Annie” reinforced that feeling. To my mother, I had become just another tool for her parents to use against her. I longed for a connection with her and tried to catch her attention during her visits to my grandparents’ house. She would often glance in my direction upon entering, yet walk past me as though I were invisible.
I’m unsure what influenced my grandparents’ decision, but they allowed me to stay overnight with my mother when I was two. Even though she took me with her, it was clear that she preferred I wasn’t there. The nights I spent with her always ended the same way. Shortly after my arrival, she would start making plans that did not include me, and knowing she was about to leave terrified me. During these moments, she would blow marijuana smoke in my face to get me to fall asleep. If I didn’t become drowsy immediately, the verbal abuse and mental games began. As a last resort, she would inflict extreme physical violence by grabbing me by my hair and repeatedly throwing me against the wall. My mother placed great value on how others perceived her and rarely left a physical mark in locations where people would take notice; it was our dark secret. As a child, I was more terrified of losing her than of the abuse, and I never shared what was happening with my grandparents or anyone else in a position of authority.
When I was five, my mother became pregnant with my middle sister and settled down. The idea of having a younger sibling excited me, so I moved in with her. A wealthy Christian family helped my mother establish a small house in West Fort Worth. It was a cozy one-bedroom home, but it was clean and well maintained. My mother had just started dating Jimmy; he was only eighteen; he would later become my dad by choice. My mother always kept her temper in check when we were around others, but she often erupted in anger once we were alone. She would scream, “Go and hide! If I find you, I will kill you.” I believed her and would run out to hide down the alley until she calmed down. The Christian family that helped us only saw what my mother wanted them to see. They believed she was a beautiful child of God, but in reality, she was a broken individual in need of healing. I often wonder if they would have offered their help if they had known the truth about her abusive nature, which she hid behind a mask of religion. My mother was much more at ease with my younger sister; when I was little, it truly confused me. I didn’t understand how she could love one of her children and hate the other.
