Momma said, "NEVER FEEL SORRY FOR A MAN"

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Contents

Acknowledgements....................................................viiIntroduction........................................................ixChapter 1. In the Beginning was the TEENYEARS.......................1Chapter 2. SevenYears and Not married!!.............................15Chapter 3. Out of the frying pan into the fire......................21Chapter 4. New Home ... New Season..................................32Chapter 5. Rehab? Not Me!!..........................................34Chapter 6. Going Home Facing Reality................................44Chapter 7. Yes ... I Married Him....................................47Chapter 8. The NightClub Escape.....................................72Chapter 9. A New Journey in St Lucia................................78Chapter 10. Marriage #2 Still Growing...............................95Chapter 11. The Lessons.............................................122Chapter 12. Wisdom, Knowledge and Understanding.....................133

Chapter One

I was seventeen years old living in North Philadelphia in an abandoned house; well actually, it was a condemned house. We were heart broken when my mother said we had to move from our home near 38th and Girard. She tried to cover it up by telling us she had a disagreement with the landlord Ms. Chase. The house did need some ceiling work, but in reality it was because she could not pay the rent. I was taking classes at the time, and working at Gino's. (a.k.a. now KFC).

Myself, my mother three brothers and three sisters had no place else to go except this condemned house. Well that is what my mother thought. A relative whom we had never met owned the house as we were told. I remember when we got there, a so called boyfriend of mine who had introduced me to my first taste of monster(speed)had helped us move. I never put it in my nose, only my tongue. That experience only lasted a few weeks. I got tired of it challenging me when I wanted to get some sleep. God's grace would not allow me to be a drug addict.

I still remember the the hurt on my little brother's face, as he was told to help pull off the aluminum siding from the windows. I noticed the orange sticker from the city that was proof the house was not livable. You are probably wondering why were we living in a house not fit for anyone to live in? We were forced to move out of our home after my mother's gambling debts had to take priority over the bookies who had threaten to break her legs. My mother had been gambling since we were little children, not every day. It was her plan to get extra money when the money was running out.

She managed to keep food on the table and was a good cook. We hated the gambling habit. She worked sometimes as a nurse's aide or at the candle factory. But raising 7 children alone was difficult. I guess she felt that hitting the number would help, and strangely at times she would hit and it did bring in some extra money. But most times she didn't.

Some time later, I had a minimum wage job at an insurance company in Center City Philadelphia after taking some keypunch classes. I called it my first real job after working in fast food restaurants during my early teen years and cleaning the meat man's home for Trans Pass money to go to school.

I had no belief at the time that I could go to college. Dreams and goals were never discussed in our home. Nor was I affirmed as to how special I was. I was self motivated by what I already knew or hoped for. I thought middle-class or rich people could only go to college. I wanted to be a nurse but felt my family did not have the money so those dreams went out of the window.

I got paid bi-weekly and hated the fact that my mother would make me feel guilty until she got at least half my paycheck. We had agreed on a specific amount and I honored that. I loved my mother a lot, but I just wanted to see her make better choices. I wanted her to show me appreciation.

I wanted a better life. I was tired of the insanity in our home. Later after the water was shut off we had to borrow water from the neighbor and the kitchen was shut off with a board in the doorway, because of the rats. My mother cooked on a hot plate in the dining room, she sank into depression. The rooms were always dark except for a little light coming in from a open curtain.

I would come home from work everyday and play one of my albums and just dance myself tired until I was ready to go to sleep. That was something I was good at, even dancing in school. But when I got to high school I did not have the confidence to resume a career in the Arts. Nor did I know anything about Performing Arts School. I loved drama, dance, singing and playing the violin.

My sister and I use to perform in middle school. We both played the violin, danced and sang in our younger years. It was a few good memories I have from my childhood. Dancing was also a way to keep warm in that cold little house. Remember The Jackson Five, Earth Wind and Fire, Teddy Pendergrass, the Ohio Players, Heatwave? Now that was music.

After dancing, and bathing in cold water, well sometimes if I wanted to wait I would heat the water on the hotplate. I would then put on my mohair nightgown that I got from the thrift store to keep me warm and get on the sofa bed in the living room. We had electric but no heat. We had to bathe upstairs in a cold room after the bathroom sink and tub stopped working. We would never allow any friends to come in to use our toilet.

We all had our way of coping. Some did drugs, some drank, some looked for others in relationships to rescue them. I had done enough drugs and alcohol by the age of nineteen to last me a while including selling speed(yellow jacks, christmas trees)in capsules on the street to friends, just for $2 a piece for lunch money.

Strangely, I loved angle dust; it smelt like peppermint. A so called boyfriend introduced this green stuff to me. When smoking it, I felt I was standing high off the ground as if wearing elevator shoes. During those Summer nights, I would look up at the sky at the stars and just wish I could reach up and touch it. I was too ignorant and immature at the time to know that I was doing a drug that was very dangerous.

I still can't believe I was doing these things at such a young age, it was my way of escape.

I watched my mother in and out of abusive relationships every since I was a little girl in elementary school. I watched my mother feel sorry for each of these sick men. In my earlier teen years, there were three that were the most insane.

The first one was Mr. Walt short, stocky built and probably never stepped foot in a gym. He had a cool walk and a swag that got most people's attention. And Mr. Kenny, red bone skin tone with a dual personality. He would change from a perm to an afro so quick you would wonder if his real name was Clark Kent. He would look in the mirror after changing his hair and admire himself.

My sister and I would peek at him when the bathroom door was open and watch him talking to himself as if in love with himself. At the time I did not understand what vanity meant. He would say to himself "I am a pretty motherf____. You know the word. My sister, and I were fifteen months apart and close. We were the two oldest girls, I was the oldest. We did a lot of praying together in those days. We learned how to pray until we got a answer. We prayed a lot out of fear.

When my mother tried to break up with Mr. Walt, he threatened to kill her. He told her if he couldn't have her nobody else would have her. One night when we were in our beds on the third floor(another home of course) I heard my mother screaming, my name I believe. Her room was at the bottom of the stairs, I woke up and went to her room. She was lying on the bed bleeding and screaming in pain and fear. Mr. Walt had followed her home and stabbed her three times.

I called the police and she was taken to the hospital, he had missed her heart by inches. She survived. All was well for a short period of time, maybe a few weeks, until one night, we were sleep in our rooms. We were awaken by loud glass breaking downstairs. We ran upstairs to the third floor where my aunt and her children slept.

We were afraid to go downstairs. There was an evil presence in the house. We began to smell smoke coming up the stairs, we ran down the stairs. We were trapped on the second floor. Mr. Walt had broken in the house placed the trash bags of trash on the steps and set them on fire and ran out.

At the time my cousin was living with us. He leaped over the banister, and ran out of the house, the fire department was arriving around the same time. Fortunately we lived near the fire station. Seven children my mother my aunt and her two children, trapped in a three story house saved just in time. Thank God. Someone must have been praying for us. I believe it was my mother's oldest sister, some great aunts and my grandmother and relatives on my father's side.

You would think that experience would have been enough, of course not. I mentioned Mr. Kenny remember? My mother met him some time after Mr. Walt. One day while we were in the bedroom watching Soul Train, my mother and Mr. Kenny was arguing on the stairs. I peeked out the room, and he had a large butcher knife in his hand. He was threatening my mother with it and hitting the wall. Being the oldest, I felt a strange sense of responsibility for my family.

I felt I had to do something. When I got the chance and saw an opening between the two, I ran down the stairs and just as I hit the front door, he said "get back up here before I kill your mother"! His voice was very threatening. At first I looked at the door wondering if I should take a chance and run and get help. But I was afraid that I would come back and everyone would be dead.

I would have felt it was my fault. Going back could not have been the best choice, but I took the chance. Slowly I came back up the stairs keeping my eyes on him and my mother, hoping he would not plunged the knife in my back. I was maybe 11 years old at the time.

My mother was able to calm him down. We were able to relax a little as they went in the other room. Some days later, I do remember he turned into a copy cat psycho. One night while we were sleeping, once again we heard a loud noise downstairs. We smelt smoke and ran down the stairs. Mr. Kenny had set the trash on fire in the kitchen. Once again saved by divine intervention.

It looked as if Mr. Kenny and my mother had split up for good. I thought she had pressed charges on him. We moved a short time after to a house in West Philadelphia, things were looking up. It was like the Jefferson's. I felt we were moving on up. We had a better house with seven bedrooms 2 bathrooms, shed kitchen, three floors and new friends. Uncle Jim, my mother's uncle came to live with us some time later.

My mother started seeing Mr. Kenny again briefly. I don't know how he found us and why she started seeing him again. It was not before long when his old ways began to show up again. He and my mother got into another argument. He had her trapped in the stairway with a knife. I know, again.

One time, I remember my sister and I were in the trash house out in the back yard, it use to be an outhouse I guess, but we used it for trash bags. I remember standing on top of these trash bags hoping we had enough space to not be found. We would go some place to hide and pray whenever things got too crazy.

One time, Uncle Jim was in his room but we thought he was out. We were praying continuously that Uncle Jim would show up and help us. We heard a noise in the kitchen, somebody went in the kitchen. I felt like I was in a "Lifetime" movie. We did not want to leave that trash house but was not sure if the person who had took something out of the kitchen was coming after us. Of course we were suffering from traumatic stress disorder but did not know it. I think my little brothers and sisters were all outside at the time afraid to come in the house.

Then we decided to go inside to see what was going on. My uncle Jim had heard my mother screaming, he was a big man over six feet tall husky. He came downstairs with a hammer and was hitting Mr. Kenny over and over again in his head. OMG! We were relieved and terrified at the same time! He ran out the door and I believe my mother felt sorry for him and got him some help. I am not sure if she went to the hospital with him. Of course, he had the nerve to come back.

Later that night, my mother had gone a few houses down at Pop and Sis's house. The neighbors would go to their home to hang out and have a few drinks. My sister and I were in our room on the second floor trying to get to sleep after such a traumatic day. Then suddenly we heard Mr. Kenny calling my mother. The door must have been unlocked. He was coming up the stairs. He walked through the door of our room with a big bandage on his head asking where was my mother. OMG! Where was my mother?

My sister and I leaped on one side of the bed near the door, as he walked around the other side of our bed. We ran out of the room upstairs to tell Uncle Jim. Mr. Kenny went looking for her. I believe he found her. Uncle Jim did not seem to care when we asked for his help. He stayed in his room. At the time I did not understand why he did not come to rescue us this time. He was probably disappointed that my mother had felt sorry for him and helped him. Or at least that's what it looked like. We were getting mixed messages.

We were very disappointed, what next? The fear was so overwhelming for me that I grew numb. I don't remember what happened next. I know that they finally broke up for good. I believe she finally sent him away for good.

But then a few weeks later, my mother got a visit from some detectives while we were in school. When we got home she told us that she heard that Mr. Kenny had stabbed some women with 8 kids 30 something times. Her oldest son discovered her body. OMG! He had murdered someone's mother! We did not need to hear that. So fear and trauma was back. Is he coming to get us too? Can we move? What should we do? We had better watch our backs.

We were glad that he was no where in sight. But It was hard sleeping and finding peace most days. It was hard playing outside not knowing if he was going to turn the corner. Did black people get therapy during those days? Only crazy ones ... right? Ignorance. At least that is how we thought back then when we would see the white woman on TV running off to see her therapist. Like I said, Ignorance.

A few weeks later, after he had killed that poor woman and her son had found her, my sister and I were on 52nd and Girard and there he was. OMG! Mr. Kenny was walking down 52nd street, thank God, he did not see us. He had on those same clothes from weeks ago. He was walking like a zombie.

We ran to the pay phone and called to warn my mother, cause he was walking in the same direction as our home. She answered the phone and said that he was at the door. He was pushing the door to get in.

She climbed on the roof, we entered, our block from another direction. We saw the police patty wagon pull up in front of our house. We ran down and stopped them, and told them what we knew. They said that they had him in the wagon. What a relief, maybe this nightmare was finally over. My mother said he looked up at her when the police arrived and said thank you. Wow. We never saw him again, this was in 1975 I believe. I felt so sorry for the woman that was killed and her grieving children. I also felt grateful that she was not my mother and I had not been the one that found her.

Unfortunately, there is one more. We called him "Fonz" because he wore a short leather jacket and had a goofie swag. Maybe he was a fan of "The Fonz" on Happy Days. He was younger than my mother. He was my friend's big brother who had just come home from the Military. They dated for some months, then he wanted to move in with us.

My mother said no, although she did not tell us everything that was going on. We later found out how unstable he was. Actually, he use to come around when we were hanging out with our friends on the steps or something. He always looked so strange, and very quiet and seem to be watching everyone. I still don't trust people who are known to be very quiet.

Uncle Jim was no longer living with us, now uncle Cornelius was. He was not like Uncle Jim. He later disappeared and they found him on the bus, he had had a heart attack. We never saw him again. I believe his body was sent back down south and we could not attend the funeral.

My mother realized something was not stable about Fonz and tried to break up with him. Strange things began to happen in the house. Actually, that feeling of not feeling safe in our own home, came back. At least that was my perception.

One night, there were some wires hanging from the basement ceiling. My mother told us and I felt something was not right. We were running in and out of the house at the time, my brothers and sisters were much younger. I was fifteen years old now. Most times the door was unlocked.

Then on October 13th 1976,I came in the house, I heard a noise at the top of the stairs where our room was. It sounded like someone was doing something they should not be doing and heard me come in. I went up the stairs, Fonz was in our room. I asked him why was he snooping around in my room. I was a direct girl and still the same today. He gave me a strange look and did not answer my question.

He actually, changed the subject. He asked me a question about a picture or something on the wall. I continued to ask him why was he snooping around in my room. He walked out and went down the stairs and left. I looked around in the room to see if anything was missing. I felt he had been in the area where the window was but could not make any sense out of it at the time.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Momma said, "NEVER FEEL SORRY FOR A MAN"by Ramona Phillips Copyright © 2012 by Ramona Phillips. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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