CHAPTER 1

My eyes have seen a lot, from light to dark to shades of gray,from happiness to sadness to just living day by day,yet my eyes shine so bright awaiting the dayWhere the sun will have to wear shades because it hasoutdone the sunray.

Here I go starting to write again. Where do I find the words? I have beenstuck within myself for so long, I feel like I am missing. Who will gainfrom the story I have to tell?

Where will it land me emotionally once I allow the surface of mypast to unfold? I sometimes feel like a lost soul with no place to go exceptdeep within myself.

A person can hurt the flesh, but he or she cannot take the soul. WhenI leave the world, I want my soul to live on and my legacy to outweighmy pain.

I guess a purpose so strong is what plays a major part in why I havestayed functionally sane for so long. The only explosion I want in mylife is the one where my talent explodes. So that is where my story willbegin from my soul.

Today is Tuesday, November 17, 2009, two days from my thirty-firstbirthday and the first day of the rest of my life. I decided that the otherday. Funny how when you look back at your past thoughts for just asecond, you only then realize how so much of your life has changed.Well, at least mine has.

I am about to go outside my home and write, while my day-carechildren are resting.

Writing for me is therapeutic. It allows me to express my deepestemotions without being judged. I love how I can go in a space and consolemyself with words that flow from my soul. Over the years, writing hasbecome my best friend.

My name is Alex. I am currently the owner of a day care business.I have been running my business for over twelve years now. I enjoy myjob and the many children's lives I help to make a difference in. I amnow in the position where I want more. I am ready to get on to the nextlevel and grow in my field. My field can get challenging at times, butnothing is more challenging than my life. Hmmm, cut your phone off, getcomfortable on the couch, grab a soda, and let me tell you my story.

At this moment, I am a thirty-one-year-old woman, living in themetropolitan area of Washington DC. For those who are unaware of wherethat is, I live in the DMV, about fifteen minutes from Washington DC,close to Virginia and near Maryland. You know about Washington DC,right? The nation's capital, that is my hometown, but to me, it is not atown to write home about. I have been here my whole life. At this point,I am ready to move. Aside from my grandmother and my job, there isnothing keeping me here. My children can go to whatever school I chooseif I move. Oh, sorry, I didn't mention I have three beautiful children.

Yes, I am thirty-one years old with a fourteen-year-old. I've heard itbefore, but look, I did not allow my age to stop me from being a good parent.I never planned to have children that young. And I definitely never plannedto have children by the person I once looked up to as a role model.

When I was young, it seemed like trouble just followed me everywhere.I kind of felt like Precious from the movie my kids and I went to see onSaturday. Seeing that movie gave me more motivation to write—to openmy mouth and tell my story, paying no attention to whom I might hurt.

I was always trying to protect everyone's feelings ever since I was achild, but no one ever protected me. Even when the state got involved,you know Child Protective Services they didn't protect me. They keptsending me to more family members, who continued to abuse and harmme in ways that affect my life today.

I know my views on men and my hate toward the species that I loveso much have a lot to do with what they did to me, right down to myfather, who was a drug addict and did not even recognize me.

I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. I think I was aboutten years old, and my mother either needed money or she was driving inthe area. Whatever the reason may be, we stopped at my father's crackhouse in the southeast part of DC.

I do not even know why she went there, because I knew he was ondrugs and I was very embarrassed by the sight of him from when I sawhim a couple years before.

We were sitting in my mom's gold 1990-something Toyota Camry,and my father came around the corner.

As we were sitting there, I started to observe the area.

It was full of crackheads. The house was a mess. There were manychildren all around the house. The woman he was living with was acrackhead, and she and my father had two of her six kids together. Thatmade me have two little sisters, one born addicted to crack.

After seeing this sight, even though I did not have a father growingup, I was happy I did not. I believe this would have hurt me more. I couldnot imagine having to hide my VCR or living as my little sisters were.

All of a sudden, my father appeared at my right side window. Helooked a mess.

I was thinking, Mommy, tell me this isn't my daddy. You were joking,right? This is just another crackhead passing through, right?

Tears were boiling inside of me, and I felt so empty inside.

"Alex, Alex," he said as he started to knock on the car window.

The thing about it is, I was sitting on the other side of my little sister,who was six years old. She started to scream like she saw a monster—well;by the looks of it he sure did look like one.

My mother intervened and said, "Alex is on the other side. You don'teven know your own child."

Good, I thought. If he does not know me, if I ever see him in the street,I won't have to claim him.

Hold up—it is pickup time at my day care, and the parents arecoming. I am so hungry. I have some black-eyed peas in the slow cookerthat I bought and have not put to use till now.

My son keeps running up the steps to get ready for his grandmother'shouse. He calls her G'ma. Even though that woman can get under myskin, I truly appreciate her for being there for my son. She even helpsfrom time to time with my girls, unlike my mom. It feels good to get helpwith one of my children's fathers and his family.

The girls' father, Marsh, who was my first ex-husband, is a sorrycase. He even had the nerve to go and have another baby after twelveyears two weeks ago. That made six girls for him—what a sorry excusehe is for a father.

What makes it worse is he's always around someone else's children,and he always has many little kids following behind him. I remember thetimes the little kids used to knock on my door and ask if Marsh couldcome out and play. Call me crazy, but that is strange. As soon as I wasable to leave, I did.

Marsh had a lot with him. I mean, the guy was married to a fifteen-year-oldgirl who was also his fourth cousin, and he was twenty-three.As I look back as a grown woman, I get angry how no one cared enoughto prevent all that I endured.

I used to ask myself why I suffered so much pain at such a young age.I now know that God picks certain people to live certain lives due to theirstrength and endurance, and I am one of those people.

It was the end of my day, and I was getting prepared to go to school.Yes, I am currently enrolled in college. I am studying criminal justice.I plan to use my degree to further my child-care business, and maybeexpand my PI career.

Yes, I am a private investigator as well. That came about from anexperience I had with my ex Tim; I go to court next month, hopefullyon the eighteenth, to finalize that situation.

Well, that is a completely different story. We'll get to that one soon.

As I am sitting on the bottom of my steps daydreaming and waitingfor my last day-care parents to arrive, the movie Precious pops up in myhead.

Seeing that movie on Saturday saddened me, along with strengtheningme. Precious had her whole present and future dictated to her, and eventhough I had my past dictated, I never realized how it still played a majorpart in my present until now.

It hurts me to know that I am still letting men hurt me. There are noharsh feelings to the few good men out there, but I am talking about thesouls of the men who I now realize are also hurt.

In the area I live, there are only a few good men, and I am starting tothink I need to move to another state, but I hear it is everywhere so maybeI need to move to another continent. I mean, around this area, no one hasvalues. Women think it is normal to have baby daddies and work longhours with no father figure to help raise the children. Men think it a sportto gather up woman like they're in an auction. It is sick these days. It seemslike my children will endure even worse situations unless we as people raisethe upcoming generation with values. Well, don't get me preaching.

Well, it is officially one day away from my thirty-first birthday,Wednesday, November 18, 2009. After my last child left yesterday, I wentto school. My son's grandmother came and got him; she even kept mymiddle daughter overnight. My middle daughter is practicing at SouthernHigh School. I have no way of getting her there. My baby girl is enrolledin a performing arts school; her major is drama. That little girl has somuch talent.

I just wish I had someone else to help me with my girls. Their futuresuffers because I am not able to participate in helping them get to practicesor different events because I either have to work or money is tight.

Nevertheless, I am determined to do the best I can to allow them toflourish in their dreams.

My mom made no such attempts for me. I do remember one time I wasliving with my grandmother because Social Services had taken me awayfrom my mom due to her abuse. Mrs. Mateo, my caseworker—whom I wouldlove to meet again—sent me to a performing arts program. Mrs. Mateo knewI loved to write, and she wanted to help enhance my awareness for the arts.That exposure allowed me to appreciate the arts so much more.

I remember when we were getting ready for this big event; it was amajor landmark in my life. We practiced for months; I performed ballet,tap, and modern dance. The play was a hit we had talent scouts and lots ofimportant people there showing their support. That was my first feelingof accomplishment as a child; before then, I just thought I was bad luck.

Well, back to yesterday. Class was okay. We were talking about five-year-oldShaniya Davis, a beautiful little girl who was found dead in therural woods about thirty miles away from her hometown after a oneweeksearch for the little girl. Authorities said Shaniya's dad had raisedthe precious baby girl until last month, when he decided to let her livewith her crackhead-looking mother with dreads. Accusations were thatthe little girl's mother offered Shaniya up for sex.

The investigation of Shaniya Davis's disappearance yielded the arrestof her mother and two men. I feel so saddened by this, and I wish—as I dofor myself—that someone would have stepped up and taken control beforethese horrific events took place. People, we must talk for the children.Kids are innocent souls, and even when our parents do us wrong, wethink that is the way of life, unless someone shows us different. Childrenwho are abused learn the hard way. I wish I knew Shaniya personally. Iwould have driven all the way to Fayetteville, North Carolina, taken thatbaby, and raised her. She was such a beautiful little girl.

A tear falls from my eyes for Shaniya, and that tear reminds me of apoem I wrote as a hurting child at the age of ten, so in loving memory ofShaniya Davis, I dedicate my poem to you. As I look for the poem in mybig box of memories. I came across so many memories and journal entriesfrom when I was about twelve to fifteen years old expressing my feelingsand emotions. I found poems that I had written in my time of pain. Thatwas what I did best—write.

Just now, a feeling of anxiety, excitement, and relief came acrossme. I was saying inside that I finally found the right format to share mystory. You would not imagine how many times I started to write, and eachtime I went through a block. Now I feel like I have the right way, and it'saccelerating. Ever since I was a child, I knew my gift, and I knew one dayI would write about everything I had been through. I knew it would allcome out, and that time is now.

As I am writing, I want to stop and say to my inner child, "We aremaking it, Alex. We are on the brink of letting it all out." I feel once Ifinish this book, I will be able to free my inner child and let her roam.

All I have done was suppress her for years, not allowing her to speak orvoice her thoughts. "You are almost free," is what I tell her.

I finally found the poem. This is to you, Baby Shaniya.

    Silent Tears

    I go to my room and cry to myself
    Tears that no one ever saw or met.
    They are my silent tears, and this is their poem.
    Listen to them before they are gone.
    Gone to a place that's so secretive only the brain knows
    where it is.
    They are three little tears that mean a lot to me.
    They are my silent tears, and this is their story.
    Every day I cry and cry, but no one knows and that is
    no lie.
    I cry about three different things,
    and my silent tears are going to tell you what they are
    and what they mean.
    Tear number one is sad and sorrow.
    He cries because he hopes it is a better tomorrow,
    and I cry with him. Believe me, I do I cry with him when
    I am sad and blue.
    Tear number two is my love tear.
    He lets me know if I love or care.
    This tear is closer to my heart, and I loved from the very
    start.
    He tells me the difference between love and hate or if a
    person is just okay.
    Tear number three is my self-esteem tear, and he is the
    best.
    When things are sad to me, he is like Superman and picks
    me up and makes me happy.
    He's a dear ol' tear, and I feel good when he is near.
    So one day when you cry and find three little guys falling
    from your eyes,
    They are your silent cries, and no one else can make you
    feel like your own Silent Tears.

After reading that poem again, I realize the concept now as an adulteven more than when I was a child. I said that my tears were my strengthand my comfort, but they came unnoticed to the world. I bet little Shaniyahad only her tears that were buried inside her as the only comfort she hadbefore she died. What sick people we have in this world. RIP Shaniya.

After school, I stopped at the carryout to get some chicken and fries.I usually go to restaurants every day and order seafood. I have high-classtaste buds, but with the rocky economy, I just ordered some chicken.I will save the best meal for my birthday. When I arrived home, mydaughter was taking the dogs out.

After I finished eating and taking a shower, I called my friend Robertup. He was supposed to come over here, and I told him I would call himafter I left school. However, he did not answer the phone, so I tried onemore time—and there he was on my other line.

Before I could realize it, he was ringing my doorbell. I like Roberta lot; I think to myself he might be the one. Once Robert walked in, wewent into my room, which was located downstairs. One of my exes builtthis room for me last year; he thought he was going to be living here.He was surely mistaken. As Robert entered my room, I looked up at hisbeautiful smile, and I started to melt inside. Boy, oh boy.

CHAPTER 2

Happy to love
Glad to be liked
grateful to see the light
and determined not to lose sight.

Robert looks like a Mekhi Phifer-Mike Tyson mix. As the night startedto become dark, Robert and I lay in the bed. While I was lying there, Iprayed that the event that he and I experienced four weeks ago on hisbirthday did not happen again. And I prayed that he would let it go so wecould move on. I know you are wondering what I am talking about. Well,if I must tell, let me get my food first. Just to give you a short descriptionof myself, I am a short, thick lady—not fat, just right in my eyes, well,almost just right. But I still want to lose about fifteen more pounds, justto get close to the size I used to be and fit into some of those jeans in mycloset, but mostly for my endurance and health.

I used to be so obsessed with my weight when I was younger. I usedto vomit my food back up after I had a fatty meal. I think it was a phaseI went through. As I got older, I learned the acids that came up with thevomit can ruin your teeth. I soon stopped. I paid too much for my overbiteto be removed.