This story isn't about pity. This story is about reality and strength. Fuck your pity. Awareness and action solves inhumanity not just patting yourself on the shoulder BECAUSE you believe or FEEL something. ACTION
Three days fresh from her womb THEY waited. THEY were my grandparents. THEY drove to Southern California to come save me from being separated from my siblings. My siblings were taken away from the family they had known and placed with another family.
Baptized in the prison to give me salvation for the sins of my mother. That sin was the killing of my father with a rifle.
Waiting, according to familial folklore so that I wouldn't be adopted out. Infants were a commodity. Fresh from a womb constantly fed Thorazine aka Chlorpromazine which is an is an anti-psychotic medication. Being that according to a newspaper report my biological mother was "acutely psychotic" during her court proceedings, I am sure this is not just family folklore.
Yellow, jaundiced and screaming is how I came out of her womb. She was shackled when she went into labor with the other prisoners yelling telling her to keep it together. According to my grandparents my bio mother was shackled quite often with bruises on her tiny wrists noticeable during visitation. Bio mother says from her knowledge I wouldn't stop crying.
I have no clue where I was born. If I was born at the prison or in another county. My county of birth was changed to avoid the stigma of being a child of a prisoner. They wanted no one to know of my beginning. My mother was incarcerated with Susan Atkins and Patricia Krenwinkle.
My mother had a friend in prison whose middle name I was given. She was a bank robber or embezzler. I'd love to meet her but those chances are slim.
No comments:
Post a Comment