Perfect Weather For a Kidnapping

 Fear is a neccessary and important emotion; a great motivator. / Courage is not the absence of fear, but our ability to act in the face of it.

Do you know how it feels when a new baby is born into the family and that first time you lay eyes on them (especially if it is your child or your new baby sibling)? That's how I looked at Scott when I first saw him...even though he was 13.
He was young, hyper, and simple. Now he's old, hyper, and simple. I digress. I recall the exact moment I saw him. After Joseph had found me, my mom allowed him to stay for the week. There was some discussion I'm sure and much to my adopted mom's (a-mom) concern, she allowed a few of the family members to come see me, including my brother Scott. They were scheduled to come on Joe's last day there and pick him up (his ride had to return home). The only condition was that we had to meet somewhere else other than my house. I could not begin to tell you why. There are a million reasons I could think of that could have been my a-mom's and I'll probably never know.
Anyway, we went to my Aunt Pam's (read the previous posts). Her house sat on a small hill. A car pulled up and my bio-aunt Robin, my bio-grandmother, and my bio-little brother got out. My brain had not caught up to everything, but I saw him and felt a feeling I had never had; the feeling of being someone's big brother.
I had a cousin who was practically my best friend. He was younger than me, but to actually HAVE these people. Scott has never talked to me about that day; what he was thinking, if he was nervous, etc.
For a moment, I felt joy.
I had this older brother who dreamed of finding me for almost 15 years. I had a younger brother to be protective of. Joe, Scott, and I were finally together.  It was strange for me to think of people I didn't know out there loving me, missing me, wanting me around. We all talked, but my memory of what is foggy. I think that my b-aunt Robin went and talked with my mom or dad...Foggy. They weren't there very long before it was time for them to leave. I, of course, got teary-eyed as I watched them load into the car.
Scott had a trapper keeper with him and as he was getting in the car, it opened and several paper clips fell to the ground. I helped him gather them up, secretly tucking one into my pocket. In my heart, I was freaking out that Joe and Scott were leaving. It was not enough time...not near enough.
Fast forward; my a-mom has passed away. I've kept in constant contact with my brothers and talked with a lot of family. One main element they expressed was that the sweet old lady that got out of the car at my a-aunt's home (the one called "BJ", my b-grandmother) was a violent and mean woman who would as soon shoot you than to say hello. She was horribly racist, had viciously beat all of her own children, and continued with Scott. I even saw a picture of Scott as a toddler, his face all bruised up. I have no proof the marks were her doing. Still... I cried so hard and so much. I had had some physical altercations with my a-mom, but never seen anything to that extreme.
These stories and images, especially the ones concerning my little brother, incubated in my mind. I was a little angry that no one had stopped her from doing that to him (I don't know if they did or not, but it is what I thought). I was fearful of her.
One time, when spending the night at her house, Scott and I started talking about mom. He told me that there was a trunk of her things locked in his closet. He said he had never looked inside and that he thought (among many things) the clothes our mom was murdered in were in there. BJ was in bed, we thought. The house was quiet. I asked Scott if he was sure we would be okay. Keep in mind we were young, curious, and dealing.
Scott pushed his bed against the door to keep her from surprising us. Then we got into the closet. We took a deep breath, staring at the trunk. Getting it open proved to be easy. On top were pictures, a letter...nothing special. So close to going further, and then...*knock knock knock*  "Scott! Why is this door locked? What are you doing?"  Her voice was no longer sweet and elderly. It was heavy and forceful.  She began to cuss as we scurried to put everything back in its place.
It was too late.
This woman was strong enough to push our baracade free. She stormed in and started yelling! If you've been reading my other posts, you'll know that I was a timid kid afraid of my own shadow. My heart was racing and I was almost in tears...that is, until she balled up her fist and started punching him in the back as he fell into a protective ball. I snapped...
I pushed myself between them and began shouting at her. "Look old woman! If you put your hands on him again, I swear to GOD you're gonna regret it!"  I must have been huffing like an angry bull, my hand now a fist. I was either going to pass out or knock her out. Never in my life had I been in this position.  She started yelling at me again and telling me to get out. 
"Scott, come on!"  I know she wanted to say something else; to tell Scott he wasn't going anywhere. But that wasn't an option. I stared her down, staying in between her and Scott until he was out of the room.
He had to go back later that night after things had calmed down, but I had decided he couldn't stay there.
It's a blur between that moment and the day our plan (Joe, me, Scott) went into action. I had obviously cleared it with my a-dad, for Scott to come stay with us. This preacher that Joe knew, and at the time I trusted, agreed to be our get-away driver. In the middle of the night, through Scott's bedroom window, he made his escape. We were so quiet.
It was at least an hour drive to Teague, Tx. The preacher didn't ask for money or anything. He drove us to my childhood home. Joe, Scott, and I were living together...as brothers...and I had committed my first criminal act. Yep, we were together, but you know this "curse" was not about to let that last.

Lil Brothers remarks

So I guess the idea of this is to talk about the past. So I have decided to talk about racism and how it has affected me in my life. I grew up wih the word everyone fears. Our grandmother and uncle Jimmy used the word like it was drinking water. To me its just a word that people use to get under peoples skin. I feel us being black we should be stronger then the ones who want to down grade us or bring us down to their level. I was beaten and called the "N" word my whole child hood.

I remember one time my so called cousins turned the neighbors lights of and blamed me for doing it. I was beaten and beaten till I did not cry no more. Bj made sure I always had long hair, this was done to her advantage. It was easier to grab me by the hair and use it as a hammer to the wall.


I try to advoid talking about things that have happen to me in my life. I like to run from the past. Now it seems like we need to share this with the world in a blog. This will take me some time to get use too. I am not a writer nor do I like writing. So followers bare with Lil Brother as I need to get the motivation to actually express my feelings. Alot of my childhood has been blocked out. We all have had a rough childhood
some can relate most will think we just made this up. If you are reading this and find this hard to believe do your research and find the little girl locked in a closet. She is family!!! I will post again just give me time this is a difficult time in my life that really I dont like talking about.

LIL BROTHER

LOOK WHO I FOUND

        After being adopted by the Sneeds in that little country town. I only had a few memories, but they were all nice. All but one. The day my dad came to get me and take me back to Dallas. I remember, I cried the whole hour and a half trip. Growing up, talking about Chris with the family was taboo. No one knew where he was at, or who he was with. But from the first day that I got back to Dallas, I swore on my mom's grave that I would find my brother. After a while, I promised myself that I would find him before I go to college. And I did that.
I remember the day. I was about 17 years old and I sat on the living room floor of my Aunt Robin's house. My cousin's fiancé was listening to my aunt Robin as she told her the story of the Beaty boys and what happened to my mom. As she got to the part of the story about Chris and how he was away somewhere lost and had been for most of our life, I looked up at my cousin's fiancé and she was in tears. She had never experienced anything like that. She asked why no one had tried to find him. We informed her that the only info that we had was the name of my brother, (Christopher Beaty). The name of the family that adopted him, (the Sneeds). And the name of the town, (Teague). She then went to get a map, and we located Teague. To our surprise, it was not all that far. So my cousin's fiancé offered to take me there if I provided the gas for the trip. That very next weekend we were on the road. I'm a city boy at heart, so when I say this town was country, please believe me. One gas station and one grocery store. As we pulled into town, I wondered how I was going to find this family. Hell I didn't even know if they were black or white. So as we pulled into the gas station, I asked the first black person I saw. "Do you know the Sneeds?" the older man nodded yes, and instructed me to follow him, "They live across the tracks". So we followed. As we crossed the tracks, the paved road turned into a small dirt road. Like some shit off of Mississippi burning or something. But we followed anyway. As we pulled up at this house, the driver of the car in front of us pointed in that direction. As we came to a stop, unsure what my next move would be. My cousin's fiancé pointed at this kid coming out of the house and said, "He looks like a little brother". As I looked at him, the first thing that came to mind is, "he looks just like my dad". So I got out of the truck and approached this kid. My first question was what is your name? He replied, "Little Billy". Wow I thought, maybe I got the wrong kid, because my brother's name is Chris. So I then asked if he had any brothers. He replied, "Yes, I have an older brother". That's when I got excited. "What's his name?" I asked with a big ass grin on my face. His response confused me even more, and knocked that damn grin off my face too. "Willie", he said. "My big brother's name is Willie". Now I'm lost. But looking at this kid I just felt inside that this was Chris. So I kept pressing, even though I could see him getting nervous and uneasy. "So growing up, you don't remember any other brothers?" he replied, "well, I do remember this kid that used to stay with us when I was little, but he was just a friend and his parents came to get him." With tears swelling in my eyes I told him, "that was no friend that was your brother. That was me, I'm your brother." He looked at me for what seemed like eternity, and began to cry. Hell I didn't know if I should leave or hug him. (Hell, I was on probation at that time so I didn't want noooo trouble). After a while, he told me to follow him and we walked down this country ass road around the corner.
    Now I still have memories from being with the Sneeds before my dad came to get me. But the only people I remembered were Mr. and Ms. Sneed, the older brother Willie, and my brother. I never remembered seeing anyone else. So now, 12 years later, I have my brother directing me away from the house I remembered. We walked up the steps to another house around the corner. As Chris knocked on the door, I was totally lost as to what is happening. This older lady opens the door and speaks to my brother. "Hey lil Billy". My brother speaks and then asks her if she knew who I was. She looked at me and then at Chris. Then she looks at me again, and as her eyes rested back on my brother, her response throws me ass first into the twilight zone. Mine you; I have not seen this town or anyone in it since the age of 5. Now, standing here in front of this strange lady, she says, "yes lil Billy do you know who it is?" Chris replies, "He says he's my brother." "That's who he is lil Billy" as she grabs me and hugs the life out of me, she is almost in tears, "Joseph, where have you been". "Everyone has been worried about you." You see, twilight zone. This shit is getting bad. This was aunt Pam. We then walked two houses down to another house. They called all kinds of people over and they all remembered me, but I remembered no one. After an hour of seeing all these people that I did not know or remember, I still had yet to see the ones I did remember, Mr. and Ms. Sneed, and Willie. After a while Aunt Pam tells me that Ms. Sneed was very sick, bed rest. And she will call first in order not to shock her. After it was Ok'ed to go to the house, we all went to see Mr. and Ms. Sneed. It was beautiful. I felt like my life was complete, I found the missing piece. Boy was I wrong. I believe, this is the part of my brother's life that no one really understands. At this point he just had an eye opener. Imagine someone walking up to you at the age of 15 or 16 and telling you that your life is fake. Your mom and dad are not your mom and dad. Your brothers, cousins, aunts, grandparents, all, not real. Then once that settles in, when you ask about your real parents. One is dead, and no one knows who the other is. Imagine these people you've been calling mom and dad your whole life are not even your real parents. Tell me, could you swallow that .Shit, not me .another thing that I found ironic during this experience was when I discovered, everyone in this small town knew the truth but my brother. How can a whole town keep a secret from one kid? I remember I met this big booty country girl during my visit to this town. (This was during my Mack daddy years, don't judge). Anyway, one evening as this girl and I talked on the phone, she told me that her mom wanted me to come over. She wanted to see me. Now first thing popped in my head was, wow now this was some country shit. Like back in the day when you meet a girl, you had to meet the parents. I was not used to that shit. Where I came from, you met, talked, and even slept with girls without knowing if they even had parent. (Shit I hope reading about all this sad shit you didn't think I was some kind of angel? Just wait I plan to tell all the bad stuff I've done also. If you know me, you might realize that you really don't know me. Lol) anyway, not to get off track. So here I am walking down this dirt ass road to this girl's house to meet her mom, hey whatever it takes to get that. So as I walked in her mom walks up and hugs me. She begins to tell me how she thought about me a lot and wondered if I was ok. She told me how she used to change my diapers. Besides being confused as hell, I couldn't help but ask myself, "If this girl is my cousin, I can still hit it because I was adopted, so technically we are not kin. (I said stop judging me). So after she got all of her hugs out the way, I told her that I did not remember her. She then told me that everyone in the town knows the story of me and my brother. She said some of the parents even told kids the story of our mom on the run from this man who was supposed to kill her and her kids. And how she brought her kids to this small town to try and hide them from him. And how my dad came to get me and Chris was left behind, and our mom ended up getting murdered. Funny how the same kids my brother went to school with, the same people he saw everyday knew the truth. But all those years he had no idea. That's why people don't understand why I can find him at 2 in the morning passed out on the train tracks from taking Ms. Sneed's high blood pressure medicine. But you'll have to ask him about that. I'm just the one that found him
   

I Thought It Was A MIDNIGHT Train To Georgia

Only boring people get bored. If you have a creative and open mind, you will never be without entertainment.

Since I will most likely be out of commission the next several days having a reunion with my brothers, I feel comfortable  throwing a second  blog up. This is more of an adventurous summer tale during an unusual moment in life.

It was the only time in our existence that we all lived together (in the future, look for a story about a kidnapping). Joe, Scott, and I ended up residing in the home I grew up in. They had quickly gotten to know my friends...my best friends; Norola, Edwardo, Joseph (not to be confused with my brother), Kylla, and Ignacio. We did everything together, so much so that rumors, I learned, would spread about us. All of them false, but hell, we were rock stars like that.

Usually, when we all got together, an adventure ensued. We would gather on a daily basis to watch television, talk about life, or dance like fools. Sometimes, one of us would get a bright idea and the others would feed off of it. I don't recall who initially thought of it, but this would prove to be one of our more dangerous escapades.

Early Saturday morning, we all gathered together on the train tracks that ironically formed something of a racial border through town. Typically, mostly blacks lived on one side, while whites lived on the other side. My older brother, Joe, and friends, Joseph and Ignacio, were not with us. Norola, Kylla, Edwardo, Norola's sister, my "new" little brother, and me trekked towards the unknown. Thinking back, maybe it was a spontaneous idea, because we didn't bother to tell anyone.

I remember it being perfect weather. We walked, talked, laughed, and my brother hopelessly flirted with Norola's sister. We walked for hours.
At some point, we the tracks crossed a bridge over a small creek. We scaled down these large rocks that led underneath the bridge. It was a little hidden "paradise".
I was prone to getting struck with random moments of melancholy. I suppose it isn't surprising, if you've been reading our other blogs. Solitude was usually my cure. So, as everyone chatted and laughed, I went exploring.
The location really was peaceful and inviting. Trees were scattered between the bridge and an open pasture. I took a deep breath and then my legs began to shake. The weakness sort of rolled up my body  until my head began to spin lightly. I quickly sat down. After a few seconds, I tried to stand but my legs were like jelly. I think I called out for Scott because I could hear his voice.
When he found me, I told him that I was having trouble walking and didn't know why.  If my memory serves me, Scott actually picked me up and carried me back to the bridge.  We sort of waited around a little bit to see if the feeling would come back to my legs. Everyone was concerned, not just for my condition but also because the sun had started its journey down and it was a two hour walk back home. 
We discussed our options and Scott insisted that he could carry me back (showing off for the girl, no doubt lol). With some help, I was carried back up to the train tracks.
Scott slung me over his shoulder like a knapsack and joined the others back towards home.  I'm not sure how far we had gotten, but we heard the noise. It was soft and distant. That didn't last long.
A wave of panic hit the group. Scott tried to stand me up, but my legs were still useless. "Chris, you need to run" Scott insisted. I agreed. My legs did not.
So, the girls ran back to the rocks that led us under the bridge. Edwardo and Scott each took an arm and dragged me down the tracks. I tried so hard to get my legs moving, but I think they just flopped around.
To be honest, it was kind of a blur at this point. The train must have been close enough to freak everyone out. The girls went spilling over the large rocks. Scott, in one last act of...hmmmm....something, took my arm with both of his hands and flung me and Edwardo (who was still holding my other arm) off the tracks and onto the rocks which embraced us in pain.
My eyes were shut as the train went chugging by. We all just lay there, motionless until the air grew silent and the train had disappeared. Edwardo's back was hurting and I wasn't any better. Somehow we made our way back down to the creek. Now, we were starting to really worry. We needed a plan. Here's what we did.
Scott, not failing to mention his time with boy scouts, dug a shallow hole to put me in. Seriously...he said it would make me comfortable (and truth be told, it was). He also started working on building a fire. We had decided that we needed our strength, which meant food. So the girls set off for a four hour (2 hours there, 2 hours back) search for food and water.  Edwardo helped take care of me as much as he could, but his back suffering.
Long story longer, Scott made a fire, the girls made it back with food, and after some time I started to gain movement. Once I was able to get to my feet (my first experience with hypoglycemia), we all made the final trip back across the train tracks. It felt so good to be back among civilization. All of us parted, almost unceremoniously.
Scott and I dragged ourselves back home, but found that Joe was at Edwardo's house. We were anxious to rest, but more anxious to share our day. As soon as we entered Edwardo's living room, Joe reacted like a big dog. He tackled us, wanting to wrestle... ... ...Really, Joe?
I grew up in one of THE smallest towns you could live in. Adventures are where you make them...but I don't recommend looking for them on the railroad. That was just stupid.
-Nanaki

Nerd Is The Word You Heard

Our country should operate on this philosophy; Everyone should be free to choose, free to speak, and free to act as long as it doesn't infringe on anyone else's freedom. That is the closest we can get to a "free" society.

I would describe my older brother as charismatic and funny. When we were reunited, I immediately saw  confidence, sometimes to the point of irresponsibility. He was all R&B  music and women. My younger brother, the baby, has a big heart and thinks simply. He was into rock and rap and somehow fell into the Latin culture. He was fun and youthful. Joe has his opinions of Scott's "Latin life" in Minnesota, but there were a lot of people that genuinely liked Scott. Amazing they were so "happy" despite what they had grown up with.
Then, there is me. Really, I was a nerd. My mom picked out my clothes until she died. I listened to pop music and oldies. Even though they were 20 years old, I was into the Monkees. I was addicted to video games and daydreaming that I was someone else. Yes, I'll admit my darkest secrets; I had invisible friends and played with stuffed animals and action figures until a disturbing age.
One of my best friends introduced me to the X-men and thus began my superhero craze. Power Rangers were part of my daily schedule. Watching people save the world by extraordinary means was the highlight of my days. I even watched the original black & white Mickey Mouse Club and Disney movies from every era.
The one great thing about my life was that my a-parents and my friends never judged or critiqued my interest. I had total freedom to explore music, movies, and art  in any direction I wanted to go. The reason that matters so much is because it allowed me to talk to almost anyone from any clique. I also think it helped me really define my eyes and ears for entertainment. I am confident that I can tell garbage from something that took effort and time.
I get  lost  in the beauty of creation. I do not comprehend people that embrace trash and refuse to challenge themselves with the intricate workings of art. I have my guilty pleasures, but studying a scene from a great movie or appreciating the vocal range of a singer is like solving a mystery or cracking a code. It helps me think deeper and without limitations.
I'm not suave or funny like Joe. I'm not as open and friendly as Scott. Though my grades slipped in school and the world made fun of my use of the English language, what education I have is what has gotten my through life. It IS who I am.
We  live in a society where people are forced to "dumb down" in order to not be made fun of by people with "street smarts".  There were people I couldn't hang around as a teenager because I used words that they didn't understand. But instead of them improving their vocabulary, they ask that I reduce mine.
My point? Don't EVER be less than what you are. For some it will be a tougher road than others, but to be ashamed of who you are is to die slowly...it means to let others control you. We live in a free country, right?

My Part In The Dream

Imagination is the tool of problem-solvers. The more we accept things the way they are, the chance for improvement dies.

To love someone means a lot of things. It means you care for their well-being. Love is going the extra-mile. Often, love and logic refuse to sit at the same table. We either make decisions out of logic, out of love, or out of hormones.

The year I found out about my existence, I had little time to adjust. That Christmas Eve, my A-mom (adopted mom) was unusually peaceful. She was calm and relaxed. It was the happiest I had seen her in years. I recall all of us sitting at my a-grandmother's house and she seemed to be content.
The next morning, Dec. 25th, when most kids were waking to Christmas gifts and holiday breakfast, I was waking to the sound of my father's voice. "You're momma's no longer with us. She's gone." Then, he walked out.
I'm going to be brutally honest; I was relieved. I thought about how hard it was to please her, the guilt trips, getting hit, screamed at...and part of me thought "freedom".  I mean, I never had it because of her. Maybe that makes me  an ass, I don't know.
My second thought was fear and loss, but I didn't cry. I sat in my room in silence. I never left my room after I woke up. I peeked out only once, in time to see them carry my mother's body through the hallway on a stretcher. I sat in my room...completely lost. The "family curse"...
I quickly called my newly found brother and told him. He found a way back home. The time between the morning she died and the funeral was nothing but arguments with my a-brother (adopted brother), Willie. As far as I was concerned, I was the only one trying to interject my mother's last wishes, but no one listened to me.
You need to undestand that Willie was a pompous, stuck-up military brat. He joined the Navy and would breeze into town long enough to throw money around and make promises that he wouldn't keep. It was nothing new when he did the same after mom died. I have no doubt that he was greiving, but a grieving asshole is no different than a regular asshole.
So, time came for the funeral. There was a large turn out. I remember listening to songs, shaking hands and smiling. No tears, though. Even as I watched my dad cry (which I don't think I had ever seen), I could not cry. People started talking about my behavior, concerned for my welfare. I felt nothing...nothing.
After the funeral, I was further and further losing grasp on life.
Returning to school, I had to suffer through all the condolences and cruelty (yes, teenagers are relentless even in the face of tragedy). One night, I called my little brother (who, by this time I had only met once) and told him that no matter what happened I was so happy to have met him. I think I called my friends, but don't remember what I said.  They arrived at my house at the moment I popped open a bottle of my deceased mother's medication. Timing... I don't even remember what it was, but it seemed poetic...taking every pill I could find in the house. My friends went on suicide watch, insisting that we all spend the night together. The next morning I snuck out of the house and wound up at the cemetery next to my mom's grave.
I finally had a breakthrough one day when I walked into the living room. It had been a day like the others, but catching a floral arrangement out of my eye something happened. These white flowers were sitting in the corner, in all of their fake glory. It was an ugly arrangement that I noticed during the funeral as people got up and told lies about my A-mom. People that never came to our house to check on our family, didn't know how she suffered and in turn made us suffer. They had no clue who she was. Here was this floral arrangement staring at me. I lunged for the flowers, with every intention of throwing them out into the front yard. Instead I began shaking it and screaming "I hate you!" over and over again. I finally cried, ending up falling asleep on the floor. I wanted her back alive.
Fast forward; my brother, Joe, had talked me and Scott into going to college with him. We even travelled to meet with a guidance counselor (or maybe she was an admissions director, idk). I felt like I had a plan and wasn't going to go at it alone.
But as we got closer to making college a reality...I was given more news. Joe had been arrested and was looking at 12 years behind bars...ggggreat...
With me losing my brother again, I had no direction. My a-dad was dating some gold-digger and neglecting me. My a-brother was working as a guard at a prison in Texas.  I became obsessed with finding out more about why my mom died, why I was left behind with strangers, and anything else worth knowing. I went on a hunt for information, talking to anyone I could in my small little home town. I didn't find out much except that my b-mom (bio mom) left me and Joe with my a-family because they couldn't have kids of their own and were financially stable. I also found out where my mom's killer was...in the same prison where Willie worked. Timing?
Willie refused to help me contact this guy. I think I might have even written him a letter, to which he didn't respond. Shortly afterwards, Willie quit working at that prison and I'm led to wonder if he did it because of me.
A little time passed and things got more complicated when I found out that Joe had been moved to the same prison. He was in the same prison with our mom's killer. I was freaking out. If Joe found out, I was afraid of what he would do. I wanted my brother out and killing him might keep that from ever happening. Joe wrote me a letter. He knew...that's all he would say.
I started making phone calls and contacted the warden. Apparently, my brother never knew or forgot that I was responsible for the interruption between him and that murderer. Timing...
I think, as I read my brother's post, did I do the right thing? I did not grow up carrying the weight of knowing everything like Joe did.  The family I grew up with was falling apart and the family I had been taken away from me again...or so I thought. I acted out of love, so I guess I am without regret. That killer's life was not worth my brother's.

-Nanaki

Women got to love them

Resurrection of Christopher (Diapers and the Death of Lil' Billy pt 2)

So, standing out in the middle of the street, I've just been slapped with the news that I'm a different person. The person delivering this news? My long lost brother. My parents? Not my parents. Where do you go from there?
As my brother explained these things, all I could say was "Okay." Such a stupid thing to say. I remember my nose twitching like a rabbit. I don't know if I was getting ready to cry or my nerves were in overdrive. I wasn't thinking anything for a few moments, but for whatever reason...I knew everything he said was the truth.
I remember telling Joe that I needed to go to church or I would get in trouble (all that was going on, THAT's what I was worried about...but you don't know my A-mom). He offered to give me a ride. On the way, we decided that we needed to see my mother's sister, my Aunt Pam. Aunt Pam was the aunt I felt the closest to, both geographically and emotionally. She was the only aunt I spent any real time around.
When we pulled up in front of her house (across from the church), and got out. As soon as my aunt opened the door, I said something along the lines of "Do you know who this is?"
Without hesitation, she said "Yeah, it's Joseph."  For some reason, that's when I truly broke down. She KNEW who he was just by looking at him. I was so angry and in pain. Why did she know him? If he was MY brother, why was I the only one in the dark. Son-of a bitch!  I was at a loss.
My cousins were comforting as they could be. My aunt asked me "Why are you crying?"  I think I looked at her with disbelief. "This is a happy occassion!"   I'm not sure if she was trying to be positive or was simply insensitive to my major identity crisis and the fact I felt robbed of time with him.
You see, I had one brother that I grew up with. He was my adopted brother. He was significantly older than me and was borderline worthless as brothers go. I grew up dreaming of having a twin or someone close to my age so I wouldn't be so freaking lonely. Here he was, pretty much an adult.
I ran to the bathroom and bawled. My cousin checked on me, but I didn't come out until Joe came to get me. My aunt and cousins gave Joe and me space to talk. In what couldn't have been more than 30 minutes, he explained how I was part white, how my mother had been murdered, and  how I ended up in Teague. Then, he told me I had a second brother...youngest of the three.
Part of my was happy to hear this, most of me was just still in a psychological coma. Then, I had the thought of my A-mom (adopted mom). I was going to have to face the woman I was most afraid of in the world, who was always ill and angry.
My aunt decided that she would call my A-mom and tell her over the phone, ease her into it. We would find out how she wanted to handle all of this. To my surprise, she told us to come back home. I was sticking to Joe like a life saver...not physically, but I was very aware of where he was at all times. It was as if I was afraid he would disappear or something.
When we got back home, we walked into my A-parents bedroom. My mother was lying in bed. I looked at her with contempt when she recognized him and hugged him. I was furious when she pulled out hidden photos of him. My mother's comforting words to me? "Why are you crying? I thought you knew." (must run in the family). She beckoned me for a hug. Honestly, I imagine she was upset, confused, scared, and embarrassed that I had found out that way. Was she worried that she was getting ready to lose me to my b-fam (bio-family)?  I don't know if she knew this, but as difficult as it was living in that house...I NEVER thought of leaving. What memories must she have had of him living with us until his dad came to get him, not to mention the ones of when he was taken away. She kept saying "I knew you'd come back to us one day."
Other than Joe, I had no one else helping me process this.
As hard as we tried to go on with our lives, things had changed. I had been de-constructed. I know she wanted me to remain "Lil' Billy", and truth was...part of me wanted it too. But I was no longer "Little Billy", nor was I "Christopher"...yet. I was starting life over. The "family curse" had followed me to this new family, though they protected me from it for years. It found me, and it wasn't through with me.
-Nanaki

THE DREAM

    For years I woke up, drenched in sweat, from the same fucked up dream. I'm 5 years old and I was standing in my grandmother's living room, in the dark looking at this thanksgiving pumpkin cutout that was taped to the screen of her floor model TV. I stood there for what seemed like hours looking at this fucking cutout as if it was a new episode of the Cosby show. All I can hear in the background is my dad and the rest of my mom's family yelling and crying about 10 feet away in the dining room. Still staring at this stupid pumpkin, I could hear my grandmother over everyone else. The phone rings, its him…. Crazy as it may sound. Although I was not on the phone I could hear my grandmother as well as him also, I heard every response. "I'm sorry BJ, I loved her". My grandmother responded as loud as she could. "No you didn't you black son of a bitch, you killed her". "I'm just going to kill myself BJ I'm so sorry". "You need to kill yourself, you need to jump off of a bridge you son of a bitch", from this point I always wake up abruptly after hearing three gunshots. When I awake I'm soak and wet from sweating. I've had this dream at least once a month since her death. Believe it or not, that night really happened. I remember me and my dad going over to my grandmother's house. As we got out of the car, before we got to the door, he turned and looked at me and said" you won't be seeing your mom any more". That was all the therapy I got. Talk about learning to deal with shit yourself. Anyway, we walked in and I went and stood in the living room as my dad went into the dining room with my grandmother and aunts. My mom's killer really called. Now did I really hear his voice? Or was that part of the dream? Hell, I don't know I was just a fucking kid. Lucky I remember that. Now like I said I had that dream all the way into my adulthood. And I remember when the dream stopped.
    I had been in prison about 6 or 7 years. I was no model inmate. I had anger issues, on top of the fact I was a light skinned nigga so I had to prove myself, or at least I thought I did. Don't believe the hype, prison is nothing like people or movies make it out to be, the closest thing I've seen to it is the HBO sitcom, OZ. so because of my behavior, I moved around several prisons. But because I always knew he was in prison, everywhere I went I looked for him. But Texas has over 140 prisons, talk about needle in a haystack. But towards the end of my time in prison….. Well shit happens. I arrived at this one prison, and for the first time I don't look for him. Maybe I gave up. Maybe I was ready to let it go. Hell who knows, but I made no attempt to see if he was at the same prison. Out of the blue I get a letter from my brother telling me that the guy died. He knows not when, where, or how, just that he died. Well of course all kinds of red flags went up. Well, because I went to an urban school in the hood. After graduation, half of the graduating class went off to college, and the other half went to prison. One of my old classmates worked as secretary in the laundry. Which means he had access to every inmate at the prison? I gave him the name and approximate age of this person. He returned the next day to tell me that he was in another building located on the prison. I would never in my wildest dreams ever imagine that I would have the opportunity to face my mom's killer. You could not imagine all of the things that went through my head. From about the age of 12 or 13 I told myself that I had forgiven him. Maybe I just told myself that growing up in order to keep my sanity, maybe I really had forgiven him. All I know is that I did nothing for a whole week after getting that information. I would lay in my bed day after day. Until I woke up about 5am one morning, drenched in sweat. I had not had that dream in months. Now I realized I had not forgiven him, never was. And something had to be done. Watch OZ, that shit is real. Funny thing about prison. It is a world within itself. It has laws, and leaders, a government, and flooded with drugs. Smaller version of America. Corruption runs rapid within the prison walls. So one day I got this connection so that this officer would let me pose as if I worked in the kitchen chow hall serving food. I did this so that I could see every inmate that passed through to eat that way I would catch him…… hold up let me back up. Because I need you to be where I was at mentally throughout this whole thing. Earlier that day I packed all of my property and placed it under my bed. I placed a single picture of my mom in my shirt pocket. All of this was done because I'll admit I had every intention in the world of killing the man that shot my mom in cold blood in the parking lot and then ran over her with the truck like she wasn't shit. I knew once I killed him, that I was going to lock up; they would probably give me life. But fuck it, a life for a life. I paid all the money I had, but I was able to stand behind this serving line with this big ass knife in my sock and I wasn't nervous or anything. It had to be done, it would be.
    If you've never experienced prison, the kitchen chow hall holds about 150 inmates. Imagine all of these animals hungry as hell so this was not a quiet place, always loud as hell. This makes me believe in GOD. Over the years I forgot his face and what he looked like, hell it was 20 something years ago. So I had no idea how I would spot him. One of the ways the prison controlled the inmates from eating more than once was using a roster. Every inmate that comes through the line has to give the officer hi housing number, which was all I had no this "son of a bitch". Inmates walked in by groups of 20 or 30 at a time. I was about 40 feet from the officer with the roster. But when this one inmate walks in, alone, for the strangest reason, the whole chow hall got quiet. Just quiet enough for me to hear this inmate give the officer his housing number. It was him. And just then, in a sudden flash, it all came back to me. Now I remembered what he looked like, it all came back. As he got closer I realized that he actually looked the same just much older, glasses, salt and pepper hair. But the same none the less. As he passed me to sit down, I spoke just to hear his voice. I watched as he went to sit down. I then nodded at the officer to inform him that I was about to do what I had to do. I then jumped over the counter and went over to the table where he sat with two white guys. As I sat across from him, I asked his name. He confirmed his name. I then took the single picture out of my pocket and I slid it across the table and asked him if he knew this lady. Through his glasses he looked at the picture, then at me through the top of the glasses, then back at the picture. Then with a long sigh, he asked "so. Which one are you?" I told him. And proceeded to ask questions. Well because I did not appreciate the other two guys just sitting there being nosey, because they had clearly finished their food. So I snapped at them and it scared the killer which created a scene. Funny how things happen, at that exact moment another inmate walked through the door and yelled out "old man Scott, the folks looking for you". He then called for the other guards outside to notify them that he was here. Apparently they had somehow gotten word that he and I were on the same prison, so all of that day they had been searching. So as he jumps up in fear for his life, he squeezed through the tables and wall to make his way back to the door, in the safety of the prison guards. My chance was gone. So I jumped back over the counter and made my way to the back of the kitchen. Went out the back door and made my way back to my cell. 2 days later they transferred him to another prison. A week after that he died, supposedly of natural causes. (They say). But that's another story. Trust me prison inmates and guards have a government. Shit happens. I have yet to have that dream to this day. It's been over 10 years. Life




                                                                        -jboogie

Diapers and the Death of Lil' Billy

Children do not need to be yelled at, called or made to feel stupid, or neglected of hugs. The real world will teach them plenty about cruelty without thier family's help. At home, they need to learn about love and intelligence. Home should be the safe house.

They called me "Lil' Billy"...because I was named after my dad, Billy Sr. From what I've learned, I was generally a pleasant baby. My earliest memories were very happy and loving. I remember watching  soap operas with my mom. We would also lay in her room and listen to good music like Al Green. I would roll around in my diaper clapping my hands to the music (this is a memory my A-mother (adopted mother) would remind me of often). It was all hugs and kisses, games and music.
As I got older, and my A-mother's health got worse, things were more...unpleasent. I got yelled at for doing stupid things. I got screamed at for mistakes. A shout if I was too loud. Blood curdling call of my name for being too quiet. I was spanked for dropping a glass by accident. I was whipped for lying. The only time I think she felt bad was when her ring once caught my fingernail. Hitting me with her wooden walking stick or fly-swatter was okay, though.
A-daddy (adopted dad) was gone a lot, due to work. When he was home, he was quiet and passive. Once after an argument with A-mother, I asked him if he knew she was wrong, why didn't he say anything. In his calm and slightly sad voice, he said "It's just easier to let it go." 
Little did I know that my mom, the woman who I thought was just being mean, was holding the world on her shoulders. She spent twelve or more years holding back a secret, several years in fear. She had to deal with knowing that I was adopted, losing custody of my older brother, and learning that the woman that had given her two sons had been murdered. I didn't know how strong she was. Her health declined, our finances declined, and she still held our family together.
Here is how I remember it:
That summer...no...THAT summer...started off unlike any other. I didn't ask my mom for much, because it was futile and stressful to do so. But this Sunday, like most Sundays...I got up and got ready for church. My church was about 4 blocks away, so I always walked. In these ugly-ass grey slacks, and a grey short-sleeved shirt (would have made the 90's proud), I walked into my mom's bedroom and asked her if I could leave for church early. She yelled at me, knowing I just wanted to spend time at my cousin's house (which was across the street from the church). Reluctantly, she said "Go on, but don't ask again!"  I bolted out the door. This was Fate's timing, you have no idea. As SOON as I stepped onto the porch, a little truck stopped in front of my house...TIMING.
As I walked toward the street, my shy inner voice said "Oh, great...It's somebody needing directions."  But I was nicer than I was shy, so I walked up to the young man that got out of the passenger's side. He started in with the relentless questions; "What's your name?"  "Is this your house?"  "Are  your parent's inside?"   I kept thinking that he and the blond girl in the driver's seat were going to rob my house.
But then he looked back at her and said "I think it's him." I was starting to get even more uncomfortable. He asked if I had any brothers. I said "Yes, one. His name is Willie."
"That's the only brother?  You don't have another one?" I shook my head. He asked another question or two.
I sort of paused. Some higher power (had to be), put an old thought into my 15 year-old mind. This little boy who lived with us when I was 2, then disappeared. I asked about him once or twice and was told his parents just let him live with us. As far as I knew, his parents came and picked him up. "There was this little boy that used to live with us, but his dad came to get him."
He asked what the boy's name was.
I sort of got happy and excited to see an old..."friend."  "I only remember what I called him. Jo-Jo. Is that you?"
He said yes. I think I extended a hand or something.
"Wow, I can't believe it! How have you been?"
"Good." He said it with a smile, but in a way that should have told me there was more. "Is that all you remember?"
"Yeah."
There was an awkward silence...or maybe he took a deep breath...or maybe he just farted...hell, I don't know. Things start getting sketchy here. This was the moment just before I felt like I was going to black out.
"I don't know how to tell  you this...I'm your brother."
I vacated...not physically...mentally. You've heard of out-of-body experiences. I was stunned...no that's not a big enough word...Shocked?...no...I was sur-stun-ocked! "What?" was really all I could say.
"I'm your brother...And you know that those people in there that raised you aren't your real parents, right?"
Ummmm...yeah....

(to be continued)

MEMORIES

 

    I guess my first memories as a kid were with my mom, before she was brutally murdered by her ex-boyfriend. I may have been about 4 years old. I only have a few but they were all good memories. Short but good. I can remember how my mom made my malt-o-meal; she would always make me a bowl with marshmallows in the shape of a smiley face. Funny how that sticks out as one of my biggest memories of her. It kept me grounded on how big her heart was and how much she loved me. I have memories of us swimming in the pool at the apartment complex we lived in. I even remember she got me my first girlfriend. I remember her giving me a ring, I couldn't tell you if the thing was real or not, but she gave me the ring one day, and escorted me about 4 or 5 doors down from where we lived and had me knock on this door. When this little girl and her mom opened the door, with a huge grin on my face, I placed the ring in her hand, and the little girl planted a big kiss on my cheek. I had a later memory of me and that same little girl hunching on the patio when no one was looking. Yes I was about 4, don't judge.

Oh and how about the time I lost my first tooth. I remember the next day the tooth fairy put $10 under my pillow. So that day my mom took me to a little put- put golf course located behind the apartments. I don't remember playing, but I remember my mom being the best tooth fairy in the world.

To this day, although I was only 5 years old when she passed, I can take you to the exact apartments and the door we lived. One of the things that always made me remember home is, it was located at the end of this bridge. What made this bridge different than any other is, the memories I have going over this bridge are the old fashioned lights that ran down the side. I always knew that once we reached the end of those lights, we would be home. The light at the end of the bridge I guess you could say. There was a smell in my mother's house when she cooked that was a very unique smell, But I will never forget it. The memory of that smell was associated with her like the memory of her existence. I remember my mom had two dogs, a black one and a white one, both poodles. I always felt that these two dogs gave me my first glance at good and evil. The black one was mean as hell, and the whit one was nice. If you ever pet the white one and the black one was around, he would try to bite you. And if you try to pet the black one then………. Well he would still bite you, but if the white one was around then he would lick you until you gave him attention. I remember one time that I tried to pet the black one, and he bit my hand. When I ran into the kitchen crying to my mother, she just turned and told me to go bite him back. So I did that, and she realized I did when she heard the dog yelping from the other room. But to this day I always symbolized those two dogs to and evil.

 

 

-jboogie

Cocaine is a hella of drug.

Lil brother

THE story…….

    As I said before, I'm new to this blog shit, so if there are rules or procedures then I'll have to learn as I go. But I guess what would make sense would be to give you a basic rundown of the story of me and my two brothers. Well at least my version. I think if I do this it will help the two or three readers we get to better understand since we will be jumping to and fro different times in our lives.
    Basically, I'm the oldest of the three brothers. When I was about 5 years old. My mom's ex-boyfriend threatened to kill her and her children. No one but my mom took this man seriously. So she gave the baby brother to my grandmother, then hid me and my other brother in this small Texas town and let another family adopt us. Although this guy did nothing for a while, my mom still feared for her life. From my understanding, my dad tried to get me and my brother back from this adopted family with no success. So he was only able to get me. Shortly after I returned with my dad, her ex shoots and kills her in cold blood. The middle brother, (Nanaki) was left in that small town to grow up with his adopted family, with no contact with us for over 14 years. During that time, I grew up with my dad, and the baby brother grew up with my white, racist grandmother (RIP). From the age of 5 until I turned about 17 no one had any contact with my brother that was left in that small town, (at least that was what we all thought). During these years though, I was able to stay in contact with my baby brother. I went through good and bad times dealing with my dad and his side of the family, as well as my mom's side of the family. I did things that were unbelievable as a kid and as an adult. But I never forgot my other brother. I told myself growing up, that no matter what I would find him before I go to college. Well funny how god works. The summer after I graduated, I came across an opportunity to go find him. After 12 or 13 years, I had no name, no address, nothing. Just my brother's name and the name of the town. When I found him, I discovered that he had no idea that I existed. His whole life he was under the impression that the adopted family was his real family. In one day he found out his whole life was a fake. From there we had to introduce him back into his family. After a short while, I ended up going to prison for almost a decade. Towards the end of my time in prison, I ended up face to face with the man that murdered my mom. Now released, me and my brothers are still on the path to getting our lives in order, mentally and physically.
    Imbedded within all of these main topics in this story are adventures and stories, told from 3 different points of view. I wrote this in hopes that it will better help people to piece together and understand a lot of the things we write.


                                                                                                                                 -Jboogie

With Over Sensitivity Comes Great Responsibility

The conservatives condemn the liberals for being emotional. The liberals condemn the conservatives for their fighting. Both seem to have forgotten the others roles in this world. The strong aggressive fighters are here to protect innocence, the weak, and beauty from the dangers of the world. The passive emotional types are here to give fighters something to protect; love, beauty, and humanity. The world would be ugly without "bleeding hearts". The world would be unsafe without fighters. What a wonderful world it would be if we could accept the roles that each of us play.


I used to be something of a clairvoyant...a psychic. It's true. After meeting Joseph and Scott when I was 15, my already sensitive nature had kicked into high gear. It was the mid-90's. I was a teenager who didn't have time to deal with normal teen identity stuff because I was meeting new family, dealing with the family I knew, and coming to terms with all the drama that fell between the two. So, you can imagine that along with hormones, I was psychologically raw.
It was winter, after my A-mom (adopted mom) had died. I was living with my A-dad (adopted dad). I had learned a bunch of news about my B-grandmother (bio grandmother) and her extreme abusive side. I am not going to bash the woman. She is dead and I do not like to speak ill of the dead or judge a person who has asked for forgiveness. However, I will be honest.
If you read Joe's post, you already know that Scott (the baby), grew up with B-G. As I was getting acquainted with the family, they were rather forthcoming with the information of her reign of terror. Scott, living in her home...well, let's just say that he got the best access to the abuse. I'll let him share any more than that.
When I found this out, being the emotionally sensitive child that I was, my heart just went out to him. Here was this kid that grew up with bruises and name-calling, and still living with the woman at the root of it. My abuse didn't start until I was older. His sounded as if it happened right of the gate (so to speak).
Well, to make a long story short, I exchanged harsh words with B-G (details in a future blog). It ended with her threatening to shoot me (seems a  little tacky now that I think about it, considering how mom died). We didn't speak again...ever.
However, this one time, she went on vacation to Ohio or somewhere. Joe, being the oldest brother and something of a wild hare, orchestrated a little get together with Scott and B-G's apartment. We knew she would be gone until Thursday. It was like Sunday or Monday when I got there. We KNEW we had to be out by Thursday (because aside from the shooting threat, she had specified to Scott that she didn't want me or Joe in the apartment).
So, for a day, I sat back and watched Joe, Scott, and one of our cousins bounce of the walls. I was a lot more reserved and didn't know any of them that well, anyway. Still, it was fun in its own way. Well, in the middle of laughing and acting stupid I was struck with this wave of...knowing? It's hard to describe. It's like someone has whispered into my heart "You need to leave. She's on her way home."  I think Joe and Scott asked what was wrong. I just looked at them and said "Something's wrong. I think we should go."
That night as we were settling in for bed, there was a phone call. B-G had decided to cut her trip off early and was already back in Dallas. She was on her way home!
We scurried the hell out of there like roaches hit with a wave of light. Who knows what she would have actually done if she had found us in her house? I'm glad we didn't stick around to find out.
There was this time also at my home, when Joe was living there. I was struck with this feeling and went into one of our living rooms. I sat there in the dark, crying a bit. Joe came in and asked me what was wrong. I didn't (don't) like to open up really. It's difficult to share what is on my mind with most people. So it took some time. I eventually told him that I felt like we were going to get separated again. He promised that he wasn't going anywhere. Despite what he may have thought of me as a whole or how little I knew of him, Joe was ALWAYS willing to talk things through with me when I was upset.  I only felt marginally better.
So, Joe left for school shortly after that. I think he went to Tyler. Months went by. I still had that feeling that we were going to be parted again. It was a "knowing", not paranoia.
Sure enough, a few steps down the timeline of our lives, Joe went to prison. I was devastated. I was scared, honestly. But there it was, my feeling proved right.
Even in dreams. I once had a dream that I was on the set of this movie being made. It was an X-files movie. There was this big war going on with big black helicopters everywhere. Mulder and Scully (along with the helicopters) were fighting these small oil-covered statues of liberty. These statues were trying to destroy different monuments around the  US (the golden gate bridge, hoover dam, etc.)...Are you picking up any symbolism here?  Let me help you out. I had this dream 3 or 4 weeks before the 9/11 attacks. Weird, huh?
I think my sensitive nature allowed me to feel things brewing and sense trouble. Sounds crazy...but it is my theory. That kind of thing happened a lot until I got older. I'm also not that sensitive anymore. Sometimes I miss "that" me, but maybe I don't need "that" me around anymore.
If I did still have that ability, I'd be making some spare change on a hotline.



                                                                                                                          -Nanaki

OLD

Tonight we had a multi-birthday party at the house. We celebrated the following birthdays of January; mine, Budderfly's, my muppet-like friend Ben, Budderfly's mom, and my nephew Austin (though he isn't here). I love birthdays because it means I've made it another year. I'm not one of those people that are scared of the aging process per say. It's coming and if I'm doing things right, then why shouldn't I celebrate another year?

I've been seeing a lot of comments on age recently; younger people talking about getting older or making degrading comments towards older people, trying to figure out what "old" really is, and general arguments among the generations. It really doesn't matter your age but how you handle it, I think. If youth would let go of the need to grow up so fast and get rid of age-prejudice. The older generations need to start making decisions that command respect. Both need to get a grip and accept thier age with some grace and class.

It was truly a fun evening; though Pandy and his family had to leave early. :(   We watched trailers (so ready for Sucker Punch), played games, made margaritas. It was great. I tried to call the nephew (he lives in Texas) so we could sing happy birthday to him, but he must have been sleep.

My only fear with getting old is wondering who will take care of me. Will I be alone when I'm 80? Will I make it to 80? Will I have enough money to survive?  I'm not stressed about any of this, but it does cross my mind on occasion.

For now, I made it to my mid-30's. That's reason for a party!

I Left My Heart in...Wait, Fuck...Where Is It?

True Love is Always. It may not do what we want it to. It may decorate itself in anger at times. But if it is real, then it never goes away.


My entire existence has been about starting over; whether it is what I wanted or not.
** I was born into a dysfunctional family of Caucasians (some racist, mostly rednecks, as I learned). My mother was beautiful, though. She was something of a free spirit who loved with reckless abandon. I had a fantastic older brother, technically no father, and an adorable grin. ;-)  November of 1979, my mother, Judy, left this world. My name was Christopher.
**Wait...start over. My name is Billy. I was born to a financially stable black couple. I was raised in a conservative household, with a father who worked for an oil company. My mother was a stay at home mom who loved on and cared for me. I had a much older brother who played football and left for the Navy soon after high school. Aside from that, we had an assortment of animals, an assortment of housekeepers, and a consistent stable home. Over the years, it grew darker. My father was always gone (even when there). My brother was always gone. My mother was angry and unhealthy all the time. The housekeepers went away. Animals kept dying. One day, I leave the house to walk to church. A car pulls up in front of my house. A young man, around my age (I was 15), got out and after a few questions told me "You're not who you think you are."
**Wait...start over. My name is Billiam Christopher. I lived in a single-parent household (father) with a brother I never saw, another brother who was too young and oppressed to come see me, and another brother who was all over the place. My home was falling apart around me; figuratively and literally. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. What few friends I had were moving away and growing up. My cousins, aunts, grandparents were becoming strangers to me. I fled to Waco, where...
**Wait...start over...

Yeah, it just keeps going on and on like that. Each life was just a tragedy waiting to happen. I started off as this passive, affectionate infant who loved with a gentility you don't see anywhere these days. As each life took its turn with me, I instinctively started using every trick in the book to try and protect my heart. Love became more and more foreign to me; friends, family, co-workers.

Here's how I saw things after I moved to Enid in 1997/1998; My older biological brother came to find me (you'll here this tale later, I swear), but was disappointed in the brother he found. It didn't matter anyway, because he ended up leaving me when he went to prison. My father did not know what to do with me. The rest of the family (aside from a couple of cousins) had no idea what I was going through and didn't bother to try to understand. The only person that ever made me feel safe and loved (despite the abuse) died on the morning of my favorite holiday; Christmas morning. My first boyfriend was a loving, innocent, funny southern man...until he started abusing prescription pills and then...abusing me. It has seemingly been never-ending. I don't know how accurate all of this is, but it is how I felt.

You see, at the time...Love for me was merely a high bridge for me to fall from. Looking back now and thinking about my brother's and how much worse they had it than me, I don't see how they remained so positive and optimistic. I just don't...didn't...have the energy to keep trying to love people that hurt me (intentionally or otherwise).

That's the funny thing about love. No matter how bitter you become, you still want it. There isn't a single person who lacks desire to be shown love. If they do, then they are one cold son of a bitch who has lost their soul. I have almost been that person. To this day I teeter on the brink of saying "fuck it" and going on a destructive tour of America. So what stops me?

Love. As cruel as I think it has been to me, I use it to keep me human. I have so much love for all of my nephews and nieces...you have no idea. They have not been burdened with the things that Joe, Scott, and I have. Right now, they love the way my birth mother loved. It's honest, pure, and upfront. While they open the door to love, my brothers are there to help me walk through it. Because...man...I'm broken. I put on the show, wearing the preppy clothes, using my expansive vocabulary (proud of it), and keeping that posture in check. I try so hard to be perfect because I am broken in so many places.

The fact that my mothers and my brothers, my nephews and my friends have shown me love, assures me in some way that I will get back to where I was when I was a child. Maybe I can be open to giving and receiving strong emotions from others. From the words of that great classic, Nature Boy ; "The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return."  

I hope I pass this class. I'm tired of starting over.

Growing up

                                                                                                                                                             
    Growing up, I always felt like my life was a dream. Nothing ever felt real. Maybe this is why I found it "hard to take life seriously", as my dad would say. One of the main factors I had to deal with growing up was RACE. Let me first inform readers of this blog to understand that I am of a mixed race. My mother was white, and my dad was black. Because of this and the timeline of my life and society, I went through stages during my younger years where I wasn't accepted by blacks and also was not accepted by whites. So I was a poster model for outcast. Growing up, I felt left out a lot, but looking back on everything I would not trade it for the world. It opened my eyes to the real world, and not that fairy tale shit your read as a kid. Don't get me wrong, that fairy tale shit is good entertainment, and helps you fall right asleep. But that shit won't prepare you for the real world. And in the real world, no knight in shining armor is going to ride in on a horse and rescue you. Because the reality is, he can't afford the damn horse because child support is kicking his ass. And ridding in with that shinning ass armor is going to attract the wrong attention, like the police. And he doesn't want that, especially since he has a warrant for unpaid traffic tickets. On top of all that, this knight better not be black, if so, you may as well expect to wait for a long while, because of course he is going to be late.
    So you see, instead of setting myself up for failure like most people, I look at life for what it is, and deal with it. How do I relate this to race? Good question, even if you didn't ask it. You see growing up; I was raised by my dad (black), because my mom was killed. But I still associated with my mom's (white), side of the family. So I guess you can say I got the best and worst of both worlds. Anyway, as a young kid I would kick it with the white folks and listen to them tell nigger jokes and laugh there asses off. Then they would just look over at me and say, (in the most convincing bullshit way), don't worry Joey your one of us. ONE OF US. What the hell does that mean? Especially at 7 or 8 years old. But with a half ass grin on my face, I would just nod in agreement. Then I would discreetly look down at my skin, and know deep down inside that I was not one of them. But believe it or not, at the tender age of 7 or 8, I so badly wanted to be "ONE OF THEM". Not because I felt that being one of them was right, but because I knew I wasn't white. But even when I was around blacks and after being criticized over and over being called a honky or cracker. I would again look at my skin and feel like I'm also not, "one of them". Where did this leave me as a child? In limbo. Most of my years were exposed to the black culture, but kids can be cruel, worst than any adult. And when I was 7 or 8 we had not yet been exposed to Christopher Williams or baby face. No one knew Obama yet, so yellow niggas were not in. you mattered only if you were dark as chocolate or white as snow. So playing with black kids, I got a lot of torture and of course they called me white. Well going over to the white side of the family, also forced me to accept the negative points of being a nigger. My grandmother was so prejudice that all she called me and my youngest brother was little nigger or little black bastard. So I experienced strife on both sides of the track. But again I would not trade it in for the world. The experience alone was unmatched. Let me give you an example of that, and then I will tell you what I learned.
    True story. Even growing up with my dad I was always aware of the racism that was going on in the world. Well I have a whit aunt who actually loved to be around me. So when I was about 13 or 14 years old, she told me that we have an uncle jimmy that wants to see me and my brother. He has not seen us since our mom's death. He lives deep in the country of east Texas. So me, my baby brother, my aunt, and a couple of her kids took a road trip to east Texas to see uncle jimmy. Now let me clear up that, I grew up with my black dad. And my baby brother grew up with my white grandmother. Keep this in mind as I tell this story. Anyway, we were all packed up and on the road, heading to east Texas. Well half way down there, my aunt decides to share some vital information. She tells us that it slipped her mind to tell us about our uncle jimmy's lifestyle. She says that not only is uncle jimmy a member of the KKK but he was the grand wizard of that area. My mouth dropped and you can assume the rest of my reaction. Sitting in the front seat looking at my aunt I said, (well we need to turn around then right?) she just smiled and told me that there was nothing to worry about. Yea right, coming from "one of them". She did her best to assure me that it was going to be ok. She told me that the only time that I would have to worry was if he puts on his hood, I guess KKK rules are that they are not allowed to do anything without their hood. Bullshit! So she continues to tell me that, if so happen he does put on this hood, my instructions were to run to the nearest highway and she would pick me up. This was starting to feel less and less like a family trip, and more like a game show. What about my little brother in the back seat you ask? This is when you refer back to the comment I made earlier. I grew up with my dad; he grew up with my grandmother. I grew up black, he grew up white. Throughout this whole conversation with my aunt, my brother is sitting in the backseat totally unaffected by this information, playing his hand held game. Now growing up, he could pass as white. So maybe he had a sense of confidence in his head that his skin tone would make him safe. Maybe because of the skin tone, he was inexperienced with that side of racism. Or hell maybe he just did not care. Don't get me wrong, I love my brother to death, but he was on his own that day. Well after a couple of hours of driving we arrive at this house deep…deep…deep in the woods. Of course I'm the last out the car. As we approach the house. I felt a little sorry for my brother, imagining them tying a noose around his fat little neck. My aunt knocked on the door and uncle jimmy's wife opened the door and we entered through the kitchen and walked towards the dining room. Jimmy's wife stops in the hallway to look at us as she yells down the hallway in the countriest voice I have ever heard in my life, "jimmy they are here". But I was wrong about that voice. The response that returned from the other end of that hallway was by far the C O U N T R I E S T damn voice on this planet." I'll be there in a sec", uncle jimmy yelled back. Then looking at me with these deep eyes, his wife says, "no jimmy I think you need to come out now, it's something we overlooked". I swear I did not feel good about this. We were standing at the end of the hallway. And I heard jimmy cussing saying god dammit hear I come. This mother fucker took two, maybe three steps into the hallway from that last room, and stopped, and cocked his head. All I heard from his lips was "god damn!!" as he disappeared back into that room. Two minutes later he returned with a black hood on. All you heard from that point was the screen door banging back and forth after I ran out the door. I ran across fields, jumped fences, and ran past cows. Not having any idea where the hell the highway was.
    What may have only been 30 or 40 minutes, but seemed like hours, they found me hiding in a sugar cane field. We returned back to jimmy's house to discover that jimmy and my aunt planned this from the beginning. Although my uncle jimmy was a real KKK member and was grand wizard of that area, this was a lifestyle that he let go. We talked for hours about that. He turned out to be my favorite uncle. Not because he didn't hang me, but because he was the first to open my eyes to the hard reality of the world. He made an attempt to let me see what it was like in his shoes. Explaining that the lifestyle he lived was the way his dad raised him and that was all he knew. And his dad's dad did the same, and so on. As he began to grow out of it he saw the world in a different way. Don't get me wrong, at that time he would have been the first to admit that he had not completely kicked that raciest attitude, but he got better and better every day about seeing the world different.
    You see that opened my eyes to something. We are what we are conditioned to be. We are model creatures. So whatever we are taught, so shall we be. It's like raising your kids, if they become successful doctors or lawyers then the parents take blame. But let them turn out to be shit and no one takes blame. As I grew up and reflected on the behavior of my family members, I began to feel sorry for them. It was not their fault. That's how the parents raised them. But even then, it was not the parents fault, because they were raised that way, and so on. So prejudice is not a gene, it's a habit. Anyway, my family is not perfect but I love them, good or bad.



                                                                                                                                          -jboogie

trees........Yea, the trees

Ok first off, this blogging shit is something totally new to me. But I am so excited about it. One, because I’ve always felt that I had a story to tell. This is my chance. My brother summed it up perfectly in his first blog, “a tree grows in Texas”. I couldn’t have said it any better if I tried. Some of the shit you may read will be hard to swallow but it’s real life shit. From my end I want to share my experience with love, race, family, children, and so many other subjects. After it is all done, maybe I will have climbed the tree to see the world in a different light.


                                                                                                                                                           -jboogie

Here at the Happiness Hotel

Wisdom comes when you learn that you should always be a student.

Today has been a mildly interesting day. First, let me just go ahead and admit it...I'm gay. There...but I think one could argue that I'm hardly stereotypical in a lot of ways. I've managed to have some homophobic people actually learn to respect me. So, if you're really done with reading this, then it really is your loss. You might actually learn something.
(Sorry, I spend way to much time on the soap box)
So, my mildly interesting day began with interaction with a friend and his son who are staying with me and my roommate, Budder-fly (he has asked that I call him this, due to his fascination with...dinosaurs). My friend is a spinner of tall-tales and goofy antics. His son is like a piano accompaniment, adding his own sound effects, echo, and laughter to whatever his father says. He's hysterical. Anyway, the last few years, our house has been void of much company. So, this was a change.
Then, throughout my work day I texted these two guys that I met through a phone application while in Dallas last weekend. They seem nice, but truth be told...I have NO idea what to do when it comes to guys. I have NO GAME, as they say.  But I'll chat with them and see where it goes.
I spoke with my good friend, Pandy (he hates that nickname, I think, but he likes me enough to let me get away with it), via text. We talked mostly about this blog.
Also, in the midst of researching information on the net regarding my birth mother, I found the contact info for who I believe is her brother...making him my uncle, who is spending life in prison for a murder in the 70's.  I decided to write him a letter. Joe and Scott have no clue I've done this...well, they do now. I just basically told him that I didn't want anything, that since he was probably not getting out this would be my only chance to communicate with him, and that if he wanted to write back with any interesting bits of info that he was welcome. Why? I don't know. Everything is something. It's all a little bit more of bio mom. There's also a lot of curiosity about someone that was mom's brother killing someone, after what happened to her.
Last weekend, Joe told me that I needed to reach out to my family. I don't think this is what he meant. He was mostly encouraging me to spend time with the family he grew up with on his father's side. I think he's working on something of a small family gathering. I'll address that in a later post.
So, after writing my letter to Uncle Killya during my break at work, I had a sudden realization that I had a dream last night. I remembered running from a cannibal through a quarry. I was with a friend and we were doing a lot of hiding and scurrying. I love to analyze dreams, but I've been so tired I really don't have the energy. I'll just store it here until some other time.
With work done, I made my trek home realizing that there is a huge decline in birds right now from what there was 6 months ago. It went from an Alfred Hitchcock movie to Night of The Comet (does anyone get that 80's reference?).
At home, our guest had doubled as another one of our friend's other sons  and his daughter arrived. They are all very nice, so it  is not a big deal. You will soon realize that I'm rather anti-social at moments and could probably live my life as a hermit if I hadn't become so self-conscious about what other people think.  Ain't disorders great?  :)   Again, they are rather entertaining, though.
So, I'm off to join Budder-fly for a bag of Braum's burgers. Good night everyone!

A Tree Grows In Texas

I am a Texan. My tree is planted in the Lone Star State, though I don't currently live there. Home of George W. Bush and the sweetest iced tea you'll ever drink. I left my home without looking back (very often). Didn't want to see. Didn't want to remember. As cliche as it is, I really do think I was subconciously trying to find myself (and not in the dirty "no-no" way).
This is it. The first blog from yours truly, Christopher (aka Nanaki). It's a complicated thing for someone like me to connect to the world. My life long interest in creating and nurturing has always been my strongest method of reaching out. Yet that has often been met with fear, insecurities, and confusion.
I desperately want people to understand me, but am frightened of the results of being that open.
It is now 2011. New year is a great marker for new things. I want to end this year feeling as though I'm finally making an imprint on the world.
To fully sell this blog to you, and to the younger generations of my family, let me assure you that EVERYTHING (in regards to us and our history) will be discussed; adultery, murder, love, theft, sex, religion, politics, abuse all the way down to what we thought of the last episode of Fringe, how the football game turned out, why baby diapers are cute but adult diapers are disgusting.  It will all be as truthful as I can possibly make it. The Beaty Boys are just as much a product of death and lies as we are Final Fantasy games and trash t.v.
You will learn about us, which will tell a story, which will hopefully provide you with lessons, entertainment, and recepies for various types of gumbo (though, I really don't like gumbo as a rule). Most importantly, I hope it will help my niece and nephews know...well...just more. Maybe it will help them. I love them so much.
A tree grows in Texas and it's time to climb it and see from different heights.

-Nanaki