04/04/2025
Women’s Advocacy Council of the Tri-Cities
Awesome Testimony...
You too, can make a change:
I was seven the first time I hid a crack pipe.
It was used, still warm, and I slid it under the big blue sectional before my big brother could open the door. He was at the front, shaking. “My mom said not to let anybody in,” he kept repeating.
But BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
“Let us in or we’ll let ourselves in.”
Even he—usually fearless—had no choice but to open the door.
Three or four officers walked in. My four brothers and sisters and I huddled together in the living room. I was scared. Not of the police—but that they might find the pipe. That Mama could get in trouble. That she might go to jail. And I didn’t want to lose her.
They whispered. Talked into walkie-talkies. Then they told us: “You’re leaving. Grab something quick.”
I ran to my mom’s closet and grabbed her silver sequin Michael Jackson hat. I loved that hat.
That night, my twin brother and I were taken to a Mexican family. I remember being made to stay outside in the playhouse while their family was inside. We ate separately. The other kids made fun of my kinky hair and ashy skin until I cried. I even tried to style my hair like theirs, but mine was short and brittle. Aqua Net will only take you so far before your hair breaks off.
We later found out the drug dealer—Bonnie—was the one who called foster care on my mom. She told them our lights were off and we were eating off a barbecue pit. What she didn’t say was that she moved us into that abandoned house. And back then, people stayed in places like that until the police caught on.
In three years, we were taken away three times.
During that period, my mom had a child with our caseworker, so we were taken again. I stayed in foster homes and a children’s shelter. The five of us were always separated.
I was scared.
But I prayed.
I remembered God.
Mama used to have women come over to our house in England to pray in tongues. That stuck with me. So I whispered my own childlike prayers:
“Hello? God? Are You there? Are You ever gonna let me out of here? Will I ever see my family again?”
In 1992, I returned to my mom’s care. I was 10 years old.
But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I was about to endure.
From 1994 to 1997, I wasn’t allowed to go to school. Mama said school was a privilege—and I had to earn it back. So I stayed home and raised my siblings. At 11, 12, 13 years old. I endured beatings with extension cords, emotional and verbal abuse, and behavior from my stepfather no child should ever have to navigate.
Still, I held on to my faith.
Oddly enough, the same woman who hurt me was also the one who introduced me to Jesus.
And it was Jesus who kept me sane.
I told my twin brother, “One day, I’m leaving this house. I’m going to become educated.”
And I did.
After a moment where I had to protect myself, Mama sent me to live with my biological father. She said it was “to hide the evidence.” She filed a police report—but she still loved her husband. The police never found me.
I started a new life in Centreville, Illinois. I was fifteen.
That was my turning point.
I went on to earn a Ph.D. in Education.
And today, I travel the world telling my story—not for pity, but for purpose.
Because the truth is: most kids who grow up like I did don’t make it. Many fall into addiction, the streets, or worse.
But another road presented itself to me.
And I fought forward.
In Honor of Child Abuse Prevention Month
