Growing up, we were taught that the man was the head of the household. In practice at our house, our mother was the head. My dad and I didn’t have a good relationship. I assume it is because I thought he was a wimp.
When I was in 6th grade, he beat me with switches because I couldn’t remember, at the exact moment he asked me, what my homework was. I was eating my after school snack and chatting with my sister when he asked me. I asked if I could check my planner to be sure. When I went to my room, he followed me with the switches. He has always said, “I may not have deserved the spanking that time, but there were times I deserved one and didn’t get one.”
When I still lived at home, we would go to church every weekend. Three times a weekend we went to church where we pretended to be the perfect family. The perfect family that was so dedicated to God, when at home it was Hell.
At home, I never in the 11 years I lived there saw my parents with a Bible in their hands. Never once in the 11 years I lived there did my mother or father sit down with me to study the Bible that we claimed to live by. We kids did it together all the time. We would pretend to preach, but never once did we ever get biblical teaching from our parents. Oh, they knew the 5 bible verses that they had memorized and everything I asked them was traced back to those verses. All of the Biblical teaching I got was from church and my own personal study.
There was a time that I was reading an African American novel that was written during the time period my dad was in high school. He had told us stories of how he spit on the first black person that came to his school. So, I asked him some generic questions just to see how accurate the author captured the struggle for black people. He got so angry at me and started calling all black people N****** and saying they needed to learn their place. I was so upset that I argued back saying it was the 21st century and that word was vulgar. He forbid me from reading African American Literature. He called it the, “N****** books.” Well, that just made me want to read it more because I realized education was the only way to stop racism.
When my older sister got a new foster child that was just a few days old, my dad fawned over how much it looked like the couple. Well, it wasn’t a few weeks later and everyone found out who the dad was that my parent’s treated the infant like it had a disease. They kept telling her that she needed to let the baby be raised by its own kind. My sister adopted the baby. As the baby grew, my dad would refer to it as the “Little N*****”. One day, the child came in with a paint brush in one hand and a bottle of white paint in the other. She asked my sister to paint her white. I have no doubt it was because my dad never let an opportunity slip that he could remind his granddaughter that she was inferior because of her skin color.
When I was 13, Hurricane Katrina blew through our town. The day after, my parents were going through the safe. They handed me a booklet of papers. I was told they were my adoption papers. I think that moment was when I felt my first panic attack. I sobbed as I frantically tried to understand the words. All I knew was that these papers transferred me to these people. They proceeded to tell me how much we cost. “We got you on sale.” My mom told me with a smile on her face. Sale? What did that mean? How could we have a price? All these questions swam through my young mind.
“When you turn 18, you can have these papers for your birthday.” Both of my parents gave their word. They both promised me and I started counting down the years until I could see those papers again. My parents took the papers and put away my bill of sale never to be seen again.
I am 21 and I am still waiting on them to fulfill their promise. Although I don’t know why considering everything. I did find out from my bragging mother that she gave my younger sister her adoption papers for 18th birthday. However, every request I make for my papers has been denied.
I cut all contact with my family on July 23, 2013. I sent them one last text and changed my number. When I got home, I found out they had deleted my email account I had had for eight years. I had no communication with them until the week before Thanksgiving. I wanted to know if they had changed. Strangely, I had hoped they had as I dialed the familiar number.
“Hello.” My dad answered the phone.
“It is me, Morgan.” He was happy to hear from me and wanted to know what I had been up to.
“Well, I have been helping rape victims.” That was when the conversation turned sour.
From there he called me a bald-faced liar. He said that after I told him I was raped I still went up to my attackers house. Well, I was asked to baby sit his kids when I was home from college.
“What did you go up there for round 2?” He said. I literately felt my blood freeze. The thought of actually wanting to sleep with this man made me physically sick, so why would I want to ever see him again?
“I wish I could be unadopted.” I said speaking my greatest wish.
“Well, I wish I could unadopt you too.” He replied. Of all the people in the world that was suppose to be my protector, my daddy was suppose to be on my side. A loving father would have stood up for me.
Last week, I figured since I was no longer considered part of their family I could get my adoption papers. I asked Berquin to call for me because I didn’t want them to have my phone number. So, he called. My dad tried to tell Berquin that I couldn’t have the adoption papers because I ‘screwed’ around. Although I am still chuckling over that one, I still am in shock that after all the filth they are part of that they would have stooped so low as to break a promise made to a little, confused 13 year old girl who waited all this time for them to keep their promise. Why am I still waiting? Anyone that can molest a child, know that she is being raped, and turn their backs on her can’t be trusted to keep their word, can they?