Writer’s Block: D.O.C Honored by Katie Russo

      

        One of my mottos is that “The best compliment that you could ever give truth is a mirror” and I think I now have a tangible source of evidence to prove exactly what I meant by that. Someone thought that one of my poems touched them in such a manner that they would write a “reply” poem for the other demographic that was not captured in my original poem. It is powerful, it is humbling, and it is beautiful. It puts a different spin on what my poem was created for, it makes me understand my original poem better, and it makes me feel as if I have to work harder to make the reality of my words available for the lips of those who feel as if they cant speak those words on their own. My eyes are open now…. as well as my ears, and I am able to receive hope better because of this “reply” poem.

        Domestic Violence is a topic that is very close to my heart. Someone very close to me was/is in the midst of it and no matter what you try to do….it is their battle. It is a lesson of letting go and waiting. One of the most painful things is to be helpless and hopeless and pray that they will come to their own self-worth and respect before it is too late. So a few years ago, when I got the news of this abusive situation, I vented to a then friend and the topic for the poem came to life. She said that if a guy ever beat her he would be DOA before anyone could ever revive him at the hospital. I joked and said that he would be D.O.C….. and the poem was born. Here is my poem D.O.C.

“D.O.C”

(by 2Deep)

Your honor
In the case of The State vs. 2Deep The Poetess
I,
The justified assailant
Would like to plead the newly instated charge of Premeditated Self-Defense

Because as a child,

I made up my mind that no man was ever going to lay his hands on me

So after several chick flicks

And watching self-defense workout tapes to Dixie Chicks’ “Earl’s Gotta Die”

I deemed myself fully equipped to handle any man who THOUGHT that he was bold enough to threaten my self-preservation

So I present to you, Exhibit A

I present to you…

His Death Certificate

Yes, sir

That is correct

D.O.C. stands for Dead on Contact

Because he was letting me know of his impending suicide

Through traditional methods of homicide

The moment that his person violently met with my person

So that time of death you see stated there, Your Honor,

Is the moment in which his hand actually touched me

Because the moments following that,

Which actually lead to his last breath,

Were merely inconsequential

Now I present to you Exhibit B

This the map with the exact longitude and latitude

Give or take a stomp or two

Of where his sorry ass now resides

I told his mother,

“Don’t thank me for saving you on funeral costs

Just fix the heel on my boot,

patch up the hole in my floor

And get every female in your family’s tubes tied

So that no one else

Will ever have to suffer from another sorry excuse of an XY chromosome every again.”

And, Your Honor,

I know that this looks like murder

But I promise you it was self-defense

Premeditated?

Yes!

But only because I know my self-worth

But self-defense never the less

And if he were alive today

He, too, would tell you that he didn’t think I could defend myself so well

So I think that my punishment should be to get in a relationship with another sorry ass bastard

Because I will not waste tax payer dollars by filing police reports

Nor will I waste precious emergency room pace

Because you see, I live by a 2-Hit-Die Rule

You hit me

You hit the floor

You die

I am unselfish in this matter, Your Honor

Because there are women out there who need me

And if they can’t have me

They at least need to have my self-esteem

Because there’s not a creation created on this Earth bad enough to put his hands on me

EXCEPT for the devil

And even he’s smart enough to send dumbasses like this to do his dirty work

And we see how that turned out

So I guess that now’s the time for me to admit

That, yes, Sleep & I are having an affair on the side

Therefore, I will not stay up late at nights nursing bruises while he gets to sleep soundly

Nor will I try to figure out what it is that I did or did not do today that caused him to lay his hands on me

So no, Your Honor

I will not apologize for him thinking of me as a victim & me rising as a victor

But I am sorry that his damn daddy didn’t teach him who not to put his fucking hands on

SO, Your Honor, much like that motherfucker who misjudged me

I rest!

 

         For years people have laughed at the “2-Hit-Die Rule” while others have thanked me for bringing life to the topic in such a comedic manner. Either way, people have enjoyed it. I think it spreads a message. And several times I look out into the audience and I see the women nodding and agreeing with me aloud, but I also see one or two women who are either glancing at their men or are very  non-responsive to the poem. I always wondered why that is but never put much thought into it. That was my fault…. my shortcoming to not explore.

        But when one door closes, another door opens. My window of opportunity came in the form of an amazing poet; Katie Russo. Katie is an amazing teacher, journalist, poet and an overall amazing person. I met her a year ago at one of my poetry shows that I host and she has been a beacon of light amongst the darker side of this business. She asked about slam and wanted to find out the inner workers. She emailed me requesting information, wanted to know more spots where she could hear other poets, and she yearned to soak up as much information that I was willing to provide her. She wanted to study it and perfect her craft, and I honestly respected every aspect of her work ethic, so it would be no surprise that I would continue to respect her efforts in honoring my poem, D.O.C.

        Last night she was my featured artist at the open mic I hosted. I was so excited!!!! She revealed to me that she had a reply poem for the other side of my poem. She asked me to introduce her set by doing D.O.C. so that the crowd could see both sides of the spectrum, and I obliged. It was my honor to do so. And as she reaches the mic she begins to perform her poem, Conviction:

Conviction-

(by Katherine Russo)

 

You say it with such conviction,

your syllables drip with perfect diction,

You say you’ll never let a man put you in that position,

and I begin to blush

sink back into the green cushion booth

wooden table,

pen to paper,

ashamed to write this truth,

that I do wish that I could be like you.

 

I know what I used to see when I looked at me;

a palatable acoustic youth.

So unaware that well paid white guys could be abusive too.

 

I never knew when I saw his blue eyes

heard his jokes,

listened to him talk about my red hair

and offer me a smoke

that his fists were capable of anything other than

boxing,

his favorite hobby.

I thought the only time I’d see him swing

was in pursuit of muscled body;

I was mistaken.

Clenched fists didn’t just exist hunched over a computer

data computing

disgusting to me how I thought I was worth muting

because abuse didn’t look like him

and it certainly didn’t look like me

and these bruises that I have are the result of too much free

I said too much,

he drank too much,

someone hit someone but I’m the only one bruised because,

well,

I hit like a girl.

 

And girls like me are above things like these

so silently I ignored what’s so painfully obvious to see;

that I spent too many nights adorning bourbon soaked bruises in afternoons meant to be mornings

that I refused to see every road sign,

 flashing light telling me to run from this place id come to be,

 because I let someone take over all my common sense

and then devour me.

 

But then I remembered,

there was a time when I spoke with like conviction

my syllables steeped in perfect diction

I said I’d never let a man put me in that position,

and now in what feels like twisted fiction I have come to speak the truth;

until I met him,

turned into her

I was; Just. Like. You.

 

        Silence! She had performed the crowd into a trance. All I could do was nod my head and say, “Wow”. Even her boyfriend, who was supposed to record the performance, had forgotten to even turn the camera on. She was amazing. I had to confess that I think she out-wrote me! Her style, cadence and ability to draw a picturesque emotion is unbelievable.

        She mentioned how my somewhat mentoring her int his poetry field has helped her “write to speak” skills and her “write to read” skills as well. I am honored… but I think …no, I KNOW, she had the skills all along…I just may have given her an avenue to express them to where people could hear them. I take no other credit than giving her a stage….she is naturally skilled.

        I am humbled, that she would write a reply piece to my poem. Yet, I am also sadden that I never thought about the women who have YET to capture the courage that drips from my poem. I’m glad someone was able to do so. But i think that this poem speaks to more than just abuse…there is more here. I think there is a huge part of this poem that speaks to the judgmental person who screams they would never do something and then by twist of fate are forced to do exactly what they said they would never do. Here lies the truth that we all hide, cover with MAC and blame on self-propelled kitchen cabinets and loose stair railings. It makes you face your own issues and remember a time when you thought you were strong and long for the days when you can be again.

        One of the strongest lines, to me, is “disgusting to me how I thought I was worth muting”; it screamed at me. As much as I talk…trust me I talk a lot. There are times when I feel like I should be hushed just because someone else said I should be or made attempts to hush me. Long story… but just know that it spoke to me. And I thank her for shaking that part of my conscience awake from its denial.

        So between this poem and another poem by a good friend of mine…. I was in tears and deep thought last night. It was an amazing night of poetry and I was glad that I had an opportunity to witness it all, to be int he presence of such amazing company and to be honored by such an amazing poet. There is more wonderful things coming from Katie Russo…..I bet my pension on that. I am just blessed to be in her presence and to watch her work, to trust me with pieces of her journey and to have her give feedback of my work. I am inspired to write today because of her…..and that takes a lot of magic. She has the magic to make me put pen to paper and create in honor of her inspiration. Google her!!! Like Kom Plex says, she’s “googleable” lol.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

What Happens in this House….:A Molestation Survivor Speaks

WARNING: This is a very graphic and tough topic. Personal experiences and sexual references are made and PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

        Somewhere, in some part of the world, there is a little girl snuggled in her bed pressed against a wall, head under her pillow with just enough space to inhale for the breath holding ahead and to peek towards the door knob awaiting the return of her personal boogie man. Monsters Inc prepares children for the monsters who reside under your bed and in your closets, but what about the monsters who pin you down to the bed and force you and this secret into the closet….what then?

        I was one of those children, and I don’t know if I have ever stopped being one of those children. To this day, I sleep with my bedroom door locked, a privilege that was not granted to me living under his roof. I have escape routes out of windows in my house just in case an intruder were to ever invade my safe haven. Windows covered in complete darkness resemble the rooms I had growing up because our neighbor’s house was so close and he lived by the rule of thumb that “what happens in this house stays in this house.” Who was I to judge his authority?

(Screaming!) He molested me! *exhales* There, I said it…outloud. Who is this “he”, you ask?

        He was my father, Charles S Carter Jr, and he was the man who molested me from before I could remember until the courts took us away from him when I was 12 years old. People say that I look like him, but I still need a DNA test to even begin that process. He was an electrical engineer with several degrees who spoke several languages, and a normal relationship was as foreign to us as him speaking Korean to me in moments of battle. I was his daughter. His first-born, born from the love that he had once married to my mother, but I would come to learn that although I was not his favorite I would turn out to be Daddy’s Girl. Late night parent daughter talks, asthmatic lungs inhaling the stench of Newports from his chest as the weight of a grown man crushed my prepubescent body into a mattress for no other reason than I was female, easily accessible, and he had a disease that yearned to be fed. Daughter perched on daddy’s lap became a moment to talk about whatever popped up, as eyes were turned to the roaming hands of a step brother who idolized him and my flat chest at the same time. This is where I lived and died daily. I lived with a military man who swore to protect his country but protected the secret of his personal habit even harder. Just ask my crushed toes underneath the Army boots that were now stepping on my feet for not wearing socks or houseshoes…as if being his daughter wasnt punishment enough.

        I remember being punished just for breathing too loudly; popped in the mouth for the escape of a smack reaching his eardrum. A simple tug of his beard meant I was in trouble. One time, he hit me so hard in my tailbone that I lost control of my legs and urinated on myself all in one swift swoop, just to turn around and get a whooping for messing up the floor. A call from the teacher meant that I would have to strip in front of my father and walk the house butt naked and if he saw me ,and felt like it, then I would get a whooping right then and there. I became a master at silently turning door knobs better than he could and dodging in and out of bedrooms and hallway closets just to go to and from the bathroom in peace. Doing number two (pardon the graphics) was the only time I could be in the bathroom in peace without anyone entering.  Fingers entering openings to ensure “cleaning” because I was filthy, followed by my father laying me on the bed to towel dry me off and rub me from head to toe with baby oil. Slow grinding on me was common place. Adolescent hips popping out of socket under the weight of his grinding, hurting, caused me to try to push him off because talking would make him lose his concentration and bring whoopings. He never listened to my cries and held my hands down. There I was, learning the best lessons of male and female relationships from my father. How lucky was I to learn about the birds and bees from my own father? Every girl needs a father in the house, right?

        One day in church I just didn’t want to go back to his house. My aunt couldn’t make me if God told me to go back himself. I’d had enough. Sitting in the police station with male police officers giving me different toys to describe my fathers penis proved unfruitful; I didn’t trust males. They had no choice but to send me back. I got a whooping until I blacked out. My father took me to a therapist to save face…maybe she could figure out where I was “making these stories up”.

        Off of Carmichael Road in Montgomery, Alabama sat my therapist’s office. A soft-spoken caucasian woman who listened intently as my father sat on the other side of the door.  That is until the day she asked me to re-enact with Barbie and Ken what I told the police happened….so, I showed her. She opened the door and invited my father into the room so he could see too. I never spoke of anything again. And yes, you guessed it….I got a whooping until I had an asthma attack and he had to take me to Maxwell Air Force Base to the ER. This time my Aunt believed me and she fought for custody…but she still allowed him visitations until she passed away when I was 15. He came to her house for her funeral and sat in the kitchen and told ever male there not to be trusted around me because I would lie on them like I had lied on him. And he vanished into street legend. I never saw him, or the therapist ever again.

        My father followed me, in theory. I heard stories of him doing crack from friends in high school, but he had taught me the best lesson ever; Never let anyone make you feel like less of a person. I walked those halls of my high school as a virgin…because I was. Guys from all around wanted to be with the virgin and every single one failed. I wouldn’t willingly give myself to someone until I was in college. You see….I was molested, but he didn’t take my virginity.

        Every guy is not my father, nor am I searching for him in every guy that I date….but through all that I wrote above and more that I didn’t write….I was still a human. A demon like him couldn’t touch the best parts of me. He couldn’t reach them with all of his might because his intentions were wrong. My virginity had nothing to do with sex…my virginity was me, my mind, my free spirit, my determination to rise above where people keep putting me, and the favor that was placed over me even though I was entangled in a generational curse. He tried, but I walked out of his house and his presence with the hymen of my integrity and the mission over my life in tack.

        Today, he lives in Baltimore. He’s never been prosecuted, never been made to suffer for what he put me and others through. One day, and maybe soon… I will walk to where they say that he works and tell him that he couldn’t break me. He couldn’t make me feel less than a princess even though my father wasnt a king.

        This is a part of what I went through, but it is NOT who I am. It helped me make decisions about not showing my body to just any guy. You’ll never hear tales of me sleeping with different guys all in the name of love without being in love. You’ll never see pics of me plastered on the internet that show more of my assets than I am showing I am worth. And you will never hear that I’ve stopped breaking the silence. I was molested but I was never a victim. My virginity never has to be born again because it never died. I found strength through this. Dont get me wrong, I’d never go back a second time…. but I made it out, and THAT is something to be proud of. Where I came from does NOT determine where I will go.

       So, to anyone who has been through similar stories….today is not too late to realize that they had the problem and not you. We are of a sisterhood that many will never understand. I salute you and all of your wonderful glory. I stopped holding my father accountable for what he did to me and the effects it had on my life the day I last saw him….that is not my battle. It weighs you down, trust me. I try to find love as much as often in my daily activities…..today.. I love you. One day you will gain the strength to no longer be ashamed of your story…until then I will speak for you, I dont mind. What are sisters for, right?

        My prayer is that, just this once ,you listen to my father: What happened in your house, stays in your house…..including the pain and the shame. We’ve got other little girls to protect. No time for living in the past. Here, take my hand…..I’m with you as we walk out of our molester’s house. God bless!

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

This is the house where majority of it happened. On Pinebrook Dr in Montgomery,AL