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Why Did I Wait So Long?
- Dec 1, 2009 at 6:54 PM
- By
- Comments (0) Total Views (122) Everyone can see this journal post.
I'm not sure.
That's my answer when readers ask why it took over twenty-five years to tell the Cotton Butterflies story.
I have a few 'notions', as we southerners say.
I'm a better writer today than I was then. Life sees to that.
My faith has grown, too. The book is not only about the hurts from our past, but the medicine for broken hearts. You don't rub a sore spot unless you've got some good salve on hand.
You see, my birth mom is living proof that the real Jesus can be separated from those who recklessly misrepresent him. And with plenty of patience, understanding and hard work, truth can be untangled from those who mishandle it.
Notion # 3: He's dead. Oh, excuse me, I must remember my southern manners..."he passed".
Darlene (my birth mom) was raised on a typical mill hill in the rural south. Her father physically abused her, but on Sundays you'd find him preaching down at the mill mission.
When she was 'bad', he would make her go outside--day or night in any kind of weather--to pick a switch off a nearby bush. He forced her to watch as each leaf was removed before he snapped the bare limb through the air a few times to see how well it could, as he said, "teach a lesson".
Her real mother died at the age of 26 under mysterious circumstances (they found her dead at the bottom of the back porch steps). The sheriff, looking to give the news to her father, found him at Miss Nell's house on the outskirts of town. It wasn't long before Miss Nell became the new Mrs. Morgan and joined in the abuse.
When Darlene was 11, Nell dragged a small chest out of the house that contained all that was left of the previous Mrs. Morgan's personal belongings and set them on fire, forcing the little girl to watch.
At 16, mom ran away from home with a James Dean look-alike who breezed through her little world on his way to New York, promising love and a new life. (She was desperate; no questions were asked). The dream soon collapsed when Darlene discovered she had been cruelly baited for the mob's prostitution ring. She escaped, stealing enough cash to take a long, lonely bus ride back to the mill hill.
Her father, who never reported her missing, wouldn't allow her back into the house. He did, however, let her rent out the small basement underneath, but only when she could produce the first month's rent. Darlene got a job at the cotton mill on third shift. The sixteen-year-old made sixty-five cents an hour.
It wasn't long before she realized she wasn't the only one who came home from New York. Fearing her father's rage and Masonic ties, she kept the pregnancy a secret...desperately tying to figure out what to do in a little town where she was already rejected and the ongoing subject of gossip.
On April 14, 1955, she ran out of time. She dared to knock on the back door upstairs early that morning. "No, daddy, " she replied, bent over in pain. "It's not my appendix. I'm having a baby!"
He was the one who sarcastically reminded her that "women and children die in childbirth all the time", as he wildly drove her to the nearest hospital.
He was the one who signed over her baby for adoption and never let Darlene see the child; afterward, sending her and her paper bag of belongings to live with his sister in another town.
Years later, as I began to piece together my real identity, I found his number and had a friend call. At first , my grandfather couldn't remember whether Darlene had given birth to a boy or a girl. (Out of sight out of mind, I guess.)
He was the one who avoided me at family gatherings after my reunion with Darlene, although I asked nothing from him but his acknowledgment. By that time I was a well known Christian radio personality and speaker. The 'problem' he was quick to send away returned--and not discreetly.
That's why I didn't use real names in the book, except for my married name and those of a few minor characters. In the beginning, there was the chance that some family members would try to stop the story. (He and Nell had a daughter who threatened to sue on his behalf if it was ever released using the real names.)
So where was I? Oh, yes. He died. The day I put the final period on the last sentence in the story, he died. No kidding.
I'm not a spooky kind of person, but that sent chills through my body.
What does it all mean?
All I know for sure is now the story can be told--the horrific abuse, the Masonic cover-ups, the betrayals and abandonment that almost drove my mother to suicide.
But the story also resounds with the God-kind of faith, hope and love that overcomes and transforms.
There's just too many Darlenes out there who need to know that butterflies aren't created, they're made.
That's my answer when readers ask why it took over twenty-five years to tell the Cotton Butterflies story.
I have a few 'notions', as we southerners say.
I'm a better writer today than I was then. Life sees to that.
My faith has grown, too. The book is not only about the hurts from our past, but the medicine for broken hearts. You don't rub a sore spot unless you've got some good salve on hand.
You see, my birth mom is living proof that the real Jesus can be separated from those who recklessly misrepresent him. And with plenty of patience, understanding and hard work, truth can be untangled from those who mishandle it.
Notion # 3: He's dead. Oh, excuse me, I must remember my southern manners..."he passed".
Darlene (my birth mom) was raised on a typical mill hill in the rural south. Her father physically abused her, but on Sundays you'd find him preaching down at the mill mission.
When she was 'bad', he would make her go outside--day or night in any kind of weather--to pick a switch off a nearby bush. He forced her to watch as each leaf was removed before he snapped the bare limb through the air a few times to see how well it could, as he said, "teach a lesson".
Her real mother died at the age of 26 under mysterious circumstances (they found her dead at the bottom of the back porch steps). The sheriff, looking to give the news to her father, found him at Miss Nell's house on the outskirts of town. It wasn't long before Miss Nell became the new Mrs. Morgan and joined in the abuse.
When Darlene was 11, Nell dragged a small chest out of the house that contained all that was left of the previous Mrs. Morgan's personal belongings and set them on fire, forcing the little girl to watch.
At 16, mom ran away from home with a James Dean look-alike who breezed through her little world on his way to New York, promising love and a new life. (She was desperate; no questions were asked). The dream soon collapsed when Darlene discovered she had been cruelly baited for the mob's prostitution ring. She escaped, stealing enough cash to take a long, lonely bus ride back to the mill hill.
Her father, who never reported her missing, wouldn't allow her back into the house. He did, however, let her rent out the small basement underneath, but only when she could produce the first month's rent. Darlene got a job at the cotton mill on third shift. The sixteen-year-old made sixty-five cents an hour.
It wasn't long before she realized she wasn't the only one who came home from New York. Fearing her father's rage and Masonic ties, she kept the pregnancy a secret...desperately tying to figure out what to do in a little town where she was already rejected and the ongoing subject of gossip.
On April 14, 1955, she ran out of time. She dared to knock on the back door upstairs early that morning. "No, daddy, " she replied, bent over in pain. "It's not my appendix. I'm having a baby!"
He was the one who sarcastically reminded her that "women and children die in childbirth all the time", as he wildly drove her to the nearest hospital.
He was the one who signed over her baby for adoption and never let Darlene see the child; afterward, sending her and her paper bag of belongings to live with his sister in another town.
Years later, as I began to piece together my real identity, I found his number and had a friend call. At first , my grandfather couldn't remember whether Darlene had given birth to a boy or a girl. (Out of sight out of mind, I guess.)
He was the one who avoided me at family gatherings after my reunion with Darlene, although I asked nothing from him but his acknowledgment. By that time I was a well known Christian radio personality and speaker. The 'problem' he was quick to send away returned--and not discreetly.
That's why I didn't use real names in the book, except for my married name and those of a few minor characters. In the beginning, there was the chance that some family members would try to stop the story. (He and Nell had a daughter who threatened to sue on his behalf if it was ever released using the real names.)
So where was I? Oh, yes. He died. The day I put the final period on the last sentence in the story, he died. No kidding.
I'm not a spooky kind of person, but that sent chills through my body.
What does it all mean?
All I know for sure is now the story can be told--the horrific abuse, the Masonic cover-ups, the betrayals and abandonment that almost drove my mother to suicide.
But the story also resounds with the God-kind of faith, hope and love that overcomes and transforms.
There's just too many Darlenes out there who need to know that butterflies aren't created, they're made.
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