Why I

Growing up, we lived in a moderately roomy 2 bedroom apartment which meant that my sister and I shared a bedroom. It was both a gift and a curse to share a bedroom with my sister. She was the typical annoying little sister and irked the hell out of me, yet wanted to do everything that I did. She still does. LOL. We were always getting into trouble for talking at night when we should have been sleeping.

One night I was pleasantly surprised that neither Mom nor Dad came in to tell their 7 and 9 year old daughters to quiet down and go to sleep. I just knew that they would because my sister and I were sniggling like little girls do, but this night I remember us laughing a tad bit louder than our usual muffled giggles. Suddenly out of nowhere I heard my mother ear splittingly yell my name. “CHANTAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!” she yelled. My sister and I bolted from bed and ran into the bedroom that she shared with our father. Fear gripped my spirit because in my heart of hearts I knew that we weren’t in trouble, rather this time our mother was in trouble.

We burst through our parents’ bedroom door to see our father straddled across our mother’s body…choking her to death. My sister and I yelled, screamed, cried, and begged for him to stop. His face was the personification of death inducing rage. I don’t know what eventually made him get off of her, but I am thanking God to this very day that he did. That night my sister and I stayed near our mother’s side for what seemed like an eternity. My father always tried to make it up to my sister and me whenever we witnessed him beating our mother.

I was the one that he tried to win over the most because I was the calm silent daughter that never said a word as he abused our mother. I would only shoot him stares that silently screamed “I wish you were dead.” That night he sat on the couch opposite the loveseat my sister, mom, and I occupied. He called me over to him and presented me with a gold necklace with a small dainty gold sand dollar charm pendant. My mother couldn’t speak above a whisper for over a week, and had a black scar in the form of my father’s thumb in the middle of her throat. She later told us that she doesn’t know how she mustered the strength to yell that night, and that the only thing she could think to yell was my name.

This is why I…

Am fiercely independent. My mother never left my father because she couldn’t afford to.

Am nonchalant about material things. I have never in my life asked a man to buy me anything of significant value. Anything I want I get it myself. Trying to woo me with expensive gifts won’t get you far. I will be the first to admit that I LOVE nice things, but I don’t NEED them.

Will never stay with a man that even so much as ACTS like he will hit me. I shall never date a man with a fiery temper.

Learned to be confident in myself. I’ve seen the affects of low self esteem first hand by watching my mother.

Do not allow my sons to hit girls. PERIOD.

My heart goes out to children that have to watch their mothers being abused. It causes many of them to grow up with anger lying dormant inside of them.

Teach my sons to be gentlemen. I pray that God sends them a step-father that can teach them the things that I cannot.



If you are going to judge me…at least hear my story

This is only me telling bits of my story as I re-discover Queen