The chocolate river of death and violence. Mom told me when I was a toddler when I asked her if colored women had chocolate milk or white milk? Mom told me when I was an adult, she didn’t need God.
Then, when I was 18 years old living on my own in an apartment on the Northshore of Chicago, Rogers Park, a runaway since barely 17 out of high school, I recall thinking, “there is no way that anyone on earth has been through or seen what I have seen, and survived in one piece.” For some unknown reason at that time, I had self-confidence. I really was emotionally mature when I was just a little girl getting bullied at Catholic school, literally crucified because I was pleasingly plump like Mom told me she was too, and at the same time living with a father who did not love me or anyone, especially “niggers” he called them. this being the age of the civil rights revolution and Martin Luther King. My heart felt strongly different. I knew better and I longed and searched to find out.
I was innocent. What the hell did I know? I’m just a virgin naive little kid. At home I was dealing with every sort of emotional abuse from my father too, but somehow, was I equipped to survive. I had emotional intelligence. My mother, when I was her clinging little helper escaping my tyrannical emotionally immature father, was kind, loving and intelligent. Mom was Catholic college educated and of Irish descent; a fighting Irish woman named Kelly who did laundry, cooked dinner and the rest of the time sat on the love seat in the window reading a newspaper. Mom never knew God.
Which reminds me. I’m going to be getting dual citizenship…I’m an Irish American. I’m a descendant of my ancestors from Ireland, and the Great Famine, the Irish Famine which took place from 1845 to 1852. The English insisted on conquering the Irish island and starved the Irish inhabitants from their lands. Big mistake. We, the Irish cannot be conquered. The DNA of the Irish? Research it. It’s spectacular. I have type O positive blood and a crown of natural gold strawberry hair at age 70. I’m Irish. Half of all American Presidents are of Irish descent. Needless to say, I love the Irish. We are strong and we are powerful. We love Jesus and cannot lose.
In the Bible book of Luke chapter 9 verse 62 Jesus said, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” The Irish are farmers. Like Hebrews in Egypt, the Irish were slaves long before blacks in America. You never hear about it. Do you? We never hear about the Hebrew slaves in Egypt or the Irish slaves in America, do we? Only the educated do. Ghetto blacks are currently in every state in America. None of them can actually read, write, or speak English. Are only whites doing the hard work to grow prosper and achieve the American Dream?
Black “niggers” as they call themselves, deserve what? Reparations? African blacks sold African blacks to middle eastern merchant Arabs who sold the African blacks to white men in American slave markets “way back when.” Plantation owners in America already owned plantations that were prosperous. White plantation owners did not invent slavery. Black men did, “way back when.”
I was working the 11-7-night shift at Daddy’s restaurant as a waitress in Chicago’s Rogers Park on the north shores of Lake Michigan. Daddy’s restaurant building at the corner of Sheridan Road and Devon Avenue was bought from Denny’s and now owned by Indian Hindu men who worship statues with multiple arms, cows and roaches, and were constantly sexually harassing me. Another story.
I left my apartment on Morse Avenue in my brown waitress uniform under my brown suede coat and walk to the el which is the above ground subway and pay the toll. It’s the middle of winter, so it is freezing below zero in Chicago. I’m walking up the long flight of stairs to the platform and notice a black male teen walking down the stairs hugged to and speaking at the side of a middle-aged white woman. There’s nobody else around. It’s so cold out I stayed inside the swinging doors to keep warm until the subway arrives.
Standing inside the swinging doors, the same black kid appears suddenly; directly across from me and is eyeing me. The nigga comes in full force to my face to kiss me, puts his hands up my legs, and pulls down my panty hose to my knees and then is punching my face with the full force of a demon. I scream so loud and continue to scream so loud the nigga takes off down the stairs with my handbag he grabbed. The toll clerk caught the demonic nigga and called the police. I’m 70 years old now. This happened to me 52 years ago.
Next thing I recall is standing down the stairs next to a Chicago policeman who told me that the nigga was 15 years old with a history of violence longer than his arm. That is exactly what he said. A violent criminal juvenile with a record as long as his arm at fifteen years old attempted to destroy me. Are you kidding me? He’s so totally dangerous. I didn’t know or feel racism. I never have.
Please Lord, have all judges on benches in the USA sit, stand, watch or experience rape, robbery, battery, assault, kidnapping, sexual trafficking of children prior to putting them in positions of authority against criminals.
The officer transported me to the police station instead of to the hospital and sat next to me at a table in a big room alone. I was in shock. Why was I so strong, so full of strength; showing little sorrow, crying or reaction; and simply sitting there enduring? I guess I said I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I should have been taken to a hospital and protected by an adult because I didn’t have any medical care I recall, and I don’t recall putting ice on the swelling.
I was just a kid. What the hell did I know?
Somehow, I made it back home to my apartment in one piece. My head was swollen so big, I can’t see out of my eyes and I am entirely unrecognizable. I only had a mattress on my living room floor to lay on. I must have called my mom because my younger two sisters who I basically raised, Jane and Beth knocked on the door. They dropped off two bags of groceries, left, and I didn’t hear back from any of them, including my parents. Nobody checked on me. Great job mom and dad. You must be reading the newspaper mom. Anne is strong, isn’t she?
For three weeks I couldn’t go to work to earn the money to pay rent or buy food. I laid alone on my floor mattress for three weeks, I don’t remember if I had a telephone, my face unrecognizable. Up to this point, at age 17-18-19, I had been a nurse’s aide, a child from ages 14-16, attended four high schools in two states; had been sexually trafficked at age 17, a virgin, and beat up so brutally by three black males who injured my body and face unrecognizable, for absolutely no reason?
I was a virgin child, when a victim of sexual trafficking by nigga, Mr. Chicago, Mr. Universe, Mr. America, bodybuilder, Jesse Rock Stonewall, the adult owner of Nu Life Health Food store on the same Morse Avenue; and sold into sexual slavery at age 16-17. I had befriended a ward of the state by the name of Kathy Frisbee, a sexually sophisticated teenager living in a group home attending the same 4th high school I was now. I was a senior at Sullivan High School. Kathy Frisbee’s boyfriend was an adult male nigga. What the hell did I know? I’m just a kid. I’m a virgin. We just moved from Lafayette, Indiana in the country where I took a bus to school and now, I’m living in Rogers Park on Lake Michigan, mom and dad. I was the pied piper kid watching over and protecting all the children on my block in LaGrange Park to the countryside of Lafayette, Indiana and am now walking everywhere on the dangerous streets of Rogers Park in Chicago.
I survived.
Always Christian with love from me Anne Fisher Foundation. Women Protecting Women & Children