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When Tears Fall

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

I was born LaVerne W Johnson Jr. on May 22, 1975, in Rockford, Illinois, the child of LaVerne T Johnson Sr. and Noralynne Champion. I am a twin who came into this world ten minutes before my brother, Nathaniel Travirs Johnson. My mother, a short, dark-skinned lady about 5'4 in height, had my brother and I at the youthful age of eighteen. She did not know what to do with twin boys, being only eighteen and already the mother of a little girl, my sister Brenda. My grandmother tried desperately to keep Mama on the right track, but Mama did not want to do the right thing in life. Instead, she wanted to hang out with boys, partying, smoking weed, drinking alcohol, and coming home as she pleased. While she did her own thing out in the streets, she would keep the three of us at home with Granny, who lived in the Concord Common Projects. Eventually, Granny got tired of Mama's behavior and demanded that she move out on her own. In 1976, Mama got an apartment in the Organ Keys Projects where we would reside for over ten years. In those ten years, she would give birth to four more children, all of us with different daddies.

Mama, as I remember, was a very kind and loving woman. There wasn't anything she wouldn't do for Nate, Brenda, and me; she would do the best with what she had or was given. With the help of her very good friend TT, also a young mother with two sons, she raised us. Nate and I did not know our father. According to Mama, he was often in trouble with the law for crimes ranging from petty theft to drug selling. He and my mother had met in 1974, the year before my brother and I were born, in the Concord Common Projects. From what my mother has told me, my father was a "want-to-be" pimp. She said all of the girls desired him because he was so good-looking, with his light-skinned complexion, green eyes, and long straight hair. My mother said she was crazy about him, and she had to fight a lot of jealous girls just to keep him.

On the other hand, I never knew him. All I have are stories. The only time I remember seeing my father is when I was about five years old. He tried to break into our apartment in Organ Keys. Mama had told us to never open the door for anyone, and that night we did not, not even for my own dad. With my siblings and I looking out of the window, he threatened to "kick our asses" if we did not let him in. Now I cannot help but wonder how our lives would have changed if he were able to get into the house that night. I believe in my heart that he was probably a good man, but he played the hand he was dealt. His entire family was messed up with drugs, and they could not stand my mother, for reasons I do not know.

Growing up, I had to deal with some harsh sh*t. In 1977, when Nate and I were two years old, Mama was investigated by the Department of Children and Family Services (DCFS) because of complaints made by my paternal grandmother concerning Mama's treatment of us. This led to the worst thing that could have happened to Nate and me at the time-we were taken away from our mother.

In the three months that we lived in our paternal grandmother's home, we were treated like animals. Nate and I were beaten daily, called terrible names, and were not fed most of the time. While our grandma would be out running errands or shopping, my Uncle Tony, who was supposed to be watching us, would molest us. He would make us do things to him while he watched television. Calling us "b*tches", he would tell my brother and I that we were "worthless" and "good-for-nothing." He forced us to walk around the house nude. He would also get my older cousin involved in molesting us. Often, Uncle Tony would tell me that he hated us and wished we would go back to our mother. I myself began to hate Mama for this; I felt she did not fight hard enough to get us home while we were living in that hell.

After much physical and mental abuse, Nate and I finally told Mama about the beatings, barely eating, and name-calling. We were too frightened to tell her about Uncle Tony molesting us because he had threatened to hurt us if we told anyone; he had also threatened that "the white man" would take us away from our mother. After what seemed to be an eternity, Nate and I were able to go back home because Mama got her house in order. She promised DCFS that she would keep the house clean and make sure that there was food in the kitchen at all times. In turn, the DCFS case worker told Mama that she could, and would, drop by the house at any time without informing her. I was glad to be at home, or so I thought. I did not think that living at home could be any worse than living at my grandmother's.

My step-dad Eli, who lived with our family from 1977 to 1986, was a monster! I hated him more than anything in this whole world! He was a coward. Mama was so afraid of him that she would let him do whatever we wanted to us. For no reason, this man would beat me on a daily basis; the beatings he gave me I would not give to my worst enemy. He would make me lie over the bathtub, my belly touching the top of the tub and my elbows touching the insides. When I was in this position, he ordered me to not move. If I moved, I would endure more hits. He would then take a two-by-four and strike my bare butt. I would use the bathroom on myself, and this would make him hit me even more. Truly, there were times that I just wanted to die!

I did not deserve half of the sh*t that this man did to me. I believe that he really hated kids, even though two of my siblings were his. When we would do something that he did not like, he would lock my brothers and me in a very small closet only big enough to hang a few coats. He called it "jail". I hated being in there! If I was in "jail," I could only come out to use the bathroom. If I was in "jail," I had to eat all meals there (that was if he did not forget about me). I could not go to school if I was in "jail". "Jail" was not a fun place to be, for roaches crawled on me, and even a mouse or two would make its way under the door. I could not scream or cry out loud, or I would get a beating. So many nights I wished for death to come, but I was afraid to die.

Not only would Eli incarcerate my siblings and me in our home, but he would deprive us of food, so we had to steal food from the kitchen. Many times we got caught, and the punishment was very harsh; the beatings were a hundred times worse than usual. I began to think about ways to kill Eli. Often, I wondered why this man would not just go to sleep and not wake up.

During this time, I did not understand my life. Mama was so terrified of Eli that she did not know what to do, and if she tried to help us out or tell him that that was enough with the beatings, he would get mad and beat her. Plenty of nights we would hear Mama get beat for no reason at all. This man was the devil himself! Sometimes now I feel that I still hate him. I can still see his face in my dreams. I can still remember the beatings. Even to this day when I see myself undressed, I am reminded of the pain he caused from the scars on my body.

One day I was in the utility room. The utility room was another room in our home that Eli had made a "jail". In this room were the washer and dryer hook ups, the hot water heater, and the furnace. There were also piles of dirty clothes all over the floor, which I would use to make a bed.

On this day, Granny came over to...