“ My Daddy’s Baby “                    by Yesmine Dubois

 

I was 14 years old myself when I decided to have an abortion.
My mother couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to hold my
baby in my arms. I didn’t fully understand it either. All I knew
was that I did not want a baby. Having something growing
inside me was so repulsive, that I threw up more from that
thought, than from morning sickness.

To make matters worse, I had cravings right off the bat. I
gobbled up so many oranges that I almost choked on one.
I had to dig in my throat and pull it out before it cut off all my
air.

And then there was the Potted Meat. Dear God! Those little
cans of waste material. I craved it, even though I had never
tasted it before. My craving didn’t stop at just the Potted Meat
itself. It had to be floating in vinegar! Yes, potted meat with
vinegar. And oranges. Throw in a toad frog and I’d be in hillbilly
heaven!

The father of my child didn’t have any say in the matter.
In fact, I can’t remember if I told him I was getting an abortion
or not. It was my body, my decision. He was 17, just graduated
from high school and had his whole life ahead of him too. I know
the guy loved me. However, he was suppose to take me away
from that area. Knocking me up, making me dig in deeper, was
not what I had in mind.

I tried to convince my mother to let me travel 300 miles away to
get the abortion. While she never said no to us, she quietly
made arrangements at the local hospital, instead of letting
me leave. She knew, I knew, that I’d never return once I
crossed that bridge. I wanted to be free of all of them forever.
I loved her, but she dealt with violent, abusive men. This one in particular
had molested me, so it was either kill him or get away from him.

My mother was wonderful in every respect, except her choice of
men. But on the other hand, she didn’t have much to choice from.
75% of the males in that area were heavy drinkers and beat their women.
It was so prevalent you’d think it was required by law !
And many of those men molested and raped little girls. A virgin
didn’t stand a chance in my area. Mothers dealt with it the best
they could, but the girls silently died inside from it. I died for
35 years. 

To avoid being raped by my mother’s boyfriend, I decided to have
sex at age 13. He had already molested me in my sleep, making
him the first man to see my precious body. I was determined he
would never touch me again.

The night I caught him molesting me, I woke up because I was so
cold. I hated being cold. The moment I opened my eyes, I saw
that creep standing over me. He had pulled the covers off me and
opened my robe. I was lying there, naked, while he masturbated
and touched me. When he realized my eyes were open, he
crouched down and ran back to his bed.

I tried to move, tried to scream for mom, but I was paralyzed with
fear. Mom and her boyfriend shared a bed only a few feet from me,
but it seemed like it was a million miles away now.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. That was the first
time I had a panic attack. I’d have many more in the years to come,
but that was the first time it happened. I thought I was going to die
right there. As the years went by, I'd remember that moment and wish
I had died that night. Somehow I managed to open my mouth as wide as
possible and bring air in. My heart was racing, I started sweating
so profusely that I was soaked in a few seconds. But I still couldn’t
move or scream.

The next thing I knew, it was morning and I jumped up screaming
for mom. When she ran up upstairs, I told her what he had done to
me. I had my head down, so I couldn’t see her reaction. At the
same time I was telling on him, something really bad was
happening inside me. This nasty, dreadful, ‘doomed feeling’,
was invading my insides. It spread through me and around me.

That invasive ‘thing’ made me feel nasty inside. One time, I
actually thought about trying to cut ‘it’ out of me. Then I realized
‘it’ wasn’t tangible and wasn’t in a spot that I could reach. ‘It’ was
the loss of innocence in the worse way. It was that man putting
his filth on me.

Mom told me to get dressed for school. She’d talk to him when
he came in for supper that night. I remember her bringing me a
basin of warm soapy water to wash up in. I remember scrubbing
myself until my skin hurt. I don’t remember getting dressed, going
down stairs, getting on the school bus or entering the school. 

 

I don’t remember getting on the school bus to return either, but I
was on full alert as my stop came up. I got off the bus and slowly
walked toward that house. His car was there and I was scared.
Scared he had killed mom to keep her quiet. Scared he was going
to kill me for the same reason. I didn’t go in until I heard my mother’s
voice. Hearing her voice gave me strength. We would fight that
man together if he tried to hurt us.

I opened the screen door and got the shock of my life.

Mom was sitting on his lap!

She looked at me with red eyes and tears streaming down her face.
She even tried to smile, as if she wanted me to understand.
Understand what? That she was sitting on the lap of the man
that violated me, the creep that put this nasty feeling inside me....
the man who stole my life.

As I walked away, I heard him say, “See Hallie, I told you she
was lying.” I stopped dead in my tracks. It’s true that trauma can
cause a psychotic break. In that moment, I felt myself change.
I was no longer a scared little 11 year old girl. I grew up in a split
second. 2 things became clear; I could never trust my mother again
and I was determined to kill that man in his sleep. He violated me in
my sleep, now I’d return the favor.

In the meantime, I walked away before hearing my mother’s reply.
She knew what he had done to me. She would acknowledge that
later, but she never faced what she did to me, by sitting on his lap.

I changed out of my school clothes into jeans, thick sweater and
sneakers. I put some clothes in a wrap, got the money I had saved
up, went down stairs and out the door. I was running away for the
first time. Unfortunately, after a few hours, I had to come back.
That’s when I realized that children have no choices, no money,
no job, no car and no where to go except where their guardians
make them go. That lesson put me on the road to seeking full
independence. I never wanted to depend on anyone ever again.

When I walked back in that house, my brothers were at the
table and mom was cooking. She turned her back to me when
I walked in. She just couldn’t face me, but I knew she was
relieved to see me, to know I was alright. I wasn’t alright and
I would never be alright again! I sat down but I couldn’t eat
or talk. I stared into space. All I thought about was killing that man.

That night I went to bed with a huge butcher knife under my pillow.
I kept my hand on it until I fell asleep. If he came near me again,
I’d cut his ass from ear to ear. I had the strength and
determination to do just that.

Whereas before I slept soundly, now the least little sound made me wake
up and grab my trusty knife. Wind, rain, a mouse running across
the floor..... nothing got by me.

Each morning, I’d tuck my knife securely under my covers. The
next night, the knife would be gone. I’d get it again and the next
night it’d be gone again. Over and over, me and mom played
that deadly game. She’d fix my bed up while I was at school or
out playing with friends on weekends. She'd remove my knife,
never saying a word to me about it and I’d get it again each night.

Time for action. I waited until I knew he was drunk sleep and mom
was sleep too. My brothers slept downstairs, so I didn’t have to worry
about them waking up. I had my large butcher knife in hand,
poised to strike. I went over to his side of the bed, looked down
at him in the dark and felt a raw hatred that no human being
should ever feel! I raised my knife and plunged it down with the
force of 3 people, twice my size!

“Honey NO!” My mother screamed. But it was too late. I had got his ass!

But he woke up, started moving around.....Mom turned on the light
and I got the disappointment of a life time. He wasn't bleeding at all.
Instead of stabbing him in his dick or stomach, either was a good
target, I had stabbed the bed. His legs were open and spread apart, 
so the knife went right into the bed!

He started screaming, “What the hell is going on?” He looked down,
saw the knife stuck in the bed and realized what I was really aiming for.
Now he was the one sweating and unable to move.

I pulled the knife out of the bed, walked back to my bed and 
I blocked them out completely. Didn’t hear a word they were
saying. I had failed and I was disappointed with myself. Now
he’d be watchful. It wouldn’t be as easy to get another shot at him.

The next day and from then on, I slept down stairs on the couch,
with several knives to keep me company. I even had a couple under the
edge of the couch so I could reach it quickly, when needed. I also slept fully
clothed from then on. Pants, shirt, sweater, socks and shoes.
As hot as it was in the summer, I still slept with all my clothes on.

It was pure hell seeing that man and my mother every day.
Or most days cause I spend a lot of time away from them.

At 13, I decided to have sex so that he wouldn’t be the one that
raped me. It was an awful experience, sloppy, invasion, very painful
at first, then sickening afterwards. The boy who de-flowered me was quite
proud of himself, but for me it was ‘getting something taken care of.’
Not a pleasant experience at all. Sex would never be a pleasant
experience for me.

Then I played my escape. I only dealt with guys who had a car because 
I wanted them to take me away from there. One guy stood out as being
really independent. The problem was that I didn’t know anything about
sex or pregnancy. My mother never taught me anything even after she knew
I was having sex. So I got pregnant.

Actually I didn’t even know I was pregnant. One day mom said to me,
“Yesmine, you’re pregnant aren’t you?”  And that’s how I knew. 
I know it sounds ridiculous, but in my family, nothing made sense.
I immediately wanted an abortion.

When the time came to go to the hospital, my mother drove me and
did everything for me. Mom didn’t drive very often, so this was as big
deal for her. I was given a bed next to another girl who was also 14
years old and having an abortion too. Mom kissed me, said she’d be
back tomorrow and left. 

The nursed gave me something that was suppose to induce
labor and a sedative. I was drowsy, but I still wanted to talk to the
girl next to me. She told me her name. To this day, I still can’t
remember it. I’ll never forget her face or what she told me,
but I can’t recall her name.

Like I said, she was also 14 and was having an abortion too. As
children often do, she blurted out her life story.

Her father had raped her several times and it was his baby she was
aborting. Her mother knew about it, but she never called the police
and wouldn’t leave him.

I asked if the hospital knew she had been raped by her father and
she said she did tell them. One of nurses looked at her and said,
“You mean this is your daddy’s baby?”

She repeated that it was and that he raped her. The nurses just shook
their heads and finished filing out the paper work.

The next morning, both of us went into labor, and by evening we
were recovering from the abortion. Bleeding heavy, but recovering.

Mom came during visiting hours, but no one came to see her.
I told mom what had happened to that girl. She looked at the girl
very lovingly and reached over to gently hold her little hand.

“Mom can she come home with us?“

Mom didn’t answer. She just looked at me with a distant smile on
her face. Later on, I realized why mom didn’t answer. She never
said no to us, so she didn’t answer at all. She hadn't been able to
protect me from her boyfriend, so how could she protect this girl?

The next day, Mom came to pick me up. I said a good-by to that
girl and never saw her again.

 

(Almost 50 years later, I still pray for that girl. I never knew her name, but she's in my heart.)