Layers of Velvet: This Is My Life

By Ursula Dianna

Raw and unfiltered, LAYERS OF VELVET is a non-fiction depiction of the life and awkward moments of an exotic dancer who refused to accept the underlined misconception that her brief choice of profession would dictate her self worth.

One adulteress, two prostitutes and a stripper...Police Officer, George C. Lee thought no one would care if he violated them. Who would believe them over a police officer? So he thought.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483552583

Book preview

Williams

CHAPTERS

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

LUCILLE

MOMMA

HE WASN’T MY DADDY

GROUP HOMES

THE LOVE OF MY LIFE

NEVER LET A BITCH

STRIPPED NAKED

THE RAPE

THE TRIAL

AFTERMATH

I’M SO PROUD

LUCILLE

THE TRUTH…most of us view our perception of an argument or position, as THE TRUTH. For many times our insight is somewhat limited or what we see could be camouflaged. We truly believe that what we are seeing and feeling must be real. As a child, I often viewed the world as tough. On so many occasions, I would shout out, this some bullshit!! which came from a place of hopelessness and anguish. Most wouldn’t expect such language and bleak perspective to come from a twelve year old, but by that time in my life, my world was quite shitty.

Being the eldest of five children had donned great responsibilities on me. While at age six, my mom, being a full-time worker and single mother, I fell into the role of a full-fledged baby-sitter. I changed diapers, was skilled at cooking such foods as oatmeal and eggs (no microwaves) and I knew better, not to answer that phone nor the door, when us kids were left alone. That level of responsibility was normal for our era and was not shunned down on, as far as parenting goes.

We were thought to be much more conscious and responsible and I think our level of common sense exceeded the kids of today. We were much more fearful of consequences than they are today and truthfully, we had parents that didn’t have so many distractions, nevertheless, I carried extremely too many burdens for a little girl of my age.

My mother was one-of-a-kind. Everyone thinks that of their mother, so my accolades wouldn’t hold much weight for many, except those with crappy mothers, in which there are many of them out there too. That just may be your truths. Just know, that doesn’t define who you are.

My father wasn’t in my life, AT ALL. In my mind, I rationalized my reasoning for accepting the fact that my father being absent, contributes to my high level of codependency. Many men have had questions about the way I love. And once you break down my barrier, I have the propensity to love hard and strong. I love the feel of love so much, that when I do allow myself in that space, I become addicted to it. But let me tell it…I think most men are emotionally crippled anyways.

I have abandonment issues. I have extreme trust issues and I’ve had all sorts of abuse in my life. You know what that DOESN’T mean? That doesn’t mean that I have subjected my child to the same misfortunes. It puzzles me to hear someone says that the reason they treat another person with abuse is because of the way they were treated. That’s hogwash!

If something hurts you, angered you, devastated you, whyyyyyy would you afflict that same harm on those who you claim to love? It seems to me, (because most of the time, I believe I’m a reasonable person) that with all your might, you would attempt to alter the cycle of abuse.

Today…we have so many forms of information and resources, whereas, you can literally teach or train yourself on the etiquettes of relationships. We are no longer living in the age of ‘they just don’t know any better.’ You should know better.

To understand where my mother came from, you must indulge yourself in the madness that is Lucille. I’m somewhat sour on speaking of the dead and I’m aware of the flack that I’m going to endure from my family…but I must speak on my truths.

Lucille. Lucille, Lucille, Lucille…my grandmother. Don’t know a soul like her. We; my mother, siblings and I, had an underline joke, kidding that the name; ‘Lucille’ is a derivative of ‘Lucifer,’ daughter of Satan. I know that was mean and I should’ve kept that to myself… but I just couldn’t. Anyways, if you think that’s bad, then you will be appalled at the rest of the stories. Just gon and shut the book down right now.

We called my grandmother by her name, ‘Lucille,’ because my mother called her ‘Lucille,’ I was no better, because I must mention that I too, called my mother by her name way into my adulthood. It was really difficult for me to call her momma, then once she finally broke me, I was so ill mannered, to address her as, ‘mother.’ It wasn’t that I was consciously disrespecting her in a sassy way…but looking back on it…it was disrespectful.

Only now, after having my own child, do I see the bond and attachment associated with calling the woman who gave birth to you ‘momma.’ Would that have been so hard? My son had better not call me by my first name, unless referencing me (I was so silly and foolish).

Usually, the grandma is the backbone, the hierarchy of the family. Lucille was a healthy, mix-breed (black/Indian), self-proclaimed gypsy woman. She had eleven children, my mother being the eldest and believe it or not, never heard my mother speak on her biological father either, so as far as I know, one of the other fathers of her siblings, named Jimmy, whom she claimed as her father, bared the title (You will soon see how history has a way of repeating itself).

This once, I must, in Lucille’s defense proclaim that she must’ve done the best she could with that many kids. I’ve tried so hard to place myself in her shoes; to come to some conclusion as to why a woman would have so many children when she knew dang-on-well she couldn’t take care of them? An age-old question, which can only be answered by those who are having all of these kids…I guess.

My grandmother had one brother, Uncle Jesse. He was a great provider and in our eyes, very highly regarded. Uncle Jesse was nothing like his sister though and my mother was very fond of him, she loved her some Uncle Jesse and Auntie Mae. Thankfully, we were able to develop a bond with their kids. I always looked up to my second cousins and if it weren’t for my mother’s sporadic visits to their house on Madison and the many sittings that my sisters and I were privileged to, then we would not have known them all that well.

Watching them, not only gave me in-depth lessons on relationships, we had much fun playing in street water hydrants, rolling down that steep hill, playing tag under the street lamp and taking trips to the local farmers’ market in back of the station wagon. My cousin, Rolanda taught me what a ‘brick house’ meant and I shitted on myself for the first time.

Ok, yea, that happened…I was no more than seven or so. Was riding in the back of the old-school station wagon, with the wood grain running down the sides, and told my Uncle Jesse I had to go, but he told me to hold it. Well, I couldn’t. The smell forced him to stop off at the bathroom of a park, with my big cousin helping me clean up, remembering her throwing my panties away, I still reeked of shit though.

He and Auntie Mae were always so sweet to us, although I know we got on their nerves. My Uncle Jesse passed away, from cancer and my Auntie has battled two types of cancer herself. She has endured the passing of three of her children and one of the three that remain, requires around the clock care. Auntie Mae is one of the strongest women I know.

As early as I can remember, I recall my mother crying and being in a state of depression over her mothers’ antics and the treatment she endured. My mother was extremely self-conscious of a burn on her left cheek. It was circular and approximately three inches in diameter. Covered heavily with Fashion Fair make-up, you can still faintly tell it was there.

One night, as my mother, engulfed in tears, began to vent to me, I became overwhelmingly helpless and sad, as she screamed, My mother is so motherfuckin’ dirty! I couldn’t grasp the reasoning for that outburst, for I had never heard the words ‘mother’ and ‘so dirty,’ in the same sentence. I recall the tone of her voice, the falling teardrops, and can visualize the curves of full lips puckering, as she attempted to keep the drool from passing, while she told me the story of the burn.

She had said that Jimmy told her that when she was just a toddler, during her early crawling stage, Lucille had a cast iron stove, in which my mother was repeatedly scolded about crawling near (As if a toddler can understand the concept of danger).

Well, one day, supposedly, Lucille, tired of yelling at my mother, simply thought that she’d shortly learn her lesson, by allowing the heat of the stove to deter her from getting closer upon it. Well, she fell against the cast iron and thus, the burned face. All along exclaiming, ‘I told your ass to stay away from that stove!’ Who does that?

Yet, as a child, every time I saw my mother put her make-up on or have one of us pick that single strand of hair growing from the center of the scar, I thought of that story.

My mother once stated that she hadn’t developed shame from the presence of the burn until one day, Lucille had her sisters and brothers hold hands in a circle and chant, ‘burnt face…burnt face…’ as she cried.

Of course, I was bold enough, one day to ask Lucille about the burn, because that’s just who I had become. She vehemently denied it and claimed that the burn manifested when she left my mother with a baby-sitter one day. She said that she had arrived from work to pick her up and found that she was burned and it was from a radiator of some sort. Really? The old school radiators had oblong cast metal fixtures, in which the burn would’ve had more of a horizontal singe, instead of perfectly circular shape.

I’m more inclined to believe the man who was with Lucille at the time, that has no stake in lying about the incident, and have repeatedly exposed Lucille’s sinister side. Besides, let him tell it, Lucille never held a job.

I hadn’t had much interaction with Lucille; however the brief encounters of being in her presence were nothing short of confusing and shocking. I had never felt real love from her as a child. She wasn’t that kind of grandmother that held us in her arms, nor did she play with us or give us quarters. I don’t ever remember laughing with her, hugging her, nor receiving any presents. I knew no better and thought that her lack of affection was normal…chuckle worthy, yet normal.

My sisters and I, though silly and naive, thought that when she would tell us to go sit our ‘pussies’ down, that was just her figure of speech, to mean ‘Asses.’ Who knew that I would become so desensitized to the word, ‘pussy?’ And by the way, consider it today as one of my most favorite curse words. I love saying ‘pussy.’ I feel empowered when saying it. ‘Pussy…Pussy…Pussy…Pussy.’

Lucille mainly referred to my sisters and me, as ‘Lane’s Kids.’ Me and one of my younger sisters stayed with her one weekend, and I guess we were getting on her nerves, like pre-school children will, so she called my mother and told her to ‘come get these hos out of my house.’ Her utter despise for all girls was not only apparent in her treatment, but she verbally communicated her disgust for us…often.

She was a piece of work.

There were countless times when my mother would have dialogue with friends or family members, ending phone conversations, with warnings, That damn Lucille! or Don’t fuck with my mother!

Many times, I thought to myself, could she be that bad? So what, she’s never held a job in her life. Yet, she seemed to obtain everything she ever wanted. Yes, she is a bon-a-fide thief. Everyone knew that you couldn’t leave money lying around her. And don’t even think that just because you are related to her, that you can stay with her for any length of time, without paying up. And if you did stay overnight, you had better not get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. She always thought someone was trying to steal or do harm to her.

But it went beyond that…Lucille was not beyond taking advantage of whatever circumstances crossed her path. I think what really revved the family up, was her lack of compassion and the deliberate scams she pulled on her own kids. She was quite known for relieving you of any monies or checks that where easily obtainable. If there was one, just one of her children that she did not steal from…please except my deepest, sincere apology (But there isn’t).

Lucille would steal from your mail box, she’ll cash social security checks, welfare checks, spend your food stamps, and heaven forbid if you let her know you have a tax return coming, and the list goes on. Ask me how she was able to cash so many peoples’ checks? I don’t know, but she did it.

Her views on life were rather distorted, like many of our elders; we can’t really blame them, because, they for real, don’t know any better. But some people you just can’t tell them anything. They just look at everything in its most ignorant form.

Tell her you have jury duty; she’ll say you going to ‘snitch.’ Then you’ve just opened the door to debate with her, why doing your duty, by listening to evidence of a case and determining the outcome with eleven other people, is not snitching? I’m willing to bet that she’s never been called to jury duty, because she’s never registered to vote. I believe her strong convictions for jury duty come from a rather close and dark place.

Our family doesn’t speak on it much, but when I was a freshman in high school, my youngest uncle, who happened to be my favorite uncle at the time, was arrested and convicted of murder and rape. Not just murder and rape, but murder and rape of a white couple. My mother’s brother and I were so cool. He took me to my first concert, which happened to be Prince. This made a deep impression on me, because now, to this very day, he happens to be my favorite entertainer.

My uncle was very protective of me, yet like most young men growing up, rather adventurous and easily tempted by peer pressure. At the time that he was going through this rather highly publicized nightmare, I had transferred from Edgewood Children’s Home, temporarily into Echo Children’s Home, right before being placed into Annie Malone permanently. I was totally pro uncle and seeing his image posted in papers and scrolled across the evening news, flared my anxiety and distrust in the justice system, for what little I had known about it.

I was taught one thing in school, yet society has taught me that blacks just were not given fair treatment and consideration when up against the system, especially when it dealt with justice for the white race. It made me rather uncomfortable to face this injustice, or what I thought was injustice, for I had just moved away from a group of my white friends, in which my developed bond had grown strong for, with no apprehensions toward our race or skin color.

Up to this point in my life, I had only experienced inequality twice that I was aware of. ‘Roots’ had exposed me to some truths, however, the first time I remember racism in my life was when we kids were trying on coats in the Sears department and the store clerks approached my mother and stepfather very aggressively and sternly, accusing them of stealing the coats (We had a beautiful Christmas that year).

And the other time was when my houseparent at Edgewood Children’s Home, who happened to be white, took us out on a movie night at the theatre in Webster Groves, and the ticket lady wouldn’t allow me in, (the only black child in our group) arguing that since the movie was rated ‘R’ and she couldn’t possibly be my parent, therefore, I wasn’t allowed access. People sure are tolerable when they need be…then they are good at interpreting something to mean exactly what they want it to mean. At this point, unbeknownst to me, I was not aware that we were thought of as so inferior…even after that.

So, when it came to my uncle, I wanted so badly for this to be untrue. I had older aunties and uncles, including my youngest uncle, who had attended NW, so when teachers and older students spoke on him, I quickly jumped to his defense. Soon, many knew of my stance and in my mind, they too, believed that he was innocent.

I was drawn to the belief that a scapegoat was needed to pin this horrific crime on, and that my uncle was set up. It was that plain and simple. How could MY uncle, who was so kind and gentle to me? How could my mother’s baby brother, who was no more than eighteen or nineteen, overpower, rob, transfer two bodies, rape the woman, and then kill this couple, all over some Christmas Gifts? It just didn’t make any sense to me.

This farce had gone on long enough. Since my mother would periodically pick me up from the group home on the weekend to travel with her to visit him, she eventually grew sick and tired of watching me so intensely defend him that she sat me down one day, and told me the truth.

Story is…my grandmother, being who she was…gave my uncle a gun, told him that he had better come back to that house with something, and sent him out, to get some money. Uncle and one of his running buddies took off and ended up in the Grandpa Pigeon’s parking lot. They allegedly spotted this white couple Christmas shopping for their young son, I remember being told that the son was around age three at the time. They, at gunpoint, supposedly forced the couple to drive across the Chain of Rocks Bridge and there, one of them raped the woman. No witnesses remained.

I was devastated! How? Why? My heart ached for that family…for that little boy. I couldn’t feel pity for my blood any longer…I was numb. That was the last time I saw his face.

This is the same women whom I’ve heard that her temper was so extreme, that she had thrown hot grits on her husband, stabbed another one and was not beyond cocking guns and threatening to blow their head off…must I go on…

I can attest that growing up in madness only manifests more chaos and madness. Unless you have the ability to look inside yourself, come to the realization that your surroundings are toxic and have the strength and tenacity to change it yourself, it’s purposed.

Throughout my childhood, I knew that she was a woman I should stay away from. However, from time to time, my mother’s own words fell upon her own deaf ears. After a stench of exile, she would find herself giving into Lucille’s manipulations over and over again, as if there would possibly be some sort of change in her constitution after allowing her back into our lives. Lucille never changed, her true colors always surfaced.

Some kids never stop fighting for the acceptance and love of their parents and I think in my mother’s own way, she figured that soon, her mother would change,