Waking Reality: Acts of Innocence and Awakenings

By Donna LeClair

In a world where the WHO recently reported that 1 in 3 Women worldwide are victims of violence, I hope this book is a crucial opening for women to tell their personal stories on the devastating emotional, physical, financial, and spiritual impact of Interpersonal Violence on their and their children's lives. This visceral, harrowing, and haunting tale, bears witness to the often inescapable 'violence trap' set by families, religion, the justice system, and social constructs that women fall (or are pushed) into. And which is often followed by the devastating emotional trap of internalizing that violence. The author, with raw, emotional honesty holds little back and allows us to live through the terror, horror, and devastation of her personal experience. Throughout, and against all odds, it is that same honesty of self and spirit that burns beneath the surface, is unbelievably never extinguished, and carries her to salvation. The voice is unique, personal, and empowering. You will not be the same. Read to understand what the women in your life (your sisters, friends, mothers) experience, and for inspiration to survive your own trials. Then speak your own story. This voice should be joined in chorus. This voice will ring in your ears for years to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna LeClair
• Release date: Mar 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386582861

Donna LeClair

For author Donna Le Clair, reality is stories carried from generation to generation, but perception can transform when the truth is awakened and freed. She penned her story – her reality - as she wept cradled under a bed, but as she listened to the stories of others and acknowledged their visibility, she saw shoulders soften, sighs release and wings soar … and herself, heal. Waking Reality is a story of life—at its best and worse. A journey possessing strength emanating from a higher source encompassing determination, belief, forgiveness, and the courage to shed one's childhood and adapt to the realities of the world. As Dinesh H Shah, Team-2 Leader of Landmark TMLP in Mumbai India,says, “One thinks they live life by forces one can control, but ultimately, reality is governed by a power many might not have any control, especially the innocent children. It is time for everyone to wake-up to reality and face it with divine power, for self and for the people around the world.” Her memoirs stumble down the dark alleys of America and into the invisible lives of the homeless. It rummages through the lonely streets of rejection and into the raw trap of abuse and addiction. Constantly transforming, it travels inside a living breed called family and the ties that bind them, leaving readers spellbound and speechless. Waking Reality does not lecture, preach or advice – it simply shows visibility to the victim and the accuser while altering stories awakened by the telling of her own. It is about hope and belief, but more importantly, it is about love. Forgiveness is learned and lives understood as this dark tale unravels awareness, enlightenment, and eventual salvation.

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WAKING REALITY Acts of Innocence and Awakenings

Copyright © 2014, 2018 by Donna LeClair 

All rights reserved. Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold , hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed via the Internet or via any other means or by any electronic or mechanical means, including scanning, uploading  information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

The author and the publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book is correct. The events, locales, and conversations are based on the author’s memories of them, and any unwitting errors that may appear in the book are the author’s own. Some names and identifying details have changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

First  Edition: January 2014   Second Edition: March 2018

LeClair, Donna

WAKING REALITY / Donna LeClair

Edited by Frank Gould

Jacket Design © by  Ralph Cavero

Other books by Donna LeClair: Immunity-Entitlement of Wealthy Political  Notables

This book was printed in the United States of America

I bow my head in honor and gratitude to the wings of godliness swooping up all the innocent children. I know the passion of vision penned my words, for I acknowledge that the nudities sanctioned upon these pages birthed an awakening unbeknownst to the spectrum of my current lens.

For you

You are not invisible

You are loved

Shine on!

CONTENTS

Act One

8

Age of Innocence

The 50s: Faith, Family , Love

Act Two

20

The Awakening

Assault and Murder

Loss and Love

Protective Custody and Legal Technicalities

Act Three

46

Crumbling castles

Addictions and Depression

Change and Loss

Child Abandonment, Abuse, and Neglect

Act Four

69

The Other Americans

Homelessness

Teenage Pregnancies and Suicide

Birth

Single Parenthood

Act Five

104

Rivers of Perdition

Spousal Abuse

Act Six

124

Climbing Mountains

Dating Service and Serving Others

Obstacles and Belief

Act Seven

157

Healing Fields

Assumptions, Healing and Forgiveness

Relationships and Divorce

Self -Care and Love

Act Eight

182

Calling All Angels

Forgiveness and Transformation

Loss and Grief

Terminal Illness and Transitioning

Act Nine

205

Crystalline in Clarity

Awakening, Enlightening and Letting Go

AfterWord

219

one

AGE OF INNOCENCE

WHERE THOUGHT JOURNEYS and what obstacles crumb upon our copious path, storytellers have fabled since the beginning of ages. Chiseled in caves or pecked on keyboard, raconteurs tender mysticism to pillows of generations of travelers, who vibrate through space and time, circuiting light- years unto vast unknown territory: the mind and imagination of another. Lurking behind these seasoned holograms are withering spirits who weep in unfathomable chateaux, scrutinizing the tumbling of their gingerbread thoughts. None of our lives’ fantasies or any of our hearts’ desires can put crumbling pieces back together, but if you secure the courage to journey inward, the key to your happiness reflects there. 

Nineteen-fifty-three birthed spirit’s flight. Ohio, Dayton to be exact,

Montgomery County, a lane called Chantilly: a quaint cul-de-sac that echoed ’Ollie, Ollie in Come Free to the ghostly gallops of Trigger and Buttermilk, a hologram landscaping cryptic places copious with baby boomers hopscotching from Captain Kangaroo to American Bandstand. 

Chantilly Lane was a suburban neighborhood of Sears’s and Roebuck catalogs, measles epidemics, and fried baloney sandwiches in an era when Ike was president, veterans honored thriving soil humming a sparking liberty and gasoline was 29¢ a gallon. Ponytails, bobby socks, poodle skirts, black leather, and rolled sleeves cruised in Corvettes, Impalas, and Bel Airs through passion pits (drive-in theaters) and malt shops. With the war and its restrictions behind us, dominatrix time teased cutting-edge horizons with the cracking of revolutionary whips.

The fifties and sixties mimicked the Cleavers and the Petries whose weekly sitcoms millions of families surveyed, mesmerized by the colorization of television. Couples were beholden until death do thee part, not until adversity, disenchantment, or tediousness courted taboo divorce. Inquisitive families believed the illusive parable portraying immaculate husbands and wives living together in a harmony perfected by circuits hot-wired into thirsty patterns organized, intensified, and monopolies by RCA’s theatrical washing machine. 

Nestled on half-acres, sixty-five- hundred- dollar ranch -style homes replaced rustic soil, chicken farms, and cattle ranches. The welcoming fragrances of lilac and roses bordered our three–bedroom castle while gardens rowed by callused knees potted the backyard. 

Globally and on the home front, Victory Gardens sprouted in community plots and backyard gardens, streaming homegrown fruits and vegetables. The magazine Better Homes and Garden coached spring seed sowing and planting. In the summer, we harvested, pickled, canned, or froze tomatoes, beans, corn, and potatoes in preparation for winter’s shorter days and cooler temperatures. 

Seasonal tapestries weaved around our cobwebbed paths strawberry runners and saplings that sprouted apples with the nurturing of my youth. We boiled and canned the strawberry for jams, and buttered the apples for toast. 

The brightest victory of the gardens was the bond grounded attributable to the seeding, harvesting, support, and backbone of a team dubbed family. Out of 43.6 million households in 1953, only 6 percent of American children lived without a father, so one trusted, undeniable truths: through good times and bad, you would always have an anchor sanctioned home and the indistinctive bond of flesh and blood weaving around your cobblestone path. 

Depending on your parent’s roots, principles, and beliefs the chapters of your youth could be a fairytale wonderland or a nightmarish labyrinth. My sisters and I prized our parent’s specialness: their guidance, devotion, and love pledged allegiance to our esteem. With heralds of auspicious gratitude, we felt its essence weave into the core of our being.

Their cleverness bowed to the ontological dignity required for heading a household. After a fresh hot dinner and bath, we rested our sleepy heads in the comfort of their collarbones. They read fairytales or sang lullabies before tucking us into bed, kissing us on the forehead, and telling us how much we were loved. As we lay in slumber, Daddy walked the floors, bringing comfort to our pillows and magic to our dreams. 

A quiet step accompanied Daddy. We knew he did not walk alone, we knew he walked with God. We grew up in an era where there was a direct line between God and family before humankind materialized severing the cord obligatory for bonding a living breed baptized family.

Daddy was a traditional Catholic of German descent. This short, stout man with hair thinning on top, parted on the side, greased down, and swept over had wise, blue fierce eyes with a merry twinkle hidden under dark- tinted glasses. His kind, gentle smile staked its claim: we belonged to him.

He christened us Angels, and vowed that if we focused, we could hear their messages in the stillness of our thoughts and witness signs of their existence, by looking beyond the scope of our current lens. With sincerity burned in his words, came visions of watchfulness and instantaneous belief.

Daddy was a quiet, stiff pious man who spoke in a conversational manner with stern grounding. The lean honor in his face was that of a solemn man, but he was often very droll, enjoying life and all its little anecdotes. He chased me around the house, roaring, teasing my tender cheeks with those thick whiskers of his until he surrendered the chase and let me hog-tie him to the ground. I loved his whiskers, his funniness, and the roar of his infectious laughter floating through the halls of our home, along with the scent of the Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco puffing from his pipe. 

Daddy arose every morning at 3:00 a.m. to work as a supervisor at Meadow Gold Dairy. In a starched blue uniform, he delivered fresh quarts of Jersey milk to loyal doorsteps awaiting their arousal. After severe sleep deprivation, strong caffeine and ten winks colonized in the family recliner rejuvenated him the rest of the day, so he could resume his role as our protector and provider.

Industrious society was valued as part of a working community and the average annual income for a working American was $4,700. Daddy’s living did not deprive us of the oxygen of money, but he still, squeezed pennies out of everything bargained. Lifestyles of consumption did not baptize the Great Depression and World War II generation; therefore, instead of manipulating the enslaving swipe of plastic, we paid for luxuries with S&H Green Stamps by saving register receipts from grocery stores and service stations. 

We saved, scraped, and scrimped for everything we bought, afterward passing the prized belongings to kids in the house, neighborhood, or school. We taped wish lists of pricey items camouflaged in catalogs onto the front of the refrigerator, awaiting Christmas. 

Our refrigerator door could rival any national museum showcasing ingenuous family masterpieces. Every unrecognizable scribble displayed on the front of a five-foot box as a chronicle of current events not covered by the media but guaranteed to make household headlines for celebrities three and a half feet tall. 

Era and television created the exaggerated behavior of June Cleaver and Laura Petrie - images obedient wives and damsels-in-distress strived mimicking to perfection in their billowing dresses and waspish waists. Since fast-food franchises, frozen dinners and microwaves had yet to replace women in frilly aprons, Betty Crocker skilled diligent homemakers in everything from cooking to baking. 

We measured, sifted, blended, kneaded, and rolled breads and pastries, covered them with linen- proofing cloth, then baked or whipped desserts. We plucked salads from gardens and slaughtered free- range chickens in basements and fried or primed their pickings for soups and casseroles. 

The stereotypical good wife overworked to perfect image, motherhood, and marriage. Seeding from the blemished lens of forefathers, the chief responsibility of ‘50s fathers was providing a paycheck, and an insurance policy as many considered them ill-equipped for parenting of noteworthy depth. Nurturance, feelings, and emotions were considered unmanly as menial labor like cooking or cleaning so Mothers reared the children and assumed household responsibilities. Their facade evolved around house, home, and children; therefore, significant and challenging choices from conception to obituary affected generations pampered in castles or surviving in alleys. It was not a privilege taken lightly.

Impeccable mothers paraded nylons, hats, and gloves down every street in every town here and abroad. Playboy magazine first edition featured Marilyn Monroe so consequently blond bombshells modeled curls, thick eyeliner, defined brows, and sultry red lips with shoulders aligned, back straightened, chin up, and toes pointed. 

God broke the mold when he made our Mother, Eula Lee: a tall, vibrant woman with thick navy- blue hair, high- cantilevered cheekbones, chiseled features, and deep-set eyes typical of somebody with Cherokee heritage. Mother was a legitimate corn fed Southern woman with lots of good, old fashioned horse sense. 

She was a born survivor! She survived squeezing and shoving while being forced through the birth canal on a dirt floor in the hills of Hazard County, Kentucky. During her youth, coalmines collapsed on her father, and a car accident decapitated her mother. Older siblings fostered her in an Appalachian cabin without running water or indoor bathroom. Curtained by newspapers, she slept in a small closet that served as her sleeping quarters. She was, in every sense, dirt poor.

Chauvinism and inequality were rife in the ‘50s, but because of her impoverished childhood, Mother refused to be a subservient doormat slaved beneath economic, social, and political thumbs. She attended classes in business, criminal justice, and psychology while working full- time cashiering at a grocery store, afterward, fighting for ownership of a salon. 

She was an unbreakable maverick who longed for her children to have privileges disadvantaged in her youth. She chased fairytales through her children with a daughter popping out of the easy-bake oven every nine months. We were sisters, and the closest of friends, with me being the frail energy sandwiched between the campaigner Sherry and the peacemaker Sue.

Tall and graceful Sue, with a chestnut mane that flowed to her waist, had sea green eyes that captivated a flock of admirers. Nudities of generosity and compassion graced the heart she blessed to family and all those fortunate enough to cross her path. She loathed the angst of conflict but campaigned for passions speaking to spirit. 

Sherry, a tiny perfectionist with sharp hazel eyes and bounties of brown hair cascading to her shoulders, was the first to be trusted and the first granted extra privileges and responsibilities. She was tricky to follow: she, like Sue, had a clever loveliness that challenged unintelligible babes in neverland. I, on the other hand, was so timid and dubious I toiled through life even in cotton panties and training bras. My thesis was as complex as the Appalachian manner in which I swallowed my words, causing most to scratch their heads in puzzlement and me to zipper my lips. Being the shy studious princess I was, under the nightly covers of a flashlight my esteem found comfort in the simple pleasure of literature. 

My sisters were the fruitful models my childish vision longed to birth beyond the narrow passages of the spine that riddled between the sky I floated and the ground that developed like water beneath my wobbling feet.

I was a regular snow maiden like Mother, with rosy cheeks and midnight tresses falling down my back in long ringlets. I had wise, fierce blue eyes like daddy’s, and a soft, bashful face that mirrored a reflection of my youthful innocence. I was oblivious to the vastness unfolding outside of the spectrum of my lens. I dwelt in continual smiles, and laughter, with doors revolving multitude characters coloring illusions of happily-ever-after.

The rich curiosity of a cocker spaniel named Peanuts bonded us with the thriving suburbs and its hidden passageways as we frolicked in Chantilly’s wonderland with neighbors, relatives, and friends. Fifty’s sanctuary gifted little reasoning for locked doors, Our home is your home. Come on in!

After we bowed our heads to feasts of quests and food around our table, gave blessings and broke bread, we found our veins inhaling carbohydrates while flat-lines basted in crackling chicken sizzling in thick bubbling lard with smoke so thick it left greasy soot on every artery it touched. Whipped potatoes with lumps of gravy pumped mountains of salty butter into smothered arteries while stories of truly legendary proportions escalated into thirsty imaginations.

As plates cleared and parties thickened to the cool breeze of the backyard , two generations of adults interlaced tidbits from yesteryear to endless mythologies rippling around the rim of reasonable sensibility. They entertained us with unbelievable  tales from the Great Depression and World War II. We listened in awe as razor sharp memories recalled when life was the educationalist and survival was the lesson. 

Our Mother’s brother Bart was my favorite educationalist because his tales expanded  consciousness to an existence unbeknownst to the rosy existence of the fifties. His slinky gait elevated to heights towering to doorway tops, and his sculpturous face shadowed fine whiskers with blue sparklers for eyes. Bart was a proud marine with shinings of metals awarded for services to our country... he was also one of the ‘Other Americans’ -  the invisible ones who inched through the shadows in the darkness, frantically digging for survival, only to rot like fruit with the coming of the burning sun. 

We called him Hobie – he was a hobo. A hobo was an itinerant penniless person in the ‘50s that followed and hopped freight trains, living in empty boxcars. In 1911, there was an estimated 700,000 hobos. During the great depression of the 1930s, that number doubled. By 1984, as few as 20,000 people were living as a hobo in North American. Jim Tully, the author who penned several pulp fiction books, 1928 through 1945, was a notable hobo; as was professional boxer, Jack Dempsey, a cultural icon of the 1920s.

Once when I was seven, while he and several traveling buddies were visiting, Mother asked me to make them dinner. I went to the pantry, pulled out three cans, opened them, and sat the cans in front of them. My Mother made me take every dish out of the cupboard, wash and dry them before sitting down and listening to their tales.

Three people. Three realities. A humbling truth began to howl from some uncertain abyss, inhabiting a little seed that society never allowed to