Discovering Your True Identity: In the Midst of Bullying, Abuse and Love with Action Steps for Healing and Transformation

By Marilyn Walker

Part memoir, part self-help, and definitely inspirational, TRUE IDENTITY is a compelling read, a triumphant story, and a story of growth. Dr. Marilyn Francis Walker’s stories of triumph over defeat will inspire and restore you. True Identity will take you into the storehouse of Marilyn’s innermost thoughts and intimate feelings, and into the basement of her wounded soul where her deepest pain was stored. She then shares the processes she used to get out of her dark space in hopes that, if you need to, you too can use her program to fully restore and transform your life.
Marilyn has created several transformation programs she adhered to as she was healing. Reflect, Release, and Recreate (R.R.R.) will help you gain clarity and understanding around the circumstances of your challenges. Stepping Into Purpose (S.I.P.) will instill in you a hunger and an appetite for positive change even when a cocktail of negative experiences and emotions has been served. Vision Boarding encourages you to be excited about seeing your future and helps you adopt a new level of consciousness where you make your dreams a priority.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordeee
• Release date: Aug 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781946274281

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Who Am I?

She is the super STAR who conquered the darkness that could not share the spotlight with the spark that ignites her soul, the tranquility that illuminates her spirit, and the radiance that reveals her TRUE IDENTITY.

Dr. Marilyn Francis Walker

ONE THING IS FOR SURE. I was born an Island girl. Born in a land of shimmering sunshine that dazzles blue oceans and throws sparkles on miles of golden sandy beaches. A land of lush vegetation where people work hard, play hard, and speak in a tongue so beautiful, it’s music to the ear. The sing-song lilt of the dialect sounds like the rhythms of the steelpan, limbo and calypso music for which the Island is known. Life in the dual-islands of Trinidad and Tobago, West Indies was happy and fulfilling and like me, it had many faces. A melting pot of nationalities, foods, and music that turns the senses on its edges reminds us that the life experiences that shape us are never just one thing. Even with its beauty and lush greenery, the treasured island had its dark side that overshadowed and cast spells over my childhood innocence. That duality of an island, figuratively and in reality, is where my story begins before it ends up in North America where, because of some of those early experiences, later in life I had to reach deep inside to find my true identity. That identity was stamped with my unique fingerprint that was determined at birth.

For years I found myself asking what is my TRUE IDENTITY? Who was I, really? Mar, Marie, Marilyn, Francis or the merging of all those personalities into one? To this day, when I hear the sweet sound of my multiple names and recall their unique memories and contributions to my life, I am finally glad to say that they’ve manifested and integrated themselves into the woman I’ve become. Confident, independent, idealistic, highly imaginative, intuitive, spiritual, and inspirational. Yes, indeed, each personality played its vital role and as life’s journey continues to unfold, I’ve come to discover that my true identity and probably yours, too, goes beyond just the meaning of a name or names, beyond DNA, geography, and even eye colour.

One other thing that I do know for sure was best articulated by Oprah Winfrey. I am God’s child. I am that which is born from all that is; a spiritual being having a human experience. Connected to the source of all that is and all that is possible, I know everything is also possible for me. I deeply embrace who I am who I am becoming and in being of service to others. As I seek to find a solution to problems or to be the answer to a prayer for myself and others, my core is nourished and I, too, am lifted higher. I readily use and will continue to use my knowledge, my voice, and my story to make a difference in the world.

Service brings significance to all whom it touches and style sparks a fashionable conversation to showcase my product. Therefore, I will serve with dignity and style with passion, fulfilling the highest, truest expression of myself as a human being with a purpose to fulfill God’s plan for my life. My goal has and will always be, to do the right thing. In the presence or absence of others, excellence in service, which in turn allows excellence in my brand, is a non-negotiable expectation. I want my legacy to depict me as an unforgettable woman because of the ethical life I lived. I want to be remembered as the person who did what was right as I use my service, my products, and my voice as a platform to transform lives. My brand, bound by faith and determined by God, is excellence in ministry as I willfully and joyously serve others allowing my service and experiences to point me in the direction of my purpose.

True identity, for me, is the amalgamation of who I’ve been, who I am, and who I am becoming. Shaped and molded by experiences that may not necessarily be unique in this world, they are uniquely mine. This is…mySTORY. The Story of Marilyn.

I’ll be unabashedly candid, open, and vulnerable as I tell my story. It has taken me a lifetime to get here or what seems like a lifetime to plum the courage. As I wrote my story, I knew that I was still in the healing process but I’ve come a long, long way. What I do know for sure is, it’s time to share my story. The book is organized in a way that I hope will help transform the lives of anyone who needs to hear its message and for whom it is intended. After my story, I have shared essential qualities I feel are imperative to a successful life and some of the tools I used to climb out of the darkness.

THE EARLY YEARS: FAMILY LIFE

Mar is the name I am affectionately called by my seven siblings and parents. My nicknames, so to speak, which really were not true nicknames as they were just shortened forms of my given name, Marilyn. Marie, a little more formal, was what other family members, friends, and people in my community called me. Marilyn or Francis was reserved for teachers, grownups, and new acquaintances. Marilyn was used more often in my elementary school days, while Francis, my surname, seemed the preferred moniker for my high school classmates, which by the way, I later used as my middle name as I wasn’t given one at birth. My many names and their accompanying personalities made up the happy go lucky little girl from the verdant and lush island in the sun.

Life was carefree and idyllic-the perfect childhood. My role models were my parents and seven siblings: Jean, Victor, Veronica, Joseph, Agatha, Christiana, and Winston, who all contributed to my balanced life: spiritually, physically, and mentally. Each of my siblings impacted my life in their own special way and my relationship with each is unique. My Mother, Josephine, a very creative and ambitious woman, ran our household like a tight ship, while my Dad, Lloyd, a foreman at Texaco Oil Refinery, was the breadwinner. My Mom was the disciplinarian, while my Dad, a man of very few words, was quiet in nature. They provided a home for us that was filled with love and laughter and many real-life lessons that I’m grateful for today.

In addition to my large family, at school, I found various role models in my teachers and in some of the students, and even more among my extended family. One such was my mother’s brother, who we called Uncle Naman. He lived in the countryside and I enjoyed visiting his home during summer vacation, even though there was no running water or electricity. My most cherished role model, was my father’s mother, Delphina Liverpool, who we affectionately called Gramma. She lived by herself in nearby St. Margaret’s Village. I visited her quite often with my father.

Up until 10 years old, life was sheer bliss! I was more than content with my favourite pastime, which was sucking my right thumb all the way up to the knuckle, while my left hand disappeared under my clothing to play with my belly button. I ditched the belly button signature stance at about five years old, but that sweet thumb continued to be my sugar plum for another five years. Mar was a spoiled child who got lots of love and attention. Back then, the influence on my identity was mostly that of Mar’s. Mar saw her Mom as a walking example of what motherhood, womanhood, and being a wife was supposed to be. When her Dad arrived home, her Mom would ask one of the children to heat up his food and set the table for him. She’d then join him at the table and they would have wonderful conversations as Mom chewed on the chicken bones, he’d lovingly placed on the side of his plate for her. That was one of the things Mar really loved, to see her Mom keep her Dad company at the dinner table. King of his castle, Dad never had a cold meal, never prepared his own plate nor put his plate away after eating. That was always done for him, not by Mom, but by one of us children.

Another of Mar’s favourites was family days at the beach. Her Mom would cook and pack baskets of food and homemade drinks for their trip. When the food was settled in the trunk, the younger children who still lived at home, would pile into the car like sardines. Mar’s Dad was the happy driver as the children excitedly awaited their arrival at the beach. When Mar and her siblings were younger, payday was also a day the entire family looked forward to. Dad would always bring home two brown paper bags…one filled with packs of hot peanuts and the other filled with Tip Top ice cream bars for each child. As we all got older, we looked forward to buying snow cones from the snow cone man instead, but that was not always a financial option. This however, did not stop Mom from making sure her children had treats to enjoy just like the other children in the neighbourhood. Mar’s Mom would buy a variety of flavored syrups, condensed milk, and an ice shaving machine. On weekends, Mar’s Dad would go to the ice factory and purchase huge blocks of ice and the family would set about making snow cones and homemade ice cream. This, in fact, turned out to be a lot more fun than just buying snow cones as it was an opportunity for the family to create something special together that they all enjoyed.

Rainy days were another opportunity for Mom to make sweet sugar cake treats from freshly grated coconut or parched corn. This was her way of keeping her brood out of her way since we couldn’t go outside to play. For us, this was fun, too, as we enjoyed the pitter-patter sound of rain drops playing their sweet rain song on our galvanized roof. I absolutely love the rain and it’s never hard, even now, to conjure up childhood memories at the sounds of rain on my rooftop. Mom and the girls had a responsibility to maintain the household, while Dad and the boys were responsible for doing the manual labor outside the house. Dad taught the boys how to build and fix things and he really enjoyed tinkering with his car, always keeping his engine working like new. As culture had it, he was the breadwinner and their only source of income. Mar’s Dad may have worked for the money, but her Mother was the one who managed the household by budgeting what was given to her to take care of the family. Even when she got older, Mar always enjoyed sitting on the front steps waiting for her Dad to come home from work to see what he’d brought for the youngest three children. By then, the oldest children didn’t care about this type of stuff but she and her two younger siblings did. It was a race of the three to see who would get the bag first after sounding the alarm, Daddy’s home! Her Dad always brought home a portion of his work meals for them and they looked forward to grabbing his bag as soon as he arrived home. All three would run to the kitchen and equally share the leftovers. The person with the bag was the one who did the sharing. Mar also loved sitting on the front steps just in case her Dad decided he was going to visit his mother. Mar’s never missed an opportunity to visit her grandmother who was very special and dear to her. Even today she has fond memories of her Gramma standing her up on her lap as she sang, Dance Marie, dance. Marie loves to dance. To this day, dancing and music are very therapeutic to ‘Marie’ and I enjoy listening to all genres of music. I love dancing in the mirror and throughout my home. When the opportunity presents itself, I dance with my granddaughter, Skylar, or my husband, Rodney.

Sunday dinner was a ritual. Because Mar loved her father, this was not a chore she detested but she did grumble when, at meal preparation time, her Mom would sit at the table in the hallway outside the kitchen and give cooking instructions. Not knowing that this was her way of teaching her children to cook, Mar would enlist the bolder Marie who would think to herself, Why didn’t she do it herself? What’s with all the mixing and stirring, addling liquids, seasoning and tastings to confirm that the food had all the ingredients it needed to be tasty? Little did she know back then that she was being schooled in the culinary arts of tasty dish making. I still chuckle at the memory of getting wacked on the back of my head with a stirring spoon still dripping in gravy. That day, Marie was standing at the kitchen louvers looking outside and daydreaming while waiting to be told what to do next. In dreamland, she hadn’t heard her Mother’s next instruction so she’d continued staring out the window until she felt the pot spoon connect with her head and her Mom saying, Didn’t you hear me tell you to stir the pot? Her Mom had thought Marie was deliberately ignoring her but in actuality, she, as she often was, lost in her own world. Marie had quickly sprung into action. Taking the spoon from her Mom while trying to hide a smile, she hightailed it to the stove, thinking, "I can’t believe she just hit me in my head with that greasy pot spoon. "It was funny because she’d heard her friends share similar stories and now, she couldn’t wait to share that she too had finally gotten hit with a greasy pot spoon.

All Marilyn’s personalities enjoyed these cooking instructions except Marie, who, even though she enjoyed setting the table for Sunday dinner, there was one chore, though she’d mastered it, she really hated-killing the plump chicken that had been selected for Sunday dinner. It was a job assigned to her and her sister, Christine, aka Christiana, who herself had three names: Christiana, Adriana, and Clementina. They would both secure the chicken holding it in place under a bucket making sure to pull the chicken head from under the bucket without the chicken getting away.

With head averted from the deadly sight and a sharpened knife in hand, Marie would quickly sever the chicken’s neck from its body, while Christine kept pressure on the bucket over its flopping body waiting until the fluttering had ceased. This signified that the chicken had no more life in it and would soon be dinner. The chicken was then placed into the kitchen sink and hot water was poured over it prior to plucking, washing, and cutting it up so it could be marinated for at least one day in preparation for the tasty meal she would be instructed in making step by step the following day.

Marie, truly disliked this ritual because on one hand she was a very girly, girly girl who enjoyed playing with dolls, playing house, and playing dress-up in her Mom’s wig and heels. On the other hand, when the opportunity presented itself, she would drop her dolls in a New York minute and put on her tomboy hat to pitch marbles from one of three mud holes dug out in the backyard. She also enjoyed jump rope, bean bag toss, which was really filled with tamarind seeds, hopscotch, and Moral. Let me explain the game, Moral, one of Marie’s favorite outdoor games. It is played using a tennis ball and chalk. A big rectangle is drawn on the ground and divided into eight squares with two columns of four. The squares are numbered from one to eight. The first player chosen, after a sing-song game of eenie, meenie, minie, moe or something like that, would roll the ball in the first square and then step into that square with one foot, pick up the ball within the lines, claps as they bounce it once in square number one, then square number two and each square after that without the ball touching the lines until they exited at square number eight; then you roll the ball into the second square and so on. The first player to successfully make it through all eight squares becomes the winner.

When Marie wasn’t playing with dolls or pitching marbles, she found pleasure in climbing fruit trees despite dire warnings from her Mom that if girls climbed trees, they would make the fruit sour. It was probably her Mom’s way of teaching her that there were certain things little girls wearing dresses should not do and climbing trees was one of them. Regardless of whether her Mom’s claims were fact or fiction, Marie was the kind of child who had to find out for herself. Although it could have been a trick of the mind based on her Mom’s words, to Marie, it did seem like the flavour of the tamarind fruit became sour as soon as she started climbing the tree to pick them. That warning did not stop her from climbing trees to pick mangoes, plums, and any other fruits that were within her reach. Being relentless when it came to getting what she wanted, even when the fruits were out of reach, a fair-sized rock or a long stick was able to do the trick as the fruit, purposely disconnected from its stem, tumbled toward the ground and into her hands.

Marie, always a hive of activity, loved flying kites, riding bikes, and walking as well as running outdoors without shoes. Being barefoot was so freeing for her. Today a reminder of her childhood pleasures and her disregard for her Mom’s repeated words, "Chile, put some shoes on yuh foot, as Marie’s granddaughter, Skylar’s comment when she rubs her now callused feet. Mama, why are your feet so hard? Indeed, they are not very soft. Marie also loved playing hide and go seek at night, not indoors but outdoors. Sundays were Marie’s favourite day. Awakened by the crowing of the rooster and the loud ringing of the neighborhood church bells at approximately 6:00 a.m., Mar would eagerly wash up and don her Sunday best" to attend early morning worship services at the Anglican church. After church, it was off to Sunday school at the nearby Methodist church before the mad dash home to help fix dinner, set the table, and enjoy the afternoon with her siblings at family dinner. Once the dishes were washed, she’d look forward to putting on her pretty everyday clothes to go for her evening walk. When not taking her Sunday walks, Mar enjoyed sitting in the gallery or on the front porch waiting for the 6:00 p.m. radio program that played the top ten songs of the week. This was a really special time especially when some of her siblings with song-copies in hand which were the lyrics of songs printed on paper that were actually bought to learn the words to the songs played on the radio. As the songs played on the radio, it became a melodious and enchanting evening as we sang along with the radio.

Religion played a big role in my upbringing regardless of my personalities. At 11 years old, I was confirmed into the Anglican religion. Confirmation was a rite of passage for a preteen considered of age to express a commitment to Christ. Teenager-hood brought its own set of tumult and receiving the strength of the Holy Spirit through the administration of the holy sacrament of wafer bread and wine by a priest, was added protection against confusing hormones. On that day, I wore an ensemble of pure white which was customary, complete with a white mantilla lightly covering my head. It was the custom for the baptized young girl who had accepted Jesus Christ and the Lord as Savior to receive a gift of a pair of gold bracelets. Mine was presented to me by my mother. Since Christine and I were confirmed on the same day, we shared a pair of bracelets until Mom was able to buy me my very own pair. Today, I still cherish my pair of 18 carat gold bracelets…. Christine’s were snatched off her wrist in New York.

I actually loved the Bible. I memorized Bible scriptures and prayers as a pastime. They were wonderful stories and though I didn’t know where it was all leading until later in life, I found them truly comforting. I remembered when I was about 15 years old my classmate, who managed the weekday Bible study group, had a competition with a prize for the person who could bring the most guests to Bible study. Did I mention that I love a challenge? Well, I do, so I set out to win the much coveted prize. I walked through my entire community, inviting every young person I met to Bible study, regardless of whether I knew them or not. Of course, I won. I’d brought a bunch of children with me and won my first Bible. I was elated. I cherished that Bible until the day I gave it to my eldest sister, Jean, as she was preparing to immigrate to the United States. I knew this Bible would keep her safe as she traveled abroad. Jean still cherishes that Bible today. Until I had to face my own tumult, I didn’t realize that God was preparing me for something bigger on