Shadows over Texas

By Kat Kelly

The book tells about the story of a young girl and her life experiences through adulthood. It embarks on this heartbreaking story of survival and the determination of a young girl to achieve an impossible dream. Follow Sonya as she struggles and crawls out of her stepfather’s sexually abusive grip.

Born into poverty during the middle of the Great Depression, she is challenged to the worst encounters a young girl can face. Having lost her mother at a young age, Sonya is forced to face the horrid effects of abuse and being deprived of an education. Feel her battles from childhood having a speech impediment. Escaping the enslaved labor camps, she leaves behind her beloved siblings, and never to see them again. Her drive and determination for an education were confronted by the unexpected—the men that took advantage of her ignorance and innocence. She fights the discrimination that blight her all her life.

Your heart will rend as she is forced to surrender her two newborns for the sake of a better and a chance in life. You will learn of her bittersweet marriages and the course that takes her to the unlimited expectations of the rich and famous.

You will find Sonya as she reaches the ultimate in life and eventually finds happiness, only to be crushed by greed and the powerful cattle ad oil barons. She finds true love in her life, only to have it ripped away from her by vengeance and jealousy.

The book that you are about to read and all characters herein are purely fictional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796054415

Kat Kelly

Kat Kelly is a newcomer to fiction literature. Her travels to different countries have inspired her to write stories based on real life experiences. Having lived in West Texas for several years, she acquired her master’s degree at Western Texas College. Her appreciation for the land, she decided to make that her home. Her involvement with the migrants in Texas had taken her to labor camps, penciling down life experience stories. Miss Kelly is working on her next book.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

January 18, 1935

My Birth

I was born to Ofelia Viola, on a farm somewhere between Nixon and Smiley, Texas, during the Great Depression. My mother died on April 21, 1946, at the age of thirty-eight when I was about twelve or thirteen years old. I say about twelve or thirteen because only my mother knew the year that I was born, and I don’t remember her ever telling me when this date occurred. My birth was never recorded, so the exact year of my birth is unknown. My uncle Louis, Mother’s brother, was certain that I was her firstborn, maybe delivered by a midwife, which is probably the reason my birth was not recorded. Smiley, the town closest to where I was born, is east of San Antonio, Texas, deep in the farm cattle and poultry country. When the cotton fields were in bloom, you could smell the cotton plants for miles. Our birthdays came and went, I don’t remember ever having a birthday cake, I guess we were too poor… was born in 1933 or 1935, or some time in-between. Many years later, I was able to get a birth certificate that says I was born in 1935, so I use that as my official birth date. However, that certificate was prepared from information provided by my uncle Louis. At that time, most of my relatives could not agree on whether I was born in 1933 or, 1935. So, my uncle and I decided that we would use 1935 as the year of my birth.

In any event, it seems certain that I was born on January 18, under the astrological sign of the Capricorn—the climbing aggressive goat. I don’t mean to elaborate or give my birth date any great importance, but I mention it because I cannot conceive of too many people not knowing the year of their birth. However, it is true in my case, and I consider it to be the first of the many shadows in my life.

I have to say that the fact about my birth date really does not bother me all that much, what really bother me, for a long time was the fact that no one took the initiative to tell me who my father was. I never knew him or who he might have been. One story was that my mother was raped by a married man where she did housekeeping. Another story had it that my mother, after her parents died, ran off to New Orleans with a French man. He brought my mother back to her brother, Uncle Louis, and my mother was several months pregnant with me. Supposedly, Uncle Louis took her in and kept her until I was twenty-seven days old and then he traded us to the worst excuse of a human being that ever lived—my stepfather, a man sixteen or seventeen years older than my mother. Uncle Louis supposedly received a wagon full of corn for my mother and me. I believe that poverty would cause Uncle Louis to steal, but I cannot believe it would make him trade or sell his own family—even during the Great Depression and a family of four. But who knows?

Years later, after my mother died, another story was told to me by my stepfather. He said that my real father was my uncle Louis. The damage to one’s character caused by the evil and ignorance of people like him can really be devastating. My mother bore him four children to this monster. She had several miscarriages when she was too weak to carry her babies to full term because of physical abuse from this man; yet, he would belittle her character in this manner. We, especially my mother, had a very hard life with this man. Later, I will relate incidents on how my stepfather abused us, abuse I witnessed with my own eyes or experienced personally, that many will find hard to believe.

As I said before, I was born during the Great Depression. These were hard times, as I remember. We, like so many others, survived the hard times in this part of the country, only because of the abundance of chickens and the watermelons and the black grapes grown everywhere. To make ends meet, my mother would bottle wine and would sell enough to put shoes on our feet. Smiley was a small town of about four hundred inhabitants, mostly Hispanics, struggling to get out of the depression. The end of the depression, however, did not change our living conditions. We, my family and I, continued to live in poverty.

CHAPTER 2

Childhood years and the tin house

Most people can remember their childhood with happiness. The many happy days spent growing up around their mother, father, brothers and sisters, and friends. When I’m asked how far back can I remember? I try to ignore the question. My recollection of my childhood is very fragmented. There are many periods in my early childhood that are a complete blank. Try as I may, I cannot remember some of them. Other periods of my childhood, even at a very young age, are very vivid. Some of these remembrances bring back bittersweet memories and others make me tremble with anger.

My earliest recollections remind me that I was a very sad little girl. There aren’t many happy memories to remember. We were living somewhere near Smiley, Texas with my stepfather. He worked for a farmer that had a chicken farm. My stepfather ran the farm, which during the depression hardly brought in enough to feed us all. Beside us all, there was another couple that lived with us. They were newlyweds that couldn’t afford a house. So, there were about ten or eleven of us in that little tin house. I guess I can say that was my first home I can remember living in with all of us living together—that old tin house or sheet metal with lots of people living in it. It was an old house with only one room. It had a wooden floor and was more like a barn than a house. There were seven of us plus the other family. My mother, stepfather, myself, my two half-sisters and my half-brother, and my stepfather’s son and daughter from a previous marriage. The big room was divided into sections with designated areas for the families to sleep. All the children, including myself, went around barefooted most of the summer, most of the time with thin little garments made from flour sacks to cover our bodies. I guess we were happy children. We did, however, entertain ourselves by catching crawdads or frogs or whatever we could find down by the river that ran close by.

These are the earliest recollections as a child. In retrospect, I guess the reason this period stands out so vividly in my mind is because this was also the time that I first experienced dealing with the physical aspects of my body. This was the period my stepfather first started sexually abusing and molesting me, a very small little girl of about four or five years of age. I have heard stories, recently, of women who had forgotten that they had been sexually abused as children but remember now as adults. For me, the sexual abuse by my stepfather, when I was but a mere child, is the most vivid and horrible of all my recollections.

Even as young as I was, I knew that his touching my body in the way that he did was not right. He would take me out to the chicken barns where we would be alone. There he would pull my thin dress up, his grimy hands getting under my panties. He would hold my small body with one of his big calloused hands and kneeled as if to comfort me, an innocent, frightened child. He would wrap his big arm around my small shaking body, and I can still hear the baby talk he used on me—telling me that it was alright for him to play with my body, that it was alright for him to put his filthy finger on and in my private parts. Looking back now, I know what happened to my virginity; the bastard had robbed me of it with his dirty fingers. I was twenty-seven days old when my mother came to live with him. How long had he been abusing me? Had he been taking me to the chicken barns for four years? I can’t remember, but I do know that he took my virginity. There were many trips afterwards that I remember. What happened on those trips? And the remaining of my childhood years? It’s a complete blank to me.

When I was older, I heard stories about my stepfather that, because of his abuse, my mother and I believe were true. He supposedly killed his first wife through physical abuse and went to prison for raping one of his nieces. What chance did a small girl my age had against any man, let alone such an evil man? Did he also kill my mother? Remembering how he abused her, I truly believe he did.

CHAPTER 3

School years

It was also during this period that I remember the first school I ever attended. It was a one-room schoolhouse in Nixon, Texas, and all grades shared the same teacher. I don’t remember learning anything at this school. But I do remember crying a lot and being very frightened. Also, this was my first introduction to what I later learned was discrimination. I had long, blonde, curly hair, and I was very fair-skinned. Plus, I had a slight speech defect causing me to stutter quite often. I was also very tall. I towered over all the children in the schoolroom. The stares, the jibes, the name-calling, and the questions asked about my physical characteristics made me very uncomfortable. I could not explain to anyone why I looked like I did and yet had a Mexican name. I was registered in school under my stepfather’s last name, which I could not even pronounce. Also, Mother would fix a lunch for each of the three of us in empty molasses cans. I don’t remember what kind of lunch boxes other kids brought to school, but I know most kids made fun of our molasses cans. My favorite lunch box was the one with a picture of Brer Rabbit on it. Our lunch would consist of tortillas in which my mother would roll up beans, meat, or whatever food she had available at the time. During lunchtime, we would cover our tortillas with both hands trying to conceal our food. Why were we ashamed of our lunch? I’ll never understand. I just did what all the other kids with rolled-up tortillas would do. We would sit apart from the other kids because they would make fun of our lunch boxes and our rolled-up tortillas. I did not know that all this was called discrimination at the time, but today, I’m sure that it was.

After a while, I was accepted as the cute blonde Mexican girl who talked funny and who ate what we now call burritos. At the time, however, this acceptance did not make me feel any better, and I continued to cry and be frightened. And as I said before, I don’t remember learning anything at this school.

When did we leave the tin house in Nixon? It must have been around 1942. I was still quite young;. I was in the first grade, so I had to be at least six years or older. Thinking back now, I recollected one particular incident. I guess the reason that I remember this time is because we left the tin house. I remember my mother had me hidden behind her holding on to her dress. We were outside on the yard. She was crying and screaming at my stepfather. What they were saying I did not understand, but I knew it was about me. Did I tell my mother what my stepfather was doing to me when he took me to the chicken barns? There was a constant accusation that was brought upon me. At that time, I was too small to understand the fights and the separations that went on all through our childhood. All I know is that one day, we left that tin house never to return to it again. It was my mother me and my two half-sisters with my half-brother. I was the eldest; the other ones were just babies. My mother had left her husband, a monster of a man—my stepfather.

From this period on was the most difficult years of my mother’s life. The bits and pieces that I recalled are not pleasant memories. How many houses did we move into? I don’t recall. I’m guessing some were Mother’s relatives; others took us in for pity and to try to help a poor woman and her four hungry children. I don’t know where it was, but I remember sitting next to my mother in a big building. We were peeling pecans. I would crack them, and she would peel them. I think she made money because we had sausage to eat that night. How many times did we move around? Whoever took us in. I don’t remember going to school at this period, although I was old enough. There were the overly sized clothes that were given to my mother by the ladies for her poor little children. Somehow, I never did think of myself as being poor. The leftovers from people’s houses were welcomed daily. I don’t know how long we were nomads, but I don’t remember seeing my stepfather during that period.

We moved around a lot, living in different houses with different people, living mostly off their charity.

The next house most vivid in my recollections was a house on the outskirt of McQueen, Texas. My mother worked as a housekeeper there for a Mrs. Hayden. Things got much better for us. Mother put us in school. This house was a lot different from the old tin house. We had a kitchen, bedrooms, and furniture. I don’t know what happened, but my stepfather came to stay with us. I don’t remember him bringing his kids. I don’t know how long he stayed then he was gone. During one of his absence, my stepfather stayed gone for about a year. I was around eight or nine by then. With some exceptions, I guess that this period was the closest I can remember of having fond memories of my childhood. We continued to live with my mother at this house, and she continued to keep house for Mrs. Hayden, whose house was the most beautiful one I had ever seen. This was my first introduction to a world so very different from the one I had lived in up until now. For the first time in my life, I realized that there was another life besides abject poverty.

CHAPTER 4

My environment

It was still in the early to mid-1940s I guess. We were in World War II, and President Roosevelt was still in office. I must have been nine years old and didn’t really know what us being at war meant, but I remember people talking about it. Before I go any further, I have to say something about the kind of environment I was raised in, and maybe we can understand the difficulties that I had in learning and understanding the English language. To begin with, there was no English spoken in our house. My stepfather was from Mexico. He could either read or write. I remember the embarrassment in my part when I would see him sign a cross for his signature. Sometimes, I close my eyes and I can very well have described in detail his physical appearance—short; stocky; dark, coarse skin; wire-black hair. There was nothing attractive about that man. I heard my mother speak the English language many times, but never at home. The only books that we had was the ones that we brought from school. If we did any homework or read at home, I don’t remember. The only language that was spoken in that house was Spanish, and the Spanish that I remember is not the literary Spanish. So, all these difficulties with stuttering, not comprehending, and the inability to learn this were big obstacles in my life.

We did not have a radio, so to entertain my sisters and brother, I would play like I was a radio. I would get a box and give my sisters and brother an imaginary knob to turn so they could change stations; and I would get behind the box and sing, talk, or tell them stories. My mother would bring magazines from Mrs. Hayden’s house, and we would cut out the pictures as paper dolls. I made many trips to Mrs. Hayden’s house with my mother. It was a different world there, like being in a dream world. The house smelled so clean, and everything looked so shiny. The furniture was beautiful. This house made a tremendous impact on my life. I didn’t know what it would take to get one and live like this, but I know I didn’t want to leave that house when I was there. Did I make a promise to myself that I would someday own a house like this? No! I couldn’t have because I