Seed of My Father

By Shaun Teller

“Seed of My Father, “by Shaun Teller, is a work of uncomfortable truth. From her childhood days in Colorado, to small town, West Virginia; the author takes us through unfortunate circumstances of homelessness and poverty. Dreams of a better day sheltered a frail child from the brutality of instability and hopelessness. In this eye-opening page turner, we are forced to confront the many truths society often ignores.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796074024

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Copyright © 2019 by Shaun Teller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/27/2019

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Forward

Chapter 1 Our Bloodline Begins?

Chapter 2 Early Childhood

Chapter 3 No Man’s Land

Chapter 4 Homelessness and Horror

Chapter 5 New Troubles

Chapter 6 Sixth Grade: Sixth Grade, More Problems, and A Lifelong Question

Chapter 7 Summer 2001

Chapter 8 GHT Middle

Chapter 9 Mid-Teens to Thirty

Epilogue

Dedication

For my father,

To my husband and children.

For Emmanuel, Amiyah, T. Duiguid., and Tanisha H.

Rest in Power

Acknowledgements

I want to make this short and sweet. So, here it is. In God all things are possible, even dishing the details of a traumatic childhood. Thanks to my husband the good Doctor for your love, encouragement, and support. I want to thank my parents and brothers who stood by me, investing in my dream since the 2017 release of my first book. I have to pay homage to the good folks who assisted me in self-publishing this work of art. You’re all amazing!

Forward

September 1995, I penned my first poem. I was six years old, and living in a community plagued with crime, violence, and despair. After learning how to compose a haiku, I practiced at home. I’m not certain but if I remember correctly my first poem was about springtime. From that day forward writing became both my passion and escape. I kept diaries chronicling my life after hearing the story of Anne Frank, a Jewish victim of Hitler’s Nazi Regime and the Holocaust. I began to envision my story and what it would mean to people generations after my death. Fast forward and here it is. Seed of My Father, is a tell-most, written account of my life, pain, struggle, and redemption. I’ve called it a "tell most" because, though I told most every intimate detail of my life, there are things I’ve kept for myself. Those stories will come to light in the right time and place, but this book isn’t it. I have, however, told some of the most painful, disturbing accounts; things I haven’t even told my own mother. I give you my ups and downs, mistakes and failures, heartache and my hope. You’ll read of my many encounters with death through those I’ve known, loved, and lost. You’ll learn what I felt being mistreated by my own race over complexion and socioeconomic status. You’ll learn what it was like being the black sheep of my family, and how, though they tried, my family couldn’t destroy my name and reputation. This book gives, with 100% accuracy, my experiences from birth to adulthood. I’ve changed names, as is required of me by both publication policy and privacy laws but testify that everything I say here is true. I have no reason to lie. So, I don’t. I wrote this book after years of hesitation. I found the strength and courage to do so by following the footsteps of some powerful voices. The voices of the late Maya Angelou and Stanley Tookie Williams. I’ve ventured into the darkest recesses of my life as did George Jackson when he wrote Soledad Brother. I testify to the harsh realities of life in the ghetto as did Monster Kody. Reading the memoirs of each of the above mentioned inspired me to get out of my own way and tell my truth. To tell the truth, I should say. There is a time in which all things must be made known and I believe now is the time. My life may not have been easy, but the trials and tribulations molded me to the woman I am today. I regret nothing. I’ve lived, laughed, loved, hurt, and learned. If I could do it all over again, I’d change nothing. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Our Bloodline Begins?

My grandfather, Billy born March 1926, to Oscar and Grace is the grandfather I’ve never known. Though we’ve never met, I’ve come to know of his life and accomplishments. He was the son of veteran. Oscar, born July 1901, began serving his country during WWI, as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. Trumpeters. He was a native of West Virginia, but spent some time living in Casablanca, Morocco. I’m not sure how long his stay abroad lasted. What I do know is Billy departed Morocco for New York, at age seventeen. Late 1943, he arrived. Following in his father’s footsteps, Billy joined the service. He completed basic training in California at age nineteen; late 1945. As to be expected, my grandfather traveled with the military. July 1947, he departed Camaguey, Cuba for New York. One year later, Billy and fiancée Beverly applied for a marriage license in Piney Grove, West Virginia; a safe haven for African American’s during segregation.

Piney Grove, West Virginia’s untold history begins with the arrival of slave owner Samuel Cabell. While no one truly knows from whence Samuel came, it is believed, by some, he arrived from Georgia. Others say England. Because Samuel is never mentioned in West Virginia history books, we may never know. Seeking to grow his wealth in West Virginia’s salt operations, Cabell made himself home in what would grow to become "Piney Grove." Among Samuel’s slaves was his future wife, Mary Barnes. Thought it wasn’t uncommon for a white slave master to marry a slave girl; it was for him to love her. Most slave women were used as personal breeding tools and ignored. Their children were never considered equal with the slave master’s white children. That wasn’t the case with Mary and the couple’s thirteen offspring. Samuel’s dark-skinned family upset local white neighbors. Unfortunately, it was in rage, Samuel lost his life. However, his family was protected. Prior to his death Samuel took steps to ensure his wife and children inherited his wealth and land. In fact, he drafted thirteen individual wills, one for each child. Taking things further, he filed paperwork setting his black wife, and brown children free. Piney Grove would go on to be a safe space for Kanawha County’s African American population, and home to the county’s only Historically Black College.

Billy became a father in 1954 with the birth of sons R.B. and Roland. The new family packed up and moved in 1962; the same year my father was born. Billy was employed as a teacher but worked a second job to provide for his family. Beverly and Billy shared ten children total, seven boys and three girls. The name was carried on September 1981, with the birth of my oldest brother. Dad would pass his name to the remainder of his children in 1983, 1985, 1987, and 1988. Billy died February 1991 on my parent’s wedding anniversary. Now that you’re familiar with my grandfather, get to know me.

Chapter 2

Early Childhood

November 1988, I came into the world. Born in Colorado to Frederigo and Shelly, my life began. In my previous book, Do You Know Who You Are?, I described a hospital scenario that gave my parents quite a fright. From the womb I was taken and placed under a heated lamp. Hospital nurses carried out all necessary procedures, checking to see that my body was intact. I weighed in a whopping 9lbs 3oz. (according to my mother), had a head full of blonde hair, and the brightest blue eyes anyone had ever seen. To my mother’s amazement and confusion, I was not accidentally switched. When recounting her reaction to me after birth, my mother said: I looked at you; blonde hair, pale skin, and blue eyes and asked, ‘Who’s white baby is this?’ Shortly after birth I went missing. Twenty years later, in a hilarious coincidence, I’d ask nurses nearly the same question about my oldest who was born looking Asian. With a calamity settled and my parents’ worries at ease, I made my way home. Thanksgiving 1988, my family was thankful for me.

My earliest childhood memories center around church. Though the actions within didn’t always mirror Christ’s teachings; both parents were raised in Christian homes. My father grew up in a Baptist household, while my mother was raised "Holiness." There’s not many differences in beliefs between the two denominations. Under the Holiness doctorand, women shaving their legs is frowned upon. Baptists only rule (that I’m aware of, I mostly zoned out in church) of similarity to this would be regarding the use and wearing of cosmetics. Women who do are said to carry the Jezebel Spirit. This ideology differs from one Christian to another. Nevertheless, I’d grow to hear the term. Mother often discussed her mom’s use of the phrase regarding the doings of young women. My family and I attended service at a predominately white church in Colorado on Celtic Drive. To a small child, the chapel looked gigantic. Tall stairs led to the upper level of the church. I loved my Sunday school room. My brother Tyler and I made a beeline for the same corner every week. Toys, and child sized playhouses filled the large room. The house in the farthest corner of the room was our favorite. Though no child could technically lay claim to any item, there existed an unspoken understanding this house was ours.

I remember home life at this age in patches. I vaguely recall our residence in Miry Bluff but remember Adonis Center and Provincial Mesa like yesterday. Our stay in Miry Bluff was brief. Within a matter of months (give or take) we moved in and out of the apartment. Prior to signing the lease, something terrible happened. The former tenant, a single mother of two children, smothered her kids, and shot herself in the head. My parents signed the lease completely unaware of this. Odd things happened in that apartment. Our dog barked (seemingly at no one) at odd hours. While animals can be peculiar, his charging and growling aggressively (as if protecting his territory from someone) set off red flags. The nightmares Tyler had, of a woman approaching him from the closet of his bedroom (which is where the mother killed herself) occurred repeatedly. We remained clueless until a neighbor told my mom of the murder, suicide. Once my parents learned what went on, we moved, taking every trinket we owned, and the family dog with us. Our departure ended his aggressive behavior. Some may chalk those experiences up to coincidence, but I believe something else was going on in that apartment. Fleeing Miry Bluff fell simultaneously into our elusion from Celtic Drive (the mostly white church). My father learned though the pastor allowed for minorities to attend his church (legally he could do nothing to stop it), he firmly believed people of color had no place in the ministry to "his" congregation. I find that very un-Christlike. We were good enough to fill his pews and give our money, but that was all we could do.

Soon after leaving both Miry Hill and Celtic Drive, we made our home in Adonis Center. The Apartment complex was divided in two sides. We lived with the "innocents"; families who reared children. On the other end, Crip gang members ruled the roost. The family residence was located three stories up in the center. We could see everything. The beauty of the sunrise, kids racing up the street, and their doting mothers watching with care. From our balcony, we were reminded evil exists everywhere. A cemetery rested opposite the dividing line.; a mere fence separating Adonis Center’s families from its criminal faction. What the fence couldn’t do was block our view of the Crip gang activities. Meetings were held among the dead. Punishment was executed above graves with the gang playing Judge, Jury, and Executioner. Arrogantly, the men allowed innocent onlookers to watch, knowing our fear kept us quiet. This was nothing foreign. Before Adonis Center, yet after Miry Bluff, there was Provincial Mesa. The only thing worse than living side-by-side with one gang is being imprisoned within the territory of two. Drive-byes, gang wars, and gruesome murders occurred on an almost daily basis, with innocent, poor families caught in the middle.

My Christian reared parents soon found another church. We regularly attended service at Truth Lifework Ministries a predominately black basilica. True to their intentions, they believed chapel participation was good for us. My parents hoped for something good, but our experiences were not. Truth Lifework Ministries was governed by a tyrannical Priest, Pastor Gaither. The husband, father, and "shepherd to God’s flock" used his position to exploit the congregation. Church revivals are commonplace in the Christian faith, but when the ill nature of man(kind) takes over, nothing godly comes from it. Pastor Gaither ran the church more like a cult than a hospital for sinners. Dating was forbidden, as teens were urged to marry someone within the church. Devoted congregants faithfully tithed only for their gifts to line the pastor’s pockets. The intimate details discussed at Men’s Conferences, especially those related to sex and marriage, were used to woo congregant wives. I became a regular attendee at age three. It was here where I first felt the sting of unfair judgement. Pastor Gaither was father to a son and member of Truth Lifework’s multitude. The five-year-old boy developed an innocent, yet annoying infatuation with me. One Sunday to the next he’d follow me around, sat so close to me he was almost on my lap, and gave anything just to be near me. A normal person would chalk his behavior up to puppy love. However, his father saw it as a sin. In his eyes, it wasn’t his son who was at fault. It was me. Soon thereafter Pastor Gaither began preaching on the evils of lust and infamous bible whore, Jezebel. Going further, he insisted the [Jezebel] spirit infiltrated the church. "I won’t have Jezebel in this house of worship, he declared. Allegations were thrown my way in the weeks leading up to this sermon. Apparently, a three-year-old girl had the power to manipulate a boy two years her senior, and the maturity (both mentally and sexually) to influence him with lust. Congregation members took sides and my sinful" behavior was called into question. Most people observed the boy’s actions and told the pastor, It’s your son, not her. Knowing now what I didn’t know then, I’d say the boy and I were subject to persecution for nothing. The pastor would not listen. He decided to settle the matter in church. The boy and I were called to the alter for questioning. Facing the pews, in a packed sanctuary, Pastor Gaither asked us the same question: Who in this church do you like best? Turning first to me, the alleged Jezebel, he held the microphone in my face. "Nobody," I answered. A raucous laughter erupted through the congregation. Embarrassed, yet turning to his son he asked, Who in this church do you like best? Pointing a tiny, index finger my way the boy answered, Her. We were excused to our seats. To this day I have a love/hate relationship with Christians, the church, and Pastors. Logically, it isn’t fair to paint all saints with the same brush. However, letting my guard down with them would be reckless. Ironically, the people who have given me the most grief claim Christ as their Lord and Savior. This wasn’t the last time I’d be ostracized in the church.

Home life offered an escape from persecution. The spacious apartment more than made up for what we left. Unlike Miry Bluff or Provincial Mesa, Adonis Center was spread out. Upon entering, visitors had to trek down a wide hallway opening to a large living room. There were bedrooms on either side. A kitchen rested opposite the laundry room feet away from my parents’ bedroom. It may not have been a luxury high-rise, but it was our home, and it was cozy. Colorado Springs was a city like no other. Zoos and elaborate parks attract happy go lucky Coloradoans year-round, plump wallets in tow. Denver’s Hispanic population outdid themselves at annual car shows, and no matter your race, come Cinco De Mayo; you were Mexican. Colorado celebrated its diversity. I remember the state having a great love for all cultures. It is a place where all people are celebrated. Nearby, in the city of Pueblo, rests a wonder. The Garden of the Gods. I’ve still yet to see anything as beautiful as those red mountains. Winters there are glorious. There’s nothing like waking to the city, covered in heaven’s cotton. I’ve missed Colorado since we left. Once my parents decided to take us to the Denver zoo. I was excited to see all the animals, especially the monkeys. I’d developed a fascination with apes. This zoo trip started off like any other but ended hilariously. After an entire afternoon oooing and aaahing at lions, tigers, bears, monkeys, and all creation, I needed a bathroom break. My mother and I made our way to the ladies’ room where there was no line. This should have been our first sign something wasn’t right. Denver’s zoo was jam packed that day. The absence of a line at the bathroom seemed golden, until we opened the door. Pushing the door into the ladies’ room, we were caught off guard by a screeching monkey. Turning my eyes sky-ward, I saw the angry, black beast dangling from a ceiling rod. Reaching for its rear, still screeching, the monkey grabbed its poo and hurled it at us. Acting quickly, mom pushed me backward, out the bathroom, and slammed the door. I didn’t have to go anymore.

Sundays came and went with our consistent church attendance. My parents must have been torn between rearing their children in Christian values and seeing Truth Lifework for what it was. We remained faithful through