Shattered & Made Whole: Failures Don't Break Us-They Refine Our Success

By Tina Marie Felder

Shattered & Made Whole is an autobiographical narrative about the life and faith of Tina Marie Felder. Her story is compelling as she takes the reader through the issues of child molestation, abandonment by her father, failed relationships, betrayal, deception, and failed marriages. She continues by sharing the tragic death to her belov

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tina Felder
• Release date: Feb 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692642177

Tina Marie Felder

JJ Planter became the AKA for Jarvis Jimmy as a Church Planter. The quality and price of JJ Planter Editing & Self-Publishing Service begin with the Christian Ethic of Stewardship and the diverse experience and record of accomplishment of the Founder and Editor-In-Chief, Jarvis "Jimmy" Ross. JJ Planter was exposed to writing courses for a brief period in high school and college. The background of JJ Planter's writing skills comes from approximately 40 years of public speaking and formal writing. His experience begins with writing sermons, articles, how-to booklets, instructional manuals, and writing for different genres from play productions to developing readings about organizing and strategizing for reaching out into the community. While serving as a professor at Charlotte Christian College and Theological Seminary in Charlotte, NC, in 2012, JJ Planter was enlightened on the lack of grammatical knowledge and writing skills of adult students and discovered a significant literacy problem within the urban culture. From that moment on, his conviction and drive were to put together the framework for JJ Planter Books Editing & Self-Publishing and developing his "Writing with Flair" Grid Program.

Book preview

1

BEING A SMITH

Do you remember what it was like when you were a child? Were you always wishing you were older than your actual age and in a hurry to grow up? Did you lie about most things that you thought would get you into trouble? For instance, Johnny, did you break my lamp? Then you replied with a straight face, no ma’am, it wasn’t me.

If you were like most children, you were inquisitive and had questions about everything you saw or heard. On the other hand, maybe you were a timid child and never had much to say about anything. Well, I was a leader and I had an opinion about everything. I had no problem telling you what you should do and how you should do it. If I couldn’t be the one in charge, I had no interest in sticking around.

While I would never own up to it, I was extremely bossy. Surprisingly, I had many friends, but to hear my mom tell it, I didn’t want to play with more than one of them at a time. Maybe that’s because it was easier for me to have more control over one than two or three.

My Mom & Dad

As children, we grow up imitating our parents. We would often hear people say, "Girl you act just like your mama," or "Boy you are just like your daddy."

My mom was seventeen when she met my dad. She met him when she and a few of her friends went to a party at the dance hall. They went to hear the teenage band that was playing. When Jimmy, the band’s lead singer opened his mouth to sing, she was smitten by his voice.

She introduced herself and they had an instant connection. As the weeks followed, they were inseparable. She fell in love and to her surprise, got pregnant approximately six months after they met.

It didn’t take long for her to hear that there was another girl in Jimmy’s life. After hearing the rumor on more than one occasion, she caught the bus to the dance hall to confront him. That’s when she met AP, the band’s guitar player. He told her that Jimmy didn’t show up for practice and he didn’t have a clue where he was. He then offered her a ride home and she accepted. She finally caught up with Jimmy a few days later and broke off the relationship. However, it didn’t take long for the flames of their love affair to re-ignite.

One evening Mom and Jimmy were sitting at his grandmother’s house. He told her that he had something to do and he would be right back. She waited almost an hour for his return and was about to leave when the police showed up at the door looking for him. They told her there was a warrant for his arrest because he robbed the clerk at the movie theater and fled the scene. They found him later, arrested him, and put him in jail. I was born while he was in jail.

Recalling Childhood & Growing Up

When I was two months old, my grandmother, on my dad’s side, begged my mom to take me to the jailhouse so my dad could see me. She reluctantly agreed and that was the first time he saw me. Soon after that visit, they moved him from jail to prison.

Do you remember the guitarist AP? Well, my mom started dating him. Regretfully, AP was a married man, but she still fell deeply in love with him and two years later, my only sibling, my brother Levi, was born.

Levi and I grew up in a one-parent home in the small rural town of Ashland, Kentucky. Their largest industries were coal, oil, and steel. The population was approximately twelve thousand. Out of that twelve thousand, only two and a half percent were African American.

Our winters were very cold, with snowfall sometimes reaching twelve to twenty-four inches high, and our summers were at the other extreme, scorching hot.

My mom loved us dearly and did all she could to provide for us. Although she said we were poor, we always had a place to live, clothes, shoes to wear, and food to eat. Mom raised us the best she could with the aid of Public Welfare. I remember that most of my childhood was spent living in government housing, better known as the projects.

Despite living in the projects, we would celebrate the arrival of the government food truck every month. That delivery of cheese, peanut butter, instant potatoes, and thick one-pound sticks of butter, was like manna from heaven.

I recall my white friends lying out in the sun. I would lay out in the sun too, but I didn’t have any suntan lotion like them. I laugh now, but it was a serious matter then. I would run into our apartment, open the refrigerator, grab that large stick of butter, and rub it all over my little dark-skinned body. Then I would go out in our small backyard with a smile on my face. One time, my mom returned home early and found me outside lying in the sun.

What do you think you’re doing?

I’m getting a suntan, mother!

Say what? And what is that you have all over you?

Butter.

Butter, are you crazy. You know better Tina Marie!

Using my good butter like that! Get your Lil ass in here and wipe that butter off you.

You’re black enough and you sure don’t need a tan.

She was right because I was dark, but I never understood what was so wrong with me wanting a suntan.

While we didn’t have what most of our peers had, she always made sure that we were never without what we needed. Whether it came from the government or one of the few boyfriends she used to help support us, we had what we needed to live a comfortable life.

Through childhood eyes, I saw my mother as a strong, courageous, bold black woman. She was my only hero. She possessed a heart of gold and was the kind of woman who gave freely and generously with no ulterior motives or hidden agendas.

Like most siblings, my brother and I were always fussing and fighting. Our fighting wasn’t about physical altercations, maybe a little pushing and shoving. He was a short, light-skinned hyperactive kid. I’d say he was mischievous because he was always getting into something that he had no business getting into. He was also clever at shifting blame back to me when something went wrong. But, my mom was no fool, she knew better. She knew that I was the laid back, reserved child.

I did my best not to cause her any problems. On the other hand, when it came to my brother, the two of us just didn’t get along very well. Aside from that, there was one thing that was certain, we had each other’s backs and were quick to defend one another.

On one occasion, the Jackson twins wanted to fight my brother. I was not a fighter, but I wasn’t going to just stand by idle and watch them beat my brother down. My cousin coached me about what I should do. Nevertheless, every time I’d go in for a punch, one of them would hit me in the stomach, and I’d double over in pain. I was relentless and would regain my composure and strength, and try again. I’m not sure why I just didn’t give up and walk away from the fight. Looking back, I guess it was because of my pride. My self-respect, confidence, and responsibility for my little brother would not allow me to quit.

Although my brother would get on my last nerve most of the time, he was still my flesh and blood. There were times when I actually enjoyed having him around. He was a ham and lived for the spotlight because he was talented. He demanded everyone’s undivided attention every time anyone would enter his presence. Then you had to pay a small fee to oblige him. Yes, if you wanted to see him demonstrate his great talents of walking on his hands or his break-dance moves, you had to place your silver coins in his little hand. That boy came out of the womb with a HUSTLER mentality that was all over him!

I absolutely loved being outside and I was crazy about games like hopscotch, my all-time favorite, hide and seek, red rover, and mother may I. I had so much fun and hated going in the house before dark. But, I knew that soon as the sun went down, my outdoor fun was ending, or my mother was coming to get me. I was adamant about not missing my curfew because I didn’t want to be embarrassed and humiliated by the dreadful calling of my entire name. Tina Marie, you better get in this house! When your parents yell out your whole birth name, it’s serious. Neither did I want my outdoor privileges suspended for violating her rules, so I had no problem obeying.

Despite being poor, life was fun. I remember those silly sleepovers where you tried to stay up all night. The idea was to make up a plan to punish the first one who fell asleep. You had better believe I fought hard to stay awake.

One of my favorite childhood traditions was getting a new outfit to attend a once-a-year visit to the Amusement Park. That was the only day when all the black folk in my hometown could go to Camden Park. Camden Park was a small amusement park located in Huntington, West Virginia. We continued that tradition well into my adolescent years.

My favorite time of the year was Christmas because it was gift-giving time. I can still smell the aroma of Christmas in the air and see that tall silver Christmas tree. We put the same tree up year-after-year.

It’s funny now, but my mother used a large, electric, color wheel that sat on the floor to illuminate the tree. The tree would change from red to green, to blue, and then yellow, as the wheel turned round and around. I loved just watching it change colors.

I usually got everything I asked for on my Christmas list. Although I remember the excitement I felt when I opened all my presents, I will never forget the disappointment that I experienced one Christmas. It was the Christmas when my cousins and I went into the walk-in attic at my grandparent’s house and found all the Christmas toys. I just couldn’t believe that for all those years I thought there was a Santa Claus who brought the toys. Come to find out it was my mother and my grandparents! I was determined that when I had children, I would never tell them that lie!

My Childhood Changes!

I was six-years-old when my dad was released from prison and came to live with us. What should have been a happy time for most children was a sad experience for me! My dad was an angry and bitter man who exercised his control. He didn’t allow my mother to have pork in the house and we couldn’t eat white bread or white rice. They argued all the time and she was terrified of him.

One time my mom had to go to the emergency room because they were feuding and he threw a bucket of soapy water in her eyes. It was always one argument after another, but the one that stands out the most was the argument they had when I wanted to go to church. My dad didn’t want me going to church at all. I think all of his issues and anger had to do with his newfound Black Muslim religion, introduced to him while in jail.

I cried uncontrollably every Sunday morning. When the big white church bus came, mother would say, "Go get on the bus."

I’m not sure what he said or did when I left, but once I got on the bus, all my fears were relieved. I really didn’t care much for him, especially his strict disciplinary style.

I recall the time my brother and I got into an argument and he spit on me; so I spit on him. As our punishment, my dad made us stand in a corner and hold a heavy large box of detergent on our heads. We kept it on our heads for hours and all I can remember is that box was so heavy that my little arms started feeling like they were gonna fall off.

The arguments, the fighting, and his controlling ways continued for many months until mom finally had enough. She called the police and had him put out. Shortly after that, he abandoned us.

It was three years before I saw my dad again. He showed up for a visit that lasted two hours. While he was with me, he handed me a ten-dollar bill and then disappeared for another two years or more. That cycle continued well into my teenage years. At the end of every visit, I felt empty inside.

Although my dad was hard on me, with every year that passed without him, I longed for a relationship with him. I didn’t know it, but I had a father wound. I wanted nothing more than his acceptance and his love. Instead, I received excuses and lies. It was his lies that caused my heart to fill with jealousy every time I heard someone talk about their fathers. Do you know what my daddy did for me? After every visit, he said, "I love you, my beloved." I thought to myself, really! You have abandoned me and rejected me during the most critical years of my life! You call that love.

Life Goes On

I grew up in the sixties. That was an era when society mistreated and disrespected dark-skinned people. That old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," is definitely a bunch of crap. I can remember white people calling me hurtful names, but my light-skinned cousins called me names too. They apparently thought it was okay. The one that hurt my feelings most was June.

Whenever June saw me, he called me blackie, darky, or skillet. I wanted to crawl into a ball and die. Especially if he said it in front of a guy that I liked. I tried to act as if it didn’t bother me, but my feelings were hurt every time. His words affected my self-image for many years.

In my town, racism was prevalent. Most times, I was the only black child in my classroom. Can you imagine how I felt? Always having to prove my self-worth, trying to fit in, trying to belong. It wasn’t until ninth grade that I embraced my dark skin and felt like I was special.

I’m sure that feeling better about my appearance had something to do with my attraction to this young guy. I had a schoolgirl crush on him. For the first time in my life, someone other than my mother gave meaning to my life.

Step-Dad Steps In

When I was eleven-years-old, my mother decided to marry her live-in boyfriend. I was use to seeing men come and go, but he was different because he became permanent.

Harry was a tall, heavy built man, with dark brown skin and a bald head. He was divorced and had two children, Donnell, and Lela. They were a musically gifted family. Harry played the flute and saxophone. Donnell played the guitar, and Lela sang. Although I was not musically inclined, I always had an interest in playing an instrument, so I tried the flute. Harry took it upon himself to teach me a note or two. I can’t say I learned very much, but that didn’t stop me from trying. For the most part, we all got along really well.

My stepdad appeared to be a nice man. He portrayed himself as a family man and he appeared to be madly in love with my mother.

One of the activities we enjoyed as a family was going to the drive-in movie. I always looked forward to our movie night. My mother would pop a huge pot of popcorn and put it in a brown paper bag or a pillowcase. There were always three movies showing. Nevertheless, my brother, mother, and I were always fast asleep before the second movie ended. During one of our drive-in excursions, I woke up while the third movie was playing and discovered that Harry was watching an X-rated movie. His eyes focused on the screen with so much intensity that he didn’t even know I was watching.

Although we were too small and too young to drive, Harry offered to teach my cousin, Chi and me how to drive. We never thought much about it when he told us to sit on his lap because we knew we had to see over the steering wheel. Neither did I think anything about the many times he smacked me on the butt in a playful manner.

Harry Molested Me!

We were home alone. I had gotten out of the tub and had a towel wrapped around me. As I walked from the bathroom to my bedroom to get dressed, he asked me to come into the living room. I walked over to the sofa to see what he wanted. I don’t recall what he asked me. As I turned to go back to my room, he came up behind me. He then started tickling me. Somehow, I ended up on the sofa. He tickled me so hard that my towel fell off. Painfully, I remember him removing his penis from his pants and placing it against my vagina. I was a little girl so he could not force himself completely inside me. But I do remember feeling the pressure of him trying to penetrate me.

I didn’t fully understand what he was doing and didn’t realize how wrong it was. My family never discussed sex. It was a taboo subject. However, I knew it was something a man and woman did together, and something I called nasty stuff. What I thought to be an innocent and playful act of love was an outright act of child molestation.

He molested me on more than one occasion. I never knew how to verbalize what happened to me so I never said anything to anyone about it. Looking back, I think fear, shame, and guilt made me hide it on the inside.

For reasons of her own, my mother divorced him after three years of marriage. I’m not sure how true it is, but a few years after they divorced I heard someone say he had sex with his own biological daughter. That was the first time I understood that I was a victim of child molestation. Nonetheless, by then, I was too ashamed and embarrassed to admit the truth of my abuse. I wasn’t sure how my mother would react. Would she believe me? Would she think it was my fault? Therefore, I buried it.

Every time I heard someone talk about molestation and rape, I buried it deeper and deeper. I blocked it and didn’t think that the molestation damaged me. On the other hand, the truth was, it scared me emotionally.

Every time the thought of his actions entered my mind, I relived the pain. I felt angry and hurt. He stole my virginity! I was angry that he violated me and I didn’t understand why he thought he had the right to take advantage of my innocence. I never told anyone about my deep dark secret until I became an adult

Dysfunctional!

There’s one thing that every family in the world has in common. Every family has some form of dysfunction.

As a child, I didn’t understand that the chaos I lived in was unhealthy. Unfortunately, my circumstances left me with no choice, so I had to with it.

I was very close to my cousin Chi, who was one year younger than I was. She lived in the apartment building directly across the street from ours. She was the younger of her two siblings, her sister Sandy and her brother JJ. Every opportunity I got I wanted to spend the night with her.

Although my Aunt Sherry, my mother’s sister, was not the clubbing type, my Uncle Jay, her husband, was. He partied at the American Legion on most weekends. Many times, he would come home drunk and start a fight with my Aunt Sherry. The commotion was so loud that it would wake us from our sleep. Chi and Sandy would be screaming at the top of their lungs. JJ was either sleeping over at a friend’s house, or he was so deep in sleep, he would miss the entire ordeal. My Aunt Sherry would yell:

Okay Tina, come and call the police.

I’m sitting on him now and he can’t get up.

Are you sure you got him?

Yes, I’ve got him. He can’t get up.

Okay.

That was our weekend routine. My Aunt Sherry would wrestle him to the floor and sit on him with her large body. I would call the police while she held him down and my cousins would cry hysterically until the police arrived. Sadly, that battle continued for years until they separated.

My Aunt Marilyn, mother’s oldest sibling, was an alcoholic. We loved her dearly, but she didn’t know how to love herself.

She lived with her boyfriend, Bobby. From what I understand, she was the life of the party. She would get drunk and dance all over the club tables. However, she only enjoyed her drunken state until she walked through the front door of her house.

Bobby, who did not frequent the club but did drink, probably as much as she did, would beat her severely every time she came home intoxicated. It was common to see her with a black eye, busted lip and bruises. On some Saturday afternoons, she would sit in my bedroom while I did her hair and would cover her bruises with makeup.

Just Being A Smith

My mother’s side of