Untrue Ties

By Anita Munday

Sometimes we choose to forget. Other times, we have the misfortune of carrying and will never forget. As we travel through the journey of life, regardless of the road we're on, each step is a lesson learned and with the knowledge obtained, we are molded into the person shaped by circumstance. Untrue Ties is the real life events of a woman who began her journey with love and trust, only to be scorned and broken by the people she adored and called family. In her darkest hours she found the strength to fight and harness the power she carried inside all along, which eventually set her free. Her story will move you to laughter, sorrow, anger, joy and peace but more than anything else, it will inspire you to know and develop your worth and stand firm in it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640821835

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Untrue Ties

Anita Munday

Copyright © 2018 Anita Munday

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64082-182-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64082-183-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

I dedicate this book to my dear friend, Teresa Shepperd.

Teresa, you said to me over twenty years ago, after witnessing and listening to the experiences that I often shared with you regarding my troublesome life, that I should write a book. Although I never thought much of it then, your words stayed with me when I found myself journaling in an attempt to maintain my sanity. You have been a great inspiration to my life, more than you could ever imagine, and I will never forget your kindness and your words of wisdom. I attribute my success, and strength in doing what I do best, to the belief and admiration you had in me even in the midst of all of the chaos that filled my life. You were always there for me with an opened door, a listening ear, a kind heart, and a mind of reason whenever coping didn’t seem to be an option, and I am forever grateful. May God bless you with an overflowing of His grace, love, abundance, and favor for your life, the lives of your children and loved ones.

Anita Munday

Introduction

It’s amazing how far back one can remember about what it was like to grow up. What’s even more amazing is how one tends to retain some of the most insignificant details of events that occurred—things that most adults would think a child would grow up and not have any recollection of whatsoever. My childhood is as vivid to me now as it was when I was living it. The joy, pain, and mental anguish have followed me throughout my adult life and have had a huge effect on the development of who I am today. Here it is forty years later, and I’m just now starting to take control, letting go of the past, relearning all the things that were taught to me in ways that almost destroyed my life. It has been a long road to recovery and, more often than not, has been difficult as well as painful, but I am on my way. I finally know what it’s like to have touched the hand of success.

Part I

Early Childhood: Growing Up

It was thirty-seven years ago. I was three years old, a little girl who adored her mommy and daddy and the enormous protection I felt from having them around. Age three is the first recollection I have of things and events that took place in my childhood. The three of us lived in an Ensley project area, a section of Birmingham, Alabama, where I was born and raised. It was a very nice neighborhood at the time, very well kept and a very safe place to raise children. It later became a very difficult neighborhood filled with drugs, addicts, criminals—you name it.My mom and dad were the happiest people I knew; they were affectionate, there was always laughter in the house, and they were very loving with energy overflowing. I remember Mama feeding me my favorite meals; one in particular, grits with sausage mixed in. I was in heaven, especially when she held me in her lap and fed me. Mama used to have to keep a close eye on me though because I was a very active child who loved to climb steps, the tallest I could find, after just barely turning three. You see, I was still in the terrible twos, as well as a very curious and playful child. Mama was always running after me, trying to catch me before I made it to the steps in the apartment. I would climb with no problem, turn around, laugh, and get ready to come down with the same speed and force used to climb them, laughing all the way. I remember Mama cringing at the thought of me falling before she could get to me. She was also careful not to yell or show anger, fearing that I would become startled and lose my balance. I was not a bad child—not at all, just playful and very happy at that time in my life.

My Grandma Gert (Gertrude), who is my daddy’s mother, used to take care of me whenever my parents worked. I loved staying with her. To me, she was a lot like myself, childlike and playful. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that Grandma Gert had previously been in an asylum where she spent most of her young adult life after being put away by her husband, my grandfather, who claimed she was insane. Later in life, I found that she was not insane. She did show symptoms of schizophrenia, but if anything, being locked away for years upon years with people who were insane, and being taken away from her children, not knowing if she would ever see her children again, was enough to make anyone appear a little odd. I later learned that my grandfather wanted her out of the way. He, in turn, led a single life outside of his marriage to her, and perhaps this was the reason. She never really said anything about her ordeal at that time; of course, I wouldn’t have understood anyway. I was just a small child, but I loved her dearly.

As time passed, Mama and Daddy were making plans to move into a new subdivision being built in the western section of Birmingham. We used to ride through the area and look around as Mama and Daddy would begin to choose the area in which they wanted to have their house built. Finally, it was decided, all the way down to the color of the bricks. I was three years old when we moved. Excited, but still too young to really know what was going on, I, like them, was looking forward to the big day. Grandma Gert would be moving in with us. After all, she was my sitter while my parents worked. It had already been decided by my parents that after Grandma had been released from the mental institution, she would come to live with us. My dad grew up without her and made a promise to her and to himself that he would come for her and get her out of the institution as soon as he was of legal age, and that’s what he did.

I don’t have any recollection about moving day, but the new home and environment were wonderful. It was a three-bedroom house with a garage and finished basement. Mama did most of the decorating at the time and made sure my room was a room of every little girl’s dream. My cousins, on my dad’s side of the family, were left behind when we moved, so my dad would often take me with him when he visited his friends and family so that I could play with them.

One day when with my dad, my cousin and I were playing outside while Daddy was visiting his sister. I stayed outside near the swings with my cousin Junior. Junior (Lamar) was swinging and started to go really high. I was standing too close to the swing as it came forward, and in a split second, it hit me right in the corner of my eye and knocked me to the ground. I screamed. The pain was terrible. My dad immediately rushed out of the apartment to get me and proceeded to put an ice pack on my eye. By the time he’d gotten to me, it was already swollen shut.

When I got home that evening, Mama was furious with him for leaving me outside unsupervised. She even found a way to blame his family for what happened. It seemed this incident became one of the many reasons she used for despising his family. My eye healed with time, but the scar never went away. After that incident, Mama wasn’t too enthused about letting me go with my dad whenever he would visit his family; but I knew even then that he meant no harm by leaving me alone that day, and I still loved him the same and was always eager to go with him.

I played mostly indoors after we moved to the new home and often told Mama that I wanted a sister or brother. Around age five, I used to spend a lot of time with Grandma Gert. Mama and Daddy worked a lot during the daytime, so that left me in the care of Grandma Gert. I was not able to attend kindergarten yet because my birthday fell in December, which put me behind in getting started, so I had to wait until the age of six. Grandma Gert and I spent a lot of time in the backyard where she’d started planting a garden. She would cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner along with washing clothes and keeping me and the house clean for my parents. On days when it was bad weather and storming outside, Grandma Gert would take me and hide in the closet. She was afraid of lightning and thunder and only felt safe in the closet. I was really not afraid of the noises and storm, but her fear often caused me to become fearful.

One day, Mama came home early from work on a stormy day and couldn’t find us. She called and looked and called. Finally, Grandma Gert opened the closet door, and out we came. Mama questioned why we were in the closet, and Grandma Gert told her, but I believe, at that point, Mama was starting to have second thoughts about my grandma taking care of me alone during the day. It was not just the closet incident; there were many more. For instance, Grandma Gert could not stand to hear the sound of the television; the people on the screen bothered her as well. Whenever she would walk past the television, see the people and hear them talking, she actually thought that they were talking to her.

Another incident that disturbed Mama—which also was the incident that prompted Mama to tell Daddy to put her out—was the time Grandma Gert was listening to a gospel singing program on the radio in her room. Grandma started to also sing very loudly and then began screaming at the top of her lungs, crying and praising the name of God. I was terrified and started to cry, thinking that she was hurt. Mama confronted her and told her to turn it off and quiet down because she was scaring me. Grandma Gert apologized and said she was sorry. Just got happy, she said, but by now, Mama had enough. That night, Mama had a talk with my dad. It wasn’t long before Ma-dear (my mother’s mother) got involved, as Mama seemed to always confide in her when there was a situation concerning my dad or a problem she wanted to be supported in 100 percent. Ma-dear, of course, sided with Mama (as she always did), and it was decided that Either your mother goes or I go—said Mama to my dad. Daddy was very angry, hurt, and filled with disbelief. Just a few years ago, they agreed that Grandma Gert would come to live with them after they were married, in order to get her life back on track and for the purpose of being near me, her grandchild.

That night, Daddy left the house in anger, slamming the door and taking off in the car. Ma-dear had a way of talking up bad luck to people that she felt crossed her or mistreated her child. She made the comment, "He will be sorry for acting that way and slamming my door. The Lord will fix him." I felt so bad for my dad and Grandma Gert. I didn’t want her gone. I wasn’t afraid of her like Mama said I was, but what could I do? I was just a child.

Not too long after that incident, Daddy was in a very bad automobile accident while driving his eighteen-wheeler during work. The irony of it was Ma-dear’s insistence that The Lord will fix him. When she learned of the accident, she seemed pleased. To top it all off, he had to deal with having put his mother out so that my mother could be happy.

It often seemed that terrible accidents would plague my dad. Ma-dear would say that he was dirty and low-down and needed to be taught a lesson. The next lesson and most memorable one came several years later when he was involved in a terrible car accident after leaving home in anger from an argument with Mama. Learning about what happened to him was terrifying. He’d broken his leg, banged up his knee, broken his arm, had a gash in his head, and had a split tongue. He’d gone through the windshield of his car. He was in terrible shape and in a lot of pain. Of course, it was like Ma-dear to say See, the Lord will take care of you when you do ugly. He’ll teach you. I hated her for that. She made it sound as if she asked the Lord to make this happen to him, and the Lord heard and answered her prayer. To make matters worse, she often found reasons to throw it in his face while he lay in bed, in tears, screaming from the excruciating pain. My heart went out to him. The most devastating of all for me was going into the kitchen and seeing his bloody shirt in the garbage can. He was like a baby, so helpless in all that pain and with the guilt of having to put his own mother out all because Mama insisted.

By this time, I had a sister. We were close, but also rivals. We were both afraid of Daddy during his torment after the wreck. I didn’t know what it was exactly, but the smell of the cast and the look of it and the blood, bruises, and swelling, along with the split tongue and stitches, just tore me up inside.

After Daddy got well, things returned to normal aside from Grandma Gert being gone. Daddy found her a house to live in from an adjoining television repair shop that my cousin Ernestine had worked in as a repairman. Grandma Gert seemed content living there although it was not nearly as nice as living in Mama and Daddy’s suburban home.

I didn’t really spend much time with any of the relatives on my dad’s side of the family. The only person I was able to really spend a lot of time with was my first cousin Lamar, known as Junior to everyone. He was about one year younger than I was, but we were inseparable as cousins. He would often spend the night and go on trips with us. Mama didn’t care for Daddy’s family and seemed to hate Junior’s mother. I never understood why, as a child, but her attitude toward my dad’s family influenced my attitude. Mama and Daddy used to have heated arguments about his family coming over to the house and visiting the way her family oftentimes would. Mama never wanted any of Daddy’s family to visit and was very adamant about that. I remember a time when Daddy came home with his two brothers, two sisters, and other kids in the family. They all came into the house. Mama was in her bedroom and refused to come out. Daddy went to talk with her, and as always, I seemed to know what was going on. I heard Mama say "Get those niggers out of my house. I do not want them here. Don’t you ever bring them back over here again."

My dad asked why. He said, But they are my family. How come it’s okay for your family to come over whenever they want to, even spend the night, and my family can’t even come and stay five minutes?

She’d say, "Because they are dirty, low-down niggers, and they are not welcome in my house."

Daddy was extremely hurt and proceeded to the living room and told his family that Mama was not feeling well. He suggested taking them home. Daddy was crushed. I was crushed and angry at Mama for hurting him. It didn’t matter what he told them; they knew why they had to leave. She had only yelled it at the top of her lungs.

After that incident, Daddy never again brought any of his family to our home. Whenever he happened to have a member of his family with him and needed to make a stop at the house, he’d leave them in the car while he’d go into the house. Mama didn’t seem to care. After all, she ruled that household and everyone in it. Mama’s attitude toward my daddy’s family was very disturbing to my sister and me, although we spent more time around Mama because Daddy was always working. Mama talked so much about Daddy’s family in a negative context that my sister and I started reacting to Daddy’s family in the same way Mama did. It wasn’t long before we didn’t want to be around them either. I also started to feel a little bit superior to my daddy’s family. After all, Mama said they were low-down, dirty niggers, and I knew I was much better than that. Daddy noticed changes in our attitudes—mine and my sister’s, but he knew also who influenced it. I never really understood how Mama came to accept my cousin Junior (Lamar), but she did; and in my book, he was okay apart from the rest.

Daddy’s family always seemed to be a lower class of people. Their houses were not as nice as ours, and their jobs were not as rewarding as the ones my parents held. They partied a lot, drank heavily, and didn’t seem to portray the moral standards Mama did.

Mama’s family were a totally different group of people. Mama has a sister, fifteen years her junior, who spent about as much time in our household as if she were one of my parents’ children. Her name was Sonya. I called her Faye (her middle name). She was five years older than me and ten years older than my sister, so we were close enough in age to play together—which we often did, although Faye and I were not close at all.

Faye and Mama were the only two children their parents had. Ma-dear (their mother) would paint a picture in people’s minds of being almost godlike. Behind closed doors, she was Satan’s worst nightmare. My grandfather Albert (Ma-dear’s husband, Faye’s father) was a very sweet person. He and Ma-dear were total opposites. They seemed much too wrong for each other. Faye looked like and took genetic features of her father whereas Mama looked nothing like him at all. Ma-dear was a dark-skinned, heavy-set amazon woman, and Grandad, whom I called Da-da, had Caucasian features. He had blue eyes, very silky, straight hair, was slender in stature and, in his days of wellness, led a very busy life. His father was White and part Indian. His mother was Black and very fair-skinned. His sisters had the same features as he did. Da-da used to tell me that my great-grandfather was an Indian chief. I was always eager to hear the stories he had to tell because the differences in our skin color fascinated me in that we were so different and related. I later learned from my dad that Mama was not Da-da’s biological child. Apparently, Ma-dear gave birth out of wedlock at the age of sixteen. It seemed as if it was a big secret in the family because Daddy told me I was not to say a word. And for God’s sake, don’t let your mama know that you know, he said. I guess this would explain the differences in skin color that I found so fascinating. We weren’t biologically related at all. Nevertheless, Da-da never made mention of this fact and always treated Mama as his daughter and always treated me as if I was his grandchild. Ma-dear also had three sisters, Evie, Gladys, and Ola—Ma-dear being the youngest and the meanest. Their personalities were as different as night and day. Each had been married, and each seemed bitter about men except Evie. While her husband was alive, Evie and Roy (her husband) seemed to be very happy together, unlike the others. They were typical sisters though, laughing and getting along one minute, at each other’s throats the next. They also always seemed to be mad in pairs; two of them against the other two—very childlike.

My great-grandmother (Ma-dear’s mom) lived in the same house as Ma-dear, Da-da, and Faye. It was a duplex in which they lived on opposite sides. I called her Grandma. She was a very kind, honest, and loving person even though, at times, she was a real pain as well. Growing up, my sister and I had to spend a lot of time at Ma-dear’s house because my parents worked, and Grandma Gert could no longer care for us due to Mama’s orders earlier. I also attended elementary school, located one block from Ma-dear’s house. I was able to walk to her house after school until Mama got off work and came to take us home. We attended parochial school. Mama didn’t believe in public schools for her kids, so Holy Family it was. I liked going to Catholic school but had a very hard time in the beginning.

I was a scrawny, ostrich-like, very dark-skinned little girl then. I had a huge forehead and was very self-conscious about my appearance. I craved friendship and never really seemed to be accepted, especially by lighter-skinned kids. I went through several best friends, me being the friend. The kids would drop me like a bad habit on any given day depending on how they felt. My best friends were light-skinned with pretty hair and features. I chose to befriend this type because it made me feel better about myself, although they treated me like dirt most of the time. I’d get laughed at, talked about, and called names such as charcoal, which was their favorite because of my dark skin. Of course, I would cry and often thought I was the ugliest child that ever lived. No one really liked me. I was just too dark, awkward, and ugly. I remember early on, during elementary school, having two friends—Vicki and Michelle—who, in my eyes, were very pretty and popular. They both had fair skin and gorgeous long hair. I don’t really know why, but for some reason, they allowed me to hang out with them. One day on the playground during recess, the three of us were walking around and talking. In those days, it was common for best friends to hold hands and walk with their arms around each other. The problem at that time for me was the three of us walking together; Michelle and Vicki, arm in arm, and Vicki holding my hand out to the side at a distance away from her. I remember feeling like I was the most unimportant, unworthy, awkward-looking, ugly girl there was. I was treated as if I was not worth it to be hugged up with and should’ve been honored to just have my hand held by this pretty girl. Many days, I often went home in tears from the teasing, being too black, and the way the people I really wanted to be accepted by would distance themselves from me. I was always reassured by Mama that I was a pretty little chocolate girl, as she would say, but that was from Mama. Still, I knew the kids didn’t feel that way, and I certainly did not see myself that way.

I went through this stage until I reached the sixth grade. I then started to get a little confidence in that if you messed with me, I’d kick your ass. I may not have been thought of as pretty, but at least I started to earn respect. After the teasing finally stopped, I used to try to fit in by saying things that were humorous. The problem was that I was too chicken to say these things aloud so the other kids could hear me. I would mumble my humor instead. Michelle, the fair-skinned, perfectly proportioned girl from the past with long sandy-brown hair would always hear my funny sayings and would use them as her own, repeating them out loud. She got all the laughs, and the humor made her fit in; although, with her looks, she had no reason to feel the need to try and fit in the way I was trying to. She stole my words right out from under me because I was too weak to take a stand and risk the rejection of maybe not being funny or accepted. I hated her for this. I also felt so much envy for her beauty and skin color. She got all the attention just on beauty alone, and poor me had to work at trying to look halfway decent. I was smart though, but even at that, I had a hard time speaking out where I could be heard, so who noticed smart?

I joined this little sorority clique in my class called Club #1. It consisted of me and four other girls, three of them known as the brainy ones of my class, and the other, beautiful and popular—guess who? None other than Michelle. So where did I fit in? Well, let’s just say I was accepted, nothing special, just a member. At least someone accepted me. Finally.

I also tried fitting in by trying out for different sports activities in school. One of the first was volleyball. I was terrible; my coordination sucked, and I was just a total klutz. I did manage to make substitute player, only because the coach felt sorry for me and couldn’t stand to see me cry. No one wanted me to play because they knew that with me, there definitely wouldn’t be any trophies. The coach would call me to the court, and all I would hear were sighs and hisses from my team. I could’ve died right there on the spot, but I would try anyway. They were right. I was terrible. This, of course, didn’t help my popularity in the least.

I also tried my hand at cheerleading. That too was a disaster. My voice was always deeper than most of the girls my age, and the cheerleading squad all had very high-pitched voices, so my voice was a total ear sore, especially when chanting the cheers along with the little petite-sounding girls with the voices of angels. So I did not make the cheerleading team. Not only did I not have the voice for it, I also didn’t have the body, nor could I perform the acrobatics involved. So the only thing left was the pep squad. After all, I only had to sit in the stands and cheer the team on. So along with the noise of the other screaming fans, my voice was not an ear sore because no one could hear me anyway, so that worked out well—at least the cheerleaders thought so. As for me, I felt like one little mess of rejection at whatever I pursued.

Finally, I tried out for track and field. To my surprise, that was something I was good at. I could run like a gazelle, so there was a little hope for me after all. Track was fun, but I later had to give it up because of asthma, which I’d suffered with since birth. Asthma caused me to have to sit by the wayside on a lot of activities. As a small child, I had been hospitalized because it had gotten so bad. I would have to sleep with a vaporizer. Growing up, I had all types of allergies from dust, pollen, and chocolate to dog hair, fish, and butter.

It seemed that the older I got, the more accepted I became as well. My appearance took on many different forms, which caused me to be looked at in a whole new and different light. One of the biggest changes that I noticed was that I was starting to experience orgasms just by having an erotic thought. That was fascinating to me and didn’t bother me at all. I remember having this overwhelming feeling in my clitoral area, and it was a surge that was out of this world. I first discovered this feeling before I actually became a teenager. I remember being at home, and my parents, at that time, were hugged up on the sofa. This was the first time I had ever seen them show affection, and all of a sudden, this feeling came over me that I had never felt before in my life, and I liked it. I remember it lasting about ten seconds, and then it was gone. I remember my parents asking me, What’s wrong with you? I guess I had a strange look on my face. I did not feel this sensation again until one day in class. I was in the fourth grade, actually, the first time it occurred; but at that time, I didn’t know what the feeling was and didn’t dare tell anyone what I had experienced. I just remember that it was the same feeling I had before. I discovered that I was able to obtain this feeling just by crossing my legs really tight. I was embarrassed by it, but it felt really good, and I wanted to keep having it.

It wasn’t until I was in the sixth grade that I became aware of what was actually going on. This was also the time I started developing breasts. I was very self-conscious about developing because the boys in the class would snicker at the nipples protruding through my blouse, and it made me feel dirty. I went home one day and told Mama that I wanted to start wearing a training bra. She seemed to think it was a funny situation, but she could see that it really bothered me because I would walk around with my arms folded over my chest so that no one would notice them. One of my teachers had also mentioned to her that I behave this way at school. I could not stand for my bare breasts to touch my clothing. It made me feel dirty, and I also felt naked and exposed. Mama took her time about taking me to be fitted for a training bra. It wasn’t a big deal to her, but to me, it was devastating. She often poked me, in fun and once called my dad’s attention to see that they were developing. She then poked them in front of him. I was so embarrassed and felt so humiliated. That was the dirtiest I’d ever felt about them at that point. My dad saw how much it upset me and even told Mama not to do that to me, but she thought it was hilarious.

Finally, I was taken to be fitted for a bra. It was the most humiliating experience next to Mama calling Daddy to see her poke me to show they were developing. Mama was aggravated with me and fussing because I wouldn’t let anyone touch me anywhere near my chest area while being fitted. I remember a couple of young boys passing by that department at the same time I was being fitted. They were looking. I was so embarrassed and did not want them to see me being fitted even though I was fully clothed. Mama was angry with me and speaking loudly because I would not be still. Her tone only made matters worse as I became even more self-conscious of the boys passing by, looking at me. Although my bust size was very small and really had not developed enough to truly warrant the feelings I was suffering because of them, I was still mortified that they were growing on me.

After finally getting the training bra, I found myself only feeling protected and secure with it on. Therefore, I wore the bra at all times—to bed as well, never taking it off unless I took a bath or had to wash the bra. But even then, I made sure to have another one on. Until the age of thirty-three, I slept in a bra and felt naked and dirty without it. I never really knew just what triggered the initial feelings of uncleanliness about my breasts and my body development. I do know, however, that feeling humiliated at times because of my development seemed to have added to my discomfort, escalating the feelings that were already there.

Everything seemed to strike around the same time with me for some reason. Not only did I start having to wear a bra, I started having my menstrual cycle as well, as if I didn’t have enough problems already. I was somewhat prepared for this event even though I didn’t fully understand what was happening to me. This made me feel dirty also, but not as much as the development of my breasts. I was highly embarrassed, especially when I needed feminine hygiene products, and Mama, one night, told me to ask my dad to go to the store and buy them for me. She would do things like that as if it was fun to watch me squirm with embarrassment. I don’t think she had any idea how dirty she made me feel. I used to get so furious with her for making me feel as though I was on display. My dad, on the other hand, seemed to understand how embarrassing this was for me and would not laugh at me. He would even try and tell Mama to not treat me that way, but to her, it was absolutely hilarious. There were many days I wished her dead because of how she would make fun of me.

Mama’s character was very strange in those days, and often, I never knew what was coming next. One weekend morning while sleeping soundly, Mama stormed into my bedroom in a rage, waking me up by screaming to me that she’d dreamed that I said I wanted to screw. She began to tell me the details of her dream and even told me of a boy named John (who I thought was cute and had a crush on at that time) as the one in the dream that I wanted to screw. She was yelling, cursing, and extremely angry with me and told me that men are no good, that they always want something from women, and that they cannot be trusted, and if they are nice to you, they always expect something in return. She continued by telling me to keep your pocketbook closed (meaning my legs) and that she’d better not ever catch me trying to do anything like that with anybody or she would beat the ever-living-daylights out of me. She said that sex was nasty and that I should not be thinking about having sex at all, especially at this age. She then said, But if you ever feel like you just got to have it, then you’d better come to me first, and we can go together to the doctor and get you some birth control pills. She then yelled in anger, Do you understand me? I responded, Yes. She then said, "All right,