Angel Finally Found his Wings: A True Story of Finding Trust, Hope, Faith, and the Power of Love

By Ronald Hunter

Angel Finally Found His Wings is an intimate and candid memoir about a child surviving life on the streets as a prostitute. Twelve-year-old "Angel" shares a room at the YMCA in New York City with thirty-four-year-old Charlie, the pimp who is blackmailing him.

Angel's mom is battling schizophrenia while Charlie, the neighborhood Boy Scout leader, grooms him away from his impoverished family, threatening to return his mother to a mental institution if Angel doesn't turn tricks on 42nd Street, the sex trade epicenter.

Taking place between 1972 and 1977 on the war-torn, crime-infested streets of New York, Angel, whose real name is Ron, maintains his normal-kid status to his family, classmates, and football buddies in Brooklyn while surviving life-threatening situations hustling.

Told in the dual consciousness of Ron as both a growing teenage boy and our first-person narrator looking back at his life, Angel Finally Found His Wings is emotionally wrenching and disarmingly direct.

We live life on the razor's edge with Angel who, unlike most street kids, is honest and kind with his clients while rooting for Ron to escape Charlie's control, protect his mother, and recapture his life. Ron Hunter was chosen to take part in the 2010 Oprah episode "200 Men" that dealt with male childhood sexual abuse. This story unpacks the label "victim" while reframing a boy's struggle with his sexual identity and deconstructing the harrowing and gritty story behind extreme trauma.

Angel Finally Found His Wings is a story of resiliency and finding self-love; it's a journey of faith paving the way for perseverance. Ron always follows his heart and, in doing so, claims ownership over his past and redefines himself on terms self-created.

Ron Hunter is a lover of life, a survivor of sexual abuse, and a person of profound faith in the miraculous. He is a former US Army sergeant and a career flight attendant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887930268

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Angel Finally Found his Wings

A True Story of Finding Trust, Hope, Faith, and the Power of Love

Ronald Hunter

Copyright © 2023 Ronald Hunter

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

The story I’m sharing is from my best recollection. Some of the dialogue has been recreated from my memory, and in other instances, I relate the essence of conversations rather than verbatim quotes. I’ve made every attempt to verify accounts that others witnessed and retrieved from documents, records, and medical transcripts. I interviewed numerous people, family members, and institutions familiar with certain aspects of my story. In some cases, I changed the names and places to protect survivors and family members of those involved with my story.

ISBN 979-8-88793-010-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-337-5 (hc)

ISBN 979-8-88793-026-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

About the Author

To my spouse, Scott, because of his patience, commitment, perseverance, compassion, and unwavering love for me and my story that this book was written.

Angel finally got his wings!

Foreword

Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.

—Victor Frankl

At some point, most of us have heard other people declare, There are no victims, only volunteers. I would counsel them, while speaking in platitudes and absolutes, to infuse a bit more compassion and less judgment in their comments. We only need to look at the world in which we live to see as unforgivable acts of brutality, terrorism, murder, physical or sexual abuse, embezzlement, fraud, infidelity—and the list could go on. Who in their right mind would deny that being a victim of such things doesn't warrant anger and resentment toward the perpetrators? Being subjected to such suffering is a tangible wound to the one who is a victim. With awareness, we can deal with this person with compassion. And here is where the slope can get very slippery: anyone can be a victim, but remaining a victim by clinging to the past and dragging it along behind us, day after day, year after year, is a choice we make. This is the power to be found in Ron Hunter's story. Freedom from one's own history (his-story)…freedom to choose one's own attitude, to choose one's own way.

Have you ever been in a situation when you felt as if your luck had run out and things seemed more than hopeless and beyond your control? I have. There are few things worse than feeling helpless, hopeless, out of options, and out of luck. If you have ever been there, you may resonate with Angel Finally Found His Wings. It is a book about hope, courage, and overcoming. This is a book about the power of redemption and transcendence, the ability, as Victor Frankl put it, to choose one's own way irrespective of the cards dealt to us at a young age. In short, this is a book about coming out on the other end of the gauntlet whole, a better, happier, healthier person.

You may find this book gritty and uncomfortable to read. I know I did, and that is because of the amazing transparency of Ron Hunter as he tells his story. This is a true story of one man's ability to rise above defining himself by his experience. Ron's is a story about choosing not to remain a victim. He achieved this ability by being a conscious witness to his own soul, mind, conscience, and heart—and then mindfully adjusting the altitude of his attitude daily. The point being, while each of our circumstances may differ, if he could find a way through a maze of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse—landing on wholeness and creating a life worth living—so, too, can you and me. That would make any of us the luckiest boy or girl in the world.

I know very few people who have not, in their life, experienced some degree of both physical and emotional pain brought on by other people; they are legitimate victims of circumstances beyond their control. The fact is, they deserve to be set free from the burden of the thoughts, resentments, and memories that haunt them even in their dreams—and yet, so many never transcend that history. I know because I have had the firsthand experience of being taken advantage of at an early age. Losing my innocence at eight years of age to a summer camp counselor (a.k.a., predator), I understand the trauma of disempowerment—of being a victim at the hands of someone whom I trusted. Without awareness, many, such as me, view our victimhood as a curse and spend the years of our lives building a case around our misfortune—a case that supports and keeps alive our tale of abuse and misfortune. That is the challenge with living and reliving, telling and retelling our misfortune (to ourselves or others). Irrespective of how true or sad it is, in time, it takes on a life of its own and defines us; but it does not have to be that way. Too often, it's how we end up seeing ourselves, marked as a victim for life, until we awaken to the awareness that there is another healthy way out. There is a way to rise above the condition or circumstances that have us feeling trapped and out of control of our own destiny. If you read this book in its entirety, Ron will show you the way.

The operative words you may find arising in your heart, soul, and mind as you read Ron's true story could be shock, compassion, courage, hope, persistence, perseverance, love, faith, transcendence, freedom, and forgiveness. When we perceive our past negative experiences through the prism of resentment, we remain a victim; it keeps us stuck in a prison with invisible bars. When we drag the pains from the past into the present moment, they continue to burble, boil, and brew in the emotional toxic stew that contaminates our life.

Ron Hunter found the key to exit his prison cell of cyclic abuse to set himself free once and for all; it was a choice to transcend the victim status which held him captive—and it was a choice he had to make again and again, every day. To accomplish this, he had to see himself through fresh eyes, and he did. That is what makes this a story of redemption. It is also what makes him the luckiest boy in the world.

I have known Ron for a good number of years, and I can say, with all honesty, that he is one of the kindest, most genuine, selfless human beings I have ever known. The takeaway: Ron came through his ordeal whole—and so can you. Read this book with compassion—for him and yourself. Who knows? You too may say you are the luckiest boy or girl in the world!

Peace and blessings,

Dr. Dennis Merritt Jones, award-winning and best-selling author of The Art of Uncertainty: How to Live in the Mystery of Life and Love It, Your ReDefining Moments: Becoming Who You Were Born to Be, and other inspirational books in www.DennisMerrittJones.com.

Introduction

When I was chosen to take part in the 2010 groundbreaking episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show entitled 200 Men, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of the deep connection I experienced with the other guests, the producers, the audience, and of course, Oprah. The show's intent was to deepen the dialogue and lift the stigma associated with male sexual abuse. Although my story wasn't the one highlighted on the show, the experience of publicly sharing my history of childhood sexual abuse was immensely healing for me. It opened a door—a way out of the shame I'd carried around for over forty years.

When the show aired, I felt proud to be a part of it. I thought that participating would help me put my past behind me. I recall thinking, I said it on national television! Now I am done! In time though, something else began rattling around inside me. The show rightfully focused on our victimization. One in six boys is sexually abused every day in the United States. The show also helped raise greater awareness of this devastating issue—an awareness that was greatly needed and has grown ever since. But here's what I couldn't shake: I don't consider myself a product of my sexual abuse. I am more than the sum of my traumatic experiences. I am not what happened to me. It's not those bad things that didn't happen. It's rather that I have never let them define me. I looked at every man on that show and instinctively knew each has a bigger story. As a result, I knew I had to tell my story too.

The reason for this book is embedded in my larger history: I am alive because I chose to align myself with those who helped me along the way, not the ones who hurt me. I chose to identify with the ones that lifted me up and guided me forward. I chose to forgive. I chose to love and be loved. Love is what transformed my entire life.

While I've experienced profound tragedy, it is what I have done with those experiences that makes the difference in who I am, a person of unwavering faith and trust in the goodness of humankind. You don't always have a choice in what happens to you, but you always have a choice in how you respond to what happens. I don't know how I developed this philosophy because no one ever told me this outright, but I never gave up. This is not to say that I never lost hope at times—because I did. Even at my lowest point, that fire inside me never went out. It kept me striving for things to be different than the hell I was living.

Perhaps it is only by the grace of God that I'm alive, or maybe it's by the God in the people who helped me that I survived. Either way, there is God inside me, and I believe it's the piece inside all of us that remains intact no matter how much breakage we endure. It's our job to place our attention there to forgive ourselves and love ourselves enough to believe healing is possible. Recovery is possible. Part of being able to do this is to remember—to re-member as in to put the pieces back together for myself.

Again, there was no choice in what happened to me, but there is always a choice in how I see my story and how I tell it. When you own your story, it ceases to have ownership over you. I am here to remind you to remember—to put the pieces together for yourself now the way you couldn't as a child.

Luck is defined as success or failure brought by chance rather than through one's own actions. But as the saying goes, luck is what you make it. Maybe luck is what you do with the cards you're dealt. Maybe I'm alive because I refused to die. Maybe love is a verb, a force greater than the sum of our fears. But without a doubt, finding my wings saved my life.

Chapter 1

I Am Angel

Ronnie, age thirteen

No one knows where I am. And everyone knows where I am. Charlie made sure of that. He didn't steal me as much as he slid me out from under everyone's noses.

It's February 1973. I'm thirteen years old. Most people know what they're looking for when they come to 42nd Street. Peep shows, X-rated movies, massage parlors, you name it, New York City's got it, and this area known as Times Square is the epicenter. I didn't know about any of it until Charlie showed it all to me a few months ago. Before that, I'd never even been to Manhattan, even though I grew up across the bridge in Brooklyn. I was just a kid from the projects.

No other boy on the street looks like me. My fingernails are manicured with clear polish. My hair is combed with a side part and hair sprayed. Charlie believes my hairstyle makes me appear more White than Hispanic. He has me blow-dry it straight to take out all the natural curl and pull my bangs down across my forehead, so I look like Donny Osmond.

Every morning is the same. Get up! Time to go! Charlie slaps me upside my head or hits my shoulder to wake me. The bed at the YMCA is a foldout couch; the mattress springs press against my bony ribs. Charlie is thin and wiry in his early forties, but no one knows how old he really is; that stays locked up. But he's a powerhouse, specializing in the sucker punch. Time to make the money. Get out there.

I peek out from under my pillow to watch him carefully lay a pair of jeans and a collared sports shirt on the back of the dingy desk chair. The jeans are pressed into a sharp crease that runs the length of the leg. Charlie picks out my clothes each day. When I'm dressed, I need to get his approval to be sure that I look up to his standards. He says, You can't make the good money lookin' shabby and dirty like them other kids.

My appearance strikes a fine balance between blending in and standing out. I'm a good-looking kid; some say I could even be one of those models in Macy's catalog. I have straight white teeth, and my skin is the color of a café con leche, heavy on the milk. I'm always clean, no matter what. My mom taught me and all my siblings how to scrub ourselves red with Ivory soap and hot water. She wouldn't have it any other way.

Even though this life is far away from the one I had with my family, I always remember I'm her son. Sometimes I miss her so much that my chest aches, like the bones of my rib cage threaten to collapse around my heart. Lodged between my fear of being beaten by Charlie and my fear that I will let my mother down, I rise each day, say my prayers, and find the strength to get back out on the street.

In cold weather, I wear a hooded sweatshirt underneath a stiff black leather jacket and sneakers. When the weather warms or even when spring still has a bite to it, I wear shorts, sneakers, and a nice dress shirt. Every night, I clean the white canvas uppers of my Chuck Taylor's with a toothbrush, even the soles, so they're snow-white.

Charlie's a shape-shifter. He's whatever he needs to be from one minute to the next. One day, he's kicking the shit out of me for not bringing in enough money. The next day, he's as suave as they come, parading me around in new clothes to my mom, slipping money under the saltshaker, gestures meant to imply that he's watching out for her as much as he is for me.

My route runs along 42nd Street between 8th Avenue and Broadway, about two football fields in length and breadth. Angel is how they know me, a name that came to me one day when I felt I needed protection from this life. Every morning when I pray, I remind myself that I am an angel and that I am not alone. Maybe I took that name from the Angel Guardian Home, the first place I landed when the social worker stopped by my first-grade classroom and promptly removed me from the life I knew. The plump nun with the wire glasses gave me a glass of milk and my first pair of pajamas. It was the first time I'd ever been away from home, and I peed the bed that night and woke up cold, wet, and terrified. Peeing the bed had always been the sign of something bad about to happen. Instead, the old nun was kind and told me it was nothing, not to worry. The next day, I was placed in foster care.

The rest was a landslide into my life now.

Chapter 2

How It All Started

Most Sundays, Charlie makes sure we visit my mother. It's his insurance policy. He needs to make sure he can keep me because without me, he has nothing.

When they let my mother out of the psychiatric hospital last time, the papers said she was well enough to take care of me and my older brother Tommy. We're four years apart and were best friends until we were separated and sent in different directions by social services. Mom's auditory hallucinations had stopped and stayed away as long as she took her medication. She'd fought for us and won. It had been five long years since we were finally released from the Abbott House Orphanage where we were living while she was being treated.

When she was released, my mom moved from the projects to an apartment on Central Avenue in Bushwick with my older sister Margie. As the youngest of twenty-two children, most all of my older sisters and brothers are married, out working, and have lives of their own. They all know Charlie's become my self-appointed guardian. Most of them believe he's taking good care of me. Charlie was there when no one else was, and they're grateful to him. He put me through Boy Scouts and football and made sure I always had clothes, food, and shelter. I knew early on that looking after me was too much for my mom. I wish I could take better care of her. Margie moved away and left my mom the apartment, and I often wonder who looks after her. But I'm just a kid, and while I was there, I did what I could. And like Charlie says, You gotta help out where you can.

I often replay the last day I took my mother on the long bus ride to the hospital. Or maybe the memory of the last day replays me. It's on a loop in the place where I store regret and right next to the deep well of sadness; I can't let anyone see. I can barely spy the bottom, so I try to forget it's there.

I knew the bus and subway route to Kings County Hospital by heart by the time I was six years old. I was the only one in our family who could accompany my mom to her appointments on the other end of Brooklyn. It took the entire day to get her there and back because my mother was terrified of crossing the street. I'd run back and forth from one side to the other while she waited anxiously on the corner, shaking her head no. She'd refuse to cross even when there wasn't a car in sight.

Sitting in the pasty green waiting room of the psych wing that day, we barely spoke. My mother sat next to me, but I knew she was only partly there. I kept telling myself, Everything is going to be okay. Because I was her translator, they let me in with her for the appointment. The first thing I did was ask the doctor, a silver-haired White man, You won't take her from me, right?

He assured me that he would not. He lied. He drove me home himself; he felt so bad. I didn't let myself cry in the car or even in bed that night. Tommy always said crying is weak, and we need to be strong. I didn't see my mother for a very long time.

Now that she's been released from the hospital, I need to do everything I can to make sure she stays out. I am grateful to have her back in my life. I'd do anything to protect her from that hospital. That's why I do what Charlie says to do, keep my nose clean and the money flowing.

On any given Sunday, Charlie and I walk the stairs of the narrow hallway up to the top floor. When my mom opens the door, I am flooded with the smell of rice and beans pouring out of the apartment, welcoming me like a warm spring day. She opens her arms to me, and I wrap myself around her like I've done all my life and breathe her in.

Ay, hijo mio, mi hijo, mi hijo, she repeats it like a mantra that plays in rhythm to my breath, Mi bebé Rei (my baby Rei). I can feel my heart beating into my stomach. My mom, she is round and doughy, and there is no better place in the world than in her embrace. Her smell is home for me, and I breathe deep between her breasts: Agua de Florida and talcum with a hint of Dove soap. In my mind's eye, I see the bird carved on the bar of soap in the tub, slowly fading with each shower. Having her arms around me and her smell in my nose makes my guts hurt like someone threw the dodgeball at me too fast.

Without warning, Ma turns away from me into the kitchen and leaves me standing there, like a switch went off somewhere inside her. Charlie shoves me when she's not looking, and I wake up to the fact that she's here and in front of me and not here at all. She belongs to the world inside her head, the one that shut all of us out a long time ago.

Como estas, hijo mio? she asks me as she twists on the top of the coffee-stained colador and lights the stove to make café con leche, a ritual I've watched her do all my life. As the gas jet ticks to flame, I contemplate what to say and how to answer her question, how am I? I watch her square, round body move in her floral house dress, her bata. She shuffles to find a spoon in the drawer to stir the milk in the saucepan to keep it from scalding. The sizzle of the sweet caramel steam billows up and disappears at her breasts that hang heavy below the pink horizontal piping of the bata.

Me and Charlie sit at the Formica table. His eyes