God's Gift to You Book I

By Jonnie Belinda Hopkins

About the Book
This is a true story about young adults living in underdeveloped, low-socioeconomic neighborhoods and the repercussions of continuing a cycle of abuse and poverty when children are brought into the world.
Jonnie Belinda Hopkins was born and raised in an environment that resulted in severe abuse and trauma. From physical, sexual, mental, and emotional abuse to facing a pregnancy as a young adult with no education, finances, or family support, she, like countless others in similar circumstances, was destined to become another casualty of her environment. But she fought the odds and took the steps to break the cycle.
While it is a painful story to tell, it is ultimately her story of redemption and how she was able to break the generational curse and create a better life for her and her child.
Jonnie Belinda’s story will be a source of inspiration for many. She hopes to use her voice to give hope to the hopeless, bring light to the darkness, and inspire others to make lasting changes in their lives.

About the Author
Jonnie Belinda Hopkins was born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts, moving from Jamaica Plain Projects at the age of 6, then moving to Seaver Street where she became a ward of the state. Despite not graduating from high school, she earned her GED. After the birth of her first child, she went on to earn an Associate's Degree from Roxbury Community College and a certificate for medical assisting from Branford Hall Career Institute. Additional schooling in medical billing and coding allowed her to work for major hospitals, including Boston’s Children Hospital, Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, and Brigham and Women’s.
Despite success in her career, Jonnie Belinda was in search of a more meaningful direction in her life, which led her to work as a Direct Support Professional providing care to young adults with disabilities.
She was able to reunite with her biological siblings and begin the process of healing from childhood abuse. Today, she enjoys a close relationship with her parents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887295312

Book preview

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Jonnie Belinda Hopkins

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN: 979-8-88729-031-7

eISBN: 979-8-88729-531-2

 DEDICATION

I would like to dedicate this book to the children whose life touched mine, children who have lost their lives.

My sister, April, the love of my life, who did not deserve the hand she was dealt

April 23, 1968 – December 23, 2003

Fly with the angels, my sister

The little boy, John, who died before his life began, I knew I would never forget you. Rest in peace, angel.

Special shout out to:

Nicole (a.k.a. Daisy)

RIP, my love

You were a flower to me whom I called Daisy

TY

I would not have told my story without mentioning you, my love.

Rest in heaven, my sister in Christ.

INTRODUCTION

I was born in Boston, Massachusetts, at Boston City Hospital in 1969 to parents who, at the time, were very sick. They suffered from many things: lack of education, poverty, mental disabilities, and the disease of addiction.

Understand this is not to say that I don’t love and respect my parents.

This book is not to degrade them but to be used for teaching purposes.

So, please hold back the critics until you have read all three volumes.

Thank you in advance.

My mother, a black woman who was taken from her mother at a young age (I believe seven), never to see or hear from her mother again. She was an only child. She was placed in the care of the State, who put her in a foster home. She started having children by the age of eighteen.

My father was a young man who had his first child with my mother at the age of twenty. He suffered many things, as well. He was raised by his mother and had several brothers and sisters.

This is a story about how young adults start to have children before they are ready mentally, physically, and every way of importance and how it affects the lives of those children.

My hopes in writing this book is to tell those children’s story. To be their voice.

This book is very intense. My intentions are to reach many who may be able to identify, help many to understand, and be a tool for research and finding ways to be of service to help children that come from communities like mine.

7Chapter 1

My Earliest Memories

In my introduction, I mentioned that I was born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1969 to parents who, at the time, were very young, undereducated, and lacked the willingness to learn. When you first meet them to the eye, they looked like your average man and woman. When you talk to them briefly, as many people do in a casual meet and greet conversation, which is hardly enough time to really get to know someone, they might have even sounded like your average man and woman. But they were not.

My name is JonnieBelinda Hopkins. I am the second child of four. My mother had two girls and two boys. I will use my name because it does not bother me and this is my story. I will use my sister’s name because she is no longer with us and it can do no harm. My parents’ names and my brothers’ names I will do my best not to use to protect them. The other character names some will stay the same because I don’t care and this is not about them. Some character names I also will do my best not to use as I do not want to hurt them, either. Like I said, this is not about other people, this is about me as it is my story.

The four children involved are my sister April, who is one year older than me; me; my first brother, who is separated from me by two years; and my younger brother, who is one year under my first brother. My mother told me she had April first and April needed someone to play with, so she had me. She had her first son who needed someone to play with, so she had her second son.

There are three men involved. My sister and I share the same father; however, my father expressed concern that my sister may not have been his. I don’t know if there is any truth to that and I never believed otherwise. To me, my sister looks more like him than I do. Sure, I have his complexion, eyes, and hair length and texture, but my sister was built like him. I am sure there was more physical attributes but this was all that I could come up with at that time and that was good enough for me. My first brother was born by a second man involved with my mother, and the second brother was born by the third man involved with my mother.

Due to the extreme circumstances of my childhood and the intensity of it, sometimes my memory lapses. As I tell my story, I may get the chronological order of things mixed up. Nevertheless, the events that occurred will be told to the best of my ability as I can remember.

The story goes:

My earliest memory is that one day I woke up or came to and there was my first brother. I don’t remember my mother dating his father, my mother’s pregnancy with him, or anything about his birth. I just remember one day sitting in my mother’s living room on the floor next to him, watching T.V. The room was dark. The only light was from that of the T.V. we were in front of. It was late evening, and I remember thinking, who is this little boy sitting next to me and where did he come from? I felt comfortable sitting next to him as there was a sense of familiarity to him. That’s all I know.

Later there is a memory of Mother having a man in the house. I was familiar with this man, although I did not know who he was. This was the only man at this point in my life that I could remember being in my mother’s house and around my family. He would cook dinner. It didn’t seem odd or strange that he was there.

I remember my mother entertaining company in the apartment that we lived in at the time. We lived in the Jamaica Plain projects. The people that would come were family members of my mother’s boyfriend. His brother and his sister. They would visit in the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table. They would listen to music and play cards. There would be laughter. The children were not allowed to be in the same room as the adults. We would sit in front of the television, watching cartoons. At that time, I was never aware of my sister’s whereabouts. In fact, I have no memory of her at all. I know she was there somewhere. I just don’t remember her. At this time, all I remembered was my first brother who was sitting with me. My mother’s company was always there in the evening time. The house would be dark. The only light would be the light of the T.V. and the kitchen light where she and her friends were. It would always be close to the time the children had to go to bed.

I remember my mother’s pregnancy with my second brother. I remember her wearing a brown tight fitted long sleeve turtle neck body suit that had black patterns on the sleeves. It reminded me of possibly a raccoon due to the brown body and black patterns. Not that I ever remember seeing a raccoon but in my young mind that is what I thought of. It showed off her baby bump. I thought it was cute and that my mother was beautiful. I felt happiness in my spirit. I don’t know why. I had to be about four or five years old. I remember my mother going into the hospital to have her baby. I don’t quite remember the events that took place. I just remember her not being in the home and being told she was having her baby. I remember sitting at the kitchen table eating spaghetti. I was alone. I don’t remember who cared for me during that time. I have not yet to remember ever seeing my sister. I am not saying she wasn’t there. I just am not aware of her presence. I don’t remember seeing any adults in the house at that time. I am not saying no one was there I just do not remember seeing them. I do remember that while I was sitting at the kitchen table eating my spaghetti, I looked over at the kitchen stove and there were pots on the stove. Someone had to have cooked it. I was alone a lot but I never really felt alone. I felt whole, happy on the inside, peaceful.

As days passed, Mother returned home with her new baby. Eventually, we would go visit my mother’s boyfriend’s family at their houses to spend the day. We went outside and played in those neighborhoods with the neighborhood’s children. We started becoming familiar with those neighborhoods and events. There was a family in that neighborhood that lived a couple houses down that we would go to and buy twenty-five-cent frozen treats that came in Styrofoam cups. Life was good.

Eventually, these days passed. I now find myself spending more days in Mother’s apartment. A time would come that we were introduced to my mother’s boyfriend’s other children. He had three boys by another woman who would come often. There was a big one much older than me, a middle one who was light skinned like me and a smile that sparkled, and a little one also light skinned like me and the same age as me. The oldest boy looked like his father, tall, brown skinned, facial hair, and quiet. The middle boy I found delightful, playful, and funny. The young one I wasn’t too sure how I felt about him.

At first, they would come to visit. Eventually, they would stay.

I remember one day we were at the beach. It was a summer day. It was sunny out and warm. It was my first memory of being at a place like that. There was a lot of water and sand. There were other children there playing. I remember one specific little boy and girl. I remember them because they made me feel funny. They stared at me as if I were standing there naked. I was wearing little boy white loose fitting underwear and my top was exposed. I was not wearing a shirt, t-shirt, something. I stood there wondering why they were looking at me like that. It felt strange. My mind was racing trying to figure it out. I didn’t know if it was because I was a light-skinned black girl, wearing boy’s underwear, or because I had no top on. I never did figure it out.

As time went on, Mother and her boyfriend began to fight a lot. They would yell, scream, and get physical. I began to grow fear. Something I was unfamiliar with but now it has become a part of me. I started to grow scared and dislike for my mother’s boyfriend. He would try to play with me, he would pick me up in his arms, throw me high up into the air and catch me as I came down. He would do this three to four times in a row. Once he threw me up so high I actually felt my back touch the ceiling. I thought he might miss and not catch me and I would hit the floor and from way up there looking down it would be a long fall and it would hurt. I imagine he took notice to the faces I was making showing my dislike of this action so he would put me down on the ground and mark me and make faces at me. I didn’t like it. Whenever he would leave my bedroom, I was so relieved. But I was also so freaked out that I had to get on my bed, back up all the way so that I could feel my back touching the wall, curl my legs up on the bed underneath me, and use my arms to embrace my knees close to me. It was the only place I felt safe at that time.

Another time, it was morning. I had just woken up, jumped out of bed, and headed down the long hallway in my mother’s apartment heading towards the living room. Just as I reached the end of the hallway and reached the threshold to enter the living room, I stopped in my tracks because I noticed it was him lying on the couch. I didn’t want to go in there with him. I froze. I couldn’t move because I wasn’t expecting him to be there but there he was. He noticed me standing there watching him. He calls me over to him. I don’t want to go but we were taught to do as the adults tell you to do. I walked over to him as he sat up on the couch and wrapped his arms around me. I melted away into myself. My whole body tightened up. He noticed and let me go. I quickly ran through the living room toward the hallway headed back to my room. As I reached the threshold, I could hear him pick something up off of my mother’s coffee table and throw it. I felt it hit me in my back. I never looked back at him but did look down to the ground as the item fell to see what it was. I kept running. I ran to my bedroom and climbed up on my bed and scooted myself all the way against the wall so that I could feel the wall touching my back. I scooted my legs up on the bed so that I could tuck them underneath me, wrapped my arms around my knees to pull them in close to my chest. I don’t dare move. Where is my mother?

The thing about his middle son is I was always alone. As I stated earlier, as of now, I have no memory of my sister or younger brother. I am not saying they weren’t there. I just have no memory of ever seeing them or interacting with them at this time. I am about five or six years old. The middle child paid attention to me. He was always playing with me, laughing with me, and giving me piggy back rides. I had grown fond of him. It is the only time I can remember laughing, giggling, and just having fun. He made me feel safe whenever he was around. I never wanted to be without him. I needed to be in his presence at all times. One day he had a friend visit. He was about to leave with his friend. I asked him could I go. He told me no. Usually he would let me tag along but this day he said I couldn’t come. I was devastated. I really wanted to go. I did not want to be left in that house without him.

At that time in Jamaica Plain projects, there was a construction site that was blocked off by a tall wire fence that had signs on them that stated do not enter in yellow, and red and white that encased an area of construction dirt that were in piles high up from the ground in rows. Most of them connected and were of different sizes and shapes. There were open areas on the ground used as walking paths so that you could walk through between the piles of dirt. Most kids preferred to climb the mountains of dirt to reach the top and walk across them. Kids are adventurous and what would be the fun of entering that area just to walk through them on the ground. Once on top you could see everything and even look down to the ground to see the opened paths. Anyway, the middle boy and his friend is about to leave. I run to the kitchen window to see which way they were going so that I could follow behind him just to be close. I watch them walk in the direction of the construction site and knew where they were going. I waited for them to gain some distance so that I wouldn’t get caught following them. I run out of my mother’s apartment, and I stay far back enough that they can’t see me but close enough so that I wouldn’t lose them. I watch them climb the tall fence, jump to the ground, reach the dirt piles of mountains and start to climb them. Once they reached the top and started their journey, I waited for them to gain some distance. Once they did I ran to the fence, climbed, jumped, headed to the first pile of dirt, and started climbing. I reached the top and could see them in the distance. I kept enough distance between them but stayed close enough so that I wouldn’t lose them. I don’t know how or when or what happened, I just remember sliding down the mountain. When I woke up I was sitting in a school’s gymnasium. There were markings on the light brown shiny wood floors of white that looked like a basketball court and had a basketball hoop on both ends of the court across from each other. I had not yet started school and had never been in a place like this before. I was there alone. How did I get here? I was sitting in what appeared to be a child’s highchair and it had a tray in front of me attached to it. On that tray was a donut and an apple juice. I looked down and could see my knees all scratched up and bleeding. I was hungry and thirsty so I picked up my donut, took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and then sipped on my apple juice. An older man walked in. He didn’t introduce himself or say much. All he said was that my mother was on her way. I didn’t ask any questions. I just sat there enjoying my donut and apple juice. Unfortunately, that is all I remember from that day. I can’t remember my mother coming or taking me home. I don’t remember the rest of that day.

Before this time, I don’t have any memory of school. My earliest memory of school is that I struggled with learning. I remember my mother trying to teach me how to tell my right shoe from my left. This was a difficult process for me. My mother had an either red or orange leather or pleather big bean bag sitting in a corner in the living room. She would sit me in that bean bag, place my shoes in front of me, and ask me to point out which shoe is which. When I would get it wrong, she would have me turn around and face the wall, switch the shoes, and have me try it again. When she got tired of repeating herself, she would beat me. This made it worse because now I am terrified. I must get it right. I feel inadequate. What is wrong with me and why is this lady yelling and screaming at me? Over and over again, no matter how many times she switched the shoes, I could not tell you which one is right and which one is left. I just want this all to end.

The following days would bring about a turn of events. Some people came for my mother’s boyfriend’s boys. Two policemen and a social worker. Apparently the boy’s mother wanted them back or maybe they should have never been staying with us. I don’t know. The older boy stood quietly by the apartment door prepared to go, the middle boy did not want to leave and ran and hid under a bed, the youngest boy was standing in the middle of the living room. The adults were exchanging conversation. My mother went to get the middle boy from underneath the bed. She explained to him to go with the people now, let them sort things out, and hopefully he could come back. He agreed and came from underneath the bed and returned to the living room with my mother. We all said our goodbyes and they all left. Mother closed the door behind them. I had never seen policemen before or a social worker. I assumed that’s who the other person was because she did all the talking with my mother and her boyfriend while the policemen just stood there. The social worker was very calm the whole time.

As time goes on, Mom and her boyfriend seemed to fight more and more. I am afraid. I am always afraid. I don’t know why, or when I started feeling this way. I just know there is always fear now.

Soon after, I become aware of drug use. I know from my writing it would seem like a lot of time has passed but it has not. I am still about five or six years old. Mother is still Mother, but she is changing. She is becoming someone different.

As the days pass, I don’t know how but the middle boy would start visiting again. Soon after the little boy returns. I was so happy because I had formed a bond with the middle boy. He paid attention to me. He made me laugh. I felt happy and safe when he was around. I felt love.

One day, he and I were together in my mother’s apartment. He seemed different this day. He seemed stressed, mysterious. Sure, we were our usual selves, at least I was. We laughed, giggled, and played. During our play time, I remember us going out of my mother’s apartment into the hallway. When leaving my mother’s apartment door to the right is a set of metal stairs that led down to a flat that led to another set of metal stairs that led out the building. On that flat the walls were cement or maybe stone white. The wall in the middle had a green heavy metal window shaped box on it. It had a handle that when you opened it flames would shoot upward. The flames were far back enough that you were not in any danger of being burned. People would dispose of their trash in it. You would open the door and throw your trash down the chute. While we were playing I noticed that the boy had a small square shaped brown paper bag in his hand. He went down the stairs, opened the chute, tossed the bag in it, and closed the door. He did it so effortlessly. He never broke away from playing with me. I didn’t question it. I was too busy being my little playful self in my LALA land state of mind as most six-year-olds do, I guess.

Later that night the children were all in bed. I could hear Mother and her boyfriend yelling and screaming, things crashing to the floor, and the sound of shuffling as if people were fighting. The sound terrified me. Mom was crying. Her room door was closed but I could hear the sounds coming all the way down the hallway and into my ears. The sounds without seeing what was going on left your imagination to go into overdrive. It was horrific. You didn’t know if it was coming for you. Your mind doesn’t tell you you’re in trouble (run). You just lay there frozen with fear. I close my eyes really tight and try to block it out. You just want it to stop. I try to silence my mind so I could not hear them. At least I was in my bed which is where I feel the safest. Eventually, I fall asleep.

Later on in life, I realized that the bag the middle boy threw down the incinerator that day was what Mom and her boyfriend was fighting about. It contained the needles they needed to load up. Mom’s boyfriend had come home with some heroin and they couldn’t use without the needles. Maybe her boyfriend thought she had done something with the needles. They were tearing up her room looking for them and he took his frustration out on her. They fought a lot.

Days passed and trouble would show up again. The younger boy who was my age had brought home a bad report card. My mother and her boyfriend argued again. This time about the young boy. Its early morning, we are getting ready for school. I am almost ready. He is still in his little white loosely fitted boy’s underwear and white short sleeved t-shirt. We are both in the living room. Mom and her boyfriend are in her bedroom. There is shouting. I am being completely still and quiet. The little boy and I are looking at each other in silence. I don’t know what is going on in his mind. Although I know the situation, I am still wondering what is happening and who were they talking about. My eyes are locked on the little boy, neither one of us are moving, we are both paralyzed with fear. It’s like we are trying to read each other’s thoughts. We both know we both have to continue to get ready for school but we can’t move. We are both paralyzed with fear. It’s like everything just froze. I am trying to use my eyes to speak to him and tell him to get ready for school. At this moment, we are too afraid to move or make a sound. There is just the loudness of Mother and her boyfriend yelling and screaming. It pierces you through to your soul. In my mind, my eyes are saying to the little boy come on let’s go. That’s all I remember about that morning. I believe the boy and I finished getting ready for school and left. We had to.

What I do know is that later that day, we were all home. The apartment is quiet. Although there was movement there was complete silence. We completed our homework, bathed, got into our pjs, ate dinner, and settled around the T.V. for some family T.V. time which was our normal routine. Again, the house was dark. The only light was from the T.V. in the living room. The children sat on the floor in front of the T.V. watching cartoons. When I say children, I am speaking of me specifically. It’s funny to me because this whole time I have been writing and through all these events I talked about, I cannot for the life of me remember the whereabouts of my siblings. My mother’s biological children. My sister who is one year older than me and my two brothers underneath me separated from me by two years. One of which those boys is the son of my mother’s boyfriend. I know they are there. I just don’t remember any interactions with them at this point. I don’t recollect ever seeing them. Most of my interactions and memories so far are of just my mother, her boyfriend, the birth of my youngest brother, and my mother’s boyfriend’s three son’s from another woman whom I have never met. Huh?

Anyway, there was also the light to the left of where I am sitting coming from the kitchen. The rest of the house is dark. It was quiet. After some time of watching T.V. has passed, it is now time for bed. Again, the younger boy was in his white loosely fitted boy underwear and short sleeved t-shirt. We all go to bed. I lay there in my bed tossing and turning, waiting for my mind and body to come down from the day’s events so that I could drift off into sleep, the younger boy is in the bed across from me where my first younger brother should be sleeping but is not because the little boy is there instead. My mother and her boyfriend are in her bedroom with the door closed. I can hear the exchange of their voices. After some time when I thought us children were safe from the day and I could fall asleep, the bedroom light comes on. The younger boy is called from his bed. I felt uneasy. It’s never a good thing for one of us children to be called out of bed late at night. I knew this was not good.

As the little boy walked out of the room, the light