I Choose the Ending 2: I Choose the Ending, #2

By Tasha Marie Johnson

Warning: This memoir series contains themes of physical, sexual, domestic, and verbal abuse, including instances of rape and child abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

This is book 2 in the series.

Excerpt:
Trazoli's enthusiasm barely registered with me as she excitedly declared, "We're going to pretend we are backup dancers for DeBarge."
I groaned in response, "Really? You woke me up for that? You know I don't know how to dance!"
Ignoring my protests, she switched on her boombox, filling the air with DeBarge's "Rhythm of the Night" as we stepped out onto the front sidewalk. Trazoli was dressed in black leggings, a white button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a white tank top peeking out from underneath.
Like me, she was also barefoot, with a white bandana adorning her medium-length hair and a pair of small white earrings glinting in her ears. I will never forget how we looked that day.
Undeterred, Trazoli urged, "Come on, Tasha Marie, let's practice in the street."
I observed from the safety of the sidewalk as Trazoli boldly pranced across the sparsely busy street. She seemed to have lost her mind, expecting me to join her in the middle of the road for a dance session. While she reveled in the infectious beats of the song, I couldn't muster up the same enthusiasm.
With energy undiminished, she danced vigorously to the song twice before finally darting over to grab my hands and drag me onto the street. I resigned myself to her infectious madness as she restarted the song on the cassette player of the boombox.
Before I knew it, I found myself transformed into a pretend backup dancer for DeBarge. Trazoli chuckled, teasing, "You were right, you can't dance a lick, but we're having fun; come on, Tasha Marie! Hit it!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: TMH PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Apr 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224929405

Book preview

Contents

That Girl’s Fast!

Tonk Street

Juniper Lane

The Trip

Meacham Circle

A Whole Heap of Trouble

Kate Street

I CHOOSE THE ENDING

I CHOOSE THE ENDING

Copyright © 2024 by TMH Publishing, LLC

All rights reserved

Standing Strong Amidst Life's Toughest Trials

I CHOOSE THE ENDING

2

TASHA MARIE JOHNSON

A POWERFUL MEMOIR IN THE

JOURNEY TO SURVIVAL SERIES

Book Two

Disclaimer

I Choose the Ending is a nonfiction narrative. To protect the privacy of those involved, the author has modified some names, locations, and specific details. However, the core of the story remains authentic. Readers should note that this book delves into themes of rape, violence and trauma and contains scenes that might be distressing or triggering for some.

CONTENTS

That Girl’s Fast!

Tonk Street

Juniper Lane

The Trip

Meacham Circle

A Whole Heap of Trouble

Kate Street

That Girl’s Fast!

In the spring of 1981, as I embraced the dawn of my eleventh year, the scene in the school gym was a delightful blend of routine and eccentricity, all thanks to our colorful gym teacher, Mr. Wiggins. With a flair for the dramatic, he would perch atop a precarious four-legged chair, balancing expertly on its back two legs while juggling a myriad of tasks—reading his newspaper, indulging in juicy oranges, and doling out exercise instructions with effortless ease.

For those unfortunate enough to be caught misbehaving, Mr. Wiggins had a punishment like no other: standing with arms outstretched for the remainder of the period. And as a prelude to assuming this challenging stance, a gentle thump on the head from his massive, elongated fingers served as a stern warning.

Standing tall at a towering height, perhaps 6 feet 6 inches, he loomed like a titan over my diminutive stature. Under his watchful gaze, I honed my skills in tetherball, emerging as a formidable opponent and taking my first tentative steps into the realms of double Dutch and pottery, despite the latter proving to be less than my forte.

Despite any shortcomings, the gymnasium became a hub of connection, learning, and personal growth for me and my peers. Mr. Wiggins also introduced us to the concept of Pen Pals, encouraging us to reach out to children in far-flung corners of the globe.

Together, we buried a time capsule, entrusting messages from our present selves to the future, and released colorful balloons into the boundless sky, carrying our hopes and dreams to unknown destinations. However, it was on the track and field day that I truly came into my own.

With gym teachers from across the city as witnesses, I discovered my innate speed. I vividly recall Mr. Wiggins timing my fifty-yard dash, stopping the clock at a respectable 6.4 seconds, or thereabouts—although the exact figure eludes me.

I wish I remembered my exact time, but I will use 6.4 as an example. His eyes widened in disbelief as he peered down at the clock, a testament to my unexpected prowess. There's no way you can beat the fastest boy this school has ever had and one of the fastest in the city. Run again, he challenged, his voice tinged with skepticism.

Determined to prove myself, I pushed myself even harder, crossing the finish line in a blazing 6.3 seconds. Undeterred by Mr. Wiggins' doubt, I ran a total of three times, matching my previous time on the final attempt. It was no fluke—I had shattered the school record, even surpassing Guitario’s brother’s time.

My achievement was a source of immense pride, and my record proudly stood until about 1993. Following that remarkable day, I became Mr. Wiggins' little buddy, often lending a hand in teaching gym class while he savored his oranges and perused his newspaper.

It was astounding how effortlessly he kept us all engaged and active. Track and Field Day, in particular, became the highlight of my school year, a cherished tradition that I eagerly anticipated. Beyond the confines of school, my passion for racing flourished, fueled by the influence of my uncles, who were avid track runners, and my brothers.

Our family gatherings inevitably transformed into impromptu races, with streets serving as our makeshift track. Additionally, thanks to Mr. Wiggins' guidance, I had also developed a proficiency in gymnastics, mastering flips on the balance beam with pride.

My love for performance found yet another outlet in school plays, igniting within me a newfound appreciation for the arts and the richness of life. The mere thought of missing a single day of school became unbearable to me. I enthusiastically participated in organizing the school’s annual fun day, where laughter echoed through the air amid a backdrop of carnival games and festivities.

One particularly fond memory I cherish is the day Mr. Wiggins, in a rare gesture of camaraderie, shared his orange with me during gym class. It was a simple act, but it spoke volumes about the bond we shared and the kindness he exuded.

Summer of 1981 arrived with a whirlwind of change as puberty began to take hold; my hair, body, and I were all in the midst of transformation. Despite these physical changes, my brothers and I upheld our tradition of collecting cans to buy gifts for our parents on special occasions, occasionally indulging ourselves with snacks and drinks.

Baseball emerged as a newfound passion, especially with our neighbor Steve joining in the games. Despite his family's affluence, owning a prestigious lighting store on the bustling main street where they lived above it, Steve treated us as equals, generously sharing his world with us. His house, situated across another alley near ours, stood out amidst the surrounding residences.

While the neighboring houses were mostly shabby, with a few newer homes sprinkled in, Steve's home exuded a sense of opulence. Despite the stark contrast, Steve's mother was incredibly welcoming, going out of her way to make us feel special.

On scorching days, she'd cool us down with a hose, and there was always an endless supply of sodas, ice cream, and popsicles to quench our thirst and sweeten our afternoons. Steve himself, a standout high school baseball player, willingly imparted professional pitching techniques to us, further igniting our passion for the sport.

Our backyard served as our makeshift baseball diamond, where I eagerly mimicked Steve's moves, feeling like a professional pitcher. However, Steve's unpredictability as a batter posed a challenge, with his powerful hits often catching us off guard. The exhilarating yet nerve-wracking sound of the bat striking the ball kept me on edge, hoping I wouldn't be its next target.

Unfortunately, luck wasn't on my side, as a particularly forceful hit struck me square in the gut, bringing me to my knees in pain. Despite the agony, my determination remained steadfast, ready to continue playing. However, after a second hit left me grounded once more, pitching was no longer an option for me that day, and perhaps ever again.

Encouraged by my brother EJ's words, I reluctantly agreed to give it another try. But as fate would have it, Steve's bat once again found its mark, leaving me questioning whether his hits were intentional. A visit to the hospital later confirmed no serious injuries, but the lingering doubt about Steve's intentions remained.

Away from the small baseball field we created in our backyard, my brothers and I had endless hours to explore our neighborhood. My mom had transitioned from a job at the Casket Company, sewing casket liners for paltry pay, to a better-paying position at IPS.

Our meals improved, though her new evening and night shifts wreaked havoc on her sleep schedule. In the summer of ’81, she still made time for us, bringing us to the park. Often, she’d lay out a blanket and catch up on sleep while we played. We tried to be considerate, keeping our noise down to allow her that much-needed rest.

However, Shannon, the youngest and a bit whiny, sometimes didn’t understand and would pester her, attempting to rouse her from her slumber. Those were the times she’d get grouchy, her exhaustion evident.

Aside from park visits, we’d go on nature hikes, take trips to the public pool when we could afford it, and watch enviously as others enjoyed snacks from the poolside bar. Inspired, we began collecting cans more diligently, turning them in for a bit of spending money.

Jesse led the charge, with EJ, Shannon, and I eagerly joining in. On the way back from Crane’s pool, we’d stop by the park, swinging high on the weeping willow branches.

Sometimes, we’d splurge our hard-earned cash at the poolside bar, sharing our treats among the three of us. Poverty had brought us closer together; we never wanted the others to feel any additional pain.

Over the previous two years at Oak Creek Elementary, I’d nurtured numerous friendships, making summers a season to eagerly anticipate with sleepovers at their homes. However, few, if any, of my friends wanted to stay at my place on Fourth Ave, but that was okay.

Their parents wouldn’t allow it. One of my friends, Winky, lived in a world of high fashion, always adorned in the latest trends, often obtained via the five-finger discount by some of her family friends.

Venturing into the realm of modeling at Old Bowling, a majestic structure once a bustling high school and now transformed into a multi-purpose hub, felt like stepping into an enchanting dream. The mesmerizing allure of the runway, the grace of controlled strides, and the surge of confidence with each lesson enveloped me, making me feel nothing short of extraordinary.

I learned to walk with grace and finesse, maintaining impeccable posture while balancing a book on my head—a timeless practice of poise and balance. The atmosphere crackled with transformative energy, as if the very act of modeling had the power to redefine who I was, propelling me to new heights of self-assurance and elegance.

The historical ambiance of Old Bowling added an extra layer of charm to our modeling sessions, as if the walls themselves echoed with the laughter and chatter of students from years gone by. It felt as though they were encouraging us, whispering tales of resilience and dreams fulfilled.

In those moments, as I took each step down the makeshift runway, I wasn't just a girl learning to model; I was a canvas coming to life, painting a picture of my dreams and aspirations for the future. The experience was transformative, a journey of self-discovery that taught me the art of carrying myself with grace and embracing the world with newfound confidence.

However, amid the glamour, there lurked a shadow of discomfort. Our instructor, Winky's cousin, harbored an immediate and inexplicable aversion towards me. It wasn't the kind of tough love meant to push me to greater heights; it was a raw, undiluted disdain that seeped into my very core, leaving me to grapple with feelings of inadequacy.

I was perplexed, unable to fathom what had warranted such hostility. Nevertheless, I made a conscious decision not to let her abusive behavior quench my aspirations. I set my sights high, aiming for the stars and dreaming of a future draped in the glory of fashion modeling.

I was determined to rise above, proving to myself and the world that I had what it took to succeed, no matter the challenges thrown my way. When I say someone was mean to me, it wasn't just a slight or a passing comment—it felt like I was being treated as worthless, tossed aside like yesterday's trash.

It's a harsh reality that some people harbor disdain for those less fortunate, fueled by prejudice and a lack of empathy. And as if that wasn't enough, there were those who judged me solely based on my appearance, adding another layer to the cruelty I faced.

Winky, with her residence nestled on the corner of Twelfth and Fourth Ave, seemed worlds apart from my own humble abode on Third and Fourth Ave. Our friendship required meeting halfway, a compromise forged in the geographic divide between us.

My brothers, ever the protective figures in my life, would escort me part of the way, ensuring my safety until I reached Winky's doorstep. Tragedy struck our neighborhood when a man was murdered in an apartment building just a block up from our house.

The incident cast a shadow of fear over our community, prompting us to tread cautiously and avoid the streets where danger lurked. The killer remained at large, his presence a looming threat that haunted our daily lives.

In the aftermath of the murder, our walks to Winky's house became fraught with apprehension. We took detours, opting for longer routes to avoid the scene of the crime, fearing that the perpetrator might strike again. It wasn't until the authorities apprehended the killer that we breathed a collective sigh of relief, finally feeling safe to resume our regular paths.

Despite the lingering unease, I continued to meet Winky once a week for our modeling classes at Old Bowling, a journey that required navigating through somewhat sketchy territory. With Winky's unexpected departure from the modeling world, I found myself traversing the streets alone, braving the intimidating presence of the East Side Boxing Club and the Red-Light District to reach Old Bowling.

In our neighborhood, which I dubbed the Big Bad Hood of Prairieview, every street corner told a story of resilience amidst adversity. Each footstep echoed with our unwavering determination to defy the odds stacked against us.

Proud of my newfound independence and courage, I marched boldly through the heart of drug dealers and ladies of the night, feeling like I could conquer the world. Yet, amidst this facade of bravery, there lurked a shadow of fear—a fear called Lorena Larue.

Good Lord Jesus, when Lorena LaRue discovered that I had been trekking alone to and from my modeling class—especially during the late nights when it concluded, forcing me to navigate through the Red-Light District solo—she unleashed a torrent of reprimands, punctuated by the sting of her belt. That encounter marked the abrupt end of my modeling aspirations.

By the fall of 1981, I was transitioning into sixth grade, gradually becoming accustomed to the students and teachers at my school. Mountain View Elementary School served as the central bus hub in our modest neighborhood. Daily, my brothers and I would embark on a mile-long trek to Mountain View to catch the bus to Oak Creek.

Arriving early at the bus hub each day afforded Jesse, EJ, and me the opportunity to visit the Breakfast Club, conveniently located near our bus stop. This establishment generously provided complimentary breakfasts to children in need, all within the basement of a church building.

For a child like me, growing up in poverty, the Breakfast Club served as a haven. Staffed primarily by Black volunteers, some of whom were former members or secret supporters of the Black Panthers, these dedicated individuals not only provided us with nourishment but also sought to guide us onto the right path.

Among them was Johnny Lions, a young man of about seventeen, whose striking light complexion and captivating blue or blue-green eyes made him stand out. As he distributed plates of food, Johnny would often engage in friendly conversation with me while attending to his duties.

Initially cautious of him, as I was with any male figure in my life, I soon came to appreciate his genuine and benevolent nature. To me, he became a big brother, showing me kindness and concern akin to that of an older sibling.

He affectionately referred to me as little sis, treating me with the care and concern one would show to a younger sibling. You're destined for greatness, Tasha Marie. I can see it in you, he would affirm, his words instilling a sense of hope and belief in my potential.

Occasionally, Johnny would grant me the privilege of assisting him with various tasks, a gesture that filled me with immense gratitude and excitement. Whether it was clearing tables or delivering food, each opportunity allowed me to contribute in my own small way.

However, one day, Johnny surprised me by inviting me to help out in the kitchen, an experience that surpassed all my expectations. As I stepped into the bustling kitchen, I was greeted by the sights and sounds of culinary mastery in action.

With Johnny's guidance, I found myself standing before an enormous metal pancake batter dispenser, marveling at its size and functionality. The lady in charge of pancakes graciously allowed me to take the reins, entrusting me with the task of pouring the batter onto the sizzling griddle and expertly flipping the pancakes.

For me, it was a moment of pure exhilaration and joy, as I embraced the opportunity to play a hands-on role in preparing the breakfast fare for our community. It was an experience I would treasure forever, a glimpse into a world of possibility and achievement that Johnny's encouragement continued to inspire within me.

As a child, I often found myself granted behind-the-scenes access, a privilege not extended to every other kid. My calm and obedient nature, paired with my tendency to follow directions and avoid causing trouble, seemed to endear me to the adults around me. Johnny Lions, in particular, would beam at me, give my head a gentle pat, and commend me on a job well done.

He always made me feel like his little sister. However, there came a time when I didn’t see Johnny for a while, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him. Eventually, I learned the devastating news that he had been brutally attacked and stabbed to death.

The details were grim; it was said that the medical professionals failed to recognize the severity of his injuries, allowing him to bleed out. The news was incomprehensible to me. I had looked forward to our morning interactions before school, and his absence left a void that could never be filled.

The sadness I felt