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| Norlita Brown

DESTROYING

THE MASK

WHAT ABOUT THE

CHILDREN?

DESTROYING THE MASK

iii

Destroying the Mask: What About the Children?

Copyright © 2012 by Brown Essence, Inc.

Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights

reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and

retrieval system- except by a reviewer who may quote brief

passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or

on the web – without permission in writing from the publisher.

L. Smith is the contributing writer to My Daughter, My Friend

Brown Essence, Inc.

P.O. Box 82462

Conyers, GA 30013

Please visit our website at brownessence.com and let us know

what you think.

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Dedication… I dedicate this book to my children,

Ve’Lynncia Jazzemin Morgan

&

De’Vray Camel Rogers

Their youth was stripped from them right before my eyes,

and if I could turn back the hands of time, I would give it back to

them on a silver platter.

DESTROYING THE MASK

v

Table of Contents

I’m Grown Now Mommy ...................................... 1

I Let the Devil in My Home ................................... 5

Exploiting Our Children ...................................... 39

No Place like Home ............................................. 45

Mommy’s Not Home but Her Boyfriend Is ......... 57

Angels Watching Over Me .................................. 63

Mold Me, Make Me, Not Like My Mother ......... 73

On the Battlefield ...................................................85

My Daughter, My Friend ..................................... 95

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Introduction…

Right now, our children are becoming epidemics.

Teenage pregnancy is at an all-time high. The shame that

once came with being a mother at so early an age is now

replaced with honor. In fact, it has gotten to a point where

other little girls are disappointed if they are not having a

baby.

Our young boys are filling up jail cells and detention

centers. They are being labeled as incorrigible

I don’t feel that I am a bad person, neither do I feel that

I am a bad parent, but I do understand that I didn’t parent

correctly in many ways, and because of that, my children

have suffered. We cannot recreate history, but we can

make a change. The past is behind us, but the future is

before us, and it can be so much brighter if we choose from

this day forth to live a life that does not revolve around us,

and instead revolves around our children.

I am not sure if your story is within these pages, but I

know that mine is. I am not sure if you are ready to open

your eyes, but I know that I am. So this is my plea. If you

or anyone you know has children who are suffering, offer

them this book, offer them your help, and give them your

prayers.

DESTROYING THE MASK

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As you read these stories, understand that each story in

this book is a true depiction of my life or the life of

someone close to me. However, I ask that you not take the

focus from the purpose of this work by wondering which

story is mine or that of another, because who they are

doesn’t matter what matters is the problems behind the

actions. I ask that you approach this work with genuine

sincerity and join with me to make a change for the lives of

our children.

DESTROYING THE MASK

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If I had a choice, I would have never designed my face

this way. I would have chosen to look like her rather than

him. If I had a choice; I would have never decided to have

short hair or dark skin. If I had a choice, I would make me

over to be the one that she will love, they will love, because

it seems who I love is the one person no one loves.

Running from the buckle of the belt, I slid under the

bed praying that she wouldn’t hit me again. As I felt the

sharp metal cut into my head, I instantly knew that I was

wrong. I woke up in the hospital room at five years old

getting stitches in the wound that my mother had given me.

Every day, I woke up knowing that my mother hated me. It

was a feeling of discouragement. I knew it was because I

looked like my father. I’m sure you’re wondering how I

could know such a thing.

Well, she told me. Every day that she could, she

would say, “You look just like your damned father and you

know how I feel about him.” Yes, I did know all too well

that she hated him, and I had been cursed with his face,

staring at her every day reminding her of a cheating lover, a

broken heart, a damaged marriage.

I carried this hate to my baby sister who was born from

a different father. So she became the child my mother

always wanted. I stared at her with her light skin and long

beautiful soft hair. I envied the love that was showered

upon her effortlessly. Everyone wanted to know her, be

her, claim her.

I was seven, she was three when I was ironing my

clothes and she stood at my side constantly telling me it

ANGELS WATCHING OVER ME

10

was her turn to iron her clothes. I wasn’t finished, I kept

telling her, but she kept insisting. I granted her wish,

though not in the form she wanted it in. I took the hot iron

and placed it on her chest, burning her clothes and searing

her skin.

I don’t recall whether or not she had to go to the

hospital, but I do know that she had been marked for the

first time with the hate that had been building in me. I

always adored her; she is now and was then so adorable

that you had to love her. Yet, it seemed every time that I

tried to move in the direction of loving her, my mother

gave me another reason to hate her.