HEALTH & WELL BEING
Tameka Mullins | VenusBlogs Contributor
Photo: A Scenery of Loss
Originally published here on VenusBlogs March 8, 2013
“I wasn’t born, I was adopted.”
Those six words won me a Smith Magazine Facebook contest in 2011. Because I had breathed life into those few words, some saw it as poetry. My prize was to take the stage at the 92Y Tribeca in the “I Am Turning Into My Mother” six-word story slam show and recite my poem along with a five minute back-story. As I was preparing for the show, another group of words sat in the corner of my mind, facing the wall. “I wasn’t raped, I was molested.” Another set of six. Just sitting. Waiting to be unleashed in public. I chose the safe and sexy six though.
Whenever I mention the fact that I’m adopted people’s eyes get really wide. It’s so mysterious not knowing who your parents are. Everyone wants to ask questions and suggest you contact Oprah so she can miraculously find your mom and bring you two together in talk-show bliss. No one wants to talk about being molested. But it happens. It happened to me in one of the foster homes I lived in. I was five-years-old.
The day had been long. I was really tired and as I was falling asleep about to dream about lollipops and puppy dogs, I felt a presence in my room. Moments later I felt a touch. Fingers were trying to enter a place they had no business. Then before I could protest the fingers were replaced by something more fierce. It was foreign and didn’t belong near a five-year old. It was rude, this thing. It tried to invade an innocent space. I knew something was wrong. I felt dirty. Violated. I was a little girl though and couldn’t articulate those feelings. I began to cry. The rude thing never gained occupancy, but it had fun trying. Its insistence ended in a white liquid silhouette that clouded my mind for years. Read more