“A closed mouth doesn’t get fed.” This was one of my momma’s many adages. She would say it on a regular basis in an effort to get me to speak. But she would also say, “Stay in a child’s place.” What a contradiction! I learned at an early age that the best way to stay in my place was to keep my mouth shut. Although I wasn’t even sure what my place was since my mom had boarded me out to someone whom I refer to as my “wicked godmother”—and I didn’t give her that title for fun. As an act of punishment, this woman made me wear pants to school on picture day—this was in the 1950s, and little girls always wore dresses on picture day. (She also used to make me sleep in the garage with her dog, Bugga Bear.) Wearing pants that day was the worst. I was the laughingstock of the school.
My childhood was full of contradictions. I grew up in South Los Angeles, with a black mother who was married to an Italian before the civil rights movement. My mother was a domestic worker, and her job required her to live with her employers, a Jewish family—that’s why she left me in the care of my wicked godmother during the week. The way I saw it, my momma should have been taking care of her own child, not someone else’s, but who was I to say anything? I was just a child staying in her place, a child with a closed mouth, looking to be fed.
On my eighth birthday, my momma held an amazing birthday party for me. I actually felt like a normal kid that day. I was the princess; all eyes were on me. My momma made me a candy cake with white frosting and bought me my first pair of white oxford shoes, with which I could wear a pair of fold-down, ruffled socks. I remember smiling all day long. The sun shined a little brighter on that day, and there was no need to keep my mouth shut. I ate until my heart was content.
When the party was over, so was my time with my momma. It was time for me to return to my godmother’s. I gathered my belongings and watched my mother’s husband load them into his car.
“Did you enjoy your day?” my momma asked.
I nodded and smiled.
“I can’t hear a nod, Babette.”
“Yes, Momma,” I responded.
My mother ushered me to the car—she was staying home to clean up while her husband drove me to my godmother’s house. I hugged her and got into the car. I was sitting on the floor in the backseat because there was no way I wanted anyone to see me in the car with an Italian. A colored girl and an Italian step-father? Another contradiction.
On the way home, my mother’s husband pulled into an empty parking lot and whispered, “I have one more surprise for you.”
I hopped off the floor and with a burst of excitement asked, “What is it?”
He gestured for me to climb over the seat. “I promised you I’d teach you to drive, but your feet aren’t long enough to reach the pedals. So here’s the deal. We are going to work as a team. You sit in my lap and steer, and I will press the pedals for you.”
Momma would have a fit if she knew, but who could pass up such an opportunity? I hurried to sit on his lap, and the escapade began. I was having a ball, and so was he, but at my expense. I knew something felt wrong, yet I was having so much fun—another contradiction.
That day was the beginning of a cycle of sexual abuse, and I remained silent—I stayed in a child’s place. I eventually moved back home with my momma. The abuse continued for several years. It had become such a regular occurrence that I became accustomed to it. One day, my momma’s husband followed me into a closet, and my little sister (whom he never abused in any capacity) witnessed it. She threatened to tell my mother. I’m not sure if she did, because my mother never had a conversation with me about it. But that was the last day he ever took advantage of my innocence. His abuse stopped that day!
My mother remained married to him well into my adulthood. My daughter even referred to him as grandpa, and I still remained silent. I tried very hard to block those memories, and I did this as a coping mechanism. I turned my pain into passion, and with every project I ventured into, I gave it one hundred percent. But I never addressed the abuse until I got older and had the opportunity to speak with a professional therapist.
I am now a successful business owner and motivational speaker, and as a chef, I not only encourage people to open their mouths and be fed nutritious food, but I also encourage people to be heard. There is a contradiction about silence. It can be an asset but also a hindrance. Any child who suffers from abuse should SHOUT, SCREAM, and KICK until she is not only heard but also fed the love she deserves.
There are many sentient beings, including animals, who suffer daily from abuse. Animals, unlike humans, have no choice but to remain silent because they can’t speak. It is my desire to one day start an organization that supports both abused children and animals, one in which the kids and the animals help one another heal.