Book Description

Maya Angelou once stated, "there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you." I wish I had the chance to tell the late Maya Angelou how right she was.

My story begins in Corona, Queens, New York. I was born in Elmhurst hospital on July 18, to Cheryl and Willie P. Hunter.

My mother suffered a mentally-jarring, irreversible fate when my father left her with four small children to raise independently. My mother was all in on her vows. My father, not so much. He didn't perceive the value of his oaths or the extent of her love. As a result of his ungodly choices, my mother has spent the best part of her life, a mind-blowing three decades at an assisted living facility in New York. As you can imagine, my siblings and I shadowed an equal, if not more devastating, fate. As the youngest child, I was at the sharp end of that parental abandonment sword.

In my book, I talk about how my father physically abused me to the point of hospitalization; how, as the youngest child with no parents or willing caregivers to take me in, I ended up in foster care, and my father ended up in court. On the day of my court hearing, a woman I'd never met before was in the courthouse, explaining that she was my mother's sister and that she came to get me out of the courthouse. I was a child and accepting of whatever came my way, so I left with this woman. I was taken across state lines to Baltimore, Maryland, only to suffer years of ill-fate at the hands of my captor, and not once were my whereabouts sought after. The New York court system failed me. My family failed me.

I grew up a few blocks away from the Freddie Gray incident, an area that is formerly called Penn-North, but to me, I remember it as Central Hell. I lived under some of the most painful conditions one can imagine. I guess that is why I have an intense ambivalence for what happened during those riots because I know the pain in that community.

To make matters worse, my mother's sister physically abused me and damaged me emotionally. I tell people that it is an insidious pain that never completely goes away; I just learned to deal with it, through the years. As I matured into a young woman, I grew weary of the berating and beatings, so I left. My so-called survival on the streets as a developing teen did not last long. My mother's sister was outraged that I was out of her reach, so she made sure I was back into foster care, this time under the thumb of Baltimore's system.

I spent years in and out of stranger's homes, institutions alike, in what would always be a temporary shelter. I had a void inside of me from my father's absence, and I attempted to fill this void in other men, at times, much older men. The vicious pattern of rotating doors took root in me. I was comfortable with fleeing from one place to the next. Unfortunately, the consequences of my unintentional actions caught up with me. Someone raped me at the age of fifteen. I say this mysteriously because it was just that. Unlike before, I did not know my abuser, my attacker, this monster of a person that would rob me of my virtue; the one thing I had left that was not spoiled. I had nothing to go by other than the whispers from lips to ears who my assailant is, and besides, I was at an age where I could not do anything about it.

n hindsight, I used to blame myself for some of those things that happened to me and I used to place my family at the end of my sword for allowing these matters to swell. Eventually, I had to move on from these thoughts because if my family didn't care then, I am confident they won't care now.

In closing, I will leave you, the reader with this. Sometimes in life, justice won't be served, and that is a tough pill to swallow, especially when you have to climb a mountain of pain. My advice to you is no matter how bleak the situation is, always put your trust in God and keep it there