Everyone knows my upbringing was a horror show, absent sperm donor, prostitute mother. The only positive male influences in my life were some teachers and the man who accepted her after she gave the oldest profession up.
Anyone who noticed me worried about me but the funny thing about childhood is, you have no reference to what’s happening in other people’s homes. It is the standard therefore growing up, you start to believe it’s normal.
Until one earth-shattering moment, one lifelong memory that tells you the unflattering truth. This is not normal, you are in a fucked up situation and you’re the mirror that will reflect all of it.
As my mind wanders to that memory game and time again, peer at the reflection, see the moment I no longer wanted to play with dolls because I realized I’m the doll to be made up, dressed up, played with, and felt up.
It was the twilight of my mom’s career, she was no longer the escort men came to see but the madam who made our home the premier brothel of Arcadia.
While I began to stitch clothes together in my lonely room, men ripped them off in the next room, walls as thin as the women mother dearest hired, I heard everything, including the night of the incident.
An officer was called to the establishment because of a noise violation. We knew the routine, turn a blind eye, let him choose a room, get his rocks off, and leave with a clean report. This was anything but routine.
Instead of the normal steps I got used to hearing and a quick open the door and shut. I heard three mismatched steps and the door stayed open much longer than normal before the creak of it finally shitting began.
I didn’t question it, I got used to multiple men entering the house. My mom and I figured he just brought some friends to have a turn. After a thud and some screaming, we realized that no one got a turn, they took theirs all at once. We couldn’t do anything besides lower our head and cry in rhythm with the screams.
The men were finally done and left. The girl barely my senior, ran down the stairs, and wept to my mother in a way I hadn’t done since I learned there was no comfort to be had in those arms, just brutal honesty and solving the issue.
She told us it was the cop, his brother, and a man who had a smile as permanent as any tattoo.
My mother sounded somber and in defeat for the first time in her life.
She said “Normally, I’d grab a rape kit and report an incident like this to the police but we can’t do anything about this one, no one can touch the Cades. All I can say is clean up thoroughly and do whatever it takes to get through the day.”
She looked at her and me in the moment I remember most and closed her brief statement with…
“Welcome to being a woman.”