Bent but not Broken — from ‘Women of Courage’ book in process…

Some of Savana’s story…

     As a sixteen-year-old, I began sleeping with a seven-inch knife under my pillow. I was an average teenager:  a five-foot five frame, ordinary intellect, mahogany brown eyes, and plain sandy-colored hair. I was average in every way. I was a standout in nothing at all. Just like me, my knife was average. I had determined, that if the Pig ever laid a sexual hand on me again, I would kill him. The knife would be my weapon of self-defense. I never used the knife because the happiest day of my life showed up first.

     One rainy Saturday afternoon, my sister, my mom, and I drove into our driveway after a few hours of shopping. Visual chaos knocked through our eyes. All our belongings lay in the brown mud puddles of our front yard. All our jeans, jackets, shirts, dresses, shoes, and furniture were scattered like puzzle pieces misplaced from their box. The mismatched pieces lay drowning in the brown mud puddles. Most of my mom’s shirts were drowning in the brown water. Her dark mahogany dresser lay on its side with metal hangers scattered aimlessly in the piles of clothes. My white dresser stood upright with its drawers halfway open. My underpants spilled over its edges. The rainwater bounced over most of my sister’s shoes.

Growing up in my house…

     Our house, from the outside, did not appear any different from the other homes in our neighborhood. Yet, on the inside, half a dozen adult drug addicts lounged on our couches and chairs in the living room. They were in our home every day, three-hundred, and sixty-five days a year. Addicts stopped at our house to buy a drug from my mom, sell her a supply, or get high in our living room. One of my earliest memories is of adults using drugs in our living room.

     I learned sorting, weighing, drug color coding and identification of drug smells from my mom. Marijuana had the sweet fragrance of diesel when it was fresh and a factory stench when it was old. An acidic-vinegar odor indicated heroin, while a permanent marker aroma signaled PCP angel dust. A burnt marshmallow smell was charred pills, while an overall chemical smell was cocaine or crack.

     Growing up as the child of a dealer, by age seven, I knew how to roll joints, cut coke (cocaine) lines, refill empty hash containers and name a drug by its smell. My organizational skills, were routine and average for me. I enjoyed helping my mom and the addicts who would shower me with praise. “Hey, Savana, be a good girl and cut me a line,” muttered addict Joe, while he was leaning over the coffee table one day. I dutifully made a line of cocaine on the table. “Would everyone look at that! Savana you are so good—a master pearl liner,” he yelled. I loved the adult words of praise, so I continued practicing my skills.

     I went on some drug runs with the various addicts. I would enter a house and then give the dealer the money. I was then given the drugs. One house I went into is forever seared into my memory. As a seven-year-old child, I entered a cat urine smelling living room. Naked people were lying all around, some were engaged in intercourse, while others were busy self stimulating. The odor of cat urine and rotten eggs permeated my nostrils, so I quickly ran to the back porch where I inhaled fresh air. I waited for the dealer to meet me. While it might seem that I’d become an addict, I think God had different plans for my life.   

     When I turned eight, my mom got married to my stepfather, the Pig. He was a dealer of cocaine, hash, and marijuana. Over the years, I had seen a series of men my mom entertained. She went into her bedroom with them, as I curled up on a chair in the livingroom. I was then transported to another world in my reading. Muffled adult sounds and a strong burnt marshmallow smell soon permeated the house. My mom eventually walked into the living room, while stuffing money bills into her “girl pocket.” The “girl pocket” meant stuffing an item into your bra. Since I was still young, wearing a camisole under my t-shirts allowed me to have a “girl pocket.”

     I nick-named my stepfather the “Pig” after he started sexually molesting me at age eight. I can still remember the first time he did it. When my mom left for work, the Pig hollered for me after getting out of the shower.

“Savana, get in here!”

I dutifully went into the master bedroom. With all but a towel around his waist, he ordered me to lie on the bed. As he stood over me, he yelled, “You say a word —- I’ll *uckin kill your mom—-got it.”  I shook my head yes in fear. He then lay beside me and began to touch me in ways that felt very wrong, so very wrong. I knew my mom would be dead if I said anything. So began a six-year routine of sexual molestation by my stepfather, the Pig.

      After my mom left for work, then the violations would begin. “Savana come here,” the Pig yelled, as I finished my Fruit-Loops. He finished the molestation and then I watched the last few minutes of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! Escaping to the imaginary allowed me to withstand the reality of my every day. I would then catch the morning yellow school bus for my daily dose of sunshine and safety for eight more hours. Silence on my part meant my mom could live.

     When I turned thirteen, my mom was in the hospital while my sister was born. My cousin, Stephanie, spent the night in my effort to keep the Pig away from me. As we slept in the living room, I was quietly awoken, as the Pig began molesting me in my sleeping bag. I stayed silent. My cousin slept beside me, as the Pig continued assaulting me. Once the Pig was finished with his assault, I awoke my cousin and told her everything that had happened. Stephanie urged me, “Savanah, you really need to tell your mom.” So, I called my mom at the hospital and told her all about it. “Oh honey, he must have thought you were me and just made a mistake,” my mom said. Her chilling words sealed my silence for years.

     The Pig’s violations started to slow down after my sister was born. So, I intentionally and religiously cared for my baby sister. I kept her busy with bottle feeding, toys and walks, all in my efforts to avoid her being molested by him. I spent all my time with her when I was not at school. I knew she was safe at day care while I was at school.

     The year the Pig started molesting me, an odd family moved into the house next to us. Everything about them was different. They ate and prepared meals together. They would all sit at a table, close their eyes, and say this thing called a prayer before eating. It sounded like they were talking directly to God. Then they would all say “amen” and start eating. I had never eaten at a family table or said a prayer before I began spending time with them. It all felt good to me. I wanted to be with them every waking hour, with my younger sister in tow. I started to call the dad, “Dad Paul” and the mom, “Mom Melissa.”

     Another curious thing they did as a family was to plan their vacations together. What was totally baffling to me, was when they disagreed, they would talk to each other. There was not any yelling, screaming, curse words, hitting or crying, during their disagreements. They acted so different from everything that occurred in my house. Their ability to disagree and still be kind to one another, amazed me.

     They also went to this place called church. All their activities were foreign and unnatural to me. Yet, their respect and love for each other drew me into their family. Going to church, going on vacations, and eating dinner together became regular activities for my sister and me. I began to feel like a member of their family.

     My life was significantly changed when I was nine years old. In Sunday school class, I had been learning that God is strong, God can do anything, God keeps his promises, and God gives us rules to obey. I loved Sunday school because we were able to act out various Bible stories that helped me learn these concepts. I knew that God saw my mom and the Pig’s terrible wrongdoing.

     So, one Sunday the teacher asked, “Do any of you want to make a decision to ask Jesus into your life and have his presence, the Holy Spirit, live inside you?” I shot up my hand before she could tell us to bow our heads. She then led our small group of fifth graders in a prayer and I could feel my body getting warmer. I knew I hated the Pig and felt sorry for my mom. God saw my thoughts and was ready to love living in me. As my body began feeling warmer, my legs and hands tingled. I knew that my feelings were from God, and it was an unexplainable peace.

     “Guess what I did during Sunday School today?” I exclaimed as I was eating lunch with dad Paul and the family. “I accepted Jesus into my heart, and he will live in me forever.”

     Dad Paul said some words that I never forgot. “Savana, you have decided today that will be with you forever. It does not mean all your wishes and dreams will come true. We live in a very messed up world. Terrible things will still be in your life, but now God will be with you. God’s Holy Spirit now lives in you. God loves you.”

     Even as he was saying this, I had a new feeling in my life. Hope. My mom still did drugs, the Pig still molested me, and drug addicts still hung around my house. I understood Dad Paul’s words. I lived in the messed-up world, but now I believed in a God that cared about me and gave me hope for a new day. I now prayed every night for this new day. So, when all our belongings were scattered around our front yard, my happiness turned to joy because I knew God answered my prayers. The help from God came in such an unimaginable way. I was able to go to the same school, go to the same church with Paul’s family, and sleep without a knife under my pillow.

Some of the rest of the story….

     Savana has a respectable job as the Human Services Director for a large corporation. She is actively involved in a local church, whose ministry of outreach is cornerstone to their identity. She is happily married to her second husband. Her Mom lost her twenty-five-year job and went to prison on drug charges. When she was released from prison, she died from cancer while still actively using and selling illegal drugs.

    For years, Savana struggled with guilt for her shame, anger and feeling like a victim. It took years for Savana to have hope for the Pig. For many years, she hoped he would go to hell. Her heart softened as the years passed and she prayed that the Pig might turn his heart to God’s love and forgiveness. As far as Savana knows, her mom and the Pig never trusted in God. The Pig also died from cancer. Savana is close to her sister who was never violated by the Pig. The girl’s celebrate holidays with Paul’s family.