Born in Prison … Where Hope was Found

As I’ve shared with you, my life began behind the barbed wire when my biological mother attempted to conduct a coat-hanger abortion as a desperate attempt to be released from incarceration in Houston, Texas.

An emergency C-Section was conducted and I was born. I was severely premature with organs that weren’t developed enough to function as they should to thrive with life. I was declared blind and deaf and was considered a “crack baby” since my biological mother was an addict while pregnant with me.

The doctors were sure I would die. But, there was one person who was sure I would live.

My maternal grandmother.

“When I walked into that hospital room the first thing the doctor told me was to not get attached because you would not live,” she told me, time and again throughout my life. “As I looked at your tiny body in a little incubator with tubes everywhere, I heard God tell me ‘This baby will live.’”

She never heard the voice of God before that moment; however, she told me she knew immediately it was the voice of God and it gave her hope for the hopeless baby the doctors had prescribed a death sentence to.

I remained in the hospital, hooked up to tubes and receiving round-the-clock care until I was three-months-old. It was then the doctor approached my maternal grandmother with more words of hopelessness.

“She is failing to thrive. The best thing you can do now is to take her home and give her all the love you can until she passes away. By chance there is a miracle and she lives, she will be a vegetable the rest of her life.”

I believe my grandmother took these words as a challenge. She and my maternal grandfather took me from the hospital that day; however, they didn’t go home, which at the time, was in Chattanooga, Tennessee. They made a road trip to visit family in Florida.

On this trip, my grandmother was invited to what used to be known as an old-fashioned tent revival. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to go, so she attended service that night, with me in tow. She shared that when she walked in the service that night, the preacher stopped preaching, walked directly to where she was sitting with me, and told her everything the doctors had said was wrong with me. But, instead of giving her more hopeless words, he confirmed what God had already spoken to her.

“This baby will live,” he said to her.

That night, the preacher prayed over my small, failing to thrive body and then went back to preaching. My grandmother didn’t realize anything had changed until she took me for my next check up with the doctor.

She said the doctor examined me and had a puzzled look on his face the entire time. He called other doctors and nurses into the room, and when they examined me, they also looked puzzled. It was then the doctor changed his previous declaration.

“This is a miracle,” he exclaimed to my grandmother. “This isn’t even the same baby … there is absolutely nothing wrong with her.”

Upon examination, every single thing the doctor had previously said was wrong with me and was sure to cause my imminent death, had healed. This time, when he placed me in my grandmother’s arms, he sent me home to live.

I was raised by my maternal grandparents until I was 14-months-old and my biological mother was released from incarceration. She traveled from Houston to Chattanooga to join her parents, myself, and her oldest son who was also under the temporary care of her parents while she was incarcerated.

They allowed her to live there, helped her get a job, and helped her get an apartment so she could take care of her children and move on with her life. She did begin to move on. She took her oldest son with her; however, she chose to give up her rights to me, and I was officially adopted by my maternal grandparents.

When I was three-years-old, our home in Tennessee was burned down due to arson and we made the move to Lake Placid, Florida. It was there, in this small, quiet town, where I spent the rest of my childhood. However, my miracle healing, adoption, and move to Florida didn’t separate me completely from the barbed wire, buzzing gates, and prison bars.

I was the youngest of the three children my biological mother gave birth to, and upon adoption, I became the youngest of nine children my maternal grandmother gave birth to.

Most of my siblings, natural or adoptive, had run-ins with the law. They collected charges ranging from petit theft, violation of probation, drug use and drug trafficking, identity theft, fraud, extortion, grand theft, and murder. I’m sure there were other charges too, but I think this gives you a solid understanding of my family’s involvement with the criminal justice system.

My entire childhood was spent with legal and illegal drugs moving through our home, people hiding out from outstanding warrants, secret conversations and lies, violence and threats of violence, and officers coming to our home day and night. I also spent a great deal of time in bail bonds offices and visiting family members incarcerated in jails and prisons throughout the state.

Many have questioned why my adoptive parents allowed all this to take place. In fact, if I weren’t so close to the situation, I would probably question it too. In truth, they were elderly, mostly unaware of all that was happening, and thought they were helping their family when they needed a place to stay and food to eat. Their love and desire to help their children blinded their eyes to the true nature of all that was going on, and allowed them to still open their homes when any were in need.

Unfortunately, what they didn’t realize was that in their attempts to help their older children rehabilitate from drugs and stay off the streets, they were allowing a drug and crime-infused environment for their youngest to grow up in … their youngest being me.

Statistics would say that an environment filled with risk factors like these would drastically increase the chances of a child continuing the pattern of drug addiction and involvement in the criminal justice system. Truthfully, I won’t tell you the opportunities didn’t arise more times than I can count.

Speaking in a spiritual sense, I definitely believe it was the Grace of God that protected me.

Speaking in the natural sense, there was also something else taking place within me.

I remember being an extremely aware person, even from a young age. Although I might not have understood all that was taking place as an adult would have, I was aware of the brokenness, pain, hurt, anxiety, and fear that was present within my family and within my home.

I saw my mother lay awake all night long, in fear for her children’s lives. I heard the desperate prayers of her mother’s heart, when she didn’t know anyone was listening. I saw the hopeless looks in my family’s eyes each time they would fall back into addiction and crime.

I also saw something else.

I saw the potential each had within them.

My biological mother had the charm and charisma to influence an entire room of strangers in any direction she desired to influence. She also had a heart to feed and clothe those who didn’t have the means to do so on their own. She would literally give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.

My brother, Melvin, had a sense of humor that could bring joy to anyone. He had an outstanding work ethic, and was a highly sought after plumber.

My brother, Bobby, had an IQ that was off the charts. He could outsmart the smartest lawyers and use his intelligence to solve any problem. His mind was unmatched by any I’ve ever met.

My brother, Timmy, was the epitome of life and dreams. He was also a master mechanic who could fix any automobile you brought him.

My brother, David, was also a charmer. His smile could light up any room and he could easily make friends out of strangers within minutes.

My brother, Tex, was who everyone would consider their best friend and was a renowned cook who helped southern kitchens throughout Tennessee, Texas, Georgia, and Florida get started.

Despite these amazing attributes each had, potential is much like the finest of cars without an engine. It can’t go anywhere.

Tex and Bobby were murdered.

Timmy committed suicide.

My biological mother died of cancer, after years of filling her body with legal and illegal drugs.

David has numerous warrants for his arrest and last I talked to him he was involved with human trafficking.

Melvin is homeless, wandering the streets of Chattanooga, and remains addicted to drugs.

So, what made the difference between the path my siblings chose and the path I am on?

In addition to God’s Grace in my life, I developed a different set of values than those I’ve mentioned to you so far.

As I watched my biological mother use her majestic influence to manipulate people, I developed the values of genuineness and integrity.

As I witnessed lies covering lies, I developed the value of truth.

As I watched family members die, both physically and emotionally, due to their lifestyles, I developed the value of determination.

As I looked into eyes filled with empty hopelessness, I developed the value of hope.

As I heard others say my family member’s lives were worthless and I would grow up the same way, I developed the value of inspiration.

Although I didn’t know this while I was developing these values, our values are developed by our experiences and they drive our thoughts, our behaviors, and our actions. They have the power to mold us, shape us, and define us as humans.

As you read this today, I want you to know, there is hope.

Although you’ve taken actions in your past that have led you to this moment in time, you have the opportunity right now to change the course of your future. One step in this change is taking an intentional inventory of your core values, defining what your core values mean to you, and striving to be aware of how they are guiding your thoughts, choices, and actions.