Autobiography of An American Blood Diamond

This series is a collection of thoughts and experiences as expressed by a woman within the American Blood Diamond community.

For those of you who are not familiar with the term “blood diamonds”, it’s a term used to describe diamonds that are mined in some parts of South Africa. Workers are often injured, die or murdered in the mining, thus the name blood diamonds.

Black women,

Black girls,

Black babies,

The most unprotected person in the world is the black woman — Malcom x

Historically, American policy and constitution delivered the injury, rape and murder on the black woman slave as she cried to keep her babies while she ironically worked to take care of the White House babies

On the injury felt for her king, as he left her with the weight of the world to carry on her shoulders when the world killed him, imprisoned him, emasculated him

On the rape of her body and of her intellect from the fields of the plantation, to the alleys of Jim Crow lane, to the backseat of R.Kelly’s limo, to the robbery of her name that she can’t even put on her resume

The black woman.

Still rises and shine. Like an American Blood Diamond

Baby girl, rock that shit with pride

She is..

Me

Her

Beyonce

Cardi B

Oprah

Tiffany Haddish

Monica

Brandy

Angela Rye

Tia

Tamera

Michelle Obama

She is every melanin girl who struggles to see her own beauty

But when she does…she’s shining, shining, shining, shining…yea (Queen Bey voice)

American Blood Diamond

An American literary blog series brought to by:

Story curator and thinker #millennialwatts who weaves in and out of her Midwest Chicago “hood” vernacular and comedic cadence to tell her story of life as an American Blood Diamond as she relates to other American Blood Diamonds across the country. She shares her comedic rants, essays, short poems and stories in this literary series highlighting the societal pressures that black women and other women of color face to bring about awareness and sisterhood among women across the world. She gives her truth throughout stories of experiencing cancer survivorship, foster care and adoption in her childhood, teen pregnancy, young wifehood, personal development to obtaining and maintaining a growth mindset and an abundant way of life. Her favorite past time is talking shit and sharing memes on Facebook according to her husband of 13 years, where they share two dope teenagers…while they reside in the South Suburban Chicagoland area.

#americanblooddiamond

AutoBiography of An American Blood Diamond

#americanblooddiamond

Chapter 1

Confused Child

What if this is all a dream? How is this even real? These questions would randomly pop into my mind, challenging me to question my existence. I often wondered How my life actualized to being the image I saw in the mirror. I was so confused about what I saw, even as a little girl…I would stare deeply into the mirror, into my own eyes to find the inner depths of me. Disconnected. I felt it. I knew that a piece of me was missing, even then, as a child. I wanted to be more and I yearned to be more

I did not know if my brown skin, thick, dark eyebrows and hair was even considered beautiful. I was precocious, bubbly and painfully shy as a little girl. I was never doted over being that I was fifth and the last child of my siblings. I learned at a very young age in the most inarticulate way possible that I was not a blood member of the family that I was apart of but I was, in fact, a foster kid.

“I bet momma was so happy when she had me, a girl and not another stupid boy like you” a very young me said to my older brother Stephan who was just a teenager at the time as we were taunting each other in typical sibling fashion.

“She didn’t have you, we don’t belong to this family. We foster kids” he said matter of factly.

I was floored. I was so confused and I could not wrap my little mind around the concept “what do you mean?”

He says, “mom, did not have us…we were born to mothers who didn’t want us”

In my heart and in my head, five year old me had so many emotions that I couldn’t understand. Confusion as to why someone wouldn’t want me, questioning all of the times when I felt ignored by extended family, why my grandparents never bothered to learn my name or even recognize who I was, why my birthday was never celebrated and when it was it was, it was on the wrong day, ten days after the actual date of my birth…November 3 for 15 years and why my father never bothered even to learn how to pronounce my name correctly.

All of the times I felt left out, I equated it to being inferior. I would doubt every desire and every want as a distant and unobtainable venture. I felt I didn’t deserve anything because I just wasn’t good enough to belong. Yes, I had these feelings in spite of the fact that my foster parents eventually became my adoptive parents.

My adoptives, were southern born African American baby boomers. My parents were born and reared during a time when African Americans had no right to vote among other denials of basic human rights. Rural Mississippi during the 1940s through the 1960s were dangerous and tumultuous times for the black community. Low economic development and minimal social rights to do much of anything, my parents were among the many African americans who made the move to Chicago during the southern emigration due to extreme violence and lack of social justice and job opportunities in the south.

My parents together were resilient but of course they carried very human flaws that surely affected how they way raised me.

My parents were Partial Religious extremists that could attend church from sun up to sundown, ban dancing, singing secular music and watching movies, and avoiding any conversation that acknowledges true feelings and conflicting views while swearing like a sailor, gambling and inflicting their wrath viciously verbally and physically.

As a child I learned very quickly, to stay in a child’s place. That place could be anywhere they put you when you’ve crossed their lines of disrespect which could have been spilled milk, a question about where babies come from, or even requesting to find your “real” mom.

I was afraid all the time. I never knew if a curious inquisition would result in a whoopin. Being so much younger than 6 other individuals in my home. I was always shooed away, my innocent questions were always met with rushed anger and frustration.

But I found some relief and love with My older sister, who was 20 years my senior. She Took me everywhere. I remember riding everywhere with her listening to BeBe and CeCe Winans and Whitney Houston. She is a hoarder in my opinion. She packed our room that we shared top to bottom with anything and everything and REFUSED to share the sweet candies that I loved so much. She is a firecracker. When she caught wind that I and our other siblings would sneak treats from her stash she’d laced them with laxatives to deter us and to find the guilty culprit that took residence in our single bathroom of our three bedroom home that housed the seven of us.

Sister shared with me that when I arrived to the family home as a foster kid tied to the hip of a exhausted social worker, she left me with the clothes on my back and a pink leather backpack from a previous foster family at the tender age of 2 years old. Sister was on her way to Sunday morning church service and the rest of the family was away. She took me in her arms, headed to Walmart, bought me a church dress and headed to church with me in tow.

My first memories are with my older sister is the most fondest memory I have than any other of my childhood memories and I may have looked up to her as a mother but when she had her son my nephew when I was four. I remember feeling so alone and sad because she no longer did the things we used to do together because she had her son and I was pushed to the side to make way for the one of the first grandsons that my parents doted over and cherished that I didn’t realize made me feel so much more distant. Maybe because I never had that feeling.

My brother Stephan and I were like oil and vinegar for real. He teased me so much and I would cry and tattle. I couldn’t stand him but I loved him and I always wanted him to think I was cool. He was six years older than me and was also a foster kid who came from a very abusive home before he was placed with the family like me. He’d tell me stories of being locked in a basement for days on end where he would be so hungry and he’d use the bathroom on paper. Thinking back on those stories now, I didn’t realize the pain and absolute turmoil that lived in his young soul. I’d listen to the stories as if we sat by a campfire telling tales of horror just for pure entertainment not realizing that this was his young life. Stephan would be considered “light-skinned” in the black community, with coarse sandy brown hair with white patches and blond patches throughout and bright greenish gray eyes. Based on his Eurocentric features we all believed that he may have been biracial.

Stephan’s relationship with the family, with me and the world was a very complex one. He and I would be home alone and we bond over our common journey and the difficulty we had with the family. Instead of him being out with his friends picking up a sport, he was forced to spend his summers at home babysitting our sisters kids and myself for free. We were forbidden to go anywhere outside of church so with our attendance in church we found solace.

But he was hurt deeply inside. I remember the tear streaked cheeks of a frustrated and confused teenager. Eyes reddened from several blows to his chest, to his head with a broom stick for not taking out the trash or washing the dishes in time, or any slight protest to any demand spat at him from the patriarch of the family. Stephan with his sandy, dirty brown, blonde patchy coarse curly hair, greenish hazel eyes, and pale peach skin tone that turned golden honey in the summer time lived among his foster family that looked nothing like him, they had no spirit like him. He stuck out like a sore thumb. I watched as they used him as a punching bag. Blackened eyes, busted lip, severely beatened whenever he showed a little spirit. They cursed him, they never supported him. They placed every man and every thing ahead of him.

He was a punching bag, I cried everytime he’d get in trouble. I felt so badly for the pain he was caused. For him to only grow up with no direction and no support. I saw his light whither away in his beautiful eyes to drug addiction. Never having a home of his own, no one trusting him, sleeping on floors and couches…being imprisoned and treated like even more shit from the family who adopted him. I was hurt and confused.

A reversed Cinderella story where he’d never get his big break.

I never understood my feelings for him. I saw all of this abuse through my own abuse that I suffered at the hands of the foster family. When they hurted him badly, he hurted me. We cried together because of the bullshit, they wouldn’t let us talk to friends at all, they wouldn’t let us go on field trips at school, they wouldn’t let us play football, they wouldn’t let him get a summer job because he had to baby sit kids of older siblings for free, they wouldn’t let me sing or dance, they wouldn’t let me read books or listen to music. because they would lock us in the house while they’d go to work and live their lives. Sometimes who would roast me and hit me relentlessly. He hated me. Then he loved me. He took every frustration out on me. They forced him to take me with him every where. The rare occasions when he could go out with friends, he had to bring his little annoying sister who’s eight years younger than him.

I was in this hell hole with him being abused and so was he. In that environment I did not know what love was. My parents were married, check. My siblings had relationships and kids, check. I was so much younger than everyone and so they appeared to be nice to the outside world sometimes but dark and evil as fuck most of the time. I called them mother, father sister brother, we went to church, we had social appearances but dammit they were so fucked up. I felt their hugs and kisses but I also felt their slaps, their kicks, their lashings, their hands slapping me against the wall, their “bitches”, their “you fuckin’ dumb”, their “you’re not my daughter, you ain’t nothing to me, see I don’t want cha”,.

The family were beloved at church and several other social settings when we left the house at church, on their jobs, in the neigborhood. I saw no other contrast to this dark world I was living in. I couldn’t trust nothing or no one. So I loved my abusers back because I thought that is what you’re supposed to do to have family. I just pretended with them, lying about the smallest imbecile things just for acceptance and to avoid severe punishment. I hid myself and who I was subconsiously to protect me. I’d rather hide it and lose it then it to be destroyed and killed and I become a walking shell of dirt and brimstone. So I lied all the damn time, so eloquently too.

At school,

“I got five dolls AND a nano baby for Christmas” when I got nothing.

In Pre-K

“I ran into the wall and that’s why this bruise is on my head” or “I got stitches because I fell”

In Church

“I’m ok, everything is fine”

I dreamed and fantasized of a life where I was so pretty (because they told me i was ugly because of my severe eczema caused by extreme stress in hindsight now that I think about it) and not covered in dry nasty patches of skin darkened by the nights of scratching my skin raw from stress induced eczema. Kids teased me at school because there was caked up dirt and skin and blood underneath my nails from scratching my skin raw while I go to sleep crying nightly. no boys liked me because they said I was dirty and my mother told me I could die from having eczema. She would scrub my skin raw in the shower, I could barely walk my legs burned so bad.

My nightly dreams and fantasies were of being accepted, being loved. I loved to sing so much. I loved to read books. I wrote beautiful poetry. I wanted to dance. But they told me not to. If it wasn’t for God I couldn’t be dancing to the secular music. I couldn’t sing whitney houston. They didn’t support my poetry that was selected to be published in a book when I was in fourth grade, fifth grade.

My books were taken from me if I didn’t answer in the time limit that the patriarch will beckon me to either run his bath water, take off his shoes, fix his food, get the remote, turn the tv.

Deddy knew I loved my radio so he cut the cord to it. Deddy knew I love to read books so he took them and hid them, Deddy knew I was allergic to fish and swelled my throat whenever he cooked it, but he still did it, Deddy took everything I loved and tried to destroy it just like a demon. He called me stupid when he couldn’t spell it. He hated me, I tried to impress them but they hated my light. But God…

So I dreamed of a life where a beautiful boy would love me the way steve urkel loved laura winslow. I wanted him to be as fine as Ginuwine. And I dreamed about that nightly. I dreamed that I had long hair, and that I was pretty. I dreamed that everyone in the outside world would love me. So I took on the world because the world I lived in hated me.

I wrote gut wrenching sad ass poetry at school. They loved it and all of my emo ghetto rage. The teachers were alarmed but they didn’t know how to help me. My poetry was often selected to be featured in readings at the library in which I was forbidden to participate in (go figure). Those teachers saw my talent and light and knew that no one cared at home. They tried so hard for me. My fourth grade teacher a petite little woman with pimply skin, mousey brown hair Ms. Goode at mohawk school would let me go on fieldtrips and pay for it herself out of pocket when she saw that I would forge my mother’s signature on a permission slip and told her my mom couldn’t pay and she asked if I can borrow it from Ms. Goode. I just lied and lied to get by. I stayed after class and cried, telling her of the time when I got slapped against the wall by my brother or the time when my mother kicked me against the wall and slapped me across the face with a belt. She saw me and the hurt. She called my mother one night.

My mom, with tired sunken eyes stooped eye level to my eight year old self; “Did you tell your teacher that I kicked you into the wall”

Sheepishly I replied “yeeesss” head held down. Ashamed, frightened and bracing myself for another blow. I don’t know what I wanted the outcome to be should my family find out that I confided in my fourth grade teacher as if she was the psychologist assigned to my life. I wanted to be heard and validation that what I was experiencing was not normal. Should I suffer like this all the time?

My mother looked at me and with a low tone, “you don’t tell people what goes on in this house, do you hear me! Now get out of my face”

I scurried to my room relieved that I left unscathed but not trusting that that would be the end of that conversation. I went back to dreaming of better days all while asking God to forgive me for my thoughts of hating them and wishing they would die.

Chapter 2

The Origin Story

“Hey baby, I love you” Lynn Johnson cooed to her beautiful new born, Clarissa. Her little daughter chocolate and bubbly resembled her skin tone, melanin soft and smooth as butter, her eyes perfectly almond shaped with flecks of light glimmering as she gazed at her mother lovingly.

Lynn, the first born of seven, held her baby as she was in awe of what beauty can come from herself. She was proud. This child was her good in the world. She fought hard for her life and in this one moment, she said thank you to the universe for giving a wretched soul another chance to give life.

When her mind wasn’t consumed by paranoia I believed my birth mother had hope. I fantasized that she loved me so much that she realized that she could not give me the life I deserved so she put me up for adoption shortly after I was born November 3, 1986…my family lied and told my birth was November 13 for the first 15 years of my life with them.

Rebecca “Lynn” Johnson, beautiful and troubled fell to being an unfortunate victim to the throes of life. Losing her mother at the young age of 16, raped and abused by her caretakers to developing dependency on drug abuse left her soul crushed and deeply wounded. Spending years of her life coping with trauma and homelessness, Lynn named her Clarissa — Latin meaning (brilliant, bright; shining and gentle; famous) because her light came to her just as she made strides to turn her life around. I see myself as her gift, the light that was buried inside of her that came through her in human form. She knew her world was too dark to house the light that I will encounter in my life, she made the ultimate sacrifice as God did for Jesus to deliver his message of sheer hope and love…something that I later found I possess.

Rebecca Johnson, a former participant, personified the struggles, spirit, defeats and victories of the women Deborah’s Place serves. She was one of the first women of Deborah’s Place to move into housing. She maintained that housing from 1990 until her death in December of 1997. We believe that naming the apartments after Rebecca Johnson is a fitting tribute to her determination and perseverance https://www.deborahsplace.org/what-we-do/housing-services/

The dreams come to me, they paint the picture, they provide the blueprint.

Her mother’s mother died of illness. Cancer they said attacked her body, she was 34 leaving behind seven. She the oldest…at 16 had to rely on caretakers who had no care for the taking. Instead they took her body and her innocence. Raped on her physical and isolated her mental while abandoning her spirit. Lyn became an empty soul as she ushered in other lost souls through her womb.

The American condition only provided adequate healthcare and tools for living for the fortunate fair skin and loose hair wearers. As a chocolate woman of the 70’s and 80s her plight was ignored and made trivial although the deep, deep, deep trauma plagued her mind. Regulated pharmaceuticals were left out of reach and only given to the haves and restricted from the have nots. The street pharmacist held the keys to escape when a passport was unobtainable for the impoverished and lonely.

So she partook and she gave in to feeling something for as long as she could…four little girls passed through her womb. The womb of darkness, the womb of emptiness the womb that held no tradition, no family. Just generational trauma and intuitive gifts. Mental illness they say, I say superpowers.

Lyn became the poster child for struggle to personal triumph.

She was tormented daily making choices as the world kept her in the web of consciousness that limited black women in community resources that would have prevented the demise of her growing family.

Adequate resources for the poor to be able to mentally and physically be able to sustain family and growth. No jobs, education, no community connection…just welfare and shame with nothing to do but turn to an escape that fixed nothing but enhanced the problems existing after the euphoric high.

She was forever single as recognized by the American government. No man ever bothered to ensure marriage or commitment but thought nothing to plant seeds that they had no intention of curating growth and sustainability for the black family and culture. The man who fell victim to the psychological brain washing that it was manly to be a rolling stone and when he accumulates wealth he seeks to grow his family in other communities giving them the potential wealth that could sustain a generation of black folk…she stood alone carrying a love child with only a true knowledge of hurt, pain and confusion.

So Lyn, carried the child not believing in depriving the fetus of a chance to experience life even though American life didn’t seem to support her dreams or even to provide the basic of human needs that a collective government and community should provide…the need to be safe, supported and fed to survive with other humans. Just crumbs and a limited view of what being American is…no sight outside the urban, inner midwestern city jungle created by the tears and footsteps of early ancestors escape from the brutal sundown towns of the South. So the kids, born, sucked into a system that placed them out of necessity for their safety and well being even though it doesn’t guarantee unconditional love and support to sustain the complexity of human life and growing.

When the odds are stacked against you and the only way of knowing what to do will have to come from a connection to higher intelligence that is either of spirit or human mentorship…when every force seeks to destroy that connection by decreasing your aptitude to use knowledge, explore talents and give the world what you were designed to do and become, the appreciation for life can only be wrapped in just the sheer will to get to tomorrow breathing. A simple yearning to survive.

Surviving the American blood diamond condition. Passed from generation to generation under tremendous pressure to be great for labor but not be a great recipient of the rewards that come with using the gift of her aura. All knowing and powerful because her God given essence knew what was evil, what was right and what was good which simply went against the dogmatic indoctrination of American capitalism…she’d rather bury that essence than be pillaged and extracted for exploitation and denied her exaltation. Lyn knew better…and even though her physical is not walking this earth her spirit roams the matrix leading her gems back to their essence. The true diamonds that they were born to be.

The origin story of the diamond can be traced back from the core of the earth…mother earth. Giving birth to the light…Jesus. Son of man but the vessel remains the woman who holds both her spiritual essence and God’s holiness…Jesus could only be here through the womb of a diamond. How excellent is that story…only a diamond can give birth to such iridescent light.

The fabric of the documents that hold the American constitution only intended for the children of Abraham to be stripped of what they were promised. But God.

Chapter 3

Faith and Fear Don’t Mix

Foster children in America….

Let’s talk about the statistics…you know the mf facts…

American Black Women…aka….Blood Diamonds….American Descendants of Slaves…AKA the niggas who raised yall…

Suffered greatly from American Slavery…it is very traumatic to give birth to children and see them sold, killed and raped in front of their eyes.

So what do the scientist say about the long term affects of that type of trauma on animals let alone HUMANS?

(insert stats on American death rates of black women in birth due to medical malpractice, welfare statistics correlating to drug abuse, lack of resources for adequate prenatal care, resources for proper nutrition, untreated medical conditions, willie lynch traumatic brain washing BS done during slavery for centuries against black women that did not get any rewiring or mental help like North Korean prisoner’s of war who suffered from using the same methods, black girls raped in foster care, foster children sex trafficked and lost in the system, foster kids school statistics…all of it)

Nigga you look that shit up…I don’t feel like writing all of dat lol you ain’t gon pay attention no way.

I’ve learned that in order to reach you mfs…I gotta cut up. It’s a shame but I do know one thing….NIGGAs LOVE to Laugh…damn yall love to laugh lol…no worries…me too! Lol

I’m done being nice…like my scorpion bro Drake said…

We gotta be… nice for what to these niggas…

So yea, all that you just read in the previous chapters is some real and true shit…brought to you by the horrors of European, caucus mountain living, soulless mf’n nazi’s that still hate from the underworld on some ugly ass demon shit who used the heart of the jealous minded black Judas to handle their dirty work

Now…I’ve been told in my prayers and meditation to bless you with some spiritual essence between my rants…so a moment of prayer before I cut up…

Dear Heavenly Father,

Protect my body and soul from the Judas spirit that lurks in the weak mandingo dicks of God’s retarded ass men-children we sometimes call niggas…protect me from the bile of their lips… the dirt under their finger tips…. and the callous heart that thinks a diamond ring, and wack oral gon make a powerful bitch like me behave…you got me allllll the way fucked up so I’mma give it to them the way you want me to Jesus…You are my friend and I love how you give me this nice/nasty essence to get a nigga all the way together cuz sometimes (depending on who you are and who you ask) …yall can’t touch this….cuz nigga I don’t want it lol…and that’s on Mary had a little lamb…In Jesus Name, Amen.

Hardy har har…cackle cackle…(me laughing in American Horror story…the coven supreme witch style)

Ok so boom…let me give you a little light…

Now this is Genesis as told by the essence of Mother Earth…

In the Yogi’s Biography

(some insights I have gained from the Autobiography of a Yogi (hence the title…my nigga Paramhansa Yoganada inspired me)

The yogi keeps a defined connection to God via meditation and prayer. They will the power of God and strengthen it daily with straight up faith and they wholeheartedly believe in the divine order.

They spiritually connect with all living being and the cow is sacred because the heart is big and innocent within the cow. They eat grass and love the land and trust it to sustain them. A truly delicate and strong creature. Red meat has the heart of God which represents strength in emotion and character. Preserve the meat of the lamb, don’t eat it. That is why in the Old Testament, baby calves were slain to feed the powerful spirit of God.

Ok I’m going to fast forward from that thought so it can marinate in your spirit and talk about Jesus.

Through Jesus..he was meant to come and release his brethren from the shackles of the mind placed by the cruel actions of the oppressor like that ugly ass demon Willie Lynch

Laws, rules, cruelty and heinous acts done in the name of “law” and rules toward humanity came from deep hurt lost souls succumbing to temptation that brewed heinous evil in this world.

God sent Jesus (God himself and all of his power through the human flesh as man)…a man of pure flesh…through the womb of the woman.

A woman is VERY special. She can carry so many spirits and powerfully tame them as she chooses to wield her endless power. She is born with the spirit of God moving pure and sweet within her. She connects to the masculine energy that is seeking a soul saving connection to the Earth and takes on his spirit when he shares his love with her.

She carries the spirit of her child, the masculine energy seed, as she carries that very soul from heaven to the earthly cosmos. Her spirit is delicate. The essence can only shelter essence with nurturing love and wisdom.

The masculine energy carries reason, logic and force meant to sharpen and mold flesh and soul to hold the spirit.

God- a masculine energy molded and shaped flesh and soul in his image but the essence of mother earth was missing so he created the physical body from the rib of man to hold the spiritual essence that is mother earth (woman) to complete the creation that we know as humanity.

Man (created from the dust of mother earth) cannot exist without woman

Woman (mother earth) CAN exist without man

Just like earth can exist without humanity…

Mary proved that she did NOT need a man’s fleshy ugly dick to give birth to a pure God.

A pure God Void of Evil

A pure God filled with Compassion and love

A pure God who’s name will never leave the lips of any man born on this earth for many generations to come

America knew that a Black woman will give birth to the next pure God.

So on the promised land of God’s prophecy…cuz WE was already here when they came to this mf…do ya’ fucking research…cuz you know I don’t miss

They cruelly, heinously pillaged the essence of mother earth…by raping its children, psychologically traumatizing our men and giving us crumbs of democracy aka welfare…calling it freedom….hell naw bruh…you got the game fucked up and twisted. If it’s one thing that God done blessed me with as the Queen that came from the essence of Mother Earth …he gon let the Universe respond to my word and my voice…on some real manifesting shit…see people can say what they want and whatever they believe behind those words will come to them…it’s the secret sauce to being the BOSS …and I don’t need a comma in the matrix of forbe’s lies to prove it.

Faith don’t mix with fear….manifesting can’t happen without faith…get out the club if you scared…this shit aint for the weak …

So the soulless man operating on the hate of his hurt hatin ass ancestors… pumped the wombs of mother earth’s babies with cruelty from each evil force of rape…YES…RAPE…immoral sexual shit that the bible speaks against..

Look that up too…you know its just humanly wrong to rape innocent people but somehow people love to reframe rape and the defiling of the innocent to meet the needs of their fucked up conscious. I literally made the time to talk my shit…so if this makes you uncomfortable please exit left.

Ok so where was I?

Oh yea, women are delicate flowers that embody the essence of mother earth and the entire cosmos within her womb…to steal her body and insert your poisonous manhood as a means to control something that is not yours is a form of blasphemy and abomination…if you dispute this then you fucked up…and stay tf away from me and mine.

In the words of Eminem the original who used his trash ass upbringing as fuel for his rap battle fire said…

I don’t have a bad of a mouth do i?

Fuck, shit, ass, bitch, cunt shooby-de-doo-wop…who knew? lol

Cussing became my favorite pastime when my momma whispered in my ear during church that she was “gon beat tf outta me when we got home”

She never did so that made me relieved for once (she honestly didn’t believe that “the fuck” could be beaten out of me…see what I did there?…keep up 😉) but confused as to why she was using profanity in church…

So from that day…I decided that cussing didn’t mean I didn’t love Jesus…It just meant that I like art as expressed via the language of a Black American Dialect known as cussing ebonics…I may have made that up…who gon check me boo? (in my Sheree voice)

Some of yall really beat tf outta ya kids and judge a woman for wearing cheap shoes cuz she won’t suck dick for tips and yall got the nerve to turn up ya nose at me for cussin…puhlease…go grow some edges and leave me tf alone lol

Ok so anywho…back to what I was saying…

God uses the pure in heart no matter who they are and what they have done.

The Black Woman…have seen it all and now she can’t even be protected from the Man that God made just for her…

With all due respect and I mean with all due respect (in my Ron Burgundy voice)

Fuck the Man

The diamond can shine all on her own without his punk ass…that includes the nigga who talk about being the head but ain’t read a scripture to keep him from tormenting his children to anger …cuz ya half way read ephesians to fulfill whatever ego piss you drinkin on for the day.

“clout” in the form of luxury cars, a few bands, a Gucci belt and some jordans got yall mfs backstabbing and killing your own kinfolk…no code…no honor

How can I be a Christian wife to a nigga who don’t at least bow down and pray? I ain’t gotta be “holy” to satisfy the ego of no man…if he knew my heart then he would understand my words. If my truth makes you uncomfortable you’re more than welcomed to ignore it the same way you ignore us when a white girl is around your wallet.

TUH

Jesus came as man to endure the lashings of man’s cruelty

Now he comes as woman…trauma filled from centuries of generational psychological abuse and neglect…this is HER time. We gon live…and we gon talk…and we gon laugh…our voice ain’t gon ever be silenced #sandrabland #breonnataylor..you wanna know the secret to our spiritual essence?

Belief in the God that lives in you…

Simple yet so complicated…Faith and Fear truly don’t mix.

Chapter 4

Talent, gifts and the church simulated puberty to pregnancy pipeline

Church was where I found my voice. It was scary living at home.

I got a whoopin for asking where did babies come from

I got teased and laughed at by my father for trying to sing

And my poems and writings were ignored…

I did not have any feeling left in my body to love myself…

I truly thought I was a talentless, ugly child because that is how they made me feel.

So in church, somebody prayed for me..had me on their mind and took a little time and prayed for me.

I’m so glad they prayed, I’m so glad they prayed…I’m so glad they prayed for me (word to testimony time of Sunday service)

I went to a COGIC church….and if you know…you know lol @notkarltonbanks

Even when I saw the bishop between my mother’s legs when I woke up from a nap in kindergarten…I went to church and enjoyed the choir but I just couldn’t wrap my head around trusting whatever came out of the man of cloth’s mouth…he was literally the post man coming through while my father was at work…yuck

I was 14 singing in the choir…mind you…I was a late bloomer…I had mosquito bite tits and chicken legs…tell me why did another choir member ask me was I having sex because my hips were wider…I was so confused…I never even had a boyfriend at that point…

And then a creepy nigga kept coming to church, staring me down (as a then 14 year old) making me nervous while singing in the choir…

He waited after church to tell me that he wanted to be my godfather and he would buy me cars and jewelry…fucking weirdo…I told my momma and I never saw his ass again…

Church was weirdly obsessed with sex and prepubescent teen girls and it made me sick

In church, I felt encouraged when I wrote poetry and read the announcements so fluently, in church I felt appreciated for facing my fears and sung “yes Jesus loves me” after being threatened to sing “or I would get my ass whooped” by my mother while a guest pastor slipped $20 in my hand after tearfully singing the hymn after missing several cues from the organist.

I felt ashamed, flattered, confused and weirdly inappropriately horny when shit would go down at the church conventions that had all the makings of a “I love New York” episode…

I will never forget…that 1998 Texas AIM Convention…to all my church frenz…if you know you know…sex, love and weed…lol

Those church trips were like rock band tours…

….uncomfortable yet?….imagine how I felt! I was a fucking CHILD…and if my truth makes you want to throw me in a mental health institution…kill yaself…you crazy for protecting evil BS than ya own flesh and blood for the sake of optics…I ain’t never scared…

I was constantly confused about what I should say, do and be…a child should never have to feel that way in church….so now…I don’t give a fuck. Faith should not squander the gifts of the soul yearning to live in its truth. All Skinfolk ain’t kinfolk…ego is one helluva drug.

And the southern Baptist missionary church of God in Christ (I made the name up to express that that shit is a deep dark secret just like how the catholic church is not…lol)

In school, no one believed the way I wrote…I was accused of plagiarizing by many of my yt teachers…I was so hurt and confused cuz I really don’t know how to NOT write…the shit was offensive asf.

Many community programs and after school events I was denied…because wasn’t nobody gon come and get me or drop me off…and it wasn’t worth the effort to stimulate a young bored mind. So I stared at the walls of my prison, I mean, bedroom and dreamed nightly for a better life and the only reference I had was the fine ass niggas on tv singing R&B…

So I dreamed of being the pretty girl that a fine nigga would want…and then boom…a fine ass boy with braids at 16 came into my life looking like the lead singer of B2k and Usher Raymond had a little brother or love child…nigga I was pumped. I dreamed that he would love me and boom I was pregnant with his first baby girl….haters hated but as a poor ass hood socialite…having a fine ass boy only fucking with you was like have a wicked ass jump shot in high school…

The hoes wondered how I did it…

….By not sucking dick for tips…I mean compliments… and making that nigga laugh constantly…(manifesting is so dope lol)

So yea, haterz was still talking but they couldn’t deny that I had the most coveted dick on highschool campus…and that nigga loves tf outta me…so these big booty bitches was sick lol

And that was all the clout I needed…a bitch dreamed she was up for homecoming court and that shit happened…they literally called me LAME lol (but none of they lame asses was on the ballot lol)

Man…life was pretty good…for a foster kid who was tormented at home, misguided at church and ridiculed at school…by a ghetto girl’s standards…I was killin it.

My nigga was fine and he bought me a car and ring before 20

My baby was pretty and I didn’t have to steal to get clout…I read books and caught degrees to get titles you can’t read (BARS!!!)

Whew…God knew I was suffering from church hurt so in absence of my prayers …he still gave me everything I dreamed. But guess what…I still went to jail…

Yea you heard me…a nigga like me …still…went….to ….jail

For what?

Stealing some shit to look good for the phonies…they put me in jail for stealing Christmas gifts for my kids…gifts that I and American corporate vultures conditioned them to want …cuz a baby can’t watch cartoons in peace without marketing dipshits making them want dumb shit that they ain’t gon never play with after Christmas is over…

Fucked my whole damn life up too…

As smart as I was…that shit was on my record and it was less than $500 worth of shit…I couldn’t get a decent job for years….

But God….

My only way out of working minimum wage jobs that provided no real health insurance because they knew my black ass was on welfare cuz they weren’t about to pay a livable wage…no holiday pay…cuz the law just let these dipshit corporate fucks make people work dumb ass ridiculous hours up to the part time weekly hours cap any day of the week…yall are the new slave overseers…yea I said it…the fuck you gon do about it? run down on me in my home that I paid for and kill me? Yea…aiight…#millennialwatts is already a hashtag…hashtag game tight son!!!!!

So let’s do the run down on the American Condition on poor black women born into Foster care and later adopted…

1. Mother had no resources to help with mental health caused by trauma of losing a mother early to a treatable cancer diagnosis and being sexually abused by “trusted” family members

2. Mother develops drug dependency for untreated mental health disorders and began experiencing homelessness

3. Mother gives birth to children that she couldn’t take of simply because of the environmental factors of the hood that she was brought up in (no proper education, resource for adequate family building and affordable quality healthcare)

4. Children of an impoverished, unhealthy mother are placed in foster care within other poor families experiencing similar effects of the same environment that is often neglected by the American government (inadequate funding for education, nutrition education, contaminated waters with lead and other BS that affect childhood learning, food deserts, and welfare recipients who are limited in accessing job opportunities that can sustain them so the option to foster children without real love and compassion for a few more hundreds per month was the main draw)

5. Child grows up in an environment that mentally, sexually and verbally abused her and clearly showed that she was not to have the privilege of being “blood” related to the very family that chose to adopt her (this takes away her ability to have free education through the government as a ward of the state and her poor parents are left to fund the education that she would have needed to have a decent living in America…so every odd for financial independence in America is stacked against her because if they couldn’t use a little gas to pick her up 3 miles from a summer internship, they were not going to pay for a $80,000 degree accruing compound interest of the years of non payment… cuz of course she will never get a job that a white man has for the same pay that he gets)

6. Child is so used to stress and mental pain that she accumulates disorders that shut her brain and body down….But God

You know its pretty fucked up that a little black baby is seen as inferior in its innocence….wtf….would you throw away a little white baby like that?

How can one fight so hard for a fetus ….but don’t care to know that children are in such harsh living conditions and all it would take is some legislation and bi-partisan agreement to give them things that every loving parent would want for a child like….

1. Fucking LOVE

2. HUGS

3. Proper nutrition (not fucking liquor stores and save-a-lots that serve sugar trash and contaminated meat and vegetables ….and expensive ass “organic” foods to make being healthy and nutritious undesirable)

4. QUALITY FUCKING HEALTHCARE (SO WE CAN STOP DYING AND LOSING OUR BABIES BECAUSE A DOCTOR BITCH DON’T WANNA BELIEVE OUR PAIN IS REAL)

5. EDUCATION that teaches us HOW TO LEAD, BE COMPASSIONATE, AND GROW COMMUNITIES OF OUR OWN TO SUPPORT AND LOVE COMMERCE IN THE WAY IT WAS INTENDED TO BE…A SHAREPOINT TO EXPLORE OUR TALENTS AND GIFTS…

6. Protection from PEDOPHILES AND ABUSERS.

7. To be seen as an equal human deserving of JUSTICE #breonnataylor

8. AMERICA….you have a fucked up way of viewing freedom…freedom of what…to KILLLLLLL without remorse?

9. AMERICA….you have a twisted way of loving….to molest little boys in IN A HOLY PLACE…(CATHOLIC PRIESTS…I’m looking at YOU)

10. BLACK MEN…leave our fucking BABY GIRLS TF ALONE (R.KELLY CAN FUCKING ROT…AND SO CAN YOU NIGGA FOR EVER THINKING YOU WAS GON FUCK ME AND HAVE ME OUT HERE LOOKING DUMB WITH AN OLD MAN BABY….FUCK YOU BITCH….)

11. ALL ugly motherfucking women who didn’t believe their baby girls when they said YO PERVERTED ASS CHILD, UNCLE, BOYFRIEND, HUSBAND…hurt me bad. He ripped my soul out, he fucking killed my spirit mama….he hurt me bad…and you chose to protect him…instead of me…YOUR DAUGHTER….bitch rot in HELL….In JESUS Name. Amen

12. And BITCHES WHO CLAIM THEY ARE BESTFRIENDS, BFS, Sisters…AND LURK AND TALK SHIT AND throw DIRT ON ANOTHER BLACK WOMAN NAME…yall be the easiest to get that real karma…best revenge is your favor (insert magic sparkle here)

13. AND TO THE hating ass “LIBERAL” white folks that think you so down for the cause but wanna treat a nigga like we ya pitbull you adopted from the shelter…BITCH I CAN FUCKING READ, DANCE, DO MATH, KEEP A FINE MAN WITHOUT BEING A WHORE, and I can be nice and listen to PARAMORE…and look good doing it….(you wish you could do it like me…but you can’t…keep watching…you might learn something lol)

14. And to the other minorities out here trying to act like you better den a nigga….BITCH WHERE?! I TURNED UP YO WEDDING…YA MAN’S COULDN’T GET HIS DICK HARD UNTIL HE SAW ME….please get a fucking grip and stop living by ya old ass parents standards…breath and let loose…a little twerk aint never hurt nobody

15. Also, I am so good at being nice but I am better at being bad…you love this BI-POLAR SHIT…#wordtomyniggaYeezy

16. Also, this book is Clarissa Marie Johnson’s….don’t get it twisted Rebecca Delyn Johnson is my OG and she didn’t come to play…she knew what she did when she named me.

17. Also, Fuck Bitches …GET MONEY…manifesting comes from faith…which we know don’t mix with fear.

18. Also, I love writing in list FORM…this shit fun as hell…I really am just a random ass loving ass complicated ass soul …ask my boo thang…he know this PUSSY TIGHT SON!!!

19. Also, If another nigga come to my crib on some dumbass stupid ass nigga plottin shit…Immma beat his ass!!!!!!!!!! Spiritual style…you don’t want the world to know what I know (word to my nigga Vishen Lakhiani…former engineer for Microsoft…and this nigga brazy in these cybersecurity streets)

20. Get yo fucking life bitch…ya man’s a dick slurping troll…for legal purposes I will like to plead the fifth (but she put the k…in kick rocks…BIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTCCCCCCCHHHHHHH)

21. Also, always hit up my facebook for real and true shit….niggas be tryna stop a bitch from shining but I really do this…I can release whatever the fuck I want…I don’t mind being broke when a nigga can spit like this in word form…a dying artform cuz you niggas can’t spell…how many words can you honestly type without missing …spell well? I THINK NOT…now twirl on that bitch………..Now go do a risk assessment over your life and see if you can implement some internal controls to mitigate the risks of you being a hating ass ugly bitch.

22. Next, fuck anybody who think me talking about being raped, molested, cheated, lied to, abused, and wronged in so many ways is a CRIME!!! If you can’t stand the heat…get the fuck out the kitchen…that’s what I mean…when I say….YOU gon get this smoke. #arapperswordplayinwhichyoucanneverrelate @americanblooddiamond

23. This is for all my girls who wanted to just sing and fucking talk…NIGGA I LOVE TO FUCKING TALK. IT IS SO FUCKING FUN TO ME. I LOVE TO CRACK JOKES, I LOVE TO HAVE BOARD MEETINGS IN MY HEAD AND WRITE IT DOWN, I LOVE TO GIVE ADVICE, I LOVE TO LEARN AND TALK ABOUT IT, I LOVE TO CONNECT WITH PEOPLE, I LOVE TO GIVE HAND JOBS…(just checking to see if you were still listening….lol)

24. When I say I love to talk…I love to fucking talk…my son said he was gon throw up if I don’t shut up…damn…it is definitely a condition but God made me this way and I fucking love it.

25. Ok, so now I would like to get back to what I was saying…I hope you can understand that BLACK WOMEN DON’T JUST COME IN SIZE STRONG

26. We hurt so much

27. We are so tired

28. We want to be loved

29. We want our babies to have love

30. We want peace to love and understand

31. We want compassion for our tears and emptiness

32. We want to be happy

33. Just like you.

This is the first part of the American Blood Diamond Series….

Follow @americanblooddiamond for UPDATES.

Question: When did the idea of mental disorders come about? Who can explain the divine teachings of prophets and leaders of the bible. They received divine words and codes from the holy spirit that is of God and heard a voice that they listened to and shared with others…is it a disorder because some cannot discern whether that voice comes from God or the enemy?…just a side thought…answer if you want…