Going Home

Author's note:

I don't know where this story came from. One morning I awoke and the story was there as a dream, all the names, places, everything just there with a voice saying 'Write my story' in my head. So I have. At that stage the story had no ending. The following morning I again awoke with the last part of the story in my head and again the command to write it. So here it is. I hope you enjoy reading it and also hope that in some way it is thought-provoking for you and adds some meaning to your life. It has to mine.

*****

Lana greeted her soon-to-be ex-students formally at the door as they entered. Without exception they were dressed impeccably in clean, freshly-pressed clothing. She compared them with the mental images she still had of their first day at the academy, when they were bedraggled, unkempt, without pride or hope. She looked into each of their eyes, saw the hope, determination and love burning deeply inside and almost wept for the changes they had made in their lives.

She looked also at their support people who accompanied them to this celebration of their achievement. The pride in their eyes was very moving, humbling, as she thought of the journey they too had taken in their lives and in the lives of all they came into contact with. It was hard to stay dry-eyed in the midst of all this emotion.

When everyone had settled, the small college hall was packed, with people standing at the back. Never, in all the time she had been in this precinct, had she envisaged that there would be this turnout for the graduands of her first course. She was deeply moved by the show of support from the West Bronx community and especially from the loved ones of those whom she had spent the year teaching, helping, supporting and loving.

The Principal of the college, members of the Board of Trustees and Lana took their places on the small stage at one end of the hall. The Principal called the gathering to order and then welcomed everyone to this graduation ceremony for the first intake of students. He spoke briefly of the support the community had offered to the school, the changes that he had seen take place in the students, his gratitude, and that of the community, for Lana's involvement with the program and as principal tutor of the course and mentor for the students. He congratulated the students on graduating from the course and sincerely thanked all the support people who had accompanied these students through the changes they had made to themselves during the past year. He then called on Lana to give her final address to the students.

I took the stage, the microphone and a deep breath, fighting back the tears of emotion as I looked into the eyes of the beautiful people I had guided during the year and who would soon be free to live their lives and to achieve their highest goals. I took a deep breath and began:

"Today is a day you will remember for the rest of your lives. I know how far you have come during the year, many of you from broken homes, some of which you have helped to mend; many of you given the choice of this course or jail; most of you have given up drugs during the year, a very worthwhile outcome in itself; many of you chose this course instead of life on the streets which would quite possibly have led to your early deaths. I know how far you have come this year because I also have taken your journey. I also came from a broken home, was unwanted, uncared for, unloved. I also risked my life on the streets of this great country, and I also came through with scars and increased wisdom."

I paused to take a sip of water and compose myself as much as possible.

"During the year we have concentrated on your stories; showing that these are just stories, they do not bear any relationship to who you really are, what your potential really is or what your capabilities are for the betterment of yourself, the community and humankind in general. So today I would like to finish this course by telling you my story so that you know why this course even exists and how come you have learned the skills, attitudes and wisdom that you will leave with today.

"As a young child my parents were always fighting. I never felt safe in my own home. Usually my father was drunk, very often my mother was stoned, we had little or no food to eat and frequently I had to scrounge what I could from other people's rubbish bins. By the age of 11 I was street-wise, I knew how to con money off people who had any, I had been caught shoplifting many times and I had been sexually abused by my father and other men on many occasions. I knew how it felt to be threatened with death, to be hungry, thirsty and to be completely unwanted and unloved. The authorities gave me one last chance; I was to remain in the custody of my grandmother or be incarcerated in a government children's home. My grandmother took me in, cared for me, taught me and showed me what kindness and humanity really was.

"One of my grandmother's greatest teachings was the importance of language. People judge us first by how we speak, write or communicate. People who are well spoken, who enunciate words clearly, who have a wide vocabulary and who pronounce their words correctly are far more easily accepted in mainstream society than those who do not. This is the communication age, they say, yet very many people have not learned how to communicate. You have only to read the writings of those who send texts, write blogs, contribute to Facebook, write emails and tweet to realize that there is a vast apparent gulf between those who can communicate their thoughts concisely and clearly and those who simply burble. The world has less and less time for burblers. That is why I have focused so much of this course on communication skills. Use them wisely, say or write what you think and mean, yet do it with compassion, especially for those who have not yet learnt the skills of communication that you now have. If in doubt ask, 'What would love say or do now?' before you respond.

"Another great teaching of my grandmother was manners. As I have mentioned before, one of her favourite sayings was 'Manners maketh the man'. Ironically she also said 'Clothes maketh the man' as well, so I guess they were both important. Manners are the oil that lubricate society. Without oil a car engine grinds to a halt; without manners, society does likewise. You have only a few seconds and only one opportunity to make a good first impression. You can do this with your clothing, with your manners and with your language. So those are the big three that will ease your way through life. Ignore them at your peril."

I paused, collecting my thoughts to continue with my story.

"I remember well receiving a text from my mother. The words were terse and to the point: 'Your grandmother has died. Her final request was that you be at her funeral which is on Thursday, 3pm at St David's Church, 235th St, Jamaica, NY. You know the one she went to each Sunday. She will be buried in the nearby Montefiore Cemetery. Be there.'

"When I received that text I was being held in virtual slavery in San Francisco by a guy I had thought I loved. I realized too late that he didn't love me; he just wanted to use me as his sex slave and to provide him with money for drugs. He would beat me frequently and abuse me regularly, threatening me that if I ran away he would find me and kill me. I stayed; I didn't think I had an option."

My thoughts went back to the second floor, two room apartment, dingy wallpaper falling off the wall, a squeaky bed in the main bedroom where Dingo (his parents were Australian) would fuck me roughly, intentionally hurting me; where he would bring me 'clients' for me to fuck, collecting their money before they entered so he could buy the drugs he was addicted to. I pictured the small corner of the other room that was the kitchen, a place where we made endless coffees and ate takeaways from the local grease shop. I remembered the few occasions when we went outside, breathing the fresh air off the docks as we watched the ships come and go in the harbor. How I longed to run away on one of those ships, even prostituting myself for the sailors would be better than the life I was leading.

When I received the text I knew I had to go. My grandmother was the only person in the world who had ever cared for me, loved me, taught me. Nothing could stop me from being at her funeral. I didn't feel sad for her death, which surprised me, just certain that come hell or high water, I had to get to New York for her funeral.

"Dingo, my grandmother died. I got a text from my Mom. She wants me at the funeral on Thursday. I have to leave now; I only have four days to get there."

"Fuck off! I've got you some clients for today. You're not fuckin' lettin' them down. You're such a slut that you love being fucked by these guys I bring to you. And I know you don't want to leave me, do you? You've never really wanted to leave poor old Dingo."

"Yes, I do have to go, I do have to leave you, and I do not intend to come back."

"I've told you I'll kill you if you leave," he snarled. "I'll hunt you down and kill you, you mark my words."

"I just have to take that chance because I have to be at that funeral. She is the only person who has ever cared for me in my whole life."

"No fuckin' way are you goin', girl. Come here now."

I ignored his demand, instead going to my wardrobe and starting to sort out what I would need to take with me. I selected a white top and black skirt, the only decent clothes I had, with a pair of black shoes suitable for a funeral and a black jacket and stuffed them into a backpack. He grabbed be from behind, arm around my throat, throttling me. I reached for the only weapon I had, a carefully hidden, very sharp knife I kept behind the wardrobe door. I stabbed between my legs, upwards into his crotch. He released me. I'll never forget the look on his face as I turned around and saw him clasping his groin with bloodied hands.

"You fuckin' bitch!" he yelled, "Stab me would you. I'll teach you a lesson."

He came for me then and I defended myself, fear and hate giving my arms and legs strength. I stabbed again, upwards into his stomach area. He collapsed backwards onto the bed, blood pouring from the wound, the fight gone from him.

I looked at him, wondering if I'd killed him or not. "Tough if I have," I thought. I grabbed my backpack with the few clothes in it, grabbed what money I could find from Dingo's stash, took the keys to his car, my cellphone, a couple of pairs of panties and ran out of the apartment, down the stairs and out onto the street. It was the first time in over a year I had been on the street without Dingo. I found his car, opened the door and tried to start it. The motor turned over but wouldn't catch. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Dingo was staggering out of the doorway, coming towards the car. "Oh, please start, please, you have to start," I talked frantically to the car as he approached. The car started as he reached it. I pulled the auto into D, released the brake and took off down the road, with Dingo's bloody handprints on the window. I headed for I-80, which I knew would take me all the way to New York, if the car would last that long.

"After I left I travelled east along I-80, heading home with nearly 3000 miles to go. The people I met on that journey changed my life forever. I have spoken to you before of how you will meet the perfect people at the perfect time, if only you allow yourself to be led by your heart. That is what happened to me.

"I stopped along the way to put some gas in the tank - Dingo always kept it nearly empty to make it harder for petrol thieves to siphon it out - half filling the tank with enough gas to get me to Sacramento. Heading along I-80 I relaxed a little, the purr of the engine and hum of the tires lulling me into a false sense of security. However, it wasn't destined to be that easy. I had travelled less than 40 miles when the car coughed once and the motor stopped with a shriek. I pulled to the side of the road, opened the hood and looked helplessly inside at the smoking mess.

"I knew little about cars and I didn't want to mess about with trying to fix an engine. I checked the dipstick - dry. It must be out of oil. There seemed to be no point in staying with the car now, I would be far better off hitching a ride. So I shouldered my bag and started walking along the road."

My mind went back to that time; I had never felt as alone as I did walking away from the car on the main highway with cars zipping past, hopefully sticking out my thumb in case someone took pity on me.

"After about 20 minutes a car slowed down and stopped beside me. A well-dressed guy was driving and the woman sitting in the passenger seat wound down her window and asked politely where I was heading. Once they found I was going to New York, she told me they could take me to Sacramento where they lived. I gratefully climbed into the back seat and we continued the journey. When we arrived at their home they invited me in, gave me a lovely dinner and offered me a bed for the night, which I accepted. I went to bed early, exhausted by the events of the day."

I remembered feeling very fortunate to have been picked up by this lovely couple as I sank into the soft leather seats of their car. It turned out that he was a minister of the church and had been to San Francisco to take a service and they were now heading back to their home on the outskirts of Sacramento on I-80, so it would be real handy for me to continue my journey tomorrow. They offered me dinner and a bed for the night if I wanted to stay.

I accepted their invitation, feeling safe and secure for the first time I could remember. After a delicious home-cooked dinner I went to bed early so I could leave early in the morning. I went to sleep very quickly, but was awakened in the middle of the night by the feeling of someone pressing down on the bed. Before I could react in any way a hand pressed down hard onto my mouth and a whispered voice had told me to not make a sound or I would be hurt. I could tell by the voice that it was the minister. He continued talking to me gently, telling me how his wife was cold sexually and that he got so horny with no relief that a young woman like me would surely take pity on him after he had stopped and given her a ride, putting the whole guilt trip on me so that he would get to fuck me and get his rocks off. This was the last thing I needed after the long period of sexual slavery I had endured. As he said these words he was pushing his other hand under my top, cupping my breasts and pinching the nipples. He then moved his hand between my legs, pushing aside my panties and stroking my pussy. It almost felt nice, but it was not what I wanted now.

I bit his hand, hard. He let out a yell and slapped me across the face. I reached up and scratched my nails down the side of his face, thinking that that would take some explaining to his wife. He cried out again. I pushed him off the bed, feeling fortunate that I had slept fully clothed, grabbed my bag and made a dash for the door, slamming it in his face behind me. I found my way out of the house and ran onto the road. I had no idea of the time, my urgent need was to get away from the place as fast as possible.

"I was awakened during the night by the guy coming into my room with the apparent intention of having sex with me. I managed to escape from him and from the house and started hitching on the highway again.

"There was little traffic now so I decided that there was no point simply walking, the distance I would cover was negligible, but rather I should stand under a street light so drivers could see me more easily. Wearing a white PVC skirt was helpful as well, although I must admit that I must have looked pretty slutty dressed in that short skirt with a thin top tied at the waist.

"After a short time I heard a big rig coming down the highway and heard his air brakes go on. He slowed and stopped beside me. The driver wound down the passenger window and asked me what I was doing hitching at night; did I want to get killed or something. I replied no and told him I was heading to New York. He laughed, said he couldn't take me that far but to jump in and he'd tell me what he could offer. Well, it seemed better to do that than to wait by the side of the road so I climbed into the cab and we started off down the road."

I remember being extremely nervous about this guy. I'd heard of truckers, a wife in every town and a few girls besides, and I was still in shock after almost being raped by a minister. If I couldn't trust a minister, why should I trust a trucker? However, beggars can't be choosers, as they say, so I resolved to be on my guard and was pleased that every turn of the wheels reduced my distance to New York.

"It turned out that he was heading to a place called Glenwood Springs, about half way between San Francisco and Chicago where I could stay in the truck with a different driver who would bring a truck from Chicago and then take this truck back there. He told me his name was Brad, that he lived in San Francisco with his wife and two children, and this way he saw a lot more of them than if he went right through to Chicago and back again. It worked well for him and for Tony, the driver of the other truck, and worked well for the company because they had fewer days when they had to pay drivers expenses for food and accommodation. So he pointed out it was a win-win-win situation and told me that you should always try for these as that meant you made the best decisions. He was full of these little philosophical bits of advice.

"I'd had quite a day and was tired, so I almost nodded off. He told me there was a bed behind the curtains at the back of the cab and I was very welcome to stretch out there and have a decent sleep. So I did that and nodded off in the bed in the warm cab with the gentle hum of the diesel engine and the movement of the truck rocking me to sleep."

I remembered feeling that this was heaven after what I had been through that day. I was dog tired, had my emotions and nerves stretched to the limit. For the second time tonight I was offered a warm comfortable bed and for the second time I went to sleep quickly, feeling that I could trust Brad. I slept well and long, and it was several hours later that I subconsciously noted that the truck had stopped and the engine was no longer running.

Next thing I knew the curtain was gently pulled back and Brad was carefully and quietly lying himself down on the bed next to me. 'Oh shit,' I thought, 'Not twice in one night.' I felt around for a weapon to use for defence and found a large bolt down the side of the mattress. I clasped hold of it, ready to swing it hard at his head. He carefully lay down, facing away from me, pulled a blanket over him and proceeded to go to sleep. I let the bolt drop from my fingers and slowly relaxed. Sleep overcame me once again.

I woke much later when Brad stirred as he got up. He offered me breakfast at the truckstop diner we were parked alongside. I really needed a bathroom and climbed down, for that, having a wonderful breakfast of coffee and pancakes in the diner with Brad afterwards. He explained that he needed to have a rest stop on the way to Glenwood Springs and again on the way home, and that Tony would also need a rest on the way to Chicago. He apologized if he made me nervous when he lay next to me and said he should have told me that would happen before I went to sleep.

"We stopped for a sleep on the way and he behaved like a real gentleman, not even trying any funny business, although I'll admit I was a bit nervous at first. We had breakfast about lunchtime then headed on our way, getting to Glenwood Springs about dusk. He and Tony swapped trucks and I thanked him for the ride. We hugged each other, the first loving, non-sexual hug I had had for many years.