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Nov. 29, 2004 Let me start with thankfulness for being born in America, and having the right to join the U.S. Army which gave me an opportunity to come to Germany and fulfill my dreams. Thanks to the white people of the world for if I were born in Africa surely by now I would be dead: I have seen the conditions of most blacks in Africa. Regrettably it took adulthood and six trips to Africa before appreciating being born an American. As a youth I detested my tightly curled hair and thick lips. Please understand that coming from a world where all advertising posters and tv commercials were thin lipped, skinny, caucasions, caused me to straighten my hair and wear black eyebrow pencil to disquise my full lips at a very early age. Having doors slammed in my face by white Americans, jobs taken away by Cubans, raped by black relatives and neighbors, named thick-lip and big butt by playmates, left me feeling unattractive, worthless, and often wishing I was born white. So I learned early to hate my blackness and surroundings, especially my dumb mother for bringing me in this hell. I could not understand mama having nine children in such great poverty, yet I loved my father though he was always drunk and profane. At six my family moved from Memphis Tennessee to Miami, Florida and I started working in the summer with mother as a migrant worker picking beans and tomatoes. I remember earning five dollars a week at seven years old as if it were yesterday, the green straw hat, and Helen’s (my sister) matching red hat was the objects of many jokes on the transportation trucks to and from the fields. Oh, and never will I forget how mama insisted I give her my hard earned money to help pay the bills. The powermoney held over mother started fueling my flame to leave poverty. The desire to be better than neighbors, class-mates, and family took control, so I began saving every penny I got. One day I would be rich: Rich meant having a peanutbutter and jelly sandwhich instead of (fat-back drippings) grease between two slices of white bread: Everyone in school knew you were poor by the greasy paper bag. Early understanding that there were certain places colored people sould not go, kept me safely within the neighborhood and on the "Small Park." The only whites were bill collectors, and insurance men viewed from a distance: Mother being from Mississippi knew what white men did with black children. But, she didn't know all the abuse she feared from the whites was taking place under her nose. So at seven I was raped by uncle Willie who had freedom to abuse children because he was the local preacher. Again at eight by my oldest brother because mama left us in his care while she worked many hours in a curbside restaurant. The first time mother recognized it was possible for her daughters to be raped was a week after I turned ten when the neighbor next door raped me so brutally that I couldn't walk. In the sixty’s it was forbidden to talk about sex, so painfully I bore my abuse with sealed lips afraid to tell mama, but an infection caused me to stink so that my oldest sister complained to mama about my smell. In court I discovered the distance between blacks and whites when accused by a white lawyer of provoking the rapist (a thirty-eight-year old man) so the case was dismissed. After the experience in court hate towards blacks and whites, drove me forward; one day I would be rich enough to leave the ghetto. Somehow I thought it was poverty that caused blacks to be abusive, and whites to ignore me. Trapped behind the walls of the ghetto you learn to fight when there is no battle. Today I see my experiences as a springboard which forced me into bettering my conditions. Determination and the desire to be the top student of my class also helped in getting on the summer work program for teens. At thirteen bitterness caused me to explode at the slightest sign of a male looking at me twice. Daily I chased off lust filled black men with whatever was in my hand; a butcher knife, broken glass bottle, or Daddy’s hunting gun until my reputation of being crazy caused them to advoid me. I could not understand girls and women allowing men to beat them with fist and feet. Hate for men caused me to pray one of them would touch me, so I could kill him, proving my strength in the neighborhood. At fourteen I lied about my age to the white employment agency that hired blacks out as cooks and domestic helpers for the midnight shift. Sixteen was the hiring age at Mrs. Green’s employment office, but the reputation of mother caused her to send me to a wealthy area of Miami requiring a pass to enter heavily guarded estates. The lavishness of the homes, a Rolls- Royce, Mercedes coupe, and Mustang convertible parked in the driveway of my new work place. The majesty of the place gave me a feeling of superiority over my peers, and though I was only an assistant to the head maid, I began imitating the attitude of my employees. No longer content to befriend people in the ghetto, I was better and intended to show them. This new attitude caused former friends to shun me until seeing me arrive at the front door of my house in a Rolls-Royce. The glamor and charm of the wine red and beige Rolls was too much for the neighbors to ignor, or play down, so it became the most talked about subject in town. The nerves of a black woman to ride through the ghetto in a Rolls. The fact that my employee had everything while I struggled to survive caused me to curse God every time He was mentioned. But disguising frustrations and pain I worked diligently, thinking one day to be equally rich. And in preparation of wealth I began bleaching my skin and chemically straightening my huge afro until I barely had enough hair to cover my scalp. Unforgettable is the birthday my employer doubled my weekly salary, and I left work with three hundred dollars. After giving mama fifty dollars and keeping my bonus a secret I opened a bank account. It was the happiest day of my life; my own bank book with four hundred dollars in it was shown to all my friends. The only blacks I knew with a bank account was my Godmother, so having a bank account not only bossted my ego, but also kept me returning to work despite other blacks putting me down for being a white woman’s house nigger. Proud of my own cash I went to work assisting the older housekeeper, Mable, in cleaning up the dining room and kitchen after dinner, and putting away laundry. The fight to survive was well grounded between fifteen and sixteen, so once in a while people still remind me to stop fighting. But when you fight a lifetime it is difficult to accept anything without fighting. Today I am married to someone of a different race, and no longer angry, knowing there are good and bad in every race, and good and bad depends on the heart, not the color. Yes, I am still angry with the injustice done to those who are overweight, nonwhite and poor, and yes, it bothers me to see Kylie Minogue get fifty million when I can’t get a job for five hundred euro. Before I was put down because of my hour glass figure and thick lips, now others are paying to have what God blessed blacks with. But the tragedy of it all is blacks not accepting their figures and whites not accepting themselves. Each race wants what the other has, but it is only when we began accepting who we are will we be able to accept others. How does antiwhites stop fighting for the simple right just to be human when 90 percent of the commercials still represent whites? The writing business, tv, and music industry still aimed at whites. When was the last time you saw a black woman with natural curves, dark skin, and tightly curled hair on the front of an international magazine? Even Black magazines show beauty as white features in brown skin. What is wrong with having kinky hair and thick lips on the cover of major magazines? Learning to love who we are also keeps us from being jealous of others.When we began loving ourselves it will be easier to help each other. . Let me also point out that no white person would have a chance to be in commercials, movies, or advertisements if they went to Africa or other black countries, today. So, I am thankful Hally Berry and Naomi Campel are on the cover of some magazines, but what about the black women that represent those without white features. Must we all look as Barbie dolls in dark or white skin? Again thanks to Germany for allowing me a chance to live in such a beautiful land where the streets are clean and safe. I could not have survived the ghetto because I was too good to be born in poverty, and too wise to die there. Yes, the cost is great; to leave your home and all those you love, but nothing of value is cheaply gained. Being a warrior has helped me to fame in Germany where my color for once helped me stand in the lights, though the struggle continues. ------------ About the author Verna Mae Bentley-Krause: I was born 7-7-51, Memphis Tenn. Lived in Miami, Fla. from 6 to 27. I joined the US Army at 27 and came to Germany. I have lived in Germany since 1979, but I always visit America. I have a Christian Ministry over the internet, address above. I have written many short stories and 2 books unpublished. I write for a major German newspaper articles on morality. I have become a TV star for the past three years, singing German folks music in German. I enjoy writing, and entertaining others. Visit: www.bentleyarts.com/freedom www.vernamae.de Email: Verna@bentleyarts.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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