Where do the abused and persecuted take their pain when justice is denied?

Lately I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions just like the one above. It has been seven years since the following entities and people ripped the lives of my child and I apart: David Joseph (the initiator and abuser), Lummi Tribal Court, The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, Walmart, The entire Newfoundland Justice System, The RCMP, The Whatcom County Sheriff, The FBI, The RNC, and the Newfoundland Social Services.

They took two innocent people, my little girl and I, and they pushed illegal documents through the judicial system, in the form an application for the Hague Convention on behalf of a  man who had beaten me and abducted my little girl. It was well over a year before he decided to reabuse us using a system that is clearly for the criminal not the victim.  He did not meet the time limit to enact the Hague Convention and neither the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children or Walmart checked this man’s history or his lateness to apply.  If they had they would have discovered the bench warrant out for his arrest for beating me and a subpoena ordering him to bring my child to court.  Ironically, this man used to steal Wooden pallet boards from behind Walmart in Bellingham Washington and sell them before being caught by the manager and yet they have been unaware of this and assisted him in hunting us down. How is that for irony?

The Newfoundland Justice system treated me like a criminal while knowing full well that I had fled with  my daughter from a battered women’s shelter in Washington state to Canada our birthplace, with a lump in my breast and fear for my child’s safety filling my days and nights with terror. They ignored this and actually ordered social services to remove her from my home in case I tried to leave the Island, again on behalf of a man who had violently abducted her just prior to this and taken her to three states while thumbing his nose at the various state police and arrest warrants.

To this day this man has not done one day in jail for beating me or kidnapping my daughter although there is a file supporting all this, photos included. I am angry, fully enraged and as time passes my justifiable disgust at a system that took advantage of our lack of power and our financial neediness grows by the minute. I am NOT going to let this go. I WILL get a public apology for my child and I from the head of the Newfoundland Government, The National Centre for Missing and Exploited Children, Walmart, The RCMP, The RNC and everyone else who decided to kick my little girl and I in the face for doing nothing but surviving the horror of a man who has a long history of domestic violence, causing us to flee in the first place.

To the above entities, on behalf of my child and I,  I say a very bitter and terse fuck you. I will NOT lie down and take this and if it is the last thing I do before the breath leaves my body, I will make damn sure policies are changed so that background checks are done on the men BEFORE the paperwork is filed to enact the Hague Convention on child abduction against women who are essentially running for their lives and the lives of their babies.

In addition, I would like to express my profound disappointment with the battered women’s shelter  and the feminist element in Newfoundland for not contacting me or even calling  to ask if my child and I were okay. Not one of you showed your face in court to stand behind my baby and I. Shame on you, you knew all about this and remained silent, afraid to do that which you are supposed to do: support women and children who are in a violent situation. Your failure is profound.

The Harmonics Of Poverty and Writing or, I Need an Agent or Publisher

On August 1, 2001 I became a statistic.  I was officially homeless. My daughter was thrown in a truck, I was beaten and left there to figure it out.  I owned nothing except a suitcase fiilled with photographs of  my daughter, as many of her clothes as I could pack, two pairs of underwear and a T shirt for myself.  I felt I could survive with just the clothes on my back and actually, I didn’t really care, I was just too traumatized and absorbed in the search for my child as well as the monumental task of staying alive.  I will admit to being exceptionally grateful to be out of the filthy rat infested shack my daughter and I had been forced to live in for five years of our lives.  I would be sleeping in a house with a roof overhead that wasn’t full of holes and that in itself was a marvel.  I didn’t expect my child and I to get out of there alive and my ability to write about all things related to this period in time is miraculous indeed.

I have to fight each and every day to focus and concentrate because the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that clings to me like a hungry alligator is a constant companion and foe that challenges my every attempt to function and write.  So far, I’ve endured.  At the time of these events in my life, I lived in a state of urgency and the present, with no thought of tomorrow being a viable truth.  When the shelter system spit me out with the rest of the women and children who’d used up their sixty days, I had no idea what to do but my survival instincts kicked into high gear pretty damn quick. Living on the street is not something anyone can write with cogency, unless they’ve spent time in that particular gutter, isolated and desperate.

One reason I wanted to write this post, is that in my travels around the internet, I’ve come across two separate items about homelessness.  Each one was written by people who have absolutely no idea what they are talking about and it is insulting to those who do.   One is about exploiting the poor for money under the guise of helping them overcome their plight and it is a scam and utter bullshit.  The other is written as observational poetry by someone who’s work is mediocre at best and ridiculous at the worst.  This particular poem was bending down the ridiculous end like spaghetti until it snaps.   I had an enormous “How dare you!” moment, I admit it and after reading this crap, I sat and cried.  Yep, I did. I sobbed a tissue soaker,  because here I am, with a million stories to tell, stories about real people with the authenticity that comes from suffering  and guess what?  No one wants them.   I won’t delve into my submission history, but it appears,  if I write fluff for print magazines and take a few cutesy photos,  an editor will lap it up like a cat does cream.  However, if I produce something real and valuable,  with my heart bleeding on every word, they won’t even give me a glance.  I’ve been having some serious doubts recently about whether I should continue with what appears to become a fruitless endeavor that is completely related to the corruption and politics that is inherent in the publishing industry.  I want to be proven wrong about this, to be given the opportunity to give someone a memoir that would make us all a lot of money, but no takers.  I clearly don’t know the right person/people, or possess the degree necessary to make me palatable to those who can give my words to the world.

As it stands, I have two books in various stages of development and a third is completed, although I’m tweaking it and polishing it, (thank you Bryan, your input was very important to me and priceless.) It will be ready to submit this week and I’m facing the prospect of  that inevitable editorial boot in the face, with such despair and trepidation it is crushing my soul.   I’ve survived so much and I made a promise to some very broken people, to write this book and sell it.  I’ve written it, but the selling it isn’t up to me and once again, just like those days spent in hell, living on the streets of Bellingham  Washington, I am at someone else’s mercy.  It isn’t a good place to be because in my experience, there isn’t a surplus of mercy among the rich and powerful.  Wish me luck, I’m going to need it over the next little while and if there happens to be, by some quirk of fate, an editor or agent cruising by this blog, I have this to say to you:  I have a best seller in my hands, it’s entitled, The glass Tulips.  please, email me and request partials, full, a proposal, whatever, just ask for it and it’s yours. Of course, I won’t hold my breath because this glass is not only half empty, it’s been drained.

Okay, off to do the usual grind,  be good to yourselves and have a  Happy and safe July 4th to everyone south of the border.