Hidden Girl_The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave

by Shyima Hall

  This prom was held in a huge mansion in Palm Springs. The best thing about that prom was the amazing buffet. It seemed as if the tables stretched out forever. Because this was our senior prom and my classmates and I were nearing the end of an era, it was not couple based. Instead bunches of friends grouped together, and I had a blast. We had agreed ahead of time that I would arrive at the prom with my date, but my dad would pick me up after it was over while my date went out to party with his friends.

  Prom took up a lot of my attention, but like many other seniors I was also focused on passing all of my finals, including math. Through the years I had done well in PE and in subjects such as social studies and history. In fact, every time I saw a photo from the past, I wanted to learn more about it. My natural curiosity helped me there, but not in English and math. Those two subjects continued to be my downfall.

  Through my daily use of the English language and the remedial English classes that I took, I was getting by in that subject, but I often received near-failing grades in math. My lack of knowledge in this subject is a sad fact of my time in bondage. When I should have been learning my numbers—and learning how to add and subtract them—I was instead cleaning toilets and washing my captors’ clothes.

  After taking my final exams, I was fairly certain I had passed all of them, with the exception of math. That subject I wasn’t sure about. Even though, emotionally, I was done with school and the last thing I wanted was to have to sit through a summer math course, I knew I would take the class—and pass it—if I needed to.

  It was a stressful time for me because if I didn’t pass the test, I would not get to graduate. If I didn’t graduate, I could not go to college or become a police officer or ICE agent. A high school diploma was my gateway to the life I wanted to live, and graduation was a must.

  Another reason graduation was important to me was because I had felt helpless for many years because I’d not been able to communicate with anyone. I’d also spent many years in a position where I’d had no options. I never wanted to be in either of those places again. Ever. Early on after my rescue I realized that paying attention to my studies was my best option. I had tried my best. But had I succeeded?

  I made it a point to stay positive while I waited for my test results, but it was hard. A great deal rode on the result of that math test. By this time the rest of the seniors and I were winding up our classes. I worked as much as I could and waited to hear if I would graduate. I couldn’t focus on much of anything, so between work shifts I wandered around the house and flipped from channel to channel on television. On the chance that I had passed, I took some of the money that I had earned and paid for my class ring and my cap and gown. When my new dad bought a class sweater for me, I hoped I would be able to wear it with the pride of a high school graduate.

  Less than a week before the graduation ceremony a letter came for me from the school. Somehow I knew that whatever news the letter held would determine my future. With nervous anticipation I opened the letter and held my breath as I read the words on the page. I almost couldn’t believe it. I had passed. I had passed! I released the tension I didn’t know I had been holding and let out a whoop of joy. I was a high school graduate, and I was going to get to walk down the aisle with my classmates, cross the stage, and pick up my diploma.

  This was such a huge achievement for me, for less than six years before, I hadn’t understood English. I hadn’t known my letters or what a mall was. I had never been to a doctor or a dentist, had had no social skills, and had mistrusted virtually everyone around me. But now, now I was a high school graduate, and no matter what happened in the future, no one could take that away from me. I was so happy that I hugged the letter to me and cried.

  I know many other people would have gotten on the phone right away to share the news, but I didn’t. For years I’d had nothing that was my own, but this was my triumph—and I didn’t want to share it. At least not right away. I savored my success for the rest of the day, and then I called everyone.

  Our senior class party was held a day or so later on a party boat off the coast. I had wanted to attend this event knowing that I was going to be a graduate, and I did! I had a great time with my friends, and we were thrilled about having an open door to our future, and to the world around us.

  My joy was not to last long, however, because the next day I became desperately ill. In June of almost every year I come down with a bad flu-type illness, and this year was no exception. Plus, the night air, wind, and chill of being on the boat had hastened this year’s illness along. Within hours I found myself in a hospital bed with a high fever and a painful sore throat. Because of my rheumatoid arthritis, my immune system was not strong, and illnesses like this could quickly become life threatening if they were not monitored.

  I was miserable. On top of being sick, I had wanted to attend my graduation ceremony and now it didn’t look as if I were going to be able to do that. I was sad and emotionally drained as I lay in my hospital bed. In fact, I was beyond disappointed that I might miss the pomp and circumstance of my big day. Why did this have to happen to me now? I had worked hard. Why could I not enjoy the celebration with everyone else? A tear slipped down my cheek, but I did not give in to despair. I knew I had to stay mentally positive if I were to beat this illness in time for my graduation ceremony.

  And I did. With fluids, antibiotics, positive thoughts, the prayers of friends—and rest—I improved, and was released from the hospital on June 5, 2008, the day before my class graduated from high school.

  Even though I had been released from the hospital, I was so stiff and weak that I could not walk any kind of distance. Walking across my room was enough to send me to my knees, and I knew there was no possible way that I could walk the length of an entire auditorium. Staff at my school knew it too.

  At the last minute Mr. Steele, my math teacher, suggested that he push me into the auditorium and across the stage in a wheelchair. I was extremely grateful for his idea. I liked Mr. Steele a lot as a teacher, and if not for his kind patience and dedication toward me, I would not have been graduating. It was a good kind of karma that he was the one to push me toward victory.

  While my friends went out to celebrate after the ceremony, I went home. The medication for my illness, combined with the meds for my RA, had wiped me out. In fact, I don’t remember much about my graduation, just bits and pieces here and there. But I recall enough, and I will hold on to those memories for the rest of my life. In spite of my illness, it was a great, great day.

  • • •

  After graduation I wanted to join the air force, but my new family discouraged me from doing so. Patty said, “Why would you want to do that? You wouldn’t be able to handle any of the instruction. Besides, people who want to do stuff like that really put their hearts into it.”

  Her words broke my heart. I didn’t understand why she could not be supportive of my goals and interests. Even if she’d had reservations about my ability to succeed in that kind of environment, I wish she had encouraged me to try. Steve almost always followed his wife’s lead on things, and on this he was not much more supportive than she was.

  I was hurt by their belief that I was not serious about the air force or that I didn’t have enough heart to care about the job I might do there. I knew I had to obtain citizenship first, and I was waiting until the day when I could apply for that. I, more than anyone else, knew my health might prevent me from being accepted into the air force, but I would rather have had the medical people there give me that news than have my parents shoot my dream to the ground. Without the support from my family, my dream of entering the air force became tainted for me and I never pursued it.

  Instead I worked throughout that next summer, and in the fall I began attending community college. I took general, required classes to start with, as well as my usual remedial English class. I was still working at Kipling—and going out to dinner, movies, and parties several evenings a week with my friends.

  In esse
nce I went home only to sleep, shower, and change clothes. That was by design because my tenuous relationship with my adoptive mom was unraveling. A big part of the problem was that I felt that Patty wanted to have control over me. I was paying my family rent to stay in my room, and I paid their entire electric bill every month. Because of that I felt I should be able to come and go as I pleased. And it wasn’t as if I were having loud parties there or didn’t do my share of household chores. I never had friends over, always took care of my clothes, kept my room clean, and did many other household tasks.

  My relationship with Patty deteriorated to the point where I often slept either at my friend Amber’s house or at my friend Karla’s. I had met Karla Pachacki my first day at Kipling. We’d been the two newbies, and we’d quickly bonded. Karla made my shifts there a lot of fun, and when I’d introduced Karla to Amber, the three of us had become great friends.

  At first I was hesitant to tell either Karla or Amber about my past, but over time my trust in them developed and I began to share my story. I am glad that I did, because I needed their support in my struggles with my new family. And to support me as I needed to be, my new friends needed to understand my past.

  One day in the middle of yet another argument, Patty said, “You are a bad influence on my kids.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but her words made me realize that I was fighting a losing battle. With some people there is always tension, always conflict, and she was that kind of person. She was so unsupportive of me that I felt that she would always try to prevent any dream I had from becoming a reality. I’d had enough, and I began to look for my own place.

  Apartment hunting was both fun and a challenge. It was time consuming and slow, too. By the time I had researched a complex, toured the unit, met with the supervisor, filled out the application, and waited for it to be processed, someone else had already rented the place. This happened several times before Amber and her mother, Teresa, said, “Why don’t you move in with us?”

  It made perfect sense. During the several years that I had known Amber, Teresa had become like a second mom to me. She always had a big smile on her face and was so giving that I felt both loved and supported by her. Plus, they had the perfect setup for me—a pool house. This space gave me the room I needed for my things—and I had a lot of stuff! I think after my years in bondage, during which I had nothing, I went overboard when I first began to earn a paycheck. I bought a lot of clothes and makeup, and still do. In a strange way, having “stuff” makes me feel secure. Someday I will probably get past that, but when I moved into Amber and Teresa’s, having many things of my own comforted me.

  The pool house gave me privacy, but at the same time I knew I was fully welcome in their home anytime I wanted. If I needed a midnight snack, all I had to do was walk across the patio and into the kitchen. In fact, Amber and Teresa treated me more like family than either my biological or adoptive families had.

  Teresa’s mom and dad also lived in the house, so there were several generations for me to bond with. I adored each member of that family and every minute I spent with them. But I was not completely happy. The biggest drawback of leaving my adoptive home in the way that I had was that I now had limited access to my younger brother and sisters. I both loved and missed them.

  Karla was of special help to me during this time. In the course of a number of conversations over many months, she helped open my eyes to the many issues with my adoptive family.

  Karla then helped me get rid of a lot of my anger toward my new parents by helping me see them as individuals, and as a couple. Karla was a few years older, but I was still at the age when it was hard for me to see parental figures as people rather than as a mom or a dad. Once I made that leap, many things about their relationship with each other became clear. I felt as if they had used me to facilitate their dysfunction. Karla encouraged me to close the bank account Patty and Steve had access to. Once that was done, I felt far less vulnerable where my adoptive parents were concerned.

  With my new place and my new support team, I began to thrive. The pool house was a wonderful transition for me, and I stayed there for the better part of seven months. It takes true friends to open their home to another person, and Amber and Teresa never hesitated when I needed a place to stay. I will never forget that. They are still my chosen family.

  I eventually began to look at apartment complexes again, and this time I found a nice one-bedroom unit. It was small, but I had fun decorating the place. I found a tall, trendy, dark brown dining set and a matching sectional couch, then added a queen mattress and pad, and a dresser. I painted the bathroom purple and didn’t mind that there wasn’t enough room in the closets or dresser for my clothes.

  By this time I had two closets full of clothes. And makeup. I had a lot of that, too. But the difference between many other young women and me is that I looked at my two closets of clothes and thought that I was living in the lap of luxury. Many people would see the modest place I lived in and my full closets and not realize what a wonderful gift it was.

  After I moved in, I had clothes everywhere. But you know what? They were my clothes in my apartment. I loved that place, loved setting my own budget and arranging the furniture where I wanted it to be. I found I liked cooking for myself too—cooking what I wanted when I wanted how I wanted. For much of my life I’d had no control over anything. Now I could control almost everything, and I reveled in that change.

  I was fortunate to have good neighbors around me. We looked out for one another, and there was a sense of community that is hard to find in most apartment complexes. For maybe the first time since I’d been taken from my family, I was truly happy. I’d had bits of happiness before. Two of my happiest moments had been when The Mom and The Dad had been handcuffed and when I’d graduated from high school. But sustained happiness had been hard for me to find. Plus, when I was younger I’d never envisioned that I could have this much independence or have such a nice place of my own. This little apartment was, for me, a dream come true.

  By this time I rarely thought of my biological family, or where life might have taken me if I had stayed with them. Even now I was traumatized enough by my separation from my family, and my ensuing years with The Mom and The Dad, that my biological family was often too painful to think about. My sisters were strong women, and on the rare occasion when I did think of them, I hoped they had better lives than that of my mother. The biological ties were there, though, and I hoped that someday, when I was ready, we could reconnect.

  • • •

  During this time I was both working and paying my way through college. When I first applied for grants and student loans, I found that as long as I was under the age of twenty-four, my applications were dependent on the income of my parents. If I had not been adopted, I would have qualified for money for school from many different sources. But since I had been adopted, my new mom and dad’s income came into play. Unfortunately, Steve made an adequate amount of money, but it was spent as fast as he made it. The result was that they did not have funds for my education, or the credit to obtain the funds.

  I gritted my teeth as I thought about the tens of thousands of lost dollars from my settlement. But I bit the bullet and paid my own way. I liked college, but it wasn’t working out as I had hoped. The looser structure made it harder for me to achieve, and the busy professors did not have as much time to spend with me as my high school teachers had. The result: I dropped out.

  Normally I make it a point to finish everything that I start. It is a matter of pride for me, a matter of honor. My friends encouraged me to stay in class, but the tougher subject matter and faster pace of the classes were too frustrating for me at that time in my life. I do plan to continue my education someday, under different circumstances, so I look at this as a temporary stop.

  While I was terribly disappointed, I knew that the lack of a college degree would not affect my ultimate goal of becoming an ICE agent. Being a college grad would help, I knew, but it was not a requi
rement. I often think how important early education is for young children and wish I’d had that opportunity. I had come a long way, had made more than amazing strides, but in many areas of education I had a long way to go. Another college may have been better equipped to handle my special needs. Or not. I encourage anyone who is reading this to go as far as they can in school, even if it means significant sacrifice. In the long run it will be worth it.

  Instead of putting my efforts into school, I now concentrated on becoming a great employee. Being employed validated me in many ways. After many years of verbal abuse when I was in bondage, of being called “stupid girl,” I had a huge need to prove to myself and to others that I had value. My job and recent promotion did just that. I was now a supervisor and felt proud to be in a managerial position. I rose to my new responsibilities and some days wanted to pinch myself to be sure all this good fortune truly was mine.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Since I had moved out, life had not gotten any better for my adoptive family, and my new mom and dad divorced. Because Steve did not have any place to go, he moved in with me. Many of my friends wondered why I allowed this, but I felt that much of the trouble in the family, including the financial issues that had caused the draining of my settlement account, started with Patty, not Steve.

  After several months of sleeping on my couch (and not paying rent) Steve got on his feet enough that he could get a place of his own. Not that I wish for the demise of any marriage, but I think he is a better person when he is apart from Patty. Some people are just not good together.

  Since the divorce I have not seen much of my adoptive mom, but Steve is trying. He has made mistakes with each of his children, and will probably make more, but I give him credit for his efforts. Besides, we are all human, and I do believe that his intentions are good. We don’t have the best of relationships yet, but we are working toward that. I hope that someday we will be as close as we should be.