Lies of a Real Housewife: Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil

by Angela Stanton

  a letter from my cousin, Sylvia.

  My immediate family was very large. This fact was due to my ma-

  ternal grandmother who had given birth to ten children. I came from a family of about seventy aunts, uncles, and cousins. I guess a letter from two relatives out of seventy isn’t that bad. Hard times showed me who really cared for me. One relative who was always there was my dear, sweet Aunt San. She wrote me just about every two weeks without even knowing that she was saving

  my life.

  No matter how hard I fought, no matter how loud I screamed, and

  no matter how much I cried, there was nothing in this world that I could do to bring my dear mother back. This was when I learned that I had absolutely no control over my life. I had to let go, and let God take over. I stopped worrying. I stopped stressing and started praying. Then I found the true meaning of stepping out on faith. I could no longer talk about it. I had to be about it.

  Chapter Nine

  My trail of tears

  The LORD said to Satan, “Very well, then, everything he has is in

  your power, but on the man himself do not lay a finger.” Job 1:12 (NIV)

  Three months into my sentence at Pulaski state prison, and I was

  called into the counselor’s office. They notified me that I was being shipped off to another prison. Lee Arrendale State Prison had just been converted into a coed prison, and I was included in the first shipment of women to ever reside there. This didn’t pose a problem or a threat to me. I felt I was moving

  into a different environment, and also moving closer to home.

  Lee Arrendale was the biggest prison I’d ever seen. I thought Pu-

  laski was big, but Lee Arrendale was much bigger. As a prisoner you walked everywhere you went. At this facility, the only car you had the luxury of riding in was the patrol car. It was with certainty that prisoners rode in the back seat. Walking was good though. I would be in great physical shape by the time of my release. My new home consisted of nothing more than hills and concrete. The staple diet was peanut butter and syrup sandwiches.

  Getting acclimated and blending into my new surroundings was now

  my focus. I was living with an entirely new group of women, and I was in the midst of a whole new flock. These women didn’t know me, and they didn’t know my character. I didn’t want them to get offended by my nonchalant attitude. Certainly I didn’t need anybody thinking that I was a snob because I didn’t play along with their games. There wasn’t much time for games in this

  new existence. I had my whole life ahead of me.

  I had only lived at Lee Arrendale State Prison for eight weeks before I was called in to see the chaplain. I thought, oh hell no, not again! But in my mind, I was hoping for the best, while preparing for the worst. I knew that

  someone had died. I just didn’t know who it was.

  Waiting for two hours outside the chaplain’s office, I was on the

  brink of insanity. I kept praying to God that nothing had happened to any of my children. When the chaplain finally walked in he brought coldness through the door with him. He sat down in his chair, kicked his feet up, and

  turned over the paper lying face down on his desk.

  When the chaplain flipped the paper over in the top right hand cor-

  ner it read ‘name of deceased’. In the space next to it was my grandmother’s name, Annie Kate Milling, Shug. If you were waiting to hear that I caused a

  scene, and acted all dramatic, then you were waiting in vain.

  That never happened. I showed absolutely no reaction at all. There

  were no words or tears. I simply got up out of the seat, walked out of his office, and went back to my cell. I was totally emotionless, and felt completely numb. The loss of my mother had me so traumatized that death itself no lon-

  ger affected me. Death had lost its sting.

  My maternal lifeline was wiped out. My grandmother was my strong

  point, and we connected after I lost my mother. But now both my mother and grandmother were gone. I knew for sure that I was on my own. My family members didn’t invite me to her funeral. That didn’t bother me either because I didn’t want to go. I was through with death. I swore that the next funeral I would ever attend would be my own. Since I didn’t attend my own mother’s

  funeral, I learned that I could live without them.

  I sat on my bunk, thinking about my grandmother, but my heart had

  gone cold. I even tried to make myself cry. Nothing happened. My mind was now focused on my children. My grandmother was dead, and so was theirs. This was the worst nightmare ever. I made myself believe that I was stuck inside of my dreams with no way out. How else could I deal with reality? Well I couldn’t, so I created my own. Whenever I crawled out of this hellhole, my

  life would return to normal.

  The following day, I was called to the counselor’s office. To my

  surprise, this visit came with good news. I learned that I finally had a release date with the parole system. My date was set for September 2005. That was only six weeks away. I had no clue as to exactly which day in September, but just knowing that it was September was good enough for me. This had been a long, painful, tiresome journey, and I, without question, was broken. There was no sense in kicking a dead horse, right? I couldn’t be punished anymore for my crimes. I had been punished enough. I had lost some things that would

  never be returned. I had learned my lesson the hardest way possible.

  Those six weeks were the longest of my life. The minutes felt like

  hours, and the hours crawled along like days. I drew a calendar and hung it on the wall with toothpaste. This was a constant reminder of how many days I had left until I was out of this hole. I had been through, overcome, and survived the worst of it. Everything from here on out would be completely uphill. And I do mean uphill. I could remember sitting and brooding with my

  thoughts for hours.

  Life would actually be harder once I was released. In prison I didn’t

  have my children, and I didn’t have any bills to pay. However I was constantly thinking of my children, and how I would be received by them. Would I be welcomed with open arms? Would they resent me?

  Emani didn’t know her mother at all. She was eighteen months, and

  had lived her entire life without me. My baby boy, Jayvien, was with his father. It was obvious that my son’s father hated me. He had three faces. A Capricorn, he wore grudges like the shirt on his back. Slim could never get pass the day he caught me with Drama. I won’t forget it either. That was the

  day he sent me to exile.

  Two months before my mother had passed away, I was surprised

  when I received court papers in the mail. My son’s father had gotten me good. I guess I never suspected he would stoop so low. The abandonment papers were from the magistrate state court of Fulton County. I was the Defendant, and Slim the plaintiff. But wait, that wasn’t the shocking part of it all. The shock came when I read the letter that was written by my mother. It stated, “I can no longer care for my grandson, Jayvien Stanton due to health issues. So I give full care and custody over to his father.” The letter was signed, Joan Milling.

  This was devastating because my mother had never discussed this

  with me. There were other options. She knew my son’s father and I had a love hate relationship. Why would she give him my son? Just like some females,

  he would only use my son as a pawn. I knew that without a doubt!

  I remember leaving the mailroom on that fateful day and calling

  home. My mother, like she always did, accepted the call on the first ring. When I asked her about the letter she was just as surprised as I was! She told me to look at the letter carefully because it wasn’t her signature or her hand-

  writing. I examined the letter. Clearly, it was not her writing at all.

  So I sent her a copy of all the paperwork and she went to court on

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bsp; my behalf. My mother explained to the judge that the letter was forged. Her actions had prevented me from losing parental rights or custody of Jayvien. The judge ruled that just because I was incarcerated, didn’t mean I was an unfit parent.

  This fool, Slim, had forged my mother’s name, told the court that I abandoned my son, and that they had no clue as to where I was. Not only that, he asked the Judge to grant him sole custody, and to terminate any and all visitation rights. He knew damn well I was in prison the whole time. The

  devil is a liar!

  But getting back to the story, my other two sons were with my aunt Carrie, my mother’s oldest sister. I was just anxious about reuniting with my children, and being a family again. It was on my mind true enough, but I wasn’t too concerned about where we would live or how we would survive. I had Phaedra, and the book was already written. I’d done the hard part. All I had to do now was get it typed, and hand it to her. In the meantime, I was sure she would assist me in finding a job. The biggest hurdle now was getting

  released.

  September 1, 2005, was my released date. I knew I was leaving

  because the night before they had told me to pack up my belongings, and moved me to segregation. The prison officials always sent you to segregation the night before you were to be released to reduce confusion. I couldn’t sleep that whole night. I stared through the narrow window in my cell looking up at the stars, and the moon in the sky. My eyes were wide open, searching for

  my mother the entire night.

  “Mommy, I know you are up there somewhere, and I know you

  have been watching over me. I’m walking out of this prison in the morning a woman, and a mother. I have been blessed with a second chance at life. But this time mom, I’m going to be different. I’m going to turn my negative into positive. I’m going to give back. And I’m going to help heal the world, mom.

  I promise! I promise you! I promise!” I prayed.

  I made a covenant with my mother before I left that prison, and as I walked past those iron gates, I dedicated my life to fulfilling that promise I made to my mother. My brother, Lee waited outside alone in his truck. He

  had returned to the states for good.

  After his basketball contract ended, I don’t think he had any desire

  to ever be that far away from his family again. Neither one of us was there the day our mother died. My brother had to bury our mother on his own. Just like I didn’t have him, he didn’t have me either. Our entire life, we had been raised close to one another. It was constantly drilled into our heads that we

  were all each other had in this world.

  It felt good to be free! The air was different, and for some reason

  the sun seemed to shine brighter, but no matter how much I tried to enjoy my freedom I had nothing to be happy about. All that time I spent in prison I survived by making myself believe that my mother, and grandmother were going to be waiting for me. I had not fooled anyone but myself. It was time

  for me to face reality. I was on my way to pick up my children.

  As much as I didn’t want to believe it, the truth was that neither

  my mother nor grandmother was going to be there. I knew that I had to fight this head on. So without any hesitation, I asked my brother to take me to our mother’s grave. I needed to come to terms with what was going on. I wanted to get over the devastation of never seeing my mother again. I needed to do

  this before I came in contact with my children, and that’s exactly what I did.

  I stood at my mother’s graveside with my brother. My mother was

  beneath the ground, but we finally had our moment. I saw the headstone with my mother’s name on it, and I knew then that it was over. I cried until I made myself sick. My brother carried me from her grave, and drove me around

  until I could get myself together.

  Later that day, we arrived at 306 Ormond St. in Atlanta, Georgia. This was home to me, my mother, my grandmother, and so many other people in the family. Like a dried up desert, my grandmother’s home stood, nothing like I remembered. It was clear that my grandmother’s presence was obsolete. My grandmother purchased her home in 1955. In the fifty years that she had this home in her possession, none of her utilities were ever disconnected, and

  she had the same telephone number ever since Bell South was established.

  The first thing I noticed was that the lights were disconnected. Then I noticed there was no running water, the phone was off, and the gas had been disconnected as well. The house was filthy and infested with spiders. I looked at my oldest two boys Lekwaun and Leontae. They were very happy

  to see their mother. I couldn’t imagine for the life of me what type of life they had grown accustomed to. Their clothes were three sizes too small, and their shoes were old, beaten up, and dirty. My baby girl, Emani, was running all over the house barefoot. My baby didn’t even have a single pair of shoes in her possession. I wasn’t angry and I wasn’t being ungrateful, I just felt like

  they deserved more than that.

  I was trying my best to make myself comfortable with my present

  situation. I knew my aunt did the best she could with what she had, but it was just such a cheerlessly, sad homecoming. I tried as hard as I could but I just could not stay in that house. With my grandmother gone, it appeared that all my crack-head cousins had taken over. All types of people were in and out of the house at all hours of the night. Complete strangers stood over me while I

  slept. I couldn’t take it.

  There was no way I was going to live there. Not with my children. Everything I looked at, everything I touched, and everything I heard reminded me that my mother and grandmother were gone. This home was not the

  same place it was before I went to prison. I packed up what little we had, and

  we left.

  My youngest son’s father, Slim, suggested that my kids and I live

  in his house until I got on my feet. That worked for about seven hours. He realized I wasn’t interested in having sex with him. I mean for God’s sake! I’m sitting here crying. The thought of my mother’s death breezed through my mind. I had snot running from my nose, I was screaming at the top of my lungs, and he wanted me to have sex with him. So I packed up my garbage bag full of belongings, took my baby girl, and my three sons. Then we left

  walking, and ended up at the city shelter.

  I had called Phaedra several times. I left her several messages but

  she never called me back. I should’ve known something was up when I called her the first day I got out, and received no response, but I continued calling. It was hard for me to imagine that she had just written me off like a bad habit. I myself would lend a hand to a complete and total stranger, so I couldn’t understand what was making her act so cold toward me.

  September 3, 2005, I checked into the Atlanta Union Mission home-

  less shelter. My children and I were residing in one big room along with

  several other single mothers and their children.

  My baby girl cried all night. It wasn’t her fault. Emani just didn’t

  know me. She was in an unfamiliar environment and was scared to death. Babies know that they are helpless. They know they can’t stop someone from

  hurting them, just like I couldn’t stop the molester from hurting me.

  I knew how she felt. The other mothers were becoming frustrated

  because I couldn’t stop her from crying. No matter what I did or which way I moved, my baby was dissatisfied, and didn’t mind voicing her opinion. All I

  could do was sit there hopeless, and miserable. So I cried with her.

  When I was released from prison I was given a check for twenty-

  five dollars, and instructions to report to the parole office in seventy-two hours. You don’t leave prison with a job, a home, and a car. Well at least, not everyone does. I know I didn’t. All I had was a lot of worries, a bunch of stress, responsibilities, and a criminal
record. Once a criminal—always a criminal, You have all heard this statement before, right…? Yeah, well it remained the truth. There was almost no such thing as fully redeeming one’s

  self. Or was there?

  It was time for me to report to the parole office. They informed me

  that I was free to visit the day I left prison, but that turned out to be a lie. Unless of course you maxed out, meaning, you served your total sentence. Even if the justice system did forgive, society never would.

  I didn’t have anyone to keep my children. I didn’t even have enough

  money to catch the bus to drop them off, and then come back, and pick them up. I couldn’t see how that would work. I made a decision that morning, I

  got my children dressed, I got myself dressed and we waited at the bus stop.

  When I walked into the parole office I sat all the way in the back, all

  the way up against the wall with my children. We sat there as a family side by side. I had to protect my children. Child molesters didn’t have a warning sign on their foreheads. We were sitting amongst some of America’s worst criminals. I really should have thought twice before I took my children with me, but what other option did I have? If I didn’t report they would lock me

  up, and there was no telling with whom my babies would end up going to.

  I saw the chief parole officer walk to the front of the waiting room

  several times looking at me, and discussing my status with one of his peers. After about an hour he called me to the back. My children and I took a seat inside of an office, and he angrily closed the door. He stepped out only to return fifteen minutes later. When he stepped into the office he stared at me, then he stared at my children and said, “Ms. Stanton, don’t you know that you are not suppose to bring children to the parole office?”