This book tells my life story. The good the bad the hard truth. It tells who I was; who I am and what I've overcome. It shows my financial hardships and my many relationships. This book also tells my survival of my street life and my encounters with the law.

My Life, My Story, My Pain

By Rip Kesee

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Rip Kesee
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-3658-8

Chapter One

MY LIFE, MY STORY, MY PAIN

I look at life as a story to be told - a testimony. Life is a book that you write day by day as you live it. It is to be shared with others, but you have to understand each chapter, and you have to realize when an old chapter must end and when a new chapter must begin.

My life has always been a fight, full of complete and incomplete chapters. I'm trying my best to complete a lot of my unfinished chapters because of the problems I've caused other people. I've come a long way in life, yet I'm still traveling and trying to understand my purpose.

My story begins in the early 1970s. I was the youngest of four siblings. My brothers are Steve and Randy, and my sister is Sally. I had another sister who passed away before I was born. I never knew the circumstances of her death or what happened, and I never asked any questions.

I was born in El Dorado, Ark., a small town near Louisiana that's surrounded by woodlands and rooted in oil. We were very poor, and sometimes we had to rely on welfare and food stamps when my mother was out of work.

My father was around, but my mother didn't get any help from him. She did the best she could by herself. Times were so hard that my brother and I had to share clothes. In the real world, sharing clothes was not a cool thing, but a lot of kids had to do it.

The kids who didn't have to share talked about those who did. In our house, we shared clothes, shoes, underwear, suits and whatever else we had. Sometimes, when we would take pictures at school, the other kids would point and laugh. "Your brother had that suit on yesterday," they'd say.

It hurt, but I had to make myself understand that my mother was doing her best. I can remember when the Michael Jordan sneakers came out. They were red, black and white, and I wanted some so bad, but I knew we couldn't afford them.

I asked my mother to buy me some anyway. After she looked at that price, she told me that she would get them if she could find a discount. That didn't take that long, because about two weeks later, the Dollar Store came out with their own version of the shoes.

You could tell they weren't real, but we didn't care. We wore them with pride. Everybody at school knew they weren't real, too, but we ignored them. We had some; that's all that mattered. The one pair of shoes that I hated most was the maypops. Now those were the "Dollar Store special."

The shoes were blue and white and uglllllly! But sometimes that was all we had.

Steve was the oldest, and he didn't fall into the same "poor" category like the rest of us. He was adopted by my aunt and uncle. They spoiled him a lot; he always got to do whatever he wanted. Every week he got a haircut and new clothes, while the rest of us would be lucky to get a pack of cookies when my uncle brought him over on the weekends to visit us.

Uncle LeRoy, who adopted my oldest brother, wasn't really our uncle. He married my Aunt Penny. Uncle LeRoy had a few rent houses, and he loaned money to people all the time. A lot of times he had to help my mother out when she didn't have all her "bill money."

I used to thank God for him and thought he was our angel. He kept us out of the dark many times. He had a Volkswagen that he loved to drive. Uncle LeRoy and Aunt Penny kept money in Steve's pocket, so of course he thought he was better than us. I remember one time he got in trouble at school for having too much money in his pocket. A lot of times Aunt Penny would steal money from Uncle LeRoy when he was drunk and give it to Steve.

And Steve wasn't always the "good" son, because he got drunk too. On one occasion, he got a D.U.I while riding a bicycle. My uncle was very upset about that, but he still got Steve a car so he didn't have to ride a bicycle anymore. But that's enough about them.

I remember a special Christmas when my brother Randy got a bike and I got a Big Wheel. That was the best Christmas of our lives, because we never got anything new on Christmas. All our stuff usually came from the Salvation Army, thrift stores or garage sales.

I was happy until he decided to give me a push and busted the back of my Big Wheel. I cried all day long. I think Randy cried all day, too, because his butt was hurt. I remember asking my mother for money so I could go buy a kite or something to play with. But a lot of times she was broke and would tell me that if I found some money around the house I could have it.

One day, I searched for money in some old purses she had lying around the house. I checked them all of them, but they were empty. My favorite Aunt Sadie stayed with us at the time. That was my mother's sister, and she also had a few bags and purses. I asked her if I could look for some spare change, but I didn't exactly say where.

She said OK, so I looked around and eventually hit the jackpot. Boy, it felt like I was in heaven; I found so much money! I felt like I was rich ... like I was some kind of superstar. I went to the store and bought a lot of junk - kites, drinks and candy. You name it.

My brother Randy asked me where I got the money. I told him I found it. He didn't believe me and said he was going to tell mama. By the time I got home, everybody was waiting for me. My mother asked if I had any money.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"Well, where did it come from?" she asked.

"U mm. I found it."

She just had to keep asking questions. When she asked where I had found it, I pointed and said, "in there."

"Where in there," she asked.

"In Aunt Sadie's room," I said. "It was in some old purses that she didn't want, so I got the money. She can throw them away now."

And, of course, Aunt Sadie had to open her mouth.

"Boy, I did not tell you to go in there and pick through my purses," she said. "All that money you got was my bill money, and you need to go get it all back from everybody you gave it to."

Randy was just mad because I didn't give him any money. So there we went, all over the neighborhood, getting the money back. We were short some, and I got my butt tore up that day. I never did that again. Shortly after, my nephew and I were playing cowboys and Indians in the house. He had water gun, and I had a B.B. gun. It was empty at first, but I found a B.B. stuck to the gun with some duct tape. I loaded it and just sat there waiting for him to stick his head out. When he did, I shot and hit him in the eye.

It was real bloody; I was so scared because he was hollering like crazy. My mama ran to him, scooped him up and rushed to get help. They took him to the hospital, and the doctor said the B.B. had lodged under his eyelid. When they got home, I felt bad, but it was funny because he had a patch on his eye.

It wasn't funny when my mother got through with me, though.

Time passes on....

I remember one time we were at home by ourselves and there were big rats everywhere - they were running all over the house. We were on the couches and chairs and didn't get down until our parents made it back home. I guess the rats were hungry or something, I don't know.

I remember one time a rat ate the top of my finger off, and I had to get a shot. I have been bitten by a couple of times by rats, so I'm afraid of them. After the rat incident, I just wanted to get out the house for a while, even though I never was athletic. I had a friend up the street named Tony, and I went to his house everyday to play with him. We called ourselves playing football one day, and I don't know what happened, but I tried to tackle him some kind of way and he moved.

It was about an 8-foot drop on the side of the house where we were playing. I missed him and just kept going; it seemed like it took forever to hit the ground. When I opened my eyes, my friend was standing over me asking if I was all right. When I finally came to my senses, I was like, "yea."

I finally got up and ran home and explained to my mother what had happened. I told her I was hurting, so she took me to the hospital. The doctor said I broke my collarbone, and I had to wear a body cast, or something like that. I didn't know what it was, but I didn't like it.

My mother told me I had to wear it if I wanted to get well. I walked around everyday feeling like a fool. I think it hurt more having to wear that thing. Another time we were at home by ourselves because my mother and father had gone out with some friends. That was one of the saddest days in my life.

When they finally made it home, I noticed my mother was bloody, and her head was wrapped up with some white bandages. I cried and cried and asked what had happened. She said some man hit her in the head with a pool stick. I asked her why he did it. She said they got into an argument and it just happened.

I vowed that I would never, ever forget that day. That man was going to pay for this. He hurt my mother, and that was not going work. He was not a man, he was a coward to hit a woman with a stick. She never really explained what happened that night, nor where my father was and why he didn't do anything to help her.

Another year or so went by before we moved across town to a little neighborhood called Rock Island. Our house there used to be a juke joint, and we believe it was haunted because a couple of people had been killed inside before we moved in.

When it rained, we thought the house was going to float away. The porch was about 5feet high, but when it would rain hard the water came up to the door. Some days, when it was hot outside, and after a big rain, we would go swimming in the yard, using the porch as our diving board. Sometimes we would swim while it was still raining.

There was so much water, and all the roads were covered. We walked all over, from ditch to ditch, swimming. We even had bikes that we put together to ride around in the rain - and just to ride. I remember one time when we were all riding very fast down a big hill, but I couldn't stop because I didn't have any brakes.

Let me tell you, a car and a curve do not go together! I tried my best to miss that car, but the curve had other plans. It pushed me into the car. My private parts and the handle bars became the best of friends that day. Everybody laughed so hard, and I pretended to laugh, too, but I was actually crying.

It put a dent in the side of the car, but we got away before anyone came outside. My bag of nuts was bruised, but most of all my pride was hurt, because I thought I could ride like the wind; I believed I was untouchable. No one could out ride me, but I found out I wasn't as good as I thought.

After that day, I got brakes and slowed my butt down. Those were the good old days - my life started to change as I got older. I guess I was about 10 when my bicycle days were over. After that, Christmas rolled around, and it was very cold outside. We had a snow storm that year. I remember my sister was living across town. Her gas had got cut off, so her house was very cold. She asked my mother if she and her kids could come stay with us until the snow was off the ground.

My mother told them they could, and the whole family was together in one house. Christmas Eve came, and my mother and sister were getting ready to cook a Christmas dinner. My sister had turkey at her house that they wanted to cook, but nobody wanted to go over there because we didn't have a car. I had to open my mouth and volunteer to go get the turkey. Boy, that was a big mistake.

I put on the warmest clothes I had and got ready to go. I remember my mother asked if I really wanted to. I told her I did, and before I knew it I was on my way over there. Walking to her house wasn't that bad. I just couldn't get warm. I tried to make body heat by running, but it was still bitterly cold. I finally made it to my sister's house and pulled the turkey out of the refrigerator- it was frozen solid.

I was too, but I had to make it back home. I sat there for a few minutes wondering what I had gotten myself into. My hands was cold, my feet and my ears were like ice; I just needed a little heat, but that wasn't going to happen. So I picked up the turkey and headed home.

The turkey was cold so that it made my hands even colder. I walked as far as I could before stopping to change the turkey from one hand to the other. It was getting colder and colder; my hands started to hurt, and so did my feet, but there was nothing I could do but keep walking. I felt like I was dying slowly - the pain, I couldn't take it. I started to cry, and I asked God to please let me make it home, just give me the strength, please.

I guess he did because I kept on going, but I was very cold, wet and tired. My hands were frozen to the turkey; it seemed like I was never going to make it home. I just kept saying to myself, "I'm almost there. Keep me going." I thought this would be the last walk of my life. When I finally made it to the street we lived on, my body didn't want to go any further, but I made it home. I walked into the yard, stumbling as I tried to get on the porch. I made it to the door and cried out for help.

I fell down, and the door opened. I crawled inside, crying in pain. I had never felt that much pain before; I didn't know what to do. My mother helped me get out of the wet clothes, and she sat me down in front of the heater with a blanket. My hands were so cold that they were red. It was like my blood had stopped flowing. The heat intensified the pain; it made it worse. My feet were the same way.

After awhile, the pain went away, but the thought of what I had gone through to get that turkey didn't. I never volunteered for anything else again. I learned my lesson. I respect the cold now, and I wouldn't even walk to the store if it was cold outside. I put that behind me, and I was on to bigger and better things. Summer had come - finally - and I was hanging out with the big boys, learning to live how they lived and enjoying myself.

As they say, good manners start at home. My mother was the one who always kept things together. She worked two jobs sometimes just to feed us. Some days, she didn't eat just so we could. She would bring food home from her job sometimes and tell us to eat all we wanted. And we asked her if she was going to eat with us. She would always say, " I'm alright, ya'll go head."

And we did, because we had to. My father was around, but like I said, he didn't do anything for us. All he did was get drunk every day. He never took time out for us unless he was drunk. He was a man that I did not want to be like growing up, and some people can relate to what I'm talking about. I always looked outside the house for a role model.

My brothers were just like my dad, I couldn't look up to them. It didn't take me long to realize that they liked to drink and smoke weed and everything else that they could do to get high. They even sniffed glue, paint or whatever. I'm not going to lie, I tried it too, but I did not like it. You know sometimes you just want blend in with people, but trust me, that's not the way to be.

One time, my nephew and I had another problem. I was throwing a file at a tree in the yard, and I told him to move and get out my way. But he wouldn't listen to me.

And then it happened.

The file bounced off the tree and hit him in the head. Then came the blood. He ran in the house and told my mother I tried to hit him because he would not move. I got my butt whipped again, and after that, no more playing for me. I started trying to smoke with my brothers, and I got caught. That was the first time my father tried to whip me. I take that back, he didn't try, he tore my butt up. I was trying to smoke in the bed, and he walked in on me. I put the cigarette under the cover. He asked us if we smelled something burning. I lied and said, "Naw'll."

By that time the covers were smoking. They had caught on fire from the cigarette. He pulled the covers off the bed and put out the fire, but he started another one on my butt. He picked me up by the leg and turned me upside down. I thought that belt was twenty feet long by the way he was hitting me with it. And that was during a time when he had quit drinking, so you know he really put it on me.

I never thought he would whip me. I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what to do, but I knew I wasn't going to smoke again ... well, not at home anyways. I wanted to leave and just run away, but where would I go? I thought about it hard for a minute and realized that I had nowhere to go. So I ran to my room and went to bed. The next day I had new an attitude about everything.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from My Life, My Story, My Painby Rip Kesee Copyright © 2010 by Rip Kesee. Excerpted by permission.
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