Chapter 5: The Monarch, the Matriarch, and the Mastermind

In the intricate tapestry of my family, one figure emerged as a beacon of strength and resilience—the indomitable matriarch, my grandmother, Louretha Salmon. She was a remarkable woman who had navigated the challenging landscape of a tumultuous era, serving as a principal during a time when the path of black education in America was fraught with formidable obstacles. Her stories were a chilling reminder of the death threats she faced daily, a stark testament to her unwavering determination. To protect herself, she even kept a gun in her car, a symbol of the resilience required to pursue her calling.

My grandmother's strength wasn't confined to her professional life; she was also a devoted mother who successfully raised four children, each of them achieving their own unique successes. As a military brat, I had the privilege of being raised by her, and it was a fascinating revelation to realize that the woman who had nurtured me had also been the guiding force in raising my father. In this shared upbringing, I began to recognize that some of my imperfections were inherited, that the complexities of our family history had shaped us both.

This complex family dynamic set the stage for what I believe was the central conflict within our matriarchal hierarchy—a competition for my grandmother's love. Among her children, Terry, the eldest and the only one with a different father, bore the brunt of this competition. Louretha was the linchpin that held our family together, but Terry carried a chip on his shoulder, feeling slightly different from his siblings. This perceived difference led him to overcompensate in many ways, often at the expense of essential life skills such as compassion.

The lineup of Louretha's children included Terry, the eldest; Jesse, my father; Lori; and the youngest, Laucresha, who bridged our generations with a 13-year age gap. When I was just eight years old, my grandmother started to notice the excessive bruises on my body. In black families, spankings were common, but physical abuse was never deemed acceptable, then or now. Louretha’s mother, Grandma Burks, used to discipline us with objects like flashlights, hangers, and spatulas, while Louretha resorted to using hangers, belts, and even mop handles. My father, on the other hand, preferred the belt, and his ability to inflict physical harm was frighteningly effective, sometimes resulting in broken skin.

The persistent question that lingers is where parents learn that beating their children is a form of discipline. When I mustered the courage to confront my parents about this issue upon returning from the military, they offered excuses, claiming they were young and did the best they could with what they had. But deep down, we all knew that some individuals simply aren't cut out for parenthood, and that profound realization has left a lasting scar on our family's history.

As I reflect on the complexities of my family's dynamics, it's evident that our upbringing and the historical context in which we were raised played a pivotal role in shaping our identities and the challenges we would later confront. My grandmother's strength was a beacon of hope amidst the turbulence of our family's history, but it couldn't shield us entirely from the shadows that loomed over our past.

Despite my grandmother's occasional use of hangers and broom handles for discipline, she recognized the boundaries that should never be crossed when she saw the physical evidence of abuse on our young bodies—the scars left by my parents' harsh treatment. It was a pivotal moment after the glass and vinegar incident, with lingering scarring on my feet and hands, that she decided to take matters into her own hands and took my parents to court. In their defense, my parents argued that I was just a child, and these injuries could have easily been sustained through innocent play outside. After a month-long legal battle, my grandmother lost, and I was stripped of the chance to see her for the remainder of my childhood.

This marked the first significant rift in the matriarchy, with my dad and Carolyn directly pitted against my grandmother. Carolyn, my stepmother, had always existed on the fringes of our family's inner circle. The question of how much of my abuse could be attributed to my father lingered in the background. While he had control over his actions and decisions, one couldn't help but wonder how much manipulation and misguided love played a role in his actions. I was acutely aware that Carolyn harbored no love for me. In fact, she went out of her way to make my life miserable.

For me, the absence of nurturing in my life left a void that I desperately sought to fill with love from others. This mirrored my father's complacency in keeping toxic people in his life. My first wife, Victoria, entered the picture as I was transitioning out of the military. Our marriage began with the understanding that I didn't want to continue my dentistry career if there were delays in her transition to America and our plans in Germany. However, jealousy and trust issues plagued our young relationship, leading to struggles in fully trusting each other. It became a complex mix of compromise, settling, and seeking balance. It took three wedding rings for me to realize that Victoria's jealousy, combined with my immaturity in addressing her concerns, made our relationship untenable, ultimately culminating in my first divorce.

Meanwhile, Terry had achieved remarkable success, amassing wealth through a combination of hard work, good fortune, and the unwavering support of his wife, Iva. Their partnership served as a shining example of teamwork. Iva had willingly postponed her own education to help Terry complete college and launch his first company. In return, Terry had supported her as she pursued her education and subsequently established her own successful company. Their union had given rise to a daughter, Sacia, who embodied the blend of high expectations from both parents, resulting in one of the kindest individuals one could ever meet.

The delicate balance between family dynamics and personal relationships has been a recurring theme in my life, shaped by the tumultuous history of my upbringing. As I navigate the complexities of love, trust, and forgiveness, I find myself reflecting on the fragile nature of bonds and the enduring impact of past traumas. It's a journey that has tested my resilience and resilience, ultimately leading me to a deeper understanding of the intricate web of connections that define our lives.

My time living with Terry and his family before the fateful decision to hire the still-unknown kidnapper had its share of harrowing moments. One memory that stands out is when Jesse, my father, signed over guardianship to Terry when I was just 14. The justification was enrolling me in school, but in hindsight, it seems odd that the very next step was obtaining a passport. The dots didn't connect at the time. For nearly a year, I lived with one of the wealthiest families in Oklahoma, yet the stark disparity between Sacia's life and mine was undeniable. Despite being in the same grade, with just a three-month age difference, our upbringings couldn't have been more different. My life had been marked by abuse, shaping my communication skills in stark contrast to her sheltered upbringing.

Sacia had every gaming system imaginable in her room, but they gathered dust. When I dared to borrow one, she accused me of theft, promptly informed her parents, and to this day, among our friends, she claims I stole it—strange, considering I had virtually nothing at that time. They called me their son and plucked me from my home with just a few clothes, yet, as a high school kid with virtually nothing, I was accused of theft for using one gaming system. I struggled to make sense of it as a child and as a son. How could someone who called me their brother deny me the use of a gaming system when I had nothing? The ego-centric selfishness was bewildering.

At that time, it was trendy to add spoilers to car trunks, install massive 12-inch subwoofers, and decorate vehicles with large decals. During my "playboy" phase, I proudly displayed a giant Playboy bunny on my car's rear window. However, my uncle had me remove it the very next day. And to add insult to injury, someone broke into my car the day after that and stole my stereo system.

Of course, my uncle was quick to place the blame squarely on my shoulders, asserting that I had been associating with the wrong crowd. I had to endure the loss of my stereo system, and then Terry suggested that someone might be looking for me, noticing a car circling our house. It was then decided, for my safety, that I should no longer live with them. Keep in mind, I was just a 14-year-old high school student in Oklahoma City at the time. The idea of any real danger at that age seemed far-fetched, at least from my perspective.

This was the point at which the web of lies about me began to spin. My parents and Terry took it upon themselves to tell my friends and family that I was involved in a gang. Perhaps, if you looked at a 14-year-old who had a fondness for baby blue clothing and flashy jewelry and who was struggling with self-identity between the black and white communities, you could make that assumption. But it would have been just as easy for them to research and understand, yet it seemed simpler to label me and dismiss me, following the standard treatment they had grown accustomed to.

In the chapters of my life's story, there's a vivid recollection that stands out—a daring escape attempt from Casa by the Sea. It was a night fraught with tension and anticipation, a night when the prospect of freedom hung in the balance.

As our small group devised a plan to scale the towering basketball hoops and leap over the imposing 10-foot wall, my heart raced with a mixture of hope and fear. I wasn't alone in this venture; there were others, fellow souls yearning to break free from the oppressive confines of that place. I found myself in the second position to scale the wall, and as I looked over, a chilling sight greeted my eyes—rows of barbed wire awaited us on the other side.

The moment one of our group hit the ground, alarms erupted in a cacophonous chorus of warning. The family fathers, the enforcers of that bleak institution, were quick to react, their voices piercing the night as they bellowed at us to get down. It was a pivotal moment that demanded a choice, a choice that mirrored the very decisions my family members grappled with in their own lives.

In that critical moment at Casa by the Sea, I faced a profound dilemma, one that echoes with the complexities my family now grapples with in revealing the truth. On one side lay the tantalizing allure of freedom, a chance to escape the torment that had become our daily existence within those walls. It was an opportunity to break free from the clutches of the abusive program that had held us captive.

However, on the other side of that towering wall loomed the specter of retribution—a vengeance that could be exacted by both our peers who had taken the daring leap and the family fathers who had subjected us to their control. The consequences of my actions were uncertain and potentially dire, much like the uncertainties my family faces today.

In that moment, fear's icy grip clutched at my heart, paralyzing my decision-making. The weight of the choice before me was immense. I stood there, perched on the precipice of choice, but ultimately, I chose not to jump. This decision was not taken lightly, and it would leave an indelible mark on my soul, a haunting echo of that pivotal night.

Now, as my family confronts the difficult decision to reveal the truth, they too are perched on the precipice of choice. They must grapple with the allure of truth and the potential for freedom from the shackles of deceit. But they are also acutely aware of the specter of retribution, not just from those within our family but from external forces as well. Terry and Iva's financial power looms large, and the consequences of exposing the truth could be financially ruinous.

In drawing this parallel, it becomes evident that the choices we face are never simple, and they carry profound consequences. My choice at Casa by the Sea left its mark on my life, just as the choice my family faces now will undoubtedly shape the course of our future. The struggle between the desire for freedom and the fear of retribution is a common thread that weaves through our experiences, past and present, and it underscores the complexity of the decisions we must make to find truth and reconciliation.

As my narrative unfolds, we transition to "zero day," a term synonymous with the commencement of basic training. It was the year 2004, and I had arrived at Fort Leonardwood, Missouri, where the freezing winds of that October night greeted us. Three drill sergeants stood in wait, their stern expressions and harsh commands creating an atmosphere of chaos and confusion.

I recognized the test for what it was—a trial to identify leaders and followers among us. I chose to take charge, to endure their push and pull, their insults and demands. In the world I had come from, this was a cakewalk. I meticulously arranged my platoon in alphabetical order, ensuring that everyone was in their correct place before I inserted myself.

My platoon earned the distinction of being first, a reward for our efficiency. However, the military's paradoxical nature meant that even good leadership could lead to punishment. And so, zero day continued, pushing us to our limits, setting the unyielding tone for the challenges that lay ahead in basic training.

This chapter in my life is a testament to the complex interplay of choices, fear, and the indomitable spirit that has shaped my remarkable story.

Leaving Jamaica and enlisting in the military was my attempt to break free from the vicious cycle of abuse that had haunted my past, and it represented a chance to reset my life. With the army, I harbored the hope of finding a brotherhood, a sense of belonging that had eluded me for so long. Little did I know that even within the structured confines of the military, I would not escape the harsh realities of racism and politics.

It became evident that, beyond the shared camaraderie of children who had endured abuse, the intricate complexities of human ideologies and political affiliations played a role in our lives. I grappled with questions of where I stood and with whom I stood. Thankfully, the military provided me with a battle buddy, and mine was Tommy Vo, a companion who would journey with me through the challenges ahead.

I chose to serve in the US Army as a combat medic, seeing it as a rite of passage that many men in our family had undertaken. My brother served as a Marine, I became a medic, my father had his time in the Army, my uncle Terry was in the Navy, and even my cousin Richard had his role as a patriot missile specialist.

Fast forward three years, and I found myself attached to the Vogelveigh dental unit in Kaiserslautern, Germany. It was here that I underwent a significant career change, reclassifying from a combat medic to a dental hygienist. This marked a shift in my military career as I transitioned to the role of maintaining the dental health of soldiers. During this period, I came to the realization that I despised having my hands inside unpleasant mouths and began contemplating another career shift.

As I prepared to leave the military, they facilitated my transition into civilian life by securing a position for me as an A/V technician for the DoubleTree hotel brand. This was a turning point in my life, as it was during this period that I experienced a miraculous reunion with Shameon, who held the position of front-of-house manager. The job offered decent pay, starting at $22 an hour back in 2007, and provided me with the opportunity to rekindle old friendships.

Among these friendships, I reconnected with one of my best friends and neighbors, Ryan Holler. Ryan had been a pillar of support during my junior high school years, and his family had extended their kindness to me by celebrating my birthday every summer at their Lakehouse. Since Ryan was an only child, his parents allowed him to invite friends, and he had always chosen Katie and me to share in those special moments. At that time, Ryan worked as a waiter, and despite my decent-paying job as a 21-year-old, he was making more money with fewer hours. This prompted me to consider a shift into the service industry.

During this period of transition and change, I began to hear the first faint whispers of what my friends believed had happened to me during my time away. These rumors prompted me to confront my father about my experiences for the first time. His chillingly callous response still sends shivers down my spine: "I don't care, you deserved it." I attempted to share my story, to make them understand the truth, but nobody believed me. Instead, they labeled me a liar and dismissed my claims as too incredible to be true.

The investigation to shut down all WWASP programs was an arduous journey that spanned a grueling 10 years, with only one school managing to survive to this day. Despite this significant progress, the final piece of closure I seek remains elusive: finding my kidnapper. Yet, the walls of silence remain steadfast within my family and church, as they adamantly refuse to reveal the identity of this person.

Throughout my tumultuous journey, there were two steadfast friends who provided unwavering support: Katie and Ryan. Katie, the lively tomboy of our trio, skillfully navigated the complexities of our teenage friendship, preserving our bond despite the challenges of adolescence. In the realm of family, these two were the only individuals I could trust and confide in.

One cherished memory from our youth was my 13th birthday celebration, a day filled with adventure and joy. We embarked on an evening of cliff jumping, followed by a delicious meal of fish and chips at a floating restaurant. It was a typical summer day for us—water sports, good food, and endless fun. This special occasion was celebrated with the company of Ryan's family.

The experience of celebrating birthdays with Ryan and Katie's families left an indelible mark on me, offering a glimpse of what a genuine, loving family could be. Now, as a parent myself, I am determined to provide the love and care that were often missing from my own childhood. My perspective on parenting has been profoundly shaped by my past, and I am resolute in my commitment to break the cycle of abuse and neglect.

My second marriage, although brief, was influenced by familial expectations and pressures. It was my grandmother who played a pivotal role in this union, passing down a precious family heirloom—a ring that had been cherished by generations of strong matriarchs. Her intentions were clear: this ring was meant for me. At the time, I did not fully grasp the weight of her words.

The day she gave me that ring remains etched in my memory. Despite being 80 years old, she tirelessly assisted me in moving a heavy couch. During this time, she confided in me that she had suffered a stroke, which had led my family to insist that she move in with them. This revelation marked my first significant concern for her health, but it tragically turned out to be the last time I saw her. Unbeknownst to anyone, she had been battling stage three breast cancer that had metastasized to her lungs, throat, and brain. She had kept her illness hidden, allowing the strokes to occur until it was too late.

Our final encounter was profoundly heart-wrenching. My brother and I visited her after her third stroke, bearing witness to the devastating toll of cancer. Her once robust presence had withered, and her body bore the visible scars of her illness. Yet, in her eyes, there was no fear—only a profound sense of strength. Despite her limited ability to speak, she conveyed essential messages: urging me to find happiness, encouraging reconciliation with my brother, and fervently expressing her deepest wish for our family to forgive each other.

Perhaps it is the absence of a new matriarch, the constant defamation of the monarch, or the subtle influence of a mastermind that has perpetuated division within our family. Nevertheless, I hold onto the hope that one day, we can overcome these challenges and emerge as a united family, healing the wounds of the past and forging a brighter future.