Dr. Leslie Seppinni::Story Of Woman, Story Of Girl

	"Don’t be afraid," she whispered, handing me the broom. "Just stay on the bed and hit them off." She was beautiful. At 5'7", she had the figure of Gina Lollobrigida and the face of Hedy Lamarr. Her shoulder-length black hair, high cheekbones, and sparkling Caribbean-blue eyes made people stop in their tracks. She was elegant and sophisticated, and I was in awe of the "wow factor" she possessed. She quickly kissed my cheek and shut the door behind her. by the age of 2, I was left alone, confused and frightened. Shaking with fear, my tiny knees knocking together, I stood on the bed and tried to block out the shrieking coming from the radiator. As the sound of razor-sharp nails scratched along the floor beneath me, tears poured down my cheeks. I was frozen in fear, afraid to disobey my mother’s order to stay put. “Don’t go near the door and don’t say a word,” she’d warned as she left me alone in the seedy, rat-infested room we were renting by the week from the Aberdeen Motel in New York. The cockroaches scurried along the walls and tables, their black trail racing around in unpredictable patterns without beginning or end. I could hear voices through our paper-thin walls. Angry voices. Whispering voices. Were they monsters coming to get me? I strained to hear what they were saying while furiously swatting a large roach off of my pillow. Perhaps it was the “bad people” she had once told me about? I couldn’t tell, and I was afraid to get close to the walls for fear that the rats would reach out and claw at my face. I struggled to hear who the voices belonged to, hoping they might be those of my brothers coming to rescue me. But what if they didn’t know I was there? What if they couldn’t get to me? Hours passed as I huddled under my covers, holding a pillow over my ears in an attempt to block out the screams of the rats coming from the radiator as they screeched like monkeys embroiled in a vicious battle. I wrapped my body into a tiny ball, praying she would come back for me, praying that she’d even remember I was waiting. I cried for my brothers, hoping they’d return to scoop me up in their arms and whisk me away with them. This is my first memory of her. She ran out and left me behind, my mother, Victoria. My three brothers had left the motel room that morning, hitting the New York streets to hustle some money for groceries and diapers. When they returned that afternoon, they were shocked to find me alone again with no sign of our mother. A short time later, two women social workers knocked on our door. My brothers were street kids, bonded by blood and the determination to survive. They ran out the door and down the stairs in a panic anxious to find a safe haven. Kevin 8, ran after Steven, 12, and Darrin, 10, as the three did the only thing they could think of to avoid winding up in the system. They left me behind in the arms of the social worker. My mother and father were like Bonnie and Clyde, always involved in some kind of underhanded scheme together. Several months earlier, my father had been convicted of homicide and sentenced to Sing-Sing, a maximum-security prison that housed some of the most infamous criminals in the country. While on a family visitation called a “furlough”, he escaped from custody, taking all of his family with him from state to state as he tried to evade the FBI. No wonder I love traveling! When the FBI took him into custody, we returned to New York and an uncertain future. My mother knew it was only a matter of time before her own luck ran out as she’d been a Madame for quite some time. Her alias? Mrs. Black. On the day she left me in our motel room, the police immediately arrested her. Riding in the back of a cop car, my mother later led the authorities to my brothers’ place of refuge. This is one small part of my story growing up as the youngest of four children, the only girl, born into poverty, the daughter of a black father and a white mother. My story is that of a child who spent four years in the foster care system, from the age of 2 to 6 1/2, while her father served time for murder. It is the story of a girl whose mother was deemed to be an unfit parent due to her participation in her husband’s criminal activities, including drug dealing and operating a brothel. It is the story of a young girl whose sociopathic father left her to be raised by an emotionally, verbally, and physically abusive mother, a mother that lived as the ultimate victim and who became progressively mentally ill. Despite my tough upbringing, I’m thankful for my parents. Through witnessing their irresponsibility, criminal activities, violent tendencies and chaotic lives, I made a choice to use my life to inspire and to help others avoid making similar mistakes. Without them, I would not be courageous enough to fight against injustice. I would never have been able to stand up for my right to equality and still keep enough humility to avoid judging others. My story is that of a woman who learned through her curiosity, courage, conviction and commitment not to make excuses for her past and developed the tenacity to prevail in the face of adversity. It is the story of a woman who discovered that her worst fear - her “mom” – became, in fact, one of her greatest driving forces to succeed. It’s the story of a woman who turned anger and shame into gratitude. It is the story of a woman who triumphed.

"Don’t be afraid," she whispered, handing me the broom. "Just stay on the bed and hit them off." She was beautiful. At 5'7", she had the figure of Gina Lollobrigida and the face of Hedy Lamarr. Her shoulder-length black hair, high cheekbones, and sparkling Caribbean-blue eyes made people stop in their tracks. She was elegant and sophisticated, and I was in awe of the "wow factor" she possessed. She quickly kissed my cheek and shut the door behind her. by the age of 2, I was left alone, confused and frightened.

Shaking with fear, my tiny knees knocking together, I stood on the bed and tried to block out the shrieking coming from the radiator. As the sound of razor-sharp nails scratched along the floor beneath me, tears poured down my cheeks. I was frozen in fear, afraid to disobey my mother’s order to stay put. “Don’t go near the door and don’t say a word,” she’d warned as she left me alone in the seedy, rat-infested room we were renting by the week from the Aberdeen Motel in New York. The cockroaches scurried along the walls and tables, their black trail racing around in unpredictable patterns without beginning or end.

I could hear voices through our paper-thin walls. Angry voices. Whispering voices. Were they monsters coming to get me? I strained to hear what they were saying while furiously swatting a large roach off of my pillow. Perhaps it was the “bad people” she had once told me about? I couldn’t tell, and I was afraid to get close to the walls for fear that the rats would reach out and claw at my face. I struggled to hear who the voices belonged to, hoping they might be those of my brothers coming to rescue me. But what if they didn’t know I was there? What if they couldn’t get to me?

Hours passed as I huddled under my covers, holding a pillow over my ears in an attempt to block out the screams of the rats coming from the radiator as they screeched like monkeys embroiled in a vicious battle. I wrapped my body into a tiny ball, praying she would come back for me, praying that she’d even remember I was waiting. I cried for my brothers, hoping they’d return to scoop me up in their arms and whisk me away with them. This is my first memory of her. She ran out and left me behind, my mother, Victoria.

My three brothers had left the motel room that morning, hitting the New York streets to hustle some money for groceries and diapers. When they returned that afternoon, they were shocked to find me alone again with no sign of our mother. A short time later, two women social workers knocked on our door.

My brothers were street kids, bonded by blood and the determination to survive. They ran out the door and down the stairs in a panic anxious to find a safe haven. Kevin 8, ran after Steven, 12, and Darrin, 10, as the three did the only thing they could think of to avoid winding up in the system. They left me behind in the arms of the social worker.

My mother and father were like Bonnie and Clyde, always involved in some kind of underhanded scheme together. Several months earlier, my father had been convicted of homicide and sentenced to Sing-Sing, a maximum-security prison that housed some of the most infamous criminals in the country. While on a family visitation called a “furlough”, he escaped from custody, taking all of his family with him from state to state as he tried to evade the FBI. No wonder I love traveling! When the FBI took him into custody, we returned to New York and an uncertain future.

My mother knew it was only a matter of time before her own luck ran out as she’d been a Madame for quite some time. Her alias? Mrs. Black. On the day she left me in our motel room, the police immediately arrested her. Riding in the back of a cop car, my mother later led the authorities to my brothers’ place of refuge.

This is one small part of my story growing up as the youngest of four children, the only girl, born into poverty, the daughter of a black father and a white mother. My story is that of a child who spent four years in the foster care system, from the age of 2 to 6 1/2, while her father served time for murder. It is the story of a girl whose mother was deemed to be an unfit parent due to her participation in her husband’s criminal activities, including drug dealing and operating a brothel. It is the story of a young girl whose sociopathic father left her to be raised by an emotionally, verbally, and physically abusive mother, a mother that lived as the ultimate victim and who became progressively mentally ill.

Despite my tough upbringing, I’m thankful for my parents. Through witnessing their irresponsibility, criminal activities, violent tendencies and chaotic lives, I made a choice to use my life to inspire and to help others avoid making similar mistakes. Without them, I would not be courageous enough to fight against injustice. I would never have been able to stand up for my right to equality and still keep enough humility to avoid judging others.

My story is that of a woman who learned through her curiosity, courage, conviction and commitment not to make excuses for her past and developed the tenacity to prevail in the face of adversity. It is the story of a woman who discovered that her worst fear - her “mom” – became, in fact, one of her greatest driving forces to succeed. It’s the story of a woman who turned anger and shame into gratitude. It is the story of a woman who triumphed.