‘Steals Mr. Riley’s credit card, tries to frame me for it’
‘No Deodorant for Rasa’
‘My talent to draw stunted’
‘The Purpose of Writing My Life’
SHE WAS UNSOCIABLE, UNCARING
She didn’t just hate me, she didn’t care about anyone. One exception. On Delancey St. Newark a ‘bum’ {today we call them homeless} came to the door begging. We had a huge loaf of bread – the kind they bake in Eastern Europe, Russia, Poland, Lithuania. These breads are not like ‘wonder bread,’ they’re thick with flavor & nutrition, with dark crusts & weigh between 4 to 6 pounds. Mom cut one of these huge loaves in half & gave it to the poor man! It could sustain him for days. That is the only act of charity I can recall her making. {I was 6-7}
She was a mean machine, who once, when I couldn’t finish my home fries, beat me on the head with her fists. Grandma stopped it. I figured we were not rich & she wanted me to fill up on fries rather than eggs, that’s what maddened her, – I was 6 years old.
When we moved to the farm across the street from us one house down was an ancient couple. I stopped by from time to time – they were poor, must have been in their 70′s or 80′s & not active or healthy. The man had Alzheimer’s starting. They were kind & the old lady gave me purses, when perused through, had change in them, which she obviously wanted to give me. Change then was like dollars today – a dime was worth a dollar.
I was dismayed, however, when the poor lady asked my Mom for a ride to the grocery store & Mom said no. I had to walk over there & say
“My mother said no.”
That’s just out & out cruelty. She had the car, she could drive, she could have done it. No explanation given. These were old desperate people, the only time they asked us for anything.
It frustrated me when we were at a pizza place & a family a few tables away, the Mom began to speak Lithuanian in a loud voice. The Dad told her to hold it down, people will hear you, & she said,
“NO ONE WILL UNDERSTAND ME, HAHA”.
I told Mom, let’s talk to her, but she nodded her head no. I walked by their table looking at them longingly but could not say a word. We could have been friends. Finding someone else who was Lithuanian & spoke it out there was one in a million & we lost it.
When we moved to Middletown, same thing. I got friends with a lovely neighbor. The Mom asked, could you ask your Mom if she could come visit? I ran to Mom eagerly telling her the message.
For a moment she seemed to think about it, then she said no, no explanation. I was sad. I believe part of it is she lacked social confidence, her English was not great. With Lithuanians she was a ‘Queen B’. We had fetes every Holiday with many guests at our table, they adored her as she set a Queen’s table, & they gave money to us kids, like one man gave $10. That was worth $100. then. {I’m sure the money had to be handed over to her. That was the polite way guests gave her money, by pretending to give it to us. I follow the same traditional. Whenever I’m invited to dinner by families I give money ‘for the children’, chocolates, flowers, sometimes treats for their animals if they have them. One family had many dogs & 4 horses, they got dog biscuits & apples.}
KIDNAPPED 3 TIMES – TWICE IN MEXICO, ONCE IN THE U.S.
I made two trips to Mexico, {Acapulco} first for an abortion, second for fun, but it was hazardous.
My Spanish was minimal, I knew like 20 words. There was a young male who offered me a ride some place, & I got in the car. Why I was sitting in the back, I don’t know.
He started driving instead of our destination, way into the jungle, a mountainous region. He picked up another guy & was talking so nervously, so excited, I knew he was planning to take me somewhere where the two of them could rape me. I kept saying to stop the car, I’m getting out, but he wouldn’t.
Finally he slowed down enough that I jumped out of the car. I am now jogging up this mountainous road wondering where the fuck I am, when a dog runs out of the bushes & bites me in the leg, on the calf, a hard bite. When I went to the gay men’s beach about 20 different guys walked up to me to ask what happened, & the authorities made me sign papers before I left as I think they were worried about rabies.
Then it got worse. When I went to fly back to America there was a big storm & the plane stopped in Mexico City. I figured I’d spend a couple days touring before I got the next plane, which I did, walking around in a beautiful lowcut black dress & heels.
These 3 young males stopped me & asked if I wanted to see Chapultepec Park, & I said yes. I had no idea it was like going to Central Park in the evening – as it was getting late – & after dark it’s dangerous, until they drove me deep into the park, into an isolated place. The two aggressive punks left me inside the car while they got out & conferred I presume how to rape me & what to do then.
The submissive, passive one stayed in the car with me & I plotted with him to get me out. He spoke English & I think he was gay, so he wasn’t in the plot to rape. I was in front, the keys still in the car, but the problem was it was the kind you have to shift – I had done it before but was rusty & afraid to drive it.
I jumped out & tried to run, but in heels, & bad floppy ones at that – sandals – they caught me fast. They are nervous wrecks, again, & through the passive one, I persuade them don’t rape me here, let’s go to a motel/hotel where we can be comfortable.
So they drive me out of the park. I see two police standing on the side of the road & I scream out to them. They had no idea what I was saying, but the guys got so scared they went about 50′ & let me leave the car & speeded off.
The police didn’t know what to do with me, but they knew an American family nearby – they took me there. A friend of the family drove me back to my hotel but not before sexually harassing me, end of story.
Moral: It’s dangerous for a female to walk around alone any place, to get into a car with any male, especially if she’s built like Jayne Mansfield & wears a revealing dress.
Last item: I go to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City, first time in my life. I thought everyone dressed formal, I saw movies. I put on a blue satin floor length gown, low cut of course, I wear my dark wig that hangs behind me to the waist. Upon arriving I see I am way overdressed. I think it was Franco Corelli in Aiida, I was infatuated with him, it was great.
Then I leave & see a limo, he stops me & says he’ll drive me home for free, a young guy. He has another couple he has to drop off first, which he does. Then it’s my turn but where the fuck is he going? I know he’s up to no good, the streets don’t look right, he’s kidnapping me. I tell him to stop I am getting out, but he won’t.
Finally he stops for a red light, my chance, I jump out & run where I see a cop, tell him what happened, feel relieved, then catch a cab home.
Two other times they tried to corner me but I got out. My guardian angels worked overtime. I go to a Jack LaLanne gym, the young manager sees me & tells everyone an announcement he’s closing early – I know he’s going to corner me & try rape as soon as the others leave {I had just got there.} I never got dressed & exited a gym so fast.
Then I go to a hair dressing salon where two gay men do the same thing. The owner tells me he’s going to close the gym, then he & his friend can ‘play sex games’ with me. That petrified me, I couldn’t even imagine what he wanted to do, I ran like Hell.
Yes, I did get raped several times, I try not to think about it. They were all date rapes, where a guy threatens you like harm will come to you if you don’t cooperate, or they hint is if you don’t put out they beat you up or hurt or stab you or something, ‘You don’t know what I did to my last girl friend’, etc. I don’t feel like speaking of the cases right now.
MY SKILL AS AN ARTIST IS TRUNCATED
My Dad really hurt me when I went to live with him in B’klyn, regarding my artistic talent.
When I was little – age 6 to 8 – Marius {Mom’s lover} worked in a paper factory. Yes, he was the organist in Church, but that was Sunday/Holidays, he had to have a full time job.
He’d bring home reams of paper, like 1K sheets in a batch, they all went to me for drawing. Dad encouraged me & I became, for my age, a prodigy, so good that in the 1st grade {age 6} they had a child’s gallery in a museum where I was included.
It was kindergarten that my talent surfaced. I couldn’t speak English so they put me in the ‘lower/dumber’ kindergarten. Then we had to draw. I saw a picture on the wall of two birds on a branch, looked at it & drew it. The teacher came, she called a couple other teachers over, & I was put in the ‘higher’ kindergarten class.
After that, every teacher in every class up to 8th grade, when we had blackboards, made me draw murals on top the boards. Mrs. Cooper in 7th grade even asked if I could teach a drawing class. But I was unable to transmit my ability to the others, it takes practice, & first of all, talent.
The talent never left me, but the skill eventually did, because in the 5th grade {age 10} when I found out Dad would never join us, I made a vow,
“I’ll never draw again, out of protest, it will be noticed, .”
But no one noticed, they didn’t care, I just, eventually, lost my skill, the talent going into other fields like dance & photography.
I saw a movie where the guy playing Paganini could no longer play after his sweetheart was ordered to marry another man {by the King.} It was like that. A trauma or broken heart can stop you dead in your tracks. Shirley Bassey couldn’t sing for a while after she lost her daughter.
“I walked on the stage and opened my mouth to sing Goldfinger,” she said. “Nothing came out.”
Samantha Novak, 21, was found face down in the River Avon, near the Clifton suspension bridge in Bristol, in 1985.”
Dean Martin lost his zest for life after losing his son:
“Dean Martin’s son and a fellow crewman died instantly when their fighter jet slammed into a remote mountainside in dense clouds six days ago, officials said after finding the fliers’ bodies. Searchers found the remains Wednesday of Air National Guard Capt.”
And as I said, I stopped drawing. But the talent was still there, & obviously, not all my skill was gone because at age 15, in B’klyn, I had a wonderful black lady art teacher. One day she told me there was a 5 school contest coming up – I should enter.
Enter it I did, to please her mostly, & won second place. My watercolor ‘Water Tower’ which I painted from my 6th floor window took four days. The boy who won 1st place took 3 weeks to do his drawing of a from the high roof-type street scene.
OK, during this time also, I did other art, spur of the moment. They were painting of frustration, anger, unrequited desires, & all the turmoil I went through. Those had meaning. But others, where I tried to do landscape scenes, were dead. My Dad looked at my work & nodded his head,
“No, you don’t have it any more.”
Not spoken in words but implied.
But Dad, you don’t know the whole story & you didn’t ask. I quit drawing because I lost you, & now, you dismiss my art like trivia, which I suppose it is. But why? Why didn’t you ask me what happened? Because you were an idiot & an asshole.
I worshipped you & that worship stopped the day my friend George, who had three daughters, after hearing me regale my Dad, simply said,
“He was NOT a good father.”
That statement put a needle into the balloon, & Dad slipped off the pedestal forever.
NO DEODORANT FOR RASA!
I am twelve, my body has gone through changes. A child has no sweat glands, but now I’m sweating & smelling under my arms. {There’s other disturbing changes also, lots of thick long hair on my arms & legs, & my crotch hair is out of control, haha. Later it would be documented in Gent.}
I never asked Mom for anything, I was too afraid. But I had to have deodorant as I stank, the people in school could smell me; I asked her to buy me some.
Now she comes home from shopping. Let me set the scene. She’s standing at this mirror-cupboard at the end of the kitchen, next to the living room door. Across the kitchen – maybe 15-18′ – is the pantry-hallway leading to the outside, with its cement floor, the door is open.
I’m eager to know if I get the deodorant so I sheepishly say to Mom,
“Mom, did you get my deodorant?’
She goes into an instant rage, picks something out of the paper bag & hurls it forcefully across the room, yelling,
“THERE’S YOUR DEODORANT!”
onto the cement floor of the hallway. It smashes of course, all the deodorant seeps out.
I am so shocked I cry, & get the dust broom & holder & sweep it up. This bears channeling. Mom, what put you into such a rage? That you would rather lose the valuable money you spent on the deodorant than to see me get it?
MEDUSA: How dare you ask me to buy you anything? How dare you want to look good & smell good, look attractive? I wanted to take your face & grind it into the dirt, scratch it up with gravel, than to see you doll yourself up & be inviting to the public. I hated you.
ME: But you trusted me with the duties of the household, you trusted me to take care of the baby & do every chore you asked. Had you no pity for me at all?
MEDUSA: How much pity do rapists, child abusers & murderers have? N pity, no love, no respect, no nothing. As far as I was concerned you could go to Hell.
ME: And the last act you did against me, on your deathbed. Aunt had called me to make the trip {far away} from the city to Westchester, because of some business with the half sister. She had to sign papers she refused to sign, I was to persuade her – which I did – I was still somehow a mentor. Now Mom was in the hospital with the prognosis from the doctors, ‘Six months to live.’ Coffee & cigarettes were her main diet, it caught up with her. I was praying every day, Aunt was going there anyway, I asked to see Mom.
So I went in – you had to go one at a time, it was the last weeks before death. I said to Mom I wanted to pray for her, would she let me? She didn’t stop me. I prayed for a few minutes.
Now my aunt is driving me home, she’s holding a cigarette in her right hand, it’s shaking with rage. She says,
“How dare you pray for your mother, making her feel like she’s dying…….God will not hear you anyway, YOU SELL YOUR BODY!”
ME: Now Mom, instead of being grateful that I prayed, that I cared, you made me sound like a perpetrator who hurt you by prayer. What was the motive for that?
MEDUSA: I knew that Aunt had a low opinion of you, as we had a consensus of you being a prostitute, an evil doer, a bad mother & so on. People like that are not in the grace of God. I knew if I complained to her she would let you have it, & that was my revenge.
ME: Revenge against what?
MEDUSA: Revenge against the thought that you were not a lowlife, that you deserved God’s love, that God would hear you, you were not bound for Hell. It’s the same principle you carried when you ‘stripped for God,’ preached & danced, the consensus being that strippers are outside the grace of God, you dispelled that fallacy. So now you were saying you were in the grace of God, you could pray, God could hear you & help me. So I had to punch you down.
ME: Let me get this straight. It was that important that the idea of me being outside of grace, a lowlife, had to be upheld? Why upheld then & now, even after your death in 1979. The family that is left still carry your evil spirit against me. For the most part, I am an outcast, they don’t invite me to weddings {3 different ones}, they have never invited me for Christmas {I spend most Christmases alone} & they ignore me on social media – act like I don’t exist for the most part. What is it you were trying to prove, they are trying to maintain?
MEDUSA: You are a ‘marked woman.’ Once I put my mark on you & the other main players agreed, to go back on it would prove we were wrong – we had sinned or transgressed. And so, you will forever be, within our family, the ‘untouchable.’ We have you marked with different epithets, such as ‘weird,’ ‘not to be trusted to act normal,’ as you don’t uphold the delusions of our clan – the masks – you don’t play our games. It’s like we believe in different religions, for you to challenge our religion means war. Since there are a few of ‘us’ & only one of you, you can’t win – that is – not within our family. You can do anything outside the family, get awards, trophies, accolades, do great things, but within our clan you always were, {since age 10}, & always will be, the ‘untouchable.’ You CANNOT REDEEM YOURSELF, you cannot prove yourself, just as an untouchable can do nothing to change their status, it’s written in the genetics, so they say, once that, always that. {end channel}
A book:
“Untouchable by Mulk Raj Anand
The novel published in 1935, narrates a day in the life of a young manual scavenger called Bakha. A peek into the daily life of a man from the lowest of the lower caste who sweeps and cleans latrines for a living, the book tells us how intricately the caste apparatus has both dehumanised and normalised the oppression of ‘untouchables’.
People termed as ‘untouchables’ live with the constant imposed burden of being impure and unwanted. One of the high points of the novel is when Bakha is slapped because he committed the ‘crime’ of touching an upper caste Hindu. It is telling of the arrogance of social power ingrained in the caste system.”………………………
Another book:
“Ants Among Elephants: An Untouchable Family and the Making of Modern India by Sujatha Gidla
The author was an ‘untouchable’ born in Andhra Pradesh who moved to the US in her mid-twenties. In her memoir published in 2017, she writes of her life-long struggle with the social ostracism she has faced because of the caste system which has shaped her identity and the memories of humiliation that burdened her family.
In this anecdotal account of growing up in a society that constantly reminded her of being less human than most, Sujatha Gidla talks about the mistreatment of ‘untouchables’, how they were termed as ‘polluted’ and how their segregation was normalised and forced to be their reality.
Gidla’s deep-rooted anger from the life-long oppression is something you can’t miss in the book. She says: ”If you get them to believe your lie, then, of course, you cannot tell them your stories, your family’s stories. You cannot tell them about your life. It would reveal your caste. Because your life is your caste, your caste is your life.”……………..
Me speaking to Mother God:
ME: It seems to me, Mother God, that there is a strong parallels between my family’s view of me – which started unrighteously at age 10 – & society’s view of me being a stripper – that both look on me as an outcast. My family simply added on to the bad image my entering the adult trade – more fuel for the fire of burning me at the stake.
What does this all mean to Mother God, who orchestrated & managed my life? What good is this? She loves me & would never do me harm. What good does all this do me & society, then?
MOTHER GOD: You are a representative of those that are oppressed, downtrodden, ‘Blessed are the poor, the persecuted, etc.” By you winning against the status quo, the Patriarchy, the haters, the cowards, the discriminators & Pharisees, your victories are not just for yourself, you win for them all. You win for billions of those oppressed. So don’t give up or in, don’t back down, stand your ground.
You gave a theatrical name for various folks of your clan. Their name for you would be “Queen of the North who came to challenge us,” you decked all in white fur. {end channel}
SHE TRIES TO FRAME ME FOR HER THEFT
There was an old man, Mr. Riley, who became Mom’s sugar Daddy after she went to buy a car. The first car we bought was a ‘balloon,’ ancient, my bro drove it into a ditch in the field & there it stayed. But later guess we got a better one, after Mom put out to the dealer.
Mr. Riley came by to take the family to dinner. I went to the first one & thereafter was excluded, because he liked me. I was kind to him & when he visited went out of my way to chat. He said,
“Why is it that every time I come by, Rasa is working?”
They said,
“She just does that when she sees you coming.”
It was because of this good man that we got storm windows, central heating & hot water. The house went from uncomfortable shack to ‘Wow, this feels so good!’
But here’s the incident I want to share. One time Mom took me shopping with her – to Steinbeck’s in Trenton, New Jersey. She bought a fortune in underwear, girdles, slips, stockings & such. Those things were much more expensive then than they are now. At the end she brings me Mr. Riley’s charge card & says,
“Rasa, you have such beautiful hand writing – will you sign this?”
I look at it, see his name & tell her I can’t, because it’s another person’s card. I was about 12-13 years old.
She then signs it herself. The saleslady saw this whole thing & said not a word.
I forgot the incident until a few weeks later Mom says,
“Someone stole Mr. Riley’s credit card, & they say it was you.”
It was YEARS before I figured it out. So my Mom was a cold hearted thief, among other things…………………
‘The Purpose of Writing My Life’
I’m not done yet but want to give my reasons for the efforts put here. For one thing, its catharsis, the way you do with therapy, tell your story. Venting what happened in your life is not grudges or revenge or hate, it’s simply stating this or that happened, it made me feel certain ways. Then you get it off your chest. It’s like talking to a good friend, if only someone listens & you feel they care, it helps.
The Part 2 of my life was taken from some of the You Tube videos, which I made for catharsis.
But before I’m finished with Life, I want to make sure that it is explained as it was, as I have noticed that people misunderstand, misread, twist, change, portray a life not accurately, but by the surface, their own ignorance, uninformed ideas, delusions & assumptions, & then there goes your life down the drain.
Take the life of Aimee Semple McPherson, one of the greatest women of all time. I read a great biography of hers, that told the real deal. There was a second one I trashed as a dumb woman said her motive in life was to gain power.
The best one is by Daniel Mark Epstein: “Sister Aimee: The Life of Aimee Semple McPherson.” She did more FAITH HEALING MIRACLES than Jesus Christ himself. She was the most famous woman of her time.
Toward the end of her life she met a fat guy, who sang in her Church, a bed hopper. He had not a shred of religion in him.
In the end, how is this phenomenal Holy Person remembered? By a scandal where she was kidnapped that somehow got twisted into ‘it was her fault, she made it up.’ And last but not least, ELMER GANTRY.
Sinclair Lewis was a contemporary of Aimee, he knew her story well. He took the fat opera singer, turned him into a great evangelist, Aimee into his Jr Partner, not too bright. The vocalist, who never preached anywhere but in bed, gets portrayed by Burt Lancaster as the top reformer of his day. He seduces Aimee, takes over her ministry – she has to pay off a prostitute – Aimee turns out to be some kind of retard as her Church is burning, she just stands there. That’s how Hollywood turned it around, made a fool of her & put a man as the star.
I am pondering what will they do to my life story? I had an outfit that wanted to do a documentary on me, but all they wanted was sex, pornography, the people I knew in show business & porno. After a while of putting up with this, I told them I was a woman of God, God was first & foremost, & if they didn’t see it that way, no deal, so they hit the highway. Yes, I got something out of it. They procured the movie that was made on me – ‘She Did it His Way,’ produced when I was 21 – I had been seeking it for 50 years.
Few people would ever understand the spiritual components of my life – I have to explain them, they understand ON THEIR OWN LEVEL. Which reminds me of the analogy. There was a Holy Man in India sitting under a tree. He was deep in reflective spiritual thought, a blissful trance.
An alcoholic came by & said he was really stoned on whiskey – a drug addict walked over & said he’s been imbibing LSD or heroin, a marijuana smoker saw him & said he was high on grass. Not a single holy person came by & gave him credit for the truth, they all projected what they were.
Then there’s that classic of the blind men defining an elephant. One touches his tail – he’s like a rope. The other touches his trunk, he’s like a snake. Then his leg – he’s like a stump, & his side, wow, he’s a big wall.
There are people who relate to parts of me, people who see in me what is inside of them. How many people see my devotion to God, her grace upon me guiding me through life, my serving her through all my activities, learning & teaching?
How many people are CAPABLE of seeing my relationship to God which culminated in seeing her Face to Face, reaching the Sahasrara & Enlightenment?
Yes, they see it in St. Francis of Assisi, Saint Padre Pio, other saints. They see it in them. But in me, they see a body builder, a Stripper for God, a dominatrix, a Cougar, & various parts of my vocation & personality. They understand the parts, maybe, they don’t see the picture. If anyone wants to know me, they must hear my story of what I live for, what motivates me, what makes me tick, what gives me life, & what I am striving for, & that is God & God alone; to know, love & serve her & be happy with her on earth & in Heaven. Through every bit of my life She has guided me & I obeyed her, she has taken me to places I did & did not want to go, She has influenced me to serve her where it would do the greatest good to myself & humanity. That is the real story, the rest are miscellaneous tidbits.
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