Should I have my story published?
This is a sponsored post. There are no affiliate links. This is my true story. All thoughts are my own.
I’m not black, but I have a black woman’s name. Lavonnia is my real name. I go by Lia because it was a nick-name that was given to me when I worked for a company that I had worked for about eight years ago. I don’t like the “N” word. Racists are not something that I can personally deal with. The real definition of a “N” is a person that steals and cheats for money to go buy drugs. It’s in the dictionary. No. I don’t have that many black friends, but they are the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. When I tell you this, tell me if I should have my story published to help others.
One of those introduced me to my husband. At the time I didn’t know it. She kept telling us that we should get together and date. Then she told us that we would make the perfect couple. To this day, Singus is the most beautiful and wonderful woman I had ever met in my life. I thank her, even after losing contact over the course of our time together as husband and wife, for ever talking us into getting together. She was the one that made my life whole by bringing us together.
I really wish I could tell her all of the things and let her know about our two children together and how he even loves my four children before our relationship began. Since losing contact with Singus, I still think of her to this very day and so does my husband. I miss her and love her for all of the wonderful things that she created by just talking us into getting together.
It started as just him bringing me lunch one day, then he asked me out through dispatch… he was to chicken to ask me out face to face. LOL. But it was an awesome moment as I thought that he were joking at first. Then I realized that he were not joking about the whole entire thing. I didn’t think that with four children, why would anyone want a person like me and my four girls? He did. They all think of him as their dad and I am so grateful and blessed.
Who said that black people are any different. The only difference that I see is that they are darker complected. They have a different hair style. Their feet on the bottom and their hands, for the most part, are white underneath. That is all I see.
Except one woman that worked in Shands emergency room in Jacksonville, FL. She was racist to me because I’m white. I just tried to tell her what another doctor there had told me to tell them. She jumped me and made me feel about two inches high in front of over 200 people. Supposedly, “I didn’t understand” and then they accused my own mother of being on drugs. They didn’t get her to the doctor that had her to go in there, as he had planned to help her.
They sent her home because of that woman. I called that doctor and told him what had happened. NEVER will I ever take anyone that I know or recommend that hospital to anyone. She was the HEAD nurse. It was uncalled for. I told him what had happened. He asked me to go back in, take my mother back in and he would be down there. I replied with a very simple, “No way! I thank you for trying. But in NO WAY would I ever step foot in that hospital, nor would I ever if my life depended on it. They would have to take me somewhere else or let me die one. I was not going to go in there and let someone have me to die and then it be something because of the color of my own skin.”
No one, EVER should endure that, no matter whom they may be. It doesn’t matter the color of skin or the medical issues that might be.
I ended up taking her to a different hospital over the state line to get the help that she needed.
She had a kidney stone so large that it was blocking her kidney and another her bladder. She was whiter than any white person I’ve ever seen. The doctor there said that her body had almost shut down and it was effecting her liver. She was almost dead. No pain pills that she had or was prescribed would help the pain. We all knew something was wrong, but wasn’t sure what until that day. That doctor, he was a black man and he saved my mother’s life!
It’s not the skin that makes the person, it’s the person that causes them to be different and how they are treated and raised. I don’t know the story of that woman’s life, but it almost killed my mother. I’d like to know her story, but after that day, I wish to never see her again.
I didn’t do anything but walk out of that hospital and waited for my mother to get out, then had to go back in there to help her walk out to my auto. The first thing I done, call my dad and then the ER over the state line to GA to tell them that we were on our way and her condition. I cried as I walked to my automobile and I tried to keep from walking out and punching the nurse, which I didn’t, when I actually did go back to the ER and heard her tell someone that my mother was on drugs and that was the ONLY problem with her. She just wanted them to give her more drugs. She was not, she’d never touched them until they were prescribed to her. I never let my mother know this until it was all over with. She didn’t need to know. However, when we did leave that place, she knew something was wrong with me. I told her my plan and she wanted to just give up and go home. I couldn’t and wouldn’t let that happen. I didn’t tell my mother anything until I got to take her home after having surgery. The surgery saved my mother’s life.
That was the day that I had a whole new look on what some could be like. ALL of the black people that I’d ever been around was pleasant, wonderful, caring and great people with wonderful personalities to be around. I already knew that white people had and still have issues. We’re not perfect and most have personality issues. But she was the ONE that changed the fact that I THOUGHT all black people were the great ones. Now I know that we are ALL equal on more levels than what I thought before that. I also realized one other thing that day. Just imagine how every person with a different color of skin feels when they are called these things. I felt their pains that very moment when that woman done that. It literally crushed me on so many levels.
I still feel the pain. I can still see EVERY single person’s face that day when she yelled at me. It didn’t dawn on me until after the fact of her yelling at the top of her lungs and I had only tried to tell her and reword my words many different times thinking that my words were not coming out right, as they usually don’t. That is when it hit me that that had been her issue the whole time.
I don’t get out and deal with the outside world much because of this. People in general are unpredictable. Some wonderful, some caring, some with great since of humors, some with so much joy that they decide to spread it to EVERYONE. Then there are those that are full of hate, revengeful, taking things that don’t belong to them, con artists and the list keeps going on. Those are the ones that make me not stand what is out there. After three ex-husbands, being bullied all of my entire life, the treatment that my mother had gave me when my dad was not around before she’d ever met him and after he had passed on, the way that my big brother used to treat me, people always made fun of me because I was different. By different, I mean that I was my own self and never took up what the others done. Yes. I still done everything I could to save my own mother, even if it were something that would save her after all of the horrible things in my own life that she has done to me or how she treated me.
I wrapped myself up in books and music because of always being picked on. I didn’t put myself higher or lower than anyone as I always had an outlook that it didn’t matter what class financially our family was in, they were humans too. I got picked on and made fun of by over half of our class because of this. They made fun of me and told me that I was trash, white trash or a sorry excuse because I didn’t know where I really belonged. I knew where I belonged, on earth. Somewhere they were obviously not.
This is a story that I’ve been wondering if I should tell others. Should I pass this along to help all of those out there that don’t really get or see the whole entire thing? Sure. They may be against the whole racist thing. But do the GET the racist thing? Have some of them ever experienced that type of pain?
I have found a site that does just this. It will help with publishing “my” story or even your very own story. They do recipes, which is another thing that I’d given much thought into. But this is the one story that shouts out the most. The story doesn’t really end there and it surely doesn’t start there either.
I didn’t mean for this post to be this long, but I really wanted you to get the idea of where or if I should have this story published. I wanted you to have a better idea of what this would be and consist of. I did find a site that does the publishing at a very reasonable price. They are called Writing the Soul. I did find a way to remember and something to help me learn about writing my story.
What do you think? Should I have my story published?
All of this is my own story and thoughts. There has, to this very date, been no compensation received. There are NO affiliate links involved with this post. This post is between Nak Online Branding and Bit O’ Everything. Facebook, Twitter or any other social media sites are NOT involved with this post. This post is now in the guidelines of the FTC.
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