Concentrating on their careers
Not having financial stability
Their man already had kids and had a vasectomy
They’d rather have pets
Too scared to carry a baby in their bodies
They have an illness
They don’t like kids
They haven’t met a man they want to have kids with
The world is too fucked-up to bring a child into it (I totally agree.)
They were stuck raising siblings and didn’t want to raise their own
They didn’t believe it was in God’s plans
They have never married and don’t want to have kids outside of it
They are lesbians
They are too selfish to be mothers
All the work falls on the women
Too much responsibility for them to handle emotionally
The list went on and on, but what I found fascinating is that none of them said because their own mothers were bat-shit crazy. Surely there were women on that list who had been abused. A few made note that they grew up in a dysfunctional home but did not go into details, even though everyone was kept anonymous. All I saw was denial, denial, denial. I recognized it because I was the same way.
I often wondered what would happen if I ever told the truth. No one had a heaven or a hell to put Caprice Tatum in. What would have been the reaction if I held a press conference, or wrote an open letter to the world, and confessed who I really was? How would my fans have reacted to me? Would they look at me differently if they knew that I was the by-product of incest and rape? If they knew that my sick-ass uncle was my father and possibly my grandfather? If they knew that I was ugly and disfigured as a child? If they knew that several boys had run up in me raw dog after my homecoming during my freshman year in high school? If they knew that instead of facing them, and pressing charges, I ran away in a suicidal state?
I really hated living a lie. Even though I had it all—based on societal views—I was lonely, depressed, and the only thing that made me happy was my music. I didn’t and couldn’t truly trust anyone. That would have been the case if I wasn’t a celebrity, but being a celebrity made it a hundred times worse. It never escaped me that there were strangers who wanted to see me fail, for no other reason than they couldn’t stand a black woman being successful. Yes, there were some famous white female singers in the same boat. It was part of the industry, but the hatred was always worse when it came to celebrities of color. If we made mistakes, or nasty rumors started about us, people were ready to rejoice in the streets like they had gained something from it.
I would have loved to see the expressions on the faces of Cherie, Bianca, Herman, and Michael if they ever found out that I was Caprice. They had no reason to do what they did to me. I was always kind to them and I thought we were cool.
Chapter Fourteen
Monday, May 27, 1985
Memorial Day
4:56 p.m.
Atlanta, Georgia
I can’t believe school’s almost out!” Cherie was flipping burgers on the charcoal grill in her backyard. “Two more weeks and summer vacation!”
“You act like your father’s actually going to take time off to go on one.” Herman was playing DJ on the boom box that he had brought with him to Cherie’s customary Memorial Day cookout. “Raspberry Beret” by Prince was going off, so he pulled that cassette tape out and popped in another one. Within seconds, “Cool It Now” by New Edition was pumping through his speakers.
There were about two dozen kids there—most of us twelve or thirteen and heading to the eighth grade—and the boys were sporting high-top fades while the girls all had “big hair.” Back then, the bigger the blowout, the better. It was the age of Madonna and her pointed bras that every teenage girl wanted while they felt “Like a Virgin.” The Pointer Sisters had everyone doing the “Neutron Dance,” the Commodores were working the “Nightshift,” Phil Collins wanted “One More Night,” and Aretha Franklin was cruising on the “Freeway of Love.”
Life was so simple then, even for me. My mother had been safely tucked away in a sanitarium for years and even though the scar on my face was a constant reminder of her hatred toward me, I felt safe because I knew she wouldn’t be sneaking into my bedroom to finish killing me. For years after “the event,” I wondered why she hadn’t simply taken my life. It was clear that she was not prepared to take care of a child, and while I understood that she was forced to have sex with Uncle Donald, that didn’t give her just cause to disfigure me.
Most of us had snuck in to see Rambo: First Blood Part II over the weekend. It was the big picture for the weekend. Back then, movie theaters weren’t tripping so hard on kids seeing R-rated movies. The Breakfast Club had come out for Valentine’s Day Weekend that year and Cherie, Bianca, and I had gone to see it.