Fonk is so thick in the air, you can smell it. The crowd is grooving hard, faces reflecting their struggle to hang, as Graham Central Station relentlessly drives on. "Can you handle it?" ...the lyrics ask. In my mind, I ask myself the same question.

Here I stand in front of thousands of people as the female lead singer of the premier funk band, Graham Central Station. Larry Graham is the leader, and my man. The crowd sees me, the funk diva. My outfit is "Glam Funk" all the way. Silver sequined gown with a plunging neck line stopping just above my belly button...hair cascading to my waist...silver and rhinestone, custom made platforms...turquoise and silver rings on every finger, silver bangles on both arms up to my elbows --- and dark sunglasses.

What they can't see is the blackness surrounding my right eye, competing with the blackness of the lens of the glasses.

A fake smile attempts to convince the audience of "Fonkateers", that it's all good. I want them to think the shades are hiding how high I am. I would rather they think I was too high, than know the truth. The ring of bruises and blackness, is the result of an assualt --- a violent, abusive act committed by the same hand playing the thundering bass, the hand of the man I loved.

Children are so vulnerable, offering pure, unconditional love with no expectations. Their minds, blank slates, where joyful memories can be tenderly etched or trauma burns itself onto the slate like a brand on the skin of an animal. How does a child cope with life devoid of a sense of wellbeing? This child learned to trust her instincts, much as the blind and the deaf do. If you can't believe your ears because people's words differ from their actions, you learn to listen between the lines, to what they don't say. If you can't believe your eyes because you live in a world where nothing is as it seems, you learn to look past what your eyes see on the outside and dwell in the spirit. If you can't feel, in someone's touch, when they say they "love" you, you learn to sense the energy of their being from a distance, escaping any undesirable contact. Life consisted of trying to create an existence in the place between what was real and what wasn't. The developing sense of my being was thwarted with each heinous innuendo, gesture, and act that Jack consistently tortured me with. As time went on, I managed to live with the fear. I really had no choice. Children were to be seen and not heard. In a world of adults, an abused child suffers in silence, trying to avoid trouble and even worse, alienation. Adults stuck together in thought, word, and deed. It was impossible to try to figure them out. All they did was lecture about what's "right" and what's "wrong". Children were supposed to do all the right things but adults could do all the wrong things. Who did they have to answer to? It didn't seem like God was paying attention.

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