Little Girl in Older Woman’s Body …


Little Girl in Older Woman’s Body …

By Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee/@GeeGranny at Twitter


I saw you in the distance

I cried out for you

You didn’t hear me

Mama!  Mama, please don’t leave me!

I ran hard as I could to catch up with her

No matter how hard I ran … I never did

A little girl left all alone to fend for herself

In a world of pure torment … turmoil

In a house that sat … guarded the portal of Hell

A little girl who knew only cleanliness

Pretty dresses, good things to eat … love

Had a little brother she adored

Where did he go?  Where did Mama go?

The little girl cried herself to sleep

When she woke up … it was to loud fighting

Fighting with words, fists … bloodshed

I’ll teach you to mess with me, you bitch!

Fists pounding on flesh, big thump of a body hitting the floor

Heart pounding in her little chest

The little girl hid beneath the covers on the bed

Weeping came from the other room

This was the first of many fights she would see

Sometimes, she’d be the one knocked around

She wasn’t the only child … there were more

Their Mamas went away to … to come back another day

Leaving their children behind to the mercies of the world

Leaving them in a place called … Hell

Where there were demons, and evil spirits lurking

Hiding in people she loved … she saw them peep out

Anger would turn them into a devil, possessed

Gnashing of teeth, screaming … crying

Never any happiness … only sorrow

A fight each day … someone being hurt

Blood spotted the old, wooden floor

The little girl got to her knees to look closely

She couldn’t believe the spots were blood … but, they were

Blood beaten out of someone to splatter on the floor

Curses lingered in the very air … so potent … evil

Hell’s arena … waiting for its next victim

Mama! Mama, where are you … please come back

Take me from this scary world … I’m afraid

Mama didn’t come back … the little girl stayed afraid

The little girl stayed afraid … without knowing

She began at her young age to build strength

Strength … that she would need when she became older

Without knowing … she would travel many painful roads

Without knowing … she became stronger

Without knowing … she would be facing the unthinkable

The little girl grew up scarred to her soul

Yet … she survived it all with strength she didn’t know she had

Today that little girl still lives in an older body

Older body of an older woman who remembers

Who looks back at a little girl who was sweet, loving

Mistreated, abused in many ways  … the older woman smiles

She smiles a sadly, thinking … my, my … I’ve come a long ways

I’m fortunate to still be here … a little girl in an older woman’s body

Strength I didn’t know I had … has made me a survivor

A survivor of many things … too many to count

I’ve made it to be … old

Next thing you know … it’ll be time to die

A little girl in an older woman’s body

Taking her last breath … as a child

Going to her maker … weak as a newborn baby

To be made new … an angel now

To come back to watch over you

As you gain strength you didn’t know you had

Good can come from bad things

It doesn’t seem like it could

It can …. and it will all in time

Life is good … sadly, it can be bad … too

We have to make the very best of all we go through

Lead the way for others … show them they can survive

After all, that’s what life is truly about

Love, caring … being strong when others are weak

With the strength you never knew you had … until you needed it



Author’s Note:

Poem/photo written, owned by me … Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee.  I am that little girl.


All She Needed Was A Little Place To Put Herself…

All She Needed Was A Little Place To Put Herself…

By Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee


Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee…. at age 3


Skin burning on her little arms, legs

She looks down to see blood smeared everywhere

The bones in her little body felt almost… broken


Pain made her moan as she lifted herself off the floor

Mama!  Mama!  Mama, please help me, she cried out

Her mama wasn’t coming… no, not any time soon


Especially this very moment when someone abused her child

The little girl cried silently… she didn’t scream, cry aloud

She left the room, curses followed her out the door


She opened the front door, stepped outside

The sunshine blinded her… she closed her eyes

Her face stung from her own salty tears


The cement porch felt cool to her skin

As she sat down on it, her feet hanging off onto the step

She hung her head… nobody loves me, she thought


No matter where she went in this world of hers

She seemed to be in someone’s way

Where was her place… her place she could be at peace?


She knew where it was… no one ever noticed her there

Back into the house she went… she walked to the couch

The old, red vinyl couch that had a small space at the end


A small space in between it, and the old bookcase sitting there

The little girl slipped into it, sat on the floor

This was the only place she could sit, no one yell at her


This was the place she was safest at in her world

She reached for a book off the shelf, picked up her pencil

Sat there for the next hour, drawing on the white pages


The white pages at the front, back of the book

She dreamed of being a fashion designer

Just a child with big ideas… no one cared


This was her favorite spot at her Grandma Alma’s

Where no one bothered her… where she wasn’t in the way

All she needed was a little place to put herself


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Words Of Another ‘Throw-Away Child’… My Brother

Words From Another ‘Throw-Away Child’… My Brother By Gloria Faye Brown Bates/aka Granny Gee Being a throw away child, I remember a long period of time when I walked alone, I had no one I could trust or count on, what mattered to me meant nothing to anyone, I was the only one that saw the things that I saw. I saw my aunt drive a man to suicide, and bitch because he did it, I saw my cousin dance naked before his sister and her younger cousin, I saw my uncle, and his children destroy thier lives and everyones lives around them with alcohol, I saw the deprivation of Satan’s children upon the rest of our family, and the world around them. Being a throw away child, I remember the time when some of us tried our best to walk with what little dignity that life would allow us, it was crushed by the useless values of the rest of our family, who seemed to have no values at all. Being a throw away child, I remember being used and abused by those that thought they were Gods gift to the world, and people like me, were nothing but the dirt people spit on. Being a throw away child, I remember the time when there was a lock on the TV. I was not allowed to watch it unless someone else decided that I was “worthy” of such a “privilege”. I remember finding a spare key for that TV lock, I was on top of the world, I got to watch TV, until my Dad came home and put his hand on top of the TV. He knew I had been watching it. He wore a belt out on my backside, broke it in several pieces, about 4 pieces as I can remember, he went out to the railroad bank behind the apartment and cut a bunch of branches and came back to inflict more punishment, his mom, my grandma… came home from work and decided to get in on the fun, they took turns beating me while the other rested, the next morning, my body looked like a parking lot, I could hardly move, but I was forced to go school anyway and endure the embarassment of how I looked, fortunately I got to skip dressing out for gym class. Being a throw away child, I remember how one wrong word or one wrong move would land me in my bed for 3 days and 3 nights with nothing to eat for those 3 days, only bathroom privileges, and only the water I would sneak if I went to the bathroom. Being a throw away child, I remember being slapped, and backhanded, knocked off my feet in public just so someone could show off to his friends how big and powerfull and controling he was to his friends. Being a throw away child, I was able to bear witness to how much truth that there is in the statement,”There is nothing more cruel than mans’ inhumanity to man”… NOTE: These words are written by my younger brother, Wm. Ernest. He wrote them last night to send to me to put here on my blog. He has stories of things that happened to him as a little innocent child… bad things. Not only did I get thrown into hell… my little brother was thrown into a different hell. Mine was in North Carolina living in the house that ‘guarded the portal to hell’… his was in Wisconsin. I, like you, will learn about ‘his hell’. I will begin to add his stories, along with any stories from other family members along with my stories, my ‘colors of life’. Here, you can see what we all survived. Children and pets, loved ones are meant to have, to love, to be treasured. No one should have them unless they are prepared to care, sacrifice, protect those children, pets, loved ones. Through my words you hear, see how people abused us as very small children … you’ll feel the pain in my little brother’s words as you read them. I felt them last night when I read them… we are the product of when parents don’t have their priorities in order, don’t protect their children…. when they are just too young. When parents are too young, addicted to alcohol, drugs, can’t take responsibility… their children become scapegoats for others to kick around… if they don’t love them, no one else loves them. People see the opportunity and… take it… to molest little children. I know very well, I was a very little girl… back then. I knew how men ‘who were somebody in the community, well-thought of, respected, had their own little girls’… loved to molest, put their hands on a little innocent girl. There were ‘sneaky hands’ coming from ‘the blue’ so unexpectedly that I was very nervous as a child… I never knew what to expect from people’s ‘hands’…. male hands. As time goes by… these stories/my colors will be told. I don’t tell them to hurt anyone at this late date and time. I won’t name people by names… most are dead and gone now, I will name relationships…. no one will know them anyway. Maybe you who are parents will learn something about protecting your children in ways you weren’t aware of. Sometimes… ‘people aren’t what they seem’. Sometimes ‘those kind, sweet expressions on loved ones’ faces hide things’….. No one on both sides of my family ever ‘knew the other side of my family’… no one ever knew I ever had three brothers, one sister. I never told them, either. How about that? No one knew I was my mother’s daughter when I came to live with her as a teenager. No one in my ‘family’ ever really knew ‘me’… though when I became an adult I was treated with respect. People ‘forgot’ how they treated me as a little girl… it was like I was ‘two people’… not the same person. I will tell my brother’s story as I go… when he writes his words of being a ‘throw-away child’… I will put them here on my blog. I will encourage him to begin writing his own story someday… if he doesn’t… he has a big sister who will do it for him. I love my brother… I love both of my brothers, one sister … who are still living. Wm. Ernest, David, Teresa. I loved with my heart also, my brother Rick-Rick who died several years ago. Even I don’t know all of the abuse my brother suffered, through the years I ‘heard rumors’… I never got the opportunity to be close to him as we both lived, traveled in other parts of the USA. I always wanted to talk to him… now, as he writes, like you I will ‘know him’. When you read his words, think of a little precious, brown-haired boy standing there looking up at you. He wears little denim pants, plaid shirt… he has his little hands in those pockets. Looking at him melts your heart… that was my little brother that I knew all these years… I missed knowing him as an adult. It’s so sad, it hurts me deeply. The positive about all of this is… that I will finally get to know him. I know I will be sad alot reading what has been ‘inside him’ all of these years… but, I will get to … know him. Sometimes our tears take on the form of words, sometimes it is good to cry… so, sometimes it’s good to … write. I will write for the rest of my life… it has made a good difference in my life. I hope that happens for you, Wm. Ernest. Your big sister loves you. The colors of my life will take forever to write… there are many of them. This is some ‘of the others’…. colors of a little thrown-away boy… ‘words from another throw-away child’.

When That Door Opened… All Hell Broke Loose!

There's No One Quite Like Grandma

When That Door Opened Up… All Hell Broke Loose!

By Gloria Faye Brown Bates/ aka Granny Gee

We sat there, just little girls wishing to be happy.  We had been thrown away …. we were at our Grandma Alma and George’s.  They had a grapevine that grew over a trellis in the back yard.  As children we knew where to go find all the little, cosy places to sit, to dream.  Under that grapevine was one of those places.

Linda and I sat there talking, daydreaming about ‘how we were going to do this, do that’… when we were old enough.  I wished to be a fashion designer, though I was too young then, to know the name of what I wanted to be.

I loved to draw on every white, blank page I could find in Grandma Alma’s books that sat in the bookcase in the ‘front’ room.  I would constantly draw pretty woman wearing beautiful clothes.

While we sat there talking, we were holding clumps of grapes in our hands.  We were eating them as we talked.  The sunshine was shining brightly, Linda’s hair looked so pretty…. she had two plaits in her hair.  I loved my cousin, I felt a closeness to her.

For the time-being we were going to be best friends as well as cousins.  Of course at our young age… we didn’t know that in our family … that wouldn’t be possible.  If anyone ever saw a close relationship forming, they were quick to destroy it.  Being children was no exception… we all learned young.

We had good teachers, the older ‘adults’ in our lives taught us alot.  Maybe not the best things… we learned nevertheless.

I know as that little girl sitting there with my cousin who was a couple of years older than I… I felt proud that she wanted to be my friend.  It lasted for a short time… but, for that time-being it was wonderful.

Through all the years any involvement with ‘family’ turned out just like this relationship… this was how we were taught to be ‘family’… never trust, always break up any two people you see getting close even if it meant saying things that weren’t true… don’t let anyone be close.

They ‘might become real family’…..  there ‘might be peace among family members’… no one could stand that.  Someone ‘had to be prettier than the other’… someone ‘had to have more’… as children we always played ‘king of the mountain’… bullying each other off that mountain… we all wanted to have the ‘upper hand’.

Linda was taken away from Grandma Alma’s to another ‘hell on earth’…I stayed in hell there.  Grandma Alma and George’s house ‘guarded the door to the portal of hell’.  When that door opened up… all ‘hell broke loose’.

I cried over Linda… I didn’t care that she could draw a prettier girl than I could… I wished for her to come back.  I could only hear rumors of where she was taken, I never saw her again until the early seventies when our Grandmother Alma died.  She and her little baby flew here from New Mexico.

At Grandma Alma and George’s … many children ‘came and went’.  Many children ‘came to hell’…. I was one of the few that stayed ‘too long’.

At my Grandma Alma’s … life was hell.  Sometimes it could be so happy, but… only for a few minutes.  There were so many people coming into their home to shake their life up ….at any time.  Come into their house, they did!

The room Grandma Alma sat in every day of her life (she was paralyzed) was in the ‘middle’ of the house.  Her upholstered rocking/recliner chair sat beside an old dresser with a mirror.  George’s old wooden, bottomed chair sat beside her chair…. always.  They sat ‘cata-cornered’.

They sat facing an old tv that sat on a little table in the opposite corner.  In that room, also…. was their white refrigerator.  That white refrigerator that held ‘precious milk‘…. to this day I don’t ‘see milk’ because there I learned ‘not to see or want it’.  It was so costly and Grandma Alma needed it.  She would have given it to us freely…

George looked after Grandma Alma.  He protected the milk for her, her health.  ‘Someone would sneak that milk and drink lots of it!’  I learned ‘who’ … of the ones who used to do that….. not long ago in my adult life…. Linda!  She told me that she would drink it all the time, and it tasted so good!  :)))  I was blamed for that, sometimes!

On that old brown dresser sat her ‘famous’ glass of water.  George (he was blind) kept that glass of water filled up for her at all times, even knowing it became ‘ammunition used against him’ later.  She had other things sitting on her dresser…. her many bottles of …. medicine, her alcohol and Beauty Ray lotion.

Grandma Alma’s ‘many bottles of medicines’ made such an impression on me as a little girl.  I grew up afraid to take any more medicine than I needed, sometimes … not taking what I need to take.  I never wanted to be dependent on medicines in order to live life… even ones needed.  I don’t take pain medicine to this day unless I am completely ‘past my breaking point’… crying, and in agony.  Sometimes… I don’t take it, then.

Every day faithfully, George would sit beside her and ‘rub her up’.  He would rub alcohol on each arm and massage it, then… each leg.  As he rubbed, massaged … he would do ‘range of motion’ exercises.  For over twenty years, George did this faithfully, several times a day.  George loved our Grandma Alma.  Looking back, I think he was trying to do everything he could… to help her to walk again.  If Grandma Alma could have… she would have, she was full of fight, determination.

Though George and Grandma Alma loved each other with their hearts, they still ‘got into fusses’… which could be quite loud.  As children (we were always somewhere close by)…. we would look at each other in alarm that slowly changed to laughter.

We always got tickled at George… he could be LOUD!  He always said the same thing!  It was an ugly word, but, to us it was just absolutely funny.  He would yell loudly ‘G___damn it’!  The whole neighborhood could hear it, he was that loud.  That was George’s ‘famous word… George was truly a good man, he had limitations though… Grandma Alma ‘knew’ how to ‘push his buttons’.  Push them… she would!

Grandma Alma would get ‘stirred up’… she always said the same thing!  As children, we ‘knew’ what they were going to say…. this played out daily… we could sit there and move our lips, say exactly the same words they were going to say.  It was ‘their thing’.

Grandma Alma’s famous words were ‘He-man!  You are a He-man!’  My cousins and I would roll on the ground laughing… Grandma Alma didn’t just say those words, she put drama behind them… and made those words sound out so ‘long, and full of meaning’.

When she did that… ‘the s_____ hit the fan!’  ‘All hell broke loose’… and anyone who was around would just stop doing what they were doing… to listen, while grinning.  It truly was entertaining.  It never lasted long… it was like a fast thunderstorm coming up in the summer… hard and fast, then, it just rained gently thereafter.

Looking back to ‘then’, I can see that was their only outlet to vent all the pent up feelings they surely carried inside themselves.  What in the world would ‘we do’… if it had been us?  I may not have been as good of people as they were with all the odds against them.  They both lived, took care of each other for over twenty years in their own home.

Not only that… the house they lived in, owned… sat over the ‘portal of hell’, it ‘guarded hell’.  When ‘that door opened’… that’s when … real hell broke out.  Grandma Alma and George would suffer all the consequences.

The ‘middle’ room Grandma Alma and George sat in every day (their living room)…. was what I came to think of as ‘The Arena’ through the years.

Every day of their life… drama would unfold in that room in front of Grandma Alma and George… the middle of that floor ‘became the stage’… and ‘everyone came to act on it’.  That’s when ‘all hell broke loose’.

This was The Stage’…. one never knew what to expect.  There were daily shows on it… sometimes, several shows.  These shows were ‘rated R’… for foul language, fighting, screaming, yelling, shoving.  These were the ‘shows that scared, frightened a little girl like me.  Grandma Alma and George ‘had the best seats’ ….. whether they wanted them or not.  They couldn’t go anywhere… they ‘had to watch and listen’… they had no choice.

I ‘saw bad things’ on that stage.  Some of the things I might never can write about … I can still ‘feel’ that feeling in my stomach that reaches through time to this moment.

I can still hear flesh against flesh as punches were thrown.  I can still see in my mind… blood splattering everywhere.  My stomach feels sick from these things from my childhood… even at this very moment.  Biting, scratching, pulling hair, screaming… one would be trying ‘to kill the other’ to dominate, to be ‘the one you don’t want to mess with’.  Always a ‘battle to the end’…..

I would hide in the real living room… at the front of the house.   I would get in the space between the bookcase and couch… with my back against the wall.  I always trembled, always felt so scared.  Sometimes, out of anger someone would strike out at me because I ‘might look like my mama, my daddy’… striking me was ‘getting back at either of them’.  I was the one who felt the pain… my mama or daddy never knew I took blows meant for them.

As a ‘thrown-away’ child… at Grandma Alma and George’s… I was there with no one to protect me…. I could be treated any way anyone wanted to treat me.  Who was I going to tell? A paralyzed woman and a blind man?  What could they do about it?

People were evil at Grandma’s house… they did bad things.  At times they could be good… then, at other times, it was like they were ‘possessed’.  I learned to watch, listen, know when it was a good time for them.  I could tell by expressions on their face, their eyes.

Anger… how that house held such anger …. anger that a little girl learned to harbor in her heart until today.  Anger that she constantly battles to keep from hating…. it’s always there ‘underneath’ the smiles.  It’s natural, it’s a part of a little girl who grew up to be an adult.  She learned it well……

The strange thing about this anger… it isn’t toward anyone.. ‘everyone is gone’ now.  The little girl who is an adult now… still has to carry that inside ‘until she’s also, gone’.

Hell, blue lightening balls, screaming, cussing, fighting and tearing flesh, pulling hair from one’s head, blood splattering in patterns on the floor… if I looked closely I could sometimes see shapes of things like in a work of art…. blood art.

Blood art that would affect me… a little girl standing in shock, feeling faint, heart beating fast, crying inside that someone was hurting bad, stomach feeling those ‘scared butterflies’.  Many things at my Grandma Alma and George’s affected me as a child … even to this day.

Sometimes…. I bled.  Sometimes my skin would break open from being beaten with a belt, or big switch.  I knew how it felt to have hair jerked and pulled from my head, how the stinging pain felt from a forceful slap.  I knew how it felt to be pushed onto a hot, burning wood heater… the pain, the blistering that followed.  I ‘know’ alot of things… how they felt.

I’ve worn more ‘shoes in life’ than any Hollywood star has in her closet…. hers are more fun…. mine were ‘life lessons’ both good, and bad.  The good part is that as the years went by in my life… I am truly a good person.

I could have been …. very bad.  As a young woman, I could have traveled paths I got on to the very end… thank-God, I didn’t…. I wouldn’t be a good person now.  Thank-God, I had the foresight to come to a screeching halt, turn back around and ‘run like hell’ to get off those paths.

I remember once my Grandma Alma getting so angry at me…. it broke my heart.  Her eyes looked as if she were possessed as she screamed at me.  Never had I seen or felt her wrath as I did that day…

I was a teenager and had made friends with a girl whom I had to fight when pushed to do so… I won, I meant to win.  I came into Grandma Alma’s house from school telling her what happened, that now… I was friends with that girl.  My Grandma Alma ‘went ballistic’… her eyes had a light in them that was ‘other-worldly’… she was the most angriest I had ever seen her.  I believe if I’d been close enough …she would have slapped me with her good hand.

She began screaming ‘that girl is nothing but, a whore… nothing but, trash!’  She screamed at me to not have anything to do with her… on and on, she screamed.  I never knew ‘why’ she did that, nor what she knew about the girl.  Strangely enough, ‘that girl showed her colors’ and that affected me in an awful way.  Grandma Alma… was right!  How did she know?  She couldn’t get around to know… how did she know?

At Grandma Alma and George’s home… at any moment… ‘something dramatic could unfold on ‘the stage’… that day I told Grandma Alma, I became one of the characters on it.  Grandma Alma and I… were the only two on it…. my Grandma Alma’s anger hurt me deeply… she always loved me.   Strangely enough… she was usually right about something.  At that moment… I didn’t know that she was… again.

Yes, at any time there… when that door to hell opened… all hell would break loose.  One never knew when they’d be caught up in it… what I’ve written here is only an idea of it… if one knew.  That house guards the portal of hell… even to this day.  Bad things have happened in that house.

I say prayers for the people I see living there.  Time after time again people move there… something bad happens.  At any minute… that door could open and…. all hell break loose!