Journey of a Cotton Blossom. Jennifer Crocker-Villegas

      This book is dedicated to all those who have struggled to be themselves; all those who have faced racism and prejudices; all those who have been bullied or abused; and all those who have lost their lives due to bullying or prejudice. My close friend AJ was bullied all through middle and high school for his race and for being gay. Regretfully, I was one of those bullies. I was struggling with admitting who I was, so I turned on someone like me with the anger I held for myself. He did not deserve the treatment he received. No one deserves to be treated like they don’t matter. No one deserves to be bullied. No one deserves to be harassed, beaten, or murdered because of prejudice. To all the LGBT community, to all the African-American community, to all the communities out there belittled and thought of by some as “less than,” and to every young person in every community who is struggling with bullying and prejudice, know that you do matter. I wrote this book for all of you . . . for all of us.

      Acknowledgments

      I would like to thank my wife and parents, who fully believed in me from the moment I had the relentless dreams that brought this book to me. You three urged me to follow those dreams, and for that, I am thankful.

      Catalina, you stood by my side and had faith in me. You never once thought that I couldn’t do this. You never discouraged me. You held me up when I was struggling. Your encouraging words and love resonated loudly. You are the epitome of what a spouse should be.

      Mom and Dad, thank you for helping me through this process. Both of you have always encouraged me and urged me to listen to my dreams and follow them. You’ve always taught me that God will show us the way when the time is right. You taught me to trust in myself, those feelings, and the journey. Mostly, you both have taught me the definition of unconditional love. Y’all have always shown me that I am loved for who I truly am. I have always felt that love and the pride you both have for me. Thank you for that. That is a gift that so many are wrongfully deprived of.

      I am extremely grateful for all three of you. You are my support and my family.

      Guillotine

      The gavel of society has come down, severing my head from my neck. I am forced to choose between what my brain has been conditioned to think and what my heart knows to be true.

      1

      The Chains of Sunday

      One early Sunday morning, the day of God, in a small southern town known as Clarksville, Mississippi, a beautiful baby boy was born. Most the people of the town were at church. They were praising God, as all good, God-fearing Christians do.

      This baby boy cracked open his beautiful, bright eyes for the first time while his mama held his warm, tiny body, full of energy and life. He was God’s gift to the world that day. She cradled his head with one warm hand while staring deeply into his soulful eyes and realized she never could have imagined a love this overpowering.

      His sweet baby smell and his spirit were intense and special. His mother possessed an inexplicable knowledge that he had been put on this earth to be a great presence among humankind. She knew he deserved a strong name. Joseph it will be, she thought to herself. It was as if God had leaned down and whispered the name directly into her ear: “Joseph.”

      Like any mother, she wanted the very best for her first child. She was just a young girl searching for guidance; nevertheless, she felt the deep love for her child that consumes a mother.

      With church letting out in town, the young mother knew that everyone would soon be meeting her freshly born baby boy. She was not ready to share her gift from God, but she knew she would have no choice. There was tension in the air, thick and almost tangible, as the people returned from church.

      The mother’s immense love turned to intense fear for her newborn baby boy. She was afraid that he would be stripped from her arms like she had been from her own mother years before. Her first instinct was to take little Joseph and run before the “owners” returned from having given “praise” to God. Even though she was weak from giving birth alone, she had that motherly drive to grab her boy and run. For a brief moment she had a fantasy of teaching Joseph to walk and talk and then watching him grow into a wonderful man. Then she snapped out of it. She knew she needed to get away before it was too late. That raw, motherly drive inside of her was screaming, Run, run! while trying to claw its way out to save the infant.

      As the motherly instinct broke free, she covered herself and grabbed Joseph tightly, preparing for escape and the salvation of their lives. She leaped from the bed in which she had given birth, slinging placenta to the floor. As she took her first step with a huge jolt of momentum, she felt a taut jerk and fell to the ground face-first, protecting Joseph’s tiny head from the blow with her own childlike hand. She was abruptly reminded that she was chained to the bed like a disregarded work animal. There was no saving little Joseph, her only love, from what was sure to come.

      2

      The Sweltering Delta

      Clarksville, Mississippi, was a big cotton producer. It was a small town in the Delta, known as “the Golden Buckle of the Cotton Belt.” Big producer of cotton meant big plantations, and those big plantations came with rich, white aristocrats whose sense of entitlement was thicker than their wallets.

      If you had visited the South that summer of 1943, you would have felt the humidity and caught a whiff of the mint juleps. A mint julep is a drink most southerners can tell you about: a mixture of bourbon whiskey, mint, sugar, and water. In the town of Clarksville, as in most southern towns at that time, you would see a Baptist church on every corner with a large plantation nearby. Funny thing is, while most southerners know about those mint juleps and most southerners are Baptist, every Southern Baptist knows that alcohol and Baptist are not supposed to go hand in hand. Yet they seem to mix well and very often despite alcohol’s supposedly sinful nature.

      You could stroll by the picturesque white antebellum homes on your way back from church, a church-held event, or one of the few other activities available in town. You see, in small-town Mississippi, most of the activities revolved around the Baptist church. These antebellum homes are still famous in the South for their regal white columns and grand stature. There is beauty and darkness to them. You can see the exterior beauty of these magnificent structures, but then it is as if you can almost feel the evil that has happened within those walls.

      In those days, you would see people working in the large emerald yards with the perfectly manicured rosebushes and cotton-blossom-covered fields. You might have seen somebody sweeping the white, wooden front porch with somebody else slowly rocking in a chair while sipping on a mint julep. It’s a great drink for cooling oneself down on a hot, humid Mississippi summer night. Chances are that you would not have seen