I have never known that safe place that gays say they have in certain buildings.
The FBI came into my life when I was in the 5th grade.
I’d see them outside, across the street from Uncle Danny’s and Auntie Ann’s house sitting in the car, at recess everyday as I pretended to have fun as I played, as I walked home from school for lunch and after school, always feeling somehow naked as I walked by the car and they stared at me.
Uncle Danny made for making silencers, Uncle Jake for wiretapping Marilyn Monroe. Ask Anthony Summers, if you don’t believe me.
I learned early what deviant was, and it wasn’t my uncles.
The only place I ever felt safe was in my father’s house – and only when he was home. I never told him that though; I never told anybody. When I left home, as young people do, that safe place was gone forever.
I’ve been tortured by the FBI for so long I don’t know anything else. They think they’re justified.
Judges are the worst – the most deviant. They’ll do anything the FBI tells them to do.
I’m sixty-seven years old – a long way from 5th grade – and it still hasn’t ended.
~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight