HERE I STAND memoir

Since my memoir, HERE I STAND, was published in Feb. 2012, I've had a few producers who have contacted me to read the book to possibly turn it into a feature film. The thing about transforming a book, especially about one's life, into a movie is that somehow the true essence of the story can get lost in transition. As an independent filmmaker I have been in the business for a long time, so I am being careful to seek out the kind of producer/director who I feel will do my story justice. HERE I STAND is like my baby and you don't let just anyone take care of your child.

I've sold two other scripts, The Champion Inside, in 2010 and Scar Across My Heart, in 2011. I wrote both of those scripts becasue I am a screenwriter. I had no problem selling either of them. However, when producers ask to buy the rights to my story and then want to kick me to the curb so they can do as they please, I have a problem with that. So, I'll keep pushing forward until I connect with just the right person who sees my vision, especially since part of my story has to do with my being raised as an African-American girl by my white stepfather, who was a member of the Philadelphia Italian Mafia. That can be tricky, as certain things can and can not be included in the story.

So, have a read of my first chapter. Leave comments, if you life.

HERE I STAND

Excerpt

Preface: Haunted By Ghosts
Sometimes, I drank a glass of blood in the evening. It was my opponents who made me do it though. They were the ones who tried to knock my teeth out, or break my face, or cause internal bleeding while we fought in the ring or cage. Over the past few years, while I was recovering from my latest injury as a fighter, a terrible back injury, the image of my body withering in pain always came to mind. Now, here I was, preparing for an upcoming boxing match.

As a fighter though, specifically, as a boxer, wrestler and martial artist, I was used to the hell that came with stepping into a ring or a cage. It wasn’t just blood, but split lips, bruises, broken bones, and battered chins and shins, which were always a part of the deal. But at age 42, I often wondered why I was risking my body or why I would ever want to pull my stool up to the server and order another bloody drink.

I had doubts for a long time as to whether I should return to fighting. It wasn’t just that I fought men and women, but most of them were half my age. Besides, I had nagging injuries and battle scars from my fighting career. It wasn’t just black eyes, dislocated shoulders or the cracked ribs. Those I could deal with. Those injuries healed, but my back never did really.

As I stood in my mini gym, which was in the basement of my house, I prepared my mind to do the clean and jerk, hoisting 200 pounds over my head. I bent down in a squatted position, and grabbed the barbell with a white-knuckled grip. Taking a few deep breaths, I mentally prepared myself to succeed, especially since there was no one in the basement to spot me. If something went terribly wrong, like my arms weakening, my back giving out, or my legs buckling beneath me, the weight could smash my body to the floor.

I flipped the weight up and pressed it over my head. It felt unstable, like I was trying to balance the load while riding a wave on a surfboard in the ocean. Shit, I had lifted 200 pounds before, many times in fact. Lifting was an integral part of my training as an athlete. It helped give me explosive power, plus tone and tight muscles. And I loved the fact that the guys at the gym didn’t mind training with me because as they said, I wasn’t a "skirt." Even my daughter, Floricia, gave me a nickname - She Beast- because I was so strong, naturally strong, too. No steroids for this girl.

But today, as I squirmed around, trying with all my might to stand tall with more than my own body weight above my head, I looked down at my power lifter legs that bulged out from my sky blue shorts, and I sensed something was terribly wrong.

A couple of years earlier, when I was training with a professional wrestler from the WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment), he picked me up, high into the air, and slammed my body to the mat. Whoever said television wrestling was fake never got slammed to a mat. Still, it was my fault for not kicking my legs up and out properly so my lower back didn’t absorb the whole shock of the landing. As a result, as soon as I hit the mat I heard my back pop; it sounded the way I used to pop bubble gum when I was a little girl. The pain that shot into my back bled into my legs almost immediately. It faded quickly into a tingling sensation and then, my legs went numb. At first, I thought maybe I broke my back, that I was now paralyzed.

With a ruptured disk in my back, I thought about going the surgery route to repair my back, but I decided against it. Instead, I spent a great deal of time with my chiropractors, Dr. Klein and Dr. Tom, who bent my body this way and twisted me that way, as they tried to move bones and stretch tendons under my massive amount of muscle. After three years of chiropractic therapy, I was finally given the clearance to return to exercising. Going slow and steady, it took me another year to get back to my regular training.

Now here I stood with a 200 pound weight wobbling over my head. My arms gave out, and a moment later the weights came crashing down onto the concrete floor, as I quickly jumped back to avoid injury. The booming sound reverberated off the walls. I stood there thinking to myself, "What in the world is wrong with you Jill?"

The weights stood stoically and the basement remained silent, as I stared at my fingers, which were stained with clipped red fingernail polish. I never did think polish fit the image of a bad ass fighter. Focusing on the weight again, doubts began to creep into my already dazed mind. What sense did it make to come back from such a traumatic injury and add even greater trauma to my back, to my body? I had to face facts – I was past my prime and pushing 43 hard.

After I unwrapped my hands I knew something was definitely wrong with me and it had nothing to do with the weakness I still felt in my back. Suddenly, a wave of emptiness engulfed me and tears swelled up in my eyes. It wasn’t that I couldn’t balance the 200 pounds. That was light compared to the weight I could now feel draping across my shoulders, like a weight of despair, regret, guilt, and emotional pain, like emotional demons that wrapped their arms tightly around me, almost suffocating me. The pressure pushed me to the ground, forcing me to put my hands on the cold concrete floor to stop myself from falling. As I struggled to stand, I couldn’t. My legs wouldn’t move at all.
Looking up, I could see my opponents, real or imagined, there they stood. For so long, I had to fight ghosts that haunted my dreams. Over the past few years, they were becoming bold enough to show themselves when I was awoke too.

I had been fighting opponents all my life actually, from the time I was eleven, after a family friend raped me. I took up karate to empower me, telling myself I would never be a victim again. The experience was so traumatizing that I became hard and cold, as a protective measure, I guess. Still, I was lucky I had one person I could turn to for help - my stepfather Jake. He raised me since I was a baby, and I grew to love him like he was my biological father. But there was one thing that made Jake quite different from other people. See, the kids in my neighborhood had fathers who were construction workers, cops, bankers, and shit like that. Well, my dad was an accountant, but he occasionally killed people, too. Jake was a white guy, half Jewish, half Italian, who worked as a member of the Philadelphia Italian Mafia during the 60’s and 70’s. So, when I told him about the rapist, he assured me he would take care of it, and he did. The next day my attacker was found dead with a bullet to his head.

And that’s how I grew up, a black girl, with my mother Janet, my brother Rob, and Jake, my protector, my friend, my dad. I loved him dearly. When other girls were outside playing jump rope, jacks, tag, and dress up, I was learning about extortion, racketeering, drugs, murder, and other forms of violence.

While I sat in a tight ball with my back against the wall, I finally got my legs to move again. Still weak, I decided to rest until my legs were strong enough for me to stand. Breathing deeply, I peered over my forearms that my face was buried into. Out of nowhere, I started seeing these opponents - ghosts who flit back and forth across the floor, from wall to wall and in and out of the door to the stairway. Lately, I tried to ignore the ghosts. When I would see them flicker into view at the bus station, on the train, or at work, I’d turn my head. If they breathed heavy on my shoulder while I walked the streets of Philadelphia, I stepped up my pace. But tonight was different; I couldn’t get away from them.

For the longest time, I had tried desperately to push those ghosts to the back of my mind, but today my worst fears were realized as those damn spirits not only walked through the basement door, but punched me in my face. I didn’t turn away. I forced myself to watch them, so maybe I could understand why they were haunting me. But the reality was I knew why they wouldn’t leave me alone. I had denied it for so long though. I had done bad things, maybe even evil things in my life time, and it didn’t matter that I had been trying for years to make amends for my sins. I had to face the truth, which was pretty ugly. These ghosts - these men and women - were people I had probably done wrong or evil to, but I recognized none of them.

After my rape, I struggled to pull my life back to a somewhat normal state, but that never happened. Things actually got worse when my mother left Jake and hooked up with Troy; that’s when my true descent into hell began. Surprisingly, mom left my stepfather because of his occupation, but she set her sights on other boyfriends who were far worse than Jake ever was. In fact, Troy was the most horrible of the lot. Troy felt he had the right to beat on my mother whenever he felt like it. And things only got worse when they got married and she got pregnant. I never got involved because in my mind my mother got what she deserved, especially after I told her Troy made sexual advances toward me. My mother decided to take his side over mine.

Over time, Troy busting my mom up did get the best of me and I had to come to her defense. One night when he was beating her ass, I jumped in and used my martial arts skill, breaking his nose in the process. But that was probably not a wise decision, because once again, my mother sided with Troy. This time she kicked me out of the house. With Jake no longer alive, I had no place to go. At fifteen, I was homeless.

To survive the streets, I resorted to using drugs, robbing people and turning tricks. I did whatever I had to so I could make it through the day. I must admit, I’ve had sex with close to 300 men, because even after my hooking days were long behind me, I had learned to love sex because of the power it had over men. I made a point of reading everything I could on sex and I eagerly digested as many porno films as I could get my hands on so I could have that wonderful and powerful knowledge at my fingertips. Hell, I even went to a Kama Sutra retreat in the mountains of Pennsylvania to "expand my horizons" as the brochure said. Sure, I didn’t have to hustle on a corner to secure johns. Instead of the cheap motels I used to fuck in when I was on the streets tricking, I now laid with men in lavish hotels in rooms with Jacuzzis, 400 thread-count sheets, champagne, and chocolate on the pillows. But I was on my back either way, sweating with clenched hands, whoring myself out to anyone who wanted me, and I got paid. I had sex with men and in return I got money, gifts, and yes, pleasure. And regardless of how soft the sheets or bubbly the champagne, I also got one more name and face that blurred over time.

Yeah, I was still working these men - celebrities, sports figures, musicians, politicians, actors, religious leaders, corporate executives, and everyday Tom, Dick and Harry - like they were johns, except these guys were actually decent enough to take a shower, splash on some cologne and call me by my name. And yes, most of these men, just like the johns from the streets, were married, and I didn’t care. Why should I? Shit, it was really all God’s fault anyway that I had become so hard and emotionally distant from all people, especially men. It was His fault I didn’t give a shit about other people’s feelings. Where was He when I was growing up with my stepfather, who was a member of the Italian Mafia? Or when my mother abused me physically and emotionally? Where was He when my mother left Jake and hooked with countless men who were no good, especially Troy? Where was God when I was raped? How about the time my mother kicked me out of the house? Yeah, and where was He when I was homeless, sleeping in alleyways, abandoned buildings, digging through trashcans for food or begging people for money, or fighting off other bums who tried to rape me? It was because He abandoned me that I had to resort to drugs, drinking, smoking, stealing, criminal activity, violence, and prostitution as a way to survive.

I couldn’t even enjoy the accomplishments I achieved over the years. The ghosts reminded me of the sins I committed even when I thought about the great things I had attained. I was the first in my immediate family to graduate with a college degree, I would remind myself, but then I’d hear the ghosts whisper in my ear that I was a "Whore." I started my own film and sports entertainment company. "Coke head." I worked as a reporter for the Wall Street Journal. "Alcoholic." I won several martial arts tournaments. "Thief." I beat cancer. "Murderer."

So the hell with God, I said. Why was he still punishing me? Hadn’t I been punished enough?
Suddenly, I couldn’t catch my breath. I looked down and saw one of those ghosts had his hand inside my chest, squeezing tight on my heart and slowly cutting off all blood supply. My heartbeat began to slow down. Our eyes met, as the young boy, who was about sixteen, slowly released his grip. Taking a deep breath, I uttered, "Thank you."

I closed my eyes and stretched out on the mat. I had to make a choice - either lie down on the mat and wait for the 10 count from the referee of life or force my legs, my body, to get up, stand tall. Not only didn’t I want that young guy to reach his hand back into my chest, but I wanted to rid myself of all these ghosts once and for all. So, I had to get up. I knew I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and stop blaming God and everyone else for all that happened.

I opened my eyes and stared at the barbell again. Maybe my having a difficult time balancing the weight was symbolism for my life. I couldn’t deny my past sins any longer. It was time I took responsibility for my actions. It was time I started the healing process of not just my body, but my mind and my spirit. This, I knew, was what God intended, and as long as I was hardheaded, angry and fighting His will, I would suffer; the ghosts would make sure of that.
I got to my knees. "Help me God," I began. "Please forgive me."

As I stood up, tears streamed down my cheeks. The ghosts began to move closer, surrounding me. The young man, who gripped my heart, led the way with dozens more joining him. Then, a chubby girl with pigtails, no more twelve, stepped toward me. She stood there wearing a karate gi and a yellow belt wrapped around her waist. I smiled warmly, seeing a version of a younger me. She held out her hand, and I slowly touched it, feeling nothing but air.

"Can you forgive me?" I pleaded.

"Only if you can forgive yourself," she responded.

As the ghosts started leaving one by one, I took a deep breath while I wiped my eyes with my shirt sleeve. My heart felt strong, powerful. For 30 years, I trained to fight as a boxer, wrestler and martial artist, but I had never trained for this type of fight. There wasn’t much of a choice though. In order to put the ghosts to rest once and for all, to stand tall, balanced, and strong in mind, I had to come to grips with my past. Understanding my choices from my past would give me the knowledge to change my future and help me to begin healing emotionally and spiritually. It was going to be a hell of a fight, an ugly and painful one, just like when I step inside a cage or ring. Still, to transform my life completely, to be at peace once and for all, to learn how to forgive those who hurt me and to forgive myself for the hurt I caused others this fight would be the most important one I would ever encounter. No opponent I faced in or out of the ring would be as difficult to beat as the one staring back at me each time I looked in that mirror. For so many years, I was my worst enemy, my deadliest opponent. But no matter what, now I had to win.