Lisa is a Chinese-American I met while in the Oakland County Jail. She would end up there when she didn't show up for her court ordered, monthly shot. You see, Lisa is bipolar. She would often get arrested while in a manic phase of her illness. She told me several stories about her antics in Lake Orion. One time, she stopped her car in the middle of the road and refused to move, until her then boyfriend got out. She was a complete mess. She even harassed an old woman one night she was in a manic fit. It was too much for Lake Orion to take and a judge ordered her to get a shot that she couldn't stop taking and/or forget to take. If she didn't show for her appointment, the Lake Orion Police would show up at her door and take her to jail to get it.
The only thing I didn't understand at the time is why they brought her to OCJ and not to the outpatient clinic where she got her shot. Why did she have to be arrested and put in jail evry time she missed her shot. After I figured out the deputies were selling inmates, I understood why. People in a manic phase of their illness have a hyper sexdrive, too. So Lisa came to OCJ very horny. Once she asked me what I did for sex in my cell, since I was alone. I explained that I didn't do anything. She straddled her seat at her desk, cupped her breast and showed me how she satisfied herself. I laughed, but now I think it's sad.
Lisa had been a freshman at the University of Michigan when her illness took hold of her life. The women she lived with saw that she was a bit strange and started complaining about her behavior, until her brother had to come get her. She says that it was due to her being outgoing, something that is not expected of a Chinese person in society. She said she just didn't fit the norm. Lisa is very smart. I almost believed her, until the day she had a full blown psychotic break through the night. I went to her cell to talk and saw a whole other person from the one she was the day before. She began to yell at me and lose control. I was so shocked and couldn't believe her demeanor and actions could change so quickly, but they had. I asked her in a calm tone, "Are you alright?" She spit at me and it landed on the glass. She screamed at me in a vicious manner said, "Get away from me you Nigger!" I backed away and went to sit on the couch to watch television. I had never seen such a dramatic change in a person before.
She spent a lot of her life in mental institutions in Southeast Michigan. She had told me that all the rumors about the State Hospital Clinton Valley were true. The rumors about the staff having sex with patients and the tunnels beneath the hospital, where all this was suppose to take place were not a myth. It was all true and she had taken part in the mahiem. as a young woman. Lisa was about 40-years old when we met in OCJ. She had been in the system being sexually abused for over 20 years. She would swear it wasn't abuse and something she wanted to do, but she didn't realize those people had an obligation to look after her well-being and not use her for their own sexual needs. Now, she was being used at the Oakland County Jail. She was having sex for Hungry Howie's bread sticks that were said to be the best.
She was always placed in the three main spots for prostitution. That was cell 1, 6 and 8. She never went upstairs to live, because they always wanted access to her. She was very beautiful and resembled a doll. She was really nasty however, and had created a tough exterior in order to survive her adventures in jail and whatever else she had been through in the years since her diagnosis. I came to realize through my own journeys that the mentally ill in Michigan were nothing but chattle to be used at the whime of those in charge of them. People like Lisa are left to muttle through a life filled with abuse and little reward. The sad part is they don't even know or understand. Lisa would often stand in her door and sing, "Ah, me so horny! Me love you long time!" It would be funny, but she couldn't sign. But she knew her worth in the jail. She was a man's fantasy from Full Metal Jacketand the Too Live Crew's hit song. And that's why the Lake Orion Police brought her to jail and didn't take her to the out-patient clinic. Sex...
I was going to save these words until time had gone by. A young man in Oxford killed four of his classmates. He took his gun to school and made what I call cries for help. From his pictures and words, he wanted to let someone know that the unctions were too much for him. He needed help in the worst way. I believe he suffers from schzophrenia. I know a woman that suffered from it. The voices were so loud that she drove her three year old son to the lake and threw him in. He could not swim at three and drowned. She is serving a 25 year sentence in the women's facility that is Huron Valley. She's a dear friend of mine and we would cook together on occassion while I was there. She told me about it. How the voices were so loud and compelling she believed it was something she needed to do. Mental Illness is serious and not something that you throw on someone, because they refuse to smoke crack and have sex with the same sex. Mental Illness is an American crisis. So you know I was upset when I saw Michael Bouchard leading the charge.
This man has been the leader of a whorehouse for over 25 years in the making. He wasn't there for all of it, but he has been there for the most of it. Mentally ill imates are sold more than the so-called normal ones. Where will this child go and get help? The Forensic Center where he will go for his exam is also guilty of sex crimes against the mentally ill. Even making place for the sane that agree to prostitute to get out of Murder charges. Michigan is a cess pool of crimes against the week, and I pray that laq enforcement doesn't allow these people to get away and commit a worse crime on the people of Oxford.
I watched Bouchard stand up and tell children that he will find them and prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law. Who is going to find him and his deputies and lock them up for running the racket they do out of the jail's clinic? I'm amazed at his gall. His absolute gall of acting like a noble leader when his army is running their own criminal enterprise out of the Oakland County Jail. I had to write this, because somebody has to know. There is a great possibility that the Crumbley's can be let go. Because they not only sell women, they sell men, too! We lose track of these cases after a while, and judges are able to do whatever they want. Judges have absolute power and those deputies have a fair amount of them on their "pimp team". If they can help their family they are liable to do anything. Deputies could get a better price for them, they've been all on the news. People have to never forget this tragedy, because they look forward to it and will sell those people at a premium.
I know that the people of Oxford are hurting. It has been a hard week. To see Tate Myre's mother face at the Michigan game was telling. She is hurting somewhere deep that only a mother could know. I am a teller of what I know is truth. What I have witnessed with my own eyes. This Oakland County Jail thing is real. There is a great chance that these people will go free if it's not told. They have ruined countless lives and taken away freedoms of people who deserve it, and given it to people that don't. The truth is scary, and Michael Bouchard knows it. He can't take this tragedy and make it a chance for him to shine. He is responsible for some of the greatest travesties of law enforcement. That includes murderers.
This has shown me that we need to hold Bouchard and his pimps accountable. No one is able to win when the people responsible don't get their day in court, but instead are able to go free by prostitution. It is not a well kept secret on the streets where I live. In fact, it is the norm and people commit crimes knowing they can just go in the jail, perform sex acts and go home. There should be a limit to how far this goes. I hope it skips over this couple and their child, but I don't believe it will. No one polices the police and no one cares what goes on in the jail. Where Jennifer Crumbley is held there is rampid sex acts that go on all through the night. Deputies get sexually pleasured through food slots and through locked doors.
This had to be told too many people put their faith in a corrupt system!
Yesterday, while at work, there was a man peering at me through my coworker's partition. He looked just like the man that raped me 35-years ago. I thought to myself, "What's going on?" They usually do that kind of fear-mongering when what I say or do is some sort of threat. I was at work, and what could I possibly be doing to disrupt their prostitution racket. When I got home, I turned on the news first thing, and there it was. A man who had shot another man eight times had been released and the charges dropped on his Attempted-Murder and Firearm charge. I sat on my couch and giggled to myself. I had been to jail four other times and had seen worse cases and dangerous people go free, after selling themselves in the jail's clinic. This time, however, Jessica Cooper or David Gorcyca isn't in charge of the Prosecutor's Office. There is a new Sheriff in town, pun intended, and Karen McDonald's lynch-men aren't letting dangerous criminals walk free. There had been a manhunt soon after he was released, charges reinstated and he was recaptured in less than 24-hours. My giggle turned into a full-blown chuckle. I hate to say it, but I told you so!
When I was in jail, there was a woman there named Starr. Starr had killed a man. Not on purpose, but while shooting him up with heroin. He was her friend, and she had no idea the fix in the needle was too potent for him and he overdosed and died right in front of her. She was arrested and brought to jail because that is a crime. Many want to change that law, but it is still a fact. In 2010, it was more of a fact than it is today. Many courts with the opioid epidemic have become lenient, but in 2010, it was some kind of murder. It probably wasn't what they made it seem like to Starr because she had started to blossom. She was no longer the heroin-addicted inmate with sunken cheeks and face sores. She was eating and her daily food intake had her filling out in all the right places. She was suddenly attractive and still able and willing to make their money. She had blond hair and green eyes and a butt like a black girl, with thick legs and a smile that could kill. When people like Starr came in she was the talk of the jail. Many of the women envied her, because her kind of looks got her not only a spot in the Trustee pod, but Hot Food, twice a week and all the commissary she could eat. She brought my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was fascinated by her popularity and her ability to brush it off. Then I discover her case and knew her sadness inside. No matter how much food and attention she got, her friend was still dead.
She had shown me her wristband with her original photo, and it was a different person. The woman in front of me was a true star. The woman on her wrist was a drug addict of the worst kind. She said she looked at it every day as a reminder of how far she had come. That's where she had lost me because she really hadn't come that far. She had only come as far as jail/ They had decided not to give her drugs because they still get high in jail. It was more beneficial to keep Starr sober. She didn't equate her sober living to being locked up. She felt she was in the real world, but I knew it was a world created by a false narrative of prostitution. Many of the women had never been treated so well. As long as they did what was required of them they lived a good existence. Once they stepped out of bound there easy living ceased. Starr ended up in prison for six years. At least that's what the women had said. I hope she spent that time getting better for real.
Julie Nicholson
The man that they let go of yesterday, had an entire month to get comfortable in the fallacy that he was going free. He is a very handsome man. Almost looks like a woman. The deputies will give a prostitute the feeling of euphoria to keep them making them money. This man shot another man eight times. His intent was to kill. A man like that should never go free, at least not without punishment. There is no doubt in my mind that the guy is a prostitute, If he isn't going free, they will try to get him a lighter sentence. He had been locked up a month, and they thought everyone had forgotten about him. That's why I say, we can't ever let go of these horrific crimes. Those deputies look to detectives to get so caught up in the work that they leave prosecution to the administration. One young woman had asked me why her detective comes to every one of her hearings. I simply told her, "He wants to see you get what's coming to you." She had robbed three people in one night at gunpoint. She needed to go to prison for some period of time. She had disappeared every morning, too. She claimed she was going to court every morning. Right...
The judge who can't comment. Well, who won't comment is a pimping judge. They control them not only in the circuit court but the district courts, too. She did what she was told to do. The last time something like this happened, a woman and her two children were murdered. Things like this never happen in "normal" conditions. There is a tearing apart of justice in Oakland county. It was evident to me when Tucker Cipriano got out of Oakland County Jail four months early and tried to kill his entire family with a baseball bat. He succeeded on two counts and left his father disabled for life. This is the Oakland County I know. I saw yesterday that it will slowly become the Oakland County of the past. I pray that Karen McDonald can catch every one of these instances. I know I'm here for it. People who endanger our society should not be allowed to walk free. At the same time a young woman who commits petty crimes should not be locked up and forced to sell herself to get home. It's Christmas money time. Those deputies are looking to fill the jail with inmates willing to work off crimes to get the deputy's child a bike. We need to start saying, "Enough!"
A couple of weeks ago, I went to a City Council Meeting in Pontiac. I spoke about the State of Michigan and how the Child Protective Service Unit will come and get a woman's child if she either refused to prostitute or told authorities about the prostitution in the Oakland County Jail. On yesterday, a child was found dead in a Motel 6 room. The child had obviously been abused says the woman that worked in the rental office. The motel is known for drug use and of course, prostitution. Big shocker, this happened in Farmington Hills in Oakland County. Today, there is no mention of the story in the news. A 14-month old baby is killed and it gets barely half a day on the news. That child deserves more than that in life and death, but they never had a chance. I'm going to tell you the Oakland County pimps shut that story down because that is one of their prostitutes. For me once again, it is obvious. They helped her keep that child she was abusing and killing every day. I mean every day that child lived it was a step closer to death, because of what its mother was doing to it. Child Protective Service didn't help that baby live a day but added to its misery.
There had to be someone that cared, because when they found the child. the police were doing a welfare check. Someone worried about the child had called the police. Probably, the same person that took care of the child when the mother ran the street or was in jail. These men that sell women for money in jail could care less about these children. Right now, it's Christmas money time. From September to October they work on getting as many prostitutes in the jail as they can so that their wives and children have a merry Christmas. A Christmas filled with gifts, a huge meal, and family gatherings. The women they are selling get socks, a pencil, and a candy bar. passed out in a plastic bag. Santa's bag turns into a Hefty bag. And these women seem grateful. I don't see it!
One of them burnt my food at a local eatery. I posted it on Facebook and didn't mention her name, but said she was a regular at the jail. Another frequent inmate jumps on to tell me that I need to take it down because I know what it's like. I said, and I meant it, "I don't burn up people's food!" This woman was a bam-bam occupent. That's the line of cells that gives hand jobs and blow jobs through the food slot. She does their bidding when she is out, but claims she has found Jesus. They got her a little job, and she follows me to read my blogs and jump on when she wants to play "captain save a HO." I told her off. Well, I went to get my nails done, today. There was a woman at the salon that favored her a lot. The man doing my nails was so rough and it hurt. I think, and I'm not sure. but I think it was supposed to be a punishment for what I said to her, which was nothing compared to what I just said. They keep it up, I'll say her name on a blog and have her trying to sue. They would probably get one of their pimping court-appointed lawyers to represent her. They call themselves coming for me again, and we will just have to see.
Just like this poor child that has been murdered by its mother's abuse and neglect. The idea that the story no longer plays on the news is proof enough to me that OCSD is involved. They get something on everyone and try to frustrate the hell out of people that go against them and they are dirtier than a mud puddle. You see Andre Spivey hasn't mentioned James Tate and that's his "Boy". I went to a Detroit Council Meeting in 2015 and they ganged up on me. Took a sheet of paper, passed it between one another, looked at me like they were shocked I was even there. They are in it thick: TOGETHER. Spivey doesn't want to spend his life like I do. The police are relentless. They pulled dirt on me before I even left the jail. My book is 384 pages long, and I still can't fit all the mess they did to me in it. Not to mention this is the second time my registration was forced to expire. Spivey better hopes he is able to do that time, because turning on Tate could be detrimental to his health, too. Every time the camera is on Tate when doing a news report on Spivey he has that, "You better not say nothing about me," look on his face, and Spivey keeps him out of it, for now.
What I'm saying is these cops are in it for real. They call themselves taking care of these women, even after they leave jail. Especially, if they help them negotiate to ruin some throne in their side life. like mine. I bet that woman, who is not my friend on Facebook, checked the "notify first" tab on my screen and she gets a notification whenever I make a post. I wonder what she'll have to say about that baby. If she doesn't know the woman that is now in jail for killing her own child. They took it off the news because they don't want us to follow it. They are probably going to let her go. When detectives walk away from cases and leave them to the prosecutor, those deputies can do as they please. If we aren't following the case, it will be left behind with all the other hundreds of news cases we watch every day. If that happens and OCSD helped that woman keep the child she was abusing, and we let it go, that woman could walk free. I've seen them give Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity pleas to women who killed and should have gotten LIFE, but instead did three (3) years in a mental institution. We can't let that toddler's life be lived in vain.
It was the summer of 1988, when I first arrived at Wilberforce University. I was out of Michigan, and would be on my own for the first time in my life. I would ultimately fail miserably. My father had three siblings. My Uncle Thomas, my Aunt Beverly and Aunt Hattie. All of them had been college graduates. My father, the "black sheep" of the family didn't have a degree and was kicked out the Air Force for trying to organize race riots. At this point, I don't know who to be prouder of. My uncle the attorney or my father the rebellion organizer. In the times we live in now, there are times that we need demonstrations to be heard. I'm most positive it was needed 60-years ago. I met a John while at Wilberforce. He belonged to the fraternity, Kappa Alpha Psi. He would quickly become my boyfriend and lover. Despite our rocky road, he will go down as one of the loves of my life. I have a tendency to capture the best in the man pool, wherever I go. John was the smartest man on campus. He had graduated from a school in Cleveland that graded on a five-point scale and he was at the top of his class. He once laughed at me when I tried to quiz him on his definition in Economics. My close friend at the time had this guy friend that was having a hard time with the same Economics class. We were all sitting around in her room and he was complaining about the work and the professor's teaching style. My friend took his hand and asked, "Is there anyone in the class doing well?" He paused for a second and looked directly at me and said, "Yeah, this guy named John." I fell back on the floor where I was sitting and let out a bellowing laugh. It was my John.
As my suitors fell off, so did his. There was one guy who wouldn't stop his pursuit of me and it almost cost him a place in Kappa Alpha Psi. He had told me all about John. Any and everything he knew, which was a big "No, No" to the bros. All the stuff about sessions and paddles was off limits and especially about John who was leader of his group of pledges. The biggest reason was John, the leader of his line, was a triple Legacy. His father was a Kappa, his grandfather had been a Kappa, too. The most notable fact about the men in his family was this, his grandfather had pledged on the same yard. Hid grandfather was a member of the fourth Kappa line in American collegiate history, the Delta Chapter. That meant he was untouchable and not able to fail his line experience. It was left up to his other guys on his line to take up his slack and do all kinds of crazy stuff to become a Kappa. John had to do the bear minimum, which meant he had to make it up to his Sans. I was impressed and understood his swag for only being five foot six inches tall. I think about this story, whenever I think about the Quisenberries of the Oakland County, Michigan legacy.
Joseph Quisenberry is a Captain and runs the Investigations Unit for Oakland County Sheriff's Department. He investigates murders and stuff. When the opioid addiction were at its peak, he was the man that was supposed to help Sheriff Michael Bouchard get this area back in shape. People were going into Burger King bathrooms shooting heroin and overdosing. When his picture flashed on my screen, and the caption read Quisenberry, my stomach turned. Not the same Quisenberry from Oakland County Jail. The young deputy who was known for having sex with drug addicts that came into the jail. I subsequently went back to jail after the opioid task force aired on the local news. When Quisenberry came up to make a round, I asked him if he was any kin to Captain Quisenberry and he told me that he was his uncle. He at first asked me, which Quisenberry, because all of his family worked for Oakland County. He said his uncle, siblings and cousins all worked at Oakland County. It is a rite of passage for a Quisenberry to get a job with Oakland County. This Quisenberry in the jail had his rite and all the prostitutes he could manage.
When I had first arrived in 2010, I met a young woman named Connie. She was in jail for "Conspiracy to Commit Armed Robbery". She approached me when I first arrived in the pod. She told me her entire story. She'd met this ex-con at work and had started using a lot of cocaine with him and his friend. The three of them concocted a scheme to rob the place she was working at. The man had supposedly kept large amounts of cash at the place. I think her boyfriend had set her up, because the police had so much evidence. She had resigned herself to her guilt and was relaxing in the jail. She had books and all kinds of stuff in her cell. It looked worse than some of the long timers in prison. Just a whole bunch of everything, everywhere. That night, after we had locked down for the night, she had left her door unlocked. This can happen just by not closing it all the way. When the third shift arrived and Quisenberry arrived, she opened her door and ran down the stairs to the window and knocked, "Hey!" She shouted a whisper. She kept calling out, but didn't get answer. After a minute, I could hear the microphone click and some one yell, "GET AWAY FROM HERE! GO BACK TO YOUR CELL!!!" She shuffled across the floor and up the stairs. When she got to her door, the voice came back on the speaker, "AND CLOSE THAT DOOR!"
It was Ashmead and this time, when he clicked the control her door locked. For the longest time, I thought she was having sex with Ashmead, but no. Ashmead was taking up for Quisenberry. He had not wanted to get with her that night for some reason. He asked Ashmead for his assistance, and he had rid of the insistent Connie, whose face was filled with red polka dots. I didn't get it myself. She was thin as a rail, with stringy hair and had developed a acne problem while in jail. Quisenberry wasn't her only conquest in the pod. She was a regular run-around Sue. After I was moved to the other side of 29, because of a fight I had with Connie's bunky about cars, I met one of her old bunkies. She explained that Connie was crazy about Quisenberry most of all. She never closed her door at night, and no one ever cared. If one of the other inmates left their door ajar, it was "click...click...click" Not Connie, not a sound was made and she said, after a while she would skirt down the stairs to the window and be gone for a while. She would come back in the cell with tales of his generosity and sexiness. I had to admit he was cute, but a bit of a weirdo. He spent his first half an hour at work cleaning the bubble of germs. One time, two Alpha deputies thought it would be fun to leave half eaten pizza and boxes from the take-out joint in the bubble for him, after their shift. He went ballistic. One woman looking out her door called us all to watch the show. He was ranting and raving like a lunatic. Slamming boxes and letting out what appeared to be curses.
That's the price legacies pay. There is always going to be someone or someone(s) that resent your legacy. Whenever you assert yourself as a legacy, you can be challenged by the paupers you work with. I saw the two deputies eating the pizza in the bubble. I also saw them abandon the bubble long before their shift ended. Quisenberry was always on time, with his little lunch bag and duffle bag. These two hung around outside the bubble and waited for him to appear and walked right passed him on their way out, knowing he was going to "hit the roof" when he saw the mess. There must have been a discussion or incident in the past that warranted such a display. Whatever it was, it had gotten under the other two deputies skin. They wanted to show, they didn't care who his uncle is. He was working the Annex with people of the same statue as him and he wasn't going to treat them like he was their boss. They were all there. They were all turn-keys and they were all having sex with inmates. He was no different from any of them. He wore his legacy like a badge and had bragged about it to me. That was probably more about getting sex than anything else, but he was proud of his family's relationship to Oakland County, even if that meant that people more qualified didn't get positions that his family would occupy.
I just read about another Quisenberry. Justin Quisenberry. A far cry from the jail's Quisenberry that was having sex with addicts in the jail's bathroom. This man is a war-time hero. He has spoken to high schoolers about leadership and his time in Iraq and people he met that taught him courage and humbled him. As I read the article, I couldn't help but see the resemblance between him and the jail's Quisenberry. Maybe Justin is his brother, but one thing is certain. Justin Quisenberry is not an employee at Oakland County. He is some kind of data analyst for some company. His claim to fame is not nepotism, but real substance and fortitude. I wondered if this is jail's Quisenberry's brother, how in the world could parents birth two such polar opposite children. But I know it happens all the time. Even if it's his cousin, the same question still applies. I don't know where Connie crime took place, but I can't help but wonder if it was one of Oakland County jurisdictions. Maybe he promised his uncle would help her out. Maybe his uncle had helped her out. She only had gotten probation, but was back in a month. She was just trouble.
That's what they said about my father, who 10 years after leaving the Air Force became a dealer. What about my friend who wanted me to the point he would risk his Kappa dreams to speak on a Legacy. The game is a hard thing when your dealing with legacies, because they seem to stay and you seem expendable. Many of them take risks that others can't afford. Like the time a white car was driving near me erratically. I did a few of my driving tricks and pulled up beside it, even if it seemed they were trying to get away. When I looked over into the car, I could tell why. It was Deputy Quisenberry from the jail. He was trying to give me a hard time on the road, like so many had done, before. A screw until the end. Never seeming to get it quite right. Never seeming to live up to his legacy.
I saw the advertisement for Walsh College on WJBK, Fox 2, every day while in the Oakland County Jail (OCJ). The television in my pod was stuck on that channel. You couldn't watch anything, but Fox 2. My pod was the sex pod. The had women in what we called the bam-bam rooms. In these rooms, inmates performed various sex acts on deputies through the night. Many of the women weren't in a state of mental crisis at all. They came into jail and immediately gave a complete farce of a performance to get naked and go into one of these cells. The not only got to go home quickly as a reward, but had the chance to eat well, by getting free commissary and weekly hot food. Hot food, was burgers and fries, calzones, chili dogs and cookies, along with ice cold Pepsi. Mostly, however, they sat at their food slot naked and watched T.V. Everything Fox 2. I think that was their choice, because fox was thoroughly Republican, and all Conservatives stick together. Michael Bouchard was a Republican, and when I started my writing campaign, unknowingly I wrote to Huel Perkins. A man unwilling to help me, because he worked for the Conservative news channel.
When I finally got home from the second of the recent stalking charges, I was ready to get my degree. I was never going to stop my zeal for a degree. It was very important that I finished, and I only had a few classes to go. I didn't have transportation at first, and decided to finish my degree at the online school University of Phoenix. I can't prove it, but my last session with University of Phoenix had been infiltrated by law enforcement. The people in that cohort group had given me such a hard time, and had threatened my grade in such a horrific way, I didn't want to risk the same experience and left. I had bought a car, and decided to take my chances with Walsh. It was going to be hard, I had imagined, because it was one of the best schools in Michigan. Getting your degree from there was a guaranteed successful career in Southeastern Michigan. That was true, only if you were a White student. I had come in contact with several racially stimulated experiences. Also, many of the male teachers were having sex with students, and I had been courted by a professor that wanted a relationship with me. He phoned me unsolicited, spoke unfavorably about his wife and marriage when he did and made statements in class that we were more than a professor/student relationship. Walsh hired an attorney out of Chicago that sided with them, of course.
I had been at Walsh almost a year and a half by now. My grades were slipping. My professors seemed to be lacking. My first problem, however, was online classes. Someone was going into my sessions and changing my posts. I had grammar errors, syntax errors and poor sentence structure. My professor Richard Chasdi, wrote me a scathing review, and said he didn't think I should be a student. I went back to the posts and saw all the errors and things and emailed him to tell him that was not my work. It continued through the rest of my stay at Walsh, until I spoke to Beth Barnes (the new Vice-President) and Dr. Mike Levens (the new President). They told me to write all my online post in PDF, and create a link and make my posts. Later, Susan Gilkey, my Operations "professor" would use that to fail me. She claimed that she had told me that that wasn't acceptable, and I had ignored her. She claimed that the other students couldn't reply to my posts, but they did. When I challenged her grade, Beth Barnes or Dr. Mike Leven stood up and said it was their doing. Dr. Mike Rinkus let my grade stand and I was not allowed to graduate. That was 2018.
In 2020, I was allowed to graduate. I left a flipped comment on Dr. John Moore. He is the head of Finance at Walsh and a fake PhD. That's the colleges biggest problem with me. It is also the reason I can't pass a test online. It is also the reason that Walsh won't allow me to attend their Master's College. Their college is full of fake PhD's and improper degrees. That Operations "Professor" has no degree at all, not even an Associate's degree. John Moore is not a PhD in anything, but he does have a Master's from Walsh. I wrote about it in a blog two years ago (click on the link below):
I knew, because I've been around real professors; a lot. Seeing that law enforcement was attacking my education, it figured Walsh College was helping them. It was full of fakes. A group of people that was running a prostitution ring out of a jail, and a racket in local box stores, would be able to associated with a bunch of fake PhD's to ruin some Black woman's education. I even seen one of the prostitutes there once leaving class. But they graduated me and I should feel happy, but they are using the letter that is at the end of my first blog to keep me out. He said I wasn't happy with my experience and should seek my Master's elsewhere. He's right, because all my grades were one whole point less than it should be on my transcript. None of the local businesses will hire Black people, and Walsh doesn't care and doesn't try to build relationships with those who would hire Black students. Sadly, there are White students that have noticed what I have and are struggling. The fake professors find intelligence threatening and will unfairly grade a student down for being more intelligent than they are, Black or White. The idea that they are the elite in schools in this area is promoted by those partnerships, and their ability to influence the narrative to make them elite through bogus awards and word of mouth. I saw their commercials and thought they were the best, in reality they are a sham, and full of deceit.
I was never given a chance. I was 18-years old and a soldier in the US Army Reserves. My father had died the day I had did my swearing in at the M.E.P.S. Center near Greek Town in Detroit. I had gotten my ears cleaned that day, too, which served for me to hear the howling of my sister, the screeching of my uncle and my exhausted moans of abandonment. My father, an avid drug abuser and debilitated invalent had been dying for years. The mixture of cocaine and heroine that he snorted had taken it's toll. His stomach was the size of a inflated beach ball. He carried so much water weight from the quinine the drugs were cut with, he was drowning in his own fluids. Some days were better that others, some weeks and some years, but the drug abuse would take him slowly over the next seven years, especially, since he didn't quite stop after his indictment and jail stay. He had given up after a few years. My aunt, a nurse, tried to get the water to go away, but whenever they drained it, it just came back. For a period of time, he would develop little sacks on his body filled with fluid. As a child, I thought my father to be invincible. By the time he died, he was, in my mind. When God finally took him, it crushed the last fallacy of my childhood, along with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Daddies die and they don't ever come back. The End.
My commitment to him ended when we left him at the cemetery, in the little house with a few benches for us to sit. The shame was all my aunt and uncle could stand and they buried him Tuesday, April 18, 1989. It was so quick, some of his closest friends did not attend. The room in the funeral home was packed, and the tears flowed like a stream of lovingness, that was John Stanley's legacy. I didn't eat for four days, until he was in the ground. Everything is either a blur, between the 14th and 18th, everything, but my father. I sat in my grandmother's kitchen, eating KFC, while two women debated on who I was. I didn't feel the need to introduce myself, I just cleaned my plate, washed it and put it away. It was what grandma would want, and I couldn't upset her at her youngest son's funeral. I sat and thought about going to basic that Friday and if I could make it. I decided I could and I would. I would make my father proud, even if his burial was a relief that gave me the strength to eat, again.
That morning, I woke up, my grandma and aunt had come for a visit from Alabama. It was a coincidence, and they had not come for the funeral. I spoke to my mother briefly and kissed my aunt goodbye and went to wait for my recruiter on the porch. He came right on time, just like a military man. I drove away not knowing how much I would change in the next couple of months, but the challenges would be many and the success would equal each one. I would grow and morph into a person that had no choices. Not even the choices of how fair life would be. I took myself into the M.E,P. Station that day. My recruiter didn't have to tell me where to go. I walked up to the table and stated my fate. 'I'm going to Basic Training, today." Some woman they call "Active-Reserves" told me where to sit and I met others who were going to "Basic", too. We were all going to different places. different branches and different MOS's. But we were all a part of the US Military, and were "headed out". We had lunch together and some even headed out from the airport, before lunch. I left second to last, about two headed for Jersey. Fort Dix, "Fort Dixie Land" some liked to call it. It would come to live up t that name.
"Blue Jean"! I was so puzzled. They said these men would be mean and aggressive towards me. Every time I walked into a room and they were there, they would lean in to each other, whisper and giggle. I took to my name quickly, because it obviously made them happy and kept me out of trouble. That is, until Faison came in. He taught us how to march early one Saturday morning. He was extra hard on me. "Hey Private. what's your problem?" I would answer quietly, "I don't have a problem Corporal." He would fix his face in a menacing glare and bellowed. "You act like you have a problem!" I thought I was doing good. I had smiled at him the same way I had smiled at the others all week and it had gotten me favor, but with him it had gotten that menacing glare. I took my place in formation. He was good at calling cadence, and zi could tell that he was waiting for me to mess up, but I caught on quick. This was as difficult for a Black woman moving down the "Soul Train Line" at my cousins wedding. "Left....Left...Left...Right...Left! Every time he gave a direction that foot had to strike the ground, and every woman foot had to strike the ground at the same time as you. "Always on your Left!' Boom, down came that left foot. I got it, and it pissed Faison off even more. He had been there twice that week, talking to the men. He had been asking them why we didn't have our BDU's yet. He had to teach us to march, but we couldn't march in our street clothes.
It seems the Sergeants on duty didn't want to give me BDU's. They liked me in my blue jeans. We couldn't go anywhere in a group or anything, because some of us had uniforms and some didn't. He had some women marching in civilians clothes, but it was a Saturday and nobody who cared was there. He had acted like it was all my fault. In a way, it was my fault, but it wasn't something I had done. It was something my Sergeants had done. Besides, I had my uniforms. The women I came in with and I had gotten ours just the day before. His job wasn't my responsibility, but I was getting the brunt of his anger and frustration. Two days later, we were shipped off to our regular barracks to begin training. There I would learn the full force of my nickname. We were forced to pack up all the new uniforms we had gotten, along with all our personal gear we had bought and anything we had brought from home. We all came to the consensus immediately that we should have waited to buy personals. Some women had bought their full regiment of hygiene and personals. Stuff that they now had to march to our new home. I bought some stuff, butt not much. My recruiter was cool and had mentioned that "too much" wasn't good in the military. I understood, as soon as we had our first long march. We carried everything on our back; literally. We got this big duffle bag and a ruck sack. A ruck sack is a back pack. Unlike the one you had for school, you didn't carry books and pencils and paper. You carried a change of clothes, and stuff I can't remember right now, but it was heavy. Once we got hip, we filled our ruck sack with a sheet, to make it look full. Then we stuffed all our stuff in the duffle bag. It looked like the bag the girl used to unpack her adjectives. If our Drill Sergeants unpack our adjectives, they would find, lazy, cunning, sneaky and deceptive.
"Which one of you is Stanley!" I looked up from where I had been searching for something they asked us to find. I had no idea where I had put mine. I was digging deep in my duffle bag and the midget was a distraction. I looked in his eyes and they were blue and glowing. "Here Drill Sergeant," I spoke in a light yell out of both fear and frustration. "We're going to be friends for the next two months and your not going to like it!" He had a menacing glare and I was confused. He had been huddled with one of the sergeants from the Reception Center. I didn't know what I had done, or why is was angry with me, but I swallowed deep and kept looking for that thing.
They broke us up into three large platoons. Usually, they would make 240 women four or even five platoons. We had all came in that way. My platoon had 82 women. I was not in Second Platoon, which was where the blue eyed midget was. I got Lopez, Mondragon, Thomas and an Ad-Man I forget. They got all the Spanish women that worked good for them and penis size. I didn't care and took my place. I just wanted to get it over with. We all marched right across the fire lane from where we were, after taking a unnecessary walk to the main building two blocks away. The next day, after getting my weapon, I was trying to put my TA-50 gear on, unsuccessfully, when the midget called out my name, again. "Stanley!" I had gotten better at answering, "Yes, Drill Sergeant! " He didn't glare this time, he was a little softer, "You wanna come to Second?" I looked up from my twisted gear at the three men huddled together, Thomas, Mondragon and "The Midget" "No Drill Sergeant". I had lowered my voice again, confused, again. I wasn't leaving the group of women I had just spent the first two weeks in hell with. I would lose my comfort zone. I went back to my tangled mess, happy I was smart enough to dodge that bullet.
Second Platoon was made up of two midgets. The first was "ole blue eyes" and "The Loser". I think they were acquainted with the sergeants at the Reception Center. Because, the next morning while in weapons sequence, "The Loser", Drill Sergeant Griffin, grabbed me by the arm and got close enough to my ear to bite it and asked, "WHO IS YOU VERN?" I looked straight ahead and whispered, "Private Stanley, Drill Sergeant." He let go of my arm and said, "Okay then!" I was confused again, until he did that almost every morning in a exhausting display of affection. He would call me out any where we went, but he had gotten another lover in his platoon. Since I was in Third Platoon, he couldn't make me vanish all weekend. He had gotten another woman, and I was glad, but he gave me so much attention that I began to like it. Sort of like the sergeants in the first place I went. I didn't understand any of it, however, I barely knew any of these men. I learned the following year in school, AIT that a day in the military was a week or a month in civilian life, and soldiers hooked up our first weekend pass. I didn't and never hooked up at all. I would sneak to the third floor at night and have phone sex with my boyfriend at home. Military life is fast, because it is run by men and men have hearty libidos. When you think about it, those sergeants weren't even 30, and at their sexual peak. My blue jeans were tight and my butt hefty. It obviously was exciting to them, but "The Loser" was intrusive. He was able to be there all the time and he would drop in all the time. Never on the weekends, however.
When "China Doll" woke me one early morning to tell me I had a phone call, I jumped up. We called her that, because not only was she Chinese, but she was beautiful and looked like one of the dolls that were big and had smaller dolls in them as you opened them up. She had cut her hair into a pixie bob, and it didn't touch her neck or her ears. She was so sweet and lovable, just like a doll. When I heard what she had to say, I jumped up. Remembering my older sister had taken my father's death really hard. I thought maybe she had done something desperate. I didn't even bother to put on my uniform, but ran down the hall and was taking the stairs two at a time. Suddenly, Griffin appeared at the bottom of the second landing and put his finger to his lips to keep me quiet. Then he used his hand to motion me against the wall out of sight. Once I was silenced and out of sight, he went through the door. I over hear him talking to "China Doll", and give her the cup he had been holding and direct her to clean it and fill it with water. Guard - duty is vital, and he told her he would watch her post. Once she was safely in the bathroom, he ushered me in his office. I went in and looked around, and there was no phone off the hook, waiting for me to pick-up and he wasn't taking me to the Senior Drill Sergeant's office.
"What's up? "China said I had a phone call." He looked at me with a glare of dissatisfaction. "You don't want to be here with me?" I didn't answer him, I lifted my hands in the "What?" position, I was sure this man was insane. It was 2:20 am and I had to be up in 2 hours and 25 minutes, dressed and on the fire lane. This motherfucker wanted to know if I wanted to be with him. "Nah, you dumb fuck, I want to be sleep!" I couldn't say what I was thinking, and when he took me by the waist, and pulled me into him I was flattered. Then there was a knock on the door. He ushered me into an open closet. She handed him the cup, he sat it on the desk and came to me in the closet. We began to kiss and I stopped him, when he put his hand up my gown.
"No!" I pushed him away and he stopped. I went and sat at the chair in front of the desk. We talked and I got up to leave and he crossed the desk to stop me. I knew that "China Doll" was there and didn't care. He pushed me back in the closet. and forced his lips on mine. He seemed angry and impatient. I took myself to the back of the closet to escape his gnarly claws on my body, holding me and pulling me to him. I kissed him back and after a short while, he pulled back and placed his claws on my neck. It was almost a threat, then he stated, "So, are you going to do this or what?" I said lowly enough that "China Doll" didn't hear. "Okay:" He then grabbed my waist again and spun me around so my back was to him and lifted my gown, pulled down my panties and with his super small penis, entered me. His penis was like sandpaper, too, and he was rough. I was disgusted by his handling of me and the situation, but I did agree. He went on to tell all the drill sergeants and it began.
Either the other drill sergeants and staff thought I wanted them, and "hit on me" at every possible occasion or acted like I was the most disgusting thing in the barracks. I had the Ad-Man cuss me out. He used all kinds of profanities that caused me to shrill and think twice about how I spoke to him. I was woken out of my sleep, snuck into an office man handled and practically choked for lust. He needed to have me out of "saving face" with the other drill sergeants. I was "Blue Jeans" the girl with the tight jeans and ass. If that wasn't true he wouldn't have told everyone. What he didn't know, I was a rape survivor and no less than three years before, a man hade jumped out of bushes and raped me by choking me into submission. I said, "Okay", but I was in distress and fear. What I didn't know is his record. He wasn't 25-years old like the other sergeants. He was closer to 35, because he had lost his strips twice and worked his way back up to a sergeant, and drill sergeant. He was a Loser. He was the best example of everything wrong with the US Army and he was going to take me down with him. Sergeant Thomas let me know all about him the way he could; talking out loud. I don't know if it was my father's death or the rape, but I wasn't being me. Some how Drill Sergeant Thomas knew that. It still followed me to. AIT, military school. Even if I did go the following summer. It wasn't enough time. Drill Sergeant Gabrielle was waiting for me. I made it, though. I made it through Basic Training and AIT. I was even a squad leader in school. Even if it was to keep me out of trouble.
I had acquired the name "Trouble", all about my favorite pair of jeans. I even got a new Drill Sergeant just for me in Basic. She called me her "Special Child", but even she couldn't be too hard on me. I was not a bad person. I wasn't a bad soldier. I was just pretty and dumb. That could be a poor combination in a male driven Army. To fall for the worse person in the company, because you're young and inexperienced with men. The way he grabbed me every morning in line and ask who I was, showed no candor at all. Even asking me to join his platoon in front of my entire squad was iffy. I had started not respecting him as a drill sergeant. Not calling out, "At ease make way!" If he walked passed. I would keep on my way. The other women had taken notice, too. I didn't care, he had crossed the line with me and I was being treated horribly by all my superiors and I didn't even like him anymore. It was getting close to time to graduate. We were doing everything now. Every weekend we had a base pass. We got one our second week there. The men soldiers had remedial P.T. We were eating Twizzlers and Burger King. Senior Drill Sergeant punished them for allowing certain privates to chase them around the base with pogo sticks. When training ended, The Loser, called and asked me to stay on with him in New Jersey for the summer. Homesick, I replied with a solid and definitive, "No!" He tried to pull the, "You don't want to be with me line, but I did not relent. He kept me on the phone past nine when we were supposed to be off. The Drill Sergeant on duty had to get me off the phone.
The next morning, I was awoken to two drill sergeants yelling at me. "Who do you think you are private? You can't be on that phone as long as you want!" It was graduation day. I stood at parade rest while they yelled and screamed at me to pick up my room. My roommate had moved out and I was there alone. So they scared me lifeless. I was shaking uncontrollably. They took all my things and threw them in my locker. "Get dressed," One of them yelled. I put on my dirty BDU's that were in my laundry bag and went to the Senior Drill Sergeants office and stood at parade rest for the rest of the day. When the lieutenant came before graduation, the Senior Drill Sergeant had lied, and said I had been in trouble. I was a few minutes on the phone. It wasn't worth missing my graduation. I had worked hard. I had faced every challenge put before me and survive, to come out on the other side. I didn't want Drill Sergeant Griffin and all his loser ways. I still wasn't going to tell anyone what he had done to me I just wanted him to stay away from me. I went alone to the discharge place. Sat alone and waited for my ride. I have never told this story before today, not all of it.
The reason I'm telling my story now, is young women are either being murdered in the US Military or killing themselves, and I believe one young woman killed herself recently. I could have died. If I wasn't such a survivor. It didn't matter if I was a good soldier. They don't see us as competent or worthy. It was obvious to me that men couldn't see past our good looks to take us seriously. We were objects to be fondled and sexually harassed. I was so young, I didn't even know what that was. Where I came from, men just touched you. Said what they wanted. Did what they wanted and never cared about consequences. I never thought of them either. I know my phone sex boyfriend wouldn't go to my friends house, because she had a father and a brother. Years later, when my brother was 27-years old and not 17, he came to visit me. He sat outside, like we did when I was 19. My brother walked out the house and gave him a mean mug. I told him that he had questioned me. He wanted to know if he had a house to go to, because he had that nice car. When I told him what my brother had said, he wanted me to move into my own apartment. My brother told me, "No!" Unless he was paying all or part of the rent.
In the Army, there is no little brothers that turn into men. Only men that look out for one another and who are against you. If you can't keep yourself, they won't be able to keep you. Even in all his religious beliefs Drill Sergeant Thomas could only talk out loud. Even after I survived all the madness of Bravo Company, I had to face Senior Drill Sergeant Gabrielle at Charlie Company some 11 months later. He would come out his hole to tell me how worthless I was. Even when I hadn't done a thing. He was so savage, he made my fellow soldiers believe it without proof I was worthless. I never went to my Reserve Unit, because I had enough of the harassment. My tenure as a squad leader was tarnished by the harassment, and the idea I couldn't complete the run in time. I think a drill sergeant had to give me a few minutes on my time. I still got honorably discharged. That's what they had me afraid of being. I just sucked it up. I feel sorry for those two women, one who couldn't get justice and one who couldn't take it all. I was both of them.
In January of 2004, I was almost a year from prison. At the time, I was on probation. I was catching the bus to probation every month and looking for a job that I didn't have a ride to. I began watching this new show on NBC called, "The Apprentice". It was pretty good, too. The millionaire, Donald Trump, was the host. He had his two children and this stiff multi-millionaire side-kick that knew a little something about business. He was there, because that knew Trumps children knew little about real business and the network wanted some legitimacy on set. They had some pretty smart and productive people on the show and Omarosa. She was there to antagonist to keep everything negative and disruptive and lasted waaay longer than she should have. Then it came to the last task and a Black guy named Kwame and a White guy named Bill. They got to pick teams and Kwame ended up with Omarosa and Bill got all the smart and "innovative" White contestants. In other words they spoke the part, dressed the part and looked the part, but in reality couldn't execute the part and that showed as they put together the golfing event.
Kwame had the more amusing and exciting task. He had to put on a show with Jessica Simpson. She and Nick came to Atlantic City for a day, and were swept away by Omarosa's antics. Trump used Omarosa to sabotage Kwame's event. He couldn't use one fake the White players. Kwame could scream foul and racism. No, he got Omarosa the Black patsy to steal the star and any chance for Kwame to be a success. She was rallied by Trump to blow it for the Black man and thus, the racist Trump showed his face for the first time on national television. A whole 12 years before the real show. I was pissed and wrote to Mark Burnett about all I saw. I bet he never read my letter, but I told him Trump was a racist back then. Omarosa was a Geechie pawn in a game to show the world that we can't work together and not have any growth when we try. It didn't matter what would be said about her in the end, because the rules did not apply to her. She was a part of an elite group of White people in America, lead by one of the "richest" men in America; Donald J. Trump. We came for her, of course, the same way we did in 2016. She hid behind the elite curtain of Trump, and the rules didn't apply to her. in 2004, In 2016 her antics would not be tolerated by the elites White Supremist of Trump's administration. For once, she didn't have to just make one happy, Trump, but a whole slew of them that included "The Whitest", Steve Bannon.
Donald Trump & Omarosa
I could just imagine they had brief acknowledgements of how she was out of control and didn't know her place as a Black person, allowed into an exclusive group merely for show. She didn't understand she wasn't ever going to be taken seriously or her position taken to the heart of any of them. That's not why they were in the White House and at the first opportunity they were going to let her go. When she was told to leave, Trump did exactly what he did yesterday, abandon the plan and go with what works best for his agenda. I know Trump planned to make America pay with the very people they fight for every day. Just like Omarosa, they met with some of those people and made promises of a better day. When it didn't work, he cut them loose with an, "I love you". He doesn't want them to abandon him and tell the truth about the coup. At this point, we can't say the police weren't in on it. They moved barricades, took selfies and left areas unguarded. Just like Omarosa, they were free to make Pelosi, Schumer and Pence pay for not letting him get what he wanted, the Presidency. I watched him, watching the may lay be carried out, and I could tell he felt they weren't doing enough. He wanted more fire, more yelling and more carnage. He had a much bigger coup in mind.
He made the people feel the rules didn't apply to them. They are the White people of America and they would be seen like the men of the Boston Tea Party. Rebels and Revolutionaries in the end he would stand with them and for them for the cause. Only it was all built on a lie. When those men tossed that tea, England had abandon them to fight a war with the French. Then came back to them after they had built their empires, broke and with an agenda to steal their wealth through taxation. They had every right to protect their way of life and all their hard work and prosperity. Those people on Wednesday, were doing Trump's dirty work, just like Omarosa who is in hiding somewhere, after coming out against Trump and no one wanted to hear her. Hawley wants to tell a story and no one wants to hear him, either. When a bad player has shown his hand and abandoned his followers for his own self, then best run for the hills. Everyone that was a part of his lies and destruction must be cut off from everything good and decent. Pence saved his career with one sentence, "Let's get back to work". It wasn't his plea for the thugs to stop that saved him, but his willingness to do the will of the people. What this country was built on. Majority rules, and Trump lost. This isn't a game show, where he sets the rules and players. This is America, where you are punished for your dirty deeds. The rules do apply to each and every rioter at our Capitol and time will show them punished.
This is not enough? This is sacred buildings and America's history. He wanted them to burn it down!
