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Bowie’s Funeral…an excerpt from “Whore, A Sex Worker’s Journey”

Yevette Christy

March 15, 2021

It was during this summer I realized Bowie was no longer acting like a three-year-old; he was lethargic and sad. He didn’t want to go outside and play. He would lean on my sister and me, as if he couldn’t hold up his own weight, and wanted to be comforted. I was watching Bowie and my sister while John and Linda worked, and one afternoon I watched as he vomited blood, with clot-like masses. I had no idea what was wrong with him, but one day I lifted his shirt and there was a distinct hand print across his abdomen. I attempted to place my fingers in the fingerprint places but my hand was way too small. I believed John was hurting him, but I never witnessed it. Over the years I had been beaten with switches, slippers, race car tracks, extension cords, and a cubed-stick. John had only ever used a belt on me, so there was no consistent precedent for him to be a violent man, except for when he damn near beat my mother to death, but other than that I had never seen him physically abuse anyone in our household. I mean by today’s standards our whoopin’s were abuse, but not back then and not in my community.

On one beautiful August day, August 1st, to be exact, my little sister begged me to take her to the park, but I didn’t want to go. I really didn’t want to leave Bowie alone with John. I recall that Bowie was sitting on the kitchen counter and John was standing beside him, feeding him a sandwich. I said to Bowie, “I love you.” He softly replied, “love you too.” I remember looking at John; he just looked mad for no perceivable reason. I did not fully understand why I feared leaving Bowie alone; something just wasn’t right. John broke my gaze on Bowie when he yelled, “What are you standing there for? Take your sister to the park!” Slowly I left the kitchen, looking directly at John and then a final glance at Bowie; it would be the last time I saw my little brother alive.

When I returned from the park on that beautiful summer day, the neighborhood children ran up to Nadia and me screaming “Bowie’s dead! Bowie’s dead! His eyes were up in his head too.” I told my sister to stay outside while I went in. I looked all over the apartment and nothing was out of place; the only strange thing I saw was a piece of chewed up sandwich lying in the wet bathtub. We sat and anxiously waited for family members to return. It was true, Bowie was dead. Dead. How could it be?

He died of internal hemorrhaging due to blunt force trauma. John said that Bowie had fallen down the steps, but I did not believe him. We had bounced down those padded, carpeted steps countless times; how could his kidneys and liver be lacerated from accidently falling down half-dozen carpeted steps? I knew that John had killed him.

The day of Bowie’s funeral came. I was standing by his coffin, looking at his flat appearance; his checks were sunk in, his lips dry and wrinkled. I could see the make-up they used to make him appear asleep, but the mask of death on a three-year-old can’t be enlivened. I felt compelled to kiss his forehead, and when I did, I received a message in my heart. A burning message. I had to tell someone about the bruises, the vomiting and the handprint I had found on Bowie’s abdomen or else Bowie’s death would be on my head. Other than being high on acid, this was my first spiritual experience. I didn’t perceive it as such at the time, but as I have tried to track the progress of my spirituality, I understand that this was indeed a milestone. At the time I gave no thought to religion, or God, but here was a moment in which something, someone spoke to me and I responded. Initially I was struck with fear. First, because I had received this message while kissing my deceased baby brother, and second, because I believed John was capable of killing me. However, the message was so clear and intense that I couldn’t deny it; it drove me. One day, after getting off the school bus, I went to the police department. After telling the police that I suspected John was responsible, I shared with Linda as well, and that was a mistake. One day, at Linda’s family home, I was standing at the top of the steps when John came in the front door and barreled up the steps toward me, all 225 lbs., screaming, “You think I killed him?! Huh? You think I killed him?!” I was terrified and unable to move. He continued to scream at me, his spit landing on my face. Linda came and led him away.

My sister and I were removed from John’s custody, and within a few months I found myself sitting in the courthouse. I was a witness against John for murder. I was an emotional wreck, and physically sick. I remember it was the day of the preliminary hearing, I was sitting in a small room, waiting to take the stand. The bailiffs bought John in and, when he saw me, he snatched his arms upward, out of their grasp, and began charging toward the room I was in. I turned my body and lifted my arms to cover my face. I was sad and afraid; I had loved John. It had been so good at the beginning, and I knew that at one time he had loved me too. I was alone, huddled up in a tiny room, in a situation beyond my years. My mom was already in prison. I had no family to cover me; I sat facing a courtroom of people I didn’t know, and the ones I did know sympathized with John, even Linda.

Sometime later, when the actual trial was set to begin, I was in the prosecutor’s office and I told him I couldn’t do it. Time had caused me to develop a sense of fear for my safety. As I sat there terrified, the prosecutor pulled out two life-size photos of Bowie, naked, lying on a metal gurney; in one photo he was face up and the other he was face down. It was surreal; here was this beautiful baby boy, lying there dead. Murdered 3 days before his fourth birthday.

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