Casey’s Ridge in New Caney, Texas didn’t offer much in the
way of success and progress, especially in education, recreation, and culture. It
was a river town filled with bikers, junkies, squatters, and drug dealers. There
were a few old people left from a time when the community was a thriving hub of
trade along the San Jacinto River, but that had long since dried up from the
Houston suburban sprawl knocking at its back doors with its golfing communities
and state-of-the-art shopping malls. There were no local gymnastics classes,
public pools, greenbelt trails, recreation fields for football or baseball, no
track, no tennis courts, and no gyms for basket or volleyball like its neighbors
in Kingwood. No, Casey’s Ridge had none of that on the north side of the river,
lingering on the edge of the county line. The only recreation found was a civic
center where the old people would play a mean game of Bingo on Friday nights and
a little biker bar right off Hwy 1485.
I was no fool. At the age of ten, I was old enough that the
golden sunny haze of imagination and fantasy began to give way to the dull, dark
gray skies of truth. I hated what I witnessed. This was about the time I began
to hate and mistrust men, well humanity in general. When I was eight, my third-grade
teacher Mrs. Akers told me that I could be anything I wanted; I just had to
first see the truth of things and then make a plan of escape. Those words still
stick with me today. I made to vow to myself, and the invisible god that damned
everything that I wasn’t going to become like my surroundings. I wasn’t going to
be hooker, a drug addict, or dealer, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to abuse
and neglect my children. No, I was going to get out of that life and fly away
from the nightmare. I fell in love for the first time, with a man in a red
cape. I wanted him to swoop down out of the sky and save me from the beatings,
the gun violence, the drugs, and the late night visits. Superman was my best hope at this time, but
since he wasn’t a real character, I focused instead on school, martial arts,
and cheerleading.
It’s not to say that I didn’t give God a chance during this
time in my life. The Christians at school always seemed to be happy, have good,
loving parents, got to dress up in pretty dresses and go to church on Sundays. There
was a little blue school bus that drove through our neighborhood every Sunday
picking up the Ridge Rabble, as we were called. So, I decided that maybe if I
caught that little blue bus to the Porter Baptist Church, things would change,
because then God would see what was happening and save me, like I kept hearing.
So, I studied the times and routes of the blue bus for a couple of weeks before
I finally dared to make my bold move for salvation. I got myself, and my four
brothers, dressed in the best clothes we had. I was a tomboy and didn’t wear
dresses, but I borrowed a sundress from my neighbor across the street, Stacy
Stowe. She was a tomboy too, but her grandma made her wear a sundress on
Sundays. Dressed in my Sunday best, I stood outside on the street, holding
tightly to my brother’s hands and we caught the little blue church bus that
morning.
Now, I had no idea where that bus was going to take me, or
when or if it was ever going to bring me back. From my reconnaissance mission
the weeks before, it always seemed to bring back the kids it picked up earlier,
so I was confident we’d at least make it back home. We traveled a good distance to the nearby
town of Porter to a little Baptist church. It had a main building for the
sanctuary and then a gym for the Sunday School. After listening to some loud
gospel music where people often clapped and shouted, we were then separated
from the adults and led out to the gym. At first I was really worried because
they wanted to separate me from my brothers and put us in different classes by
our ages. I didn’t like not being able to see them or keep an eye on them. They
were often a rowdy bunch, and needed someone there to keep them in line. I
couldn’t image the damage they’d do to that fine church out of sight, but I
relented and went into my own classroom.
So far, I liked this church. They gave me a brand new bible
and a paper bag full of goodies, such as candy, pencils, and a little hand held
toy game. All I had to do was memorize a Bible passage and it was mine. John
3:16 – “For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten son, that
whosoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.” In no
time at all I was holding my brand new King James Bible and a brown sack of
goodies. But, things didn’t stay fun for too long. Because then the weird psycho
stories started. I remember shutting down and putting my psychological walls up
when the teacher started talking about how we ‘owed’ Jesus our love and trust
because he was beat and died for us. I remember my thoughts looking at that
teacher and wondering if she’d ever been beat in her life, and how silly it was
that she thought I was going to simply love and trust someone I never met who
didn’t do any more for me than I did for my brothers on a regular basis. To
protect them, I remember getting beat so bad by my dad one time with a hickory
stick, ‘til it broke and he started using his fist, that I was out for almost
four days. Hell, Jesus was only dead for three before he came back. But, I did
appreciate the idea of him placing himself in danger for someone he was
supposed to protect. I got that. I related to that. That is where the teacher
should have stopped because she completely lost me when she started talking
about having to be washed in the blood to be cleansed of my sin. I was ready to
find my brothers and get the hell out of there, ‘cause nobody was going to be
putting their blood anywhere on me or my brothers, no matter if we were dirty
or not.
Of course, later in life I now understand what this teacher
had been referring, but to a ten-year old abused waif of a child, I thought
Christians were a secret alien race, much like the t.v. show “V”, where they
had human faces, but were reptiles beneath, with all their talk of washing with
and drinking blood, and eating flesh. I didn’t care too much for religion in my
life. On one hand there were ignorant people who called me names, a thief, and
a crook for one faith, while another one wanted to save, but not really save
because I still had to live and go through all the shit I was going through,
and then do some bathing in blood. Nope, I didn’t want anything to do with gods
or religion. I just wanted to get out of Casey’s Ridge and get away from my
family and become everything they were not. So, I turned to martial arts,
gymnastics and cheerleading.
Texas football is serious business, and so is their competition
cheerleading. There were trophies to win and scholarships to earn, and a social
status to maintain with it. So, for the next few years while I survived
hurricanes, tornadoes, gun fights, dog fights, and being an Anderson, the
daughter of a drug dealer, I focused on cheerleading. I learned so much for
being a part of a team, having pride in something, being good at something. All
those things cheerleading taught me were never a part of what home taught me. To
some it was simply a social status. For me, it was my salvation. It gave me the
tools and courage I needed to rise above, the fight for something, to set and
achieve goals. I will always cherish the little time I got to train in martial
arts and gymnastics, and I will always treasure the time I spent as a
cheerleader. It’s who I was, inside and out, and who I still am. I am still a
cheerleader to myself and to those in my life. Casey’s Ridge is still in the
same place, filled with a lot of the same people, but I’m not there anymore. I
cheered myself out of that place, and developed a strength inside that gives me
the power to cheer myself out of any situation. I may not currently live in Casey’s Ridge, but
still often face different forms of chaos. It’s fine. “Ready, Set, Okay!” is
strong within me.
This is the story. This is my story. This is my life.
Till next time,
~T.L. Gray ©2017
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