Charles Bukowski, Kennesaw And The Million March Against Child Abuse.

Visit Face Child Abuse

MACA Fort Lauderdale Flyer

Sometimes a writer feels as if he is an arrow being shot from such a remote dimension that no one can see where he is coming from. Like a sailor shouting warnings to his comrades against a gale that will not allow a single syllable to be understood amid the violence of the storm. Like a mountain climber after a trail collapse whose only option is to continue to climb toward insanity before being able to descend to safely.

On Monday, April 21, 2013 I will participate in the Million March Against Child Abuse with the Fort Lauderdale, Florida group. The hopes are that millions will participate, in different cities and towns from around the nation. I live in Miami and even though we have over 5.5 million residents I will need to drive an hour north to join the group in Fort Lauderdale. I have learned that one voice is a frail thing barely discernible above the calamities of life, but a group of voices has a fair chance of demanding attention.

I have learned that individuals can pull off atrocities, like bombing a marathon and become media darlings, but that the ten children beaten to death in America each day can never become anyone’s darlings. It has become common practice in America to give attention to the detractors and to ignore the heroes and in most cases the victims. Join us on Monday as we loose our arrows from a dark remote location into the light of a seemingly unconcerned world.

bukowski

Charles Bukowski

“They thought I had guts, they were wrong, I was only afraid of more important things.”

“Take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness which started him typing in the beginning.” Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski was an American writer/poet, born in Germany in 1920. He was a heavy drinking womanizer who has been called one of the most prolific and prophetic producer of prose of the last century. He has been described as a misogynist, a fatalist and his work is said to be saturated with defeatism. His work is infused with the literal and figurative profanity of our world. As with many of us who were abused he spent his entire life as an outsider trying desperately not to look or fit in. His work is unabridged unedited truth, truths which many will always refuse to believe.

He was severely physically abused by his father with a razor strop for most of his young life. He has been known to credit his father and that abuse for his becoming a writer, stating that his father taught him two valuable things about life, those two things, pain and truth and the ability to express and embrace both.

Ken profile pic.1

Kennesaw Taylor

I too must acknowledge my abusers role in my success as a writer, as a father and ultimately as a man. Jack Cooper was a monster, but his monstrous behavior molded me into the caring man I would eventually become. One can never truly embrace heaven if he has never experienced hell. One can never truly embrace life if he has never experienced death. One can never recognize the spark of love in an eye if he has never stared into the maddened eye of hatred.

So, as Charles, known as Hank, continued to sling his arrows into the darkened abyss from some dimension unknown to the average man, those of the Million March Against Child Abuse and I will also continue to sling unacceptable truths from our own little corner of reality. We will shout into the darkened world, our truth, our knowledge and the nightmares of ten children who will today slip away into hell, watching as a loving fist repeatedly descend to end their young innocent lives.

“The truth is not popular, and those who utter it are enemies of us all.”

Kennesaw Taylor

I suggest you turn away quickly you’re in danger of understanding something that shakes up your perfect little world. This story is rated DMT damned unpopular truth.

Can I count on you, can the kids count on you?

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MACA is a non-partisan, grass roots, nationwide effort, to UNITE ALL Child Advocates together in solidarity on April 22, 2013 for peaceful demonstrations against child abuse and crimes against children in the U.S.
Description
April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month.  We seek to raise awareness of and ask for tougher sentencing for violent crimes against children in the U.S.
Statistics on crimes against children each year in the U.S. are staggering, sobering and should compel EVERY adult, parent, father, uncle, son, grandfather and all mothers, aunts, daughters, grandmothers and women to be moved to do something… NOW.  At a recent Washington Congressional hearing in June, 2011, experts believe nearly 10 children die each day from abuse. NCANDS, the national database for crimes against children, didn’t receive data from 3 states in their latest report!  States are NOT mandated to report child fatalities as a result of CAN or any type of abuse whether fatal or not!  We are NOT seeking to create more bureaucracy, but rather, demanding our lawmakers begin to protect our children through stiffer sentencing for child abuse, including mandatory life without parole for violent crimes such as child rape and murder. Unlike many diseases, child abuse is a willful act and 100% preventable through TOUGHER law enforcement and education.  We MUST let our nation and lawmakers know that Americans will NO LONGER tolerate inadequate laws and light sentencing.  Now is the time and we need YOUR HELP on April 22, 2013.
Register to walk by CONTACTING YOUR CITY’S FB PAGE,  IF YOU WISH TO LEAD OR CO-LEAD A CITY,  send your PHONE#, COMPLETE NAME, EMAIL ADDRESS & CITY: MACACoordinator@gmail.com  all registrations MUST BE COMPLETE. MACAcoordinator@gmail.com
All Leads get full support and given step by step instructions and items you need.  You simply send emails with the press release and flyer for your city to the media and organizations in your city.  Co-leads assist with emails.
To be taken to a list of cities and Facebook page’s click here (Please remember that not all cities have a facebook page up yet.) : https://sites.google.com/site/mmacamarches/home
Your city/town is not on the list? You can be our lead for your town! please register with MacaCoordinator@gmail.com and we will get in touch with you and send you all the instructions on what to do.
There cannot be ANY kind of fundraising going on at ANY walk throughout the entire nation. NO MONEY EXCHANGES HANDS AT OUR WALKS. If anyone involved with the walk in your city is fundraising, asking for donations, having contests with money or asking for money for anything EXCEPT our MACA shirts (which are $20), DO NOT give it to them and promptly write us a message here. Businesses and organizations CAN donate goods/services, this is NOT considered fundraising. If you are unsure please ASK us!***   ALL of our walks across the nation need to be unified and stay on track. These walks are the most important thing! Our children need our voice!
If you would like more information about MACA please see our notes section.

Child Abuse, Past, Present and Future

By Kennesaw Taylor

In 1873, Etta Wheeler, a nurse was making rounds in a tenement, in New York City. She had heard stories about a girl who was being held hostage and abused by her foster family. After talking her way into the apartment, she caught her first glimpse of nine year old Mary Ellen.

The child was barefoot, half clothed and half starved. A cat of nine tails lay nearby, and her arms and legs showed the effects of its use. Her face bore the look of suppression and misery. Over the next two months, Mrs. Wheeler reported the child’s plight to police and charities trying to save her, nothing was done. As there were no laws to protect children, no laws were being broken.

She contacted Henry Bergh, the president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which had been started nine years earlier. Bergh convinced a judge to allow the society to intervene.

“I saw the child brought in wrapped in a horse blanket, at the sight of which men wept aloud.” Jacob Riis.

Mary Ellen’s body was one large bruise, and her face wore scares and slashes caused by her foster mother’s scissors. Using the only tools available, which were laws placed on the books, to protect animals, they saved Mary Ellen. This was the first case of removal, and New York City was the first to establish a child protective agency.

Mrs. Wheeler and the suffragettes then went on a campaign against child abuse. Their programs were rooted in prejudice as most were women of wealth and privilege. However misguided their efforts, something was being done.

Throughout history, children have been viewed as property or as possessions. In many cases, people had as many children as possible, to provide the free labor needed to run the farm or business. Up until the Civil War children were being used as slave labor throughout the world. While slaves had some rights and were considered valuable for their monetary worth, children held no such value. A war was fought in this country, to end slavery, as children worked in factories and died every day from starvation and worse.

If you became an orphan before the Civil War and for some time after, your chances of living to be old enough to escape the orphanage were slim. After the Civil War children were taken from families at an alarming rate. To be placed in foster care or an orphanage, at that time, was akin to being placed in prison. The entire affair was a good old boy system which further victimized those placed into it. Since most of those being taken were children from the poor, immigrant neighborhoods, no one cared.

Then child abuse advocacy faded again. Throughout World War I, the depression and World War II, it was ignored. The family needed to be a strong, sacred institution so children took one for the country.

Child abuse advocacy mirrors, social revolution, and as it had begun during the years following the abolishment of slavery, it resurfaced during the Civil Rights movement. In the early sixties, laws were passed requiring doctors and teachers to report suspected child abuse. It was during this time it was discovered X-rays could clearly distinguish between normal broken bones and those broken during abuse. For the first time, child abuse could be proven.

With the freedom of the Cultural Revolution, sexual abuse was discussed for the first time. Studies determined that all forms of abuse ran across our entire society, crossing all cultural, economic and sociological boundaries. Abuse was no longer believed to afflict only the poor, which was never true.

What followed was a veritable witch hunt. For years, allegations of abuse destroyed children and parents alike. While much was accomplished, many innocents were persecuted. Many lived in fear of a system, still rife with better than thou people. Children and adults, mostly from the lower classes feared and loathed it. We are still dealing with the backlash of that witch hunt today.

 

Last year there were three million reported cases of abuse in our country. Admittedly the studies, which produce these statistics, indicate there are two unreported to each reported case. That means nine million cases in America last year. Of those, only nine percent resulted in charges. Out of that nine percent, only nine percent resulted in a conviction. There are five children beaten to death in our country, each day at the hands of those they know, love and trust. Their average age is three years old. This number has recently been raised to ten per day.

The child protection service agencies have now become reactionary entities. So many laws were placed into effect, after the witch hunts, that in many cases, their hands are now tangled in red tape. By the time a child can be removed, many times that child is damaged beyond repair. They will go on to visit the horrors they endured upon another generation of innocent children.

The thousands of Social Workers and Foster Parents are not at fault. They are far outnumbered and poorly supported. These jobs are the hardest on the earth and those who do them are unsung heroes.

Foster Parents must give of their hearts freely, to children who have no idea what a heart is and place no value on the gift. The Foster Parents I’ve talked to, assure me one child who becomes a productive, loving person, is worth the hundreds of broken hearts and spent tears they endure.

Now for the question I am asked repeatedly. What can be done about child abuse?  Clearly our current system does not work. Greater minds than mine have worked on this problem for the last century. Yet the statistics grow. Frustrated, the majority of our population continues to turn a blind eye. They ignore the numbers which continue to grow despite the educated, enlightened nature of our country and the world.

When a thing hurts too much, it’s easy to look away.  I deal with this daily; advocates against child abuse are not popular and spend much of their time speaking to smiling, agreeing people who will never speak to them again. Many of us who were abused have inherent flaws, which prevent us from being Foster Parents or adopting. In many cases, the educated, have no experience and look down on those who do. They forsake the help of those who have a better understanding and a vested interest in stopping this epidemic. I say again, beware the self righteousness of the right. It’s easy to pass judgment on children when you have no clue what they are going through.

Now for the answer, if there is one. In some societies, children are trained to hate beginning at their earliest moments. I am in no way suggesting such a course of action. However, to put an end to such hate requires wiping the slate clean.

What I mean to say is, in order to decrease the massive amounts of abuse; the change needs to start with the young. First a few words of caution. Already the country believes that a child must simply cry wolf to condemn their parents. I am told often that we have lost control of our children, because we can no longer punish them. Furthermore, they are disrespectful and lazy. Again, excuses to stand by and allow what is happening, to continue. However, to some extent this is true and another indicator that our system is failing. If you don’t know the difference between discipline and beating a three year old to death, write me, I’ll explain it.

We cannot legislate this out of our society. We may jail as many as we like, but until all Americans understand, to our core, that children are not possessions or property there will be no change. Parenting classes given to adults will not make this go away. This change must start with our children. We need to develop a curriculum that can be taught, beginning in the first grade and continued throughout their education. One which makes it totally unacceptable to hurt a child under any circumstances.

The program D.A.R.E works on this principle, and it has made a difference. Now even smoking cigarettes has become deplorable in the eyes of many children. We need child abuse to become repulsive to all people, before they reach adulthood. Even if we take such measures, it may take up to three generations for this program, to make a difference. The monetary cost might be great, but our jails are full of the abused and our homes are full of the unhappy. Make no mistake we are paying heavily for what we do to our children. We must break the cycle, and it will require all of us to do it. Just because, abuse did not touch your household, does not mean that someone you love will not be abused, assaulted or otherwise victimized by someone who was abused. Now, for my question to you. Why does our society continue to become more violent? Nine million cases of abuse each year, HELLO.

We need to gather together people with the education and determination to make those in our government, who can make a difference, make one. Please feel free to contact me and point out how wrong I am, or to put petty differences aside and change the world for our children. kennesaw@kennesawtaylor.com

National Domestic Violence Registry

Visit  Face Child Abuse

ndvr

 

The National Domestic Violence Registry (NDVR) , http://www.domesticviolencedatabase.org, is a non-profit and the first national database model for domestic violence convictions available to the public. We have the opportunity to provide a major program that will vastly help in the prevention of domestic violence, guide citizens to making more informed decisions about those they date, exponentially raise awareness nationally for domestic violence incidences, and provide the opportunity to influence the history of crime prevention throughout the United States.

The National Domestic Violence Registry provides the conviction records of offenders, both men and women, who have been found guilty of domestic violence and domestic violence related offenses such as physical battering, stalking, criminal confinement, intimidation, strangulation, and domestic violence based sex offenses, etc. We provide this data free of charge and to the general public with records continuously being added daily.

With a motto of “Our Knowledge Helps Save Lives”, NDVR is another tool that informs and empowers the public while acting as an aid in deterring domestic violence related assaults and crimes.

Review Of They Cage The Animals At Night

they cage
Buy The Book
About Jennings Michael Burch

 

By Sandra D. Peters “Seagull Books” (Prince Edward Island, Canada)

This is the story of Jennings Michael Burch and it is not an easy book to read. It tells of a young boy’s determination to survive despite abandonment, physical abuse and humiliation after being left by his ailing mother at an orphanage. He then experiences a variety of foster homes and some of these accounts will bring more than a single tear to your eye.

During his stay at an orphanage, the Sisters would allow the children to choose a stuffed animal to take to bed with them at night as a source of comfort. Goodness only knows, it was their only small comfort – every other aspect was a child’s worst nightmare! However, in the wee hours of the morning before the children awoke, the animals would quickly be gathered up and locked away (caged) and this is the source of the book’s title. David’s only source of acceptance, love and understanding comes from “Doggie”, a tattered stuffed dog. Your heart will cry for this little boy whose only desire is to please, be loved and be wanted. The story does have a happy ending, if such stories ever really do. Despite all odds, Michael does survive, along with “Doggie”. The hurt, rejection and loneliness felt as an abused child never disappear. The wounds heal, the heart forgives, but the mind never forgets. Anyone who has experienced abuse as a child, whether it be physical, sexual, emotional or verbal, will be able to relate only too well to the story of little Jennings Michael Burch. Often, reading the stories of other victims of abuse, help the adult survivor to realize they are not alone. If you have never experienced abuse, you will count your blessings that you have never had to live each and every day in a world of constant fear and rejection. …

I Died On Christmas Day

Audio cover Informally

 

Buy The Audio Book

 

informally

 

Buy The Book

 

This story was inspired by an opinion piece about Jorelys Rivera, a seven-year-old girl who will not open gifts this Christmas. If you cannot stomach graphic truth, do not read it, you have been warned.

It was December 25, 1968. A god lived in our old house, a god who didn’t allow his subjects to come from their rooms until he emerged from his. Christmas Day was no exception. He didn’t emerge until after lunch. Four innocent souls stood in doorways trying to get a peek at the tree or the little bundles of heaven wrapped in colored paper and bows.

The day moved on, the egg shells placed carefully to catch unsuspecting little feet were scattered with loving care. Their crunching sounds were barely audible, but screamed in our universe. Step on a crack, break your mothers back, step on a shell go directly to $%^&.

A mistake was made, by whom, unimportant. The face of our god flushed red, gone was the Christmas god. The remnant of presents were scattered throughout the room, the remnants of breakfast was still on the table, the remnants of a fire smoldering in its place and the remnants of sanity swirled, rose and vanished into the air.

It happened quickly, it always did. I turned to see the fist of our god, it had risen and was destined to fall. The first punch took my breath even as I tried to avoid it, a sin in itself. The second busted my lip, the taste of blood its little gift. I knew the taste of blood well. The third to the stomach bent me forward allowing the tooth, already roaming around loose in my mouth to be projected onto the floor at my feet. I concentrated on that unruly tooth as a series of punches came too quick to comprehend and seemingly from all directions at once. The tooth held some importance I could not discern.

My mind raced and screamed into the universe, why, what did I do?

My next gift a broken rib and the sound of my nose exploding. My heart and lungs fought for every moment, but my legs gave up early and I spread across the floor like snow melting in a cozy room. I grasped at consciousness, it being all I had.

Now the time of our god’s foot had arrived: it kicked, something broke, it kicked, something tore, it kicked and reality shattered then scattered across the floor before my eyes. I could feel death breathing on me as my hair was grasped firmly. My heart pounded in my head or maybe it was my head being pounded on the brick hearth in front of the fireplace.

Sickeningly, my mind counted the times it rose and fell on the bricks, one, two, ten and twelve, it counted down the seconds of my life. I saw the fire with such clarity, a message from the real God I couldn’t comprehend, perhaps? Somewhere in it all this, the words, I’ll you kill you little son of a so and so, the last words I’d ever hear, wormed their way in. The fear, the pain and the sick, slimy, sticky, warm taste of blood were the memories that came with them. In the end death has a warm, welcoming embrace.

I awakened to find I was mistaken. What do you do the day after you die? What do you do the rest of your life? No police were called, no hospital was visited and no one explained how a dead child is supposed to act. Some things must be figured out by an eight-year-old, by himself. It only took a couple week of being buried in my room, out of sight of the world, for me to walk this earth again.

Sometimes I am told before, during and after I speak, to GET OVER IT. I have.

I speak because dead children cannot. I speak for children like Jorelys who die at the hands of a monster in a nightmare reality. I speak for the five children in America, each day, average age three, who are cowering in corners as someone they know love and trust beats them into the silence of death.

I speak because I died several times and God allowed me to come back. He DEMANDS  I speak. I speak for the five children who will die each of the twelve days of Christmas.

We will always know who Jorelys was, but everyday five who live will slip into their own Silent Night and no one will know their names.

Kennesaw Taylor

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE1ttQJq80o

ATHENS PATCH I DIED ON CHRISTMAS DAY

I Died On Christmas Day

Audio cover Informally

Buy The Audio Book

informally

Buy The Book

 

This story was inspired by an opinion piece about Jorelys Rivera, a seven-year-old girl who will not open gifts this Christmas. If you cannot stomach graphic truth, do not read it, you have been warned.

It was December 25, 1968. A god lived in our old house, a god who didn’t allow his subjects to come from their rooms until he emerged from his. Christmas Day was no exception. He didn’t emerge until after lunch. Four innocent souls stood in doorways trying to get a peek at the tree or the little bundles of heaven wrapped in colored paper and bows.

The day moved on, the egg shells placed carefully to catch unsuspecting little feet were scattered with loving care. Their crunching sounds were barely audible, but screamed in our universe. Step on a crack, break your mothers back, step on a shell go directly to $%^&.

A mistake was made, by whom, unimportant. The face of our god flushed red, gone was the Christmas god. The remnant of presents were scattered throughout the room, the remnants of breakfast was still on the table, the remnants of a fire smoldering in its place and the remnants of sanity swirled, rose and vanished into the air.

It happened quickly, it always did. I turned to see the fist of our god, it had risen and was destined to fall. The first punch took my breath even as I tried to avoid it, a sin in itself. The second busted my lip, the taste of blood its little gift. I knew the taste of blood well. The third to the stomach bent me forward allowing the tooth, already roaming around loose in my mouth to be projected onto the floor at my feet. I concentrated on that unruly tooth as a series of punches came too quick to comprehend and seemingly from all directions at once. The tooth held some importance I could not discern.

My mind raced and screamed into the universe, why, what did I do?

My next gift a broken rib and the sound of my nose exploding. My heart and lungs fought for every moment, but my legs gave up early and I spread across the floor like snow melting in a cozy room. I grasped at consciousness, it being all I had.

Now the time of our god’s foot had arrived: it kicked, something broke, it kicked, something tore, it kicked and reality shattered then scattered across the floor before my eyes. I could feel death breathing on me as my hair was grasped firmly. My heart pounded in my head or maybe it was my head being pounded on the brick hearth in front of the fireplace.

Sickeningly, my mind counted the times it rose and fell on the bricks, one, two, ten and twelve, it counted down the seconds of my life. I saw the fire with such clarity, a message from the real God I couldn’t comprehend, perhaps? Somewhere in it all this, the words, I’ll you kill you little son of a so and so, the last words I’d ever hear, wormed their way in. The fear, the pain and the sick, slimy, sticky, warm taste of blood were the memories that came with them. In the end death has a warm, welcoming embrace.

I awakened to find I was mistaken. What do you do the day after you die? What do you do the rest of your life? No police were called, no hospital was visited and no one explained how a dead child is supposed to act. Some things must be figured out by an eight-year-old, by himself. It only took a couple week of being buried in my room, out of sight of the world, for me to walk this earth again.

Sometimes I am told before, during and after I speak, to GET OVER IT. I have.

I speak because dead children cannot. I speak for children like Jorelys who die at the hands of a monster in a nightmare reality. I speak for the five children in America, each day, average age three, who are cowering in corners as someone they know love and trust beats them into the silence of death.

I speak because I died several times and God allowed me to come back. He DEMANDS  I speak. I speak for the five children who will die each of the twelve days of Christmas.

We will always know who Jorelys was, but everyday five who live will slip into their own Silent Night and no one will know their names.

Kennesaw Taylor

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE1ttQJq80o

ATHENS PATCH I DIED ON CHRISTMAS DAY