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.
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Geralyn Graham gets 55 years in Rilya Wilson foster child abuse case

Visit Face Child Abuse

Courtesy of The Miami Herald

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By DAVID OVALLE

dovalle@MiamiHerald.com

            Even as she was about to face justice for kidnapping and child abuse, Geralyn Graham insisted she never harmed foster child Rilya Wilson.

“I love her too much to ever have done anything to her. Things have been greatly exaggerated,” Graham said. “I ask that those who believe I’ve done these things forgive me, and those who know in their hearts I would never do these things to keep praying for me. The truth will come out.”

Miami-Dade Circuit Judge Marisa Tinkler Mendez, however, was not swayed — sentencing Graham to 55 years in prison. That means the 67-year-old Graham will likely die behind bars.

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

 

I Died On Christmas Day

Image

This story was inspired by an article by Rebecca 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.

http://athens.patch.com/articles/innocence-and-danger

It was December 25, 1968. A god lived in our old house, a god who didn’t allow his subjects to come from their room until he emerged from his. Christmas day was no exception and 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 smoldered 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 god, it has 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 a broken nose exploded in my mind. 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 you have.

Now the time of our gods 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 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/horror 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