||May 10, 2010
A Powerful and Inspiring Story, It Will Make U Cry, Laugh and It Will Make U Spread The Word About This Amazing Story.
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My earliest memory is of pain. I remember lying across my mother’s lap on the living room sofa very early one Saturday morning. She was wasted from the night before. I could smell a creepy odor climbing out of her mouth. Years later, I learned it was the tart tinge of alcohol, forged with cigarette smoke camouflaged by Big Red chewing gum. Mother and her cheap wine had become one. The sultry lure of the liquid spirit had a bewitching way of overtaking her, causing her to believe she possessed incredible abilities. The prolific impulses came sharply; this time in the form of surgical powers.
Mother rummaged through the house searching for a sewing needle. She found the small piece of metal in one of the kitchen drawers, between a stack of folded grocery receipts and unopened junk mail. She burned the tip on the blue flame coming from our stove and then dipped it in rubbing alcohol. I can still remember the hissing noise that broke the uneasy silence as the hot steel collided with the cool liquid. She returned to her same position on the sofa and put my head back on her lap. She looked down at me and smiled, then pressed a small piece of ice against my earlobe to deaden my nerves, but it did not work. I cringed in blinding pain as my chilled skin cracked open under the sharp blow of that needle, then the slow sliding of it through my flesh. I screamed powerlessly at the top of my lungs and struggled pointlessly to free myself from the ‘giant hand’ possessing the ‘evil dagger.’
Mother, still high and obviously oblivious to my mangled emotions and mounting agony, coldly immobilized my whirling head, then stabbed me a second time, ramming the ‘dagger’ clean through my other ear lobe. The nurturer who caressed my head upon her lap just moments earlier had grown fangs. My struggle was futile against her greedy assault. She seemed amused, pleased even, at the escalating level of my terror. I looked up at her again, but this time in stark confusion; she was still smiling, and then she started laughing. Her wicked laughter taunted my dizzy head, which was still pinned to her hard, collaborating knee. I shivered in fear; my teeth chattered. A quiet stream of blood flowed from my nose but no tears would follow. Suddenly I was more afraid than I had ever been, especially of my mother’s hand. Her hand had frightened me many times before; it had always been harsh, but that day it was harsher, colder, than I had ever seen it. Her hand seemed hungry somehow; salivating as if it wanted to kill me and swallow me whole. I felt a need to keep my mother’s hand back, but her teeth were still showing and that frightened me. I shut my eyes tightly, took in a deep breath…and screamed some more. At three years old, that was all I could do.
I suppose that ear piercing was an omen of the pattern of my early life: hurt and abuse often inflicted by my mother, and me unable to do anything about it. I became an unread paperback in my mother’s hand: she was bending me backward as if she were interested in the pages of my life, but line after line went unread. My preface, my forward, my contents, each chapter were all but mere shadows in her hand; jumbled messages of oddly constructed paragraphs of meaninglessness. She could not decipher the words of the script. They were left dangling on the pages of chance. I didn’t understand why she did not respond to the many times I reached for her. My love that I offered unconditionally, the smile upon my face that lit whatever room she entered, the interest I took in her walk, her smell, the sound of her voice, even her slap and the pain that it caused on the side of my face. I was attentive to every line she wrote, but my life was not translated. The late nights I stayed awake listening for her keys to jingle in the door, or to hear her cowboy boots scrape across the floor; the noise I made, the tears I cried and the tears I carried in my heart; the trouble I started, the fights I had, the mistakes I made; nothing I did seemed to matter. My emotional state went undetected, like an unsolved mystery.
PRAYER CHANGES THINGS
It is something of a miracle that I was even born. Back when my mother, Annie Mae Jones, was only eight years old, she and a friend decided to go bike riding through the neighborhood. Suddenly the car struck forty-eight pound Annie Mae, she was thrown from the bike and flung haphazardly into the air. The driver of the car panicked and swerved all over the street. When Annie Mae smashed to the ground, the massive car made a remarkable finish as well. Its tremendous front wheel plopped down for the last time, and Annie Mae didn’t move; she didn’t do anything, not even blink. A growing pool of blood oozed from beneath the resting wheel. Everyone thought Annie Mae was dead. She was so small that the huge tire seemed to cover her entire body, though it rested only on her stomach. Neighbors from all around gathered, squinting at the alarming sight as they watched the firefighters pry poor Annie Mae from beneath that killer wheel.
Matted in clunks of blood and dirt, lifeless Annie Mae was rushed by ambulance to Mary Thompson Hospital,
Rhea A. Banks
If you want a raw, blatant, disturbing, inspiring story to read, "Who Said It Couldn't Be Done?" by Denise Jones is such a book. I have not read such an honest and thorough look at a side of life that I have seen but not lived and couldn't understand since I read Dopefiend by Donald Goines during August of 1975. Wow....I am afraid that I can't do this book justice but I will write this review of this hurtful, powerful novel and experiences of this woman as I feel it. Having witnessed first hand the actions of some dopefiends and results of others actions as I grew up near 47th Street in Chicago, I knew many of the truths when I read them.
Denise Jones has written a story the is filled with despair, fear, hopeless and pain as it goes on until she chooses another path for her life to take. This story spans the avenues of neglect, abuse, unfairness, unfair child labor, drugs, rape, chosen lesbianism, crimes, pimping, fear, near death....and I could go on and on. As she recounts her life, one sees these activities as they unfold and at many times with awe and shock. This story has answered or helped me learn of things that I have been curious about for nearly 36 years.
Ms. Jones did an exceptional job telling her story that literally keep you wondering "what else could possibly happen to her but death" and there was always something else. As this woman survived then learned to live after given up her street life for one of hope, faith, strength and fortitude I cheered her on and rooted for her successes. Denise Jones I convey to you that I appreciate you sharing your story, applaud your thoroughness and honesty as this story is destined to help someone.
It is very hard to rate this book as this is someone's life, whose to say what rating it should have as it just is. I give this novel a 5 stars for it's honesty and thoroughness. I give 5 stars to the gift of experiencing this raw, blatant, disturbing , inspiring story. I give this story a 5 stars because of the survival and triumph. I give this author 5 stars for sharing her story and living through it!!
f you haven't read this book, you must. It as an incredible story of one person's life as a child who truly grew up on the rough side of the tracks. Denise Jones, the author, outlines her life of crime, drugs, sex and a lesbian lifestyle to a life of absolute transformation. She explains her story in an ethical manner with amazing description and accuracy as she substantiates that she really was that bad! Just by the title, I wasn't sure what to expect, but from the reading it, it truly is a page turner. You must get this book and read it. I was inspired by her story. And she is a person with an amazing story about growing up in a terrible way to becoming a contributive member of society that achieves. An amazing story - I would recommend it to anyone to read. It is a very motivating book that anything can be accomplished if a person wants a change.
t is rare to find a book that provides readers exactly what its synopsis says it will be. In Who Said It Couldn't Be Done by Denise Jones, readers are introduced to the story of a woman who fights to transform her life. Denise was raised in Chicago to a mother who allowed her child to witness things no young child should ever know about.
Denise becomes a product of her environment by following the footsteps of her mother. She knows poverty, drugs, incarceration, and even lesbianism because she lived it. One day Denise encounters the Word of God and her life starts to change. Denise turns everything over to Him and realizes that through Him she can overcome anything. God becomes her strength.
Who Said It Couldn't Be Done is a remarkable story of a woman struggling with her identity, sexuality, and learning to overcome her strongholds. The author gives true account of her life with no holds barred. The story is powerful, heartbreaking, and educational. It will help readers understand that there is always someone else that has it harder than they do. Denise's story will teach others to not complain and to believe that a change is going to come. I recommend this story to those who are looking for a second chance at life.
This book was provided by the author for review purposes.
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