Yesterday, as my feet sunk in marshy mud and found myself tramping through briar brambles taller than I am, looking for Aliayah Lunsford, I realized it was only the third time I've searched for a person who was truly missing.

The first time was in 1986 or 87, when my son was still in diapers and not quite two-years-old. As a mother, I know exactly how it feels to discover a child--and not just any child, but YOUR child--is missing. That's because I am the person who made that discovery.

We were living in my childhood home at the time, which sat about three feet from a creek that rose and ran fast and swift in places during the springtime. Just on the other side of the creek were three sets of railroad tracks, which then carried several trains by each day, rumbling the windows in our house as they did so.

As a mother, I cannot think of anything that terrified me more than the thought that my child would turn up missing. My first experience, a few years earlier, came inside a J.C. Penny's store, where I spent about 10 frantic minutes searching for my second daughter--who turned up holding the hand of a neighbor girl who had gone along with us that evening. That daughter was not, however, truly missing.

Aliayah is, and she is just three-years-old. My son was younger than that, and as soon as I realized he had disappeared, I ran throughout our large brick home, yelling and looking and searching frantically. Hoping and praying he was just being an ornery child, hiding under the bed, or behind a door. By the time I realized he wasn't, I found myself at the creek, screaming--by then--at the top of my lungs.

My screams brought the neighbors running, and they immediately joined my search. Not seeing him anywhere in the neighbors' yards, or at the water's edge, I ran toward the bridge over the creek, and couldn't help but envision him being swept away in the water below. But he was nowhere to be seen. Thank God. It was probably mere seconds, but it seemed like many minutes, that it took my feet to cross the three sets of railroad tracks, and run the length that would allow me to see up and down the tracks, in both directions. No diaper-clad baby boy could be seen.

From there, I broke into a run: up a narrow road to a wider intersection that, while not busy, did carry speeding vehicles past the only official building--the post office--and through our tiny town. I continued praying, and screaming. I can't remember if Jim Engle, the postmaster, heard my screams, or if I ran inside asking if he had seen my child. All I do remember is the two of us half-walking, half-running, down the road and back toward the tracks, the creek, and the neighbors.

"We should call the police," he urged.

"I don't want to bother them just yet. What if he's not really gone, but is just hiding?" I asked, the fear and my rapid movements simultaneously stealing the breath from my chest.

We had all converged in the backyard seconds later, trying to come up with a plan of attack, and leaning more toward calling the police, when we heard a sound.

A dog's bark. Coming from the creek. We all ran toward the direction of the barking, which was increasing in intensity. I led the way, running as fast as my legs would carry me. By the time I had stepped into the cold liquid, balancing carefully so as to not fall on the slippery rocks turned tangerine from the coal mines, I could see our family pet.

Then I saw him: a small, nearly nude figure. It was a tow-headed, blue-eyed toddler, slowly moving just as gingerly among the rocks as his mother. Unlike me, he was smiling. Unlike the woman who now had, not tears of terror threatening to fall from her eyes, but a trail of teardrops running down both cheeks. Tears of gratitude and happiness that my child was safe and sound, being led back to us by--of all things--a dog.

The last time I joined a search crew was more than 20 years ago, and we were on rubber rafts at Bull's Run, searching for three missing Preston County men. I was working that day, covering the ongoing story of those local adults who had, one at a time, gone missing.

Yesterday was the first time I joined a search as a volunteer. It's different when you do it as a parent, as a mother, and the missing child is yours. It's also quite different when you do it as part of your profession. I'd always suspected this--ever since May 1, 1994, when I lived not too far from the mountains where Victor Dwight Shoemaker Jr., another little boy disappeared. It seems like the mountains swallowed up "JR," for--like those three missing men--he was never found, either.

Unlike my son. Thank God!

But unlike Aliayah? That was our prayer, yesterday, that we would find her--our little group of a dozen volunteers that was, not unexpectedly, composed of many mothers. I am sure it remains the prayer of all the volunteers who continue their search for Aliayah today.

Editor's note: If you are a parent or an educator, or just want to know what all the fuss is about, you can read a few pages of my memoir, which was banned last week at a California high school, online at Amazon. Sister of Silence, which is being used by at least one Bay Area therapist, to help her patients work on healing from abuse, is available in paperback or as an e-book. You can buy it here: Nellie Bly Books

Posted by Daleen at 07:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Let's really kick off "Banned Books Week"

Three days ago when Livermore High School librarian Stephanie Bogetti learned that I had spoken to students at Granada High School earlier this week, and my book, Sister of Silence, was shelved there, she immediately asked me to come speak at LHS before I flew home to West Virginia.

Problem was, I was booked on an early morning flight today, headed home. So I offered to change my flight if she found enough interest from teachers and students to make it worthwhile. ("Enough" meaning more than a handful of people, since changing my travel plans would mean money out of my pocket.)

She said she would be able to fill the library, which has about 75 seats. I changed my flight to tomorrow, eager to speak to more students. (Especially since two of my children once attended that very same school.)

However, the hastily-prepared email that went out to administrators and teachers alike, came back with such an overwhelming response from teachers throughout the school that she soon realized the LHS library would not hold nearly enough people. So she moved it to the school theater. Then it became clear that the single event, slated for 8 a.m. today, would not allow as many students to attend as teachers planned to bring.

Before 9 a.m. yesterday, I received word from the librarian that—if I didn't mind—she needed me there all day, so I could speak several times throughout the day. Teachers would bring their classes in, and the total audience, or so I thought, would come to about 500 people. This morning, I learned the actual number was closer to 1,500!

Did I mind? Not at all. The more youth who hear this message of hope, the better. So many of them are faced with serious problems, and feel isolated in a world that sometimes causes them to look for a way out. I used to feel like that, and I didn't know the way out. But I found it—and I want to share what I learned and how I did it, with other teens who may be as confused as I once was.

The only problem was that by the time I arrived at LHS at 7:30 a.m., wheels were moving backwards. Teachers who had lesson plans that included my speech were told to make alternate plans, and students were left wondering what had happened, when they lined up for the first speech. I'm pretty sure they thought I canceled, leaving them hanging, when no such thing occurred. Quite the opposite!

Discussion quickly became focused on the school board, the school district, and the powers-that-be who make such decisions. I was told adequate prior approval was the reason the entire event was cancelled, leaving students and teachers alike extremely upset and disappointed, and reducing a librarian to tears. That's because Bogetti is now afraid that every single book will have to undergo prior review and approval, before it comes on school property.

Livermore's principal, Darrel Avilla, told me he hopes to bring me back in November—after he AND the school board read my book. In the meantime, the only remaining copy of Sister of Silence was removed from the shelf at LHS, while all copies in Granada's library remain in circulation. (Students had already checked out the other three copies at LHS, which had only been there for as many days.) In one hour this morning, six other students were turned away when they requested Sister of Silence, as the librarian told them they weren't allowed to read it.

Which is when it began to feel more like censorship and less like poor planning. I began wondering what the process is for other books that go into the library, and asked Bogetti how that worked. She said she reads reviews for the books she purchases, among other things, and looks at teacher and student recommendations. Then she told me something I didn't know:

"I haven't tried to have an author come and speak for several years because the last time I did—and it was an author who was already here in the area, for another event—the author's publicist told me the hourly rate was $200. You can't get authors to come speak at schools for free," Bogetti said.

That's right: most authors charge schools a fee for their time. Imagine that. Yet this author not only was not charging the school a dime, but I was giving away books for free to teachers. And, I incurred more expenses when I changed my flight and had to keep my rental car for an extra day so I could accommodate the request to come speak at LHS.

Don't get me wrong; I don't mind a bit spending my own money to help educate students. What I do mind is unequal treatment for students. If Granada students could hear me speak, why couldn't LHS students? If my book is allowed to be read by Granada students, then why not LHS students? Something doesn't feel right here, and I'm really not sure what it is. But a few things about today make the journalist within me a little, well, concerned.

For instance, I know Precious, by Sapphire, is shelved there, as are far more graphic books with far more disturbing topics—and Sister of Silence isn't even graphic.

In addition, I overheard a discussion about one teacher's email reply, when she learned the event was cancelled. She expressed frustration that Bogetti's planning, the teachers' response to it, and my own efforts—all of which were going smoothly and which had caused great excitement in the student body—would not result in school officials trying to find some way to give it the green light, anyway. In other words, if the proper channels weren't given a chance to give their blessing, then get them on the phone and get that blessing posthaste, so the show could go on.

Especially when, after pitching the speech—almost verbatim—to Avilla, he told me it was a great message and certainly nothing in it would be dangerous for students to hear. In fact, he said he was responsible for bringing the Laramie Project to students here—and that's a program that deals with sensitive topics that teens need to know about.

My book does not discuss anything as controversial as homosexuality; instead it discusses how teens can prevent themselves from becoming victims of sexual abuse, violent relationships, or teen moms. And in today's world, when two of the most popular shows are about teen pregnancy, isn't a discussion and a book that explores how difficult it is to be one, almost a necessity in a high school library? Don't students need to hear from a teen mom who had four children by the time she was 21, and who was so overwhelmed by both that and the violence in her home, that she reached a point where, one day, she decided the only way out was to kill herself and those children?

More important, do we want to leave teens defenseless against such suicidal feelings (regardless of why these thoughts occur) or do we want to equip them with the skills to know how to save themselves from such a plight to begin with? Do we want to help them to see that, even in the darkest circumstances, life offers hope and each of us has a well of resilience within us that can carry us through the dark times?

Of everything I say during my 45-minute speech, I like to think the three things I tell students that are most important are as follows:

1) Each of us is good at something, no matter what it is. Find that one thing and hold onto it, for, like writing did for me, it can take us far beyond any relationship with another person.

2) If you need help, no matter what kind of help, all you have to do is ask for it. People will bend over backwards just to help you, and many of these people are teachers. All you have to do it speak up and ask.

3) Keeping secrets is dangerous and can be deadly. The more you break your own silence and speak up—maybe beginning with just one person at a time—the more you learn that shame or guilt has no hold on you. Speaking up frees you in a way that keeping secrets cannot, and empowers you to the point where you become a new person. A stronger person.

I've been told mine is a powerful message, but I deliberately package it in a discreet way. I believe, and so do the people who have heard it, that it's a message filled with hope, faith, and the ability to thrive. I just hope students at LHS understand I had nothing to do with today's decision. I also hope some day very soon I can come back and share my message in person with each and every one of you!

Editor's note: If you are a teen, have a teen or just want to know what all the fuss is about, you can read a few pages of SOS online at Amazon. Sister of Silence, which is being used by at least one Bay Area therapist, to help her patients work on healing from abuse, is available in paperback or as an e-book. You can buy it here: Nellie Bly Books

Posted by Daleen at 02:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Saturday:
I missed my flight after throwing everything into a suitcase at the last minute, running out the door and finding I-79 traffic at a standstill for a 20-mile stretch. I tried to detour around said snarl, only to meet the gods of roadway havoc. Thank you, pizza delivery driver who smacked the back end of another vehicle, causing an equally bad snarl on that two-lane, curvy road.

Met a really nice Southwest ticket agent, who spent about 30 minutes trying to find another flight for me, to no avail. So instead, she booked me for the first Sunday morning flight and gave me a voucher for a discounted hotel stay. By then I was so tired and unwilling to take I-79 anywhere, that I got a room and looked forward to an evening of relaxation and a good night's sleep.

However, the gods of restlessness interfered, and after 2.5 hours of sleep, the perfumed sheets woke me up with a burning sensation in my nose and throat. Thank you, gods of allergies. (And hotel chains that didn't get the memo about the allergic reactions such "luxuries" lead to.) As if I needed to be awake at 2:30 a.m., when I had hoped to catch up on missed sleep, intent upon waking only when the alarm went off at three hours later.

Sunday:
Arrived at PIT more than two hours early, had a leisurely stroll through the terminal and security lines, took a few pictures showing airport history, and even had time to sit down and eat breakfast—a burnt English muffin and oatmeal so thick it caused the plastic spoon to bend in half. At the gate, I was the passenger everyone else had to wait on, when the buzzer went off and declared I shouldn't, after all, be on that particular flight. The gods of chaos were obviously awake, too, fast at work again.

The PIT-DEN leg was three hours. I took one of the few remaining window seats in the rear of the plane, and felt sorry for the poor man who was stuck in the middle beside me. Husky and tall, he was built for a bigger seat than comes standard on today's planes, and he looked like a tuna crammed into a can. But he was very nice, said he was going to Denver for federal training and, as it turns out, he lives in Morgantown. I invited him to my Oct. 29 book signing at Barnes and Noble.

Once we landed at DEN, I had another nice leisurely stroll and ate a much better lunch than I did breakfast, then lined up for the next flight. Was buzzed again at the gate, but that was quickly sorted out, and I found myself in another window seat, next to a UCSF nursing student. She did bring a book, she told me—her college textbooks, to study—when I asked. She seemed very nice, and since I was carrying extra copies of Sister of Silence, I gave her one. Then promptly fell asleep for an hour-long nap. Until the toddler behind me kicked me once too many times, waking me up.

The nursing student was still reading SOS. "I'm so engrossed in your book!" she said. "I'll feel bad if you don't get your homework done," I replied. (She was such a sweet girl, and intent upon her profession so she can help people, and I hate to admit I've forgotten her name. Maybe my poor brain will recall it, once I'm no longer sleep-deprived.) By the time I arrived at OAK, I had figured out exactly how I could get transportation, find an outfit for Monday's TV interview before the stores closed, and get to my lodging in time to keep from passing out from sheer exhaustion.

But since I still had to eat, I called the Berkeley, Ca., therapist who is using Sister of Silence with her patients. "If you don't mind to eat and talk, we can still meet, since I need to grab a bite before going to bed," I told her. Jean Shimosaki took me up on the offer, and that's how we ended up at Burmese Superstar, where I had one of the best meals I've eaten in recent days. Affordable and different, with great flavors and an equally good wait staff, it was very nice.

I asked Jean what it was about the book that caused her to use it with her patients, and how, exactly, was she doing that. What she told me made me feel really good, because, as a therapist, she understood completely why I used italicized text to separate my thoughts from my actual spoken conversation. (This was not just a formatting decision: it was a major decision I made while revising, and I wavered on it for several months, unsure of whether this particular technique would work with readers. Apparently, it is!)

According to Jean, the italicized text shows the thought process that occurred within me, as I began my healing journey. That's really important, since some patients don't understand what exactly it is they need to do to begin healing. The italicized text, Jean said, serves as a roadmap, and by reading the portions of the book where I have done this, they can be helped to see what work they need to do, to heal from their abuse.

I was sound asleep by the time my friend came home to find Goldilocks in her bed, and I never even heard her digging around in the dresser for her own Monday outfit. Sunday ended on a very, very good—even a high—note. Gods of chaos and frustration: one point. Daleen: five points. (Because I'm keeping score, and I say so.)

To be continued . . .

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One of the lightest memories to linger from my daughter's 9-10-11 wedding involves a special guest, who did not receive an official invitation to the informal, country hitchin'—but who chose to attend, nonetheless. Insisted upon it, if you will, in a rather dramatic fashion.

The wedding reception featured a veritable buffet of home-grown and home-cooked food. Among other things, there were roasting ears drenched in butter, homemade pecan pie (among my favorite, and second only to key lime), barbecued pork (This little piggy spent the entire night roasting on a spit, didn't utter a sound, and didn't make it back home.) and hamburgers.

The bride proudly told me the burgers came from her own cow, which she killed all by herself. Much to the amazed chagrin of her then-fiancé, whom I hereby dub "Cal." (After that much-loved country singer, Cal Smith, whose hit song, "Country Bumpkin," reminds me of my daughter's romance with her new husband.)

An aside: For anyone reading this column who may not know, I changed the names of my four children in my book, to provide them a measure of anonymity. Cal is my new son-in-law, having married my third daughter, "Gabby."

Here's the story she told, but I can assure you it did not affect the taste of the burgers in any way. At all. Free of hormones or antibiotics, and farm-fed by a girl who loves animals as much as her grandmother, they were absolutely delicious. Even considering the bovine's manner of demise. (And now, depending upon your own connection to animal life and the enjoyment it gives us, one might wish to pause for a moment of silence, reflecting on all of God's creatures who have made the ultimate sacrifice.)

Gabby was operating a piece of farm equipment—the same Kubota tractor she rode in on to meet her groom at the altar. She was trying to unload a hay bale when, unfortunately, "Gertrude" chose that exact same moment to lumber along in front of said machine.

Just as the 800-pound round bale dropped from the bucket onto the ground and began rolling . . . directly into Gertrude.

"It broke her neck and I had to put her down," Gabby explained. "She was clearly suicidal. She walked right into the path of the hay bale," Gabby added, laughing.

But Call did not think it quite that funny. "Gabby I've been farming for 20 years and I've never heard of someone killing a cow with a hay bale!" she said, relating Cal's comment upon learning of the cow's demise..

So yes, it was not a bull (adult male, with intact testicles). Nor was it a steer (sans testicles). Gertrude was a cow (adult female) and she paid with her life—just so, I think, she could attend the wedding. Of all the guests in attendance, I vote the award for best (posthumous) wedding gift go to her.

Editor's note: If you have ever thought about running amok, or have lived with someone who has, please check out Sister of Silence, which is not about bovines of either gender, with or without testicles. You can buy it here: Nellie Bly Books

Posted by Daleen at 03:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The bride rode in on a tractor. She wasn’t chauffeured; she drove it herself. I think that takes the cake, as far as weddings go. And it may even be a first. All I know is, it was quite an entrance.

“Gabby” does everything her way, and does a little of everything, too. Even replaces old hot water heaters. Uncle Bruce calls her Wonder Woman. “Is there anything she can’t do?” he asked in amazement.

As we stood near the reception area waiting for the bridal party to arrive, we heard the tractor before we saw it. Her soon-to-be groom turned to me and asked, “What’s she going to do—ride the tractor?” My head bobbed up and down, and I grinned.

He just shook his blond head back and forth, but I’m sure that was pride I saw reflected in his blue eyes.

So, here’s the lead-up to the Big Day. They were supposed to have gotten married last summer. But life and family interfered, and it was rescheduled. Gabby called me to say they had a date. The date. “It’s going to be Sept. 10, 2011,” she said. There was a pause.

“Get it? 9-10-11,” she said, adding, “That way (my fiancée) won’t forget it.” (Did I tell you she has a sense of humor, too?)

A few days before the wedding, things began to go wrong. First, the bride’s sister, “Trista,” missed her connection, when Uncle Bruce drove from Wisconsin and offered to pick her up along the way. It was a case of last-minute plans and poor cell phone signals. And it gave me at least 20 more grey hairs.

The 30 other ones came from Bruce and my 70 MPH drive on the Kingwood Pike last Thursday afternoon. That’s because I was on my way home from Gabby’s house when my cell rang. “Hello, Daleen. I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I’m here at the Ramada Inn. The bad news is, I’m having chest pains and I’m short of breath. Do you think you can take me to the hospital?” Bruce asked.

I knew he wouldn’t call an ambulance, so I didn’t even suggest it. He had driven from Sheboygan and for the better part of two days, he’d had chest pains. But he kept saying it was because he was tired, and because he was stressed about his brand new car, since someone dinged it, leaving white paint all over the fender.

So I just pushed the hazard button and hit the accelerator. I certainly didn’t want to find him dead in his hotel room. (And now, I’d like to take a second to thank everyone who was kind enough to pull over and let me fly by that day—as well as apologize to anyone who thought I was rude, in case I did tailgate you.)

With being the MOB (mother of the bride) comes certain privileges and expectations. I think they should add to that list rescuing out-of-town relatives and staying by their bedside for four hours. And why not? It’s just one more important task to check off your list, prior to the wedding.

While Bruce laid around like a gentleman of leisure, having people wait on him and give him a shave and answer his every beck and call, we regrouped, and Trista came by train. I picked her up the next morning in Pittsburgh, Pa., which is 90 minutes north of here. She kindly offered to wait inside the station for more than an hour, until 6 a.m., so I could get a little more sleep. And while I wanted to take her up on that lovely offer, my mind just wouldn’t stay asleep. So, wide awake at 2:30 a.m., my day began, and I got on the road an hour later.

Friday slipped quickly by, and before I knew it, Sept. 10 had arrived. So had Gabby’s brother, “Slade,” freshly in from D.C. And ill to the point of not having a voice. The poor guy was so sick he asked his oldest sister to drive him to the train in Cumberland the very next morning, where he went home to get some sleep. But in the meantime, he walked the MOB down the hill to a waiting hay bale, where she sat and enjoyed seeing her third daughter finally go from fiancée to bride, all in a matter of minutes. Wearing a white fairy-tale wedding gown, which—if you were looking closely enough—allowed her green leather cowboy boots to peek out from beneath its hem every so often.

The setting was as beautiful as the bride, and as the guests sat atop hay bales in the middle of a field filled with sunshine and happy smiles, the couple exchanged vows in front of a mirrored pond.

Afterward, the groom escorted his bride away, and past the tractor that carried her there.

Posted by Daleen at 11:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

If you know anyone who needs to make some serious life changes, please buy them a copy of Sister of Silence. If you're a therapist or have one on speed dial, tell them to download it from Amazon. If you're a parent, a teacher or someone who still stumbles through life numb and encumbered, get the book. It really can help you, as well as those important people whose lives you touch.

I recommend it not because I wrote it, but because so many other people say my story resonates with them, and they are recommending it to anyone and everyone. One reader has literally become a one-woman band, as she tells anyone whose path she crosses about this book, urging them to read it.

From California, another reader said her therapist is going to use Sister of Silence with her own patients.

I recommend it because a well-respected national expert in the field of domestic violence suggested I introduce it at an upcoming conference being held at the University of Berkeley.

And I continue to recommend it because daily—and often, more than once a day—I hear such positive feedback from readers who keep telling other people about it.

It's honest and raw, and thoroughly candid in discussing some pretty ugly topics—but in a way that hopefully will leave you (the reader) more open to talking about sexual abuse, domestic violence, and filicide-suicide.

"Your book was amazing." (A social worker who read Sister of Silence told me this yesterday.)

Another woman I just met, who owns a publishing company, said her dentist asked her if she'd read my book. (Now that's great word of mouth advertising!)

"Your style of writing captures SO much emotion that I found myself swept away with each sentence!!! Please know that I will continue to suggest your book to others as it is a message that NEEDS to be heard," another reader wrote.

"I finished reading your book last night. What a powerful story you have told! I admire your courage in making the choices that you had to make. I also admire your courage in telling your story. This book can be a significant aid to women who are living in their own Hell. I won't ever forget your story. It breaks my heart that you had to live that way, but I am encouraged by the fact that you have made something positive of the experience by writing this book." That's what Rhonda Jenkins, an educator who's seen her fair share of children stunted by abuse, told me last month.

"I am impressed with Daleen Berry. She is bright, brave, and a true blessing. This woman is making a difference." (This is from another reader and while she credits me for what's happening when people read my book, I don't. I do believe that anyone who has survived something painful can—if they are willing—turn their negative experience into something positive that has the ability to help other people.)

At a recent book reading, one woman bought four copies of my Sister of Silence. Four! One for herself, one for her daughter, and two for friends or family! She had heard enough about it to believe its message would make a difference. I hope it is. And does.

Posted by Daleen at 01:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)