My #METOO Story - Chicago Street Journal for Wednesday, November 1, 2017

#MeToo addresses the sexually abuse of men, women and children around the world. You are invited to submit your editorials on this and any timely matter to ChicagoStJournal@gmail.com.

#MeToo addresses the sexually abuse of men, women and children around the world. You are invited to submit your editorials on this and any timely matter to ChicagoStJournal@gmail.com.


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February Chicago Street Journal November 2017


November 1, 2017

Volume 23, No. 5

Long before the #MeToo hashtag or

references to “pussy grabbing” there were

screams and tears from women across all

civilizations, that went unanswered. And,

let’s not forget the slave woman, mother

and child, Maya Angelou or The Color

Purple. But, unlike ever before and thank

goodness in our time, Alyssa Milano

shared her experiences and now the world

responds -- FINALLY!

The #MeToo hashtag has lent a

voice and opened the doors for the victims

of sexual harassment and abuse to tell their

stories and release the pain and secrets of a

lifetime. May this door never close and enable

all who wish to do so, to walk through

with a new meaning and understanding of

what is actually taking place around the

world in this sick cycle of the abuse of

boys and girls and women and men.

In France, Twitter users are using

#balancetonporc or "expose the pig" to encourage

women to name and shame their

attackers, while #WomenWhoRoar is also

being used to encourage victims of sexual


abuse to speak up.

Let’s wave our own flags and shout

out #MeToo from sea-to-shining-sea.

My #MeToo Story.

Excerpt from “Black America – Asking

Ourselves The Tough Questions” by

Sonja Cassandra Perdue.

I was very young. 12 years

old. Kenneth Johnson was younger. He

was 5 years old. We lived on the first floor

of a small two-flat and Kenneth and his

family lived upstairs. The Johnsons were

in their late 20s and had four children;

whenever the young couple wanted to go

out, I was the children’s playmate/


It would be a grand time — every

time. We’d play games, play school, but

most importantly there was no screaming,

no beatings, or arguing. Although I was

young, they knew that they were safe with

me because I loved being in charge and I

just loved small children.

The elderly couple who had previously

lived in that apartment had been the

owners of the building. They had four foster

children and Kenneth’s mother was

their granddaughter. When the mother

died, all of the children, except Robert,

were returned to their parents or to the

state. Maybe there was no place for him to

go. He moved in with the elderly gentleman

and his new wife in their home, two

doors down.

Robert and I had been at war since I

was small enough to crawl under a

bed. That’s my earliest memory of him

chasing me and grabbing me in a sexual

manner. I would come to play with the

other kids and he’d begin grabbing me and

touching me and I would run and slide under

his mother’s bed. He was trying to get

me from under there, but he was too big to

crawl under there and reach me. I knew

even then that he was afraid of getting

caught, so he coached me out with smoothing

words that he was not going to bother


Continued on Page 4

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Poetry by

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Page 10

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4 November 2017

Chicago Street Journal

Continued from Page 1


This game (attack) of cat and mouse

went on and on. I was just as intense and determined

and he could not get a grip on me. I had

always sent the signal that I was ready for a

fight. The first few times, I could crawl under

the bed, but after a while I was too big and I had

to stand and fight or take flight.

As Robert got older and bigger and

stronger, he became more aggressive. It became

harder and harder to fight him off, but he came

knowing that there would be a battle. I don’t

believe that he was yet old enough to be that

sure of himself.

Fast forward to my being 12 and Robert

being 17 years of age. Somehow he had gotten

wind of the fact that I was upstairs with the children.

We were sitting on the sofa watching TV

when the door opened. All of us turned and

looked; as he spoke, he moved from the door

over to me. “I’m going to get you today. I’m

going to get me some today.”

I was thinking, how did he know that I

was up here?

Fear rose up in me and as I prepared

myself for a fight. I felt fear. When he moved

in for the attack, I was still sitting on the sofa

because it all seemed like one motion from the

door to me. There was no time for anything


As we struggled, he was on my right side

sitting on the sofa and trying to push me down

into a lying position. He was trying to get a grip

on my hands and arms and could not because I

was swinging them all of the time. If he could

have stopped me from hitting him, he could

have mounted me. I kept fighting to keep control

or to keep him from gaining control.

For some reason, I didn’t want to start

screaming because I didn’t want to scare the

children. Too late. I looked to my left and the

three smaller children were huddled against the

wall watching us. They had a bewildered, wildeyed,

and confused look on their faces (one of

those “deer-caught-in-the-headlights” expressions).

Kenneth was standing in front of Robert,

a little off to his right about a foot or two away

from him. I can’t say what he was thinking, but

in retrospect, he was gauging the situation.

Maybe at first, he didn’t perceive that I

was in danger. There was no fear in his face

and I don’t recall seeing any sense of panic in

his eyes. This little boy was just standing there

watching us do battle.

Then, things changed. It seemed fast and

in slow-motion at the same time. Now I was the

observer. I will never be sure, but maybe this

little boy sensed, after giving the situation some

thought, that I just might lose that battle. Quite

unexpectedly. Quite, quite wondrously, this 5-

year-old boy leaped on this 17-year-old and began

to beat him so viciously that he couldn’t

maintain his grip on me for having to defend

himself against this child’s blows. Kenneth was

beating him and screaming and screaming and

screaming. “Take your hands off of her. You

stop it. You stop it. You leave her alone.” It

was happening so fast. He was moving so fast

that I could not keep up with what was happening.

Those little arms were moving and swinging

and clawing. It was like something flashing

before my eyes. Watching it would make you

say, “What the hell?”

Robert was not trying to hurt or injure

him, but just trying to stop Kenneth from hitting

him. Robert was laughing at him, at

first. He thought that it was funny. He tried to

grab his arms. Tried to calm him down. Tried

to hang on to me. It didn’t work out like he expected.

He had to let go of me.

I was looking directly into Robert’s face

when that child wiped that smile off of his

mug. He was taking a good look at that child

attacking him. I watched the change taking

place. I heard the change in his tone, his words,

his whole being as he tried to assure Kenneth

that he would not touch me again. He was trying

to hold Kenneth down and tell him that he

was going to stop and that he was not going to

touch me. “Calm down, man. Calm down.” He

kept saying, “OK man. OK man.” He repeated

these words to him over and over again.

I was frozen. I didn’t know how to

move. I only knew how to watch as a participant

in a movie with a surprise ending that was

never even written into the script.

Robert was finally able to calm Kenneth

down and we both sat there staring at this little

boy, who was sobbing and taking these huge

loud breaths. The attack itself was a shock, but

the hollering and crying took it over the edge. It

seemed that that child had gotten so wound up

that he couldn’t come down immediately. He

finally calmed and he told him one more time,

“You leave her alone! Don’t you bother her


I was taken aback, as I sat there that day,

but Robert was taken further. Robert told him

that he would not touch me again. And he never


Without regard to the size or might of

the enemy, this little boy moved into position,

executed an attack, and was victorious. He left

the enemy/potential rapist empty and impotent.

Robert stood up from the sofa as we all

watched him straighten his clothes. He told me

that he was sorry and that he would never, ever

touch me again. He told me that I had nothing

to worry about. I can only think that if shame

had a smell, it would smell just like Robert


Here and now, I wonder if Robert remembers

the day that a 5-year-old boy became

more man then he would ever be.

Sonja Cassandra Perdue is the author of “Black America

– Asking Ourselves The Tough Questions” now available

on Amazon.com, Founder of Chicago’s Black Business

Network and Associate Publisher for Chicago Street Journal’s

Digital Division. She has completed close to 300 podcasts

available on Chicago’s Black Business Radio Network.

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Chicago Street Journal

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February 2017

Chicago Street Journal November 2017

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8 Chicago Street Journal

screens. This was by design....it may not have been a joint effort by the hidden

hands of power and the media, but whatever it was, it has worked!

Black people, afraid for their sad lives, left the city. They either moved to the

burbs or exited the entire state for what they thought was better and safer

surroundings. They may be accurate in some cases, but in most cases, urban

removal is being planned in many big states, especially if there is prime realestate

to gobble-up, and Chicago's Southside is open for an A 1 land grab.

Mayor Emanuel and Governor Rauner have decided that it's politically correct

or in their best interest, politically, to declare the state of Illinois and the

city of Chicago as 'sanctuary' landing location for anyone non-black to stakeout

their territory. I strongly recommend instead of blacks selling their property

and moving out of the city, they declare their current dwelling grounds

as 'sanctuary communities,' for their many relatives who wanna relocate to

the CHI.

Black people, call your kinfolk in every southern state or send smoke signals

to your lost and deprived cousins and cast away family members, instruct

them to redirect their journey and head to Chicago. Make this their sanctuary

city and state. Give them housing and help them either get jobs or create employment

opportunities to ensure that they can have a simple quality of life.

Better yet, since the mayor just announced that his administration would provide

Section 8 vouchers for immigrants or U.S. citizens displaced by ravaging

tragedies, there is no better excuse, than now to make Chicago the new

black migrant's 'sanctuary' home.


Another Black Great Migration

As the world faces many, many troubling catastrophes, such as raging

brush fires on the West Coast, massive terrorist shootings in major cities or

states including Nevada, as well as deadly hurricanes in Houston, Texas and

Puerto Rico--there are horrible transformations occurring in places like Chicago.

Make this movement to Chicago another Great Black Migration. Come and

take advantage of all the privileges that the mayor and governor have decided

to give to anyone who comes to Chicago or Illinois to start anew. So

get on the phone and find your peeps and send them a life-line. Let us use

social media, community newspapers, and talk radio to make the call-toaction

like the Chicago Defender did over 60 years ago. This historic newspaper

was responsible for instructing Negroes in the south to come to the

north and find refuge from bigotry and racism.

And the people who ran from the city to the suburbs, pack your Gucci bags

and move hastily back to Beverly, Chatham, South Shore, Lincoln Park,

Avalon Park.....just bring your black behinds back to CHI! Until the next

edition.....Peace and One Love.

I Write To Differ

All these concerns listed above are life-altering experiences, and we as

Americans should feel their pain. But what's happening in my state and city

hurts even greater. I'm witnessing the demise or destruction or demotion or

deduction--whatever you wanna label it--of black people from the concrete

jungles of the Windy City.

The hidden hands of power have taken steps to ensure that black people remove

(themselves) from Chicago. They're using tactics like profiling violence

and other quality of life issues to drive people out of the city limits.

This was initiated with the blowing up of Cabrini Green, which was the first

step in removing unwanted black bodies from Chicago's census count.

Now as black folks move out and others move in at record numbers, it hurts

to see what I predicted is coming full force. I told you naïve people who

played the blame game and denounced your own community and children

with the help of local media as they presented horrific violence on the

nightly news, that this was not priority number one.

It was all propaganda. They used images of black boys and men committing

crimes against their neighbors to mentally kill the spirit of weak people who

feared for their lives as they continued to see crime flash across their TV

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February 2017

Chicago Street Journal November 2017


February 2017

10 November 2017

Chicago Street Journal

Sorrow Beyond Syntax*…

Hussein Ali Hill-Johnson

Our Moral Decay…

Hussein Ali-Hill Johnson

In America things are now absurd

and “Alt-Truth” has become the key word

Innocence citizens were beaten and one murdered by terrorist

and our President took 3 days to denounce this

All I feel is pain

and lack the words to fully show my disdain

This morning’s sunlight exposed all of the above as sad facts

and all I am left with is a sorrow beyond syntax

*Inspired by the murder of Heather Heyer

and brutal beating of Deandre Harris

Change just for change sake

is a major mistake

If you follow leaders that are lost

guess who pays the cost

If you have a square and you cut off four corners you have a circle

that reminds me of the common sense wisdom of Studs Terkel

When it comes to self-respect and respecting others

we are going backwards my Sisters and Brothers

In a car reverse is the strongest gear

but, you can’t win Indy guiding you car with its rear

The answer is not as simple is turning back the clock

in order to rebuild our society GOD must be our bedrock

Because Devil is saying a big hooray

at the state of our moral decay

Hussein Ali Hill-Johnson has been a Poet and Activist since his Freshman year in High School back in the

1973. The addition of the -Johnson is to his name is to honor is Mother (R.I.P.). She was a Short Story Writer,

who taught him 90% of what he knows about writing and 100% of what it is to be a person of faith. In the past

30 months, he has written 200 poems, 98 of which are currently published on-line. He can be contacted via

Twitter and via e-mail at husseinhill@yahoo.com

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