My name is JoAnne Harris Michels. I am mother of eight; grandmother of 27; CA Mother of the Year 2015; a speaker for Operation Underground Railroad (which fights child sexual slavery), and author of two books, CLAIMING INNOCENCE, just published, and MOMENTS, soon to be published.
Upon meeting Mark, the protagonist of CLAIMING INNOCENCE, I felt urgently compelled to share the great adventure and success story of his life, and so have written this fictionalized biography. During this process I fell in love with the little boy he'd been, and came to respect the man he's become. I spoke at his wedding in Davao and was honored to become the Ninang (godmother) for his family, and now have two honorary grandchildren who call me "Nana Michels."
The following is an excerpt from my second book, MOMENTS, and tells of an experience with my grand daughter, Nattie, which provides insight into knowing Mark:
"I was first to hold Nattie in the hospital, and did a few night shifts the first weeks. My son John took over my shift at 6:00 A.M., coming with the camera--not to take a photo of Nattie and I--but of the table by my chair, which contained two empty baby bottles, and three empty energy drinks. (When she was two, and grocery shopping with her mother, she pointed to the isle containing the Red Bulls, and said, “There’s Nana’s cup!”). I liked to rock Nattie, singing jazz, Beatles songs and lullabies. I bathed her in the kitchen sink, which was actually an hour-long fun-with-water time, and gave her a warm-lotion massage as I dressed her. We took long walks together, learned the colors of the flowers in French, and collected beautiful leaves, rocks, and insects. I told her many stories. When she was a little bit older, I had her every Friday; we took our naps together, prefaced by an hour of chat-time during which we sang children’s songs, recited nursery rhymes, told stories, (I would leave out some words for her to fill in), counted, and did finger-plays. When it was time to go to sleep, the signal was my rolling over so my back was to her. One time, though, she crawled up over my shoulder, put her face next to mine and said, 'But, Nana, I want to see your face!'"
To write CLAIMING INNOCENCE it was necessary for me to not only see Mark's face, but to get inside his head. I found this interesting, funny, entertaining, profoundly sad, and inspirational. I agonized through his challenges, and exulted at his triumphs through the eyes of a mother.
Following is one of his childhood adventures from the book, when he was perhaps six or seven years old, and a street kid in the Philippines:
Well enough to accept my first gang assignment, I was excited to prove myself. My first task was to spy on other gangs, but I got into immediate trouble. As I approached the area of a rival gang in the late afternoon, I alerted to a buzz of excitement. Lowering my eyes and moving in closer, trying to be inconspicuous, I heard disturbing fragments of conversation:
“We can’t get near Bonifacio.”
“Our best assassin couldn’t even…”
“Impossible!”
“With both our gangs, we can ambush him.”
“Tomorrow.”
“At night!”
Too inexperienced to maintain cover, I broke into a run. Instantly, kids were dispatched to hunt me down. I ran my fastest, but they gained on me, and I darted through the gate of an old cemetery.
“He’s not here, maybe that side!”
“Over there!”
Sweat poured down my back: They’re going to kill me.
There was only one way out—the way I came in, and they had it covered. My adrenaline became pinpricks of terror. I saw a bone-white crypt in a neglected part of the cemetery, the lid slightly ajar. Inside was a rotted wooden coffin, topped by a few displaced planks that were weathered and broken. I pushed them aside and scrambled into the coffin. The bones inside were dry and brittle, and there was a faintly bad odor. I heard kids getting closer. I frantically wedged in with the fetid skeleton and pulled the rotting planks over me, my heart pounding like a captive bird.
I held still for a long time, barely breathing. The sun went down, and the disc of the moon cast an osteoporotic light across the cemetery. I listened to the continuing search, to wild dogs: squalid scavengers padding around, sniffing. Then at last, all was quiet. I felt claustrophobic—as though the coffin was closing in on me—compressing me into the smallest, darkest, and most disgusting of places.
They’ll be guarding the gate.
Knowing I would surely die if I got out, I resolved to settle in. I shuddered and began speculating about ways to die.
Getting shot wouldn’t be too bad—if I died right away—beats drowning. Poison? Not like Mama. Probably won’t get it with a machete like Papa. These guys will use knives…
Scared spit-less, I was terribly thirsty, but the odor had taken away my hunger. My bladder was full, but I held it. Then I reconsidered.
A bit of urine won’t bother the bones under me.
I tried to think of something pleasant, so I imagined being at the Palace of the Toads with Chile, sitting with our feet in the pond, watching an occasional sailfin lizard run across the surface of the water. I decided to pray, thanking God for my narrow escape, and for every good thing I could think of. Finally I slept, for hours. Toward morning, I dreamt about the grandfather-man at the cinema and felt the warmth of his smile. He put his warm arms around me, and embraced me as a grandson. But I wakened with a start, finding myself in the arms of a skeleton.
I stayed in the coffin until I felt safe—which wasn’t until about noon. It was knife-bright. Squinting, I eased over the edge and tentatively made my way around the crypts and tombstones. I glanced at mourners huddled around a newly dug grave, lighting incense to ensure that neighboring corpses would welcome their loved one. They didn’t look up. I took a deep breath, inhaling the pleasant fragrance of incense, seeing its soft gray curls blend with sunrays.
Sprinting all the way back, I told Bonifacio everything, breathless, yet lifting my chest with pride. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I still remember the glow of his smile when he said, “Well done, Mark; you’ve saved lives today!”
***
The sky became gunmetal gray, darkening into night. An allied gang joined us and we prepared to fight. Sentries posted throughout the city watched, waited, and smoked. In the middle of the night, when the streets would normally be empty, two of them spotted dozens of enemies approaching, some on bikes or skateboards, but most running quietly, armed with panas (sharpened four-inch nails, propelled by slingshots), knives, and guns. Bonifacio appraised the situation and directed us into position; we would ambush the ambushers. Excitement and loyalty carbonated my veins.
A kid from an enemy gang, his uncombed hair jutting out at rakish angles, rode his bike full tilt toward Chile and me; we were revved for combat behind a garbage bin. I grabbed a fluorescent light tube from the trash. The biker got near, doing a wheelie onto the sidewalk, and when his front wheel touched ground, I smashed the tube across his head, and Chile stabbed his side. The guy was down and dead.
Adrenalin boiled through the street. Knife fights and pana shooting broke out everywhere, accompanied by shouting, dogs barking, and the sharp crack of gunshots.
Ben shouted, “Look out for the twins in the alley!”
I was kickboxing with another kid when one twin emerged from darkness with a two-by-four, and hit me on the head. Lacking space, he didn’t have enough force to do much damage, and I pivoted and punched him in the stomach. The other twin moved in with his pana aiming at my chest. Ben dove to shove me out of the way, but the nail caught my left knee. I fell in agony, curling into a fetal position, my leg burning like a hot poker. Ben reloaded his gun and shot both the kid and his twin, tucked his gun in his shorts, and pushed me under a parked jeepney.
Sirens ripped through the streets. Cops swarmed all over the place, shooting every kid who had a gun, and some who didn’t. Gun smoke filled the air. Ben ran down an alley, keeping his .45 hidden. Gangs scattered, leaving the street blood-soaked, resounding with the cries of the wounded—and littered with the dead.
Sometime later, I heard Chile calling me, but I couldn’t make my response heard over the shriek of the sirens. When he got close, I gathered my strength, reached out from under the jeepney, and grabbed his leg. He tripped and fell on his face, gashing his forehead. Blood streamed down his face, but he pulled me out, scooped me into his arms, and carried me through an alleyway to the beach, awkwardly wiping his bloody face on his shoulder along the way. Ben caught up with us and helped carry me. No one else was around, except PP, who materialized through gun smoke. Chile and Ben gently laid me on compacted sand, under the streetlight of the strand. Chile blanched at the sight of the arrow, but said, “Don’t worry, I’ll pull it out.”
“We need something for him to bite down on,” said Ben.
Chile glanced around, “A piece of wood…”
PP’s freckles paled, and in his panic he grabbed a flat rock. “Bite down on this.”
“All right, hold him,” Chile said to Ben and PP, and pulled the pana with all his strength. It didn’t budge. I bit on the rock and felt like my teeth shattered. PP started to cry, then Ben, then me.
“Stop the bleeding; use your shirt!” Chile shouted to Ben.
Ben shoved the shirt so forcefully against my knee that I screamed in agony.
“I’m going to pull again!” Chile put his foot on my hip for leverage and yanked.
I screamed again. Nothing.
“It’s stuck in the bone. I have to dig it out with a knife!”
I felt dizzy, nauseous, and clammy. I turned my head away, heard the knife scrapping my bone, and someone screaming. I felt a rotation as Chile finally yanked the pana out, realized I’d been the one screaming, and when I saw the hunk of flesh on the arrow, I passed out.
I'm immeasurably grateful for the opportunity of knowing Mark; his family are a great joy in my life. I offer this book as confirmation that one can overcome the most grievous of childhoods, and achieve stability and happiness.
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