Loud Mouth Brown Girl

To be fair, an entire book series, with an accompanying film series, could be written, directed, and played out, about my life.

I was on a trip for CJSF radio, in 2017, when I had a panic attack on an airplane on the way back.

To understand why I was so stressed out, you need to understand a few things about that trip.

First, it was transformative. It was the first time I was allowed—as an adult—to speak to other people of color about what it means to be a person of color. It was also the first time in my life that I had the opportunity to speak to other Black and Biracial people about what it means to be both or neither.

I hadn’t grown up in a community with a population of Black people. In fact, no matter where I went – the grocery store, the library, school, home, other than my younger brother, I was the only Black girl around.

So I didn’t know how to accept my Blackness, and no one ever bothered to teach me. I didn’t watch Black television shows growing up, or listen to Black music, I was completely colonized by my community, and no one in my community seemed to think that was a bad thing. So neither did I.

So on this trip, I had the chance to speak to other people and to find out that I wasn’t alone in my uncertainty about how to navigate the world, as a Black woman, being that I’d been “mostly white,” for the majority of my life.

During this trip, there was a lot of drinking because cannabis wasn’t strictly legal in every province yet, and so you could only get it with a medical card, which I didn’t have.

I wasn’t a big drinker anymore, but a few beers here and there wouldn’t have hurt me, and so a few nights I did go out and had a drink or two and that was fine.

What wasn’t fine was going to dinner with a record producer, who stole my keys, ransacked my room, and then left the keys on the bed, as if I wouldn’t clearly remember having put the keys in my purse, because I triple and quadruple check everything I do, due to OCD.

Security was called, and as there was nothing they could do, I was given another room with a friend for the night, before the next morning, where, in a meeting with the head of the university I was told if MY behavior, did not change, “I” would be asked to leave.

I was also asked to apologize for my reaction, to which I told them they could get fucked, as politely as I could.

I was leaving the next day which was fine, so we waited and got to the airport, everything was fine, and I couldn’t wait to get home.

Until I got onto the plane and sat down. I was seated with a lovely couple, but away from my party, and that’s where everything gets kind of hazy.

I remember asking for water, I remember being told to wait my turn, I remember being told the police were on their way and that the plane was stopping in Saskatchewan, a place I had sworn to God, I would only go, kicking and screaming.

I’d been there once before and I fucking hated it. I had a great trip there don’t get me wrong, my BFF at the time Kate Barn’s grandma paid for us to go to camp. It was all great and beautiful until this stupid boy kissed me without asking.

You’d understand why that would ruin my 11-year-old trip if you’d understood I’d already been raped a dozen times that summer, and it had started when I was three and hadn’t yet stopped.

Men, and boys, and women too, were constantly abusing me in vicious ways, largely because I was Black, Biracial, and different, and so the kiss? It wasn’t what I wanted, a hug would have sufficed, or a “it was nice knowing you,” but boys in the 90s were constantly kissing girls whenever they wanted. And no one ever tried to tell them not to.

Back to the trip.

So the cops show up, and arrest me, even though I’m literally having a medical emergency and they’re making it worse instead of better by telling me I’m under arrest.

Yes, they cuff me.

And then,t he Black girl.

Yes, as I am being led off the plane, I turn my head to the right and see this Beautiful Black woman, who literally turns her face away from me, and refuses to watch as I am led off the plane.

I understood in that moment, I was perfectly fucking, alone. I may never remember her face, but I will never forget, that when I needed help, not one person, not even the Black girl, chose to stand up for me.

As they were pulling me off the plane, I was screaming for help, completely out of my mind, and the cop – a big large white man – shoved me, towards the ramp, I asked if I could pull up my pants, and then fell to the ground.

He put his boot against my knee, leaving a bruise, on my left knee, and then pulled me up after calling me a “Loud Mouth Brown Bitch,”, I pulled up my pants as best I could and told him in an angry voice he was a fucking clown, and that I would take it.

I told him I would turn Loud Mouth Brown Bitch,” into a mental health brand for Black women, who need help, not cuffs when they can’t breathe.

I was taken to the hospital, swearing and yelling, trying to control myself but completely unable to explain that as I was having this panic attack I was also remembering.

I was remembering decades of abuse.

• The baby-sitters boyfriend when I was three years old
• The neighbor boy when I was seven
• The boy at camp at eleven also the Priest at camp when I was ten
• The gang rape at fourteen
• The gang rape at fifteen
• The escape at sixteen
• The return of the rapists in my thirties

I still have a full seven years I can’t fully remember, from 2012-2017 the memories are completely hazy and I don’t fully remember all the things that happened in those years.

My very good friend married a man that I used to know when I worked at the church and I have absolutely zero memory of him in my life, even though he was allegedly there for years.

And yet I distinctly remember WHAT happened, every single time I was raped, even though I don’t necessarily remember the dates.

So you see.

I am not just the Loud Mouth Brown Bitch because I was yelling and screaming, it’s because I was yelling and screaming that I was able to start on the journey of remembering all the things that happened to me, so I could start healing.

It’s because I am The Loud Mouth Brown Bitch, that I am alive to tell my story because if I hadn’t had that panic attack I wouldn’t have sought out a counselor.

I wouldn’t have found the one counselor who RAPED ME, the night I was gang raped in 2015, on Google.

Yes, you read that right.

After I got out of the hospital, and took a 3-day bus ride home because West Jet wouldn’t allow me back on the plane the next day, I sought out a counselor.

I found “Kevin,” on Google on a counselor’s website for local mental health professionals.

Turns out the reason I went to him, was because I KNEW he raped me, I just needed to go to three sessions to remember, and turns out, that when I finally confronted him, he shoved me the exact same way he’d shoved me that night I was raped in my thirties.

Because when this next happened, I was in downtown Vancouver, I immediately ran to my tattoo artist (another piece of shit but for different reasons) because he was the only person I knew in the city.

I told him quickly what happened, and then I left, I made it to a store that sold beds and mattresses on Granville street, before I asked them to call the police and the paramedics because I knew I needed to be hospitalized.

Thankfully they did exactly that, but during this panic attack I had to explain to the police that I didn’t want to speak to them about what happened, I just wanted to be hospitalized.

I knew that Kevin had raped me, but I also knew more importantly that he was connected to very dangerous people who had BEEN raping me, for decades, and I needed help. More help then I could get from street cops, so I asked them as I was panicking and running around the store – trying to hide myself as best I could – to call sex crimes and have them meet me at the hospital.

I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but in this particular case, the police listened to me and did as I asked. When I got to Saint Paul’s, (Thank everyone there you’re amazing,) I was met by a cop named Brian and his partner whose name I don’t remember. (Be glad I remember this much holy fuck am I done yet?)

Anyways I told him everything. Years of abuse described in about twenty minutes as I told him about Bruce, Michael, Doug, Angel, Brandon, and all the men I’ve mentioned before. SOME of them I swear were innocent victims who got caught in the cross fire. But I stand by some of what I said too, because some of it was dead on.

I explained the gang shit, the cult shit, I broke it down as best I could, and then when it was my turn to see the doctor, I was put on a bed and wheeled into a waiting room, where I suddenly realized I wasn’t myself anymore.

I lost my mind. I started screaming, thrusting off the bed as they tried to strap me down, I lost my mind and I did so purely because I KNEW I could.

I looked around for about thirty seconds and knew I was safe. Brian was there and knew what I knew, so I wasn’t alone anymore in the knowing what had been done to me. FINALLY, someone else in the world knew.

That was enough for me to scream like a wild animal until I couldn’t scream anymore, I had to, I was fucking feral, I had to be because I had lost my mind and I couldn’t find it.

All the anger, rage, fear, anxiety, depression, all of it came out, and then….it went silent.

They injected me with a sedative to calm me down, and suddenly I was in a dark black room with padded walls the door was locked, and I knew, in my heart, I was safe, and it was okay again.

And so until about ten am the next morning I slept, when I woke up the door was open, breakfast was served, my things were returned to me, and I was free to go home. As if nothing had happened.

I don’t know if the cops are still investigating, or if they stopped caring because I haven’t heard anything in years. All I know is that once I was put in that dark room, all the trauma, all the pain, sorrow, fear, anxiety, depression, all the “you’re a whore because you were raped for years and it’s your fault,” all the shit about being sold from one man to another, was gone.

All that was left was The Loud Mouth Brown Bitch, and in my heart, I knew that was important, but I also didn’t want to be seen as a Bitch, not from the perspective of a white man at least. I DID know I wanted still, to do something with it, so I went home that day knowing if I wasn’t safe it didn’t matter, because I would be.

I reported what happened to the Surrey BC police, the North Delta Police and the Vancouver Sex Crimes Unit, and I told them about Keith Rainier, I told them about Erron Wayne Giles, I told them about the fact that my friend Larry had been accused of being a pedophile, but it turns out the goof was actually a loser who’d already been in jail JUST after those crimes stopped.

I told them about the men I knew, who were involved in selling, and abusing children, and how many of the boys I knew, grew up to be rapists, because they’d been trained to be rapists while using me.

No one believed me.

I am not Gisele Pelicot, I am Devon J Hall, the girl the world ignored. When I called CTV and told them about my plan to focus on Black Women’s Mental Health they told me “No one will care, it’s just not an interesting story.”

Over the years I have found that the Christian faith is not for me. No matter how often I feel the presence of “God” or his annoying as fuck son, I still lean towards Witchcraft because it protects women more than anything I’ve ever come across.

It’s been seven years since I was raped, seven years since I have had a man touch me without my permission, and nine years since a man has touched me period.

It feels fucking amazing to know MY body is MINE and no one can touch me without my permission, largely because not only is it the law, but because the woman I am now, will kill to protect the child I was.

I am not The Loud Mouth Brown Girl by accident. I chose to swap out the word Girl for Bitch,because the word bitch came from a white man’s mouth, it was foul, and hurtful, designed to make me feel less than I am. Girl celebrates all the little girls, inside of all the women, men, and non=binary or trans people, who know exactly what it feels like to believe God hates you.

I spent my life thinking God hated me, because that’s what my abusers kept telling me, violently, viciously, and in as many cruel ways as possible. I would go to Church and hear “Every child matters,” and then I would go home and be raped in my own bed.

This is the first time in my life, life is safe, and pure, and filled with laughter and tears for happy reasons.

My friend got married yesterday, after all her darkness, she found light, and now I am starting to realize maybe my light looks different than the average girl, but maybe it’s there none the less.

Thanks for reading my origin story.

It means the world to me that you’re still here,

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall, The Loud Mouth Brown Girl