Annick Nouatin's Autobiography Part 1: A Story of Courage, Strength, and Spirituality

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Annick Nouatin's AUTOBIOGRAPHY

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Chapter One

My name is Annick Nicole Pascaline Fifatin Nouatin. Annick is a French name that means "grace of God." Nicole is a French name that means "people of victory." Pascaline is also a French name, and in Hebrew, it means "Passover." Fifatin is an African name that means "everything will be fine." Finally, Nouatin is my last name; in the African language, it means "Trees." That is a little history about the different names my parents gave me.

I was born in West Africa in a little city called Porto-Novo in Benin. Benin borders Togo to the west, Nigeria to the East, and Burkina Faso and Niger to the north. The small southern coastline on the Bight of Benin is where a majority of the population is located. Benin covers an area of approximately 110,000 square kilometers (42,000 square miles) and has a population of approximately 8.8 million. Benin is tropical. French is the main language. The capital of Benin is Porto-Novo.

My father was a handsome, intelligent, and tall man. His native country was Benin. He spent his high school years in Senegal, which is close to Benin. He was very dominant and strict, and his weaknesses were alcohol and control—it was his way or no way. I have few good memories of my father.

My mother was beautiful and looked younger than her age. My mother loved to dress up. She was gentle and subservient to my father, because that was the way she was raised. She was very spiritual and prayed a lot, as though she knew something would happen. She had a good heart but was worried all the time.

We were a family of seven children. I was the fourth child. My brothers were Christian, Jean-Claude, Ernest, Marcel, Charles, and Joel. I was my father's little girl, but he didn't know how to treat us. We lived in a little house. Our lives were poor; we were not protected from infection or death because of the poor condition.

What I loved about Benin is the red ground, the warmness, and the happiness of my brothers. Everybody helped each other, even if they didn't know them.

I was a shy girl who needed more than the normal girl. I needed a lot of love, but I don't remember everything from my childhood. I do remember playing with other children sometimes, and I also remember being dressed in a short brown dress.

Christian's Death

I remember the loss of Christian, my brother. He passed away because of a high fever at the age of six. My memories of him are almost nonexistent, but I still think about him a lot and I still miss his presence. I can still see his face. My family was devastated when he died. I do recall sitting close to his bed when he closed his eyes forever.

I also see vague flashes of my father holding me in his arms and taking me into his bedroom. After that, I see darkness. This darkness has haunted me for many, many years until now. The reason for this is that my brain blocked some memories.

Going to France

When I was five years old, my parents decided to immigrate to France. Since Benin became independent from France, there has been an agreement between the African and French governments.

I don't remember if I was excited to come to Paris or not, but we had to go. For us, it was the unknown. At that age, I didn't realized that I was lucky compared to my people from Benin, even though I struggled very much in Paris. Going to Paris was one step along my spiritual journey.

Paris is known for its famous buildings and works of art, its chic fashion scene, and its modern literary, artistic, and intellectual ideals. I lived in the suburbs of Paris for more than twenty-eight years. Unfortunately, I didn't have the chance to visit other cities around it. What I still miss from there is la baguette et le fromage (cheese and bread).

When we arrived in Osny, a suburb of Paris, a three-bedroom apartment was waiting for us. The apartment was very nice, and we were on the fifth floor. I wanted my own bedroom, but I had to share it with my two youngest brothers. It was fine at the beginning, but as we grew up each of us wanted our own privacy. I loved that apartment.

I loved the balcony, because it was decorated with many flowers that my mother took care of with a lot of love. But for some reason, I was afraid of heights and didn't spend as much time there as I wanted.

The whole city was nice. We had everything close by (buses, the train station, grocery stores, and so on). My school was about four miles away from home; my brothers' school was a little father.

My father got a job at the prefecture of Cergy from the government. He was an architect, and his office was very close to the house we lived in. He started his job at the new place a week after we arrived in France. He went by car or bus ... I don't remember exactly. He was well respected there because of his quality of work.

My mom stayed home to take care of us. She was very strong. She would yell at each of us because she was very impatient. For a long time, I wondered why she yelled at us like that. Now I understand because I used to be like that—yelling for no reason.

Paris was new for everybody, and we had a transition period that we had to go through. My mother used to sing all the time. It was a way for her to have some joy, because she wasn't really happy.

With time, I became friends with my neighbors from the same building. On the first floor was a family from Morocco. The family on the second floor was from Algeria. The families on the third and fourth floors were from France.

Djamila on the second floor was the same age as me. Somehow, we became close and spent days together having fun and sometimes doing nothing. She became my confidant, because she listened to my stories. My mother was too busy to provide for my real needs, because she was overwhelmed by taking care of everybody.

My brothers made some friends as well, and Jean-Claude went to school to become a certified public accountant. Ernest was very interested in computers, and he wanted to become a programmer. Marcel was interested of becoming a nurse, and he was really good with people. My two youngest brothers were still too young to know what they wanted to do.

My Kindergarten Years

I started kindergarten when I was six years old. I don't have a lot of memories of it, but I remember my mother walking me to school some mornings.

She crocheted a lot and made me some clothes to go to school. The only things I didn't like were the multicolor hats she made for me. I didn't like them and she knew it, but I wore them anyway.

Because I was new and black, I was seen in a strange way. I didn't feel really accepted. One day, I wanted to play with a group of girls, but they wouldn't let me because I was black. They stood all around me singing, "You are black. You are black. You are black." Then tears came to my eyes. I was a lonely and oversensitive girl. When I think of it now, I ask myself how some kids at that age could be so cruel. I guess education comes from our own families. But when we are in a group, we act like everybody else, but we act differently when we are by ourselves unless we aren't followers. Deep inside, I still have the strange feelings of being in this circle and hearing the girls' song.

When my mom came to pick me up from school, I didn't tell her. I don't know why, but I didn't tell her. I kept all negative feelings inside, because I didn't know how to tell her. I also didn't know if she would have understood my feelings, because she was very irritable.

A mother is supposed to listen to her children and try to understand what is going on. A mother has to be in harmony with herself to be able to understand her children. If we don't love ourselves, we can't love anyone. I think that was the case for my mother. The beginning of my relationship with her wasn't as I wanted to be. I wasn't close to her, and when I wanted to get closer like every child would, she would tell me, "Oh, you are bothering me!" or "Leave me alone!"

I cried all the time and even over nothing. Sometimes, I didn't know for what reason I was crying. I think it bothered everybody in my family. I was the only girl, and I didn't have anyone to rely on except my girlfriends. My brothers sometimes yelled at me, saying "What's going on? Why are you crying? Stop it!" And I cried more and more because of the way they talked to me.

At a young age, I felt unloved, scared, and frightened by everything, even when I was with my friends. I felt like no one had some time for me. My mother did what she could; unfortunately, what she could do wasn't enough for us.

Months later, I became friends with other girls and boys from different buildings, including Muriel. Muriel was outgoing, outspoken, full of life, and beautiful. She was a joy to be around, and she had success with .boys Secretly, I felt very jealous of her. I wanted to be like her—white, beautiful, and successful with boys. I was drawn to her. I was trying to get her attention and wanted to be liked. I wanted to be loved by anyone who was nice to me. Muriel teased me a lot about my shyness, and she taught me a lot about boys.

I hung out with a group of girls who, in my point of view, accepted me for who I was. At that time, I was a follower. I didn't have the courage to be myself yet. My parents couldn't or didn't want to see that I was different.

Ernest use to date a girl named Gaby. She was from Germany and very tall. I was impressed with her hair, because it was as beautiful as she was. Ernest was in love with her, but one day they broke up. He was a player, and girls liked him. He was handsome. I remember being in love with his close friend.

Jean-Claude also loved to have fun, and he and Ernest both smoked cigarettes like my father. But my brothers didn't get along very well with each other. There fought a lot, and my mother would separate them.

Things were not very good at home. My parents yelled at each other a lot. My father wanted his way all the time and yelled at us. He came home from work late and drunk most of the time, and my mother had a hard time accepting that.

One day, my father after dinner was angry at Jean-Claude, because he hadn't done something that he was supposed to do.

From his bedroom, my father yelled, "Jean-Claude!"

"Yes, Dad?" Jean-Claude said.

"Come here. Put yourself on your knees."

"Why? What did I do?"

"Put yourself on your knees, I said!"

My brother obeyed him. Then, my father took his belt from buckle and started to beat Jean-Claude.

Jean-Claude cried, "Please, Dad. Please stop!"

My father was all over him. That was the first time I was scared of my father. He was repeating what he had gone through when he was a child, because he was a tyrant. My father didn't like himself, because if he did, he would never have done that to his children. My mother tried to intervene, but he didn't hear her. When my father stopped after a while, Jean Claude was in bad shape, and he was bleeding and crying. Everybody in the house was paralyzed, including my mother. I was terrified and couldn't move from the corner I was in. I was praying to God, "Please make my dad stop what he's doing to us!" Jean-Claude was crying as hard as he could as he went in his bedroom. The next morning he didn't go to school. I don't remember if my mom talked to him after that, but if she did, she must have said, "Please don't get him angry next time. You know how he is!"

My sick father abused his power as a parent. When he was mad at something, he punished us for no reason. Had he experience the same trauma as a child? The alcohol didn't help. Sometimes, my father called his cousin and complained about us; together they would agree on a physical punishment. I don't recall if my mother intervened and stopped him. She was powerless about all of this. I know something for sure: if she didn't obey him, she got hurt too. Sometimes, I saw her with one eye closed in the morning. Then, I knew what had happened. Oh God, how much I wanted her to leave him.

Unfortunately, this situation became routine in my family, where my father beat my brothers and I witnessed all of that, hating him for doing it. What gave him the right to conduct himself like that? Parents were supposed to protect their children not beat them bloody. Our home wasn't safe because of him. He was a tyrant and hurt all of us. I don't have any memories of my parents laughing together or having a moment of tenderness. I don't know why my father was like this. What was his problem?

Other nights, he would come late and drunk. When I was sleeping in my bedroom, he would open the door and take me into his bedroom. My mom would scream at him asking him to put me back in my bed. She would say, "No, no, no. Leave her alone!" But of course, he didn't listen. I thought my father wouldn't beat me like he did my brothers, but he did. He used his belt as usual. When he finished beating me, I ran to my mother; all she did was comfort me. As usual again, I didn't know why he did this to me.

A while ago, I started to dream about my father molesting me, and the visions were very clear. My father was sexually abusing me. I used to be angry with my mother; I asked myself why she didn't do anything to stop him or leave him. The answer to this question is that she didn't have the courage to be by herself.

At that time, my mother didn't want to do anything to jeopardize her marriage. Her questions were "What will people would say?", "How I am going to survive?", "What about his reputation?", "Will I have enough money to survive?" It was at that time in my life when I started to dream up a different little world, because my reality was frightening and lonely and had no place for love. I prayed and prayed. I dreamed of becoming a professional dancer, because I wanted to free myself from my own world. I had become scared of my life on earth. I dreamed about angels and guides protecting me, because they made me feel good. When I thought about my future, about being a dancer, it made me feel safe and I stopped thinking that I was a terrible little girl. God became my world and my support.

My relationship with my mother became worse as well. She made me feel like I wasn't worth her time. Sometimes she said to me, "You are so stupid. Look at your cousin. She is smarter and prettier than you." She slapped me in the face from time to time, because I talked back, or my brother surprised me doing something that I wasn't supposed to do. When he told my mother, she said, "Just slap her."

I cried and cried and cried. I became used to this treatment, and I went to the corner of my bedroom to ask God, "Why are they doing this to me again?" I got the answer to that question as a big smile on my face, because I became very sensitive to the answers to my prayers.

For an example of normal life in my family, we would go to church on Sunday. I didn't want to go but my mother forced me. When we came back home, lunch was all ready, because she had woken up early in the morning to cook.

My father didn't go to church; he stayed at home reading his newspapers or watching TV or talking on the phone. Soccer was his favorite game to watch with his glass of wine or beer and cigarettes next to him. It was during those moments that we saw him smiling, laughing, making jokes. He became almost like a normal father, because he was at peace with himself. I would go back and forth, looking at him to see if he was well, because I was afraid he would change his mood. My surveillance about him became necessary, because when he was like that, I was also well. Those times were so precious that everybody was behind the TV, and we would make every effort to make him happy. When he was calm, it was a special day for us.

My father was mentally ill. I didn't have any feelings for my father except fear, anger, and resentment. If he hadn't been there, it would have been the same for me anyway.

My mom felt alive. I liked it when she was like that. All I wanted from my mother was for her to be proud and pay more attention to me. She called me to help or to teach me how to sew and cook; I didn't like that too much. One thing I wanted was to be there for her as well, but my fear of not being accepted for who I was made me feel that I couldn't be there for her. But she has made me a good cook, and that is the way I want to remember my mother.

With time, I became stubborn, and I wanted to be the way I wanted to be. That was necessary for me, because I started to develop survival instincts.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Annick Nouatin's AUTOBIOGRAPHY by ANNICK NOUATIN Copyright © 2012 by Annick Nouatin. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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