Read Online My Son Marshall, My Son Eminem by Annette Witheridge, Debbie Nelson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annette Witheridge, Debbie Nelson
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from his allowance, Marshall was determined to earn money too. He was crazy about breakdancing, so he made a big cardboard sign, announcing it cost twenty-five cents to watch. Then he got me to stand in the parking lot, with the sign around my neck, and hold a cup to collect the money. For some reason he would wear only white to breakdance. By the time he’d finished spinning on the ground he was filthy.
For the second time in my life I was forced to go on welfare. I hated it but had no choice. Fred wouldn’t even talk to me, let alone send any money. Then, just when things couldn’t get any worse, they did.
In the seventh month of my pregnancy I was talking to my brother Todd when a crazy man called Mike Harris appeared from nowhere. He grabbed me, pulled up my top, held a knife to my belly, and growled, “I’ll cut the baby out and hand it to you.”
I saw his eyes—they were fiery. He was clearly high on drugs. My legs buckled underneath me. Todd beat him off and chased him down the street. Then, as I was gasping for air, he helped me back into my car.
The doctor sent me to the hospital, ordering me to stay there for the remainder of my pregnancy. The baby’s food supply had somehow got cut off and he wasn’t growing properly. It was the shock of the knife attack.
A friend cared for Marshall while I lay on my side in a nondescript hospital room for two long months, hoping and praying that my baby would grow and be healthy.
The six high-risk specialists gathered around my hospital bed preparing me for the worst—there was a chance my baby would need to be rushed off to another hospital for heart surgery. Thank God he was okay.
Nathan Kane came screaming into the world on February 3, 1986. He had jaundice and colic, and he would not stop crying. He was considered premature.
Marshall was not impressed.
“Send him back,” he ordered. Then as a joke he added, “I want a baby dinosaur, not him.”
A couple of the neighbors said that at thirteen Marshall was too old to be obsessed with dinosaurs. I ignored them. The women said the same thing when Marshall did his drumbeats or would breakdance over and over. They’d try to say he was retarded. He wasn’t retarded; he was making music. And he’d won a poetry competition at school. His verse was displayed in the local shopping mall. I dismissed the other mothers’ words as jealousy.
CHAPTER TEN
Flushed by his poetry success, Marshall now knew exactly what he wanted to do for a living. He idolized LL Cool J and wanted to be a hip-hop artist. His peers laughed at him, but I told him he could achieve anything he wanted in life.
He scribbled lyrics over napkins, scraps of paper, even grocery-store receipts, and he woke me up constantly in the middle of the night to ask what words meant. I bought him a dictionary. He pored over it, memorizing unusual words and meanings.
Marshall worried constantly about the state of the world—he hated wars, famines, and poverty. He was all for peace and prosperity; his lyrics reflected those things.
He also had drawing books full of cartoon characters he’d created. He never mentioned his father, but once when I couldn’t get to his school’s parents’ evening, he left me a drawing of himself sitting alone on the porch. It was his way of saying he was upset. When he was happy, he made me pictures of butterflies, knowing I loved them.
I got annoyed when his teachers gave him C grades for art. His drawings were so good they accused him of copying. But he did well in music, often getting a B grade. I had Marshall prove to one of his teachers that he really could draw. They still had a hard time believing it.
He and Ronnie had silly quarrels over pop. Ronnie moved away from hip-hop and was into Bon Jovi, rock, and heavy metal. So Marshall honed his rapping skills on Todd and Nan. And, despite his initial reservations, he soon fell in love with his baby brother. He cradled Nathan to sleep, gave him his bottle, and
For the second time in my life I was forced to go on welfare. I hated it but had no choice. Fred wouldn’t even talk to me, let alone send any money. Then, just when things couldn’t get any worse, they did.
In the seventh month of my pregnancy I was talking to my brother Todd when a crazy man called Mike Harris appeared from nowhere. He grabbed me, pulled up my top, held a knife to my belly, and growled, “I’ll cut the baby out and hand it to you.”
I saw his eyes—they were fiery. He was clearly high on drugs. My legs buckled underneath me. Todd beat him off and chased him down the street. Then, as I was gasping for air, he helped me back into my car.
The doctor sent me to the hospital, ordering me to stay there for the remainder of my pregnancy. The baby’s food supply had somehow got cut off and he wasn’t growing properly. It was the shock of the knife attack.
A friend cared for Marshall while I lay on my side in a nondescript hospital room for two long months, hoping and praying that my baby would grow and be healthy.
The six high-risk specialists gathered around my hospital bed preparing me for the worst—there was a chance my baby would need to be rushed off to another hospital for heart surgery. Thank God he was okay.
Nathan Kane came screaming into the world on February 3, 1986. He had jaundice and colic, and he would not stop crying. He was considered premature.
Marshall was not impressed.
“Send him back,” he ordered. Then as a joke he added, “I want a baby dinosaur, not him.”
A couple of the neighbors said that at thirteen Marshall was too old to be obsessed with dinosaurs. I ignored them. The women said the same thing when Marshall did his drumbeats or would breakdance over and over. They’d try to say he was retarded. He wasn’t retarded; he was making music. And he’d won a poetry competition at school. His verse was displayed in the local shopping mall. I dismissed the other mothers’ words as jealousy.
CHAPTER TEN
Flushed by his poetry success, Marshall now knew exactly what he wanted to do for a living. He idolized LL Cool J and wanted to be a hip-hop artist. His peers laughed at him, but I told him he could achieve anything he wanted in life.
He scribbled lyrics over napkins, scraps of paper, even grocery-store receipts, and he woke me up constantly in the middle of the night to ask what words meant. I bought him a dictionary. He pored over it, memorizing unusual words and meanings.
Marshall worried constantly about the state of the world—he hated wars, famines, and poverty. He was all for peace and prosperity; his lyrics reflected those things.
He also had drawing books full of cartoon characters he’d created. He never mentioned his father, but once when I couldn’t get to his school’s parents’ evening, he left me a drawing of himself sitting alone on the porch. It was his way of saying he was upset. When he was happy, he made me pictures of butterflies, knowing I loved them.
I got annoyed when his teachers gave him C grades for art. His drawings were so good they accused him of copying. But he did well in music, often getting a B grade. I had Marshall prove to one of his teachers that he really could draw. They still had a hard time believing it.
He and Ronnie had silly quarrels over pop. Ronnie moved away from hip-hop and was into Bon Jovi, rock, and heavy metal. So Marshall honed his rapping skills on Todd and Nan. And, despite his initial reservations, he soon fell in love with his baby brother. He cradled Nathan to sleep, gave him his bottle, and
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