Brown

I signed my birth certificate.

It began in Sunday School, the intentional choice of the teacher to keep me invisible and silent. 

Sunday school was a mock of a cult service. Children, aged newborn - to twelve, sit through thirty minutes of singing, prayer and water-downed doctrine. During the singing portion of the weekend's dogma education, children raise their hands and, if chosen, choose a song to sing. ‘I'm in the Lord’s Army’ was a favorite; we got to stomp our feet without a spanking, eagerly awaiting around the corner. I sat and raised my hand before the Sunday School teacher, Mrs. C, for twelve years, and Mrs. C picked me twice. 

Mrs. C knew every name except ours, my biological stranger’s and me. “Yes, you” was how she addressed us. 

My biological stranger and I sing. Our Mom sings. Our Grandpa was the song leader in the cult long before we were born. I also play the piano, and she, my bio stranger plays the saxophone. Weekly piano and singing lessons by the cult music leader were routine for years. Believe it or not, I have my grade 8 in piano overture. I have performed at piano and singing competitions, winning locally. Keeping busy was a must, for a still mind was a breeding ground for Satan. Our singing abilities lead us to sing church ‘specials.’ Mom would dress my biological stranger and me in matching dresses for added adorable stage presence. *’ specials,’ songs sung during the music part of the cult service by selected members as if they are NSYNC (minus the dancing.) My biological stranger and I sang as a duo for years, into our teen years, for that matter. When singing, we graduated from “Yes, you” to “The Brown Girls.” Cult members took to it, and “You're a Brown Girl” became the go-to acknowledgement of me. It dragged on for years. At sixteen, my biological stranger shipped away across the country to Ontario, and our duo fell apart. Her departure snapped any configurations of “Brown girl” in two. While she partied and became one with sour puss, I became “Yes, you” again. 

Two weeks into adulthood, they asked my name. A quick six thousand seven hundred and four days is all it took for them to do the bare minimum. They didn't see me; they gave a slight nod to my existence, but for this, “Yes, you,” at that moment, I was daylight. 

I had become ambivalent about my home life. I loved them, but my biological parents were on the verge of being kicked out of the cult for the third time, and I was ashamed. Association and recognition with ‘Brown’ kept me in a cone of shame. I needed to move out to save my relationship with God, remaining worthy of a spot on a pew in the sanctuary. Eternal life was hanging as a carrot on the stick, and I was chasing. 

In my survival, I awoke my capability. In my capability, I brought back to life ‘Brown.’ 

“What is your name?” she asked. 

 ‘She,’ the wife of the assistant pastor. 

Panicked that my name may be problematic, staring at the ground, petrified and pulling my skirt past my knees until the cotton fabric could not stretch anymore, I mustered the syllables, “Bre-an-na.” 

“It's nice to meet you, Breanna.” 

From that day forward, in the mouths of cult elitists, my name developed. For over twelve months, the elites swished my name on their tongues, picking out notes of dependant, keen, frightened, malleable, and invisible, with the most robust note being ‘pet project.’ The cult leader came over to my new home about once per month. I laughed with him and served him coffee. He ate the food I prepared and sat in the same chairs I did. My name was in the leader’s presence, and out of his mouth did my name exit. 

With my overnight status change, I signed my death certificate, The Death of ‘Brown.’ As I stepped foot into my new home, I had not put my overnight bag down for five minutes before the murder began. As I sat across from the assistant pastor, my new ‘parent’ smiled with death in his eyes and said, “The only way this will work is if we treat you as one of our children.” What he failed to mention was that I would be treated worse. (Pet project, remember?) 

Over twelve months, it went from calling them Brother & Sister to a first-name basis and then to Mom and Dad. The stab to my jugular came when they approached me with the idea of legally changing my last name to theirs. With my biological stranger in Ontario and my biological parents kicked out, the erasure of ‘Brown’ from the cult was one turn of the knife from complete. I didn't take their last name as on March 5, 2011, I took my ex-husband's last name and was known as his property. 

‘Brown’ became blasphemy. It had become smeared due to the rebellious and opinionated women who owned it, more specifically, my mother. She once chose green socks for groomsmen to wear at a wedding and got reprimanded. A few months later, the leader's son and his friends began to wear coloured socks, and if you think they got into trouble, think again. The further away I ran from ‘Brown,’ the more protected was my eternal life. 

For the following seven and a half years, his name was my identity. I was Mrs. *Insert his first and last name here. All connections to ‘Brown’ were pronounced dead. 

The ‘Brown’ resurrection began on October 21, 2020. As I began to author my first blog, Reset-ish, people far and wide began to come to me to speak, to answer questions, for inspiration, and to thank. The script was flipping; where once I had to seek approval for every step and ask permission from my husband, I was now dipping my toe into the water of independence.

Flipping the script enraged the status quo. I knew if I was going to flip it, I had to do so without flipping it back. There were no options, as Jesus flipped tables, the script I had to flip. The more known I became, the heavier the control, the heavier the control the more I put myself out there. At all times, I was three steps ahead and submitted myself to punches in walls and degrading comments. I walked on a floor made of eggshells, knowing exactly where to step to keep my children and myself safe until I decided to change the flooring. 

“ You can’t have a career out of the house; I need to know where you are at all times.” Running a day home was my ankle bracelet. “Also, I’ll never allow you to have a business lunch downtown with men. I know what men want; I am one.” At the time, I didn't understand the confession, but I do now. 

Word of advice: don't threaten me with a good time.

I vowed to myself on March 21, 2018, the day I was kicked out of the cult, to unlearn, risk, lose and educate, no matter what or who. 

The events from the summer of 2021- today have unfolded like that of an island plane crash where there is only one survivor, and that one is me. There has been no time to mope; there has been survival, or I continued to sign my death certificate. 

In my survival, I awoke my capability. In my capability, I signed my birth certificate, ‘Brown.’ 

I am The Breanna Brown.

Career Woman: Executive Assistant to Serena Mah.

Author of this ever-growing and successful blog, ‘Not a Mommy Blog’ and proud single mother, 24/7 of five humans and one fur baby.