What I recall about my childhood is everything but hazy. I don’t remember the sticky Popsicles, hop-scotch. But I definitely remember those sandals that come in white with the pink flowers and my toes sticking out. I remember those frilly sundresses, the smell of Spanish rice and beans, lots of people, music, and everyone always seemed to be in a hurry.
Then it just stopped, at the age of two. There were strangers who arrived, packed up what I had in clear garbage bags, and that was it. No more family, just screams, and there I was in a foster home. This was in the eighties; the drug epidemic was in full swing and my parents were smalltime drug dealers. They were looking for ways to put food on the table. I was really unaware of who my parents were, but everywhere I went, there was a letter that no one would let me see.
It hurt. All I knew was I missed my family, and all I wanted to know was, where were they? There was no explanation, just the pain and tears streaming down my face, especially at night. I always wondered what would happen next. I became scared of the knock on the door or any loud noise, and I worried that I would be taken away again. The group home was filled with kids just like me, and I stayed to myself. I was tiny, with big brown eyes and pigtails.
I would not talk, and the other kids felt the best way to get back at me was to call me names: blackie and darkie. I did not even know what that meant, but I figured if I could put chalk on my face and body, maybe I could be lighter and they would stop. That was when my childhood stopped—not only did I have this pain, but I was engaged in a serious game of dodgeball, only there was no ball, and I was always it.
At the age of seven I was finally adopted, or so I thought. I knew that Mrs. Bell wanted the best for me, but after years of being in foster homes, you begin not wanting to be comfortable. I became more trouble than she expected. I had problems concentrating in school. The kids picked on me because I hit puberty early. I had a teenage shape and breasts at nine. To hide it I wore oversized clothes and hung out with the boys. My adopted mother worked for a homeless shelter—Providence House—so she would let me go shopping through the donated clothes and things. The girls in school were very cruel. They called me many names. One was “garden tool.” I did not even know what that was; one of my classmates finally told me what it was—it’s a “hoe.” How did I become a garden tool? When I told my mother, she said, “Stop hanging with those boys and they won’t call you a hoe.” What? I played baseball with them, and basketball, and they did not care how long my hair was, what I was wearing, or any of that stuff the other girls were almost relentless about.
My relationship with my adopted mom went from bad to worse, as she felt I was too much to handle and took out a PINS warrant on me at the age of ten. It got so bad that I ran away. I was sick and tired of hearing “get out if you don’t like it,” but I remembered the letter. I stuck it in my pocket and off I went. On the street I would meet guys and then stay with them. They would want me to have sex with them in exchange for shelter. I met a guy who was nineteen years old, and I stayed with him. Shortly thereafter I became pregnant and the father left.
I had a beautiful boy named Lamont. Lamont and I have been through a lot. A couple of days after I had my son, we moved into a mother-and-child foster home, where I continued to raise my baby. We lived in the first home for two years ’til we had to move suddenly. My second mother-and-child foster home was a lot different from the first one. My old foster mother was in her early thirties and had let me live a somewhat normal life. But my new foster mother was eighty years old. I couldn’t go anywhere, she was so overprotective, which was good and bad.
I actually remember the double padlock on the door. She was the only one with the key to freedom. She locked me in the house a few times, but I quickly learned a way around that situation.
She was so old and paranoid that she had a padlock on the inside of the home.
A few times my child and I were locked in the house with no food, so I had to improvise, trying to find a way to get out. If I wanted to go out—even to the store—I would have to sneak out the window. She immediately requested that my child and I be removed from her home.
One of my last homes was in Jamaica Estates, where the foster family lived a very abundant lifestyle. They were extremely controlling and overprotective. I needed to be in the house by 6 P.M. each and every night, and the one time I stayed out late they asked that I get moved.
At the age of sixteen I left the foster care system with my little boy in hand. We stayed in an array of shelters. Covenant House was one of them. When I was seventeen and a half, my son and I went to stay with my adopted mother, who had adopted me when I was seven.
I was determined to finish high school and get my diploma. I went in and out of abusive relationships, hoping someone would love me enough to fill the hole I had inside me. One boyfriend beat me up so badly—once he hit me in the head with a dumbbell and I had to get staples in my head. Another time he almost broke my nose. Regardless, I kept going. I worked at a local pharmacy after school, and when I got older I just worked and worked. I became a barmaid at night at a local strip club. I was underage, but they still let me work. I was able to get the money necessary to take care of me and my son.
I was then introduced to escorting by one of the women at the bar. It was simple, I thought: $1,000 an hour to date and sometimes sleep with men. I was able to move myself and my son out of a bad neighborhood. But I was paying a price, and I wanted to change my life. I moved for a fresh start.
That is when I met KK. A mutual friend introduced us, and ironically we had similar features. I had begun a modeling career; one of the men who was my former client helped me get photos, business cards, and set up my business. He knew I wanted out and was gracious enough to help. KK was doing the same, but I always felt like it was a competition with her. I just enjoyed this part of my life and was grateful for the opportunity to put my life behind me and start a career that I loved.
I decided to end our friendship, and that is when it all began. KK used the Internet to stalk me in an attempt to defame my name and ruin my reputation. I began to appear in an array of magazines, and as my modeling career started taking off, she became more angry and malicious with her attempts. I mean insanely angry—she used my success as a litmus test where she started a campaign to tear me down.
It started with e-mails, MySpace, Facebook, Twitter—and then she graduated to the ultimate: she put out a sex tape where she posed as me. First it was blurred, then I realized that she was able to get a tape from one of my former customers and had pretended she was me in order to get it. Her campaign was “Milan Rose is a porn star prostitute.” This slogan was pasted all over the Internet, and it was viral. This was done out of nothing else but jealousy and envy.
KK had been using my pictures and setting up escort websites impersonating me and pretending to be me as an escort. Why would KK or any other crazy person do this? Was it to ruin my name or break my spirit?
It became so disturbing that I filed harassment charges with the police. I have had to involve attorneys and the FBI. We even had dueling radio appearances—I went on a show and then KK went on a rival’s show. This was getting out of hand, and when no one else would book her on their show, KK started her own blog talk radio show. KK used my pictures and set up several escort websites impersonating and pretending to be me and providing services. She utilized my old escort name, “Milan,” and current modeling photos.
KK was able to manipulate the men who had hired her for her escort services and my old clients to make them think it was the real me—Milani Rose—but instead it was KK the impostor. KK has had sex with countless men, leading them to believe that they were having sex with me. I had no idea there was a sex tape; one of my former customers filmed us having sex without my consent. KK then went out with this gentleman and convinced him to give her the tape. While checking my e-mail I received an evil alarming message from KK that read, “Your sex tape is going to be released in a few days and it is in distribution.” Bitch! What sex tape? I could not believe it.
KK’s main objective was to reduce my status as the model everyone loves and is talking about and turn that around on me. It is so unfortunate that her need to get ahead involves defaming me. My life started feeling like the psychological thriller Single White Female,