Marty Diamond came from a poor black family in Ohio. How could she raise her handicapped son, who had never spoken a single word, and how could she afford the therapies he needed? She set out to become a topnotch exotic dancer, with additional hope of success as a singer and songwriter. Boyfriends came and went, but her truest friends proved to be white men. Her spunk, self-assurance, and determination led her through an adventurous life filled with joy, guilt, pride, and sorrow.

Erica Stux tells this true story. A mutual friend brought the two together so that Marty’s story could be written.

Originally trained as a chemist, Erica Stux began writing when her children were young. She has had many poems and prose pieces for children published, as well as adult humor and light verse. Her books include a novel Landlady, poetry booklets, a biography of women in the arts, and a biography of author and abolitionist Lydia Maria Child. She especially enjoys writing about nature for children. Most of her life was spent in Ohio, but she now lives in Chatsworth, California, with her husband Bill Shore.

I was in my kitchen one evening when Marlon appeared at my back door. As soon as I opened the door I could see he was in a belligerent mood. He grabbed my arm and dragged me outside to the driveway. I couldn’t dodge his blows. He held me with one hand while his fist came crashing into face time after time. I fell, tried to get up, and his fist leveled me again.

"You get rid of that white man!" he shouted. "I can be Corky’s daddy! You don’t need no white man to be his daddy!"

Corky had come out of the house.

"You hurt my mommy," he whimpered several times. Of course the scene was upsetting to him.

"Go back inside," I shouted between cuffs.

I kept trying to get up, and Marlon’s pounding kept knocking me down. I could taste blood, and realized it was coming from my nose. The concrete driveway rose and crashed into my head time and again. He finally let me go and disappeared. I went in and called the cops. My face was dripping blood like a leaky faucet, all over my clothes and the floor, and I could barely see out of one eye.

The police took down a report but could do nothing unless I filed a complaint. I knew they did not concern themselves too much about "black on black" crime. I then called the paramedics, who took me in an ambulance to the closest emergency room. X-rays were taken, but I wouldn’t let the hospital keep me there; I wanted to get home.

Part of being a black woman is getting her ass kicked once in a while. It just happened to be my time.

Frank would never beat me, I knew. But here was a black man I had been dating for only six months, and he was punishing me because I had a white man being kind to me and my son. Was it always going to be this way? Were black men always going to penalize me for having a white male friend? Must I forget about ever having a black boyfriend?