Winter 1970, Daily City, California. I'm alone. I'm hungry and I'm shivering in the dark. I sit on top of my hands at the bottom of the stairs in the garage. My head is tilted backward. My hands became numb hours ago. My neck

and shoulder muscles begin to throb. But that's nothing new. I've learned to

turn off the pain. I am mother's prisoner. I am nine years old and I have been living like this for years.

Every day it's the same thing. I wake up from sleeping on an old army caught in the garage,

perform the morning chores, and if I'm lucky, eat leftover breakfast cereal from my brother's bowls.

I run to school, steal food, return to the house, and am forced to throw up in the toilet bowl to prove that I didn't commit the crime of stealing any food.

I received beatings or play another one of her games,

perform afternoon chores, then sit at the bottom of the stairs

until I'm summoned to complete the evening chores.

Then, and only if I have completed all of my chores on time,

and if I have not committed any crimes,

I may be fed a morsel of food.

My day ends only when Mother allows me to sleep on the army cot, where my body curls up in my

meek effort to retain any body heat.

The only pleasure in my life is when I sleep. That's the only time I can escape my life. I love to dream. Let's go to go for the next day.

Do you guys get you guys get you

get you know for the next day Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Truenon I am both mother and mothers prisoner

my name is Brace Belden. I am actually mother and my name is Liz. We are of course joined by a producer young Chomsky and like

Brace said this is true. Hello. Hello and welcome to our guest prisoner Thomas Morton.

Hello.

We are, we've got a lot to talk about today.

Yeah, we, I think the easiest way to kind of intro this discussion is to say that a while ago,

...