To this website, I am adding some information about my background, because I think that it is important to share information with others about some of the difficulties we face, and how  we overcome them.  I also am determined to never allow those  who attempt to bury the past as if it never happened . . . . and the guilty who not only attempt to cover their tracks but also con others into covering their tracks for them.   And to those  who have similar stories, my warmest regards, and, never  stay silent, for that is exactly  what those who abuse you want.

After thinking about the way that my biological relatives have behaved, and I decided that I would, come hell or high water, find a way to stop them from hiding all of what they have been sweeping under the rug for years. Then it occurred to me that anything out on the WWW was searchable, indexed by search engines, and, even more hilariously, left for posterity. So I decided then and there to publish all I had here on my website . . . . that ought to really excite the hillbillies of the family who have been trying to intimidate others to be silent . . . Read it and weep hillbillies . . .

I am original from Newaygo, Michigan.  I grew up on a 40-acre farm, just outside of the city of Newaygo.  My name at that time was Shawn Loveless, or Shawn Adair Loveless, if you include the middle name.  (You may note that I am providing names purposely so that when someone  does a search, they will find this information online.)  I changed my name because I did not want to be associated  with an abuser and those who support him.    What I know, myself, and directly experienced myself, started when I witnessed the abuse of my older brother, James Alan Taylor, who is biologically my half-brother, and luckily not the son of Jack D. Loveless, That is Jack Dale Loveless, whose last residence  was in White Cloud, Michigan, and is my biological father, and nothing more, if you get my drift.   I recall seeing my brother out in a field, with my father gripping his hand so he could not escape, going around and around while being beaten with a rope, and the aftermath of purple welts on his legs . . . the neighbors had to have known.  Kids make a lot of noise when they are being beaten that roughly.  Green tree branches substituted if a rope was not handy.   Jim's father once sent him a birthday present . . . my father burned it, rather than having given it to Jim.   When Jim left home, I became the target, as did my younger brother Kevin Loveless when I left home.   Prior to me leaving home, an incident occurred that seems to reflect some on the character of my biological father.  Having accused me of something or other, I had finally had enough and told  him I was damn tired of being accused of things I did not do.  I  was getting up there in size too, and he evidently saw me as a threat, and left me alone  from then on.  But you see that is how people who abuse  others  are . . . . they own the  heart of a coward, they only abuse people  who are vulnerable.   It was always the boys who were targeted, I will not say more than that, because I am not sure just what was REALLY going on even with his own daughters, although I have had suspicions based on one particular event that came to my knowledge.)   The marriage between him and Charlene LuFrancis Brown,  (You can  find more information on her and other  links to the honorable  side of the family, the Browns, and  Irwins here)   Incidently, I was not the only one to change my name, Mom changed hers back to Brown later too.   Anyway, that marriage ended in divorce, but it should have happened when the first event occurred, which I will reveal from a letter that I received from my mother below.  This letter is from March 25, 1997:

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Note that in this letter my mother states that he had threatened to kill her . . . . . And that some of her own children had intimidated her into not speaking out.  At the end of the  letter  she mentions that one of those of the family has a criminal record, which is ON RECORD . . . . and  that is for manslaughter.   What those who have not experienced this craziness will find even more stunning is indeed that some  of those who were  abused by my biological father are some of his most ardent defenders.  Stockholm Syndrome, I suppose.   He should have been thrown in jail.  My mother said that she felt helpless to stop it. Given it was a different time, in the 1960's - 1970's, and even though I still harbor some doubts based on other issues, I have forgiven my mother for anything wrong she might have done. But for the one who did his best to destroy the boys of the family, who did his best to silence all dissent or criticism, I will always consider him to be unforgivable and ultimately evil to the core. What might be most surprising to anyone reading this who has not seen it, is that people like this, often put on airs of being a great parent when in public or when strangers were present at home. In fact, if any of them who had not experienced directly some of his behavior, they would be completely incredulous, and as I said, some of his very VICTIMS defend him like he is some kind of hero. I remember one of my childhood freinds talking about how mean their father was, and then they happened to witness some of my father's behavior, and said to me, "Wow, and I thought MY dad  was mean!"    When I as about fourteen, I remember my mom calling me from the bottom of the stairs, with that voice that you hear when you know you must have done something wrong. So when I appear at the top of the stairs, I see this astonished look on her face, because she did not expect me to appear. And she turns around and says "Well, it wasn't Shawn!" . . . and after the dust settled, I learned that what had happened was, my sisters had two neighbor girl friends over, and, they needed to take a shower before they went home I guess, (it was a farm), and you-know-who was window peeking. And because of the poor light, they were not sure who they saw, and I nearly was blamed for something HE did. At the age of about 14!   For any who have doubts about this incident, feel free to contact Ray Lea Schrader (Maiden Name Davis) or Kris Carlson, (Maiden name Beckman), they were the two girls involved.  Sometime after that a policeman came over and asked my mother about there being a window-peeker in the neighborhood, and she never mentioned what happened. This kind of shit you just can't make up. And he never was called to account for it by the law in any way, shape or form.   Later, when mom was getting her divorce, she told me that she had been granted a wood stove in the settlement, but when the bastard dropped it off, it was discovered that the grates on it were diliberately broken, rendering it useless and worthless. 

  What prompted the publication of this information was that certain people of the Loveless family who had first implied that they would ignore mom if she revealed this information, as you can read in the letter, and one in fact claimed to be ignoring me, because I preferred telling the truth . . . . . which in fact, made me more determined than ever to get this information out on the  internet, in public . . . (Saying they were ignoring me was a bit crazy, given that I had told them before that to fuck off after mom died, due to their defence of the criminal dirbag and other hillbilly behaviors)  In fact, this is the exact message I sent:

Sent to April regarding family, shortly after mom died:
Btw I have no intentions of participating in anything whatsoever to do with the next event like this and there is no doubt in my mind that the reason Jim turned out the way that he did was because of the way he was severely abused when he was younger, I know because I was too by that sorry excuse for a father and if I happen to be listed in that old son-of-a-bitches will, he can shove it where the sun does not shine. I do not want anything from him. Also the main reason I am making this current process easy on everyone is because I want it over with because for the most part, I do not like dealing with family that for the most part are made up of people who defend that old bastard like he is some kind of fucking hero, racists and religious wacos who if they read that fucking 2000 year-old book of bull shit literally, they would have to conclude that mom went to hell. As far as I am concerned, I prefer doing without the likes of any of those aforementioned people.

In saying the "next event like this", I am referring to my father's funeral, which I sure as hell will not be around for, and the world will be a better place when he is no longer part of it.  As for the "likes of any of those aforementioned people" I mean exactly those people who "defend that old bastard like he is some kind of fucking hero, racists and religious wacos who if they read that fucking 2000 year-old book of bull shit literally, they would have to conclude that mom went to hell."   Religion is a divisive force, and I have no good reasons to accept people who do no accept me as I am, who think that they have some special place in the world that is superior to that of others.  It is just another form of prejudice, much like Zionism.

The fact that the old bastard  has never been punished or voiced any regrets to me was another reason I am speaking out.   As they say, no deed should go unpunished.   Nearly every one  of those hillbillies in the family have lied by ommission as far as I as I know, and they do their best to cover for someone who was a vile and abusive person.  This hillbilly bastard use to hack on me all the time, pick on me and call me names, and then expected that I would be  well-disposed toward him after all of that.  He would constanty criticize everything I did, as if he were perfect himself, so the way I look at it, I put up with it for nearly as far back as I can remember, and it did effect my life, and if he does not like the fact that I expose his evil deeds, all the better, I owe it to him.   There is  also another reason I publish this information.   This bastard would even go as far as to tell the boys in the family that he did not want them to have it any better than he did!  
   For those of you have have been through similar things, you are not alone . . . . and the way to prevail over those who would abuse you is to first, never behave like they do, if you do, they win, and second, never allow them to keep  it secret.   No doubt my biological father had dreams of posing as an upright and honorable person . . . to anyone who  did not know otherwise, or more  importantly to his grandchildren.  That is not possible now . . . this webpage will guarantee it,  and to all those of the family who tried to cover for him, I say, WELCOME TO THE MODERN AGE, HILLBILLIES!

When I was in the US Navy,  and when I was working as an over the road truckdriver, I would often call family members, just to see how  they were doing, etc.  Then when I settled in Phoenix, Arizona, I went for a long time without calling anyone, and I began to wonder, just how long it would take before someone called me.   Three years, and when they did, they wanted something, and, after that, never . . . . and that was before I started talking about what went on!  As  I mentioned earlier, one of them claimed to have been ignoring me, to which I responded, "Wow, I had no idea."  Which was true because no one had been contacting me anyway, even before I started talking about what happened . . . . At that rate, I could have done nothing and the result would be the same, so how in the fuck can any of them claim to be ignoring me?  Ignorant hillbilly logic.  They actually did call  when mom died, but the fact that they would behave like this tells anyone where their priorities landed.  All the more reason to tell those who hide from the truth exactly what they need to hear until they wise up and stop covering for a criminal abuser who threatened the life of my mother.

    When my mother sent me this letter, she mentioned to me that she specifically did not want it made known until after she died.  The  reason for that was clear . . . and stated in the letter.  But she  also said that I could feel free to do with it as I choose after she was gone . . . . perhaps she knew me well enough to know what would happen . . . She knew very well I was not one to be intimidated by threats . . . . .

Mom passed away on Aug. 12, 2012, in Grant, Michigan.  Below is a small poem she sent to me:

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“What we do in life echoes in eternity.” Maximus Decimus Meridius, from the movie Gladiator.

11-11-2017 - Post Script . . . .
I will now relate to you a group of memories which illustrate the horrid events which faced the author as a child, it is deeply personal, but it is absolutely essential to understand the depth and breadth of the psychological trauma that was experienced. As a child, I was known to have both great hearing ability and a phenomenal memory. We lived in a two-story farm house, the children's rooms were all upstairs. I do not recall the lead-up, (I suppose I was sitting at the top of the stairs, and becaume curious when things downstairs became hushed when they had been talking normally at the table in the living room.) but the house was arranged so that when we came downstairs, we were coming out from behind the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the living room were they were (my mom and dad and I do not recall who else), was adjoining. But this child of somewhere between 7 - 11 years old being the curious type, advanced slowly down the stairs, and stopped behind the refrigerator, and listened intently. What I caught was the tail end of a conversation, where my mother was relating how she had "choked him until he was blue in the face", and then realized what she was doing and desisted. Because the conversation was closing, I came from behind the refrigerator, and my mother who sat with her back to the kitchen did not see me coming was taken unexpectedly by my arrival, and I, the curious child, asked her who it was she was talking about, to which she responded abruptly "None of your business!"
      I later learned that as an infant, I use to wake up early and repeatedly say "Ohhh doooo!", after I had painted the wall with shit . . . . some infants do this, which psychologists say is a form of attention-getting behavior infants often do. But if you put the previous incident into the picture, you have to wonder . . . . was it me that she choked, due to this behavior? For years I have wondered, and analyzed and re-analyzed events . . . . I will relate a few and then arrive at my conclusion.
      Invariably, whenever we did something which my mother deemed bad enough to warrant a spanking, she would always say "Wait til your father gets home.", and we certainly knew the meaning of that . . . she never punished us herself, she left that to my father. However, an event occurred which was an exception. I went into the bathroom, and for some reason, which I do not recall, I sat down to pee, and pissed on the side of the toilet by accident. This my mother discovered, and attacked me violently, slapping at me . . . . exceptional behavior, given that it was usually "Wait til your father gets home." In context though, this has the appearance of being a psychological trigger . . . . her anger with the defecation of an infant . . . . taken by itself, this however can not be by any means rock-solid proof that she was talking about me with regard to the choking incident. However, there is more. When I was in my early teens, As a pre-teen, I was a bed wetter . . . . which psychologists say is often the result of a child not feeling safe in the home. This was something that my father would revile me for, and, I was taken to the doctor who said that it was not unusual and prescribed medicine for it. (This was before they knew it was usually a result of a child feeling unsafe at home, as far as I know.) My father use to revile me for it, mock me for it. Somewhere around the age of 7 - 11, my father decided that I would be helping him with slaughtering a pig. Unfortunately, the stupid bastard had read to many Tarzan books or something, and decided that he was going to kill the pig by cutting its throat with a large knife. Well, let me tell you, death is not as easy and fast as it is portrayed in Hollywood. For what seemed like an eternity, this poor pig was hopping around with blood streaming from its neck, shaking its head and splattering blood all over, brushing against the side of the shed, splattering blood all over the wall, as if it were trying to remove something that was clamped to its neck, and all of the while screaming . . . . that is the best I can do to describe the sound, in an extremely high pitched voice, which literally tore at the heart strings of this little boy who was innocent of such worldly things, and left a huge psychological scar, the results of which were both immediate and long-lasting. (It is even hair-raising to think about now.) But subsequently, that night, I took to my bed, and within a short time after falling asleep, woke up with a severe problem . . . . difficulty breathing . . . . it was like an asthma attack, only I did not have asthma. Having come from upstairs, to downstairs, and wheezing profusely with being unable to breathe, I stood in front of the living room table where my parents were sitting, and while I was in the middle of a life-threatening trauma, my father mocked me saying "I can't breathe! The pee fumes are killing me!" After some hesitation, my mother decided that they should run me to the doctor, but threatened me, saying that if I was "faking it", I would be punished. The symptoms did start to trail off, as we approached the doctor, but we continued on, and my mother asked the doctor about it, and he asked her if anything traumatic had occurred, to which she said "No". The doctor said that this was likely the result of something traumatic, and it was not asthma. During the ride home, my mother and oldest sister discussed this issue, and realized that the incident with the slaughter of the pig had occurred, which clearly was the trigger. It is interesting though, from a logical perspective, that the symptoms of this was difficulty breathing . . . when you consider the "blue in the face" choking event that I mentioned earlier. I was often referred to as "elephant ears", due to their size and my acute hearing by my siblings, and, likely, the origin of the term was my mother, let me relate why I think that. It was not uncommon for either of my parents to refer to us with names like this, nor was it uncommon for them to talk behind the back of their children in a derogatory manner. My brother Jim was an exemplary case in point. My mother use to talk about him when he was not present, about how he was premature, about how he would not talk until much later than most babies, and, how she would take his hand and try to prompt him to say something, and he would pull his arm away and go "eeeehhhh", and she would imitate the behavior in a derogatory way. My rule of thumb, which I have found to be ultimately true is that if people will talk about another person behind their back in your presence, they will talk about you behind your back when you are not around. It does not take a genius to know this. For this reason, to this day, I will not keep company with someone who does this.
     Another behavior of my mother was that of punishing me for things that my younger brother could do with impunity. Which, appearence-wise, takes on the mantle of perpetual punishment for previous "misdeeds", pointing again in the direction of a confirmation of what I am asserting . . . that she lied about what really happened . . . .

    Somewhere in the early days, my sister Heather and I had a discussion, which we related that we had had a vague notion that we had been choked in early life, but the feeling was but a suspicion, because it had purportedly occurred so early in life that one does not form coherent memories then. We decided that we would ask mother about it, and when we did, she denied it, and, said that she would love us no matter what we did . . . .
       Years later, I had a falling out with my mother as a result of her invading my privacy, I had made a deal with my siblings to contribute money to help her with snow plowing, and within that deal there was a stipulation that who contributed what would remain private. My mother called me and insistently said that she would pressure my older sister to reveal this, to which I emphatically warned her against doing, I told her that the whole thing as put together with the agreement of all parties that this would remain confidential, and that I was not for what she was attempting to do. That phone call did not last long, and later I got word that indeed, my mother had prevailed against my older sister somehow and the details became known to her. At that point I broke off from contacting her. It was then that, in the course of time, I began to question previous events, the incidents, and the coincidence of them having a similar thread, and came to the conclusion that, when confronted with Heather's and my questions, she had opted to lie about what happened, and deny . . . . . At the time, I had accepted the reply as good as gold, but in hindsight, and all of the aforementioned incidents in mind, save the one of the slaughter of the pig, which actually took until last night to connect the dots, so to speak, I arrived at the conclusion with a considerable amount of accuracy, that she had indeed lied . . . . and when I thought of the slaughter of the pig incident, and the symptoms I experienced, I am all the well convinced that she lied . . . . and it happened . . . . . I trust my memories enough to reach that conclusion, and as I have related in another area on this, I have forgiven my mother, although I will never forget, and, to this day there are still nagging questions, and psychological fallout from the aforementioned events. Because of the nearly complete lack of affection that I experienced, and, the physical and mental abuse, to this day, if someone hugs me, I have an immediate instinctual fight or flight response, I tighten up and feel extremely uncomfortable. Humans are no different than wild animals, and what they experience results in reactions that are modeled off of those experiences.    
    The repercussions that surrounded this realization were fresh in my mind after the event with the snow plowing, and when my sister called me attempting to reconcile the rift that had developed between me and my mother, I was in no way ready to deal with it . . . .
      Nearly all of the aforementioned things, save the slaughter of the pig event, had crushed in upon me, and I was not in any way psychologically ready to re-connect with the person who appears to have assumed that she could get away with lying about the incident because we were so young that we could not possibly have a clear memory of the event. Which brings me to a concluding event. When I was in my teens, I recall mentioning in the presence of my mother, that I remembered sitting in the closet on my stuffed toy tiger, and pulling at its ears. Her response was that there was no way I could remember such an event that early . . . . and in the spirit of discouraging that I believe in such memories. But the adult who now considers all of this, trusts more than ever in such memories, and, justifiably so . . . . I know for certain that the aforementioned memory is true . . . . and indeed, I have even seen a photo of the said stuffed tiger . . . . so . . . . . it does not take a genius to formulate the thread of all of the aforementioned events and come to a pretty startling conclusion, and that conclusion echos through the years of a life that has been surrounded by it and these events . . . . and while the deniers of the family would dread that such information come to light, as my reader knows, I myself take the opposite approach, and refuse to let the hillbillies dictate what is to be remembered and what is to be forgotten.
    As mentioned earlier, I have forgiven my  mother, and, I have moved on . . . . I now am an active antiwar advocate, for humanistic causes, oppose racism vehemently, (anyone who has suffered from oppression of any kind should understand what racism is like.) and for the underdog in many situations, and against child abuse on my Facebook page.