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Seed Of My Father

Shaun Teller

Copyright © 2019 by Shaun Teller.

ISBN:

Softcover eBook

978-1-7960-7403-1 978-1-7960-7402-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 11/27/2019

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Contents

Dedication Acknowledgements Forward

Chapter 1 Our Bloodline Begins? Chapter 2 Early Childhood Chapter 3 No Man’s Land Chapter 4 Homelessness and Horror Chapter 5 New Troubles Chapter 6 Sixth Grade: Sixth Grade, More Problems, and A Lifelong Question Chapter 7 Summer 2001 Chapter 8 GHT Middle Chapter 9 Mid-Teens to Thirty

Epilogue

Dedication

For my father, To my husband and children. For Emmanuel, Amiyah, T. Duiguid., and Tanisha H. Rest in Power

Acknowledgements

I want to make this short and sweet. So, here it is. In God all things are possible, even dishing the details of a traumatic childhood. Thanks to my husband the good Doctor for your love, encouragement, and . I want to thank my parents and brothers who stood by me, investing in my dream since the 2017 release of my first book. I have to pay homage to the good folks who assisted me in self-publishing this work of art. You’re all amazing!

Forward

September 1995, I penned my first poem. I was six years old, and living in a community plagued with crime, violence, and despair. After learning how to compose a haiku, I practiced at home. I’m not certain but if I correctly my first poem was about springtime. From that day forward writing became both my ion and escape. I kept diaries chronicling my life after hearing the story of Anne Frank, a Jewish victim of Hitler’s Nazi Regime and the Holocaust. I began to envision my story and what it would mean to people generations after my death. Fast forward and here it is. “Seed of My Father,” is a tell-most, written of my life, pain, struggle, and redemption. I’ve called it a “tell most” because, though I told most every intimate detail of my life, there are things I’ve kept for myself. Those stories will come to light in the right time and place, but this book isn’t it. I have, however, told some of the most painful, disturbing s; things I haven’t even told my own mother. I give you my ups and downs, mistakes and failures, heartache and my hope. You’ll read of my many encounters with death through those I’ve known, loved, and lost. You’ll learn what I felt being mistreated by my own race over complexion and socioeconomic status. You’ll learn what it was like being the black sheep of my family, and how, though they tried, my family couldn’t destroy my name and reputation. This book gives, with 100% accuracy, my experiences from birth to adulthood. I’ve changed names, as is required of me by both publication policy and privacy laws but testify that everything I say here is true. I have no reason to lie. So, I don’t. I wrote this book after years of hesitation. I found the strength and courage to do so by following the footsteps of some powerful voices. The voices of the late Maya Angelou and Stanley “Tookie” Williams. I’ve ventured into the darkest recesses of my life as did George Jackson when he wrote “Soledad Brother.” I testify to the harsh realities of life in the ghetto as did “Monster” Kody. Reading the memoirs of each of the above mentioned inspired me to get out of my own way and tell my truth. To tell the truth, I should say. There is a time in which all things must be made known and I believe now is the time. My life may not have been easy, but the trials and tribulations molded me to the woman I am today. I regret nothing. I’ve lived, laughed, loved, hurt, and learned. If I could do it all over again, I’d change nothing. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Our Bloodline Begins?

My grandfather, Billy born March 1926, to Oscar and Grace is the grandfather I’ve never known. Though we’ve never met, I’ve come to know of his life and accomplishments. He was the son of veteran. Oscar, born July 1901, began serving his country during WWI, as a member of the U.S. Marine Corps. Trumpeters. He was a native of West Virginia, but spent some time living in Casablanca, Morocco. I’m not sure how long his stay abroad lasted. What I do know is Billy departed Morocco for New York, at age seventeen. Late 1943, he arrived. Following in his father’s footsteps, Billy ed the service. He completed basic training in California at age nineteen; late 1945. As to be expected, my grandfather traveled with the military. July 1947, he departed Camaguey, Cuba for New York. One year later, Billy and fiancée Beverly applied for a marriage license in Piney Grove, West Virginia; a safe haven for African American’s during segregation. Piney Grove, West Virginia’s untold history begins with the arrival of slave owner Samuel Cabell. While no one truly knows from whence Samuel came, it is believed, by some, he arrived from Georgia. Others say England. Because Samuel is never mentioned in West Virginia history books, we may never know. Seeking to grow his wealth in West Virginia’s salt operations, Cabell made himself home in what would grow to become “Piney Grove.” Among Samuel’s slaves was his future wife, Mary Barnes. Thought it wasn’t uncommon for a white slave master to marry a slave girl; it was for him to love her. Most slave women were used as personal breeding tools and ignored. Their children were never considered “equal” with the slave master’s white children. That wasn’t the case with Mary and the couple’s thirteen offspring. Samuel’s dark-skinned family upset local white neighbors. Unfortunately, it was in rage, Samuel lost his life. However, his family was protected. Prior to his death Samuel took steps to ensure his wife and children inherited his wealth and land. In fact, he drafted thirteen individual wills, one for each child. Taking things further, he filed

paperwork setting his black wife, and brown children free. Piney Grove would go on to be a safe space for Kanawha County’s African American population, and home to the county’s only Historically Black College. Billy became a father in 1954 with the birth of sons R.B. and Roland. The new family packed up and moved in 1962; the same year my father was born. Billy was employed as a teacher but worked a second job to provide for his family. Beverly and Billy shared ten children total, seven boys and three girls. The name was carried on September 1981, with the birth of my oldest brother. Dad would his name to the remainder of his children in 1983, 1985, 1987, and 1988. Billy died February 1991 on my parent’s wedding anniversary. Now that you’re familiar with my grandfather, get to know me.

Chapter 2

Early Childhood

November 1988, I came into the world. Born in Colorado to Frederigo and Shelly, my life began. In my previous book, “Do You Know Who You Are?”, I described a hospital scenario that gave my parents quite a fright. From the womb I was taken and placed under a heated lamp. Hospital nurses carried out all necessary procedures, checking to see that my body was intact. I weighed in a whopping 9lbs 3oz. (according to my mother), had a head full of blonde hair, and the brightest blue eyes anyone had ever seen. To my mother’s amazement and confusion, I was not accidentally switched. When recounting her reaction to me after birth, my mother said: “I looked at you; blonde hair, pale skin, and blue eyes and asked, ‘Who’s white baby is this?’” Shortly after birth I went missing. Twenty years later, in a hilarious coincidence, I’d ask nurses nearly the same question about my oldest who was born looking Asian. With a calamity settled and my parents’ worries at ease, I made my way home. Thanksgiving 1988, my family was thankful for me. My earliest childhood memories center around church. Though the actions within didn’t always mirror Christ’s teachings; both parents were raised in Christian homes. My father grew up in a Baptist household, while my mother was raised “Holiness.” There’s not many differences in beliefs between the two denominations. Under the Holiness doctorand, women shaving their legs is frowned upon. Baptists only rule (that I’m aware of, I mostly zoned out in church) of similarity to this would be regarding the use and wearing of cosmetics. Women who do are said to carry the “Jezebel Spirit.” This ideology differs from one Christian to another. Nevertheless, I’d grow to hear the term. Mother often discussed her mom’s use of the phrase regarding the doings of young women. My family and I attended service at a predominately white church in Colorado on Celtic Drive. To a small child, the chapel looked gigantic. Tall stairs led to the upper level of the church. I loved my Sunday school room. My brother Tyler and I made a beeline for the same corner every week. Toys,

and child sized playhouses filled the large room. The house in the farthest corner of the room was our favorite. Though no child could technically lay claim to any item, there existed an unspoken understanding this house was ours. I home life at this age in patches. I vaguely recall our residence in Miry Bluff but Adonis Center and Provincial Mesa like yesterday. Our stay in Miry Bluff was brief. Within a matter of months (give or take) we moved in and out of the apartment. Prior to g the lease, something terrible happened. The former tenant, a single mother of two children, smothered her kids, and shot herself in the head. My parents signed the lease completely unaware of this. Odd things happened in that apartment. Our dog barked (seemingly at no one) at odd hours. While animals can be peculiar, his charging and growling aggressively (as if protecting his territory from someone) set off red flags. The nightmares Tyler had, of a woman approaching him from the closet of his bedroom (which is where the mother killed herself) occurred repeatedly. We remained clueless until a neighbor told my mom of the murder, suicide. Once my parents learned what went on, we moved, taking every trinket we owned, and the family dog with us. Our departure ended his aggressive behavior. Some may chalk those experiences up to coincidence, but I believe something else was going on in that apartment. Fleeing Miry Bluff fell simultaneously into our elusion from Celtic Drive (the mostly white church). My father learned though the pastor allowed for minorities to attend “his” church (legally he could do nothing to stop it), he firmly believed people of color had no place in the ministry to “his” congregation. I find that very un-Christlike. We were good enough to fill his pews and give our money, but that was all we could do. Soon after leaving both Miry Hill and Celtic Drive, we made our home in Adonis Center. The Apartment complex was divided in two sides. We lived with the “innocents”; families who reared children. On the other end, Crip gang ruled the roost. The family residence was located three stories up in the center. We could see everything. The beauty of the sunrise, kids racing up the street, and their doting mothers watching with care. From our balcony, we were reminded evil exists everywhere. A cemetery rested opposite the “dividing line.”; a mere fence separating Adonis Center’s families from its criminal faction. What the fence couldn’t do was block our view of the Crip gang activities. Meetings were held among the dead. Punishment was executed above graves with the gang playing Judge, Jury, and Executioner. Arrogantly, the men allowed innocent onlookers to watch, knowing our fear kept us quiet. This was

nothing foreign. Before Adonis Center, yet after Miry Bluff, there was Provincial Mesa. The only thing worse than living side-by-side with one gang is being imprisoned within the territory of two. Drive-byes, gang wars, and gruesome murders occurred on an almost daily basis, with innocent, poor families caught in the middle. My Christian reared parents soon found another church. We regularly attended service at Truth Lifework Ministries a predominately black basilica. True to their intentions, they believed chapel participation was good for us. My parents hoped for something good, but our experiences were not. Truth Lifework Ministries was governed by a tyrannical Priest, Pastor Gaither. The husband, father, and “shepherd to God’s flock” used his position to exploit the congregation. Church revivals are commonplace in the Christian faith, but when the ill nature of man(kind) takes over, nothing godly comes from it. Pastor Gaither ran the church more like a cult than a “hospital for sinners.” Dating was forbidden, as teens were urged to marry someone within the church. Devoted congregants faithfully tithed only for their gifts to line the pastor’s pockets. The intimate details discussed at Men’s Conferences, especially those related to sex and marriage, were used to woo congregant wives. I became a regular attendee at age three. It was here where I first felt the sting of unfair judgement. Pastor Gaither was father to a son and member of Truth Lifework’s multitude. The five-year-old boy developed an innocent, yet annoying infatuation with me. One Sunday to the next he’d follow me around, sat so close to me he was almost on my lap, and gave anything just to be near me. A normal person would chalk his behavior up to “puppy love.” However, his father saw it as a “sin.” In his eyes, it wasn’t his son who was at fault. It was me. Soon thereafter Pastor Gaither began preaching on the evils of lust and infamous bible whore, Jezebel. Going further, he insisted the [Jezebel] spirit infiltrated the church. “I won’t have Jezebel in this house of worship,” he declared. Allegations were thrown my way in the weeks leading up to this sermon. Apparently, a three-year-old girl had the power to manipulate a boy two years her senior, and the maturity (both mentally and sexually) to influence him with lust. Congregation took sides and my “sinful” behavior was called into question. Most people observed the boy’s actions and told the pastor, “It’s your son, not her.” Knowing now what I didn’t know then, I’d say the boy and I were subject to persecution for nothing. The pastor would not listen. He decided to settle the matter in church. The boy and I were called to the alter for questioning. Facing the pews, in a packed sanctuary, Pastor Gaither asked us the same question: “Who in this church do you like best?” Turning first to me, the alleged “Jezebel,” he held the microphone in my face. “Nobody,” I

answered. A raucous laughter erupted through the congregation. Embarrassed, yet turning to his son he asked, “Who in this church do you like best?” Pointing a tiny, index finger my way the boy answered, “Her.” We were excused to our seats. To this day I have a love/hate relationship with Christians, the church, and Pastors. Logically, it isn’t fair to paint all saints with the same brush. However, letting my guard down with them would be reckless. Ironically, the people who have given me the most grief claim Christ as their Lord and Savior. This wasn’t the last time I’d be ostracized in the church. Home life offered an escape from persecution. The spacious apartment more than made up for what we left. Unlike Miry Bluff or Provincial Mesa, Adonis Center was spread out. Upon entering, visitors had to trek down a wide hallway opening to a large living room. There were bedrooms on either side. A kitchen rested opposite the laundry room feet away from my parents’ bedroom. It may not have been a luxury high-rise, but it was our home, and it was cozy. Colorado Springs was a city like no other. Zoos and elaborate parks attract happy go lucky Coloradoans year-round, plump wallets in tow. Denver’s Hispanic population outdid themselves at annual car shows, and no matter your race, come Cinco De Mayo; you were Mexican. Colorado celebrated its diversity. I the state having a great love for all cultures. It is a place where all people are celebrated. Nearby, in the city of Pueblo, rests a wonder. The Garden of the Gods. I’ve still yet to see anything as beautiful as those red mountains. Winters there are glorious. There’s nothing like waking to the city, covered in heaven’s cotton. I’ve missed Colorado since we left. Once my parents decided to take us to the Denver zoo. I was excited to see all the animals, especially the monkeys. I’d developed a fascination with apes. This zoo trip started off like any other but ended hilariously. After an entire afternoon oooing and aaahing at lions, tigers, bears, monkeys, and all creation, I needed a bathroom break. My mother and I made our way to the ladies’ room where there was no line. This should have been our first sign something wasn’t right. Denver’s zoo was jam packed that day. The absence of a line at the bathroom seemed golden, until we opened the door. Pushing the door into the ladies’ room, we were caught off guard by a screeching monkey. Turning my eyes sky-ward, I saw the angry, black beast dangling from a ceiling rod. Reaching for its rear, still screeching, the monkey grabbed its poo and hurled it at us. Acting quickly, mom pushed me backward, out the bathroom, and slammed the door. I didn’t have to go anymore. Sundays came and went with our consistent church attendance. My parents must have been torn between rearing their children in Christian values and seeing

Truth Lifework for what it was. We remained faithful through drama and undeniable, ungodly behavior. Such “blind faith” is encouraged in Christianity but misrepresented and misunderstood. We attended church camping trips, headed to Dallas, Texas for a revival; all in good faith what we were doing was right. It was during our final days at Truth Lifework Ministries life served us a horrible blow. We fell on hard times, losing a roof over our heads. With no place to go, we moved in with a family from our church; the Raywoods. The seven of us huddled into their home’s full basement. The duplex style home was built to house more than one family, but this wasn’t our home. I’d gone from a room of my own to sharing a bed and bedroom with my parents. My four brothers lived on top of each other in the other room. Life prior to this wasn’t perfect, but we had our own space. Losing it all was devastating. The Raywoods had two daughters; a one-year-old named Sasha and a four-year-old Sadye. The girls were reared with the same church doctrine we’d come to learn. A great memory for many 80s and 90s babies is Saturday Morning Cartoons. The bounty of cartoons such as “Ren and Stimpy,” “Dark-wing Duck,” and “Bobby’s World,” occupied television sets of millions of Americans for a decade. Other favorites such as “Batman the Animated Series,” and “Tale-Spin,” captured the hearts of innocent children everywhere. What seemed as innocent, childhood entertainment was “evil” in our church. Parents were warned not to allow the viewing of said shows because they were molding the mind of children for the Devil. Batman, for instance, was theoretically evil. His nickname, “The Dark Knight” was, as we were taught, the codename for Lucifer. In biblical philosophy, The Devil (Lucifer/Satan) is known as “The Prince of Darkness.” In opposition with God, the Devil became the epitome of everything unholy. Where Jesus Christ, “The Prince of Peace” resides in light; Lucifer, “The Prince of Darkness” lurks in the shadows. Our understanding, as of Truth Lifework Ministries, is these things were strategically placed in our faces to corrupt us. However, the corruption ran rampant within the church. Such teachings bred fear of everything other than what the pastor deemed acceptable. One Saturday, as my older brother Antero and I sat in the upstairs living room watching “Batman the Animated Series,” Sadye walked in. She saw what was on the screen and ran away screaming, “AAAAHHH, THE DEVIL’S ON TV.” Puzzled, Antero and I looked at one another. From then on, we watched cartoons downstairs. I was too young to understand our circumstances. Still, I knew something wasn’t right. I went about childhood as normal as possible. I warm days spent playing in the back yard. A yard I wished was my own. Thinking on those

days I can smell the dew on the grass. I the back yard and how it went on for eternity. I the fence we were forbidden to cross, but we did. Venturing into the unknown, me, Tyler, and our oldest brother Tion strolled the alley. The house rested atop a large hill. Behind it, the alley led to the most beautiful view of Colorado Springs. I stood that day, taking in the glory the gods and man created. The clear, blue sky above a spectacular city; this was my home. Things may not have been perfect, but I loved my hometown. I just wished for a residence of our own. Calling me from serenity, Tion led us back to our temporary abode. My short lived get away was over. It was back to the miserable existence of a homeless kid. Bound to the basement I felt non-human. We were tucked away like a kept secret. None of us felt welcomed in the upper level of the home. We were like dirty laundry, hid from sight so no one had to it we existed. Our unfortunate circumstances caused us one more tragedy. During our stay with the Raywoods, our mother found out she was expecting. Our family was to increase by two, one boy and one girl. Whatever we thought was going to happen, fate had other plans. My mother miscarried. Both babies were gone. Infant death occurred before and would tragically come again in my late teen years. Prior to the birth of my middle brother Trevor, my parents lost a girl. Mom later told me they planned to name her Cheyenne. The twins’ death was followed by our eviction. Mr. Raywood decided he wanted his house back. I’m not sure how long we’d stayed, but it was too long for our hosts. Considering both sides I can understand how he felt. It must have believed his generosity had been abused. We’d overstayed our welcome, and now it was time to leave. His wife too, was pregnant, and the stress of an entire family living on top of them must have had something to do with his decision making. After all, it was Mr. Raywood’s job to provide shelter for his family, not ours. When the Raywoods opened their doors to us, they did so with the believing we’d (at some point) leave on our own. I wish it would have happened that way. Homelessness didn’t mean we had to give up our dignity. Being forced out of another man’s home was humiliating, even for me. I was four when we moved in and five when we moved out. Thinking about it, I say I agree with the Raywoods. We overstayed our welcome. We had to leave. Photo albums, baby pictures, my favorite toys; all these things were lost in our cross-country move. My childhood was gone. I was no longer here, or there. I was real, but I wasn’t. I was a living myth. The saddest part I was only five. My family boarded a bus headed for West Virginia early summer 1994. The journey lasted days but felt like weeks. Packed like sardines in the musty bus with sweaty strangers was horrifying. My imagination ran wild as I tried to cope with

the growing fear inside. I feared what I didn’t know. I was afraid we’d never find a home. I was terrified of the people on the bus. We made numerous stops before reaching West Virginia. Depending on their destination, engers changed buses, but we stayed. In an unfamiliar setting we were exposed to danger. Among the crowd of otherwise “normal” people, existed some not so honorable individuals I’m sure. Rapists, kidnappers, murderers; all of whom we could’ve been sitting next to. I hated the bus ride. I was too young to recall time or date. All I knew is we were far from home. From here on out, my childhood would get harder and harder. If I would’ve known what was ahead: tragedy, betrayal, anger, resentment, and more pain than I could bare, I would have made a run for it. Death, we believe, is the ultimate and final act of suffering. I can tell you firsthand that is a lie. Death, at times, is more of a relief than living. Death could be the only thing that frees us from such pain. Before arriving in Chuck City, our bus stopped in Ohio. In the moment, I could think of nothing. I was hungry. The Ohio I-Hop was well-to-do for breakfast. We made our way in, got seated, and started placing orders. I don’t much of the I-Hop, only those glorious pancakes. This place had the biggest pancakes I’d ever seen. I’ve forgotten a lot from our venture to West Virginia, but those pancakes were unbelievable. Blueberry pancakes as big as dinner plates. I was both delighted and intimidated by their size. We’d been denied many luxuries; a home, a bed our own. That plate of food made up for it. It was the best tasting meal I’d had all trip. I pestered my dad until he drowned my pancakes in syrup. When satisfied, I dug in. Breakfast was over before I knew it and we were back on the bus. Next stop, Chuck City, West Virginia.

Chapter 3

No Man’s Land

The bus stopped in Chuck City, and our new life began. We exited the bus making our way into the station. I walked along, hand in hand with my mom, breaking free to jump on a bench and take in my surroundings. The station was bland. A large, square shaped building with the most basic color I’d ever seen. Its gray walls depressed me. I climbed the bench to get a better look. Caught off guard, I turned to see two strange women staring back at me. One lifted me to her hip as the other managed a “Hi, honey.” Who were these people, and why was this lady holding me? The two women introduced themselves as my aunts. On the way my dad fussed over all the relatives waiting in West Virginia. I never expected to meet them. When your entire life takes a nosedive, you’ll hold to anything just to keep your sanity. That is what I did. Meeting them was different story. I was taken aback. The sisters, Gi-Gi and Nitty, walked me to my parents and a crowd of strangers. We exited the building. A long car ride later, we settled in Paint Creek, West Virginia. We’d abruptly come with no place to stay. For a short while, we lived with my paternal grandmother, Beverly. Paint Creek, West Virginia is a small town tucked in Khan county USA. It is home to East High and P.E. Elementary School, a small community, and a host of churches. The town was later renamed after a local family. This is where my dad was born. They say first impressions decide how we see a person or place. Well, I wasn’t impressed. The city we’d left behind was beautiful and colorful. Paint Creek was dull, dominated by one shade of forest green (the trees in West Virginia are all the same color) and the smells of wet grass, and mud. The sun rose over the mountains, lighting the small street where my grandmother lived. My father was anxious, I wanted to go home. We came to her house, a two-story white home at the center of her street. The homes in Colorado were larger, better built, and sturdy. My dad told me he was one of ten kids. I wondered how so many people fit into this tiny home. Inside the smell of stale air nearly choked me. The funny odor, I’d learn later, was that of mothballs; a popular item among

small town old folks. I was young, but not so young I didn’t know the realities of life and death. This had to be where people came to die. The living room rested to the right of the front door. An old, dirty brown carpet covered the floor from the front door, ending where the kitchen began. My grandmother’s couch rested on the wall nearest the front door, opposite an old television set. The room was dimly by lamp light. To the left of the living room was a bedroom. Inside were an old dresser and a bunkbed. Beyond the living room were both the kitchen and a small room full of toys. I seriously doubted my grandmother was playing with those things. This could only mean there were other kids around somewhere. My dad had gone on, and on about the cousins we’d have in West Virginia. Honestly, none of us were thrilled to meet them. I was skeptical. Behind their smiles and polished “Nice to meet you,” hid the anger of people less than enthusiastic my father brought his family. I later learned on several occasions my father had been coached to abandon us. One such case was when my grandfather died. A telephone conversation was had between my father and our relatives, asking him to accept a one-way ticket back home. Apparently, he was to leave for the funeral, but stay. What ? My dad rejected the offer, siting his children and commitment in marriage. While that was very noble, I must wonder why he would take the same family home to the relatives who asked him to ditch us. It didn’t make sense. We were met with smiles and greetings, but our relatives’ actions would show how they truly felt . Our stay in Paint Creek was short, and unpleasant. It was obvious we weren’t welcomed. I one day, my brothers Trevor and Tyler and I pleaded with our dad to take us to the park. It was a short distance from Beverly’s house and the weather was nice. Early summer mornings in the country are best spent outdoors. If I had my choice, I’d choose to go home to the city, but for the time being the park would do. He sat at the kitchen table, next to his mom, as we begged to go out. “Riego don’t go just yet. Stay and play scrabble with me,” she insisted. We didn’t go that day. The next time we asked she stated he should wait until all the kids (our cousins) came and take us all. They didn’t show until later. Any time we wanted alone time with our dad she fought to keep us from getting it. Something wasn’t right with our grandmother. I didn’t know what, but I knew this much. I’d catch her, from time to time, staring at me with a look of utter displeasure. I thought grandmothers were supposed to love all their grandchildren. What was so wrong with us? We met our cousins that summer. All the grandchildren in one place, on one day. I bumped into my cousins Kaylee and Tessa while running around the yard.

Kaylee was just as fair skinned as me, with dark brown hair and matching eyes. Tessa, on the other hand, was dark skinned with deep brown eyes and long hair. After an awkward staring and some small talk, we bonded over a bicycle. “Do you like to ride bikes,” Kaylee asked. “I don’t know how,” I replied. “That’s ok, we’ll teach you,” and they tried. I fell a few times but got back on and we tried again and again. Before long, their parents called them. The girls had to go home. I waved “good-bye” standing on the grass. I wondered if I’d see them again. The unfortunate circumstances of our situation made for a lonely child. I wasn’t eager to meet those strangers known as distant family, but I wanted to be around other kids. I didn’t see them again. I spent the hot days lonely. After some time, and a conversation between my parents we left. My father finally broke down and took us kids to the park. My mother stayed behind to rest. She overheard my grandmother and uncle Roland in the kitchen discussing us and our stay. Roland wasn’t pleased with us being there and wanted my grandmother to kick us out. De Ja Vu from our time with the Raywoods hit again, as we were asked to leave. Unsympathetic to our situation, wanting the daughter-in-law she hated, and the grandchildren she denied, using her son as her muscle, Beulah put us out. No one wanted us. “We’ve got no room,” and “I’m sorry, my hands are tied,” hid what they really thought. What reason could my dad give to justify bringing us cross country with no place to say, and no plan? Turns out my father was sick. He’d been diagnosed with cancer. He brought us, I believe, to West Virginia, hoping to find help. He was denied. Eventually, we’d find ourselves in Chuck City, West Virginia, living in a homeless shelter. After leaving Grandma Beverly’s we went to stay with my maternal grandmother, Claudia Pearson. This too, was temporary. Mo Town, West Virginia is a small town within LaFay County. Seeing the place my mother once called “home” it was easy to understand why she wanted to leave. Mo Town was nothing special. A tiny town, full of small-town people desperate to escape. Every day we spent in that place a piece of my mother died. She and my father fought hard to get away from their hometowns. It was a shame they were forced to return. My father reached to his family, desperate to end our suffering, yet here we were; still suffering. As bad as things were, they’d get a lot worse. Claudia’s house too was small. She reared nine children in the one story four-bedroom home. Claudia, a single mother, espoused only to my Uncle Sawyer’s father, whom lost his battle with cancer, made her living cleaning house for Mo Town’s well-to-do white families. My mother was the youngest of nine children. Six boys and three girls, all from different fathers. I the story of how my mom met grandpa Oliver. Mom believed she and

brother Thaddeus had the same dad. It wasn’t true. Claudia had given them the same last name. However, what she later learned is the truth. My grandmother and grandpa Oliver had been carrying on an affair. I’m not sure my grandmother knew he was married. My understanding is Oliver’s wife and his six children lived in Connecticut. The details of their love affair are unclear, but from it my mom and her brother C. were born. My mom met her biological father at age thirteen. Mounting pressure from Oliver forced Claudia to come clean. My mother’s father was confirmed. Years later, at age eighteen, she met her distant stepmother and half siblings. Guilt over her conception tormented my mom. She was afraid to meet Oliver’s wife because of her mother’s rendezvous with a married man. To this day, my mom carries something of their transgression. Be it anger, guilt, or humiliation, I’m not sure. It may be a combination of the three. Mo Town, West Virginia’s Horus Drive is a long, narrow strip tucked into the mountains. The neighborhood consists of a sprinkle of homes, owned mostly by LaFay County’s elderly, African American residents. Upon entry, one can stop at the local Dairy Queen. West Virginia is among some of the poorest states in the nation. Luxury isn’t prevalent. A child’s only source of entertainment would be the nearby creeks, or nearest public park. Not much in the way of a “good time” exists. The crippling poverty and lack of opportunity would eventually lead the state into an opioid crisis. As of 2016, an estimated 74% of West Virginians struggle with drug addiction. I took in my new surroundings with curiosity and fear. The country gets especially dark after sunset. To a kid, the fear is paralyzing. Add my grandmother’s old superstitions to the mix and you can imagine our stay wasn’t very pleasant. Claudia was a religious woman. She’d been a regular member of her church throughout my mom’s childhood. My understanding is she was a devote Christian. Some of her household objects were questionable. Claudia lined her front door with garlic cloves. I wasn’t not sure what purpose this serves, and I wasn’t not sure I wanted to know. In fact, it wasn’t until I began studying different forms of spirituality and religions that I learned what this was. Claudia, a devote Christian, was also a practitioner of Ajo Magic. Ajo Magic, encomes the use of garlic to prevent evil from entering a dwelling. It is also said to ward off evil spirits, disease, and loneliness. Ajo Magic is often used to bring love to single, young women as well. Claudia called for silence and darkness at every thunderstorm, certain God was speaking. I’m not sure she was referring to YHWH. Her odd beliefs and practices I could tolerate. Her insistent use of castor oil I could not. Each morning, before breakfast, we’d gotten into a routine of running from her and a spoonful. Every day without fail, she’d corner us and make us take it. I can still taste it. I couldn’t

wait to leave. Opportunity knocked, not once but twice, presenting itself in the form of a possible new start; one in Maryland the other in Atlanta, Georgia. Late July, early August 1994, my father, accompanied by my oldest brothers Tion and Antero and uncle C, headed south. He’d left to look for a job, though his lack of education and military discharge stood against him. Within a week he returned. His explanation for coming back, “no luck” finding a job. Later we found out he left because his mother talked him into it. Ironically, the same woman who wanted nothing to do with his children used us, and our recent arrival in West Virginia as a reason we should stay. I’m not sure what happened in Maryland, but we didn’t move there either. We’d visited the state, left abruptly (which was becoming an unhealthy habit), and never looked back. I felt trapped living with grandma Claudia. I hadn’t had my own bed in almost a year. I was lacking access to basic “luxuries” other kids had but take for granted, none more than a permanent home of my own. We all needed but didn’t have it. Sometime during our stay, I met my cousin Melody. She, like Tessa whom I’d met earlier, was dark skinned with deep brown eyes and long hair. She and I were close in age, giving us someone to play with. There weren’t many kids on Horus Drive. Those who were there, came to visit grandparents and left. How lucky they were. Those kids got to go home. We stayed. Melody and I played throughout the summer. We chased chickens on grandma’s property, bounced balls in the driveway, and played tag in the street. Melody too came and went home but returned often. The more she came the closer we bonded. I had no sisters. She was the only little girl I had to play with. I often hoped she’d come to our house, if we got one. I first met my uncle Sawyer summer 1994. We’d been at Claudia’s nearly a month, when he came down from Maryland. Sawyer moved to Baltimore after graduating college. He earned his degree in architecture. I wonder if he, like uncle C. before him, encouraged our trip to Maryland. Sawyer is a real cool guy. His easy-going nature made him approachable and fun to be around. He visited often while in town, bringing friend Darius with him. Darius had a beautiful, black poodle I fell in love with. I vowed to get my own someday. On one of his nightly visits, Sawyer played with us kids and hung out at Grandma’s to watch a movie. Tyler, Trevor, and I begged to watch with them. I don’t know what my uncle was thinking allowing us to stay up watching horror flicks with him and Darius. He allowed. The night’s film, a 90s horror movie I love to this day; “Candy Man.” I had one of the worst nightmares of my childhood that night. As you can imagine, my mother was not

pleased. Summer’s end brought with it the start of school. We’d left Colorado with very little. My mother brought our birth certificates and social security cards, I’m assuming, knowing we’d have to go to school. I entered Village Elementary as a kindergarten student. Still technically homeless, the classroom provided temporary relief. Kindergarteners went from 7:30 to 12 noon. In those hours I didn’t have to think about where I was going next. I didn’t have to think about why we moved so much. I didn’t have to wonder what happened at grandma Beverly’s, and why we had to leave. I could be another small child, learning my ABCs and how to count. I was free. We had no car, so I rode the bus. Trevor, Tyler, and I were so small we all fit on one seat. Each morning we’d climb into our bench and enjoy the ride to school. I loved my classmates, teacher, and school. We had story time, followed by naptime, which went together with cookies and milk. We painted, played at recess, and told our friends what we’d brought to school for show and tell. All summer long I’d been sad. In kindergarten I was happy. Like before our stay was short. Weeks after starting school we left my grandmother’s house. We were close to all our family, yet everyone distanced themselves from us. Claudia wanted us out. Beverly kicked us out. Aunt Thea pointed my father to Chuck City. Our next stop, Soldier’s Homeless Shelter. Caught between temporary stays and sudden moving I accepted my fate. It was “good-bye” to Village Elementary. Good-bye to my school friends, and good-bye to slight stability. Young enough to understand only we were moving again, I believed this was “normal.” We’d live shortly with someone overstay our welcome and be asked to leave. This was our life. I could do nothing about it. I can’t imagine how my parents felt.

Chapter 4

Homelessness and Horror

Soldier’s Women’s Shelter is located on East Chuck City, West Virginia. The multi-story brick building rests at the heart of the neighborhood. East Chuck City, as we arrived, was far from its glory days. Prior to the 1960s, businessmen settled in the area, bringing families with them. The neighborhood took a turn for the worst with the influx of drugs. We came to a community in ruins. Drug addicts stumbled down the street looking for a fix. Drunks lay about sidewalks as community residence side-stepped them. Apparently, this was common. We entered the shelter and took the necessary steps to get a room. I was afraid, more afraid than I’d ever been. I’d suffered so much in a short time but was too young to change my circumstances. My life was a hotbed of mess. Soldier’s operated on a strict schedule. Residents were to be out of their rooms seated for breakfast at 6:30 a.m. We were then to eat, dress on our assigned floor, and be out for the day. Showering in a room surrounded by strangers was terrifying. I didn’t know these women. They didn’t know me. What was stopping them from hurting me or my mom? Sensing my displeasure, mom came up with an idea. We’d wake up before any other residents and shower. She wanted to have the washroom to ourselves. Our plan was a success. While the other women were just waking, we were ready for breakfast. Tension between my parents reached a boiling point. We’d been living between homes, none of which we owned or rented, merely staying with anyone who’d allow us, for months. We’ moved across country on a whim, and were now living seven people to one room, in a homeless shelter. Tempers flared one day, they both snapped. Our morning begun like any other. We rushed through shower trips and readied ourselves and headed to the cafeteria for breakfast. This morning we had eggs, bacon, and cereal. We’d been at Soldier’s only days but needed to for school. I was in no mood to eat. Living in a homeless shelter was depressing. Food was the last thing on my mind. It was late September 1994. Us kids headed off for our first day of school in Chuck City. Trevor, Tyler, and I were enrolled at

Pigeon Elementary. Older brothers Tion and Antero headed off to Rosebush Junior High. I stood in the office nervous. One month prior I was a cheerful pupil at Village Elementary. Now, I was confined to the walls of a foreign institution. I wanted to run, but where would I go? I had no home to go to, and Soldier’s was the last place I wanted to be. I looked up at the adults around me. They decided my fate, and with no end to my uncertainty, nor the power to change it; I accepted it, hesitantly. My parents played nice in front of school Principal, Mr. Knight. I knew there was tension between them. I could feel it. Their strife added to the hopelessness I felt. They waved their “good-byes” leaving me to meet my teacher. I was greeted by the school’s office secretary. She was friendly, but quite too chipper at 7:30 a.m. for my taste. The woman introduced herself, took my hand, and walked me to class. No sooner than the door closed behind me I was in tears. How could they do this to me? How could my life change so much, so soon? Why was I here? I had a school, a classroom, and friends. I liked my old teacher. This wasn’t where I wanted to be, but I had no choice. I had to stay here. The gravity of it all hit me at once, and I began to cry. A class full of small faces watched confused, as my teacher and two aids tried to calm me down. Once I stopped crying, I was seated. I snuggled in my seat at a table with two other occupants. A white girl with blonde hair and a boy with skin as black as coal and giant brown eyes. We became friends. I played with my new mates at recess and sat with them on the carpet for story time. They took care of me. The boy even made sure I wasn’t overlooked for juice at snack time. The day’s end sent me back to Soldier’s, but I had hope. Kindergarten once again became my safe space. The Shelter felt as much like a prison as it operated. Employees watched every move we made. Our activities (inside) were restricted and other residents proved themselves a danger. Tension between my parents boiled over leading to a loud, aggressive dispute. I sat in the nearest corner as they screamed. Distracted by their fight, neither mom nor dad heard a knock at the door. I did. Being a child, and without thinking I answered it. I was met by the desperate gaze of a man. His skin, though darker than mine, wasn’t as black as my kindergarten friend. His skin was neither light, nor dark, but somewhere in the middle. The man, crouched on his knees, clutched his right ribcage with his left arm. He struggled to maintain his balance as he held his side. Staring at me weakly, he pleaded in a low voice, “Help me.” I looked down to see blood collecting on the floor beneath him. Startled, I slammed the door. I turned to see my parents still engaged in a feud. I wanted to call for help but wasn’t sure I should. This wasn’t the first fight I’d witness, and it wouldn’t be the last. Pounding at the door

disrupted my panic. I opened it a second time to see the same bleeding man. Without thinking I turned to my parents and yelled, “Daddy!” No answer. My parents continued to argue. I tried to close the door, but the man pushed it open pleading, “Help me!” A man near death to the left of me, chaos to the right, anxiety rose in my tiny body. Once more I screamed, “Daddy!” The fighting stopped. My mother rushed toward me, pulling me into the room. My father shoved past me into the hall with the bleeding man. I’ve spent years trying to forget him. I cannot. Sadly, the bleeding man was only the first victim I’d see. We were in an environment that bred criminals and victims. The adults selfishly destroyed everything around them. No one suffered more than the neighborhood children. EMT workers carried the man to a nearby hospital as I cried silently in bed. I was afraid. I wondered if I would survive the night. Several nights later we were awakened by the screeching of a fire alarm. Residents cleared the building, pouring into the cold, street. Outside we watched fire trucks, ambulances, and Police cars surround the building. I smelled smoke as we fled. I saw it outside. Someone started a small fire on the third floor. Luckily it wasn’t too bad. No one was hurt. No one died. Once the area was secure, we were sent inside. I wasn’t sure of much, but I believed we would die there if we didn’t’ leave Soldier’s. October came, yet we stayed. Soldier’s was supposed to be a temporary fortitude for citizens without a home. I entered with the hope of having our own someday. By October, my hope was nonexistent. We were stranded among the downtrodden country folks; those who, like me, had given up. In the cooling, autumn air we played on the shelter’s playground. One afternoon, an employee decided to photograph us kids. A trinket for our parents to serve as a reminder they had much to live for. My mother would later decorate the mantel of our living room with them. I’m not sure where she kept them during our stay. Early November 1994 our luck changed. I learned we would finally move into our own home, meaning I would have a bedroom again. We all would, though Trevor and Tyler would have to share. We bid Soldier’s adieu to begin anew. Our residence for the next three years, Ampler Place.

Chapter 5

New Troubles

Ampler Place, a small townhome community, located on Li Drive East Chuck City, West Virginia, was my first official home in the country. The neighborhood rests in West Virginia’s Khan Valley within walking distance of a Rite Aid, auto dealership, corner stores, and Pigeon Elementary. The side-by-side community would give a false sense of safety to ersby. Empty beer bottles and used crackpipes lying about told otherwise. Alcoholics frequented the then empty field behind our home. That field is now home to a neighborhood eye doctors office. Ampler Place may not have been the ideal place to rear a family, but it sure beat Soldier’s. Inside we were welcomed into a four-story structure, with more than enough space for our large family. When your parents are poor and lack college education, living in one of the most economically crippled states in America, finding suitable space for a family of seven isn’t easy. Fate seemed to give us a bit of a break. Ampler Place was complete with a large basement. The first floor included a large living room, enclosed dining room, and kitchen. Just beyond the entrance we were welcomed by stairs inviting us to the second floor. My bedroom rested to the left of the stair’s end. Though tiny, it was perfect to me. I finally had the one thing I’d longed for; my own space. I soaked up the newness of my room. The closet where my clothes would go, the carpet beneath my feet, and the pale white walls; an overdue gift I’d earned. Next to me, my parents made themselves home in the master bedroom. Centered, yet hidden on the second floor was the attic entrance. The typical attic is a small space to occupy storage; often creepy, dry, and dark. Ours was different. Tino and Antero each had a bedroom in the attic. A large space separated the two. Trevor and Tyler shared a room opposite the bathroom. The bathroom was decorated in white with matching sink, tub, and floor tiles. I was overcome with joy for our new home. I just couldn’t articulate it. Soldier’s was a thing of the past. Our days of living one place to another were over. Or so I thought. We finally had a home. Thanksgiving 1994 came with much joy. Not only had we found permanent residence, but through the good faith of my parents, we found spiritual home as

well. Every Sunday, we’d head to the house of worship known as House of Surety Ministries. Headed by a now world-famous Bishop, House of Surety seemed a place of promise; a chapel one could attend and grow spiritually. Between school, church, and the comforts of home, I hardly noticed the chaos outside our door. Thanksgiving came with the necessary meal items; a large turkey, creamy mashed potatoes, green beans, the works. I’d almost forgotten Soldier’s and all that happened there. I was no longer haunted by the bleeding man. I’d made friends both in school and church. My classroom was no longer an escape from reality. It was a place to go, grow, and learn. Seasons changed, but our home was still our home. My sadness faded. I was the delightful, joyous girl I was before. My most fond childhood memory is Christmas 1994. True to the old-fashioned holiday films, we woke to our neighborhood covered in a blanket of thick, white snow. At the time, I believed Christmas was the day Jesus Christ was born. I’d learn in adulthood this is false. So that morning, as I made my way downstairs, I stopped to whisper, “Happy birthday, Jesus.” I continued on my way, quickly ed by Trevor and Antero. We froze in front of the tree. An evergreen lit up by holiday ornaments and colorful bulbs, nestled a sea of presents. I’m sure we wanted to speak. However, possessed with excitement we dived into the pile of goodies. After opening presents we scarfed down breakfast. Eating was the last thing on my mind. This time, I was afraid of nothing. I wanted to get my hands on those toys. Christmas has been my favorite holiday since. January arrived as did more snow. Chuck City’s Blizzard of 1995 changed the course of the city. Not only did we have two weeks’ vacation for Christmas, but with the new storm, school remained closed. Prior to the induction of new istration Khan County Board of Education, there was no mandatory 180 school attendance policy. No child had to make up school days missed due to weather related storms. Because travel was hazardous, my dad was home from work. He’d fill up his free time playing in the snow with Trevor, Tyler, and me, while mom made hot chocolate. It was then I fell in love with winter. Though more than 2,000 miles away, the snowy West Virginia winters reminded me of home. No matter where on earth I land, I will never forget Colorado. It is the place where I was born. It will remain with me when I die. The year progressed with us intact. Church service remained regular, as did school days and household chores. Our environment wasn’t ideal, but we found some semblance of normalcy in it. Spring came and went, as did summer, and the subtle crime within our neighborhood made itself known. I moved from kindergarten to first grade, living in between neighbors who were polar opposite. To the left of us

was the Chique family. A friendly mixed family of Native American (father), African American (mother), and biracial kids. The couple had four children, one of whom was my age. He and I were classmates in first grade. We were assigned the same teacher Mrs. D. I wasn’t very fond of the boy, though his mom and mine both, thought he had a crush on me. To the right, a drug dealing nut, his girlfriend, and her kids (one girl, his, two boys hers). Those boys also attended Pigeon Elementary. Mrs. D.’s class was nearest the front door. At the time, the school had no walls. Each class space was separated by portable, wheeled walls. My classmates included both neighbors and strangers, all residence of Chuck City’s East side. Some kids lived as far away as Hoover Drive nearest the Khan City bridge. Here I’d learn much more than math, phonics, and how to read. I’d learn my peers, like myself, had real problems. Some were the product of broken homes, others were neglected, and one girl in particular, was very aware of all thing related to sex. The two had no place in the same sentence: sex and children. However, over the course of my early childhood (sooner rather than later) I’d learn some children were all too familiar with sexual practices, and some of them had been victims of sexual abuse. I had a classmate named Sheena whom everyone loved. She was sweet and warm, but often acted very provocatively. In one such instance she pulled down her pants, baring her naked vagina to classmate Chance. He, like many of the other boys, was excited to see that part of the female body. Our teacher was absent that day, so a substitute stepped in. We were given a worksheet and left to ourselves. She tended to tasks at the teacher’s desk but stepped out of the room (when called by another teacher) for a few minutes. While she was busy, Sheena struck up a conversation with Chance. “Hey, you wana see something?” she asked. Nodding with curiosity the boy answered, “Yes.” With a confident smirk, Sheena unzipped her pants and exposed her lady-bits. I happened to hear everything and looked up. No one in my house ever did things like that. At the time I couldn’t make sense of her actions. However, over time I’d learn Sheena fell victim to child molestation at the hands of several of her mom’s lovers. I moved to second grade where I’d fall in love with two things; my teacher and history. My teacher, Ms. Goldberg, was truly a remarkable woman. She was patient, yet firm. She was talented and professional, and she was very enthusiastic about her work. Ms. Goldberg played it fair. No child was treated better or worse than another. Her “tell it like it is” attitude didn’t sit well with misbehaved children. I loved Ms. Goldberg. I was exposed to a balance of good and bad experiences this year. I’d met a few children who didn’t like me. I

befriended more who did. Sadly, though I too am African American, I’d develop closer friendships with children of races other than my own. One girl in particular, Nina White, a dark skinned, short haired girl, despised me. In the African American community, there exists a bitter rivalry between light and dark-skinned blacks; especially between girls and women. Throughout my life I’d find much to my amazement the fairness of my skin contributed to my inability to get along well with most other black girls. Nina exemplified every negative stereotype that exists about dark-skinned girls. She was loud, aggressive, and had a nasty attitude. No child, light or dark, liked her. Ms. Goldberg’s class was arranged in a way that I was at the same table as Nina. She had a few friends at our table. There was Sydney, a brown-skinned girl from New York and another whose name escapes me. For lack of creativity I’ll call her Gigi. Gigi was dark like Nina, had shoulder length hair, and (for some reason) was always “ashy.” If you don’t understand the term, “ashy” is a slang word used, by blacks, to describe someone with very dry, flakey skin. Gigi didn’t like me either. Cattiness is a trait attributed to women beginning in their teens. I hadn’t been previously exposed to the doings of “mean girls,” but I’ll bet these girls learned their ways from mom. Children mirror what they see. Most behavioral patterns are learned at home. Since most of my peers (at the time) were reared mainly by their mothers, it is safe to say the source of their nastiness was mother. Gigi and Nina bickered a lot. One day, as we scribbled on worksheets, the girls began to argue over hair. Gigi insulted Nina about the length and texture of hers. “Wit ‘Cho nappy headed self,” she shot. “First of all, I got hair. It ain’t nappy neither,” Nina returned. The term “nappy” is an insult to the afro-centric texture of black hair. I’ve heard the word throughout my childhood, but never could understand why we (black people) refer to our genetic makeup in such a way. The acceptance of more exotic or European features and hair on a black person as more beautiful thrives off the insecurities blacks developed in America over generations. I’ve seen no one suffer under this belief more than dark skinned women. Those with course hair to be specific. In my teen years I’d experience looks of iration at my not-so-black features while my peers were coached to perm their hair and stay out of the sun. I’ve had cousins scorned for playing outdoors long hours and coming inside “too black.” This attitude was developed and ed down from slavery. Though neither dark nor light skinned slaves had it easy, after all slavery is still slavery. Even in the house a black was considered 1/3rd a person. However, lighter skinned, often the mixed-race children of slave masters, were given lighter loads of labor, taught to speak English properly, and introduced to European etiquette the field slaves were denied. The “lighter, brighter, and better” attitude carried on after the

plantation, and generations later blacks carry an animosity to other blacks they feel have it easier because their (our) fair skin gives us privileges they don’t have. Even in today’s “natural hair acceptance” age, there are those of us who still reject 4C coils. My people have to do better. A hypocrisy exists even in the “Natural Hair Movement.” It didn’t start with the movement. I’ve watched darker girls harassed for their coily hair by other black girls who praised it on me. I didn’t get it. One-minute black girls hated me, the next, I was the epitome of beauty and therefore to be idolized. Which was it? School aged blacks loved to play in my hair. I’m not sure if it is the length that they found acceptable, or the fact that so called “nappy” hair was attached to light skin. Nevertheless, I escaped that insults from my black peers. Those attacking my skin color, not so much. Nina and her friends not only didn’t’ like me, they weren’t fond of anyone. Through intimidation tactics the girls bullied most everyone. There was a white girl (I’ll call Becca) they loved to gang up on. Becca had long, brown hair the girls made a habit of pulling. She’d cry and tell the teacher but all three denied. When comparing stories, three telling the same lie always beat the one telling the truth. I felt bad for Becca. Any girl with long hair was a target. However, when Gigi pulled my hair, I didn’t cry. I punched her in the face. Gigi, Nina, and Sydney weren’t the only kids who picked on me. I also had an issue with a biracial boy. He loved to push me and pull my hair. I told my teacher often, but no matter how she punished him, he kept bothering me. My mother grew fed up with the boy and confronted my teacher about it. I felt she was mad at the wrong person. Ms. Goldberg tried all she could to get him to stop. The boy didn’t listen. Following the confrontation, Ms. Goldberg issued a new rule. Any child big enough to hit was big enough to get hit. That went for both boys and girls. When my bully pushed me, as we made our way to the playground for recess, he got a hard kick between the legs. I guess nothing teaches a boy to keep his hands to himself like a crotch kick. He cried like a baby that day. I had no problem with him after. It was during this time I started noticing a brewing tension between my parents. My father, desperate for acceptance, decided to try again to bring together his mother and children. We hadn’t seen her since she banished us from her home. I’m not sure why that wasn’t enough. One Saturday, my dad rode Tyler, Trevor and I to grandma’s house. She was babysitting my cousins Tessa, younger sister Stacy, and Kaylee that day. I guess my dad thought he could weasel us into the mix. He couldn’t. We were given the cold shoulder. My brothers disappeared into the back yard, while I followed my dad inside. Grandma and dad begun to argue. “I don’t understand why you won’t watch my kids. You’ve got two of

Nitty’s and one of Gigi’s, now,” my father insisted. “I told you,” Grandma began, “don’t bring those kids to my house. Those are not my grandkids.” I heard it all. I was standing right between them. There is no way dad and grandma didn’t see me. Still, he tried. Prior to this argument, my aunt Gigi and her husband Jack picked us up for an afternoon at the movies. We were heading to Toys R Us, then to see “Baby’s Day Out.” We found ourselves at Grandma’s that day, dragging new toys in tow. Gigi bought me a doll (the only one I actually played with). As if being denied by your grandmother, in her own house, at age seven wasn’t hard enough; I was accused of trying to steal. The doll Gigi bought me made the trip to Grandma’s with us. As we were leaving, I grabbed it off the couch where I had thrown it prior to following Grandma and dad into the kitchen. “Honey,” Grandma began, “we don’t take things that don’t belong to us.” Clutching my doll, I looked at my dad, “But this is mine. Aunt Gigi bought it for me.” “Well, why don’t we leave it here for all the kids to play with,” she insisted. My father made me put the doll back. I was furious. I burst into tears and didn’t’ stop crying until we were home. I’m not sure how, but aunt Gigi heard what happened and called to tell my grandmother the doll was mine. After all, she bought it. Grandma then tried to replace what was mine. When she showed to our home with a new doll my mother told her to keep it. I quit playing with dolls and haven’t played with dolls since. Ignoring his mother’s demand, my father tried again to build a relationship between us and her. I heard a heated discussion between he and mom about my father’s ambition to bond his children and mother. Overhearing the commotion, I pulled my mom to the side to tell her what I heard. Grandma didn’t want us in her house and said we weren’t her grandkids. We stayed home that day. Our already distant connection to our cousins faded further. We didn’t see them much after. On one of two occasions we did visit, Gigi took me to her house with Tessa and Stacy to play with Kaylee. Someone in the family felt Kaylee needed to feel included. She was Gigi’s daughter by adoption. Kaylee’s mom had been murdered and the family took her in. Gigi and Jack lived in a quiet South Chuck City neighborhood. Prior to their most recent residence, the family lived atop Chuck City’s West Side hill. The neighborhood quickly went to hell and the family moved. Their new home was a cozy, two story brick home. Kaylee, Tessa, Stacy, and I played outside. I loved their large back yard and the family’s pet dog. Gigi busied herself making lunch and taking care of household errands as the girls and I made our way to Kaylee’s room. We decided to pull a book from the bookshelf and read a story. “What kind [of book] do you wana read,” Kaylee asked. Tessa, Stacy, and I put our heads together and decided on a scary

story. To my surprise, Kaylee had the same book Ms. Goldberg read our class; Alvin Schwartz’s “Scary Stories: Three Stories to Chill Your Bones.” As she turned the pages, Kaylee decided to allow one of us to hold the book. “Here Shaun, you hold this.” “Ok” I replied taking the book. Tessa grew upset and tried to snatch “Scary Stories” from me. I pulled it away. Tessa was a brat. She’d developed a habit of hitting others when things didn’t go her way, and neither her mom nor other family did much to try and break her of it. I’d overheard one story after another of Tessa hitting, scratching, or even biting Kaylee; yet Gigi still allowed Tessa to visit her home. As a mother I can say with earnest conviction, no child would mistreat mine, and be welcomed in my door. Tessa got mad I wouldn’t fork over the book and hit me. Much to her surprise, I hit her back. She was used to putting her hands-on other girls without them returning the favor. Again, Tessa raised a hand to hit me. Using a technique taught to me by brother Antero, I blocked her hand with one arm, quickly dropped it, punched Tessa, and threw her through Kaylee’s handmade Lego city. She pulled herself from the floor embarrassed stating, “I’m telling.” “Go ahead,” I replied. Tessa stomped her way to aunt Gigi’s room to play victim. As she grew into adulthood Tessa would continue this habit; stir the pot with a girl she was jealous of and play victim when the girl stood up for herself. “Aunt Gigi,” I heard her whine from the hallway, “Shaun hit me.” I moved to Gigi’s room when called. “Shaun, did you hit her?” “Yes, but did she tell you she hit me first?” Gigi turned to Tessa. Tessa dropped her head. “Well, honey we don’t fight,” she replied. “No, you don’t fight. If she hits me again, I’ll throw her down your stairs,” I stated. Gigi turned back to her room and picked up the phone. I could hear her on the phone with Tessa’s mother. “Nitty, you need to do something with Tessa. She’s at my house putting her hands on the other girls, and Riego’s girl hit her back.” I’m not sure what Nitty said in response, but Gigi was apparently tired of Tessa’s abusive behavior. “Well, if she is going to be hitting other kids you need to keep her at home.” My second-grade experience continued with a number of highs. I’d earned a reputation as a good student, made straight “As”, and been elected class president. Ms. Goldberg introduced me to my all-time favorite book, “The Diary of a Girl,” Anne Frank’s story. Ms. Goldberg, a Jewish-American woman, introduced us to many historical s of tragedy. During February, she taught us of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, segregation, Jim Crow, and the Civil Rights Movement. I know Jewish people have a deep understanding and respect for the history and overcoming of their own people. I can only assume Ms. Goldberg was trying to instill an understanding of our ancestor’s struggle in us.

In March, we started to learn of the Holocaust, Anne Frank, and just how the unfair treatment of Jews impacted generations after. I think Ms. Goldberg wanted us to make a connection between the two struggles; the Jewish Holocaust and the African and African American struggle. Because of this I credit her to my love of history, and the will to tell my own story. If you’re reading this, thank you Ms. Goldberg. I’ve read many stories of Holocaust survivors since. Spring came bringing a rise in criminal activity. Drug deals were carried out in the open, prostitutes accosted by their pimps, and neighborhood drunkenness hit an all-time high. Loud music vibrated windows, beating the compound around. Women danced suggestively in the streets. Men watched and openly expressed their approval. The next-door neighbor’s routine became so predictable, we knew when to play outside and when to go in. When we saw them on the porch, the neighborhood was theirs. If not, it was ours. It was a matter of who hit their stoop first. Though their activities weren’t honest some level of respect for neighborhood children had been established. It was short lived. My mother was firm about two things, bedtime and chores. After school we tended to the house cleaning. When the time came, we headed to bed. Our routine carried out easy some days, not so much on others. That’s the nature of parenting, the unpredictability of your child’s changing moods. Each night it was the same. However, I once saw something I wish I hadn’t. While brushing my teeth at the bathroom sink, I overheard shouting below the window. Like any curious child, I tiptoed to take a peek. Standing on my toes I saw three men in the ally. Three dark-skinned black men, two slim built, and one chubby. The chubby guy held a bald, topless man by the arms. The other man, also shirtless with long hair, stood in front of the others. The men were shouting over one another. I couldn’t make out what was said until the bald man pleaded “Please man, I’ll get your money. Don’t do it, brotha!” This scenario was taking a dangerous turn. Living in such environment it was easy to know when someone was about to be hurt or killed. This man would die. More words were exchanged. Chubby released his prisoner. Before Bald Guy could move, he retrieved a blade from his left pocket, and slit Bald Guy’s throat. Bald Guy fell to the ally below. I ducked from the window. I was shocked. For reasons I cannot explain today, I took a second look. As Bald Guy lie dying in the ally, Chubby and the Hair rummaged through his pockets. Apparently, Bald Guy owed Hair some money. When he didn’t pay, he died. I turned from the sink throwing my toothbrush to the ground and headed for the door. I bolted down the hallway to my room. Crashing through the door I collapsed on my bed. I cried myself to sleep that night. Bald Guy was the new Bleeding Man. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing his face. Though young,

I knew the rule of our neighborhood “Tell no one what you saw.” Bald Guy’s murder was a secret I carried with me, never discussing it, until age nineteen. My heart still breaks for that man. After witnessing Bald Guy’s murder, I developed a great fear of death. I thought I might die at any moment. We were living next door to a murderer. Would he kill me like he did Bald Guy? No child should have such thoughts. I was eight, yet spent more time thinking about death and funerals than any child I knew. My fear of death first commenced, one year prior, at grandpa Ocie’s funeral. Oliver died July 1995 in Fulton County, Georgia. His health had taken a turn for the worse following excessive use of alcohol, a substance that eventually led to serous of the liver and death. Prior to his ing we’d spent time, here and there with Oliver. I’d become accustomed to blacks of shades light to brown skinned, barely chocolate at the darkest. Oliver’s skin was midnight dark and beautiful. My mom broke the news of his ing at home. I didn’t know how to take it. I’d barely known the man, but with what was going on around me; the death of Bald Guy in the ally, and all manner of chaos brewing, I broke. I cried harder than I probably should. Oliver wasn’t exactly a “stand-up” father to my mom. We hardly knew the guy. Yet, I cried. I didn’t understand why. The fear of death paralyzed me. Knowing someone in my family ed really terrified me. The day of we made our way to Mo Town. The family sent his body to West Virginia where he’d be laid to rest. Oliver’s funeral was held in a church. Service carried out as usual with the viewing of the body, followed by last respects paid. The sacellum was packed. Some faces were familiar, most were not. The prosaic nervousness of the bus ride to West Virginia overwhelmed me, again. The service was over before long. We piled in cars to say “good-bye” to Oliver at Gallows Cemetery. Gallows extends the side of Mo Town’s “Bronze Hill.” Behind the steel, black gate, the dead sleep. My mind began to wonder as I stood by Oliver’s coffin. I don’t know what goes through the mind of a normal child when watching a relative lowered into the earth, but I wondered if he’d be back. I’d developed a nasty habit of sneaking to watch horror films after dark. Flicks such as “Pet Cemetery” depicted the dead rising from the grave and tormenting the living. Sunday service after service I listened to ministers speak of the day the dead would rise to be with the Lord. I learned of Jesus’ resurrection (although Jesus never came back to hurt anyone). I often wondered if Lazarus remained a decent man after Christ gave him life, again. My mind went straight to a dark place. The murder I witnessed, the Bleeding Man, decaying zombies returning to earth; it all plagued me. I stared in the hole. I wanted to be sure Oliver didn’t get up. What would I do if he did? Voices and cries encircled me,

but I couldn’t take my eyes off the hole. The voices grew smaller and weaker before I realized everyone was leaving. I panicked. I looked up to see my family in the distance and started running, screaming, “DON’T LEAVE ME! WAIT!” Oliver was born March 1910 and lived 85 years. I’ve long wished to understand life through his eyes. Sadly, I’ll never know. The night following Oliver’s funeral I didn’t sleep well. I lied in the dark afraid something was going to happen to me. Under normal circumstances, a child would run to his or her parents. My circumstances weren’t normal. I’d spent one year homeless, traveled across the country, lived in a homeless shelter; none of these things sounded ordinary. I’d come face to face with a stabbing victim, witnessed another man’s murder. Nothing about my environment gave me the comfort to speak up. The neighborhood lived by a code of silence. Our parents taught us, for our safety, to follow the rules. We had to survive. Inside my home we never talked. Mom, nor dad ever asked about our day, what we were thinking or feeling; none of it. We did the best with what we were given. Still, I wanted more. Ample Place may have been a step up from Soldier’s, but it wasn’t much. We had a roof over our heads. I’m thankful for that. However the environment around us was rotten. Murders, rapes, prostitution, DEA agents raiding dealer’s homes; you name it, we saw it, or were aware it happened. Because of this my mother taught me, no matter how old I get, stay indoors after 9. “Nothing good goes on after 9 p.m., and there’s nothing opened at 3 a.m., but legs and the emergency room.” The lessons we had to learn earlier than most, I tell you. At a young age I’d developed a habit of asking “what,” “when,” “where,” and (every child’s favorite question) “why?” My dad worked two jobs to us. He was rarely home, but when he was, we talked. Memorizing company policy was part of my dad’s job. As a new employee, he dragged home a large white, binder full of the “dos and don’ts” of his position. I believe this is when he was first hired at Casa, a company whose employees process insurance claims. I’d my dad at the dining table any chance I could and watch him go over his work. Intrigued by the large white binder and wanting to steal a read, I peeked inside. I read, and he worked. Every now and then I’d ask a question. He answered. We covered the book, cover to cover. We discussed everything from workplace policy on bathroom breaks to sexual harassment. Moments like this grew fewer with age. The dynamics of our relationship changed, and in the years to come, my dad would pull away from me, rather than me from him, as is expected. For the time being, we were close as any father and daughter could be. Awareness of my dad’s work sparked an interest in my mother. She wasn’t just

the woman who washed my clothes, fed me breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and took me to school. She was a person with thoughts, opinions, and scandalous gossip. We talked about everything. Much of what I learned centered around relatives and her less than favorable experiences. Mom was never one to sugarcoat reality. If you asked an honest question, she gave you an equally honest answer. She didn’t leave us blind to the unfortunate circumstances in the nature of family dynamics, and the lack of a relationship with our distant kin. We were the black sheep. Our relatives loved one another but didn’t feel the same for us. That was no lie. It’d been obvious in our exile from both grandmothers’ homes. It would become plain in the coming years when each of us became victims of slander. Our relatives, my dad’s family in particular, made a habit of assassinating each of mine and my four brothers’ character. Awful as it was, they’d lied on all of us. Why, to cover their children’s wrong doings. We will discuss this more in later chapters. It came as no surprise my family and I became subject of a rumor. To make matters worse, it was started by none other than our relatives. I’m not sure which side, but the lie was carried by both. The rumor, my father brought his wife and children to West Virginia fleeing a cult. I don’t know which magician pulled this rabbit out of his, or her hat, nevertheless it was, and always has been a LIE! Mom broke news of such rumor after hearing it herself. I thought and pondered trying to understand what would make someone lie. I could find no justification. Years later, I’d learn to accept some people are just filthy. Fall 1998 I started third grade. I grew older, ignorant to the realities of the world and my peers. I’d learned life wasn’t “peachy” for everyone. I sure didn’t know how bad these kids had it. I’d learn what it meant to be the target of intraracial bigotry after an unpleasant introduction to “race”. My skin color and the next persons went relatively unnoticed, though I did find very dark skin fascinating. From then on, I’d be pestered with questions like, “Are you mixed?”, “What are you?” and my favorite (sarcasm) “Who is white your mom or dad?” Pigeon Elementary, at the time, didn’t have suitable space to fit both a third and fourth grade classrooms. The solution split the two grades. Half of my classmates were one grade higher than myself. As a result, our teacher who also taught first grade (Mrs. D.), left her position. Her replacement had experience as both a third and fourth grade teacher. Our class was majority African American. To be quite specific, the only non-black child in the room was a white boy named Stanley. Stanley quickly found himself backed into a corner. His smart mouth didn’t help him in an environment where he was the minority. He once made mention of our peers hating him (and me) because of our race. Stanley mistook me for white. He

was surprised to learn I’m not. It is said one must be mindful what is discussed in front of children. I understand the logic behind this completely. It isn’t expected to hear small children talk of “popped cherries.”. Our environment was so rotten we grew knowing more than we should. Revolving doors of men existed in the homes of many of my classmates. Some of whom had been abused by their mother’s many lovers. This year I met a pair of siblings. A troubled, angry girl and an effeminate and guarded boy. No one knew what made them this way, but we loved those kids. The girl’s temper was so bad she’d become a regular distraction in class. Student after student felt the heat of her rage, but no one understood how deep her pain ran. The boy, two grade levels higher, also had been keeping a secret. His guarded persona hid abuse. The siblings, well call “K” and “D” got along well with most students. I was particularly drawn to them, because of the similarities in them and Tyler and me. K and D were in third and fifth grade. Tyler was a fifth grader and I was in third grade. They were siblings as were we. We’d become so close; K, D, Tyler, and I. We even started telling people we were cousins. “Play cousins” replaced blood, and in time I’d sort of forgot about my relatives. The only exception was my cousin Melody who often came to visit. She, however, was more like a sister than a cousin. Alongside K, I befriended classmates Ashby, Sibel, and Chelan. I quickly discovered the girls and I had major differences. They often spoke of “boyfriends” each supposedly had. I’d heard one story after another about kissing, supposedly having sex with these boys; the latter of which would alarm most adults. Me, I was as typical a nine-year-old as one could be. I preferred playing in the sandbox to boys and kissing. My weekends were occupied with cartoons and chores, video games I’d play with my brothers; my father still read me bedtime stories. My girlfriends, unlike me, were from broken homes. I learned this following a day spent with my parents at the state’s Capitol. The mere mention of dad sent them in a frenzy. Noses scrunched up and eyes rolled. The girls hated me for what they were missing. I didn’t understand. None of us had a choice in our circumstances. Our family structure was the direct result of our mothers choices. Mine happened to choose a father who didn’t make babies and run. The rest of the year I felt they were punishing me for the absence of their fathers. Sibel made it clear, “We ain’t got no daddies.” I was confused. By third grade most kids understood the basics of sex and reproduction. I knew it takes a man impregnating a woman to produce a child, so I assumed all children came from two parent homes. How did they get here without a father? If he was

there when they were born, where was he now? I quietly pondered their plight all day. My acceptance by of my own race was beginning to fade. In whole, according to my acquired level of “blackness,” as measured, not by genealogy linking me to Africa, but by negative American stereotypes; I was losing “brownie points.” I now had three strikes against me; 1.) my light skin, 2.) hip length long hair, and 3.) an active father in my life. I’d grow to learn something about my parents’ union would further frustrate and enrage my female counterparts from broken homes. As young as elementary school I became aware of the “Crabs in A Barrel” mentality of blacks. One’s success or happiness was looked at as a blow against another. This wasn’t just something that existed with poor blacks. I’ve received much undue hell from a middle class, African American cousin with an inferiority complex about her dark skin. This will be discussed more in coming chapters. I’m not entirely sure how much I knew about “race” before. However, by the end of that year I’d become familiar with the unspoken sides of discrimination; black on white, and dark skinned on light skinned. As if the almost daily inquiring of my debatable blackness weren’t enough, I had to deal with the fact some students thought I was white altogether. While there’s nothing wrong with being such, the appearance of whiteness or even diluted black genetics made me a target. The same can be said for classmate Stanley. Stanley had been in several physical altercations with boys and some verbal with a few girls. He understood he wasn’t liked and had a theory on why. He expressed his discerning as an outsider during a class project. Fourth and third grade students were paired together in twos. I was teamed with Stanley. We sat, working on our assignment; him rambling and me pretending to listen. However, he said something that I couldn’t ignore. “You know why they don’t like us, right? You and me, they don’t like us because we’re white.” Stanley was a little confused to find out I was of the negro persuasion. Ms. Goldberg introduced me to the negative effects racism had on African Americans, as perpetrated by whites. For that I am grateful. She, nor anyone else, ever considered the opposite. I’ve often heard it proclaimed, “Blacks can’t be racist. We don’t have the socioeconomic power and control.” This may be true, but to deny there are prejudice blacks, just like their white, brown, or yellow counterparts is delusional. Stanley was insulted because of the color of this skin. He’d often been bullied because he was the “token.” His lack of trust of our classmates was understood, but never openly discussed. I too, became a target. Slurs like “White girl,” “Michael Jackson,” and “Whitey” were hurled my way. This would worsen in later years but began when my parents reported an incident of bullying to the

school. My early childhood years were spent in the church. It was here (before Prosperity gospel came along and destroyed all Christian morale) we were encouraged to do as Jesus did. Be kind to our neighbor, give to the needy, forgive, and turn the other cheek when slighted. K and I developed what I thought was a friendship. I found out the hard way I was wrong. K was poor, just like the rest of us, but often bullied other kids about where their parents shopped. Dolar Familia, a local discount store, was on the “no go” list for kids seeking popularity. She’d somehow manipulated half of our class into believing she was better off financially than us. Pigeon had vending machines located on every floor where we bought snacks on breaks. One day, K was short a few dollars. I’d tried to do what I was taught. So, I gave her some of my money. I’d spent what I wanted and didn’t think she should be without a snack. What I expected to be a one-time gesture became K’s daily request. So, I’d give to her without question. This would soon stop. Our stay at Ample Place came to an end. As nice a place it could have been to live, between the criminal element outside and the roach infestation inside; Ample Place was not suitable for long term residency. The owners sold the entire townhome community forcing residence to relocate. We were happy to go. We moved next to Willow Manor, a housing projects on Chuck City’s North side. The crime and danger was much worse than Ampler Place, but at least we didn’t have roaches. My life both in and out of school was changing for the better. I’d developed a close friendship with my pastor’s two daughters, and become best friends with the former pastor’s girl, Angie. Singing was my favorite past time, so I ed the children’s choir. Through church instilled doctrine I learned the importance of helping others. I wasn’t a “perfect” child but will not deny the purity of my heart. When K asked for money I assumed she was in need. No one warned me there are people who live to take advantage of others. Though I often told my dad how I helped a “needy” friend, he never questioned K’s intentions. Things took an aggressive turn when she threatened me in a note. On a Monday morning, as students sat in our chairs working on our math, K slid me the letter. I wasn’t concerned with what it said. My schoolwork came first so I put the note in my pocket. I walked around all day memo in tow. I eventually forgot it was there. Later that evening, as I played on the couch with my mom, the note made itself known. Though not very affectionate, we found new ways to express our love for one another. We were a family full of very active and rough children, so horseplay was common. My mother and I roughhoused on the couch when the crumpling of the note revealed something in my pocket. “What’s that,” she asked. “Nothing,” I replied. With conviction my mother spoke, “Hand it over.” I

did. She unfolded the note and read the following: “I want $20 from you tomorrow, or I’m going to beat you up.” Mom was not happy. Mom asked for an explanation and I froze. She eventually forced it out of me. I was ashamed to have been a target. Ghetto black children grow with the expectation of strength to face even the gods. Fear or intimidation were signs of “weakness.” Afterwards, I was excused to my room so mom and dad could talk. Sometime later, my father collected me from my room. He and I headed back to Chuck City’s east side to confront K’s mother. After asking around, we were pointed in the direction of a small, white shackled apartment building. Three knocks later K’s mom met us at the door. My father explained the situation and handed her the note. The lady read in shock and promised to deal with her daughter. Dad and I stopped for ice cream on the way home. I was closely bonded to my dad in those early childhood years. That later changed, but in the moment, he was my hero. The week following K’s threats was long and hard. The school got involved and by Wednesday I was an outsider. No one wanted to talk to the girl who “snitched” on a bully. My “friends” began picking on me. I was pushed, had spit balls hurled at me, and was the subject of whisper and name calling. Things escalated when school staff began calling students one by one to question them about K. Was she the “bully?” Or was she the victim of a lie? My dad made sure the teachers knew about the note. K was put on punishment by her mom, yet I was the bad guy in all this. I’d learn this is how things worked with ghetto blacks. The most aggressive and intimidating was protected. Those who were subject to his or her cruelty were hung out to dry. Like anyone who was pushed too far I struck back. It all started with Ashby. Prior to this incident she and I were close. She taunted me time and again, and I’d had enough. As we were leaving school she followed me to my cubby teasing me about the situation. I grabbed her by the collar of her jacket, pulled my fist back, and was ready to punch her. I don’t know if it was the anger in my eyes, or the fact that I was lowering myself to violence that made her quit, but she did. Several girls from our class surrounded us and decided to pick a side. Once again, I was the outcast. Me vs. six or seven girls, there’s no way I’d win. I released Ashby and got my things. It was then that I learned I couldn’t get along with other black girls. Sadly, the mentality of inner-city black youth is skewed. Respect is earned, not through the ability to resolve conflicts with reason. But through violence. Internally, I wasn’t sure how to accept this. Violence was nothing new to me, but no one sought a better solution to conflict. I had been prepared for physical altercations years prior. While living in Mo Town, my big brother Antero

showed me a thing or two about self-defense. I didn’t care really to know it, but my mom insisted. A small part of me believes she knew (kind of) what we would be up against. She wanted us prepared. I understand that, I guess. However, I wonder if there will ever be day ghetto kids learn to resolve their issues with healthier means. I earned my “respect” back weeks later. After a verbal exchange with trouble making classmate Patty, thrown fists and slamming him through a desk. I was “in” with my class again. I hated it. Degenerate behavior was praised, yet I was blackballed for telling someone I was threatened. My experiences only worsened at church. Weekly choir practice was therapy for me. If you’d asked about our church attendance my brothers would tell you we were there every time the doors opened. I’d say that is an understatement. Not only were we present before even the good Lord showed up, we were involved. Both of my parents taught classes. My mom led children’s church and my dad worked close to the pulpit. My father went on to minister until harassment and character assassination drove him from the pew. I fell in love with music, so I ed the choir. Children’s choir was led by a very talented woman. I’ve never been good with names but could point her out in a crowd if needed. She was a slim, dark-skinned woman. Her skin was smooth, clear, and glowed. For the sake of giving her a name (since I can’t hers) I’ll call her “Jenny.” Jenny was the perfect instructor. She was encouraging, patient, and hard working. She developed a unique technique which allowed all her students to learn hymns with ease. Jenny would introduce us to new songs, go over the lyrics, and break down the material, verse by verse, until we knew our stuff. We incorporated sign language in our performances. Jenny’s creativity couldn’t be matched. To my surprise, she called me to do a solo performance. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and since I’d fallen in love with music, singing, and the stage; I had to take it. My parents were happy I’d gotten the solo. My solo quickly fell at the center of drama and competition. Competition driven by jealousy of an attention starved adult, Dina. Our time at House of Surety wasn’t without trials. My parents’ gifts were nurtured for a time at church. My mother taught children’s church, bringing another generation to know the gospel. My father mingled with church leaders; the deacons, bishops, and pastors. He was being groomed to the ranks as a minister. I sang in the choir and played one of three Maji, who visited baby Jesus after his birth, in our Christmas play. We were sealing our place in the church. Our successes however, stirred envy in certain and invited slander from family. Among the faithful was an insecure woman named Dina. She was a wife,

mother of two, and Whitney Houston zealot. 1998 film “The Preacher’s Wife,” featured Houston as the devoted, yet neglected wife of a staunch Chicago clergyman. Denzel Washington portrays an angel on a mission sent to help the Reverend. He, however, falls in love with the Pastor’s wife, though nothing comes of it. Dina mimicked Houston in speech, mannerisms, and dress. Celebrity worship may have grown in recent years, but it is surely nothing new. Dina was before her time. With her help, tension among the congregants grew. A competitive woman, even when and where not necessary, Dina fought for a “win”. As my parents succeeded in their roles, I grew stronger in the children’s choir. My friendship with Angie and the Bishop’s girls blossomed. I began to feel I had a place all my own, where I felt out of place before. I didn’t fit in at school. Though my brothers and I loved one another, they could never relate to me as a girl. Church provided me a place of belonging. Dina wanted, for her daughter, what I had. This would be a reoccurring theme throughout my life. Both family and peers would find a reason to envy me. Something simple as what I had, or whom I dated turned them into green eyed monsters. I shined in the choir, so Dina pushed daughter Deandra to sing. I maintained a healthy relationship with my friends. Dina thrust Deandra in our circle. I earned a sign language solo performance and Dina threw a fit. During this time, my mother and father fell under attack from my dad’s family. Aunts Nitty, B, and Thea began hounding church leaders with lies, masked as concern, giving reasons they felt my father shouldn’t be allowed to preach. ‘He doesn’t speak to his mother,” it was said. “The Bible says, ‘Honor your mother and father.’” My grandmother never approved of my parents’ marriage. She expected my father to leave his wife and children in Colorado to come home and live with her. That was the least of what we knew. His sister Nitty carried the tradition of stirring strife for her mother. When my dad’s broken relationship with his mother couldn’t’ be used to keep him from ministering, the women resorted to lies. Pastors reminded them that when a man is married, he is called to, “Leave his mother and father and cleave to his wife, that the two shall become one flesh,” also said in the bible. “He’s not feeding his children. You know he doesn’t have a job. I believe the bible says, ‘A man who won’t take care of his children is worse than an infidel,’” came next. My father may not have had much, but he was a working man. I can’t think of a time when my dad didn’t have a job. He may have lost one here or there, but dad always found another. We were fed regardless what job he had to take. The statements made about his character as a working man were also lies. At the time, Dina cried foul to church leaders over my position in both the children’s choir and solo performance. When she wasn’t complaining about me, Dina attacked my mother’s position in children’s ministry. “I don’t

believe she’s teaching those kids properly,” she claimed. However, my mother’s class knew the Holy Bible like the back of their hand. I couldn’t believe adults could be so nasty. I carried out my performance nonetheless, but it was my last. My mother was removed from her teaching position, and my father found this, and his family’s attacks too much to bear. We departed House of Surety Ministries shortly after. Suffering all we had; our family made its exit. House of Surety was no longer a house of worship. It became a den of thieves, liars, and manipulators. Our departure sparked ambition in my father to build his ministry. I was proud of him. My social life took a turn as well. I slowly came back from the harassment and horror of being bullied. Summer vacation made its way and I was free from torment. Tyler and I transferred schools. The following term we attended Charter Elementary. Summer 1998 flew by. My brother and I met and befriended two neighborhood boys. One named Weston the other boy’s name escapes me. I found comfort knowing the boys didn’t care I was a girl. No one made a big deal of my sex or theirs. We’d meet almost every day and play outside. Tag football was a favorite. Our stay in Willow Manor would open my eyes to many truths. I’d come to understand how an environment shapes its people. We either become it, or grow from it, but either way we’re molded by our living circumstances. July 1998, Tyler and I packed school bags in preparation for a new year. We were now students of Khan County’s year-round calendar. I dreaded the thought of losing summer. I’d already ended third grade with an awful taste in my mouth. To have no time to put it behind me, before starting a new school year, was upsetting. Naturally, I’d yearned for friendship amongst peers. Weston and the boys were ok, but I wasn’t a boy. I’d lost the only girlfriends I had when my family left House of Surety. I wanted desperately to be around girls my age. I hated the kids at Pigeon Elementary. They were mean, lacked childlike innocence, and were aggressive. I associated with them, not out of will, but because I had no other options. I missed the church girls. They were kind, wellmannered, and soft; everything my environment would not allow me to be. While femininity is accepted and praised in girls and women among the middleclass and wealthy, poor women, especially those growing in the environment which I did, are expected to be as aggressive and “hard” as the men. I didn’t want to be that way. I’d long developed a fantasy of what I wanted to be. It was nothing like the people around me. I wanted to be the soft, kind girl I was made to believe I could not be. My environment sucked. A new neighborhood must have children. I’d met a few. Who else was hiding in

our community? My longing for friendship must have been obvious, because my mother began coaching me on choosing the right friends. Standing by the open living room window, she’d point her finger at neighborhood children saying, “You can play with this one, but not that.” My mother’s best attempt to find some wholesome friends wasn’t good enough. She saw the neighborhood kids when they were home. I saw them in school and the neighborhood. The girls she was ok with me playing with turned out to be sneaky, vindictive, and grew to be sexually promiscuous. I felt bad for mom. I hated those girls. I found my own friends at school. None lived in my neighborhood. My teacher Mrs. Black was a delight. I loved her most, I think, because she looked like me. Mrs. Black, like myself, was light skinned. Never before had I had a teacher with my exact skin tone. I was used to educators who were either white, or medium to dark complexed African American women. Mrs. Black let me know without saying I wasn’t alone in the world. I was once tormented for being light skinned. Taunts of “Michael Jackson,” “white girl” or “whitey” lost their sting. Mrs. Black was soft spoken and eloquent, yet tough. She was an extraordinary disciplinarian but chastised us out of love. She left a lasting impression on me. Charter Elementary (now Charter Academy) is one of many educational institutions in West Virginia. The large building rests at the bottom of sleepy hill of Willow Manor Projects. Though it irked me to start school in July, I did enjoy the morning walk to school. Tyler and I both enrolled at Charter. Of all my brothers, I was closest to him. Still, I loved them all. Our bond helped me in our time at Charter Elementary. Within a few months Tyler and I stood up to the schools biggest bullies, fought our way to respect, and challenged the staff’s discontent and treatment of the student body. On an almost daily basis we were subject to verbal abuse. One day into the next, teacher after teacher (with few exceptions) berated impressionable pupils. “You’re poor, ghetto trash. You’ll never amount to anything.” I’d become the target of girl bullies who planned to jump me. Of these was an African girl named Alana Okafor. Alana had a duo of flunkies. Girls, I assume, who were afraid of her; Georgia and Alana Kennedy. I’d been involved in a back-and-forth with Alana, one she initiated, but I refused to back down. She didn’t like that. The small, high yellow fourth grader dared stand her ground with a much bigger and heavier fifth grader and her cronies. Things escalated quickly, when my mother confronted school staff about Alana Okafor and her friends after overhearing the girls talk about jumping me. The principal’s intervention put an end to Alana and her gang’s intimidation. Sometime after, I received news my brother had beaten up one of the students from the B.D. class. B.D. (behavioral disorder) students were isolated, because

many of them were violent. One boy, a skinny dark-skinned kid terrified even the “top dogs” among other bullies. Tyler and I were new to the area and a target for people like this guy. He learned the way Alana did that we weren’t to be intimidated. An argument between the two resulted in a fight. Tyler pummeled the B.D. bully, earning his respect, and leaving everyone shocked. July 1998, we entered Charter Elementary January 1999, we left. I was happy to go. January 1999, on a cold Monday morning I stepped onto the campus of Khan Elementary. A National Blue-Ribbon school, located in the middle-class neighborhood of Chuck City’s Khan City, had earned its reputation through excellence and great academic achievement. Unlike any other school I attended, this one was sheltered in safety, cleanliness, and predominately white. I felt out of place. Being black among mostly white peers wasn’t an issue. Being poor was. Anxiety crippled me as I met my classmates. I stood before them, braided hair and raggedy clothes baring a tough exterior. I’m not sure how they first perceived me. What they could not see was the utter fear I held within. The students stared at me, and I at them, until finally I broke the silence. “Um, where’s my seat?” Our teacher stepped out for a moment, leaving the class to its work. I’d never seen anything like it. I was used to schoolteachers barely turning their backs before chaos ensued. I’d never known a teacher to leave an entire class. This was different. “I think the teacher put you there,” one child replied, pointing to desk in the front row. Suspiciously, I moved the empty chair to search inside. Books, paper, and a notebook filled the desk. This space belonged to someone. A light snicker broke out in the room. I was lukewarm in the classroom and already a target. This was not how I wanted to start a new school. I’d suffered enough. Glaring at the child, I slowly stood ready to attack. “What’s so funny,” an authoritative voice spoke. The snickering stopped. I turned to see my teacher. She stood with an intimidating demeanor. Introductions were made, and she led me to my seat. I found rhythm in my routine as a student of Khan Elementary. By February I’d almost forgotten the problems of my previous environment. I met and developed friendships with classmates Cassidy, Sula, and cousins Meadow and Jamie. For the first time since Village Elementary I had friends because I wanted them, not of virtue to avoid loneliness. My fourth-grade class was a cluster of colorful characters. Brandy, Jula, and the not so well liked, but ironically sweet and kind rich girls and Brooklyn, a slightly stuck-up, snooty fruitful girl. It was obvious some kids disliked Brandy and Jula because of their wealth. Brooklyn wasn’t liked because of her attitude. There was Antoni, the object of most every girl’s affection. His cousin Nixon (not so much) and friend Chad. I was one of few black girls in the class. The others were Jerica Harris and

twins Sana and Samala. Jerica and I became friends. The twins and I did not. Though young, I believe skin-tone played some role in the tension with them, especially Samala. We were polar opposites. I was light skinned with blue eyes, and long, kinky hair; hair which I wore in cornrows. Samala and Sana were dark with midnight eyes, and extended braids. The disparaging way dark skin is viewed within the African American community, often by dark skinned people themselves, leads to what can only be summed up to an “inferiority complex.” It is when people of dark skin feel lesser about themselves than their lighter, or white counterparts. I have to wonder if this was the case with the twins. Before long, the lease on our apartment was up. We were given two options; move or stay. We opted to move. No one wanted to stay in Willow Manor, least of all me. The thought of possibly returning to Charter Elementary made my skin crawl. I can think of nothing good about living in there. Nightly drive byes, urine-soaked hallways, and endless criminal activity made this place less a community and more hell. Trash lie about the outdoors attracting pestilence of all manner. The people didn’t respect themselves or one another. They didn’t respect their living quarters, either. I wanted nothing more than to live in a neighborhood that didn’t reek of pee, feces, beer, and gunpowder. Animal dung was left behind by owners too lazy to clean behind their pets. Still, it wasn’t as bad as stumbling upon human feces on the playground, as we had many times living in Ampler Place. I was happy to leave it all behind. More than anything, I was happy to bid adieu to the girls I’d fought with. We relocated to the community of West Point. West Point is a low-income housing community located in the hollows of Chuck City’s Khan City. Though slightly optimistic, expectations of my new “home” weren’t very high. No matter where you go, in poor communities, three things are consistent. 1.) A lack of respect for the community, 2.) a lack of respect for self, and 3.) a lack of respect for others. These things were mirrored in West Point as they’d been in Willow Manor. I’d grown accustomed to toxicity I knew not to get my hopes up. I believed my new environment would be insane. I was right. Shortly after moving in I met and began playing with the neighborhood kids. Tanae introduced me to next door neighbor Shandi and showed me around. I’d already met Sana and Samala. The five of us made small talk. We went over everything. The neighborhood and how it operated, school, clothes, and hair. Each girl fell over themselves at the length of my waste length hair. Tanae couldn’t believe it was real My long hair was the direct result of mom’s TLC. I wasn’t much of a “girly girl” so I wore cornrows. Cornrows pull on the strands

of hair, causing hair growth directly from the scalp. I didn’t make much of it. My neighbors were fascinated. Something about me made them insecure. Whether it was my physical appearance or something else, I wasn’t sure. Still, the neighborhood girls did squirm. I didn’t think much of my looks or theirs, but honestly speaking my neighbors weren’t exactly beautiful. Rather than address their issues, my counterparts projected their insecurities on me I’d spent most of my childhood in battle with my peers over things as ridiculous as looks and hair. The latter is often associated with femininity and beauty. The longer a girl or woman’s tresses, the more sensual and sought after she appears. Since my hair extended the length of my back, I assume I was seen (in their own eyes) as more desirable and feminine. This would be cause for jealousy. “Is that your real hair?” Samala asked. “Yes,” I replied. My peers attached Yaki hair extension to their hair to create long braids. Prior to today’s “Natural Hair Movement” (of which I am both a participant and fan), African American women went above and beyond to fit in with America’s European beauty standard. While some still choose straight, chemical treated locs (their choice and it is fine), most others are learning to love what nature gave us. Kiddy perms burned scalps of just about every black girl I know; myself included. Hair wigs and track extensions covered the heads of girls throughout my childhood. Sana and Samala became known for their signature leach-hangers. Leach-hangers is a style in which Yaki extension are braided about ½ inch from the scalp of a girl or woman, while the rest of the extensions hangs loose giving off a straight appearance. Tanae alternated box braids and clip in pony tales while Shandi sported short, chemically relaxed or “permed” hair. I’m not entirely sure how much this mattered to my peers. I didn’t think much of it. I’d been a loner from the day we arrived in West Virginia. Hair, real or fake, wasn’t a concern; I wanted friends. Samala, I knew, would not be one. I held out hope for her nicer, soft spoken twin sister Sana. “My hair used to be that long,” Shandi interjected. “Girl stop lying. You always been bald,” Samala rudely replied. Shandi’s face dropped taking my heart with it. Samala was mean, we all knew that. However, what she did that day was unnecessary and cruel. The classroom became a sanctuary; my friends, my first loves. Cassidy, Sula, Meadow, and Jamie showed me socioeconomic status didn’t matter in friendship. My friends were middle class. I was poor. Their parents owned the dwellings they called “home.” I was a lowly girl living in the projects. Their parents had college degrees and fulfilling careers. My parents were college dropouts, and my father made ends meet working two jobs. My friends lived with pet dogs and cats. We battled roaches and rats. However, the girls loved me

anyway. I took notice of the differing attitudes between my friends and neighbors. Civility was the language of love spoken by Cassidy and the girls. Brutality and cruelty flowed through the veins of my neighbors. The negative influences on ghetto children, and lack of conflict resolution skills contributed to an endless pattern of hostility in the community. West Point was not as bad as Willow Manor, but the sentiments were the same. Aggression and callousness determined one’s place in the world, well, in West Point that is. I’d see adults go at it in the middle of the neighborhood while onlookers stood by doing nothing to stop it. Children were so used to the chaos they played in spite as if nothing changed. Why couldn’t the people in my neighborhood treat each other better? I struggled to keep up in class. Education is the key to a successful future, but our previous teachers weren’t concerned with ours. As they saw it, we were destined to the penal system. Our school days were full of subpar teaching, while homework we didn’t understand was sent home. We were punished for incomplete assignments that returned the following day. Had it not been for my new teacher I would have failed fourth grade. She worked diligently to catch me up with the rest of the class. She was kind, patient, and ambitious. She pushed me to try when I wanted to give up. How I miss this woman. Though I cannot her name, she will always hold a place in my heart. Years following our pilgrimage to West Virginia and all my suffering I, once again, found my happy place. March 1999 came and went, giving me hope. I grew confident could have a better future. Unlike their predecessors, the teachers of Khan Elementary were encouraging, helpful, and inspiring. I was treated with the utmost respect and consideration. No matter where I go, I’ll never forget those people. Things were looking up and my homelife was improving. Our luck turned around and we’d prospered like never before. My dad always worked two jobs, but we weren’t always able to enjoy the fruit of his labor. Both parents had their own vehicle. Tion and Antero lived every teenager’s dream with the purchase of their first car. Mom and I went on weekly shopping trips. My father was preaching here or there and as a minister’s daughter I had an image to maintain. Mom made sure I had dresses, shoes, stockings, and everything I needed for church. We grew close during this time, and I nearly forgot about my family’s suffering. Prosperity Gospel was on the rise, yet my father stuck to teaching biblical principles. I believe this stirred anger in congregants wanting their ears tickled rather than conviction. Dad stayed the course of Christian morals. He could have taken the easy way out and told the public what it wanted to hear. That wasn’t my father. He told them what was written and was exiled (in part) for it.

It wasn’t long before I came to understand the catty nature of young girls. Backbiting and gossiping became commonplace. Girls suffering from “Mean Girl Syndrome” were suddenly on my radar. I had unpleasant experiences with girls in the past, but nothing to this magnitude. I needed help, but where would I turn? I could ask my mom. Was that a good idea? I was reluctant. We weren’t exactly the Brady Bunch. Open dialogue wasn’t a regular part of our routine. However, I ed the talks we had in Ampler Place and how open and honest she was. So, I decided to give it a shot. She listened as I hoped and gave sound advice. “Shaun, l be careful what you do and say around those girls. Girls haven’t changed since I was your age, and they love to gossip. One thing to watch for is when they start talking about another girl. Most of the time they’re waiting for you to say something bad about her, so they can go tell the other girl what you said. That’s how catty girls can be. They love drama.” I’ve made it a point since then to keep my feelings, good or bad, about the next person to myself. My mother’s advice came in handy. Shandi, in the fifth grade, had a boyfriend. She was a student at Khan Elementary neighboring school Chase Elementary. Her lover, my classmate, Antoni. I called him “Tony.” Shandi and I weren’t exactly Thelma and Louise. I had no way of knowing the two were an item. I also didn’t understand how two elementary school children “dated.” It was common knowledge in our house we weren’t allowed to date until sixteen. I had a completely different idea of “dating” than most kids my age. When I thought of romantic relationships, I imaged candy and flowers; dinner and a movie shared among older lovers with their own cars. I never considered anyone younger, let alone my age, eligible for that kind of thing. Regarding intimate relationships, my peer’s minds often went straight to the gutter. Shandi found out Antoni and I were friends. She wasn’t happy. I never looked at him, or any boy at my school as more than a friend. I guess Shandi felt threatened. Tanae, Samala, and Sana began to pay close attention to my interactions with Antoni. I thought it was all silly. What would anyone so young do with a lover? No one knew Tony had a girlfriend, not even Tony. Tanae, Antoni, and I had gym together. Most days our teacher scheduled some lame form of physical activity, but every once in a while, we had a “free period.”. I’d never went to class expecting to face a set up. That happened one afternoon during a “free period” Tanae approached me suspiciously. Under normal circumstances I’d welcome another child’s presence. This was not one of those times. “Hey girl,” she began innocently. “Hey,” I replied guarded. Tanae

proceeded trying to draw me into a conversation. Turning to face Tony, she coached, “Girl, Antoni is fine. I mean, I’m not into white boys, but he’s cute. Do you think he’s fine?” I was reminded of mine and mom’s conversation. I could almost hear my mother’s voice in my head warning me, “Be careful what you say.” Tanae was up to no good. The longer I listened the surer I was that she’d only approached me looking for something. What she wanted was to know if I had any interest in Antoni. I didn’t. We were different, the neighborhood girls and me. They were territorial over boys. I wasn’t. As I grew, I’d learn this was the nature of many women. Male attention equaled validation. Girls would bicker over who could attract what guy. Top tear boys; those who played sports, had their own cars, and light-skinned guys were gold; especially if he was handsome. “I have to go,” I began as I walked away, “We’re in fourth grade, Tanae.” I wasn’t sure how my response was taken, nor did I care. I was growing tired of the West Point girls. Things only got worse. I finished the year in dramatic fashion. The girls spied on me. My name came up in every conversation. Things went too far when Tanae, coached by the twins and a group of hoodlums, brought an audience of rambunctious brats to bricks at my backdoor. I was used to unjustified attacks from other black girls, but this was ridiculous. I’d been threatened with violence though never assaulted. What bothered me most is that I got along fine with white kids. With the exception of the Jakes sisters, I couldn’t say the same of blacks. I’d been disliked before. However, I’ve never been hated over a boy. Tony wasn’t the only reason the girls hated me. I was the product of a nuclear family. The others were not. Sana and Samala lived with their mother. Tanae’s guardian took the place of her missing parents, and Shandi’s father was in her life daily, though not married to her mom. He didn’t love Shandi’s mother. The man had a wife across town. Shandi’s father stayed to avoid paying child . Summer 1999 West Point Apartments filled with the soulful sounds of R&B and the raw lyrics of gangster rap. Our neighbor’s inconsiderately blasted music all hours of the day and night. Loud music constantly playing may sound, to a teen, like heaven. It isn’t. My bedroom was so close to the noise I couldn’t escape it. Night and day, day and night, the music tormented me. I felt especially bad for my dad. There were very few men living in West Point and even less with a job. My father had two. The noise frustrated everyone. Mom and Antero discussed the nuisance during breakfast one Saturday. “Do they really not care other people have jobs,” mom uttered. “No,” Antero began. “Nobody here has a job, but dad.” Fights, screaming matches, and chaos festered in the small quartier. Unfortunately, our townhome was close to the foolishness. We had an unwanted

front row seat to every disagreement. One night, a dispute between sisters stopped the complex in its tracks. The shouts of cursing women rang in the air. I don’t quite the reason, but the whole neighborhood tuned in. I was laying in my parents’ bed, watching television, when I heard the commotion. Climbing from the bed I stumbled to the window, shutting the lights off on my way. Pulling back blinds I peeked. A mid-sized crowd of adults stood by watching. Children, some as young as twos, wandered about unsupervised. Though the women were separated by about twelve feet, they were close enough in proximity to hear one another’s insults. The two women were Shandi’s aunt and mother. Her aunt berated Shandi’s mother’s parenting. “You over there with that man, while your daughter taking off.” We all knew why Shandi fled her home. She wanted a close relationship with her mom but was overlooked for her father. I felt bad for her. In what would be an abnormal situation elsewhere, the women hauled slander and threats at one another. Sadly, in low-income neighborhoods scenarios, such as this, are common. West Point unexpectantly welcomed new neighbors later that summer. Two doors to the right, a single mother and her three children moved in. She would be one a few whites living in a predominately black housing project. She didn’t stay long. Ms. Neglect’s, as I’ll call her, reckless behavior would play a role in her departure. The kids ranged in age of two to six. They were constantly unsupervised, dirty, and occasionally, roamed the neighborhood naked. In fact, her two-year-old was fondled in broad daylight, by a seven-year-old, as she pranced about the playground unclothed. The oldest son caught a serious case of headlice prompting neighbors to panic. The youngest suffered a snake bite and was hospitalized and we all stood still when her middle child fell from a window. News of his injury spread and both S and the courts stepped in. All three children were taken away. Luckily, the oldest was reunited with his father. No one knows where the younger children went. Shortly after Ms. Neglect’s arrival, another single white mother moved in. Unlike Ms. Neglect, this woman was a good mother. Her children were well behaved and supervised. She sometimes allowed her oldest boy to play outside without her. However, was always close by at the neighborhood playground. The boy was kindhearted. It was unfortunate he lived in an area where the people were not. When weather permitted it, I spent my afternoons resting on the steps of my townhome. I’d read, listen to the neighbors obnoxiously loud music, and daydream. I also watched the activities of my neighbors. One day, the little boy approached Tanae and a crowd of kids. I assume he (like me) was a lonely soul

looking for friends. The boy’s kind gesture was met with taunts, and racial bullying. I couldn’t grasp the thought of African American children tormenting anyone because of skin color. We all learned of our ancestor’s suffering and the hardships of blacks during the Jim Crow era, I’m not sure why those kids thought it was acceptable to berate another child because of his race. It bothered me. My introduction to race began in third grade. Thankfully, my parents instilled in me the importance of rejecting racism. “Whitey,” “cracker,” the same slurs that were thrown at me (a non-white, light-skinned black) were hurled at this boy. I then learned empathy. It wasn’t long before the little boy approached me. He was delightedly surprised when his kindness was met with kindness. He didn’t swing by often, but when he did, the boy and I would sit on my stoop and play and talk. He needed a friend as did I. By summer’s end the boy and his mother moved. The day he left; the little boy gave me a daisy. I told my mom about it and she told me he was thankful someone was nice to him. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who witnessed his abuse by the neighborhood kids. The flower spoke words my shy friend didn’t. It was his way of saying “Thank you for your kindness.” I thought about him every so often, and hoped he was being treated with the same generosity he would give to his new peers. The start of a new school year came before I knew it. Drama from Shandi wasn’t far behind. Sana, Samala, and I found ourselves in the same class. I wasn’t very thrilled. The previous year showed me their true colors, though Sana wasn’t as catty or petty as Samala. Still, I wasn’t looking forward to 180 days in the same classroom with her. Our teacher was a vivacious Irish woman with short, red hair. She wore glasses, a tweed jacket, and ladies loafers almost daily. I didn’t know how to read her. Was she strict, yet patient like Mrs. Brown? Or was she boisterous, lively, and enthusiastic? She was the latter. Perhaps her most honorable quality was honesty. In November, when reiterating the details of the first Thanksgiving, she dropped a truth bomb no one expected. “Kids, until now, you’ve been made to believe everything between the pilgrims and Natives was civil. That’s a lie. The Natives were not the ‘savages’ you were told they were. It was the Pilgrims who slaughtered Native people. The Natives fought back, defending themselves. If you ask me, that doesn’t make them ‘savages.’ It makes them smart.” I had to ire her boldness. No one outside my parents was ever so upfront with their opinions with me. She was unbiased and noble. Fifth grade was a tough year. No sooner than school began I was fighting unsolicited drama from the West Point girls. Shandi would stop at nothing to fight with me. Sana played messenger to Shandi, who thought I’d care what she

thought about me. “She said you ain’t as cute as you think you are.” “I don’t care what she thinks,” I replied. “You want me to tell her you said that,” she asked. “I don’t care. Do what you want.” My conversation with Sana was unexpected, but I thought nothing would come from it. I was wrong. This would have gone no further in another environment. We weren’t children of someplace else. The girls decided to bring more drama to my door. While one’s home should be a place of refuge. It isn’t in the projects. I was carrying out my after-school routine when mom approached. “Why does this little girl next door keep walking past our house like she’s looking for somebody?” I told her about Sana and the conversation at school. I’d shortly regret it. “Ok, what you going to do,” she asked. “Nothing. I said I don’t care what she thinks, and I don’t. Let her walk around looking stupid.” I wanted to ignore Shandi until she found something better to do. A simple solution I wasn’t able to carry out. Situations like this would become more common with age. Me, being the target of some girl’s anger, even though I’d done nothing to warrant it. Ignoring them wasn’t the answer. Conflict resolutions skills are often lacking in low-income neighborhoods. Children are taught violence is the solution to all life’s problems. The current state of American inner cities shows that. I’ve had so many fights and arguments with other hood girls I lost count. This wasn’t the first. It wouldn’t be the last. “Go outside and deal with her,” mom ordered. Though I was taught to stand up for myself, I didn’t think this situation was worth my time and energy. My mother, however, was “old-school.” She met you where you chose to go. If your brought the noise, she came with the funk. I didn’t want to go. I had no choice. I walked outside and sat down. Shandi was at my feet before I knew it. She stared at me and I at her. “You got something you wana say to me,” she shot. “Excuse me,” I hurled. “I heard you been talkin’ ’bout me.” Shandi stated “First off, I wasn’t talkin’ about you, you was talkin about me. If you can talk about me, I can talk about you.” I interjected. Shandi fell quiet. I noticed a familiar expression on her face. I knew then that I was the first person to stand up to her. Shandi, like Okafor, wasn’t expecting to be challenged. She opened her mouth to respond when my mother’s voice boomed over our heads. My mom chastised Shandi from above. School was terrible, but there was comfort. I had reliable friends to keep me company. Their presence balanced the discourse between the neighborhood girls and I. Sadly, I was still the poor girl who had to go home to the projects. I did my best to separate myself from the West Point girls. We couldn’t see eye-toeye. It was illogical to try and forge friendships where strife existed. I missed my church friends. The Jakes girls and I never had issues. Our differences never got

in the way of our bond. We celebrated one another. I wanted my church friends back. I was an awkward kid with limited social skills. I’d never been bold enough to approach another child to build a friendship. Other kids always came to me. I met Jula, Ella, Chrisette, and Sharise a rich black girl. Like the Jakes sisters, they came from money. The daughters of lawyers, brain surgeons, and businessmen; Ella and the girls had everything a broke girl like me could only dream of. Regardless of their socioeconomic status, the girls were all humble, polite, and kind. Middle and low-income students often called them “stuck up.” I didn’t know them to be this way. I never understood the assumption. Wealthy people could be defined by their status no more than the poor. Labeling them “rich snobs” was just as ignorant as calling us “lazy poor people,” because we were broke. Sharise caught flak from the black students. She lived a life we could only dream of and I believe it caused for her criticism. Sharise was nice to everyone, yet the West Point girls critiqued her every move. In short, nothing she did was ever “black” enough for them. Sharise was lovely. Her smooth, dark skin complimented her deep brown eyes. She, like many black girls in those days, chemically relaxed her hair. I, too, partook of the “creamy crack.” It wasn’t until age twenty I got off the juice. Every morning she came to school wearing a big, warm smile. I imagined being rich would do that to a person. It can’t be hard to find some reason to smile when your dad is a brain surgeon. I ired Sharise’s zest for life. There was never a dull moment. Her glass was always full. The neighborhood girls didn’t have the same iration for her. They envied Sharise. They weren’t shy about expressing their disdain for her either. Cultural expectations and loyalty caused unjust resentment toward Sharise. Her close friendship with our white peers drew criticism from Tanae more than anyone. “Look at her over there with them white girls. She looks stupid. She needs to be over here with her ‘real’ friends.” Tanae shouted across the playground during recess. I looked to see Sharise, Ella, and the others playing. So many questions filed my head. Why was Sharise expected to leave her friends to come play with us? Yes, we were all black, but she didn’t live like us. Sharise didn’t go home to a whole in the wall filled with rats. She knew who her father was, unlike many of the kids in my neighborhood. Her parents owned their home. She probably had no clue was Section 8 is, and I was happy for her. Tanae’s comments stopped me in my tracks. I mere inches away from her, playing with a white child. I knew if those girls judged Sharise for her choice in friends, they did the same with me. Socioeconomic status played a bit of a role in the company we kept. Students tended to play in their own lane. The rich associated closely with the rich, the middle class with the

middle class, and the poor with the poor; baring few exceptions. Sharise, being African American, was expected to pledge allegiance to her black peers. The misunderstanding that her “black experience” was the same as ours, I believe, contributed to Tanae’s viewing Sharise as a “sell out.” There is no way Sharise’s experience growing up African American could, in any way, blend with ours. We’d all, in one way or another face bigotry, but Sharise would never see the world through our eyes. She’d never know poverty. That is a good thing. In a capitalist society like ours money makes way where skin color may hinder. Sharise would be fine regardless. The sight of her with our Caucasian classmates was no big deal to anyone but Tanae, Sana, and Samala. I was so disgusted by the cruelty my stomach hurt. In their minds, Sharise’s friendships shouldn’t have been based on common interests, but on race. I believe it was this mentality that led Samala to try and turn my best friend Cassidy against me. My suffering wasn’t exclusive to school. As my social life writhed, things at home went from bad to worse. I’d noticed a change in the behavior of eldest brother, Tion. He’d withdrawn from the family, grew irritable and angry. Tion spent much of his spare time in isolation. Most people would chalk this up to typical rebellious adolescent behavior, but something else was brewing; something we didn’t understand. What we thought were symptoms of teenage independence actually covered his mental illness. Years later, Tion would be diagnosed with schizophrenia. It was during this time my mother found a handwritten letter he’d left before disappearing. I believe, based on its contents, it was a suicide note. “SHAUN! SHAUN! GET UP!” mother shook me to consciousness. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and asked, “What mom?” She handed me the memo. Mom nervously paced the floor as I read the letter. The note addressed each sibling. Tion divided his belongings four ways, leaving each of us our favorite of his things. Being a child of little understanding, I thought of how cool it would be having my brothers gold and black jersey. I’d regularly take it to wear. At first, Tion was annoyed. I understand. There’s nothing more frustrating than someone taking your belongings. Over time, he accepted my attachment to the jersey. I believe this is why left it to me. He also gave me a unique watch he’d bought from the local mall. I was ecstatic to receive the possessions I loved most, until my mother informed me of his intentions. “Shantel, it’s a suicide note.” Leaping out of bed I threw on my shoes and jacket. One thing was sure, we needed to find him. The thought of losing a child to suicide frightened my mother. It also reminded her of a tragedy from her own past. My mom lost older brother Wayne to suicide. My father lost brother, Mark, in the same manner. I often wonder if their individual loss bound them together.

Crippled by fear my mind wondered. Where is Tion? Why suicide? Why would anyone leave a letter before killing himself, or attempting to? What drove him to this? My brothers and I didn’t always get along. However, the thought of losing even one of them was too much to bear. We drove forever. I stared at the night sky above. It lit up with bright, beautiful stars. The heavens seemed to guide us. Our search for Tion soon ended. Scared and feeling defeated we headed home. In what can only be described as a miracle, Tion changed his mind. He returned soon after we left. Whatever energy he’d given to committing suicide wasn’t enough for him to go through with it. I have never been happier. The wrongs of our circumstances had corrected themselves. It was as if the universe suffered an imbalance and re-aligned itself. Tion was alive, and because he was alive, I could breathe again. He would continue to struggle to manage his schizophrenia. I can think of nothing more difficult than watching someone you love to suffer. Perhaps the inability to help makes it worse. I’d ask the same questions through my teens and twenties; “Why him? Why us?” I’d never pretend my family and I are perfect, but we didn’t deserve this. We’d done nothing deserving of watching him struggle helplessly. In coming years our suffering led to deep anger and frustration. I was mad at everyone. I was mad at mom and dad for not being able to help him. Mad at myself for the same reason, and mad at God for allowing us such pain. I questioned God’s existence. If He was real and could do all things, why not help us? Why put this burden on my brother? Growing up Christian I was taught God would give us no more pain than we could bare. I questioned that years later. At age fifteen I watched as Tion suffered a mental break. If God has a reason and plan for everything, and Tion’s mental break was part of that plan; I was afraid to find out what great suffering I’d have to go through to fulfill God’s plan for me. I’d heard the biblical story of Exodus and how the Hebrew’s cry and prayers were heard. After years of slavery in Egypt God freed his people. I’d also heard my parents prayers and yet nothing changed. It didn’t make sense. I’d been taught God is love but felt He didn’t love us. To a religious child there is no greater pain than the thought the Creator of all things hates you. Our family’s struggle with poverty, homelessness, and unexpectant death would nearly break my faith. Months later Antero was involved in a car accident. The breaks of his 1999 Corsica went out as he made his way to school, leaving Antero wrecked on the side of a mountain. Paramedics delivered the news to my parents and they rushed to his side. Still struggling with my faith, I once again turned to God, hoping He’d listen. I prayed for Antero to be ok. I prayed he would survive the accident and come home. Antero survived with a mere hairline fracture. I guess sometimes God does listen. My brother was blessed to walk away from the scene of his accident. The same could not be said for the last

teen to wreck on that mountain. Sometime before Antero’s accident, a young boy crashed at the very spot he did. A bolder fell from the mountain and landed on the boy’s car. He was still inside. Early 2000, Beverly’s health took a turn. She’d spent some time living with relatives before landing in a nearby nursing home. I can think of no greater irony than the fact my aunts and uncles sought to dump her on our family. The woman who kicked us from her house had nowhere to go. Though sad, I don’t feel sorry she hurt as we had. Beverly lived with my aunt Nitty and her family before she was turned over to Kanawha Place. After overhearing my parents discuss her, I begged to see my grandmother. I can’t explain why. It could have been the most recent incidents drove me to reach for comfort any place I thought I might find it. For reasons I still don’t understand I expected to find it in my grandmother. I was wrong. Mom hesitated knowing how vindictive Beverly was. Still I pleaded. Mother gave in and we headed to Khan House. Khan House is a rancher style facility. Spring was making its way bringing in warm weather. Inside, mom and I were led to Beverly’s room. My eyes met hers as she set in a chair. She stared at me and I at her before I spoke. “Hi grandma.” She said nothing. Again, and a bit louder I spoke, “Hi grandma.” Still nothing. Beverly’s blank stare let me know things weren’t going to go as I expected. I’d longed for a grandmother’s wisdom, comfort, and love, yet was denied. This woman, until her dying day, would hate me. It was obvious. Her expression changed from a blank stare to an angry glare which said, “I don’t want you here.” My mother grew irritated at her mother-inlaw and spoke, “We didn’t have to come see you. Come on Shantel, this old bat don’t deserve you anyway.” With that we gathered ourselves to leave. Mom and I ed Aunt Nitty and daughters Tessa and Stacy on our way out. Hearing them, Beverly came into the lobby. “Don’t you see my grandchildren. Look at my grandkids,” she boasted. I was crushed. My neighbor Shandi’s mom, who worked at the nursing home, saw everything and spoke up. “Hold on Mrs. Beluah, you ain’t right. My next-door neighbor, your other granddaughter, was just here to see you. You didn’t say a word to that child. You don’t mess with kids like that.” Beulah grew quiet. She was probably as embarrassed as I had been. With that, mom and I made our exit. As Beverly was moving in the neighborhood, we received an unexpected visit from estranged uncle George. George, like my father, was a black sheep. He had a horrible alcohol abuse problem. I’ll never forget stumbling upon him drunk beyond reason, barking at neighborhood dogs in Grandma’s yard. This happened before dad and Beverly’s blowup coming to her home and how she

didn’t want us there. Honestly, if it meant we never had to see George I was happy to stay away. Our parents were away at the grocery store and left Antero in charge. We’d spent our time relaxing, playing games, eating, and watching television when our peace was disrupted by a knock at the door. I made my way to the second floor to see who came by. A window rested in the hallway above the door. From it, I could see who was at there. I peeked my head out to see a sort of familiar face staring back at me. “Hey there, honey,” said the stranger. Obviously drunk, George swayed red eyed and wreaking of liquor. The smell of whisky was so potent it reached me in the window above. I called to my brothers, “Guys, come here. Dad’s drunk brother George is at the door.” Antero and Tyler ed me at the window. “Move, let me see, “Antero demanded. Tyler and I stepped aside. He looked to see George still swaying outside. “What do we do,” Tyler asked. “Nothing. Don’t let him in,” Antero responded closing the window. My brothers and I share the same twisted sense of humor. We joked and laughed about how drunk he was leaving George on the stoop. He left shortly after. My grandmother’s rejection gave rise to a truce between the West Point girls and me. I’m not sure who decided to wave the white flag. We all did, I guess. The squabbling ended. Although I never put my trust in those girls, I did, for the time, trust them enough to get by. Project kids are often exposed to realities other children are not. As a result, an understanding of the world and how cruel it can be is recognized. I returned to school and learned I wasn’t the only one with such insight. I fell ill and asked to see the nurse. Sometime later Sana came in to see me. She’d left the cafeteria to be at my side. I’m glad she did. Still nursing the wounds of rejection, I felt alone. She appeared when I needed a friend. Sana and I talked about our lives. I told her what happened at the nursing home and she shared the story of the last time she saw her father. Sana blamed herself for his absence. I tried to console her, to help her understand his choice to leave had nothing to do with her. In my heart I wasn’t sure I was right. Who knows why he left? Why had my grandmother mistreated me? Why did people do such things? We didn’t know. She and I were two hurt, confused kids. The girls and I came to an understanding. We could go on finding reasons not to like one another, or we could accept what we had in common. We chose the latter. We unofficially signed a peace treaty and begun a new as friends. Every day after school children gathered at a local center to do homework, socialize, and play games. Shandi and the girls regularly attended. The realization I, like my neighbors, was a reject formed a quasi-union, and we embarked on the journey to get to know one another. “By the time we’re through with you we’ll know everything about

you,” Tanae joked ambitiously. Since we were new friends, the girls started inviting me to hang out. Sana and Samala taught me to play 4-square on Khan Elementary’s playground, and Shandi invited me to the center. The girls and I found similarities in our realities and embraced our differences. Peace between us made it easy to get along. Our relationship would never be hunky-dory, but for the time being things were diplomatic. We were in a league all our own and it was comforting. After school the girls would meet and play basketball in the neighborhood. Sana’s and Samala’s talents in athletics blossomed on the court. I’ve never been a sports fan but did enjoy watching those girls. I began to explore my own gifts. However, I wasn’t immediately granted permission to socialize. I asked mom’s blessing after Sana extended an invitation. “NO!” mother boomed, denying my request. “I thought y’all ain’t get along anyway.” I was confused. We’d spent so much time in church, learning about forgiveness, yet now that I was willing to extend such mercy it was an issue. Sure, the girls and I had our differences, but that was a thing of the past. If I could let it go why couldn’t my mother? I’d been through so much in my short years all I wanted was relief. I thought if I could get my mother to understand the entirety of our newfound understanding she’d consent. I was wrong. I quickly explained how our issues were in the past and things were better. This did nothing to soothe her. “I SAID ‘NO!’” My mother didn’t understand the situation from my perspective, nor I from hers. At the time, I thought she was just being cruel, keeping me indoors, and away from the kids in my neighborhood. I thought she was denying me a social life, but what I didn’t see is what she did. My mother is not now, nor has ever been anyone’s fool. She was right to question the intentions of my peers and make the choice she did. Her focus has always been on protecting and preserving her family, especially the safety of her children. It took me years, marriage, and children of my own to understand this. However, at the time, all I wanted was friends and the luxury to forget. I wanted to forget all the bad things life had given us. I wanted to forget grandma and the nursing home incident. I wanted to forget we were the black sheep. I wanted to be free from the prison of my own memories. I waited and asked again, this time, I asked my dad. He gave me the green light and for the time being, the girls and I were civil. Fifth grade was a bastion of ups and downs, new beginnings, and some odd encounters. With the establishing alliance between the West Point girls and I came the mutual disdain of a few new faces. Shortly after we’d called a truce, West Point welcomed neighbors from New Orleans, Louisiana. Sisters Domini and Brayli ed the student body of Khan Elementary, and our fifth-grade class. The two were polar opposite. Brayli was shy, sweet, and easy going.

Domini, loud, aggressive, and violent. No one liked Domini. Academics weren’t her strongest point. She’d ed our class in her second go-round as a fifth grader. Domini targeted and bullied any girl she thought “weak.” Her favorite target, Heidi, a rich girl from Whispering Woods. I believe Domini actions covered insecurities. She, like the twins, wore extensions. With the stigma surrounding hair, and its association with femininity and beauty, it must have messed with her self-esteem to have to buy hair rather than grow it. This would explain her habit of pulling the tresses of our classmates. Any girl with hair below her shoulders was easy prey. Heidi became a victim as we left the playground following recess. Our teacher called us for lunch, and we made our way in. Domini and I landed behind Heidi. “Watch this,” she said, moving closer to her target. Grabbing a handful of sandy blonde hair, Domini pulled with all her might. In a whiplash like motion, Heidi’s head and neck jerked. She burst into tears. I felt bad. Heidi had done nothing deserving of Domini’s assault. Disgusted, I did something out of the ordinary. I told the teacher. No one understood Domini’s behavior. She was endlessly tormenting other students. School had once been a safe haven for me. Domini’s presence made it anything but. She’d showed herself a thorn in all our sides, until her unexpected disappearance. Weeks went by with no sign of her, but no one cared she was gone. Our concern wasn’t for Domini but Brayli, whom we’d all come to love. We later learned the girls’ father had been arrested. According to local news, he was a fugitive. He’d escaped New Orleans with his family, hiding out in West Point until the FBI raided his home in the late hours of night. He was taken into custody, as was his girlfriend. We never saw Domini and Brayli again. My fifth-grade class was full of characters. Some nice, some not so nice, but the oddest was a religious zealot, who often quoted bible scripture, and claimed to know their meaning. He’d been ill taught on one particular age of The Old Testament. I’ve heard scripture misinterpreted, but never have I heard it done so, and related to race and interracial mixing. That all changed when a white classmate of mine called me an “abomination”. He, like most people, thought I was bi-racial. The boy took it upon himself to share the “good news” of mine and my parents’ coming fate; burning in eternal hell fire. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to mix race? Your parents are going to hell. The bible says so. Races ain’t supposed to mix, and people like you ain’t supposed to exist. You’re all goin’ to hell. My mama said the bible says so.” I don’t know what verses he was referring to, but I’d never read, nor heard such ages. The misinterpretation often comes from a age in Genesis which says, “You shall not mix his seed with thy seed.” People have long used this to justify their

bigotry toward mixed race people and interracial couples. After school I told my mom what was said. She reassured me the boy was wrong and asked me to keep a promise. “Promise me you won’t people like that in their stupidity. Being black, you’ll have to deal with racism. You make a mockery of your ancestor’s suffering, and all the people who fought for your rights, if you spread the racism that hurt and killed them.” I obliged. To this day I’ve kept my promise and am raising my children to do the same. Ignorance reared its head in years to come, but I was better prepared to deal with it. I can’t count the time I’ve been told to “Go back to Africa,” or been called “slave.” The hardest lesson I’ve learned is that bigotry may never end. When I think of all the times I’ve been accosted during disputes with racial insults and degradation toward black people, I have to wonder why, in the twenty first century, this still goes on. While me and my black peers were learning of the harsh circumstances by which our ancestors were forced to live, some of our white counterparts used these things as a tool to taunt us. I once got into an argument with a boy who, when cornered with nothing else, began harping on the oppression blacks suffered during slavery. “Well, my ancestors beat yours and put them in chains. That shows we’re better than you. They used to whip them like this, whip whip,” he said making a whipping motion with his empty hands. Bigotry was learned early on. I’d seen it from both sides. White kids and their superiority complex toward blacks, and blacks with their equally ignorant bigotry toward whites. I wasn’t reared to hate any group of people. At times I felt like the only one. Whites called black kids “nigger” and black kids called white kids (and me) “whitey,” “honkey,” “peckerwood.” This sort of tension escalated in years to come. Throughout middle school I’d see prejudice in many forms. I’d become a target of it by both blacks and whites. My time as a resident of West Point came to an end summer 2000. My dad found a place in Chuck City away from the projects, a house on the west side where we’d be free from the cramped conditions living side-by-side in a townhome can bring. Our next stop, West St. Chuck City.

Chapter 6

Sixth Grade: Sixth Grade, More Problems, and A Lifelong Question

West Street is home to many of the area’s low-income residents. Here, we found a new home in a two-story blue adobe. If you’re not carful the neighborhood’s quiet appearance can fool you. In what seems like an ordinary community many discretions lie. West Street was no stranger to criminal activity, but what our neighbors one street over witnessed was worse. Dog fighting, illegal narcotics deals, prostitution, you name it; if it was illegal, it happened in our back yard. My first day in the neighborhood I knew I’d never like it. Though any place has potential to bring out the best, or worst in its residents; West Street and the surrounding community brought out the vilest in many peoples. The all too familiar chaos of Ample Place was present, and like before, because I was a child, there was no escape. Some good did come my way. De Ja Vu set in after I met and befriended a neighbor’s granddaughter, Shahla Robins. Shahla’s mother and my mom were longtime friends. One might think we became chums because of our mothers, but we didn’t’. She and I met through boredom. I sat on the front porch petting a small cat that crawled through our fence and on my lap. “Hey,” Shahla spoke. Looking up, my eyes met that of a slim, dark skinned girl with long braids and a big smile. Initially I approached with caution. My experiences with darker girls were not always pleasant. However, I warmed up to Shahla quite easily. We bonded over mutual interests in games, food, fashion, and hobbies. One of our favorite past times was bike riding through the neighborhood. Two years earlier I received a yellow bike for Christmas. Shahla and I raced our tandems down the street; she on her blue bike, and me on ol’ yellow. We often engaged in friendly competition, racing hard to and fro through the neighborhood. Shahla introduced me to gummies and taught me to play Dominos. Summer 2000 I was where I hadn’t been since Village Elementary; at peace. I was in a good place, happy and peaceful. Shahla and I found common ground in mutual interest in music. She liked Backstreet Boys and so did I. We both loved The Spice Girls, and even though I was never a fan, Shahla

introduced me to a few N*Sync songs I loved. The best thing about our friendship is there was no underlying strife. I didn’t have to watch my back with her, and she didn’t secretly loathe me. We didn’t subscribe to the light-skinned vs. dark-skinned bickering. Shahla never questioned my ethnicity, never poked fun at my fair skin. She didn’t try to put me in a box. We didn’t conform to ghetto black girls stereotypes. We weren’t loud. Neither Shahla nor I cared much for the opposite sex. We maintained our innocence though so many girls our age couldn’t say the same. Later that summer I met more girls on West Street, and wouldn’t you know they welcomed me with opened arms. We bonded so easily I forgot I was the token yellow girl in a group of brown and black skinned beauties. Though I didn’t see much of the other girls, I knew I was always welcome among them. I came to know Shahla as a complex, yet humble girl. She too hadn’t had an easy start. Shahla was the product of a broken home, living mostly with her mother, though she maintained a relationship with her father. From time to time we’d hang out at Mr. Robin’s house. He lived a few blocks from my house, a cycle ride’s distance. Upon arrival, we’d toss our bikes in the yard, and head inside for pizza rolls. Mr. Robin always had snacks. We’d eat at his house, Shahla would say something odd, and we’d leave on our bikes. Pre-teen girls are in a category all by themselves, but she and I were more difficult than most. We tried our best to be “normal” tween girls, but West Street’s criminal element had a way of reminding us who we were. We were poor, ghetto kids. Following a few drug busts, and the theft of my mother’s bicycle, which she worked and saved for, my parents broke down and purchased a security system. The ADT technology worked to our home as a fort to a medieval castle. We also bought a dog. I can fully vouch for ADT security system’s ability to protect customer’s homes. Why? Shahla and I accidentally triggered our alarm. Children are often absentminded when preoccupied with fun and friends. We were no different. Two days after ADT workers installed our system, I set it off. Shahla and I had been riding bikes, grew thirsty, and decided to swing by my house for refreshments. We tossed our cycles in the yard and ran to the kitchen. We grabbed our goods and hit the road. I’d been shown how to enter the code to deactivate the alarm. However, I was so preoccupied I didn’t give it a thought. After filling our bellies, we discarded our soda cans and rode down the street. Heading east on West Street we made our way to Mr. Robin’s house. Police sirens echoed throughout the neighborhood, as cruisers sped west. The cry of squad car sirens would shake a different community to its knees. However, on Chuck City’s West Side, this sound as common as any. Moments later, Shahla

and I made our way back to my house. To our surprise, cop cars surrounded my home. Shahla looked at me and I at her. If I was as shocked as she looked I’d have loved to see my face. We rushed to the porch, bying lieutenants and deputies to reach my front door. Turning the knob, I was met by my mother and a uniformed officer. He’d been asking my mother questions about the events of the day. My guess is he was trying to piece together our routine to see if anything out of the ordinary occurred. “Do you recognize these kids, ma’am?” he asked. “Yes.” mother replied. “The light skinned one is mine.” Fear struck me as I turned to mom and asked, “What’s going on?” “The alarm went off. Have you been here?” mom asked. “Yes” I replied.” “Did you to disable it when you came in?” mom asked, again. It hit me, I hadn’t. “Oops!” I replied. Mom’s sigh of relief eased my nervousness. The officer chuckled, closing his notepad. He grabbed his radio to alert his colleagues outside. “False alarm boys. The kid accidentally triggered the system.” Mom and I joked about this for quite a while. Khan County school’s fall semester began August 2000. In accordance with new policy, I’d begin middle school as a sixth grader. Prior to the change, sixth grade was part of elementary school. After two years in Khan Elementary I was looking forward to a new environment and a fresh start. I had plenty to try and forget after fifth grade; nothing more than the embarrassment brought on by the start of puberty. New body odor and the unsought menstruation was almost too much to bear. I thought I was going to die. There are no words in human language to describe how nervous I was to begin anew as a student at Hunter Middle. If changing schools taught me nothing else I learned not to get my hopes up. The one advantage I had going in to sixth grade was my friendship with Shahla. My friends and peers from KE also attended H.M. I was reconnected with people I loved dearly, and unfortunately reunited with those I despised. I’d seen, for the first time in many years, students I sat next to at Pigeon Elementary. Some I was happy to see. Others, not so much. Such was the case of former classmate Nina White. I hadn’t seen her since second grade, and I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her at H.M. We didn’t get along then. Time changed nothing. We had a few quarrels throughout the year. Nina was surprised when I stood my ground. My quiet nature was often mistaken for “soft.” Soft girls were supposed to back down from tough girls. I was anything but spineless, and I wouldn’t back down. Nina and many others found out the hard way. Hunter Middle’s long, dimly lit hallways screamed of teenaged anxiety. The voices of sixth, seventh, and eighth graders vibrated echoes before the

homeroom bell rang. I found more of the same backbiting in those hallways. My good friend Shahla was ostracized for her proper speech and dainty personality. She was peculiar to those who felt Shahla expressed a less than favorable level of “blackness.” The utter nonsense made my blood boil. I knew what it felt to be the topic of discussion. I was met with the same anti-light skinned rhetoric I’d experienced before. I battled constantly with other girls. Though I never sought a fight I didn’t mind finishing one. I was forced to prove myself to girls who thought because of my looks and quiet demeaner they could push me around. My homeroom consisted of 20 students. I along with the twins, Meggi (whom I’d met through Shahla), Jerica Harris, and a host of unfamiliar faces crowded in each morning. The cast may have been slightly different, but the characters were very much the same. Students came from rich, middle class, and poor homes. Kids from KE and Chase, east and west Chuck City mixed to make the student body of H.M. I started the year with the false hope things would be different. How naïve I was. The cluster of new faces brought with it new friends and many enemies. My mother’s previous warning about catty girls didn’t go far enough. I wasn’t rich but dressed nicely. My choice in clothing drew envy from peers with no more, or even less than I had. If I had a dollar for every time I encountered sucking teeth and “She think she cute,” as I walked down the hall. I didn’t think I was cute; I knew I was. My confidence ruffled feathers among girls in my grade. Nevertheless, I didn’t change how I saw myself to suit their expectations. I had a few friends I could count on, Shahla and Meggi. We all hung together at lunch, in English and Social Studies, and called one another on three-way after school. My greatest fault was not understanding the value of quantity over quality. Shahla, Meggi, and I were a small trio, but we were good friends. We were ed in Math class by Shandi’s ex-boyfriend and notorious flirt, Antoni. Girls still went goo-goo for gaga over that him. To me, he was just another friend. I didn’t know in detail what I was into when it came to boys. I did know I was not into white guys. I wasn’t racist, nor am I now, but my preference has, and always will be, for black men. Light-skinned or biracial black men to be specific. I blossomed a bit at Horace Mann. I took up Spanish and tackled class group assignments with confidence. A growing trend of brother-sister cliques was growing. Tyler and I rode the wave, ing a large circle of siblings. There was Dion and Shandi, their cousins Rob and Idele. Ryder ed our crew. I met his twin sister years later. There was the trio of Mick, Samala and Sana. The twins and I had a love-hate relationship. Our “Project Peace Treaty” lasted until the new school year. Once cute boys came into play the girls claws came out, and I was the scratching post. We played “nice” when brothers were around, the

rules changed when the they were gone. Our feelings for one another varied from one day to the next. That was part of the “Mean Girl Games.” I was introduced to spitefulness in fourth grade. However, cattiness reached a new level in Middle School. I am proud to say I was a later bloomer. Boys and dating were the last thing on my mind. The same cannot be said for my peers. I found this out one October morning as I stood at my locker. I’d been approached by longtime friend and school athlete James. We’d known one another since Pigeon Elementary. James was close friends with Tyler. Tyler and I were almost always together, so a lot of his friends were my friends, too. James had his share of hopeful irers; the twins and Tanae to name a few. To me, he was a friend, more like a brother. He and I grew up together, along with his cousins Micah and brother Kenneth. I’d known Kenneth since first grade. We didn’t get along back then. James approached me to make small talk. “Where’s your brother?” he asked. As we stood there, caught in our own conversation, voices rose behind me spewing venom. Assumptions were made about James and me. “He only likes her because she’s light skinned,.” one bystander said. “I’ll bet if she ain’t have all that pretty hair he wouldn’t be thinkin’ bout her,” chimed in another. “She thinks she cute ’cause she got new clothes” added a third. “I should cut that pretty little face of hers. Let’s see if James likes her then.” James and I ignored the tirades as best we could, but when my personal safety came into question we both paused. I knew he heard what was said. The anger it caused showed. We bid our good-byes and headed for homeroom. I turned to see who was watching us. I was not surprised to see Tanae, Sana, and Samala along with Jerica. Was I surprised we were harassed by this particular group of girls? No. I’d come to expect this kind of thing. Nothing would change as I aged. Perhaps the most ridiculous notion was that of the attraction the girls believed James had to me. The assumption my skin complexion played a role in what they assumed was even more ridiculous. They wanted to take what they thought I had. I’d grow to see this more often among blacks. It didn’t stop with a lover or love interest. It also included job opportunities, material possessions, and money of any sort. It’s the “Crabs in a Barrel” mentality we still haven’t shaken. As I ed the group Jerica spoke, “I really like your outfit. You look cute.” “Thanks” I began sarcastically. “Lord knows I’m just a stuck-up light-skinned girl, boys only talk to because I have long hair and nice clothes.” The group fell silent. I marched into homeroom like a boss. I’d grown used to confrontation. I never started a fight but found myself engaged in battle regularly. Sadly, most of my opponents were my own people. Civil discussions and cordial ing weren’t our forte. Verbal exchanges escalated to fisticuffs. I developed a reputation as a hothead

because I was always fighting. The disturbing truth about my interactions with other blacks is I was only able to earn their respect through violence. I found this true of those who, like me, grew up in poor neighborhoods, and some who didn’t. As I would learn in my teens, much of our hatred toward one another stems from feeling inadequate. We believe if we have this or that, if we attract this person, or dress a certain way we’ll be viewed as greater than what we are. My ability to attract the guys some girls could not made me a constant target. I also learned dark skinned girls harassed me about my complexion, not because they didn’t like me or mine, but they hated themselves. Willie Lynch Syndrome gives way to Colorism. Colorism’s effects on the minds and self-esteem of young black girls with dark skin is crippling. Those girls learn to hate themselves and project their insecurities on peers they deem “more desirable.” The cycle continues until we truly commit to ending it. What I experienced at school made me appreciate homelife. Shahla and I hung out regularly and developed a routine; go home, do homework, call each other, meet up, and listen to music while filling our stomachs with crap. We talked about life, school, and friends. Shahla told me about her homelife, and the boy she’d began dating. She was black, he was white. I saw nothing wrong with it. The same can’t be said for others. Some people would never see the beauty in mixed race relationships due to their own bigotry. I’m just glad my upbringing didn’t produce this, or any level, of hate. My father taught me an important lesson about love at eleven. “The color of your future husband’s skin doesn’t matter. He can be black, white, red, yellow, or brown. It’s not his skin that matters, but his character, integrity, and intentions. Choose wisely.” Mother seconded this and defended our choices in love. Shahla’s beau’s name was Dustin. He was a stocky built blonde with light blue eyes. He and Shahla were polar opposites. Still, she was the Yin to his Yang. Dustin too, became a friend of mine. Among our private conversations Shahla expressed displeasure with her mom’s current boyfriend. Her mother was dating a man I knew fairly well; my uncle. Though he was married, my uncle Victor carried on multiple affairs, so it came as no surprise he was sleeping with Shahla’s mom. He’d been married twice before. Word around town is Victor and my aunt Nitty began dating while he was married to his second wife. Victor stole from his first wife, Shahla’s mother, as she lay sick in the hospital. He agreed to pay his ex. back in installments to avoid legal repercussions. Pending his marriage to my aunt, Nitty learned she was expecting. The problem is the child she carried belonged to her first husband. Shortly after she filed for divorce, Nitty’s ex began calling into question the paternity of her unborn child. Years later, Victor did the same thing.

Oh, the irony. The woman who questioned the denied her brother’s children being asked to establish fatherhood was sweet vindication. I’d changed a lot this year. Mentally still a child, puberty’s onset felt somewhat traumatic. My body continued to change. Breasts developed, my hips widened, and I grew a little taller. My body produced curves. I tried my best to hide them. Blindsided by the hormonal changes I did all I could to cling to my childhood. I wasn’t ready to become a teen, nor did I want the curvaceous body I now had. I felt I reached puberty too soon. I wanted desperately to be a little girl again. While my female peers sought the attention of boys I fought to repel it. I began dressing in oversized T-shirts and sweatpants, hoodies, and large jackets. It worked. I could sway down the hallway unnoticed. The boys eyes undressed my counterparts while I moved among them unseen. On occasion, one or two boys would flirt. I knew they weren’t thinking sexual thoughts about my figure because it was covered. They saw me for who I was and liked me because I was pretty. Physical changes gave way to changes in entertainment. I’d evolved from the teeny bopper pop fan to a gangster rap enthusiast. Artists like Nelly, Snoop, Ja’Rule, and groups such as Cash Money Millionaires replaced Backstreet boys and 98 Degrees. I found familiarity in the lyrics of Eminem’s “The Way I Am.” I struggled to it I once liked what was considered “white girl” music. The unrealistic expectation to conform to black stereotypes made me question both my “blackness” and taste in everything. I still listened to pop bands when Shahla was around. With her, there was no pressure to kowtow to ghetto culture. I’d fallen in love with music. It dominated much of my life inspiring me to tap into my vocal talents. I wanted to be a singer. I idolized artists like Mariah Carey as early as six but broadened my taste to singers like Aaliyah (whom I named my eldest daughter after), and R&B groups like Destiny’s Child and 112, artists like Sammie, Lil’ Mo’, and Christina Aguilera (technically pop). I’d lent my ear to pop music so long the sounds of soulful black singers became a drug. I was hooked. Music was therapy. It provided relief when and where I needed it. Shows such as MTV’s “Cribs” sparked ambition within to make it out of the ghetto and become the star I believed I was destined to become. I once sang for the church. I would now sing for me. If needed, I’d write my own music like the greats Prince and Ray Charles. I’d taught myself to play the violin. Learning a new instrument would be a breeze. Daydreaming of future stardom helped me escape reality. In my mind I was a star. In the real world I was not. I was poor and overlooked. I dove into fantasies about the future to get away from my neighborhood and conflict at school. I began attaching my favorite songs to an imaginary life, pulling it together like a Hollywood picture. Music consumed my

existence; morning, noon, and night. On warm nights I’d open my bedroom window and let a breeze in simultaneously filling West Street with tunes. I turned the radio up while doing homework and drifted to sleep listening to R&B. I didn’t have much. I had my ambitions and I had my music. These two tools helped me survive in coming years. I believed my future was in music, but my destiny found me, ironically in music class. One question started my career as an author. I settled in like any other day. A chorus of voices rattled around me. I sat, physically present, mentally elsewhere. Our teacher strolled in bringing me back to reality. “All right folks settle down,” he began. “We’re going to start with roll call. When you hear your name please answer saying either ‘present’ or ‘here.’” Our instructor was a lanky white man with silver hair. His baritone voice echoed one name after another, pausing between to mark a child present or absent. “Teller” I caught him calling my last name. “Here!” I answered. “Teller`, you’re Gigi’s niece. I know your aunt. I know all of your uncles, too.” A collective ooohhh went up around me. I said nothing. “Did your folks ever find out anything about your granddad? Where he was adopted from?” I was puzzled. William died in 1991. My parents, brothers, and I lived in Colorado. Shrugging I replied, “I don’t know. I never met my granddad, and we don’t talk to my dad’s family.” “Hmm,” he continued. “Well, if you ever find out let me know.” I decided to find out everything there was to know about my grandfather. I’d long sought answers about my heritage. I wanted to know more about my grandfather William in particular. My dad rarely spoke of his father. When he did, he did so briefly. All I knew about William was his career and how many children he had. He was a teacher at East High. He was a husband and father to ten. I assumed he was American. It never occurred to me he may have been an immigrant. His citizenship status plagued me until, at age twenty-nine, I confirmed William American born. The confusion, I assume, comes from his years spent living in Casablanca, Morocco. I may not have known much about him but was determined to learn. I’d answered both mine and my music teacher’s question. I started looking for me. Growing up I was curious about my family. I knew we weren’t wanted, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to know who I belong to. William’s kin, whom I’ve never met, live throughout Virginia. Someday, I may make my way there. If for no other reason to add to the family tree I started building at eighteen. Late January 2001, Beverly died. Family told different stories of her final moments, but what I heard is she died at daughter Rosella’s house. Normally, the death of a grandparent is a great tragedy. The surviving loved ones struggle to

cope with their loss. However, Beverly’s death, for me, meant nothing. Each time I thought about her I was reminded of how she treated me at the nursing home. I recalled her declaration to my father she wanted nothing to do with me and my brothers. I those words: “Those aren’t my grandkids.” It was hard to miss someone who never wanted me. I didn’t hate my grandmother. I didn’t love her either. Funeral preparations moved along as did I. I took no time to grieve because I hadn’t lost anything. When the time arrived, I’d attend her funeral and bury a complete stranger. School days dragged on. I moved along with my weekly routine; school, homework, dinner, and television until bed. Life for Beverly may have ended, but I saw no reason to disrupt mine. My father didn’t speak much of his mother’s death. He told us of her ing and that was it. If he had any feelings about her expiry he hid them. By her death he seemed unfazed. Taking into consideration our experiences with her I completely understand. It must have tormented him knowing how his mother viewed his wife, and it must have hurt that she denied all five of his children. Death was not a foreign concept, nor was the ing of a family member. We’d buried my maternal grandfather in 1995. I knew what to expect laying Beverly to rest. My uncle Roland called concerning the funeral and structure of service. No one in the family would say anything. No one would read a eulogy. A pastor would host the service, say a few words, and the family would bury Beulah. He lied. Beverly’s funeral was held early February 2001. I dressed that morning, putting on a knee length black skirt and black ¾ sleeve top. I combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and gave myself a second look before we left. We piled in our family van and made the trip to Rosella’s home. The family agreed her house was the most reasonable place to meet. She may have meant the world to the others, but to us, to me, mom, and my brothers; Beverly was no one. I’d given little thought to how I might react seeing her body in a coffin. When recounting my grandfather’s funeral all I could picture was the dreadful memory of watching yet another stranger lowered into the earth. I hated cemeteries and always will. The sight of a closed casket is never easy on the eye. Sadly, I’d eventually lose some people who meant the world to me. For the first time in a while I’d been forced to think about death. I repressed memories of bereavement that haunted me during our stay at Ampler Place. Those fears came crawling back. We arrived at Rosella’s mid-morning, sunshine fooling us all. What appeared to be a warm, mild day turned out to be a reminder of winter’s bitter bite. Rosella met us at the door. She led us to the living room where we were met by cousin Tania and fiancé J.B. Tania spoke, introducing us by name. “Baby, this is my uncle, his wife, and my cousins Tion, Antero, Trevor, Tyler, and Shaun.” I sat in a corner

quietly, anxiety rising as I was forced to play “nice” with people I hardly knew. I guess this is how families work. Inward fighting was the “norm”, but under the right circumstances they’d put on a loving front. If this was the case, I’d opt out of future gatherings. One by one, our relatives arrived. They followed the script of ignoring us to congregate elsewhere. I guess it is protocol. It’s the move they made to avoid dealing with the brother they’d left to die of cancer in a homeless shelter. Last to come was my aunt Nitty, husband Victor, and their children. Seeing us stirred anger in Nitty. Turning to her daughter Tessa she said, “Now Tessa, you’re a young lady” looking from her child to me. Nitty was still salty about mine and Tessa’s fight at Gigi’s house. “Tania, watch my baby.” Before she could move Antero interjected. “Well if that bitch is a ‘lady’ teach her to keep her hands to herself.” Speechless, Nitty stomped to the kitchen. Oddly, her own husband laughed at Antero’s response. I too chuckled. No one had my back quite like my brothers. I knew no one ever would. We arrived at the tiny church for the wake. Inside, I heard all the moans of sobbing relatives; each one grieving their loss. I walked to the front of the sanctuary, Beverly in a coffin before me. I looked to see her shriveled body in a casket, arms crossed over her black heart. A sad sight it was. Rather it should have been but wasn’t. In what should have been my moment of grief I felt relief. Before me lay a stranger. The woman whose face turned up at the sight of me. The woman who declared “They’re not mine.” She seemed powerful when I was small. Now, she was much less than weak. I stared at the lifeless body of a stranger, feelings changing. Relief faded, and I began to feel nothing. She died and I had no sympathy. I felt the brewing frustration with the family that forced me to pay last respects I didn’t have for a woman I didn’t love. I honestly thought about kicking her coffin over. I decided to take a seat. I shed no tears at her ing that day. I didn’t before, and in all the years since Beverly’s death I never have. I’d like to say I’m not heartless. I can’t. I thank my grandmother for making me that way. The service began and we sat watching everything. Aunts and uncles did what Roland swore they wouldn’t; speak. The family put on as relatives sat to listen. “She was such a good person.” No, she wasn’t, I thought. “She loved everyone.” No, she didn’t, I thought again. Gigi sang a song and the brothers, minus my dad and uncle George tried to fib Beverly into heaven. Oh, the irony. The sight of people who used the bible to manipulate, doing what they bible forbid Christians to do; lie. I zoned out until the service ended. Beverly was buried next to late husband Billy. A final resting place next to the man she loved. If she knew how

to, that is. Strolling the graveyard awakened in me a strength to fear death no more. I was older now. I knew no one here. The dead laying beneath the earth can’t rise and walk among us. No zombies rested here. Tombstones and grave markers below me pointed to the final resting place of no-names caught in an eternal sleep. I questioned the everything I was taught in church. I pondered the teachings of the dead rising. This made no sense. If living beings have souls, souls which went to God when we died; how could the dead rise in the end of days? After all, “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.” Dinner followed the burial. I was no happier there than before. Mom stayed in the van while the rest of us grabbed a plate. I understood completely her refusal to mingle. No woman would play nice with people who falsely labeled her a whore. I felt the same. I spoke to no one as I fixed my plate. I simply did as planned and headed back to the van. Outside I was stopped. “Shaun,” Gigi called. I turned to see her standing with a woman I’d never seen before. “Where you going baby? Family is this way,” she said, gesturing to the church. “Yeah, the family that doesn’t claim me.” I replied. Gigi’s mouth dropped and I walked away. I had all I could take of the dysfunction and play. I refused to put on any longer. Before long we were on our way home. The drive home was a nightmare. Dad sped around the curvy hills, increasing speed. I pleaded with him to slow down, but he didn’t. He accelerated unmercifully. I worried he’d lose control while driving and send us falling to our death. Spotty rain fall throughout the day left the roads wet and slick, slick enough to send is careening to the abyss. In my heart I believe my father’s actions were that of a grieving man. I wasn’t always so sure. We made it home safe. As my father pulled the van into park the breaks went out. I returned to school following the funeral as if nothing happened. One would expect me to fall out of character as I struggled to cope with the loss of a relative. I didn’t. Beverly’s death changed nothing for me. I started a new week as usual. It was cold and I wanted to be home. School had, in the past, been a safe haven. I’d grown strong enough to stand on my own without feeling the need to escape to a safe space. Still, my experiences hadn’t changed. I’d been in multiple fights. I had no idea what healthy dialogue was but had few friends to relieve my stress. My crew doubled by Christmas break, bringing Nia, a beautiful brown skinned girl from Ohio, and Kaari, an immigrant from Mexico to the mix. My friendship with Nia took time to blossom, Kaari and I clicked instantly. Both girls brought some uniqueness to the group. Nia, her outspokenness. Kaari, a calm demeaner. Shahla, I believe, felt a bit threatened by my friendships with Kaari and Nia, especially Kaari. The two of us shared life

stories of highs, lows, failures, and fears. Kaari taught me Spanish and told me about her life in Mexico. Neither of us had it easy but we made the best of what we had. The closer I got to Kaari the farther Shahla and I grew apart. It didn’t bother me. I thought that was what friends sometimes did. Shahla however, didn’t feel the same. The distance between us turned to tension and she became jealous of me and Kaari. It showed. Overcome with envy, Shahla became disrespectful. She first showed her bad side at lunch. Kaari and I sat talking and laughing when Shahla approached. She felt the need to interrupt our impromptu Spanish lesson. “Kaari, how do you say, ‘Shaun is a bitch’ in Spanish?” “Excuse me, bitch,” I replied. I wasn’t sure what load of bull Shahla was intent on serving but I wasn’t having it. Kaari, the level-headed of us to spoke up. “Ignore her Shaun. She’s being stupid.” Realizing she’d only made a fool of herself Shahla walked away. Kaari’s stay came to a sudden and abrupt end, of which I learned from the history teacher. I’d gone to school like any other day eager to see my new best friend. She wasn’t there. Thinking nothing of it I carried on. I figured Kaari was sick. I’d see her when she was better. So, I thought. Several days went by without sight of her. A week or so later, as I headed to lunch when a teacher stopped me in the hallway. “Are you looking for Kaari?’ she asked. “Yes. Have you seen her?” I replied. The woman shifted her stance, let out a sigh, and gave me a sympathetic smile. Something wasn’t right. A normally mean woman was going out of her way to be nice. Why? “Sweetheart,” she began. “Kaari isn’t coming back. I received word earlier in the week. She and her family have been deported. They’re going back to Mexico.” I was confused. “Why,” I asked. “Because honey, her father violated some stipulation of his visa. I’m so sorry.” My friend was gone. I skipped lunch that day. I was sick. I had no idea how to process Kaari’s deportation. I was stuck at school without the one person who loved me unconditionally. What was I to do? Kaari was gone, Shahla and I drifted apart, but I still had Nia. Shahla did try to repair the damage she’d done, but I didn’t trust her. She eventually accepted I wanted nothing to do with her. I was focused on building my friendship with Nia who I met shortly before Christmas. I still the day. Nia strolled in gym class nervously, wearing sweat shorts and a black t-shirt. She took a seat on the bleachers when I decided to approach her. “Hey,” I said taking a seat next to her. “What’s your name?” “Hi,” she replied. “I’m Nia.” We talked a bit before I invited her to hang into our circle. She and I were friends from then on. Nia luck with the West Point and East side girls was no better than mine. She was picked apart over the slightest things. Her clothes were too tight, she had too many pimples. Nothing irritated

the girls about her more than Nia’s looks. Nia caught the eye of an eight-grader named Caeleb. He was bi-racial with dark, curly hair and big eyes. A lot of girls swooned over him, so when Caeleb set his eyes on Nia their disappointment turned to rage. Nia felt the same for him. Her interest in Caeleb was one of many things I learned about her. She was from a broken home, wanted to go back to Ohio, and her favorite color was red. I never could quite grasp the idea of a single parent home. My parents were married, and though I knew people raised primarily by one parent or the other, I couldn’t make sense of it. My naivety didn’t allow me to comprehend her situation. The hardest part for me was understanding why these kids dads left. Some of their parents were never married. Others, like the twins, were the product of divorce. My parents threatened to separate from time-to-time, but they never did. Things had to be extremely bad for a father to leave, right? As I grew older I learned things are much more complicated than they seem. I’d venture to Nia’s Renegade Ave home here and there. She lived with her father in a cozy two-bedroom apartment. The two seemed to be a loving pair. I quickly learned looks can be deceiving. Nia often complained she didn’t feel loved or wanted. She felt her father only took her in, because her mother forced her out. The child was bouncing between homes, neither of which took her in willingly. She and I were both black sheep. Nia with her parents, me with my relatives. We may not have known everything, but we understood the world from our position and learned how to navigate it. Nia, though living in their backyard, was often alone. My visits to her home were few and far between. When I did stop by, we found solitude in the usual teen vices; junk food, loud music, and small talk. I’d go on about my dream of becoming a star, while she spilled her guts over Caeleb. He lived across the street from her, so it was easy for her to dream. One day, while we were sitting in her living room, Caeleb made his way outside. Nia peeked out the window seeing her shirtless crush standing in the yard. “Girl come here! Come here!” she called. I stood from the Lay-z boy I sat on and ed her at the window. There is no greater weakness to a teenaged girl than an attractive older guy. I’d never looked at him before, but in that moment, Caeleb was beautiful. Nia and I stood at the window, as she ired him from afar, hidden behind the curtains. I laughed to at her intense longing. “Why don’t you talk to him?” I asked. I knew the answer. Nia was shy. Furthermore, in our day, only desperate or slutty girls made the first move on a boy. We were to be chaste, not give chase. Watching Nia grin and glow as she surveyed Caleb made me think about my own feelings about boys and love. Had I no one I wanted to be my own? No. I’d look from time-to-time, but never liked too-well what I saw.

Growing in ultra-strict religious settings like I did, I felt guilty being attracted to the opposite sex. Pastors’ harsh scrutinizing of wandering eyes caused me to be shamed at something so normal. I fought within myself whether I was a good girl or not. When weighing the expectations set for me, as a Christian girl, and the reality that I was a teen undergoing puberty and the oncoming natural attraction to boys; I found it hard to walk the line of expectation. I know touching was forbidden. I had no problem with that. Why was looking so bad? From time to time I’d impress upon my friends my musical talents. If I had nothing else I had my voice, and boy could I sing. Nia and I spent many days in my room, tv on mute, blaring Dr. Dre. I’d recite rap lyrics and sing a tune or two. My voice was my escape from reality. I always knew it would carry me far. I’d grown from a meek eleven-year-old to a semi-confident twelve-year-old. I switched music genres and clothing choices. Where one friendship ended two began. I discovered my interest in the opposite sex grew more to one type. My interest were geared toward guys with my skin tone and curly hair. I loved everything about light-skinned or biracial boys. Their attitudes, their looks, and the very protective nature most have. I grew in a house that preached racial harmony. We didn’t judge by outer appearance, but by character. My parents’ message of love and racial harmony did little to combat the ignorance I heard at school. I was told to avoid white guys because they fetishize black girls and women. “They’ll never take a black girl home to mom and dad.” Likewise, I learned some girls found it offensive for a dark-skinned black boy to date lightskinned girls. I never understood this as an issue. We’re all entitled to a preference. At twelve, I decided no matter who I allowed in my life, he’d have to be serious about a relationship and I’d steer clear of criminals. This decision would serve well in the long run. I’d become a new person this year, changing in ways I’d never expected. None more obvious than the way I dressed. My choice in clothing gave way to homophobic attacks from my aunt Nitty. She’d apparently seen me out and decided to impress upon my father her unwarranted opinions. “She’s going to group up gay. Look at the way she dresses.” I’d once heard my parents arguing about it. I didn’t get why people who wanted nothing to do with me and my brothers were so interested in bastardizing us. Knowing my father was once a Pastor, I guess she figured the fastest way to cause him to shun me was convince him I was lesbian. I have to wonder how stupid Nitty felt when her younger daughter Stacy came out during her sophomore year of college. Her nitpicking was inspired by daughter Tessa’s insecurities She never did like herself much. I

guess, rather than helping build her child’s self-image, Nitty wanted to destroy mine. Nevertheless, I held tight to who I was. I clutched my dreams and dreamed more. I dressed how I wanted with no apologies. I didn’t conform to the person she wanted me to be, nor did I seek Nitty’s approval on my choices. It’s good I did. This year, I was exposed to some situations that tested my morals and selfrespect. Tyler and I attended Hunter Middle’s lock-in at Chuck City’s Community Center. What I believed to be a night of sure fun and entertainment turned into a lesson on being my own person. I spent about the first forty-five minutes strolling the facilities, becoming familiar with the layout. The Community Center had everything the hood did not; indoor tennis courts, indoor swimming pools, and clean indoor gyms. I found the pools most fascinating. It had been years since I learned to swim, and although it wasn’t something I regularly did (the lack of available pools in my neighborhood was to blame), I dreamed of the day I’d be rich with my own pool. Before long, I made my way to a very large room. There, a DJ played music, staff supervised, and children danced and ate. I strolled to the DJ’s area to see what was on hand to request. He’d been taking suggestions, so I gave mine. I walked away to hear my favorite song “X” by Xzibit, vibrate large speakers. I took in my surroundings as I found a place to stand. Two groups of girls stood in close proximity of one another. Group A: black, and Group B: white. I knew most of the girls of Group A, so I headed in their direction. How I lived to regret my choice. Some of Group A stood giggling and talking; nothing wrong with that, they were after all middle school girls. There were a few who obviously had a clear understanding of sex and sexuality. It showed in their behavior. The eight-graders proudly owned and flaunted their sexuality. Be it my religious upbringing, or the fact that I was a reserved girl, I found their behavior odd. One of many issues that are discussed within black American communities is the sexualization of African American children. I’ve seen it most frequently with girls, but the same is often said of our boys. Though there are black parents who do their best to preserve the innocence of their children, it would be misleading to say the opposite doesn’t exist as well. For some reason, a lot of our children are taught what sex is and are brought up to approach the world around through their sexual nature. Many of us blacks are highly against this, yet not enough is done to stop the degradation of our babies. As the bass beat down the speakers, one girl, a bit on the heavy side, grabbed a lanky light-skinned boy and gyrated her backside on his pelvis. Her friends ed in popping rears and doing so without shame. The boy must have felt he was in heaven. Having three girls willingly degrade themselves for his attention

stroked his ego. I’d seen this kind of thing before. It always disgusted me. I looked over at Group B to notice how innocent and silly those girls behaved. Not one in the bunch displayed herself the way the older three of Group A did. I was embarrassed. I walked away. I committed to enjoying my own company that night. As I made my way out I overheard a male staff member comment on the girls’ behavior. “Man, do you see this? This is terrible. These kids are freaks.” I’d grown watching inappropriate displays of sexuality acted out by black children. Each time was more shameful than the last. I’d reach adulthood knowing a growing number of black people, men and women, felt the way I did. The behaviors of children taught to flaunt their sexuality speaks to negative racial stereotypes that have existed about blacks since the plantation. The Jezebel Black Woman and the belligerent, horny, scary black man labels stem from a belief that blacks are oversexed, sexually aggressive, and unable to control our urges. It doesn’t help that some of our own flaunt their nature without regard to the damage being done to the collective reputation of our people. A month or so later I saw the same thing. My homeroom teacher announce Hunter Middle would host its annual school dance. “The dance will be held after school in the gym. ission fee is $3.00” I wanted to go but doubted I would. My father reared us Baptist. Baptists have a very strict code of conduct regarding saints and their behavior. Time and again Pastors condemned what non-religious people saw as fun, “sinful.” Let the Preacher tell it, anything and everything short of sitting in church, paying tithes, and verbally abusing oneself sent people to hell. Attending football games, night clubs, and school dances granted those in their vicinity a ticket to eternal damnation. By my teens I learned to question things that didn’t make sense. I saw no reason why God would punish people who were dancing with friends. All the same I asked to go. Mom approved; dad had reservations. His greatest concern was with money. The fee was less than five dollars each. I knew we were a poor family on a tight budget, but surely we had $10 for Tyler and me to attend a school dance. Between what was given to us by dad, an outfit mom bought me, and a backpack full of cash I’d stashed after a friend of mine hustled money into my hands; Tyler and I were set for the dance. The night of I dressed and combed my hair. I wore black feaux leather pants and a matching jacket. At the time the outfit made sense. Thinking back on it I must have been the only kid at the dance looking like a member of KISS. My parents were working, leaving Antero to drive and pick us up. His led foot got us there with time to spare. Tyler and I paid the fee, and split. He met with his friends and I with mine. I saw Meggi that night. She and I made small talk, but I ignored Shahla. We weren’t speaking. I wasn’t the type to hold a grudge but saw no reason to play nice with her. Nia appeared, stealing me away to the girls locker

room. Inside, we met three eighth graders La-La, Bi-Bi, and T.C., the eighthgrade slut. It was a shame to know someone this age with irreparable damage to her name. I’d known La-La from Pigeon Elementary. She and sister Yasmin were classmates with Tyler and me. Yasmin, and I didn’t get along very well. Nia, Bi-Bi, and La-La made small talk. I stood there watching and being watched. I happened to notice T.C. eyeballing me. She looked me up and down, sizing up competition. She wasn’t exactly Beyoncé. The only thing physically appealing about T.C. was her brown skin. She was a bit on the heavy side, had almost no hair, and the face only a mother could love. I tried ignoring her but couldn’t. T.C.’s loud teeth sucking and eyerolling wouldn’t allow it. She continued eyeballing me. I shot her a look as if to say, “Take a picture it’ll last longer.” I’ve always had a way about me that made some girls uncomfortable. I’m not quite sure why. I tend not to take myself too seriously. I didn’t see this then. I do now. We left the locker room in search for fun, eardrums caressed by loud music. Between the DJ and our classmates, she and I found what we were looking for. The DJ switched songs exciting dancers with rapper Nelly’s latest tune “E.I.” Nia and I found a spot and let go. We danced among the crowd. I stopped when I noticed the same sexual behavior from the Community Center. Young girls gyrated rear ends bringing back the familiarity of disgust I felt at the lock in. I took a seat on the bleachers. There, I watched students dance. The boys were more than happy to welcome gyrated behinds pressing against their bodies. Why so sexual so young? I was forced to accept a truth I denied. Childhood was gone. We’d reached a period of intensity in our lives. The days of innocence were behind us. I wept inside for the little girl I still wanted to be. I’d fought to keep her alive and well, but the world around pushed her into oblivion. One epiphany after another hit me as songs switched. The DJ turned up Mystical’s “Shake it Fast,” as I was coming to understand we weren’t babies anymore. I was not yet an adult, nor a small child. I was stuck in limbo, an awkward place between the two. I wasn’t ready to be a teenager. I didn’t want to deal with peer pressure to do drugs, have sex, and all other manner of debauchery. Girls danced on to Mystical, doing just as the song said. I’d never seen so many booties shake. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Is this how teen girls act? I thought. I was not willing to the wave of overt sexual behavior, especially with my name and reputation at stake. I’d seen enough. I wanted to leave. Puberty brought the undeniable recognition of my own sexual nature. I knew what sex was, I understood (from a religious perspective) sexual orientation. Up

to this point in my life I was taught sex outside marriage was a “sin,” and having sexual urges was shameful. I, a teenaged girl, with no interest in sex, dating, or relationships was curious about both. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. I thought “If God created sex, why are we not supposed to have it?” What I was taught in church about sex wasn’t enough. Sex was to be done only within the bounds of marriage. I understood that, but what I never understood was why. No preacher ever seemed to have the answer. Truthfully, most Pastors ignored the biblical morals on the proper place and time to have sex, and how to avoid lust. My father would continue to preach here-and-there in my late teens. Before he left the pulpit for good I’d see a dysfunction that is visible only when you’re close to the alter. My peers seemed to be obsessed with the very notion of it; sex. The boys wanted it so bad they’d kill for it, and some of the girls were just as bad; if not worse. Kids openly discussed sex, sexual activity, and their partners. I made my exit when the subject came up. I was too embarrassed to be seen with people blabbing about their quest for an orgasm. We well understood the double standard between sexually active girls and boys. Boys got praised for having sex. Girls, shamed and called “whore,” “slut,” “skeezer,” etc. One girl in particular had developed a horrible reputation for being a slut; Tanae. She wasn’t shy about her sexual conquests. Tanae considered herself a “mack.” To everyone else, she was loose. I’d known her since fourth grade. Tanae’s sexual maturity was obvious at that age. Putting things into perspective I wonder why such a young girl knew so much about an adult matter. Regarding sex among middle school teens, the idea seemed both dangerous and idiotic. A teen parent had no way of ing or sustaining a child. We were too young to apply for a job. Most of us were aware of our socioeconomic status and understood the negative effects of poverty on a child. Becoming sexually active then was like playing Russian Roulette; eventually, all players would bite the bullet. Some kids risked it. I on the other hand, maintained my virtue. A sexual relationship was no place for a child. I believed that then as I do now. Nia and I fell in company with the West Point girls. We’d welcomed a few transfers during the second semester, bringing familiar faces from Pigeon Elementary to Hunter Middle. Among them K. K and I previously met in third grade. I liked her in elementary school. I did not in Middle School. The torment of Pigeon Elementary, K, and the letter changed the way I saw her. Along with K came Tracy. Tracy, a former native of New York, moved to West Virginia with her parents in March. The dynamics of a girl crew were difficult to understand. Cliques within a clique were formed, making way for drama and backbiting. Many of the girls didn’t like each other but we still hung out. Go figure, with

teen girls, that’s how friendship sometimes go. Our pack grew bigger and bigger. The more girls came into the circle, the greater drama. I tried to remain neutral. Tracy was no more loved by the girls than I was. I’d venture to say she may have been loved less. Tracy and I got along just fine. I wonder if that was reason for the others to hate her. Though sweet as can be Tracy was mistreated. She tried so hard to be friendly. The nicer she was, the worse the girls treated her. One day, as we all played in gym after lunch, I saw the other girls claws come out. Tracy, Sana, Samala, and a few others decided to play basketball. I tossed the ball a few times but wasn’t as committed as the others. Sana must have grown upset with Tracy, because the moment I got my hands on the ball she called a “time-out.” Sana approached me. “Hey, the ball to Tracy.” I did without thinking. What happened next hurt my soul. I ed the ball. Tracy caught it. I turned to walk away from the game. Hearing raised voices, I turned back to see Sana and Samala physically attack Tracy. Sana snatched the ball while Samala punched Tracy repeatedly. I stood there shocked. Why did they do this to people? Something had to be terribly wrong with those twins to lead them to behave this way. Something, I assume being abandoned by their father, caused them to hurt everyone in their path. I stormed to the girls bathroom. Tracy followed. “I hate this damn school,” she complained. “I want to go back to New York.” Her torment replaced mine. Most teens would be ecstatic. I wasn’t. I felt horrible for her. Sana was more than happy to engage Tracy in a fight. “I want that bitch to step. She think she the shit cause she from New York. She bout to find out country bitches fight, too.” The West Point and East side girls bumped heads often. However, they had one thing in common; their love of picking fights. I understood what it felt to be Tracy. I knew well her torment and frustration. I once punched Tanae in the face after being shoved. She pushed me showing off for her flunkies. I pushed back. I understood there was one way and one way only to earn the respect with these girls; violence. I hated it but gave them what they wanted. Tyler and I hung out at the mall after school from time-to-time. Chuck City is a town small town. There’s not much to do, especially for teens. The legal age for employment is fifteen with a signed work permit. Extracurricular activities are a perfect solution for children too young to work. Neither Tyler nor I played sports. We ed our friends in search for entertainment at the mall. Shortly after Beulah’s funeral, Tyler and I ran cousin Tania, J.B., and her mother Aunt B in the mall. The trio was seated at the food court when Tyler and I walked by. He and I wore bubble coats in our favorite colors. Tyler was dressed in red and black, and I in blue. We each wore a bandana to match our outfits. We wore what

we loved like everyone else. Tania gave a friendly smile and wave as we ed. I waved and kept going. “Who is that?” J.B. asked. “Those are my little cousins Tyler and Shaun. My uncle’s kids,” she replied. Tania’s warm greeting contrasted her mother’s disdain. Aunt B.’s snobbish behavior was nothing new. It was ironic. The wife of a man known for begging, carrying on like she was above us. The nerve. Shortly after, rumors circulated that Tyler and I ed a gang. Nothing was further from the truth. I also encountered my uncle R.B., as Tyler and I poked around J.C. Penny. I browsed the ladies clearance rack when he approached me. “How you’ doing?” “Good,” I replied. I noticed R.B. was with a young woman. His mystery woman was a lovely chocolate girl with shoulder length hair. He was married, but not to her. The mystery woman is the same I’d see with Nitty’s husband when I was sixteen. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. R.B. and I talked briefly before he went on. As he and his date walked away I heard the girl talking. “Are you stupid? What if she tells your wife?” My participation in Hunter Middle’s Spring talent show came years after leaving both the church and choir. My love for music stayed with me, so I jumped at the chance to sing. Students were given the option to choose what they displayed. Singing, acting out a scene of a movie or show, or dancing; our options were almost limitless. All talents were to participate in rehearsals before the show. I sang the song I would perform the night of and stuck around to watch. I was happy to see I wasn’t alone. My love of music and gift in singing was shared by others. Through excitement and naivety, I believed anyone I told about not only my performance in the show, but hopes of becoming a singer, would be happy for me. I was wrong. I found myself discussing the show and my dreams with Nia and some others before school one morning. Nia, Shahla, Meggi, and I stood in a circle flapping our jaws. “I’m g up,” I informed the girls. “I’m going to be a singer when I grow up.” “What about college,” Shahla asked. I excelled in academics but had not given much consideration to going to college. “I’m not going.” I believed I wouldn’t. I thought I’d be signed to a major label by the time I was eighteen. Christina Aguilera, Brittany Spears, all of BSB; they were famous entertainers by early adulthood. I just knew in my heart I would be, too. “You’re not going to be a singer,” Shahla spat. “You’re not going to be anything. You’ll be working at Burger King for the rest of your life.” “Shut up Shahla. You don’t know anything. I bet I’ll make more money than you.” Shahla, like most girls that age, knew how to push buttons and manipulate another’s insecurities. My confidence surprised her. Knowing she couldn’t do the same with me upset her. She stopped talking. This wasn’t the first time

someone underestimated me. It wouldn’t be the last. I’d spend years of my life being told what I “wouldn’t” or “couldn’t” do. The people who did this had no plan for themselves, or limited potential. At first, I thought there was some truth to what those people said. I quickly learned they wanted me to live beneath my potential, because their own was limited. Shahla was no different. I relayed news to my mom who told my dad. The thought of doing this without them didn’t seem feasible. It was. I didn’t know it then. My family watched me nervously do what I’d done since age six; bring an audience to its feet with my voice. I felt great after my performance, but I was at a crossroads. The pressure to forsake my dreams and be like everyone else weighed on me like never before. I lived a boring life. I went to school with kids with half-assed dreams. Those who didn’t dream were destined to make a mess of their lives. I, however, would do something great. I’d learned most of my favorite entertainers started out like me. They were poor kids with a gift and the hope of a better life. I was twelve years old. In six years I’d be eighteen and in charge of mine. My path would soon change, leading me to follow my ion and become an author. Nevertheless, I would still prove anyone who doubted me wrong. I would be great. No matter what it took. No matter how long I had to work for it. My destiny would find me, and I would welcome it. Springs warm weather brought out the worst in my peers. Intraracial bias was nothing new. I’d been the subject of it before. Facing it again was nothing. Each time a prejudicial remark was made about my skin, it thickened. I’d grown numb to the insults that once hurt me. Staff regulated outdoor periods for students, forcing my darker counterparts where they didn’t want to be; in the sun. After lunch, we were moved to the basketball court where I could enjoy the outdoors. The sun kissing my skin, a light breeze in my hair while the birds tweeted their songs from the sky. One day, while basking in the sun, I overheard a girl say. “Yeah, you need to have your pale ass in the sun.” I turned to see three dark skinned girls looking back at me. “Bitch shut your dumb ass up,” I replied. The girls who insulted my light complexion hid in the shade trying not to darken their own. Teachers directing them to the court forcing the girls under the sun’s rays. Groans and complaints echoed in the air. Still, the girls made their way. I’d gotten darker from those days in the sun, and I was happy. I liked the reddishbrown hue my skin gained in the heat. My counterparts, not so much. They pleaded with teachers to let them inside. “It’s hot,” I heard one moan. “I don’t want to sit out here,” complained another. “If we stay out here I’m a get all black.” There it was, the reality of why those girls tormented me about my color. I learned then they didn’t hate me or my skin, rather their own. I never

understood the concept of African Americans believing a black person could be “too dark.” Our ancestors were born on the hottest continent on earth. Darker melanin was necessary to thrive in the environment. We all inherited something from them. Be it our Afrocentric features, kinky hair, or dark skin; these things came from the men and women who birth our great-grandmothers and greatgrandfathers. We should be proud of what they gave us. Our physical features and amazing strength comes from people who faced hell and survived. I’m proud of my “blackness.” I wish more of my people felt the same. Much needed attention has been given to colorism and its effects on black people. The Willie Lynch Syndrome has long plagued the African American community, producing a hierarchy based on skin tone. However, colorism, and its horrible effects, is often used to justify intraracial bigotry and prejudice toward blacks with lightskin. That has been my experience. I’d grow to see the ugliness an obsession with skin color creates among black people. I hate the notion that one color is superior to another. We of all people should reject that belief knowing the existence of White Supremacy. I’d hear it repeated “Light, medium, or dark; we’re all somebody’s ‘nigger’.” If this is true, why was my “blackness” up for debate? When issues of race came into the mix I was the first to be called. When all was said and done my “black card” was revoked. I thought this line of thinking only existed at Hunter Middle. I soon found out different. Summer came and I made the decision to leave. Hunter Middle wasn’t the place for me.

Chapter 7

Summer 2001

My family moved months prior to the end of sixth grade. Still on the west side, we made our home on Dallas Street. We lived in a green and white house in the middle of our block. We were three blocks from the grocery store and across the street from a church we avoided. I don’t attending church at this time. After all we’d been through, I didn’t care to go again. Eventually we went back. My father tried his hand at preaching but quit after a few months. I guess he figured it wasn’t his “calling.” I enjoyed daily walks on Dallas. There was an ice cream shop a few blocks from my house. Every day mom would give me money to swing by and grab a treat. There, I fell in love with cookies and cream ice cream. I have that shop to thank. I knew no one in my neighborhood. I should have been used of being the “new girl” but I wasn’t. I’d grown tired of moving. It was depressing. Just when I got used to one place we packed and headed to another. I promised myself when I grew up I’d create a stable environment for my kids. No yearly moving, no homelessness; just good ol’ “Leave It to Beaver” normalcy. Tanae moved around the corner mid-June. She wasn’t my favorite person, but she was all I had. Tanae had been reunited with her estranged mother. The details miss me, but the two were living together. Her mom seemed quiet. There was nothing about her that was different from any other mom. She cooked, cleaned, chastised her daughter, and watched soap operas. It was hard to believe she once bailed on her kid. Tanae and I spent the summer together. The two of us, no one else. Well, until a handsome young man entered our lives. I spent the summer outdoors. This should seem no surprise, I was a young girl with a lot of energy and time. However, I wasn’t an outdoor kid. Dallas was still on the west side, and shootings and crime were readily available. Drug dealers roamed the neighborhood. Young boys ready to shoot their shot at potential romantic partners did as well. I had no idea what to say or do the first time a boy approached me. I wasn’t used to the attention. Every now and then James would flirt with me, but I didn’t take it too seriously. He was like that, flirtatious. He

batted his big, brown eyes at all the girls in our school. Most fell for it. I didn’t. These guys were different. They were older, more mature, yet sneaky. I’d first caught the attention of a fifteen-year-old that summer. At twelve, with the body I had, it was easy to assume I was older than I was. Add to it my mental maturity and anyone would have a hard time believing I was twelve. I’d walked to the store- to get myself a soda. I called Tanae to see if she was coming out that day, but no one answered. I didn’t want to sit in the house all day, so I took a walk to the store. As I came out, I heard a guy calling. “Hey, what’s your name?” I looked to see a slim, brown skinned boy dawning a grocery store company button up and beige khakis. He had a big smile, and fresh corn rows. He also just met me. I had no interest in boys at the time. I’d grown in a strict house with rules about dating, and I didn’t mind. I knew no one was allowed to do so until sixteen. I generally had no interest in it. Add to this my mother’s suspicions and you’d understand why I wanted nothing to do with him. Prior to the end of sixth grade, mom thought I was hiding a teenaged love affair with Micah. He’d come by our house to invite Tyler and I out. Mom allowed Tyler to go but badgered me about cleaning my room. I’d told her it was done. When mom couldn’t hold me home using my room, she began to press me about Micah. He was a brother in my eyes. I didn’t understand. The boy at the grocery store would have to be just that. He wanted to know me but wasn’t worth the interrogation from my mother. I also knew the legal ramifications he could suffer dealing with a girl so young. I wasn’t the type to put another person’s life in jeopardy. My conscious and good moral upbringing wouldn’t allow me to be so selfish. I walked away. An hour or so later Tanae called, and we were on our way. It was her cousin’s birthday. Tanae was headed to her aunt’s house for the party. “You wana come?’ she asked. I had nothing else to do. I’d cleaned up where I needed to. Strolling the neighborhood was only fun with a friend. “Sure, I’ll ask my mom,” I replied. I knew how my mother felt about Tanae. She didn’t like her, but I hoped mom would give me the “ok” this time. She let me go. We hopped in her uncle’s car and were off. Several minutes later we pulled onto east Chuck City’s Jakes Street. I climbed out of the rear enger side to the familiar settings of my old neighborhood. Periodically, Tyler and I walked from the west to Chuck City’s mall. At times, I’d grow board and walk all the way to the east. What can I say? I like walking. Loud music vibrated the corner, growing louder as we approached Tanae’s aunt’s. Shades of black mingled in and around the two-story house; beige, red, brown, and black. Little kids ran at play. Teens sat on the porch rolling eyes, sucking teeth, and blowing irritated sighs. Tanae and I were bound to find fun. After making brief introductions, we headed inside. Our first

stop, the living room. Plush with big, comfy Lay-Zee boys and a big screen television, the room was warm and welcoming. Then he walked in. Fitch, Tanae’s older cousin. He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Fitch was biracial with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He placed a liquor bottle on the counter, turned to us and said, “Don’t touch this shit. It’s not for kids,” and walked out. We touched it. Tanae pulled an Alize bottle from the brown paper bag. “Girl,” she said excited. “This is that stuff the rappers drink” Alize was christened a luxury in rap songs and videos. Tattooed artists, put the drink on display in clubs, mansion parties, etc. We saw the false advertising, and in our young minds, truly believed the mirage on television. Years later, I learned the truth about my favorite artists is that everything in their videos, from the cars to the women, was rented. The idea of a small portion of amenity was enough to help us temporarily escape real world poverty. “It’s strong,” Tanae observed taking a sip. “I like it.” She ran to the kitchen and back faster than I expected. In her hand, two red plastic cups; one for her, the other for me. Normally, I walked a straight path. I was an A student. I didn’t obsess over boys, and I wasn’t one to go looking for trouble. I was, however, a kid. Children do things they’re not supposed to. It’s how they learn. That night, I did what I knew I shouldn’t, because it felt good. Life handed me a ton of crappy deals. I figured this was a small gesture the universe sent to make things right. “Here.” Tanae said pushing a drink my way. I grabbed the cup, looked from her to the cup and back again. My lips curled in a mischievous smile, and I drank. Yes, I had my first drink at 12 ½. A mix of flavor and alcohol swirled in my mouth. The liquid danced down my throat landing in my stomach, leaving a burning sensation behind. We put the bottle in the bag on the counter, and split. If Fitch came in to find us near his opened bottle of Alize, we’d be in trouble. Outside we pranced drunk around the neighborhood. No one suspected a thing. The adults were drunk, the other teens still angry on the porch, and us; we had intoxicated fun. We ran from dogs, poked fun at neighborhood addicts, and hid from patrolling cops. I ed my first drunken stupor milestone. Hours later, Tanae’s uncle dropped me off. Luckily, mom had long gone to bed. My dad was at his second job, so I was able to sneak to my room unnoticed. I was drunk and I was happy. For the first time in a long time, I was content. I hadn’t the slightest clue alcohol would warrant me permission to smile. I also didn’t anticipate the hangover awaiting me the next day. I rolled over in my bed as the sun was coming up. So I thought. My head hurt. Worse than hurt, it ached. The migraine brought on by my drunken stupor was hell. My head pounded. The smallest, slightest sounds exacerbated the pain. My stomach turned as nausea set in. I rushed to the bathroom to vomit. I flushed the toilet, head spinning as I left the bathroom. In my room, I pulled the

curtains to see the sun wasn’t rising, it was setting. “How long have I been sleep,” I thought. I crept to my parents’ room to check the clock. I was right, the sun was setting. It was well after 6 p.m. If I was slightly intoxicated after waking, I was sober now. “Mom is going to kill me.” Surprisingly, she said nothing. I stayed in bed for two days. Three days later, I called Tanae. We met at my house before heading to the ice cream shop. On the way we recounted our alcohol induced fun at her cousin’s party. She talked about life and I listened. Her mom was back in the picture, but her father was still M.I.A. She didn’t speak of him often. When she did, Tanae regurgitated the familiar. Her father was white, and he left. That was it. Nothing further. I have to wonder if Tanae’s father’s absence contributed to her loose, sexual behavior. Girls of absentee dads are said to look for a father’s love using sex and their bodies. By fourth grade Tanae developed are reputation most adult women would be ashamed of. Known mostly as the school slut, she earned her name with every guy she met. I started to see a side of her I didn’t before. Tanae could be mean and nasty. She was also sweet, vulnerable, and smart. Had she poured her energy and intelligence into something constructive, rather than boys, people may have respected her. I told Tanae about the boy from the grocery store. She’d met him, too. “Did he try to talk to you,” she asked. “Yeah, but I ignored him. I don’t know that boy.” We laughed. At the time neither of us cared to know who he was. That’s what I thought. Tanae’s boy craziness drove her to find the fellow and learn his name. Danny. His name was Danny He was a cashier at the local grocer. Tanae thought the sun, moon, and stars revolved around him. There was just one problem, the difference in his age and hers. She and I were twelve and thirteen. He was fifteen. Tanae didn’t consider the trouble she could cause for Danny. She’d mentioned he’d met me before. When Danny asked how old we both were she lied. “Oh, she’s fifteen, I’m sixteen. I told him.” I was livid. “Tanae why’d you do that? He can get in trouble,” I reasoned. She heard none of it. She wanted what she wanted and what Tanae wanted then was Danny. I promised myself if I ever saw him again I’d tell him the truth. I did. Days later, I encountered Danny on his way from work. “Hey,” he began. “I you. You the girl that acted like she can’t speak, “he said jokingly. “Well, that’s because I don’t know you,” I replied. “Besides, you’re fifteen. You’re too old for me.” Danny was taken aback. “Too old, what you mean? Your friend said you was fifteen.” “She lied.” I itted. “That’s Tanae. She’s not sixteen either.” Danny crossed his arms. “Well, how old is she? How old are you,” he asked. The sound of footsteps pounded the sidewalk behind me. It was Tanae. “She’s thirteen and I’m twelve.” Tanae reached us just as I told Danny the

truth. Understandably upset, he scolded her. “Girl, you can get me in trouble like that.” Danny wasn’t the only boy Tanae lied to. My neighbors across the street had a sixteen-year-old son, Chuck. Chuck and friends bumped into Tanae and me while I walked my dog Noriega. I’d gotten Nori a few weeks prior. I wanted a pet and my dad found an ad for a free puppy. As I promised, I walked my puppy every day. I fed her and even let Nori sleep in my bed, rather than on the floor. My dad seemed content with my responsible behavior. So I kept the doggy. Tanae and I met Chuck unexpectantly when strolling the neighborhood with Nori. “Hey there lonely girl,” sung one of Chuck’s friends as I ed by. Tanae stopped to flirt. I continued down the block, ignoring the guy’s advances and returned home twenty minutes later. I got a call from Tanae saying she met my neighbor. “His name is Chuck. Girl, he is too fine.” ing the mess she made with Danny I asked, “How old is he?” “Sixteen,” Tanae replied. “Oh no,” I thought. “I wonder if she lied to him about her age.” She did. Tanae told the young boy she was sixteen. I understood why my mother hated her. West Chuck City welcomed a convenience store in 2001. The new store served all sort of junk kids walked from all over for. Tanae and I made routine stops to there for soda and candy. We tried every flavor it offered, including a root beer that looked scarily like real beer. That changed after a close call with Fitch. She and I made our way to my house from the convenience store, brown glass root beer bottles in hand. We talked, laughed, and joked on the way. Our cheer was interrupted by the screeching of car tires and yelling. “HEY! WHAT THE HELL Y’ALL DRINKING?” We turned right to see Fitch and a friend. We shot a look of fright between us before we ran. We ran with all our might bounded the corner at Chuck’ house and ran in mine. We hid in the loft that separated my living room from outside. I peeked out the window to see Fitch’s car drive by, music blaring. He was not happy. Tanae and I joked about the root beer bottle’s resemblance to Bud Lite. Fitch must have mistaken our root beer for real beer. It was no laughing matter. We ran and disappeared, finding humor in our close encounter. Fitch ed away two years later in 2003. He was gunned down while walking on East Chuck City in a case of mistaken identity. He was 20 years old at the time of his death. Fitch is survived by a son.

Chapter 8

GHT Middle

August 2001, I entered George H. Thomas Middle alone. GHTM is a predominately black school in Chuck City, West Virginia. Hunter Middle now behind me, I readily began anew. I started as a loner before meeting lifelong friend Bri. She and I were classmates in Mrs. Remey’s home room. Bri was tall, athletic, and dark skinned. She was very reserved with a warm smile and soft voice to match. I’m not sure how we met. Bri and I became friends and she introduced me to hers. I met K.W., Tanisha Hairston, Sandra, Rio, Nikki, Kay and Haleigh. Bri and I discovered common ground and similar principles. We had similar taste in music, food, and both maintained good grades at school. Bri, like me, had no interest in dating. She was very levelheaded and quiet. We didn’t subscribe to Willie Lynch Syndrome, nor did we conform to ghetto culture. Most girls our age were sexually active. We were not. I’d met someone who was comfortable being a kid and I was happy. I was praised for my responsible behavior, as was she. Though I’d done one really irresponsible thing during the summer, I was still a good kid. I ed a group of strong personalities and various hues. The mix of black, brown, and white skin was beautiful. I’d never seen anything like us. Before, my friends were either white or, in the rare cases I met someone who didn’t hate me for my fair skin, darker than me. My soul smiled. I got along fairly well with everyone except Rio and Sandra. Rio was a bold, boisterous boy. He said what was on his mind, giving no thought to what he was saying or the reaction it would trigger. He was rude, offensive, and downright annoying at times, but Rio was unapologetically himself. I liked that about him, but he and I could not be in the same space without arguing. I’m not sure if it was his mannerisms or the fact he hung out with nothing but girls, people questioned his sexuality orientation. Some thought he was weird. Others believed he was gay. I thought people should mind their business. After all I’d gone through with my aunt and her assumptions regarding my sexual preference, I vowed not to mistreat anyone

because of theirs. Rio was no different. The complex nature of teens kept us in the same circle though he and I bickered all the time. If I could do it all over again, I would have left the group and maintained an independent friendship with Bri. Arguing with Rio almost daily wasn’t worth it. Things were no better with Sandra. People didn’t really care for Sandra, they tolerated her. She was obnoxious and argumentative with an obvious complex about her appearance. Sandra obsessed over my ethnicity and color. She bombarded me with questions about my parents and “what” I am. “Are you white?” she once asked at the end of summer when what tan I did have begun to fade. “I once knew a girl who was your color and she was white.” “I’m not white, Sandra,” I answered. “Well, you look white as hell,” she spat laughingly. Here it was again. Another dark girl poking fun at my skin color to validate the existence of hers. I never mentioned anyone’s skin color in conversation, yet mine was always a topic. Why? When reflecting on all I learned about blacks in previous generations, those who fought so hard to end racism, I had to wonder what they’d have to say about the obsession with skin color among blacks, today. Being light skinned around darkskinned people felt like a crime. Was Sandra insecure about her color like the girls at Hunter Middle? Probably so. There was no escape, nor place I could go (outside my house and Bri’s) where people didn’t try and dissect my genetic makeup. I was bombarded with comments like, “If you ain’t white, I know you sure as hell ain’t black,” and “You light as hell. What you mixed with? Does your daddy like dog smelling white girls, too?” I hated Sandra. The sweltering summer slowly faded forcing me indoors after school. I found solace inside. I dreamed while listening to music and doing homework or chores. I tied up the line in hour long phone calls with friends. I held tight to the hope of a singing career. So I began recording and mailing off audition tapes. I received more rejection letters than I anticipated, but my dream was still my dream. From time to time I’d think back to sixth grade music class and the question. I’m not sure what I knew of my grandfather then, but it wasn’t much. I knew his name. I knew his career choice and marital status, and he obviously had terrible taste in women. I knew he was a father of ten and one died. Music, my diary, and an uninterrupted imagination kept me going. I was having trouble finding my footing at school. Being a “new kid” is never easy. It’ much harder when your skin tone is dissected, pointed out, and topic of conversation. Homelife became something I always wanted it to be; peaceful. Still, I was a teen and yearned for social interaction. Tanae was the only kid I knew in the neighborhood. She was still at Hunter Middle so there was no telling when she’d get home. Danny worked after school. I hid our friendship to keep both of us out of trouble. It

wasn’t enough. So, I linked up with Idele who I met at Hunter Middle and started hanging on Third Street. Third was one block north from my old house on West Street. The area was plagued with drug activity, but Third Street was the center for crime. Idele lived with her mom in a three-story house, orange house. She hated it. “It smells like a toilet,” she often complained. I was drawn to Idele because of our similarities. She was one of four kids. I was one of five. Idele was the only girl as was I. We were broke kids trying to navigate life and beat poverty. Idele dreamed of becoming a model. I could see that. She was tall, thin, and very pretty. I liked that she thought outside the proverbial “box.” Ghetto girls weren’t supposed to dream of growing to become singers or models. We weren’t supposed to hope to be anything. Idele and I missed the memo. Our ventures around the neighborhood led to meetings with other girls. Some I knew, others I didn’t. I met Savannah, Eve, and a few others I can’t . K lived nearby. She swung by Idele’s to hang with us now and then. My rendezvous with the Third Street crew became an after school regular. I’d make my way from Dallas to meet them and we’d find something to do. Some days were sat watching BET, others we’d stroll the neighborhood. I eventually brought Tanae in. She’d knew Idele and K like I did. Things were pretty mild. We didn’t get into trouble like Tanae and me. There was no drunken stupors, or hot older boys, nor any running from hysterical older, overprotective cousins. Just us girls. That all changed on a sunny afternoon. The usual crew met on Third; Idele, me, K, Savannah, and the others. We strut our stuff down third, a loud, young, and beautiful group. As we stepped on West Street a male voice called from a car. We turned to see a boy on vehicle’s enger side. K and a few others ran to the car. They knew him, I didn’t so I stayed where I stood. I stood waiting until the boy pulled a pound of marijuana from his lap and waved it in the girls faces. I knew if the police came and found us, we’d go to jail like the weed baring rider. So I left. That was the end of my association with the Third Street crew. I was introduced to a danger I’d never encountered but knew existed; roaming pedophiles. Following the incident on third I began spending more time at home. After school I’d sit on my stoop, listening to music, sometimes reading, others writing. I was still trying to overcome the “new girl” anxiety attending GHTM. I found solace in music and fresh air. One afternoon, as I rested outside, my peace was interrupted by a voice. “Hey!” I looked to see a man who appeared to be in his thirties staring at me from the enger side of a car. “Can I get your number?” I was taken aback. I was thirteen, he a grown man. There was no

reason he should have approached me. I thought maybe I looked older than I did. How naive of me? ing what I told Tanae when she’d lied to Chuck and Danny about her age, I spoke. My intention were simple; tell the man what he doesn’t know. You’re a kid and he can’t be involved with you. It didn’t matter. “I can’t do that, I’m only thirteen,” I told him. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he asked. I couldn’t believe my ears. Obviously, this man had impure intentions. I gathered my things and went inside. I never told anyone out of fear. I didn’t want anyone to questioning me. The last thing I wanted was to be accused of lying about something so serious. This was the first of several encounters I’d had. Sometime later, as I walked to school, the hair on my neck stood. I felt the unease of someone watching me. I couldn’t pinpoint who or where, but I knew I was being watched. GHTM rests on a very large block, taking up much of Perry Drive. Across the street is a Quick Mart, beyond Quick Mart, train tracks. I reached the tracks when the feeling of eyes watching me intensified. I turned to see a man, standing in an ally, eyes locked on me. I turned away and ran the rest of the way. Throughout the course of the day I’d forgotten all about the stranger. I wasn’t hurt, only slightly alarmed, but otherwise ok. After school, I made my way home without worry. I walked along calm and collected as I was approached by a SUV. “Hey, little girl,” called a man from the vehicle. “Come here,” he coached trying to get me to draw near. I turned to see a vehicle full of black men, between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four. Fear gripped, nearly paralyzing me. Somehow, I mustered the strength to do what I knew to; run. I did. The SUV gave chase but stopped as I rounded the corner onto Dallas. Now home, I slammed the door shut behind me, heart racing; yet luck to be unharmed. I felt blessed to be ok and I was. Days later, local news broke the story of a sixteen-year-old girl who fell victim to a gang rape. The suspects were said to be black men between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four, driving an SUV. I knew in my heart the men who raped that girl were the same men who chased me. The ghetto is no place for children, but based on my experiences, I’d say it is a greater danger for girls. Rapes occur often and no one says anything. Sexual assault is normalized and accepted in low-income neighborhoods. Residents explain away the actions of the predator by blaming the victim. What she wore, where she was; all of her actions are questioned. No one seems to call out the behavior of the sexual ab. He is treated as a victim of both his sexual appetite and attraction to his prey. Taking this into consideration I vowed not to raise girls in the hood. I didn’t want them to have to worry more than any woman or girl, in any neighborhood, has to worry about sexual predators. I

withheld this from my parents for the same reason I did before. I do wrestle with the question, “Could I have prevented that girl’s rape by speaking up?” That is a hard pill to swallow. I had one last encounter with a pedophile soon after. This one occurred the same as before; as I walked to school. I went on my way when I was approached by an older Puerto Rican man. “Hey,” he began, “You’re a cute little girl. You ever been with an older man?” I tried to ignore him believing he’d take a hint and leave me alone. Men in my neighborhood didn’t concern themselves with statutory rape laws or age. The younger the better, I don’t know why. The man continued. He followed me attempting to convince me to go to his apartment. I felt fear rising, but this time I didn’t run. My mother worked a cashiering job at the time. After saving a few paychecks she bought herself a phone. Mom normally carried the phone with her, but this day she forgot it in a rush. Seeing her cell on the coffee table, I picked it up on the way out the door. I pulled the phone from my pocket as the man talked and dialed 9-1-1. An operator picked up saying, “9-1-1, what’s your emergency.” The man slowly backed away and ran. I knew he heard the operator. I watched him long enough to be certain he wouldn’t come back. When I was sure he wasn’t I continued to school. That was the last I saw of him. Years of constant taunting and questioning my blackness caused me to grow insecure about my name. I’d gotten into many arguments and some fights after being mockingly called “white girl,” “Oreo,” “Michael Jackson,” or some other name. A Shaun surrounded by names like LaChance, Sharde, and La’Vaughn, seemed quite plain. I wondered what drove my mother to name me the way she did. I found a temporary fix in my middle name, which had more of a “black girl” appeal. I began to look names up on the internet. When I was older, I promised to change mine. I wanted something closer to my culture, yet not so outrageous I looked silly. My goal was to avoid becoming another “Medicine Cabinet Baby.” Bri, K.W., Tanisha, and I formed a four-member girl group called “Fly Girls.” We wanted to be like our idols, Destiny’s Child, Icsyss, and 90s group SWV. We dreamed of recording Billboard chart topping hits, traveling, and using our musical gift to get away from the hood. The group knew I loved to write, so I was made songwriter. With groups like B2K, B5, and ATL on the rise, we knew we had something America, specifically black America would love. We had soul, good looks, and humble beginnings. Pop stardom wasn’t in the cards for us. At the time we believed different. I often wonder what life would’ve been like had we fulfilled our dream. Maybe, just maybe, Tanisha’s life wouldn’t have

been cut short. Sadly, she died at twenty-nine in the early hours of the morning after falling victim to gun violence. May she rest peacefully. Inward fighting and bruised egos led “Fly Girls” to dismantle. Our musical career was over before it began. My friends abandoned their dream of fame, but I clung to it like my life depended on it. My dream carried over into the following school year. Eighth grade would prove to be one of the toughest years of my life. I needed something to keep me afloat. My dream kept me from going insane. What began as a normal school year turned quickly. I’d headed off to school in August with the same expectations. I’d thrive in academics but fight and fuss with my peers. Things were so-so until late September. I befriended transfer student Charlie Jackson. Charlie transferred from our neighbor city, H-Town. She was soft spoken, eloquent, and intelligent. She was very thin, and light skinned with thick, dark hair. Charlie made straight “A’s,” and like me and Bri maintained her innocence. She’d never kissed a boy, neither had either of us. None of us were interested in dating, boys, sex, or kissing. I took to Charlie as I did Bri, because she was different. We like the same style music. She, like me, was raised Christian. Her devotion to her faith was aspiring. I’d never seen someone so disciplined and grounded in their piety. I was brought up under the Baptist doctrine though I wasn’t nearly as committed to my creed as Charlie was to hers. Charlie deeply believed in purity until marriage. I was relieved to have another friend who was not sexually active. Most girls I knew were in some way. I spent a lot of time with Charlie after school. She lived by Grand Street, not far from Bri and my old neighborhood. I had to walk some distance to get to Charlie’s but not too far. The Victorian style home where she lived was nothing like I’d ever seen. I fell in love with it. I got to know the intimate details of her life. Charlie was the product of divorce. Her father remarried and her stepmother was expecting. She wasn’t flattered with her bonus mom. When she spoke of her, Charlie questioned her father’s decision. Her dad (to us) was an old man. Charlie’s stepmother was very young. If I had to guess, I’d say she was twentyfive at the oldest. I met her my third visit. Mrs. Jackson was a young, beautiful Filipino woman. She was due to deliver twins November 2002. She had kind eyes and a warm smile. I put on my best manners when she was around. However, I knew Mrs. Jackson didn’t like me. I felt what her mouth didn’t say. “I wish this child would leave.” I stayed. I loved it there. We listened to music, did homework, ate snacks, and talked like normal girls. Some days we went strolled the neighborhood. Charlie wasn’t well like at school. Girls thought she was uptight, over opinionated, and snobby. I ignored those things because worse was said about me. We were regularly branded with the “stuck up light-skinned

girl” label. We didn’t curse, spoke clearly, made good grades, carried ourselves with respect, and on and on; and so, we wore the label. Charlie often relayed her problems to me. I completely understood. She fell victim of torment by basketball girl jocks and twin sisters Shamika and Shakeiah and their flunky Khadija. Nothing was sacred, those girls teased Charlie about everything. Her clothes weren’t expensive enough, she was “too skinny,” her head “too big,” and she acted “white.” The latter insult hit close to home. The twins and Khadija took their harassment of Charlie to another level, one which included me. On an ordinary afternoon, as Charlie and I walked back to my house, we were intercepted by the three. One of the twins began to verbally assault Charlie. We decided not to engage her. It wasn’t our intention to exacerbate the situation. I guess our lack of attention rubbed her the wrong way. Next thing I know, both the twins and Khadija were blocking our path. The beratement continued. I was also taunted, but unlike Charlie I attacked back. Something I said must have bruised one of the girls’ ego because what came the next day, and in the days following led to a level of emotional anxiety unlike I’d ever felt before. Charlie and I continued on our way doing our best to put the pettiness of our peers behind. We hugged at the corner of Dallas and I went inside. I shut the door behind me closing the world out. The following morning I dressed and headed to school. No one bothered me as I made my way. I enjoyed the coolness of the autumn air. Summer’s end had come and gone, still I soaked up the slightest warmth during my morning walk. I arrived and sat I the auditorium. Before students were excused to breakfast, we were directed to GHTM’s hall. I felt the eyes of peers staring through me. Something wasn’t right, but here, it never really was. I found a seat and began daydreaming. I spent a lot of time wandering. Whispers and pointing fingers surrounded me bringing me back to reality. The beautiful vision I crafted in my head disappeared among the murmurs and indicating fingers. I noticed students, particularly female students, glaring at me as I moved through the halls. If I sat next to a girl, she moved. I had no idea why. Lunch came before long and Charlie and I took a seat. Shortly after we were approached by Sandra and Rio. Almost immediately the two began spewing their verbal abuse and things escalated quickly. Rio made an off the wall comment about my family and I snapped. He insinuated something less than pure about the sexual act in which my mother was conceived. Rio knew he crossed the line when he left the cafeteria and I followed. A brief confrontation in the hall led to his spilling the beans on everyone’s odd behavior. “I wasn’t being serious. I was just playing. If you want to be mad, be mad that everybody thinks you and Charlie are gay. The twins was telling how they

caught y’all having sex after school, yesterday.” No such thing happened, but because it was said about two outcasts the students ate it up. I now understood the looks, whispering, and sudden distance between my female peers and me. I was one of two people victimized by a nasty, homophobic rumor. The level of acceptance the LGBTQ community has today was non-existent then. Anyone perceived as gay or questioning was isolated, ostracized, and discarded. I knew the sting of this kind of ignorance. It was all too familiar to the way my aunt taunted my dad about my pending sexuality, as my choice in clothing became subject of debate, and my sexual preference was called into question. However, this was much worse. People treated me like I had done something wrong. I’d done nothing. Girls moved to the other side of the hall as I walked by, mumbling homophobic slurs under their breath. I gathered myself as best I could in time for Social Studies. Our teacher scheduled a film, so I didn’t have to participate much. I sat in the dark room, mind racing, trying to understand why anyone would start a rumor. I asked what Charlie and I had done to deserve this. I didn’t understand how a lie could spread so fast. In a town as small as Chuck City, people love gossip. The dirtier or nastier the rumor, the faster it spreads. I learned that this day. Differing variations of the rumor spread and each time it was worse than a before. Much of it involved our alleged sex acts, and others included the use of some sort of narcotics. More lies. Perhaps the greatest irony is that two of the three who started the rumor would come out as lesbian in later years. Shamika and Shakeiah, who, themselves were gay, berated us with a rumor that we were what they sought to hide. I fell victim to a second rumor when my aunt Nitty began spreading lies I was expecting. Nitty’s learned daughter Tessa was pregnant and tried to conceal it with an abortion. Somehow, word got out the teen was expecting, and her mother threw me under the bus. In order to cover her twelve-year-old daughter’s tracts, she started the rumor about me. I found out when I overheard my parents discussing it. “That bitch is out here lying, telling everybody our daughter is pregnant, knowing she lyin’,” my mother stated. Apparently, this was my year to be at the center of gossip and rumors. Things got worse when we were evicted. We found ourselves in the one place I hoped to never see again; Soldier’s shelter. We packed our belongings, taking as little as possible with us, locking the rest in storage and left Dallas behind. Our last night moving, I cried my soul out as mom, Antero, and I stood in the street. I cried out not just from the pain of being evicted, but because of everything I was going through. I’d been lied on. People I thought were my friends abandoned me, and now this. My reputation was tarnished, and we were homeless. My

puffy pink face swelled as my soul screamed out in agony. I knew life wasn’t fair. I didn’t know it could be this cruel. I once believed if I did my best to be a good person, good things would follow me. Life’s unpredictability quickly shattered my perception. I looked for God and found Him not. Maybe He, too left me. I could see no reason why He wouldn’t. I began to question everything I once believed. Suicidal thoughts plagued my mind as we hid in Soldier’s. “If I only had a gun,” I thought, “I’d end this nightmare.” I spent late nights awake thinking about death. Is it scary? Do you feel pain when taking your last breath? Does the soul exist, and if so, what happens to it once we die? I so badly wanted death, but it didn’t come. I was fourteen and required by law to attend school so withdrawing from public education wasn’t an option. I was forced to go to GHTM. There was no alternative. Hunter Middle stopped accepting west side kids in 2001, and though I was now living on the east side, I wasn’t going to tell anyone where. A whole new set of problems would have come with getting the public-school system involved in my life, when my living arrangements comprised of a homeless shelter. I was a loner and I was homeless. My suffering followed wherever I went. Embarrassed by our circumstances, mom arranged a plan to prevent exposing our reality to anyone. The goal move around unseen. We’d wake up at 4 a.m., shower and dress, and be out of the shelter before 6. Our schoolmates began boarding buses around 6:15-6:30. We made it a point not to let them see us leave Soldier’s. I couldn’t afford more problems. The rumors nearly destroyed me. If anyone found out that I was homeless, I surely wouldn’t be able to live through the horror. Every morning, at 5:30 a.m., mother and I walked to the mall. Stores wouldn’t open for hours, but area locals, mostly elderly people, entered the building for exercise. They’d move about among us. I got some joy seeing them each day. Behind every person was an amazing story, I was certain. I’d watch them and try to guess their . One man in particular stood out. The story of Anne Frank came to mind each time I saw him. I guess his age at the time was between seventy or eighty. I believe he was Jewish. Was he a Holocaust survivor? Did he know anyone who’d been forced into Auschwitz? If I learned nothing else, life taught me never underestimate where someone has been or what they may have survived. I traveled across country once. Who knows where he’s been and what he’s seen? Mom and I waited for the 7:15 bus going through west Chuck City. She’d get off and go to work. I rode alone to school. I felt vulnerable and naked without my mother. I knew she couldn’t go with me. She had to work. Still, considering our suffering the last thing I wanted was to be without her. I turned to the only thing I could; music. Music became the safe haven school once was. It lifted me from

reality. It comforted me when I needed it. I walked with my head down, not knowing who to trust. My back was against the wall and I felt no way out. I once tried to speak to K.W. She excused herself fast as she could. I knew she was avoiding me because of the rumor. I also knew she was no true friend. I headed to my locker feeling defeated. It was the end of the day, and I was more than ready to leave. Soldier’s was no place I wanted to be, but anywhere was better than this. “Sup, Shaun,” I heard a voice call. I looked to see Bri standing next to me. I was surprised to see her. “You know what people say about me don’t you? Do you believe it,” I asked. “No,” she replied. Bri showed me I wasn’t as alone as I felt. I wasn’t emotionally ready to accept it, so I pulled away. It was then I met Star. Star was one of a minority of white students at GTHM. She failed eighth grade and was enrolled in the Behavioral Disorder class. Nevertheless, I liked her. She was lively, funny, sweet, and what I was rumored to be; lesbian. B.D. kids class schedule operated opposite ours. They were on break when were in class and vice versa. Star regularly skipped class to see me on break. We’d ditch together and see how long we could go without getting caught. GHTM was a large building. Avoiding staff was a piece of cake. I have to credit much of my healing to Star. Had it not been for her I might have had a breakdown. The rumor still spread around school, but it bothered me less and less. When it lost its power, everyone moved on. I learned I couldn’t count on people like I thought. Those you trust are often the first to let you down. Life goes on. Everyone I knew but Bri did. I branched out on my own, finding acceptance in small groups of peers along the way. I was once again the only black girl in my group of friends. Though they accepted me, I felt a disconnect between us because of race. Sure, most of us were poor, but their experiences greatly differed from mine. We bonded at sleepovers and science class group projects. My new crew consisted of myself, Jeanie, a silly Irish girl, and Shana, a transfer from Virginia. Shana, like me, had a tough life. She’d fallen victim to sexual abuse by her father at age ten. I didn’t know him, but I hated the man’s guts. Shana introduced me to her best friend, Sammie. I didn’t like her. She was annoying and a bit dumb. I had no qualms about hanging with troubled kids, but Sammie danced with the Devil. She was fourteen and romantically involved with a nineteenyear-old man. Sammie often complained about her beau and vowed to leave him, but he’d kept her close by threatening to commit suicide if she did. She stayed. I met Heather and Kylie through Shana. Heather was a hyper blonde. Kylie reserved and snobbish. She didn’t like me I was certain. I was also sure I didn’t care. Her disdain for me grew when someone spread a rumor I was seeing her ex-boyfriend. I was not. Eight-grade, my name, and rumors.

Our luck turned around when my family moved to Bradly Street. Trevor, Tyler, my parents and I made do with a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. I don’t Trevor being around much. Mom and dad took one bedroom and Tyler the other, leaving no place for me. I slept on the couch, but the sofa was better than the homeless shelter. Spring 2003 arrived, bringing the neighborhood to life. Community walks became part of my daily activity. I’d stroll down Bradly, past Pigeon Elementary, round the corner on Khan Boulevard, and continue to mid-Chuck City. Warm weather was always accompanied with criminal activity. Blocks away from Bradly, among the newly renovated townhomes of Ample Place, was the ally where I saw a man murdered. I knew better than to expect anything different. It was here I met Kay. Kay, like many children I knew, was the product of a broken home. Inquire about her birth father and no one knew anything. He had no name, no face, he was a regular John Doe. Kay’s mother struggled with addiction to crack cocaine. Kay, like her mother, was African American. Her mother was romantically involved with a junky white man, one Kay despised. She, a seventeen-year-old, was one of two children. Her younger sister Sissy was four, thin as a noodle, and annoying as any toddler can be. Sissy gravitated to anyone around her longer than five minutes. The poor child was obviously starved for attention. The foursome was as dysfunctional as could be. The parents were strung out, the toddler, neglected; and the only teen in the house sold dope. I thought I had it bad. I’d considered a lot of things in my life, but a life of crime wasn’t one of them. I reconsidered. Seeing the cards life dealt me I saw no reason I shouldn’t. Homelessness, isolation, poverty, suicidal thoughts; they all took a toll on me. My life was a mess over which I had no control. I chased it; control over my fate. To determine where my feet landed and where to plant them. Kay introduced me to her friends and fellow criminals Alisha and C.T., her boyfriend Beanie, Diabla, and a bi-racial girl who resembled me so much people thought we were sisters, Natalie. Kay’s crew hustled dope for a distributor in Huntington. It was common knowledge Beanie was heavily involved in illegal gun trafficking. I’d left the east and returned to find it still a hotbed of filth, depravity, and debauchery. I lived a double life from March to May 2003. By day, I was a student. After 3, I roamed the neighborhood with hustlers. My den of thieves accepted the broken, hopeless girl I was. I no longer needed to feel I fit in at school. Natalie ran into trouble when she traded another dealer weed for crack. The two agreed to the exchange, because she had a client in a nearby projects looking to score rock. Natalie didn’t have it. He did. Or so she thought. We later found out she’d been played. As evening set in, the day sky slowly

turning black, Natalie, Diabla, and I headed to Wilmington Manor. We arrived after dark, still walking. We wandered the neighborhood looking for her buyer. She found us. We were approached by a sickly looking bi-racial woman. She stood just over five feet. The woman wore dirty grey sweatpants, an oversized red hoodie, and white socks under sandals. She looked disheveled and weak. I’d seen crack addicts before. I never before accompanied dealers to meet one. Nothing about our actions that night were justifiable. We were young girls, between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, selling dope in the projects. None of us lived there, yet here we were. We were dumber than Lloyd Christmas and Harry Dunne. A short exchange between Natalie and the fiend uncovered she had been had. “Honey, what’s this,” the woman asked trying unsuccessfully to light the rock. “What you mean,” Natalie replied. “It’s good crack. I got it from D.” What the woman said next sent Natalie over the edge. “Well baby, I don’t know what he told you, but these is lambs. It’s fake!” I knew no good could come from this. How right I was. Natalie confronted D about the fake crack. What began as a verbal argument turned physical, leaving her beaten and hospitalized. To make matters worse, she was pregnant. Natalie miscarried due to her injuries. Tanae shared in my first drunken stupor two years earlier. At age fourteen I became familiar with marijuana. Diabla had ample access to weed. She sold it, knew someone who grew it, and often smoked it. I needed an outlet; she had the supply. I smoked my first blunt at Diabla’s house. She introduced me to the various types of weed. There was sour diesel, Cali bud, and purple haze; a popular favorite from 2003-2005. I preferred Sour Diesel. I freaked out the first time I got high. I slouched on Diabla’s Lay-Zee boy sofa; muscles relaxed feeling lightheaded. The more we smoked the higher I got. I got so high I felt like I was floating. I reached a state of relaxation I’d never known before. My body went numb and I had a sudden craving for Oreo cookies. The stress and trauma of previous months was gone. The range of emotions I felt disappeared. One blunt cured all my pain. I fell in love with Mary Jane. I know this is where I’m supposed to say I regret smoking weed. I don’t. Truthfully speaking, weed kept me from breaking when I was most vulnerable. I continued off and on until, at eighteen, I decided to stop. I was committed to getting my life together. I believed that weed would hold me back. For the time being, I had a new afterschool routine. I’d meet my friends and get baked. I never stopped to wonder if my parents knew or suspected what I was up to. Mom didn’t ask. I didn’t tell. We lived the old U.S. military code.

May 2003 came bringing mayhem. Kay’s family drama spilled into the streets following a dispute between her mom and live in boyfriend. I’d carried out my day as usual. I went to school, headed home after 3, and met my friends. Natalie, Kay, Diabla, and I roamed the neighborhood, making a stop at the local Rite Aid. I browsed while, unbeknown to me, my crew pocketed small trinkets. After words, we went home. I had dinner and fell asleep on my parents’ bed watching BET. Hours later mom shook me from my slumber. “Shantel, wake up! Something’s wrong with your friend.” I threw on my shoes and shuffled to the door as mom filled in the blanks. I stepped into the cool night to the flashing of police lights and squad cars surrounding the apartments. My heart raced as I ran to Kay’s. “Hold me! Hold me,” Sissy screamed reaching for me. I pulled her to my chest. In a state of shock and confusion I turned from Kay to officers and back. “What happened,” I asked. Kay went over the day’s events including the domestic dispute between her parents. Kay’s mom’s live in boyfriend attacked her with an ash tray and she fled. Kay alerted Beanie, who enlisted goons C.T. and a few nameless others to find the boyfriend. He was beaten and chased from the apartment. Concerned neighbors called 911. Soon after Kay’s family drama, my days with the crew came to an end. Police made a visit to my house while I was at school. Undercover officers caught Natalie distributing crack to a buyer. I was with her, but the officers had no interest in me. I was an unknown person. A uniformed officer followed me to learn my place of residency and spoke with my mother. Like that, my time as a hustler was over. I finished eighth grade with a 4.0 GPA. I’d be a high school freshman in the fall. I longed for the day I’d escape the ghetto. It came. My only wish is I didn’t leave as damaged as I was.

Chapter 9

Mid-Teens to Thirty

June 2003, we bid farewell to Bradly Street. We moved from the slums to a single story three-bedroom home, deep in the woods of Chuck City’s most prestigious and ired community, Port Mound. I longed for a place such as this. Somewhere far away from the ghetto. A somber place in a quiet neighborhood with welcoming neighbors and “normalcy.” I was able to lose the tension built by stress and betrayal. I let go of the past and tuned into nature as I settled into my new environment. Branch was a quiet and secluded street. It descended into the mountain’s center. I loved Port Mound. Mostly, I loved the little village feel of the community. It had markets and grocery stores, schools, churches, doctors’ offices, and various neighborhoods; each more beautiful than the last. Port Mound had fitness centers, chiropractors’ offices, nearby postal services; you name it. If I had to compare Port Mound to any fictional town it would be “Once Upon A Time’s” “Story Brook.” Tyler and I, new and knowing no one, decided to explore. We spent much of our summer that way. I didn’t see a single child all summer. We were, however, new to the neighborhood. I held to the hope I’d meet some friends. July came adding new life to the family. Melody’s mother Eva gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Melody stayed with us while her mother was in the hospital. I was happy she came. She was a regular visitor at many of our homes. Melody and I grew up together. From the time we moved to Ample Place to West Street and even her brief visits on Dallas, I had Melody when I had no one else. In many ways she was the sister I never had. She and I talked about everything. We talked school, the old neighborhood, kids we didn’t like, and what she hoped being a big sister would be. Melody would know a joy I never would; that of being an older sister. A small part of me wished my parents would’ve had another child. Growing up, I watched Will Smith play the witty, yet rebellious nephew to a strict, successful patriarch, Phillip Banks. Mr. Banks was a husband, attorney, and father of three. He was, in many ways, the man I hoped my father

would be. Phillip Banks had two girls, Hilary and Ashley. I wanted so badly to be an older sibling. My dream sister was a little dark-skinned girl with long hair like Tatiana Ali. My parents, a dark-skinned mother and light-skinned father, had a rainbow collision of children. One more couldn’t hurt. Or so I thought until I came to understand what it meant to be poor. Phillip Banks was accomplished. My father, though hard working, hadn’t reaped the benefit of his labor. I hold hope that someday he will. Summer proceeded and I fell in love with nature. I spent many nights on our large deck, under the starts, listening to wildlife. Those silent nights were rejuvenating. The breeze of summer winds healed wounds life created. My room was nearest the front door. At night, I’d open my window, move my stereo speakers to the windowsill, turn up the music and relax outdoors. Other nights I soaked up the quiet. Silence was addictive. I’d grown used to the never-ending noise of the slums and projects. Police and ambulance sirens, gunshots, and music so loud it threatened to damage the eardrum. I indulged myself in the quiet Branch offered. So, I continued until winter. August arrived bringing school registration and freshmen orientation. Now a student of Warren Harding High, I approached the institution with great hopes. I aspired to the ROTC like my mother. I’d go on to the service like my father after graduation. I wanted to break from tradition and follow the men of my family. I’d be the first female to the service. My dream, to be a Naval Officer. Imagine my disappointment when I learned Warren Harding had no ROTC program. The school did add it a year or so later. Apparently, service to one’s country wasn’t promoted to rich, suburban kids. I guarantee if I’d have followed my brother to Chester High, a predominately low-income school, I’d have been able to sign up. I questioned the logic of W.H.’s lack of said opportunity. Was military service beneath students at a school consisting mainly of children of doctors, lawyers, elected government officials, and businessmen? If so, why? Warren Harding High looked like every suburban public school I’d seen on television. Most of its students were white, with a small minority of blacks, and an even smaller number of Indians and Arabs. I approached freshman orientation with a positive attitude. I was given a fresh start. Maybe this year would be better than the last. I believed that until I encountered some pushy seniors three days after school began. The aggression I’d successfully put away returned with a vengeance. From then on, I was out for blood. Freshman orientation was hosted by the senior class. Each of our guides looked like Calvin Klein models. The frat boy want-to-be blondes with expensive cars and rich fathers to pay for them. Our guide must have been a hit with the ladies.

He was fit with beautiful gold curls and bright, blue eyes. I’d never been interested in white guys but had to it he was handsome. I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I’d overheard two girls to my left swooning over his good looks. Laughing them off, I tuned into the lecture. Our host, who I’ll call Dior, went over everything. He covered school policy, protocol, and structure. W.H.H operated on a block schedule. We were scheduled to attend classes in certain settings depending on the day. For example, our history class, on a day A, may have been scheduled in the lecture hall, a “B” day in the classroom with no class on a “C” day. I thought I could adapt to the schedule. I was wrong. I’ve never fallen through the cracks so fast. To make matters worse, the built-up anxiety I once hid came crawling back. I battled myself regarding seeking help. Should I speak to the councilors or not? Unfortunately, my pride got the best of me. I did what I knew to do; held in my stresses, relieving them either on paper in a journal I kept at home, or buried them in a cloud of marijuana smoke. Years later I still regret it. We moved through Warren Harding, landing on the second floor in the science lab. Here, I met my first friend B.G; a light skinned, hazel eyed athlete. I took to him instantly. B.G would go on to introduce me to everyone I knew that year. He quickly became one of my closest associates. I left freshman orientation with a newfound confidence. The previous school year was hard. Between the rumors and eviction, I was broken and insecure. It felt good to have my confidence back. Day 1 of school came depleting my assurance. I stood alone among the eager students swarming in circles of familiar faces. I was alone. Where’s the kid I met at orientation, I thought. I barely knew him, but he was better than no one. “Hey!” a voice called. “Why you standin’ there alone. You look like a freshman.” It was B.G. I ed him in a small group. “Y’all, this is Shaun. Get to know her. She’s going to be the shit this year.” He seemed sure of me. Me, not so much. As I got to know him, I found B.G. was like most every light skinned boy I knew. He was drawn to the insecure girl in me, not so he could exploit or use me. He, like those I’d met before, took me under his wing as a guide. I’d been warned about the intentions of teen boys and found those warnings mostly true. I’d grown to understand some guys fetishize girls based on sexual fantasies they’ve adopted due to stereotypes. The “Orgasming Redbone” was greatly favored among African American boys. While some girls took this as a compliment I did not. I refused to be some guy’s plaything and nothing more. However, every now and then, I’d meet a guy who wanted to shelter me. Through B.G. I met my would-be best friend Mimi. She was a pretty white girl with wavy brown hair and matching eyes. I met W.H.H’s football jocks through Mimi, including her boyfriend Rodney.

I navigated Warren Harding’s campus the first week trying to decide where I fit in. Looking back, I don’t believe I did. My unstable upbringing didn’t allow me to belong anywhere. I sat alone at lunch, periodically talking with friendly goths who wanted me to feel at home. I’ll be forever grateful to those kids. I wandered the halls, swung by our ninth-grade counselor’s office to engage in small talk. There, I met school heartthrob Cody. Cody was a smooth-talking senior. He played Quarterback on the football team. Cody was a stocky built, flirtatious boy with soft chocolate skin and a sweet nature that made me regret treating him so badly. My first impression was that Cody was no different than any other high school boy; a sex crazed, arrogant, douche bag with a chip on his shoulder. He wasn’t. I once rejected his advances and we became friends. I was cautious about the intentions of my male peers. Cody was barking up the wrong tree if he ever thought he would bed me. Familiar faces ed me at Warren Harding. David, whom I’d known since Hunter Middle, and Evie from GTHM. The minority population of black students, spare a few, stuck together. I met Ashanti and cousin Brandy. Brandy didn’t like me. I didn’t care for her either. Through David I met La’Trell. La’Trell who, in later years, would fall in love with my friend Regina. Regina’s sister Celest and boyfriend Anton also became friends of mine. I became friends to Anton’s cousins Crissy and Delisha. We formed a loud, bold crew of feisty girls. I made many friends and a few enemies. I also left my mark on the school. I learned to draw an unknown “S” symbol in elementary school. I found a secluded spot and christened the school with the symbol. I wonder if it is still there. Warren Harding’s friendly environment allowed me to release built up tension and relax. I learned nothing better than blacks of different hues; light, brown, and dark skinned, could co-exist and get along. The level of civility with which we treated one another was beautiful and a blessing. I wasn’t used to it at the start, but by May I came to expect it. I was filled with new hope. A hope that I’d continue to get along well with the of my own race. It was a hope I would see fulfilled as a student at West Virginia’s only HBCU. My time at Warren Harding High came to an end. May 2004, I left. Though I had a good year, I felt public school wasn’t for me. My family didn’t have the means to allow me to attend private school, so I opted for homeschooling. Things didn’t work out. My father was in charge of my homeschooling. However, he was busy with two jobs, leaving him no time to tend to my education. As a result, I formally withdrew from public education. By winter 2004 I was making plans to earn my GED. I know what society assumes about high school dropouts, but that wasn’t true of me. I did value an education. However, I grew tired of the

structured of public institutions. Sitting in a classroom, bound by law, for eight hours a day wasn’t what I considered “normal.” I learned best when working “hands on” and alone. The public-school system tends to stick to one learning strategy, and since it made no room to accommodate people like me; I withdrew. Homeschool didn’t work because my father wasn’t around to aid my education. Our living situations changed that year. Our house was infested with rats. The landlord did little to nothing to rid our home of the problem. We moved. Prior to our move I spent my time planning for the future. Oldest brother Tion moved in with us. He’d been having a difficult time, much of which I assume was the result of his mental illness. At the time we knew nothing of schizophrenia, or his mental health crisis. In the short time he was with us I was his caregiver. I ran his bath water, combing his hair, and washed and ironed his clothes. I was sixteen and wanted a job but was given this instead. I begged my mom to allow me to get a job. She didn’t. So I took care of my brother. I felt cheated. I had nothing but the hope of employment and turning eighteen. At eighteen I could move out and on with my life. I loved my brother dearly, but I wanted to focus on me; not him, or anyone else. Tion’s illness got the better of him leading to a mental breakdown. He was hospitalized for treatment. I worried but had to let professionals do their job. Doctors replaced me as his caregiver. I’d lay awake long nights wondering when we’d stop suffering. It seem all we knew to do was struggle. Our stay came to an end that winter as our circumstances changed landing us where I least expected; west Charleston. We landed last minute on Wilson Street. I was right back where I started; in the ghetto. I the day me and my parents looked at the run-down building we would soon call home. The issue of infestation became too much to handle forcing us to move last minute. Dad and mom argued about our situation in the car. “Things could be worse. We could be dead,” dad said in response to my mother’s growing concern we’d end up homeless. We needed to move quickly but had little options to choose from. Going back to the homeless shelter was the last thing any of us wanted to do. We dodged homelessness. Our home on Wilson Street was the polar opposite of Port Mounds. The peace I’d grown accustomed to vanished. In its place, nightly visits by undercover narcotics officers looking for the dealer who lived there before us. When the Narcs weren’t beating down our door, neighborhood addicts were. We got a dog. Summer 2005 came bringing the uproar of debauchery unique to the slums. Prostitutes stalked the streets. Pimps smacked them around and the little bar down the street made a scene bringing squad cars. I missed the suburbs. None of this happened in Port Mounds. We left the perfect environment

to return to the filth of Chuck City’s west side. I was sixteen. Two years left before I could change my fate. What I never anticipated was how long and eventful two years could be. We suffered all winter, freezing both in and outdoors. Winter 2005 was full of snow. It wouldn’t have been an issue if we had access to heat. We wore layers indoors to keep warm. If we wanted a bath, we boiled water on the stove. Life was hard. I knew it could be, but I wasn’t sure if there would ever be an end to our suffering. I was lonely. I sat in the house all day while the few friends I had were in school. I’d lost phone numbers and addresses moving. Myspace.com was just rising to popularity, bringing people from all over together. I, however, had no idea such thing existed. We had a computer but no internet access. We didn’t even have cable. It was as if I never existed. I missed my friends but had no way to reach them. My luck changed when I reconnected with T.W., whom I’d first met at Hunter Middle. T.W.’s brother Nino and Tyler were close friends. Each of us was close to our brother so we found ourselves in one another’s company. T.W., like me, withdrew from public schools. The specifics of her dropping out are unclear to me. If I had to guess, she, like me, was tired of the “one size fits all” education system. She and I developed a routine. We’d frequent Captain D’s after meeting at her grandmother’s home in Khan City. Her grandmother talked a lot. T.W. introduced me to A.J., La-La P., Reign, and Riley, a white boy known for growing and selling weed. I also met the girl who became my new best friend; Arianna. My girl crew consisted of the ladies T.W. introduced me to, Riley, and a young housewife named Tiffany Duguid. The crew and I met regularly, minus Tiff, smoked weed, and strolled Khan City. At times we had a drink or two. We ran amuck through the day and night, our most memorable ventures occurring while high. Riley had a girlfriend we all knew who was ok with her lover being the boy in our group. They often invited us to smoke at her house. He provided the weed, she the place, and we brought the snacks. I met a few new people that summer including an annoying Footlocker employee with a thing for black girls and an Asian drug dealer. For the sake of this book I’ll call the dealer Jain. Jain inquired of me my time and I declined. I long ago vowed I would avoid romantic relationships with criminals. I was not ok dating a drug dealer. I’d seen too often the consequences that came with being the lady on the arm of a hustler. I owed it to my future kids not to spend my time, or theirs in the future, visiting their father in prison. Jain was a handsome guy. He was respectful and charismatic. However, he was no exception to my rule. Smoking with friends quickly grew old. A few seasonal changes made me think about my future. My current doings

with the group seemed fine at sixteen, but what was I going to do with the rest of my life? I knew I would not spend my adult years this way. The occasional drunken stupor lost its edge. I wanted more for myself. I wanted a happy marriage and a home in the suburbs. I wanted innocent children and family vacations. I wanted to host dinner parties during the holidays and send Christmas cards to family and my husband’s work colleagues. I wanted my kids to have fun with their teen years and build lasting friendships. I wanted to watch them graduate high school, go to college, and get married. In short, I wanted the life I was so doubtful I could have. Still, I held out hope I would. I looked at the people around me and felt cheated. La-La P, the oldest of our crew, was twenty, yet she was no further along than we were. She made a split for Virginia trying to get her life together, fell on her butt, and came back. I evaluated her path and considered mine. While the rest of my crew was moving into their own apartments, securing jobs, and planning their next move; T.W and I messed around. She became involved with a white boy named Billy and later fell pregnant. Billy had two children he didn’t . I wondered why T.W. allowed him to get her pregnant. We roamed Khan City in search of adventure, smoked with Riley, met a weed lady on Victory Ave., and smoked more. We shot hoops at Chase Elementary and made sarcasm a second language. T.W. and I encountered a pastor who left a bad taste in my mouth. If first impressions define how we see strangers, this man very likely left a lot of people questioning him as a man of God. We were out on a stroll, headed toward the mall, when the old man stopped us. He was a short, pudgy white man with a bald spot. “Hello there,” he spoke. “Can I invite you all to church?” I had no interest in church. After the years of bad experiences, I’ve had with churches and parishioners, the last thing I wanted was to another congregation. Still, he seemed nice enough. I’d spent years in church hearing the importance of spreading “the good news.” The pastor was doing what his religion and God required. Problem is, this man chose to use reverse racism to appeal to us as black girls. It didn’t work. We kindly rejected his offer with simple “nahs” and “That’s ok.” He persisted. “C’mon now, teach these old crackers some soul.” I was disgusted. From the look on her face, T.W. was, too. We walked away. No form of racism is ok with me. I’ve had one too many issues battling people, black and white, over the color of my skin. Thinking of the negative experiences I had, I doubted I’d ever step foot in another church. Before my family left Port Mounds, my father made one final attempt to preach. We began attending a Baptist church called Lakeview. Lakeview was a

predominately black church, tucked in the hollows of Chuck City. The congregation was small. Numbers shouldn’t matter in the house of worship, but they did. As did vain things like clothing and the amount of money parishioners put in the collection plate. Lakeview’s congregants were mostly old and uppity. The few teens in attendance were there by force. I was one of them. Each Sunday we’d sit listening to the Pastor’s own misconstrued version of the Gospel. While the bible consists of moral ethics on how to treat your neighbor and caring for the poor; the Pastor spoke his own “gospel,” inspired by vanity rather than Christ. Sunday after Sunday, he dished the intimate details of Parishioner’s private lives. He lied in sermons. He covered his adultery with criticism of congregants’ manner of dress; mine in particular. My rebellious act of wearing pants drove him red with rage. He scorned the youth from his high horse at the pulpit on the “proper” way of dressing. He lacked the wisdom to understand Christ was concerned with the heart; not the way of dress. He lacked the humility to consider the socioeconomic circumstances by which his parishioners lived, and he lacked the comion to love his neighbor as himself. I’d heard this sentiment before. Girls should show to church in dresses or skirts; boys, in suits. Trevor, Tyler, and I wore street clothes. Jesus himself encouraged us to “Come as you are,” yet the pastor thought he knew better. I continued wearing pants and parishioners gawked and frowned. My dad stood in the pulpit in “proper attire,” yet his children adorned the “garments of heathens.” In the years before our return, we’d either outgrown our dress clothing or toss them. We no longer needed them. We thought our church going days were over. While the church spent its time bastardizing us for our clothing, it hypocritically ignored the pastor’s daughter’s. Strippers wore more clothing than she did, yet I was wrong for wearing pants. The girl’s choice of clothing (or lack thereof) often revealed her literal ass, but my jeans were a sin worse than murder. I didn’t get it. I learned the modern church operates on a hierarchy system with those at the top above moral reproach. The farther down the totem pole one fell, the greater a target on his or her back. This particular chapel was no place for salvation. It was a social club, plagued by vanity, that operated more like Fashion Week than a house of Saints. My father’s mistake was choosing to teach biblical principles to people who wanted their ego stroked. We also became a scapegoat for the pastor’s sins. The church focused its attention to my attire yet ignored the congregation of adulterers (including the pastor), gossiping hens, and child predators. Mounting pressure to properly dress their daughter broke my parents. They took me shopping. The church wasn’t concerned with our bills, financial obligations, nor socioeconomic status; it wanted what it wanted. What the church wanted was me to subscribe to its vain perception of a pastor’s daughter.

I showed the following Sunday wearing a blue floral dress and blue jacket. I heard the whispers of gossiping hens as they spoke. “You gona have to watch her,” one said to my mother. “You know how fast these girls can be.” I never understood why we do that to black girls. We label them “fast,” “easy,” and “whore” without justifiable reason. No girl, of any race, should be sexualized due to natural changes during puberty. I suffered through service and unwanted stares; most of which came from a seventy-year-old deacon. After service, as my parents stood talking, I headed for the car. I overhead the old man engaged in conversation with a twenty-one-year-old parishioner. What he said disgusted me and the young man. “I’d like to squeeze between those legs,” said the deacon referring to me. “Man, that is a sixteen-year-old girl,” the young man replied. “IF I ever catch you near her, I’ll break your legs.” That was the last time I wore a dress. I knew the congregants would ostracize me for wearing pants, but I didn’t care. Being bastardized for wearing jeans was better than being sexualized in a dress. No one would subject me to that kind of attention. If the church hated me for wearing pants it would have to hate me. We had enough when the private details of a conversation between my father and the pastor became a sermon. My dad, in his moment of weakness and despair, sought sympathy from a supposed “man of God.” He approached the pastor requesting prayer for my brother Tion who continued to suffer with his mental health. At his most vulnerable, dad confided in the pastor. He looked for something he wasn’t going to get. What we did receive was more heckling for something none of us, least of all Tion, could help. “If you have a child who suffers from a mental illness it is because you’ve sinned!” That was the last of our church attendance. My father hung up his Preacher’s robe forever. We walked away with our scars and enough bad memories to last two lifetimes. Lakeview was no different than any other church. They’ve all forsaken Christ’s message in place of their own. They’ve pushed God out of His house in place of a memorandum that caters to their self-interest, the greed of a collective whole, and the Pastor’s ego. I came of age in a cloud of marijuana smoke. Life had been hard, but none of it mattered when with friends. I reconnected with Bri who introduced me to new faces. I met Marcus, cousin of Caleb, and a few others. Marcus pulled the old “I lost my phone. Can I use yours to call it” on me. I can’t believe I fell for that. He finessed me for my cell number, and we became friends. I learned how petty girls can be over a boy. It also helped me establish a standard for the opposite sex. Marcus was a known “playboy” who boasted of his “love ’em and leave ’em” reputation. For reasons I don’t understand, girls fought to be exclusive with him. He learned early on I wasn’t going to be one of those girls. I wanted to be

his friend and nothing more. No dating, surely no sex, and I wasn’t attracted to him. He had a beautiful cinnamon complexion and lovely hazel eyes but was much too short for me. I am 5’3 ½. That says a lot. Through Bri and Sandra (whom I still didn’t like) I met Domini. We spent the summer at the movies and prank calling one another after watching “The Ring 2.” For the first time in a long time I was able to be a kid. My fun came to an end when in 2006, we found ourselves homeless. My friends were secure in bedrooms while I was living in a motel in Jason, outside Saint Augustine. Though my physical was interrupted, I kept in via cell phone. Isolation is a personal form of hell. Far from everyone I knew, I suffered through malnutrition. We had no fridge. We ate tv dinners from a small cooler. I thought day and night about running away. My faith wasn’t weakened. It was gone. All my life I was taught God doesn’t forsake His people, but I found Him nowhere. My friends were starting their junior year of high school when I was moving from the motel. Fate turned the tables in our favor when mom discovered a house for rent on Wilson Street East. I dreaded the thought of going back to east Chuck City but anywhere was better than a motel. I made up for lost times after Jason. I reconnected with T.W. and Arianna and the rest of the Khan City crew. We smoked, drank, and lived. I grew closer to Arianna that year. She and I partook in shenanigans involving Grey Goose, marijuana, and car trips to neighboring city H-Town. I enrolled in Garret Career Center. My shenanigans took a backseat to my plans. I was determined to get my life together. Getting stoned and eating Oreos wasn’t how I wanted to spend my adult years. In consideration of my future I took steps to earn my equivalent. I withdrew from public school, yes, but still had plans for my life. I refused to be another girl living off the welfare system. The “hood” is in high supply of those. I wouldn’t be another. At the time I planned to build a business. T.W. and I were the girls to know for anyone wanting their hair braided. I wanted to take our talents to the next level. T.W. enrolled in Garrett soon after and introduced me to Tey. After the birth of T.W.’s son in November, I met her new boyfriend Chris. Tray was born to a single mother. With no dad in the picture, T.W. was free to play the field. T.W.’s obligation to her education took a backseat. The longer we studied at Garrett the more excuses she made to stay home. She was enrolled under the state’s welfare program which provides bus es and free daycare to qualifying students actively pursuing their GED. Those incentives were put in place to encourage students to continue in their education. T.W., however, took those benefits for granted. She received a check for herself and son. She had her own apartment, rent free, due to her unemployment status and benefits. Having so little, yet enough handed to her to get by, T.W. felt no need to continue going to school. She quit Garret before I

earned my equivalent. Arianna and I kept in . She’d swing by my house and we’d get baked. Weed and Oreo tasted so much better in good company. Riley, our connect suffered a loss when officers burned his stash. An informant tipped them off to the whereabouts of his supply which they burned with news crews present to report. I felt bad for the guy. At seventeen I was preparing to move out. My mom subscribed to monthly magazines like Jet, Ebony, and Essence from which I ordered books and novels by African American authors and chefs. I slowed weed smoking. In turn, I spent my nights reading and studying cookbooks. T.W. and I planned to open a business together. She had family in Delaware. We planned to move there, earn our licenses in cosmetology, and open our salon. I was ecstatic. All my life I hoped for the opportunity to better myself. It was all around me. So I thought. While I was planning for Delaware, T.W. was slacking. Tray’s grandmother grew tired of looking after him while she ran the streets. Garret career center offered students the freedom to come and go as they pleased unless enrolled in the state’s benefits program. T.W. wasn’t abiding by welfare’s stipulations, nor was she going home in time to tend to her son. Her mother refused to look after Tray, and she stopped coming. The harder I worked to better myself the easier it was to see T.W for who she was. T.W. hoped someone would come along and carry the weight of her responsibilities; be it in her education, to her son, or in her home. I took my GED test twice. My first go round I ed everything but the math. Mathematics was never my strong point, but I wasn’t going to give up. I’d come too far to let my hard work go to waste. I signed up for a second round and tested again. I ed my test. Things were looking up in all areas of my life. My family moved once more, leaving Wilson Street east for Port Mounds. I’d longed to return to the suburbs. Going back was the best thing that could have happened to me. With great enthusiasm and pride I made my way home to the suburbs. I left the slums healing from sorrow. September 2006, on what should have been a day of joy; my family was stricken with grief. Tyler’s daughter Amiyah came to us stillborn. Amiyah’s death was too heavy a burden for us to bare. I don’t believe we’ve fully recovered. There are no words to describe the pain of holding a dead baby. No heartache is worse than pleading with God to breathe life into a child, in a hospital chapel, to return to her mother and find she is still dead. No task is harder than burying an infant. To this day I wonder what could’ve been. Sadly, we’ll never know. January 2007, we moved to our new home on Belview Road. We returned to the suburbs broken yet standing. I found comfort, once again, in the quiet. Peace is

addictive when it’s something you’ve never had. From January to May I laid low. Once I ed my GED exam, I started planning my next move. I sought work hoping to save enough money to move to Atlanta, Georgia. My ambition blinded me to the reality that West Virginia had little job prospects. Saving money was impossible for the unemployed. I was an eighteen-year-old with no college education. Any job I found would earn me minimum wage, but I was ok with that. I knew I would move up financially. I wouldn’t be poor forever. I told my mom’s brother C my plans to move to Georgia. He wasn’t very enthusiastic about it. C mistook my want for a change to mean I wanted help from him. I may have been young, but I wasn’t dumb. With all life had thrown at me, I knew not to reach for a helping hand. My father’s family wasn’t alone in turning its back on us when things were hard. My mother’s family did the same. “Oh! Well, you know it’s real different down here,” he stammered. I knew he wanted to discourage me. I’d grown used to rejection. After all, both my parents were black sheep. “You know I’m not from West Virginia, right? I’ve been places a lot rougher than Chuck City, or the south. I wasn’t asking or expecting anything from you,” I replied then hung up the phone. Telling my uncle of my plans was an obvious mistake. I made a mental note to share my dreams with caution. May 2007, I reconnected with a few old acquaintances. I bumped into Rob in the mall awaiting a job interview. I applied for a cashier position at Abercrombie and Fitch and received a call back. He was with friends. I didn’t recognize Rob right away. It had been years since I last saw him. We were kids riding bikes on West Street then. His glowing reddish-brown skin and bright eyes triggered my memory. Rob and I exchanged small talk and numbers with him promising to give me a call. Rob was a handsome young man, but we didn’t overstep our boundaries. He, in my eyes, was a friend; nothing more, nothing less. While we maintained a mutual respect for the limitation in our friendship, envy brewed among his groupies. I ran into K.W. shortly after I began my job search. She worked at a little kiosk on the first floor selling bathroom tile. Some people may not have found her work irable, but I, for one, was proud of her. Growing on the west side, it was easy to fall into criminal activity. She took the honest route to employment. K.W.’s true colors showed when she learned of my friendship with Rob. I can’t decide whether it was him or his foster family’s money she wanted. Nevertheless, K.W. was jealous. In our time as friends, Rob disclosed the intimate details of a traumatic childhood. Stories of heartache and pain, the feeling of inadequacy stirred by being a foster kid. Rob felt lonely and confused. He was loved by his foster family. No one could doubt that. Everyone else seemed to approach him with an agenda. Rob was taken in by a prominent

attorney during his sophomore year of high school. Girls threw themselves at him because of his parents’ wealth. The lust for his family’s fortune made it hard for Rob to trust anyone, though he knew, in his heart, he could trust me. Girls loved him in the family mansion, expensive cars, and name brand clothes. When the family fell, and Rob returned to the projects; his groupies disappeared. To me, he was a friend. I understood his frustration. Growing up poor, people discredit you for the material things you lack. K.W.’s inability to control her jealousy reached a boiling point leading her to attack me online. I stood my ground and Rob got involved. I believe this upset her further. I confided in exfriend Chanel who found their drama just as ridiculous as I did. Rob didn’t belong to either of us. I didn’t want him, but K.W. did. Her one sided “beef” didn’t allow her to see the fool she made of herself. We parted ways and I’m glad for it. Rob and I followed suit soon after. I saw a side of him I didn’t like. He made a mess of his life early on, bedding multiple women and fathering children irresponsibly. At age twenty-four, Rob was a father to ten. I grew disgusted with the way he constantly attacked the mother of his oldest child. He, after all, begged the girl to make him a father. My father long ago taught me to judge a man by his principles and integrity. Rob had none. My conscious wouldn’t allow me to keep company with anyone who disrespected their child’s mother or father. I walked away. I found work at local department store, Charles Russe. Formerly located in the mall, Charles Russe closed shop some time ago. It wasn’t what I expected, but some work was better than no work. I was hired as a cashier. I was happy to earn a way for myself. My happiness was short lived. Between $7.25 minimum wage and hours I grew disappointed. Still, I had a legal job and prospects to do better. I learned I could work and provide for myself. I learned I had what it took to earn my keep. I also learned to be careful who I share my success with. A tiny achievement was still a victory. This victory drew envy. When I broke the news of my recent job to people around me, I was met with excuses. Apparently, my success stemmed not from hard work, but my light skin. “You know they only hired you because you’re right in any season? Dark enough to the Affirmative Action law. Light enough that white folks feel comfortable around you.” I heard this sentiment repeated with each success. I’m not ignorant to the history of discrimination against dark-skinned people. I’m well aware that, from slavery, blacks who were darker received the short end of the stick. They’ve been ed over and mistreated because of the thing none of us have a choice in; skin color. I’m not denying the racism birthed from the “Willy Lynch Syndrome” or “The Brown Paper Bag Test.” It still exists. However, belittling

the accomplishments of blacks with a lighter hue and assuming their success comes solely from their preferred skin tone is also wrong. Dark, brown-skinned, or light; we’re all “niggers” to somebody. Mid-July I came across my cousin Tessa’s myspace profile. I’m not sure who friended whom, but we were hanging out soon after. Tessa introduced me to her friends Shaunie, K.K, Tia and a few others. I spent the summer with Tessa and her friends. We went swimming, spent nights in her family’s hot tub, and days at Shaunie’s. It had been a long time since I’d seen Tessa. Time and distance allowed me to believe she changed. She didn’t. Tessa was the same brat she was when we were kids. Shortly after I reconnected with her I stared dating my first boyfriend. He was the biracial son of an African American mother and a Jewish father. Though AG’s father was devoted to his religion, he seemed confused. He had a large tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his left arm from his years following Catholicism. Our relationship was under attack from day one. As soon as Tessa found out we were dating, she and friend Tia went for the kill. They called numerous times with one nasty rumor after another. “Girl, he has a baby on the way,” “He’s engaged to his ex,” “He really isn’t a nice guy.” Tessa masked envy with feaux concern. When she and her friends couldn’t convince me AG was a bad guy, she called in her mother. Nitty harassed my father time and again about me and my beau. After months of harassment I had all I could take, and I snapped. Tia called my phone picking an argument and I let her have it. Tessa interjected herself in the conflict and played victim when I didn’t back down. The vindictive side of Tessa came out and she began throwing herself at AG. He rejected her advances. Tessa then tried to diminish my character. “She’s only with you because you have a car.” “What do you see in her?” “You know she dropped out of high school, right?” AG still wanted nothing to do with her. Tessa got mad. Her jealousy got the best of her. Tessa’s lack of self-control drove her to vandalize AG’s car, at my house, while we were inside. I confronted Tessa and she confessed her jealousy. She wanted everything I had. Tessa’s envy of me stemmed from an inferiority complex and self-hatred. “I looked at you and wanted to be you. I wanted to be light skinned with blue eyes. I’ve always thought you were pretty. Why couldn’t I be?” She didn’t just want what I had in AG Tessa wanted any guy who showed interest in me. She wanted to be me. AG and I remained a couple so Tessa enlisting his ex-Brandy in her shenanigans. Brandy harassed me through two jobs and a hospital stay. I’d left Charlotte Russe to find work as a childcare provide for a local daycare center. Now employed by Chuck City’s YFDC, I earned the same wage, but worked a 40hour schedule. I was happy with this. My job at the YFDC was cut short by a

bout of pneumonia. I’d fallen sick after handling an ill child and found myself in the emergency room. Brandy and her friends harassed me the entire time I was in the hospital. I told AG everything and he confronted Brandy. She spilled the beans. Tessa gave her my cell and coached her to taunt me. My cousin proved herself a backstabbing bitch. This wasn’t the last time she would do this. Tessa tried and failed to ruin my engagement at twenty-one. I ended my relationship with AG shortly after. I made the decision, not because of Tessa and her flunkies, but for me. In the beginning AG was a guy with a plan for himself. He boasted of ing the military one day. I was on track to go to college. We decided we would buy a home, get married, and possibly have kids. However, as our relationship progressed, I saw negative changes in him. AG forsook our future plans for a bad crowd and criminal behavior. I found out he was dealing drugs and made up my mind to leave him. AG confessed to being present at a robbery and that was not the kind of man I wanted in my life. I vowed not to waste my life with a criminal, so I called it quits. I’m glad to say I’ve kept my promise. Our lives took an unfortunate turn late 2007. We were evicted. We had to say “good-bye” to our lovely home in the suburbs. We survived the winter in hotels, starting in a Chuck City hotel then a motel in Khan City. The stress of homelessness drove me crazy. I all but gave up when I ed my life was beginning. I put together a plan to get out of the mess we were in. Taking special consideration to my education I applied to the state’s first HBCU. I’d taken a year to myself before starting. The year was over. I needed to enroll. In anticipation of this I looked for work. Pneumonia cost me my job at the YFDC, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find another job. Using my old address, I applied to several companies. I landed a job with a local childcare center. A month later, we moved from the motel to west Chuck City. I’d been accepted into college and was happily employed. I was young and the world was my oyster. The years that followed brought many ups and downs. I reconnected with Natalie only to find her insufferable. Natalie was a struggling single mother with a severe cocaine habit. Her limited skill and addiction drove Natalie to prostitution and exotic dancing here-and-there to get by. Once I learned how she lived, I split. My future was set in stone. I wasn’t going to miss it wasting time and energy with a junkie. Natalie didn’t take too kindly to my split. She stalked me for eight years. While I was soaring in college, fell in love, had two babies, and married; she was drowning. Natalie found herself deeply involved in multiple beefs. One of which cost her the life of an unborn son. Seeing me succeed without her drove Natalie insane. Threats against our oldest daughter spewed from her in fits of rage. When Natalie failed to provoke me to violence, she falsely accused me of

accessory to murder. Thanks to a former friend, I was never arrested. Natalie bragged to a girlfriend of mine that she was going to tell the police I supplied the gun used to murder her son. Area police tried to no avail to find who supplied the murder weapon. Natalie was a known informant. She thought she could use this against me and have me arrested. She failed. I moved on with my life. I drafted one manuscript after another in my twenties, each one a greater failure than the last. It wasn’t until 2017 I published my first book. By 2011 we had two children, our own apartment and plans of tying the knot. February 18, 2011 my then boyfriend asked for my hand in marriage. I said “Yes.” June 2011 uncle R.B. died. The details of his ing are unclear, but I was told is he died after a blood clot traveled to his heart causing a heart attack. The family gathered on West Street to say “good-bye.” My groom-to-be accompanied me to the funeral. Of all the conniving people in my family I can say R.B. was decent. We entered Belief and Rectitude Church to see a mix of familiar and strange faces. At the alter my uncle, though dead, looked asleep. I’d been here before, staring death in the face. The inevitable truth we all had an end hit me at both Beulah’s and Amiyah’s funerals. Here we were again. I was forced to confront my own mortality. I approached the coffin to view him. R.B. looked peaceful. His appearance did little to hide the smell of decay. On what should have been a time to mourn voices stirred around us. Me on the arm of my love drew questions and suspicion. The focus seemed to shift, for some, away from my grieving aunt Thea to me and my man. My engagement was kept between those dearest to us. In a moment of decency, I extended a hand behind me to comfort Tessa. She sobbed uncontrollably stopping only at the sight of my engagement ring. She stormed out shortly after. Service continued and we moved on. The family piled into cars heading to Chuck City South. We laid R.B. to rest at Twilight Remembrance Park where we entombed Amiyah in 2006. The Pastor spoke a few words and R.B. was lowered into the earth to begin his eternal sleep. Tessa set her sights on us as mourners comforted Thea and ed R.B. Prancing about the cemetery, she whispered to one person or another and pointing in our direction. I caught sight of her stupidity talking to my love. Cousin Layla approached us to make small talk. Despite the unbearableness of the rest of our kin, I found Layla and sister Tania to be pleasant. Layla hadn’t been speaking two minutes when Tessa approached. “Layla, come here. I gotta ask you something.” Judging by the look on her face, Layla knew or guessed Tessa was up to no good. She walked away. Tessa’s childishness poured over into the after-service dinner. With R.B. in his final resting place, the family met to eat on West Street at the community center. My

fiancé and I grabbed our plates and had a seat opposite aunt Thea. Curiously, she asked, “Shaun, who is the handsome young man with you?” “This is my fiancé,” I replied. She congratulated us and offered advice. “Love one another while you have each other. One day, God is going to need you back.” Cousins Layla, Tania, and Jo-Jo seemed happy for me. Tessa was not. I caught sight of her glaring at me, arms folded, with a turned-up face. The immature bitch in her wouldn’t allow Tessa to be happy for anyone, least of all me. In the past, she feared I’d get married before she did. Here I was, on my way to her greatest dread. Embarrassed by her behavior, Tessa’s stepfather Victor verbally chastised her. In the months that followed she set out to ruin my relationship. Tessa searched for my fiancé’s exes, harassed my brother Tyler and his girlfriend feigning concern, and called mutual friend Cease looking for dirt. She was met with criticism and told to mind her business and get a man of her own. After many failed attempts to end my engagement, Tessa rushed down the aisle with a college ex-boyfriend. The drama she caused others caught up with her at the altar. Word spread the two tied the knot following an unexpected pregnancy and ultimatum. How pitiful? December 2011, my fiancé and I tied the knot. After a ten-month engagement and slow planning, we wed. We navigated life as a couple through malice, manipulation, and unwarranted drama. We’d overcome every attempt to tear us apart. We stood our ground though our limitations and boundaries were tested. We’d promised to always put one another first, and we were determined to keep that promise. I proved myself as a genuine woman despite chattering voices whispering in my husband’s ear. Voices saying things like, “She’ll leave you and take half your money,” “With two kids, she can get child if you two don’t make it.” We focused our energy to building and preserving the foundation we’d built. We learned to put our faith first and our trust in one another. If I had no one else I had him, and he had me. That was all we needed. Our will to maintain a strong family unit carried us through the years. Together we watched Aaliyah head to preschool. We saw April, our second born, blossom before our eyes. Together, he and I brought daughter Paris into the world. He and I didn’t have marriage figured out, but we were dedicated to keeping ours. No matter what may come, divorce was not an option. He knew all too well the negative affects divorce can have on a family. His parents split when he was a child. He learned divorce doesn’t always solve problems. Sometimes it creates new ones. Tragedy struck March 2012, with the death of my beloved nephew, Emmanuel. Mannie and his cousins died in an accidental fire in the early hours of the morning. Death stalked us once again, claiming the life of one of our most

beloved. My heart hurt for Tyler, who for the second time, was forced to bury a child. To make matters worse, news of the untimely death of our loved ones spread across news channels, local and national. In our most vulnerable hour, vultures preyed. As we comforted Tyler during his hour of pain, uncle Roland showed time-and-again, after hearing of a possible lawsuit against the landlord for negligence. Her property was not up to code requirements. Due to the landlord’s unwillingness to keep her property in suitable order, we lost our Mannie who died in a preventable electrical fire. Not one working smoke detector was found in the home. Our pain meant nothing to uncle Roland. All he wanted was money. He never asked about Tyler, didn’t care how the fire began, and showed no concern for his nephew. He wanted cash; nothing more, nothing less. August 2013, our eldest started preschool. I was twenty-four years old and not ready to be a “school mom.” She was my baby. I loved having her around me all the time. The sudden separation seemed unnatural. However, I knew an early start to education was in her best interest. I may not have perfected motherhood, no mom has, but I knew I’d always put my children’s needs ahead of my wants. Within months I found out we were expecting. Nine months later, we brought home our baby Peanut. Butterfly soared in preschool and headed to kindergarten in 2014. Despite our hope of sending her to the same elementary where she attended Pre-K, Butterfly was forced to transfer. In accordance to West Virginia’s policy, children are required to attend school in their district. Because preschool is its own entity, children can go where their parents please. Watching Butterfly adjust to a new school was tough. She’s lost all the friends she made in preschool and cried about how she missed them. I wanted to move from Piney Grove. Manipulation kept me and my family hostage in a neighborhood I could not stand. I wasn’t quiet. I expressed my disapproval every chance I got. Aaliyah was a student in Mrs. Pridgens’s kindergarten room. Like all Kindergarten teachers, Mrs. Pridgens had an assistant. Mrs. H to the school was aunt B. to me. Butterfly was in kindergarten no more than a week when B. approached me with weightless complaints. “Butterfly has been sneezing at school, she even sneezed when I was working with her reading,” she whined wiping imaginary fluid from her arm. “She’s having trouble reading also.” I wasn’t stupid. I knew what was being implied. B.’s complaints covered what she wanted to say but couldn’t. I don’t want your kid near me. The school chose to put my daughter in Mrs. Pridgen’s room. I had no choice in the matter. Furthermore, I had no idea B. worked at the school. “Well, I will talk to Butterfly’s teacher about her issues reading. As for her sneezing, I checked the school policy regarding justifiable

reasons to keep a child home; a cold isn’t one. I can put some Vic’s on her chest before bed and give her cold medicine, but she’s coming to school.” B walked away. Butterfly earned and maintained straight “A” s. I knew the implications about Butterfly’s struggle to read were lies insinuating our daughter was some future failure. My father’s family hoped we would a legacy of disappointment and hopelessness to our children. We did not. How could it be that she belonged to me? The black sheep niece couldn’t possibly do anything worth recognition. The determination of both her father and I wouldn’t allow us to fail nor raise failures. B fought to carry the torch and hand catastrophe to our child so she could sit on a high horse, looking down on us, and telling the world “We told you they were nothing. We told you they’re failures. Look how they turned out.” I’d finished the year in regular with the school due to bullying. Butterfly was being tormented and no one wanted to do anything about it. My cries fell on deaf ears until I instructed Butterfly to use whatever force she deemed necessary to defend herself. My husband enrolled her in Brazilian Ju Jitsu the previous fall. Butterfly, a naturally gentle child, picked up quite a few impressive self-defense techniques. She mastered the Arm Bar. When I told Butterfly to physically defend herself if necessary, the school intervened. She finished to year without a problem. Our second born too became a target when she was sent to Mrs. Pridgens’s room a year later. I had no idea a parent could request their child’s placement in any particular class. Had I, Butterfly nor Rainbow would have been in Mrs. Pridgens’s class. August 2015, Rainbow began kindergarten. Unlike Butterfly, Rainbow didn’t attend preschool prior. It didn’t matter because she quickly showed she could not only keep up with the other kids, she sured them. Lack of school choice caused us to withdraw Rainbow from preschool where we’d sent Butterfly. With Butterfly in Kindergarten elsewhere, it made no since to place Rainbow in preschool so far away. The local preschool was full when we pulled her out of pre-k. Our only options were to keep her home or send her to preschool in the nearby projects. I was not about to send our innocent baby to school in a high crime neighborhood. I’d lived in the projects and vowed to keep my children away from the ghetto. Our problems began immediately Rainbow was in school no longer than a week when the principle at the time Mrs. G., called me. She claimed to be worried about Rainbow’s behavior. To the unqualified school principle, Rainbow was presented symptoms of ADD and ADHD. “Ms. Teller, I watched her on the playground, and let me tell you, she ran and would not stop. I mean, she just goes and goes.” It came as no surprise an American public-school faculty tried to convince me my daughter was “sick.”

America has the highest rates of misdiagnosed cases of disorders than any country worldwide. We’ve come to accept normal childhood energy as a disease. “Isn’t that what recess is for, Mrs. G.,” I asked. Apparently my daughter’s athletic abilities were not talents, but symptoms of an “underlying issue.” I ignored her feaux “concern.” Surely no one would think a child at play is something to worry over. I was wrong. This manner of nonsense continued. Calls continued as Mrs. G., aided by Mrs. Pridgens and aunt B., filled my ears with meniscal details of Rainbow’s behavior. Rainbow’s habit of standing next to her desk when she grew tired of sitting was alarming. As was the fact that Rainbow arrived at school with a packed lunch and full tummy. My guess is not many school-moms feed their children, especially first thing in the morning. Well, I wasn’t most mothers. Between unnecessary meetings with the principle, Mrs. Pridgens, and school councilor; it became obvious something else was going on. Mixed messages about Rainbow’s progress were hurled our way. One minute I was told (by Mrs. Pridgens herself) that Rainbow was an outstanding student who, despite not attending preschool, soared above her classmates academically. The next, I was bombarded with stories that Rainbow was speaking incoherently and should be sent to special ed. I believed the former because I know my child. I watched Rainbow’s behavior closely at home, church, and anywhere we took her. She was easily understood, listened attentively, and though not perfect; Rainbow was a good kid. When sent letters requesting my signature to put her in special ed, I refused. My mother returned to school to major in Behavioral Psychology. She informed me of everything I needed to know regarding diagnosing behavioral disorders, the rights of parents, and the legal and illegal practices used to obtain signatures and approval of unnecessary treatment. Among these things was the school’s legal obligation to send me a brochure with all information regarding testing and its procedures. It did not. The action taken by the school, under Mrs. G., was illegal. I called the school councilor time and again requesting the brochure to be ignored. I refused to take such drastic step with Rainbow without having all the facts and knowing all the consequences. Rainbow had never been diagnosed by a license psychologist or psychiatrist with ADD, ADHD, or Autism; all of which, Mrs. G. tried to convince me she had. I was supposed to sign my child’s academic future away, placing her in special ed, where she didn’t need to be; leading to missed educational opportunities in the future. It wasn’t happening. The calls kept coming. “Mrs. H., the teacher’s aide, said she doesn’t want to help her.” That came as no surprise. Aunt B. was trying to ruin my daughter’s future using me. When she couldn’t, she refused to help my child as if that would slow April

down. It did not. B. was on board Mrs. G.’s crusade, not because she was concerned for my daughter. She wanted something to speak negatively about me to the rest of the family. Mrs. G., B., and Mrs. Pridgens spent so much time trying to convince me of things I knew to be false they missed what I observed. The school, under Mrs. G. was guilty of a little unspoken practice called “Resegregation.” Resegregation is defined as, “The renewal of segregation, as in a public school, after a period of desegregation.” (Resegregation, 2019) While the school is a predominately white school, the smaller African American population of nearby project children and the students of Piney Grove; the school’s special ed. at the time, was mostly black. Mrs. G. worked double overtime trying to secure a spot for Rainbow in special ed., yet she denied necessary services to a white mother of an autistic daughter. My heart broke as I watched this woman plead with teachers to place her daughter in special ed. She jumped through hoops to prove her daughter’s disorder. She submitted numerous reports, from licensed physicians and psychologists proving her daughter was autistic. The same school that denied this child access to the special education classroom filled it with black and bi-racial children. I know because the classroom was nearest the cafeteria where parents met to collect their children after school. I ed the class daily to see, through opened windows, a sea of black and brown faces. I made it a point to mention this to Mrs. G. when she called trying to sway me to send Rainbow where she did not need to be. The phone calls stopped. The school councilor approached me from time-to-time trying to get my signature on papers declining testing. After all we’d been through, I refused to put my signature on anything. The istration eventually got the memo. Where one problem ended another began. I found out we were expecting September 2015. We were having a baby boy the following June; our only son, Reign. Word of my pregnancy spread though we tried to keep news between ourselves and immediate family. In what should have been a happy time, I became the subject of gossip. June came before long as did the end of the school year. Days before school closed for the summer, I overheard B. mid-conversation, talking about me with another Kindergarten aide. I walked to the cafeteria to wait on our girls when I heard her. “How do you know she is having a boy,” B. asked. “What do you mean ‘SHE’,” the aide replied. “I know THEY are having a boy because I know HER MOTHER-IN-LAW.” The woman made sure to emphasize the words “they,” “her,” and “mother-in-law.” B was up to her old tricks. The women in my father’s family previously lied on me saying I was an unwed, teen mom. I was fourteen then. It is hard for a lie to stick when no baby is ever seen with a

supposed mom. I guess B. thought she could her lie off as truth now that I am a mother. She not only tried to declare me an unwed mother, but by the way she spoke, tried to create a picture of me as a loose mother of multiple children, by multiple men. B. had to have been embarrassed to know the woman she was talking to knows my in-laws. I am not the black, female stereotype my paternal family hoped I’d be. B. stopped talking when the other woman burst her bubble. Her crusade to find something to validate her lies continued into the following year. Rainbow was finishing first grade when B. approached me. “I asked the librarian about Rainbow. I wanted to know how she is doing, but she (the librarian) wouldn’t tell me. She told me she can’t disclose that information with anyone who isn’t a parent or guardian. I told her I’m Rainbow’s aunt and was asking for her mother.” She lied. B. was hoping something was wrong with my girl. I’d fought through kindergarten to keep her out of Special Ed. I knew she didn’t need to be there. Mrs. G. tried fearmongering tactics to get my signature on a slip of paper which would have had harsh consequences for Rainbow. “What happens when she gets to first grade? How is she going to get by?’ No amount of fearmongering or pleading was going to convince me Rainbow wasn’t capable of ing from one grade to the next. I knew she was capable then, as I do now. “Rainbow will be just fine in first grade. She’s a smart girl, she will on her own merit.” I was right, she did. Rainbow was awarded for her attendance. Her final report card showed a GPA of 3.0. B.’s feaux concern didn’t fool me. Of all the things I’ve been through without so much as a look from my family, I knew she wasn’t concerned with my daughter’s wellbeing. She wanted to feed her need to gossip. “B., I know how my child is doing. I don’t need you, or anyone else, talking to her teachers about Rainbow. I do speak with them regularly.” She’d previously stopped Butterfly in the school hallways to pester about our residency. I found B.’s sudden interest in our children alarming. The people who wanted nothing to do with my brothers and I were suddenly trying to find out where we lived. I knew she had an ulterior motive but wasn’t sure what. Then, it came to me. I was reminded of a conversation Tessa and I had during the short time we kept company. “Every time we found out where you guys lived, you moved.” I guess B. figured we’d move if she knew where we live. April 2017, I began drafting the manuscript which would become my first book. I titled it, “Do You Know Who You Are?” After nine years drafting manuscripts to toss each to begin a new; I was satisfied with my work. “Do You Know Who You Are,” came to life as I utilized the keys my seventh grade English teacher had given me so many years ago. My teen years were spent building a family tree. I accessed family history on Ancestry.com, but something was missing. I

was no longer satisfied with learning names, birthdays, and when who died. I wanted to get to the root of my origins. I wanted to know the specifics of my ancestors’ birth. March 2017, I placed an order with 23 and Me. There, I purchased one of the company’s genetic testing kits. Six weeks later, I logged into my to read my results. The Ancestral Composition Report divided my genealogy by continent, country, and percentage. One month later, I began writing my book. September 20, 2017, after months of writing, editing, numerous conversations with my publishers, and detailing the book’s interior and outer design; “Do You Know Who You Are” was released. I fulfilled my dream of becoming a published author. I was on the path to greatness. Word of my success spread. My parents and brothers, as well as my husband’s family, in West Virginia and Washington D.C., celebrated and ed my work. I received phone calls, emails, and Facebook messages, Instagram DMs, and comments congratulating me. While my immediate family and in-laws praised me for my hard work, my aunt Nitty sought to ruin me. Weeks after my book was released, she was on the hunt for my publishers. I’d planned a seminar (which later fell through) to promote my book. While I was focused on building my career, Nitty, and husband Victor, were plotting to sabotage me. I caught Victor driving through my neighborhood. He owned a carpet cleaning company, but already had a horrible reputation in my community. Still, Victor cruised through my neighborhood, but why? I knew he was up to no good. I spoke with my mother who informed me Nitty called my grandmother repeatedly asking about my book and who published it. Putting two and two together I figured they knew about my seminar. I knew Nitty was up to her old tricks. She, so long ago, ruined any chance my father had at a career as a Pastor through slander and harassment. I recalled the mess she’d made of my father’s ministry during his time in the pulpit. Unlike my dad I fought back. Nitty left me alone after I threatened her and all involved parties with harassment charges and a slander suit. 2018 arrived as did news I was expecting. June 2018, I met with my O.B. to confirm a due date. 2018 became an eventful year. After four years studying Curriculum and Education, my husband graduated with his Ph.D. I continued to research my grandfather’s footsteps. I worked night and day to answer any questions the genetic test could not. I learned my great-grandfather’s name, that of his wife, and of his military history. I learned my grandfather was a traveling man, when he wed, and when he died. I answered all of my questions but one: If he was alive would William have denied us, too? I will never know the answer to that question. I don’t think I want to. I decided it was time to tell my truth and

started drafting the manuscript for this book. I battled whether or not I should do so to reconcile my quest with my past. Was my story so unique and triumphant that I needed to tell it? August 2018, Rainbow, Butterfly, and Peanut started school. Morning sickness from pregnancy left me bed ridden, but I fought through it. They needed and deserved the best mother they could have. I am their mother, so I had to be my best. By August, I was feeling stronger. Morning sickness was waning, and I was beginning to feel human again. I swore I wouldn’t have many children, yet here I was, pregnant with baby number five. I was scared and hopeful all at once. Our children would never know the harsh realities I did. We own a home. Our children will never go homeless. We continued to move mountains to provide for our family and I put our physical, mental, and emotional health first. I found a fifth pregnancy to be a blessing. One more child wasn’t going to break us. We knew what to expect bringing another child into the world. I was glad to educate this child as I’d done with all the others. 2018 moved about at a happy pace. Thanksgiving rolled around and our family hosted. We looked forward to so many great things. Now was the time to celebrate all we had along with what was to come. My husband officially graduated August 2018. However, he would walk at graduation ceremony December of that year. I’d spent my entire life hoping for moments like this. Sitting in H-Town’s Arena, surrounded by proud family and strangers, I was in awe. I couldn’t help but think about all I’d seen. I was living a moment years prior I’d only experienced in dreams. Here I was, one month short of my due date, miles away from home, watching my husband honored for his accomplishments. Proud isn’t the word for what I felt for him that day. I was so much more than that. I defied statistics so did he. We were two ambitious adults who found a way when there was none. He broke the mold and became what most wouldn’t expect a young, black American man to be; a dedicated father, loving husband, and highly educated Doctor. My husband once told me of an inside joke he and a friend share. The two kid that finding a black Ph.D. is like finding a unicorn. December 2018, he became my unicorn. January 2019, we welcomed our daughter. March 2018, we said “good-bye” to my husband’s grandmother Lilly. Lilly quickly became the grandmother figure I never had. She embraced me where my family rejected me. She spoke kindly of me, boasting of my mothering skills, and praised me as a good wife to her grandson. Prior to her ing, Lilly asked me to carry her legacy. I agreed. When she died, I felt compelled to find a way to honor her wishes. I could think of no better way than adding her name to our daughter. Lilly was born in honor and loving memory of

her great-grandmother. The celebration continued as we lamented Butterfly’s birthday. January 2019 our first born turned ten. January 2019, we headed to see our daughter honored for her academics. Butterfly made the “B” Honor Roll. May 2019, I ate lunch with Peanut during preschool field day. After words, I picked my husband up from work and we headed to see Butterfly and Rainbow receive awards for their grades. Both girls made the “A” Honor Roll. I was proud; however, Rainbow’s achievement meant a little more. Here she was, heading into fourth grade, an Honors student. After all that was said, she ed each grade as I knew she would; on her own merit. Obviously, not sending Rainbow to special ed. was the right choice. My baby may have been underestimated, but she was no failure.

Epilogue

I started this book to report the findings of my research after years of looking into my past. Specifically, I focused on my paternal grandfather and my father’s ethnic makeup. With each chapter the focus shifted, drawing me closer to my story. Growing up, I was often asked about my dad’s ethnicity, as well as my own. These questions, coupled with the rumor of my grandfather, Billy’s immigrant status, sparked a curiosity in me. I started to dig into Billy’s past, and mine and my father’s DNA. Though this book became something other than an of my lineage, I thought I’d end with bits of information about my father’s kinship. My dad is mixed race. For all those who spent years asking me “What’s your dad?” “He ain’t black, is he? He don’t look it.” “What’s your daddy, Puerto Rican?” His heritage began in the birthplace of all man, Africa. To be more specific, our ancestors moved west from places such as Ethiopia and Sudan. From there, our people branched off into tribes of the Congolese, Senegalese, West Africans, and Nigeria. Our ancestors were conquered in war and sold to Arabs and Europeans. Many of those Europeans were ancestors of mine, who oppressed Africans in America for hundreds of years through slavery. Scientifically speaking, my father is 55.8% African, 42.8% European, and with 0.5% traces of ancestry in places like Thailand, Indonesia, and Khmer. Scientists have confirmed most African Americans to be 73% African and 24% European. There is a 17.2% difference in the African lineage of most blacks and my father. I am 71% African; my mother is black. Questions of my father’s heritage often led to my own torment. I looked nothing like the people I belong to. Still, no one could take away from me who I am. Am I black, yes. I may be ambiguous in appearance, but I will never doubt who I am, nor will I let anyone take it away from me. My past wasn’t pretty, but it did mold me into a strong woman. I matured much faster than any child should. My levelheadedness was necessary to my survival. I didn’t have the luxury of ignorance. I wasn’t able to be too naïve. I’ve overcome fear of death, set a high standard for, not only the people in my life, but myself. I found love in a wonderful man and left those dark places I once called home. I’ve been blessed to see better days. My dreams are becoming a reality. One at a time, I am keeping the promises I set to myself and family all those years ago. Best of all, I am using the gift God gave me to make a way. The odds stacked against me, proved to be advantages in disguise. I see better things

on the horizon and I’m happy. What’s next for me? A new book, more readers, and a greater platform. I was taught all things are possible through God. I believe that even if I believe nothing else.