Second Draft

The Power of Kinship:

The Impact of Real/Fictive Kinships in Children from Dysfunctional Families

Sultan Magruder

Research Writing, 202, Section 038

Professor Harrison

February 28, 2010

The Power of Kinship:

The Impact of Real/Fictive Kinships in Children from Dysfunctional Families

Abstract:

The presence of Real/Fictive Kinships in the lives of children from dysfunctional backgrounds is seen through research as a positive component in fostering resiliencey in the child.  Based on information collected through interviews with participants identifying themselves as having grown up in a dysfunctional life and a meta-analysis of research dealing with factors that contribute to “dysfunction” such as ‘parental substance misuse’, ‘low economic status’ and a faulty ‘parent-child attachment’, a non-fictivestory was developed to address these issues.  In the story, “The Helping Hand”, the audience is taken through the life of a boy who’s faced with problems such as abuse and neglect caused by his ‘substance misusing’ mother.  Through the bond between the main character and his brothers, along with help from individuals outside the family, the boy tries to understand the life he is living in and attempts to break the ‘dysfunctional’ cycle that has plagues his family.

Introduction:

“Dad was never around…I went to love with my grandmother when my relationship with my mother hit rock bottom…Our relationship fluctuated—she was never really there…”

As many developmental theorists will attest to, children from a very young age begin to form attachments, bonds to their primary caregivers.  This attachment is required for adequate development in the child and without the fulfillment of these needs in the child’s development many problems can arise (Hall, 2008; Higgins& MacCabe, 2003; Kroll, 2007; Santrock, 2010, p. 346).  A tremendous factor that inhibits this parent-child bond and will be discussed in greater detail is the emergence of “family dysfunction”.

The critical impact of family dysfunction and the effects that it has on the parent-child attachment will be explored in this research.  Some key issues relating to the family dynamics and how “Kin” and “Fictive Kin” (establishing labels to non-blood relatives such as aunt, mother, brother etc.) aid in buffering the effects of family dysfunction brought upon by the parent(s) so as to foster healthy coping strategies which will in turn aid in the well-being of the affected child.  Substance-misuse by the parent(s) is the primary cause of the dysfunction in this research as well as low socio-economic statuses; all of these areas will be explored.  The caring of the affected child by the grandparents (kin) and their influence will be greatly emphasized, as well as the outreach by the child to a “fictive kin”.  With families being so closely knit together there may be inside friction due to the unspoken or buried truth of the parent’s substance-misuse.  As Kroll (2004, 2007) described, the “elephant in the living room”, caused by the silence of the maladaptive behaviors by the substance-misusing parents can have adverse effects on the progress towards dealing with the problem for the child as well as the parent.

There is an increasing body of research dealing with parental substance-misuse which causes family dysfunction and the impact on the child (Hall, 2009; Kroll, 2007).  These studies provide frameworks in combating these problems starting at the source so as to foster healthy environments for the child’s development.  Alongside these studies, research on the influence of Kin/fictive kinship on the well-being of children and a few of them reveal that these relationships play an Important role in providing the child with emotional and social support, necessary elements for healthy development (Hall, 2008, p. 263).  It is hoped that through this research, the data presented will be beneficial in examining the problems that occur in which the dysfunction manifests itself in the family.  By focusing on the interrelations in the family dynamics and its pros and cons, subsequently followed by extending this dynamic to a broader spectrum by including “fictive kin”, a more personal look at the interworkings can be analyzed as a beneficial source for future research on these topics.

As Kroll (2004) and others in the related areas of study emphasized, substance-misuse is a vital contributor to parent-child attachment.  When the primary attachment is to a harmful substance, the bond between the parent and child is thus hindered.  The parent’s substance- misuse can have an adverse effect on parenting by making them psychologically unavailable and less aware of the needs of the children because of the preoccupation with the substance (Kroll, 2007).  Children need an environment that is sufficient in emotional support and research has shown that child-maltreatment—any recent act or failure to act on the part of a parent or a caretaker which results in death, serious physical or emotional harm, sexual abuse or exploitation (“What is Child Abuse”, n.d.), can cause a host of problems that result in range of attachment, psychological and emotional related issues (Hall, 2008; Higgins& McCabe, 2003; Kroll 2004, 2007;Pagini, Japel, Vaillancourt, Côté, Tremblay, 2008).   Studies suggest that kinship provides that missing link between parent and child that provides the child with security in which resilience and healthy emotional attachment is able to flourish (Hall, 2004; Kroll, 2007).  Kinship support is also a necessary component for providing the child with a stronger sense of cultural/ethnic identity and is able to provide services in the form of financial and social support, elements that may be lacking due to family dysfunctions (Ronald et al., 2008).

“Family Dysfunction” as stated by a KU article, is any process that limits the effective development of family members.  In this paper the term “substance-misuse” will encompass both drug and alcohol related problems that cause maladaptive behaviors thus harming the child psychologically, physically or emotionally and will be the main concern for family “family dysfunction” (Marital and Family Dysfunction, n.d.).  Little is still known about the impact of kinship relations (both real and fictive) so this paper will seek to shine light on this area in greater depth to display the advantages and disadvantages.

Literature Review:

A review of literature shows an adverse affect on child development due to parental “substance misuse”.  As defined by a SCODA article, cited by (Kroll, 2004), “substance misuse is any drug, poly drug, or alcohol that leads to social, physical or psychological harm.  Parental substance misuse is not only detrimental to the user, but also to the persons close to the individual.  Children, parents, spouses and friends of the abuser may suffer psychological, emotional and even spiritual abuse (Kroll, Hall).

Templeton, Zohhadi, Galvani and Velleman (2006) recognize that parental substance misuse can lead to difficulties in the child’s welfare by fostering maltreatment including psychological, physical, sexual and emotional abuse to the child.  The parental drug problem can cause mental problems in the parent such as stress and this problem is identified in a study conducted by Reyes and Kadzin (2006).  By shedding light on the Attribution Bias Context (ABC), both the parent and the child may fall victim to falsely attributing problems to that of one another.  The parent may attribute negative behaviors exhibited by the child due to internal dilemmas in the child, thus able to be fixed by the disciplinary actions.  On the adverse side of the situation, the problems associated with substance misuse such as lack of parental attention to the child may influence negative behaviors in the child in hopes of gaining the attention of the parent.  Santrock (2010) states three types of attachment problems associated with the emotionally dismissing parent that can lead to behavioral problems.  Dismissing-avoidant (Deemphasization on the importance of attachment by the child because of the rejection of attachment by parents), Preoccupied-ambivalent (Children hyper-tuned to attachment experiences because of inconsistency with parents, may lead to considerable attachment-seeking behavior, mixed with anger) and Unresolved-disorganized attachment (an unusual high level of fear and child is often disoriented due to traumatic experiences).  This literature clearly illustrates how substance misuse has adverse effects on the parent-child attachment which can lead to negative behaviors between both parties.  Wiggins, Sofrnoff & Sanders (2009) examines how the parent(s) who are unable to manage their own emotions can be at risk for imposing physical and psychological abuse on their children.  If measures are taken to promote better attitudes in the parents, an emotional relationship between parent and child will be better able to develop thus promoting a sense of availability in the parent by the child.  These studies show that due to the stress and possible mental health problems of the substance misusing parent (this can also be associated with poor economic situations (e.g., low family income, poor neighborhood) dysfunction manifests itself causing a breakdown in healthy attachments and relations between the child and parent(s).

With the negative pressures on the affected child, severe adjustment disorders can arise that may impact the child psychologically and socioemotionally.  The feelings of stress and loss of hope in the child warrants the need for some sort of coping mechanism which in turn guides them to reach out to others for social support (Akert, Aranson &Wilson, 2009; Hall, 2004; Kroll, 2004).  This social support can extend out to anyone that is not in close proximity to the dysfunctional including peers, but for the purpose of this study, the outreach to kin and fictive kin will be the main focus.

Brown & Brown (2006) have shown that healthy emotional attachments create a prosocial orientation in the child; Children have better motivation and behaviors socially due to an empathetic perspective.

Research has shown that establishing ties with kin and fictive kin aid in buffering the effects of family problems such as dysfunction caused by parental substance misuse (Hall, 2007; Kroll, 2007; Taylor, Seaton & Dominguez, 2008).  More and more, children whom are removed from their parent(s) are placed in the care of kin (e.g., grandparents, aunts, uncles) (Kroll, 2007).

Studies conducted by Taylor, Seaton & Dominguez (2008) stress that the support of extended kin socially is a great contributor the well-being of the child, as well as the parent.  Using the Family Stress Model they are able to attribute certain aspects of family dynamics to specific behaviors in the child and parent.  It is shown through this model that kin support for parent(s) that are struggling economically fosters better psychological and cognitive health in the parent thus trickling down to the child.  Adjustment issues are better managed for the children in school and increased.  Hall (2007) through research dealing with Adult Children of Alcoholics notices a trend that kin and fictive kin helped in filling the gaps missing from the parent-child relationship, mainly focusing on mothers.  Four main dilemmas emerged through this study:  Spending time with kin and fictive kin, seeking advice and emotional support, problem solving, risk taking and activities outside the household were common themes.  As going along with these themes that arose from this research it is seen that extended kin aid in helping to buffer some of the emotional and attachment problems associated with a distant parent whose main focus is that on the substance and not on the child.

Research has shown that it is vital that the child maintain a sense of ethnic and cultural identity (Brown, Arnault, George & Sintzel, 2009; Kroll, 2007) so it is seen very important to place children with kin, but this can result in a host of problems.

In North America more kinship placements are in African American families which are known to be more economically disadvantaged than non kinship placements (Hall 2008, Kroll (2004, 2007). These researchers present that case that it is the dynamics in the family that may possibly influence the child in a negative way with kinship placements.  As shown through research, the phrase “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” hints that in some instances children take after their parents; if the affected child were to be placed in the care of the grandparents which is the most common kinship placement, they may in fact be presented with the same dilemmas as the substance misusing parent.  With this in mind the child may fall down the same path as their parent because of the kin having an adverse effect on the well-being of the child.  Kroll (2007) also points out the “elephant in the living room” due to the secrecy of the problem with the substance misusing parent.  Kin sometimes are shown not to divulge in detail about the problem with the adult so in turn that fosters a denial in the child.  Kroll (2004) illustrates the effect of how the denial creates a barrier between the family and the outside community which also hinders any form of resilience in the affected child due to the inability to reach out for assistance.  A quote taken from Barnard & Barlow (2003), cited by (Kroll, 2004), “That was the big thing that I done. . . I never taught her to be able to share honestly about her feeling to anything . . . I just taught her to hide things.” The possibility of the truth being swept under the rug puts the child in the shadows of the dysfunction, unable to be seen by others thus unable to be helped.

On the other hand it is seen as both positive and negative, results from Hall (2004) has show that children begin to reject their parents and take on behaviors ideas of their extended kin and fictive kin.  Through the dysfunction and the problems associated with the substance misusing parent the child looks to a figure that is more accomplished and takes on their attitudes and behaviors fostering resilience and a better future for the child.  Though there are many positive benefits that these groups (kin and fictive kin) can give to the affected child such as emotional security/support, educational support and financial support, Brown & Brown emphasize that there is not enough evidence that can definitely state this support is always beneficial.  Research has sometimes shown that social support could in turn be detrimental for the recipient.

It is clear that social support from these networks have their positives and negatives.  It is clear with the research that has been studied in this section weighs in heavily the importance of a social network in a child from a dysfunctional parentage.  The benefits such as emotional permanence and support are some of the greatest contributors in establishing resilience in the child.

Methods:

The purpose for a methods section is to allow the researcher to divulge into the process of how the data was collected.  This section allows the reader to be able to distinguish why a particular type of data collection was used and why it was the best to be used.  My goal for this section is to let the reader know why I used the type of data collection on particular types of participants and how I plan on incorporating it into my research.  As mentioned before, this paper is intended for all audiences—the story is both inspiring as well as informational in regard to the questions proposed and answered in the body of the research.

Participants were recruited from a medium sized metropolitan area and a university through personal contacts.  Personal contact was made with individuals with the hopes of soliciting time to gain information.  Participants who were interested were given a number and where prompted to call to schedule an interview, whether in person or on the phone.  Of the 6 prospective participants, only 3 called to schedule an interview.  Of those 3 participants, 2 decided to schedule a phone interview and the remaining participant opted to have the interview with the researcher.

The participants included 2 college students and an adult whom upon preliminary soliciting described their adolescent life as dysfunctional due to their primary family.    The age of the participants ranged from 20-48 years of age.  There were two females and a male, all of the participants reported living in a one parent home or a home where one of the parents were distant.  1 of the participants was in a marriage and the other 2 reported that they were in an intimate relationship or single.  The income yearly income of 1 participant reported growing up with family economic status below poverty live and 2 reported growing up in a family above 15 thousand which is the mark to be considered in poverty.

All the participants were informed of the reasons why they were needed for the research and the questions that would be asked.  Further information let the participants that they could refrain from answering any question and they would be able to pull out of the interview at anytime.  3 participants participated in an interview that lasted approximately between 20-30 min.  10 open-ended questions developed by the author were asked in order to get background in the lives of the participants when they were children that caused dysfunction.  A picture of information was gathered based on a series of questions such as:  How was the relationship with your parents?  What were the major problems that existed in your family—what was dysfunctional?  Who were the most significant persons in your life—how would things have turned out differently if they were not there?

Questions about the ways in which kinship aided in buffering some of the effects brought about by the dysfunction in the household was asked in the interview.   Follow up questions were asked as well to divulge further into different areas.  At the conclusion of the interview, participants were thanked by the interviewer for their time.

The best results that come from qualitative research emerged when a good rapport is established with the participant.  The interview method for this research was the best choice based on the personal information that would be solicited from the respondents.  The answers of the participants were copied verbatim by the interview guide on a computer.  This process allowed for further examination of the information at a later time in hopes of finding commonalities in previous research theories and data collected.  This information would be used to aid in creating a storyline in the research.

Conclusions:

The findings in the present study show the ways in which the two various forms of kinship can aid in buffering some of the effects on that a dysfunctional life has on a child.  The research has emphasized on the detriments to the affected child associated with parental substance misuse such as physical abuse, child and parent stress and emotional unavailability towards the child.   The various studies provide data that strengthens the importance of kinship on the life of the child and the family with aid coming in the form of financial, academic, as well as emotional support.  However, there are opposite perspectives on positive influence of kinships such as burying the truth of the parental substance misuse which could foster denial in the child as well as the family hindering any outside help.

There were many limitations to the present study.  First, the term “child” is not specified to a specific age group; the ages that this study is trying to generalize to is from about ages 6-18 which spreads into different stages of development (e.g. early adolescence, Late) that is known in present day academia.  Secondly, the data collected from the research cannot be generalized to a specific gender, race or culture due to inadequate representation in all areas.  The data was primarily based upon African American individuals, most of them coming from females.  The last limitation to this study may be from the researcher’s impact on the participants.  Based upon things such as the gender of the researcher and race, the participants could have been reluctant to divulge into greater detail about events in their past or share in more personal experiences.

The novella tried to encompass the main themes of the research such as “parental substance misuse” and “kinship dynamics” in and outside of the home and how they affected the child both physically, psychologically as well as socioemotionally.  The story began with the main character introducing his first memories then proceeding to take the reader to become him when he was younger, introducing him to all the experiences and emotions he felt when living a dysfunctional life.  The resiliency of the affected character is portrayed due to the involvement of outside help.

This research is a piece of work that should not be taken at with under the microscope and only viewed for empirical accuracy and validity, but to be used as a tool for raising awareness about the effects that dysfunction has on a child.  This story should be used for inspiration, for offering a personal look into a child’s life (based on truthful evidence in recognized research) and witnessing the resiliency of the child due to kinships.

References

Akert, R. D., Aronson, E., & Wilson, T. D. (2009). Social Psychology (7th Edition) (MyPsychLab Series) (7 ed.). Alexandria, VA: Prentice Hall.

Brown, J. D., Arnault, D. S., George, N., & Sintzel, J. (2009). Challenges of Transcultural Placements: Foster Parent Perspectives. Child Welfare, 88, 103-126.

Brown, S. L., & Brown, R. M. (2006). Selective Investment Theory: Recasting the Functional Significance of Close Relationships. Psychological Inquiry, 17, 1-29.

Hall, J. Camille. “The Impact of Kin and Fictive Kin Relationships on the Mental Health of Black Adult Children of Alcoholics.” Health & Social Work 33 (2008): 259-266. Print.

Higgins, D. J., & MacCabe, M. P. (2003). Maltreatment and Family Dysfunction in Childhood and the Subsequent Adjustment of Children and Adults. Journal of Family Violence, 18(2), 107-120.

Kroll, B. (2004). Living with an elephant: Growing up with parental substance misuse. Child and Family Social Work, 9, 129-140.

Kroll, B. (2007). A family affair? Kinship care and parental substance misuse: some dilemmas explored. Child and Family Social Work, 12, 84-93.

Marital and Family Dysfunction. (n.d.). KU Department of Psychology. Retrieved February 28, 2010, from www.psych.ku.edu/dennisk/PF642/Dysfunction%20with%20comme

Pagani, Linda S., Christa Japel, Tracy Vaillancourt, Sylvana Côté, and Richard E. Tremblay. “Links Between Life Course Trajectories of Family Dysfunction and Anxiety During Middle Childhood.” J Abnorm Child Psychol 36 (2008): 41-53. Print.

Reyes, A. D., & Kazdin, A. E. (2006). Informant Discrepancies in Assessing Child Dysfunction Relate to DysfunctionWithin Mother-Child Interactions. Child and Family Studies, 15, 645-663.

Santrock, W. J. (Ed.). (2010). Life-Span Development (5th ed.).  NewYork: McGraw Hill

Taylor, Ronald D., Eleanor Seaton, and Antonio Doninguez. “Kinship Support, Family Relations, and Psychological Adjustment Among Low-Income African American Mothers and Adolescents.” Journal of Research on Adolescence 18.1 (2008): 1-22. Print.

What Is Child Abuse and Neglect?. (n.d.). Child Welfare Information Gateway. Retrieved February 28, 2010, from http://www.childwelfare.gov/pubs/factsheets/whatiscan.cfm

Wiggins, T. L., SOFRONOFF, K., & Sanders, M. R. (2009). Pathways Triple P-Positive Parenting Program: Effects on Parent-Child Relationships and Child Behavior Problems. Family Process, 48(4), 517-530.

The Helping Hand:

A Personal Look at Kinships in a Child’s Dysfunctional Life

“Wake up son, we’re here.”  Sitting in the passenger’s seat, head pinned against the car door, a tiny boy opens his eyes, squinting trying to block out the rays of sunlight that attack through the wind-shield.  Wiping away the saliva from his cheek, like the remains of white sediment encrusted on the floor of a dried up stream, he turns to his father, a robust man, who smiles out the left corner of his mouth, slowly shaking his head.  “We are here; you ready to start fishing he asked.”  Before answering, the boy looks upon a steel bridge, a faded green, the result of years of torture from the sun.  Under the bridge, glistening on an early summer’s day, a river creeps downstream.  “Sam… you ready?”  Sam was struck in awe of what lay before him.  Growing up in the inner city, the closest thing to nature was a 20×20 foot block of grass that lay in the center of the surrounding apartment complexes along with an apple tree, planted in the memory of a young boy who was killed by a stray bullet one night when a gun battle erupted between two rival gangs.  Taking it all in, Sam slowly opened the door making sure not to miss a moment.

This is the earliest memory that I have; my father and I fishing together at a river on the outskirts of the city where I was born stands out to me more clearly than any other memory that resides in my mind.  My name is Sam, a man who is the product of his past.  There are many stories similar to my own and before you (whoever you are) read my story I ask that you clear your mind from the present, remove yourself from your “self” and become me, and others like me.  I will not give the names of the settings in my story.  It is my hopes that as you read this story, you will create the settings in greater detail—you are the maker of your home.

My words will be distasteful, something that you will have to force down in the deepest parts of you, holding back the urge to throw it up.  My thoughts will be alarming, causing uneasiness in your equilibrium, the level to which you refuse to confront how sick humans can really be.  My actions will be wild, causing your body to go into a fight or flight, with the uneasiness that I present some danger to yourself.  Most of all, my words will introduce you to beauty— in a place that was quarantined by some in society, labeled as ugly, perseverance—in times where it the world keeps turning upside down, where there seems to be no end in sight,  love—from hearts so full of compassion that recognizes all men’s’ blood runs red, a hand is granted to anyone in need of help, and hope—a word that makes the impossible possible.

I hand the keys over to you, welcome to your new life…

Good Morning

— A baby girl begins to cry as she falls from the arms of her mother.  Sam takes his time climbing out of the bed; in substitute of a bugle horn, angry voices usually sound the start of morning.

“What the fuck are they arguing about now, Damn!”  I got out of bed only to find my younger brother, josh, lying in some sort of catatonic state, staring at the constellation of gum that he had stuck to the bottom of my top bunk.  I asked him what the hell was going on and he responded with silence.  I urged him out of the bed and we both cautiously moved towards the hallway where I had noticed my older brother standing.  “Shut the fuck up bitch!  I’m taking my fucking daughter and you aint going to do nothing about it.”  “You motha fucka, she’s my fucking daughter and I’m fucking sick of you putting your damn hands on me!”   “Get the fuck over here bitch!”  “Let go of my fucking hair!”  Before we reached the hallway my brother, Anthony rushed into the room where all the commotion was coming from; like a soldier being ambushed by enemy forces, we had no strategy, but he was the captain and where he goes we knew to follow bravely, without hesitation.  I stumbled over a lamp that lay on the floor; like red clay in the desert, it was cracked in a thousand places.  My eyes surveyed the room and there I noticed a figure curled in a ball in the corner of the far side of the room.  As it began to rotate its head in my direction, my older brother rushed past me, “is he retreating” I thought—“we have not even fought yet…fucking bitch”; My attention focused back once more upon the figure and it was at this point where I gazed into its eyes (both accented with black and beautiful shade of blue) and watched as they revealed all the pain in the world; a bruised and batter soul began to cry to my own and my soul began to reach out until the figure withdrew its plea.  My mother lay there, barely recognizable; blood poured from a spring on the side of her head and creped out the left corner of her mouth, he hair lay on the bed (a mix of her own and a horse) and two teeth waded in a tiny ocean during red tide.  I turned my attention to a tallish figure; he had a squirming baby in his grasped which was crying bloody murder as a pool of tears rushed forth from her bulging eyes, one of which had a small cut underneath.  What the hell was I supposed to do; I thought to myself. I had been in situations like this before and my natural reaction would be to curse that man out, but this time was different. Everything that lay in my view seemed unfamiliar; I stood there dumbfounded, hardly able to breathe.  If my brother had waited another second to break through the door, I would have suffocated myself; my autonomic senses had become paralyzed but once again had gained control and forced my lungs to open its arms to air again.  Standing behind me, I could hear the sound of my brothers heart beating a as a drum, playing the rudiments that would begin this war.  I felt his breath playing tag with the hairs on the back of my head which made them stand frozen, just as I once was a second ago.  I heard my brother begin to form a sentence which was quickly interrupted by the knot in his throat.  After he cleared the blockage he raised his voice to the man that held our little princess in his grasp, “Get the Hell away from my mom”, “What are you going to do the ogre retorted in a mocking voice?”   The battle was about to begin, the man had challenged my brother and now it was up to him to make the first move.  Out the corner of my eye I saw something reflecting the sun rays that burst through the window unwelcomed, as I turned towards it, I saw my brother reveal a blade from that stretched half the length of his arm.  The room fell silent, even the crying baby in the man’s arms now dangled there, snot caking to both cheeks, aw struck, from the presence of this object—even she knew the magnitude of the situation.  As I began to inch towards the door the man opened his mouth, and in a calm voice said, “Now what the hell do you think you going to do with that, Hun?”  Standing there, eyes blazing fire red from the tears that had been pouring out ever since he heard the first cries, he took a step closer to the man, clutching the handle of the blade even tighter he began to speak in a confident voice, “Touch my mother again and I will kill you…get out of my house.”  My heart dropped to the floor, I surely thought the man would come over towards us and when all was said and done my brother would be handed the same fate as my mother, still bleeding, balled up in the corner.  Was she that broken and scared, that she didn’t raise her voice to the present situation or was it that she was embarrassed, I thought to myself; She had just been beaten to a pulp in front of her own children, the same children that lay helpless and when they came into this world she was their protector…but was it too soon for them assume the role of her protector, was this a sign of her children not needing her anymore?  The words lingered in the room as my brother stood there on the front lines, not budging an inch.  Slowly the man started to make his way towards my brother; standing more than a foot taller than Anthony, I was sure he would crush him.  The man stopped in front of my brother and they glared at one another for what seemed like an eternity.  The man, with baby in his arms, whispered something into my brother’s ear.  As he walked out the door, I never saw him again.  Slowly making my way back to my room, I climbed to the top of the bunk, though it hard because my body felt numb.  I gazed outside at our backyard, covered with weeds, twice as high as my head which only stood a mere 4ft. 5 inches—at least I still had height on my baby brother, he was a “crack baby” so he would have trouble surpassing me, but only for a short while.

I thought of what it would be like not to live with this worry, this fear of waking up one day and not having anything because my mother would be beaten to death and thrown under a bridge into a body of shallow water, becoming the next victim on Law&Order.  Was this the life that all other’s experience?  Clearly if this wasn’t normal my mother would not have allowed these things to happen.  I remembered going to Sunday School and the man with the black robe told myself and the other kids in the room that God says to respect our mother and father because they know what’s best for us and if we didn’t then he would punish us for being disobedient; I raised my hand and asked the priest since I have a mother without a father, does it mean that my mother does not know what’s best for me and my brothers.  The priest cocked his head and said that God was my father.  So since that moment, I concluded that a normal family consisted of an absent father and a mother who didn’t know what was best for me.

We are all the Same

Standing in the mirror I noticed that I resembled my mother in many ways: Her hair (real hair) was as long as mine’s, nothing too impressive, I had her same big nose and when I smiled my cheeks flexed in the same way as hers.  I was turning into my mother.

Black Out

“What the fuck are you crying for, I said that I will get you some food later, you just ate this morning!”  “Mom, I haven’t eaten since yesterday and I’m hungry” I retorted, clutching my stomach, trying to stop the attacks before they crippled me as they did the night before.  Stumbling on the empty beer cans that lay scattered across the barren floor, my mother furiously made her way to her closet. Excavating clothes and empty boxes my mother brought out a box of Fruity Diamonds, my eyes lit up.  I hadn’t seen this since the beginning of the month, and with it being only 2 weeks passed since that time I had in its presence, it became a long lost friend.   My mouth began to salivate and as my mother came closer to me the box began to change form; was this whole scene an illusion that my body concocted to fulfill its nutritional needs, psychologically.

The Great Plan

As I woke up I noticed that it was a little darker in the house.  I picked myself up from the floor after I realized that I was still in my mother’s room, the very spot that I stood where I imagined a box of cereal making its way towards me.  I remembered something about that closet in my mother’s room; I felt that in the closet lay the answer to the prayers that were sent out by my body.  I began to inch my way towards it when I heard my mother’s voice, “What the hell are you doing?”  I knew that I couldn’t tell her I was going into her closet filled with precious treasures, so like any normal child, I lied.  “Josh said that Anthony hid my basketball in your closet so…” “No he didn’t you fucking liar, get the Hell outta my damn room!” she interrupted abruptly. I wasn’t a good liar yet, something she would have to teach me more of.  “MOM” I cried, “My stomach hurts, I’m hungry.”  You should have thought about that shit before you went and passed out on the damn floor—wasn’t too hungry to do that were you?  Now get out of my room you little bastard!”

I sat in the corner pissed as shit at my mother, how in the hell could she tell me that I wasn’t allowed to have anything to eat, I haven’t eaten for a whole day!  “This can’t be normal” I thought to myself, “when she leaves in a little to go with that old man (what she did with him I had no idea, but they always talking secretly and one time I had seen him touching her in places… let’s just say I got the hint) I would go into that closet and steal some of her food.”  I realized that this task would be difficult because if she came back and discovered anything missing she would know that it was me who had the courage to perform this daring feat; realizing this, I concocted my first of many great plans. I would convince my younger Josh brother to embark on this mission with me because I knew that he had eaten just as much as me.

I ventured down the steps to the living room. In the room I found my brother sitting in the corner, staring at the television, rocking away.  Josh was known as a “crack baby”, he earned this title based on his horrible social skills (well if that’s what one would call them) and obviously, for my mother using crack when she was pregnant with him.  For the majority of the day, he would sit, as close to the television as humanly possible and would rock, not to a beat or tune, but to silence.  I always thought that was weird until I had seen my mother doing the same thing one night, maybe I should try this I thought to myself—there was nothing special about it.

“Josh”, I said to the back of his head with no response.  “JOSH” I screamed a second time wherein he quickly turned around as if her were caught doing something that he shouldn’t have.  “Hey, are you hungry?”  “Yeah” Josh retorted, a smile bursting from nothingness.  “Well let’s play search for the secret treasure” (clearly this was a game that I had invented to get him in on my scheme).  “Let’s start in our room upstairs” I said—he followed joyously.  As we scanned the room high and low for a few moments I told him that we should now go into our mother’s room, which the treasure was sure to be in there.  After searching for about 10 minutes, Josh wanted to go and search downstairs.  Not finding the cereal yet, I urged him to keep looking for a little while longer.  We continued our search and I anxiously watched him, trying to urge him with my mind to the closet, which he never ventured towards.  A second time, Josh said that there was nothing in the room and started to make his way out the door.  “Wait!  Uh, did you look in the closet?”  My heart began to race.  I knew that this was the last chance that I had to get that cereal.  “No”, josh said, “Why would there be anything in the closet?”  “I don’t know”, I said, trying not to make it obvious that I knew what was behind that door.  “Just check it, I will go downstairs and start looking.”  While I made my way out of the door our shoulders brushed past one another’s as he made his way to the closet.  Slowly I made my way down the stairs, pausing after the third one.  “I FOUND DIAMONDS”, his voice thundered through the house.  I ran to meet him, displaying a false attitude of disbelief, and joy at the find—in my mind I just wanted to take that box and eat the damn cereal, but I had to continue with my plan.  After we both settled down I told Josh that we couldn’t eat the cereal.  “Why not”, Josh asked heartrendingly.  “Because its mom’s and she will get mad if we eat it without asking her”.  I felt bad for lying to him, but It was something that needed to be done.  “You can eat it if you want, I won’t tell her, just make sure you put them back—go on, you found it so take some.”  After a moment of thinking, a small hand began to reach inside of the box; coming out of the box was a rainbow of diamonds, diamonds that were red, blue, purple, yellow orange and green.  Hesitating again, he looked into my eyes.  Knowing that the plan was almost achieved I told him to go on.  Standing there, mouth open, I could see the diamonds as they circulated through his mouth, with every opening, more and more ground up they became until they traveled to another portion of his body.  He stood there with the largest smile on his face, his taste buds were satisfied as was I.  I told him that he could eat some more and that he did, taking 6 more mouth fulls before he retired the box back to the closet.  After he wiped the crumbs from his face I told him to go downstairs to see if he could find more treasures, that he was the master at searching—he felt proud of this honor and quickly rushed down the stairs.

Waiting patiently, I stood in the doorway of my mother’s room until I felt comfortable he was out of ear-shot.  When the moment was clear I rushed to the closet and opened the box.  Not knowing when my mother would be home I made it a goal to rush this process, there was no time to enjoy the taste.  Barely chewing my food, the diamonds cut into my soft palate down my throat.  Grabbing for another handful of this treasure, I thought I heard someone coming up the stairs.  In a hurry, I threw the diamonds back into the box and quickly closed up the package.  After throwing a few items of clothing on top of the box, for there was no time to gently place it back into its original position, I quickly shut the closet door and hid under the bed.  Breathing heavily, I focused my eyes on the door for it was footsteps that I had heard.  Hearing the footsteps approach the room I knew that I would be caught; my plan almost worked, but “why did I have to be so damn greedy” I thought to myself.  Entering the room, I could see the feet of my older brother.  “Sam…Sam… where u at” Anthony asked.  I knew that I couldn’t say anything because he would figure out what I had done and tell mom.  With no answer, Anthony left the room.  Waiting a moment longer, I could still here him calling my name throughout the house.  When I was certain he had gone back down stairs, I bolted from under the bed to the bathroom which was across the hall from my mother’s room.

I was smart enough to know that the smell of the diamonds would still be on my breath and that my mother would be able to smell it (my mother used to check to see if we lied about brushing our teeth by smelling our breath) and figure out that I had eaten the cereal.  After brushing my teeth two times I made my way down the stairs where I was met by my older brother.  “Where were you?”  “You didn’t hear me calling for you?”  “No”, I replied, I was sleeping.  “Where were you sleeping?”  “I went into you room and you weren’t there.”  “Uh… (Trying to think of something quickly) did you check the attic—no, u didn’t because that’s where I was.”  “Why were you sleeping in the attic” he asked.  Realizing that he would keep asking me questions I said because I felt like doing it and rushed passed him, calling for Josh as an extra distraction.

There was no further question by my older brother. I made it to the back room downstairs past the kitchen in which I found Josh sitting on the floor watching WWF (World Wrestling Federation).  This was a weekly ritual for him—I never really got into it.  Wanting to not draw too much attention I sat behind him and thought about the events that would happen once my mother came home.

It wasn’t long until I heard a car door slam shut and a few seconds later, heels ascending the porch steps—“mom’s home” I thought to myself as my heart stopped.  Being at the back of the house I could still hear as the door began to open (the doors were never locked for there was no threat to burglary seeing as we had nothing to take that was of any value).  As quickly as it open it also slammed shut.  My mother raised her voice, which she was used to doing and called for our presence.  Quickly my younger brother and I got to our feet and ran to meet her in the living room.  When we had gotten there she was just setting down a few bags which read the name of the grocery store.  “Where is your older brother” she asked.  “He was here a while ago, but he left.  “We were watching wrestling so we don’t know where he went.” I retorted with a submissive voice.  “Probably out running around with those damn hoodlums” she said as she walked towards the kitchen.  It was 9 o-clock and only being 10 years old, my brother would be out running the streets with his friends usually every night in the summer.  Growing up in the environment that I was in, as long as the cops didn’t show up at the door, our parents cared less about monitoring our ware bouts.  My brother and I went into the kitchen because we were curious to find out what was in the bags.

This was a rarity that my mother would be going to the store at this time of the month.  My family was on welfare.  My mother was unable to sustain a job for a long period of time, and being a single mother of three boys, she was a prime candidate for government assistance.  It was funny though because the goal of the welfare program was to help individuals find and maintain a job so as to not be dependent on this program for the rest of their lives.  This is a great goal, but with it being so easy to earn free money, why would anyone do anything to cancel this beneficial resource.  My mother knew that she could get assistance for paying rent and all the utilities that were included, plus food-stamps so she knew how to work the system to her benefit.  Work for a little while at a job then do something such as steal a pack of cigarettes, and do it while the camera is watching to get fired; my mother used this many times and after every layoff, the money increased from the Uncle Sam.

When we got into the kitchen, I saw my mother pulling out pancakes and syrup—it was breakfast time I thought to myself with much enthusiasm.  My mother turned to us to ask if we were hungry and we nodded our heads simultaneously as if we were synchronized bobble heads.  She told us she would start dinner when she got changed.  My brother and I looked at one another and began to smile. After not eating all day, our stomachs were tied into knots.  We stood in the kitchen, both patiently awaiting our mothers return.  I began to think of what it would be like to eat those pancakes; so fluffy they would be with maple syrup running down the sides of them.  I could hardly hold myself back from screaming out to the world.

I could have screamed as loud as my voice would allow me to, but it still couldn’t pierce the cries that came from above.  “Oh shit” I thought to myself.  I forgot about the diamonds that we had eaten—she found the box.  I could hear my mother descending the stairs, the anger I could hear coming from her footsteps.  It sounded as though the house was coming under attack from heavy artillery outside.  Before she entered the kitchen my brother and I looked at one another; I thought this would be that last time that we would see one another…alive at least.

She came in the kitchen holding a nearly empty and without any hesitation began to unleash her fury.  “Who ate my fucking cereal” she screamed (“cereal” I thought to myself; obviously she didn’t see the value in the food that we called diamonds).  “WHO THE FUCK ATE IT,” not giving any chance for a response.  Before I could open my mouth a hand came across my face—it stung like a bitch.  I began to cry.  In a shaking voice I mustered up a few words, “I didn’t eat your cereal, I never touched them.”  Surprisingly she believed me because she made her way to Josh, who at this time had already cried a pool of tears.  I saw as she grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him closer to her face as she bent over.  “Did u eat this fucking cereal?”  “No, “josh cried out.  “Did you eat my cereal” my mother asked again, only in a quieter voice.  “No” he cried again.  I wonder if she would have let him off if he had just told her the truth.  Before he could close his mouth after he answered her saw her fist clench up.  Her right hand began to rise as her left hand pulled Josh to the floor.  As if hacking away at a log, my mother began hitting away at his butt.  As she hit him he would let out a scream, crying bloody for the neighbors next door to hear.  “You’re a Fucking liar, I can smell the cereal on your damn breath” she screamed, in rhythm with every blow.  I was a bit mad at myself for not telling Josh to brush his teeth, but then I realized we would both be handed the same fate if I had for she wouldn’t know who had eaten her diamonds.  After about 2 minutes my mother gave up.  Rising back to her feet, exhausted from this battle and panting she told my brother to get upstairs, that he wasn’t eating tonight since he took it upon himself to have dinner.  Still lying on the floor, my brother didn’t hear her orders over his cries.  Frustrated by this, my mother picked him up off of his feet and pushed him through the doorway, cause him to fall over a chair that sat against the wall in the living room.  I slowly peered inside the room, not wanting to draw attention and saw as he crawled his way to the steps.

Eating those pancakes at the table, all I could think about was how I had caused all of this.  My mother had taken her food up to her room with her Budweiser (she never ate at the table with us) and I saw that she had left 3 pancakes on a plate that sat on the counter top.  I knew that my brother was starving so I quickly finished my food and put my dishes in the sink.  I grabbed the pancakes and hurried upstairs.  My mother’s door was open but luckily she could not see me as I passed her room.  Opening the door to my room, I saw the blanket on the bottom bunk, rising and falling like ocean tides.  As I approached I could hear my brother still whimpering, occasionally sniffing his nose as not to lose any snot.  “Josh” I said in a quiet voice, “Here”.  Slowly he pulled back the covers and out came a face, eyes red from the constant rubbing.  I handed him the three pancakes.  They were cold and there was no syrup to accompany them, but he quickly reached for them.  Into his mouth they went, one by one.

I climbed to the top bunk.  Lying on my back I thought about what had happened.  I smiled at the fact that I had beaten my mother at her own game—she was the best at lying and stealing and I had gotten something passed her…”She taught me well” I thought to myself.  My brother had finished his food—I could tell by the shifting in the bed and a “thank you” that came from him.  I realized that I had caused his pain, but in the years to follow, there would be many times that I would fall victim our mother’s hand due to his cunning.  I could feel myself drifting into a satisfying sleep when I heard in the distance a familiar voice—“SAM, COME AND CLEAN UP THESE DAMN DISHES!”  “Damn” I thought to myself.  I shook my hand and down the stairs I went.

Worms

One night I had a dream that I was being chased by giant worms, they had sharp teeth and they were slimy.  As they had gotten closer I feel to the ground. As I turned to them I saw the backs of their throat and I began to scream.  When I had awaken, I looked upon my partly lit room onto the ground, there crawling around were a million worms.  I could hear their bodies sliding across one another and even saw one of them being eaten by his fellow companions.  I had seen on an episode of Arthur when DW had nightmares and she would wake up screaming.  Her parents would run and comfort her, telling her that everything was ok…my mother would probably beat me if I woke her up in the middle of the night.

Easter at Grandma’s

Whenever my family got together there was always a confrontation that ended with the majority of the family being mad at one person—that person usually included my mother.

My mother had told us that we were going to our grandmothers for Easter.  My brothers and I was always excited about this because we were able to travel away from home and be with family; where we lived the nearest relatives were 4 hours away and with no vehicle we were unable to travel to see them.  My mother had borrowed her friends car and after we got out of school on Friday, we packed up the car and left.

I was one to get really bad headaches from motion sickness so whenever I traveled for more than an hour I would alleviate this by going to sleep.

When we had arrived at our destination the leaves were beginning t bloom on the trees and the sun was out.  My grandmother had lived in a development that was pretty nice for the general area, which had a very high rate of murders and other smaller crimes.  We had gotten out of the car and out the screen door came running two of our many cousins that would be present for the weekend.  My younger brother and I, without hesitation ran to meet them by tackling them to the ground.  We were always wrestling with one another and we had a lot of catching up to do because of not seeing each other for a long while.  “Get these damn bags out of the car and take them in the house!”  Not being there for even a minute, my mother was already unleashing her anger on Josh and I.  “Why are you yelling at those damn kids Sandra,” my grandmother yelled from inside of the upper window where she had overheard the commotion.  “Hey grandma,” we yelled, striking a smile her way for which she suddenly returned; “Hey babies missed you guys, you are getting so big.  Get yaw butts up here and give yaw grandma a hug and kiss!”  Rushing past our mother who had given us an unpleased look, we broke through the door and the stairs to our grandmother’s room.

I always liked my grandmother’s room because she had anything and everything.  Surveying the room I noticed the pictures that sat on her dresser, a large oak creation that was stained the same dark brown color as my eyes.  The figures in these pictures were of great grandparents and other kin that I never had met before, only heard stories of their lives.  Josh and I had jumped onto the queen sized bed that sat in the middle of the room; when I was 4 years old and my brother was 3 we decided to see who could jump the highest and do the most spins.  According to my older brother Anthony who was there with us, Josh had beaten me for the most rotations and attempt after attempt I began to become angered.  When Josh had attempted for more rotations I had pushed him out of the air causing him to fall against a rocking chair that sat on the side of the bed—he had broken his arm.  I don’t remember the story playing out that way, but that could be due the possible brain damage that my mother inflicted on me after she had gotten done beating me for doing what I supposedly did.

My grandmother had gotten out of the bathroom and came into the room.  We suddenly jumped into her embrace.  We loved our grandmother because whenever we came up to visit her she always spoiled us.  I guess knowing that our mother never gave us anything she felt it necessary to provide us with toys and money as if it were Christmas every time we saw her.

After she had asked us about the events that were happening in our lives, including my recent involvement in pee-wee football, she told us to go and take care of our baggage before our mother yelled at us again.  My grandmother seemed to be the one who knew how to stand up to my mother, but with that resulted in the worst of fights.

My grandmother was the same as my mother when she was younger.  She had three children (all different fathers).  My mother was the first child and the only girl and with that came many responsibilities.  My grandmother used drugs and was never home when my mother became of age to look after my 2 uncles.  Occasionally coming home to bring men home from the bars, my grandmother lived a life away from her children in search of her next “sugar-daddy” and fix.  My mother made breakfast for her brothers before school and when it was dinnertime she was the one to have their meals hot from the stove-top.  This took a lot out of my mother because she was just a young girl, raising a family basically on her own.  Entering high-school my, my mother began to rebel against the ways of my grandmother.  My mother refused to be the primary caretaker of her younger siblings, she wanted to go out with friends and live her life as an adolescent with all that this period in her life entailed.  Not liking this, my grandmother began to abuse my mother; they would fight in the middle of the street almost every night with only the intervention of neighbors or the police that would stop the feuding.  In my mother’s mid teens, she was kicked out of the house.  She had a best friend whom she lived with and because of the depression that was associated with the physical and psychological abuse my mother began to find comfort in areas that modeled my grandmother’s.  She began to party, starting with alcohol which escalated to heavier drugs such as Cocaine and Heroin. My mother began to hang with the wrong people and began to practice unprotected sex, and as a result had my older brother at the age of 17—she had to drop out of high-school in her senior year because going to school, raising a baby while everyday was too much to manage.

My mother and grandmother have lived the same lives and know one another better than anyone which is why they are the perfect fit for handling one another, their method—arguing about everything until one gives up.

It was approaching dinnertime; the sun had reached its highest point in the sky.  The air began to smell of honey glazed ham and collard greens with boiled turkey neck.  The rest of my family had arrived and along with some of the local neighbors which had polluted the front yard with lawn chairs and beer bottles.  My family was big on consuming alcohol and if it was noticed that someone was not drinking that there had to be a problem with the non-drinker which in turn would be probed into by at least half of the family.  My older brother and I were out in the street bouncing basketballs, showing off our dribbling skills to the girls in the yard across the street so sent flirtatious laughs our way.  “Anthony and Sam, come and get your plates ready” a voice echoed through the streets.  The smell in the air had teased us for a few hours and now it was time to indulge.  Our steps had quickened once we had seen our greedy neighbors beginning to filter into the house; not knowing how much food would remain after they had gotten their portions our minds told our legs to go faster.

I pushed my way through the people that had herded into the living room.  Making my way to the kitchen I noticed the spread of food on the table—the ‘Last Supper” is all I could think of.  There lay the honey glazed ham, cut into paper thin slices which had permeated the streets along with a big pot of collard greens, its color being accented against the silver of the pot.  There also included:  Sweet corn on the cob, Sweet potatoes, Baked macaroni and cheese, Corn bread, Potato salad, and fluffy Grands rolls.  After standing in aw of the spread, I got a plate and took to the food.

I sat in the grass with Josh and my younger cousins, flicking food at one another on occasion.  “I don’t give a Fuck what you think, they my damn children!”  “Lower yo voice and watch yo mouth around the kids—what the matter with you!”  I turned to see my mother as she carried a Budweiser storm out of the house.  Her youngest brother Steve came chasing after her—I could tell she was drunk.

My mother, still as loud as before began talking to my uncle.  “I have raised my damn kids to the best of my abilities, I put food in their mouths and they have clothes on their back.  She always brings up how I don’t do right by them—like she ever did right by us.  I raised you and Corey, I’m the one who changed yaw diapers and made sure yaw got to bed and up in the morning on time.  I made lunch and dinner because mom was never home to do that stuff so how dare she come and say I’m doing something wrong!”  “You know how mom gets,” my uncle retorted, “but you better start shaping up Cindy!  You called me three times last month saying that you didn’t have enough money to pay for the electricity and the rent—what the hell are you doing down there?”  I could tell based on my mother’s delay to the question that she was trying to make up some sort of story but was unable to.  From witnessing it firsthand she resorted to crying.  “I am doing the best that I can (her crying becoming much louder).  I’m sorry that I don’t have jobs like you Corey, that I can’t take my kids out to eat every damn day, but I have three boys with no other support!  I love my boys to death and would sacrifice anything for them so I don’t care what yaw have to say to me.” Shaking his head, my uncle turned away, heading to the cooler to grab another beer.

That night, my mother had gone out with a few of her old friends to the bars.  At my grandmother’s house, there weren’t enough rooms so us kids would lay out blankets and sleep in the living room.  I had to go upstairs to brush my teeth when I overheard my grandmother and Uncle Steve talking.  “I can’t believe that girl.  I know I made mistakes in life, but why doesn’t that give her the motivation to not live her life like I did Steve?”  “Mom I don’t know.  You know Cindy has always been a good provider, but these damn drugs have taken over her life, she can’t get her priorities in order and she is hurting those damn boys—I feel bad for them.”  “She needs help,” my grandmother said mournfully, “those boys are going to wake up one day and find their mother lying in the bed—cold and hard as a rock.”   I quietly went downstairs.

“Cold and hard as a rock.”  Those words rang through my head as I stared into darkness.  Could she really die?  This question bothered me and made me uneasy.  Why don’t they help her?  Why don’t they recommend her going to the doctors to get better?  How can they say she is living her life wrong, but failing to take any action?  These questions replayed over and over again in my head.  From that night, I knew there was nothing that my family would do to help us.  A few dollars here and there to pay for rent and food is nothing; they were feeding her addiction and they knew it, they just didn’t to confront her.  No more would I look forward to going to grandma’s house for Easter.

Bye

I was 10 years old when the police arrested my mom at the clothing store in the mall.  I stood there as they had her in handcuffs, me and my two brothers gazed at the people looking at the scene.  I could see them with their judging eyes, scorning my mother for what she had done.  I could see the pity in their eyes for these three little black children—I wanted to spit in their faces.  We waited for about an hour until a white lady with big, golden hair and a brown clip board came to talk with one of the police officers.  She started to advance over towards me and just then my mother began to scream out.  Until this moment she sat on the bench, face down in her lap, crying because she knew what she had done.  I, for a second, looked upon her and thought that it was ironic seeing as it is usually my brothers in this same position because of something that we have done to make our mother punish us.  The white lady knelt beside me and my brothers and she put her arms around us.  She began to talk and I started to smell an odor that came from her mouth, it wasn’t just my senses that were acute, I looked at josh and I saw his nose squint up and without a moment’s notice my younger brother Anthony screamed out, “What did you eat, ugh!”  In the midst of all the turmoil, something in me began to laugh, and for what seemed like almost a minute, my brothers and I did.  Feeling a little embarrassed the lady created a little bit of distance and said that she had just eaten lunch and had a salad.  She said that she likes garlic and that’s what the smell was.  I knew that smell of garlic, but what came from her mouth smelled like straight butt and horse poop.  After she finished explaining and our euphoria subsided, she began to speak to us more sternly.

She explained that we would be going to be staying with a family for a while, somewhere safe until our mother was able to get us back.  We all stood there for a moment just looking at one another, then at the little dots in the tile on the ground.  The lady asked us if we were ok and I almost wanted to hit her.  I thought to myself, “Why in the hell would she ask me something stupid like that.  First, they are taking away our mother away from us, secondly we have to go and live with some people for whom we have never met before, lastly, there are a bunch of people not minding their own business—Hell yeah there is a problem.”  I decided not to say much due to my brother already bringing the lady down by pointing out her stinky breath.

The police man escorted my mother over to the three of us so she had time to say goodbye. My younger brother began to cry as she embraced him with just her neck due to her arms being bound around her back (what a way to leave an impression on a mother’s children).  She started to approach my older brother josh and he backed away from her.  His next words sent mouths to the ground and even made me knees buckle a little.  “I hate you.  I hope they never let you out!”  My mother became paralyzed by his words.  After some urging by the police officers, my mother looked upon me, she didn’t make an advancement towards me, probably because of fear that I might scorn her in the same way.  We stood there, and as if everyone else had faded away, there, just the two of us dwelled.   She told me about her pains and how she was sorry for everything that she had done.  She took me back to her life, where her mother used to beat her and tell her she was nothing.  How her mother was never there for her and her brothers because she was out in the streets partying and sleeping with men for money.  She told me that she always told herself that she would never become what her mother was, how she wanted to make a better life for her children.  After her depression had reached full strength, she began to seek comfort in the wrong places, essentially following down the same road as her mother.  I could see inside of her a broken child, just wanting love, but failing to find it.  In that moment our hearts intertwined and became one.  I realized from that age that I had to do all that I could to show her that I loved her and would take care of her.

I felt an arm pull me backwards and reality suddenly came back into focus.  The lady that would be taking me and my brothers to our new home began escorting us out of the department store.  As I looked back, I saw my mother smile…I smiled back.

NOT MY HOME

The family consisted of a man named David who was a real-estate worker and a lady named Pamela who had her own business catering weddings.  These two had a daughter, Stacy, who was enrolled in college, studying law—she was cute.  A 2 story house, consisting of: 5 bedrooms, 3 baths, a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi is the palace that we would reside in for the next parts of our lives.

When my brothers and I had first arrived, they greeted us with a party wherein they had some of their family that lived close by and what seemed like most of their neighbors.  This surprised us, me and my brothers greatly.  I was very hesitant to talk with anyone because first, I did not know anyone, secondly, I had never had a party before and lastly, everyone was Caucasian.  Being in an environment likes this made my defenses go up.  In my neighborhood, the majority of the white people that we saw sat in police cars, observing the people who walked about the street, ready to jump at any sign of trouble.

After the festivities were over we were taken in the living room which housed a huge flat screen television and a fireplace.  The new family (the daughter included) introduced themselves into greater detail and asked about information on ourselves.  The way they listened I could understand that they had never had contact with people in our situations and would never understand us.

Over the next few days were introduced to rules such as not being able to be out past certain hours, we had to take showers 2 times a day (something we were not used to doing), and we were to get to bed at 9-o clock.  This was very different from my home with my mom wherein we had no rules, but to stay out of the way of my mother.  The worst part occurred when my brother tried to watch wrestling; Pamela came in the living room and turned off the television telling Josh that wrestling is too violent for young kids to watch.

“Go and ask those kids if they wanna play basketball Sam,” my older brother said to me; Anthony never really talked to the local kids because he felt a sense of hesitation due to us being the only black people in the neighborhood.  It was a scary thing because the kids never came over to introduce themselves and whenever a big group of them would be playing a game of curb-ball or basketball, we would sit on the curb waiting for them to ask us to join, but to no avail.

Building up the courage I ventured over to the rowdy kids.  “Would you guys mind if we came and joined in your game?”  Even before I got there, I could see as they stood there in a catatonic state, as if there was something very weird and scary that was coming for towards them and they had no idea what to do.  After the kids looked around at one another a curly blonde headed kid, which stood bigger than the rest advanced towards me.  “We don’t want to get into trouble so we don’t want you in our game.”  After he said that the kids turned around and walked back to the basketball hoop that sat at the end of one of their driveways.  I slowly walked backed to my brothers who were sitting on the curb, waiting to hear what had happened.  “They said they didn’t want to get into trouble so we can’t play with them” I told my brother.  He suddenly jumped up to his feet—I could see the rage in his eyes.  “They gotta be fucking kidding me!  What do they mean they will get in trouble?”  Before I could even try to attempt to answer his question, which I had no answer for, he made his way over to the group of kids that had denied us the joy that they were having—Josh and I quickly followed behind.

Seeing us coming over, the boys once again stopped their game and I could see the guy whom had first spoken to me, he made his way to the front of the group and met my brother.  They both stood at the same height, the white boy being just a little chubbier.  Anthony was almost 15 years old now and was not afraid of anything.  “So, why can’t we play with you,” he asked in an irritated voice.  “As I told your brother, we don’t want to get into trouble so that’s why you can’t play with us.”  The boys tone was very mocking and I knew that my brother had picked up on it due to his continuing of questioning the boy as to who would they get into trouble by and why.  “Do you honestly want to know why we can’t play with you” the boy asked, looking us all in the eyes (he was pretty bold), “Well, first of, as you can see, there are no blacks in our neighborhood, and secondly, my parents told me that you people are no good, and that you’re here because your mom probably is addicted to drugs so they took you away which is why we should stay away from you because you might be a bad influence on us.  Besides that, I just don’t want you guys playing with us.  We know that black people are good at basketball so you don’t need to prove anything to us.”  I stood there, soaking in every word that the kid said, “Did this kid really just say this” I thought to myself.  Before I was able to say something I saw my older brother lunge at the kid, fist first.  As they started fighting, the others had joined in to aid there friend who lay there on the ground, mouth already bleeding—the basketball was flung from the boys hands and went playing by itself, rolling down the street.  My younger brother and I joined in on the fight.  Though it was the three of us against the 7 of them, the match was unequal; we had spent our whole lives fighting and it was clear that these kid’s strength came from their smart ass tongues, that’s only purpose was to spit ignorance in the face of difference.  As I hovered over a boy who had succumbed to the blows of my right foot, I heard a few voices shouting, trying to stop the fighting.  The voices got closer and closer, but we paid them no mind.  We were so infuriated by what these kids had said that we were set on giving back to them what they dished out…only a little more physically.

As I went to strike a brown haired boy who had knocked my younger brother Josh to the grown an arm pulled me up in the air violently.  I couldn’t get my footing as I came back down to earth and as a result, I fell backwards and hit my shoulder against the side of the curb which sent a sharp pain through my body—I yelled out.  I looked upon the scene and saw as three men began to break up the fight.  My brothers were not handed the same fate as me.  They were being bear hugged by two men as they continued to flail and kick at the boys who were angrily pleading their case to the crowd of parents whom had accumulated to figure out the reason for this confrontation.

I began to rise to my feet when I heard the sound of Pamela asking what was going on.  A lady, whom I figured was a mother of one of the kids had spoke up first to inform her of her firsthand knowledge.  “Those boys that you have, they started a fight with the other kids because they wouldn’t let them play basketball.”  “WHAT,” Pamela said in disbelief, “They did what?”  Just them she looked down to me, as I began crying because my arm was hurting pretty badly.  “Sam” she said very sternly, “what happened?”  I watched as the lady who had given her side to the story stood, waiting to hear what version I might give in hopes that she could dispute my facts.  I stood to my feet and spoke to Pamela as if I were in the court of law, trying to plead my innocence.  “We wanted to play basketball with the kids and we asked them, they said no.  They said they were not allowed to play with us because they told us that their parents said we were a bad influence on the kids and that the only reason we are here is because my mom does drugs so they took us away.”  I continued on telling her the story and I could see as her face began to sag due to something that she was thinking or feeling of which I had no clue as to how to interpret.

When my brothers had calmed down, they were released into the arms of Pamela who thanked the men for breaking up the fight.  Not saying a word, Pamela escorted us to the house.

As we sat on the couch we overheard her talking on the phone.  “…Well you need to get here, I can’t handle this by myself David… okay, well hurry up.  Pamela came back into the room and sat on a brown rocking chair that faced us.

We waited there for 20 minutes in silence until we heard the front door open.  Pamela had gotten up and I could hear whispering in the foyer; I knew she was giving David the details of the incident that occurred.  In 5 minutes, they both came into the living room.  “So why did you guys decide to resort to violence instead of coming and talking to Pamela about what happened.  My younger brother and I realized that Anthony should be the one to talk for us so we waited for him to respond.  “Because we didn’t,” Anthony said in a low mumble.  “They said what they said and we acted.  This isn’t our fault,” he said confidently, not showing any remorse for what we had done.  “This whole situation could have been avoided if you guys weren’t so quick to anger and if you made a better decision such as walking away from the situation” David said, just as confidently, not letting a teenager show him up.  I could see that this was not going to turn out good. “You don’t understand shit,” “HEY, now you watch that language—that is unacceptable” David said.  Anthony still did not budge, “If someone basically tells you that you can’t do something because you’re black, I feel you have every right do whatever you want.”  “You need to realize, that’s not how life works.  In the real word, you can’t go around picking fights with people just because they said something to offend you.”  I could see my brother starting to become more infuriated by the moment; “I don’t care how it works in your world, but where I come from, what they said is fighting words and I’m gonna defend me and my little brothers.  Maybe you should be talking to those other kids and their racist parents instead of sitting here coming down on us!”  “Now wait a minute Anthony,” David retorted, “There is no need to call anyone racist.  I know all those kid’s parents and they are nice people who are not racist.”  “Well for parents to tell their children not to play with us because we will cause problems and telling them that my mom is addicted to drugs so stay away from us…I would probably say that Is racist and if you can’t see that then maybe you’re racist too.”  There was a brief pause, as if everyone was holding their breaths, trying to stop time.  “You all go to your rooms,” David said in a subtle voice.  I could tell that Anthony had defeated him; his words hit David like a ton of bricks and David was suffering under the weight of it.  As I left the couch, I could see as Pamela began to cry…I smiled inside.

It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was shining outside, but there was definitely a raincloud over the house.  The events kept playing themselves out in my head as I lay there, on top of my covers, staring at the ceiling.  I smiled when I thought of myself punching the brown haired kid and making him cry.  I brought my arms above my head; on my knuckles I could see, dry blood, encrusted in the grooves of my hand.  I laughed when I remembered my little brother Josh, flailing around in the white man’s arms, trying to attack the red-headed kid that he fought with for most of the fight—they were the smallest ones of the bunch.  When my excitement for the violence ended, I thought about why the whole fight began—a frown came to my face.  This was the first time I had really ever experienced racism, prejudice and discrimination.  Only being 11 years old, I knew from growing up that there was a hate for persons that weren’t white by some people, but had never seen it in action.  As I thought a little more, I felt bad that we had called our new family racist; even though it was Anthony that said it, we allowed him to speak for us.  David and Pamela didn’t deserve it.  They expected us to live by their rules which include handling problems by talking them out.  “We don’t work like that,” I thought to myself.  They don’t understand how our lives were and they would never completely understand.  We were raised to fight, and fight we would do especially if we were challenged in the manner that we were.  I began to become too tired to think, it was wearing me out.  I turned over to my side to take a nap, but before hand I whispered an apology into the air, hoping that it might reach the ears of David and Pamela.

In the following days, there seemed to be a sweeping under the rug of the incident that occurred.  My brother and I, we kept to the backyard, never playing with the neighborhood kids again; we were the only friends we had—we had to stick together.

Got Milk?

After 8 months since the last contact with our mother my brothers after lunch on a Saturday afternoon my brothers were given a letter by our foster parents saying that she had gotten out of jail and she would be filing to get us back—this gave us great joy, even my Anthony whom had said he hated our mother and wished they would never let her out.

“Now Sam, you are not going to leave the table until you finish you milk,” Pamela sternly said to me.  I quickly responded back with the same comment that I had used in previous situations, “I HATE MILK, WHY CAN’T YOU SEE THAT!”  For some apparent reason she wanted me to drink a cup of milk after every meal saying that it helped with strong bones and that I would help me grow better.  Sensing that I wasn’t going to give in immediately Pamela told me to stay at the table until the cup was gone.  I grunted and put my head in-between my arms as I rested it upon the table.  “I am 8 years old” I thought to myself, “why is she making me drink milk—I throw it up every time I drink it anyway.”

An hour had passed and I began to give into the demands that were given to me.  Raising my head I looked upon the cup of milk.  It was a red cup that was designed to look like a Crayola crayon.  I reached for the cup and grasped it in my hands.  As I brought it up I could hear my stomach growling, telling me not to drink the milk.  I put the cup to my lips and as fast as it would go down, the milk rushed to the back of my throat and down my esophagus.  It was so warm from sitting out for over an hour and I gagged as I placed the cup down.  Pamela had just come back in from picking weeds from her garden in the back of the house and saw the look of disgust on my face.  Cracking a smile she told me that I was a good boy and that I could leave the table.  Immediately I got up from the table and ran to the upstairs bathroom.  With every step, a little sip on milk crawled back up my throat.  Reaching the toilette, I bent over; like a dam holding back the maximum capacity of water that it can, my body brought forth the milk that I had consumed along with the lunch that had not been completely digested.  On my knees, abdomen contracting and relaxing, I began to cry, for tomorrow I knew that I would have to drink another cup of milk.

Slowly, I raised myself and went to my room, which I shared with my younger brother.  I ignoring the sounds of laughter coming from my brothers as they splashed in the pool, I began to think of the events that had played out in the past 8 months.  This was a weird life that we lived.  My brothers and I were moved from our home and placed into this place—we were aliens.  All I could think of was getting back home to my friends, staying out till whenever playing basketball at the courts, having that dilemma of how to steal food because there would be a lack of food.  This place was an experience, but I was ready to leave.

Only For a Moment

Sitting there on the bench in the building full of children in my same situation, I could see as my mother talked with the lady who had taken us away from her.  She wore a smile that was very foreign to me…she seemed happy.  Thinking to myself, I wondered if jail could really change a person.  Knowing that an individual’s freedom is taken away and their lives are at the mercy of the institution, I could see how she could be so changed.

She walked out the room and started to head into our direction.  My younger brother josh immediately jumped from his seat, for he was the most anxious to see his mother.  As he got closer she extended her arms and began to shower his face with tears and kisses.  “Oh, baby I missed you so much.  You have gotten so big!”  My mother being affectionate—could it really be her?  Out of my left eye, I could see as me brother began to rise from his seat.  Walking towards my mother, I could see as she swallowed the knot that had built up in her throat.  Without any sound, they both grasped one another.  She didn’t greet him with the same euphoria as she did Josh—it wasn’t needed.

Throughout our stay with our foster family, I could tell that something was really wrong with Anthony.  He seemed as though there was something missing, that he was searching for something, but wouldn’t say what it was.  One night I heard whimpering through the walls of my room.  With his room being next to Josh’s and I’s, I knew that it was Anthony.  Rarely hearing him cry in life, and never witnessing it at our foster home, I knew that something was serious; that night, I arose from my bed and crept to the hallway.  Kneeling onto the floor and placing my ear against the door, I overheard a conversation:

“What am I supposed to do?  Are you listening?  Tell me…what am I supposed to do?  I miss her so bad, and I hate myself for telling her that I hated her, but what was I supposed to do?  She embarrassed me!  She did something so stupid and now is in jail.  She deserted me and my brothers—what are they supposed to do?  They are so young still; they probably don’t even understand everything that’s going on.  I love them, I don’t show it that much, but I love them.  Help me.  Help me.  Please, I’m asking you to help me so that I can help my brothers.  Send us home to her, let her get better so that we can be with her.  Why the hell were drugs ever invented—Did you make them?  (More whimpering).  Just let us go home…that’s all I want, is to go home.”

My head was so glued to the door that I found it very hard to pry myself away.  His words weighed on me.  I never knew he talked to God; I would have conversations with the man upstairs, always about wanting a toy or for giving me some food to eat, but never about something as serious as this.  I looked at my brother in a new light from then on.  He was so young, but with so many cares and worries.  By his conversation I realized how much he loved me and Josh.

Looking upon this scene, I could see how much love Anthony still had towards our mother—she could tell as well.  “It’s my turn.  Do I go to her or let her come to me?”  Before I could answer myself a hand reached out, directing me to stand up—I did.  Holding my mother, I could feel as our hearts began to beat together.  Faster and harder they beat against out chest walls until they reached a halt.  Slowly, the dancing subsided, no longer did our hearts race, but slowly they began to speak to one another.  They spoke of the mountains they had to climb, the vast oceans they had to cross, they spoke of the loneliness, and they spoke of the hurt.  “Mamma’s home,” she whispered in my ear.  It felt good to hear those words, so gentle, so warm…in my mother’s arms is where I belong.

The Battle

We moved back to the neighborhood that I grew up in.  My mother had obtained a job, working for a cleaning service which sent in maids to clean the homes of the wealthy.  This was the longest she ever had a job and she was content and always happy to go off to work after she had gotten myself and my brothers ready for school.

Being back with my friends, the familiar, gave me a peace and a sense of belonging that I had not felt in a year.  Over the last couple of years I had grown up physically as well as mentally.  Being in the foster home, I developed emotional barriers and behaviors that were seen as deviant.  With that foster family not understanding me, I created resentment towards persons whom tried telling me what I could and could not do; this was evident in my 8^th grade year.

One day before school I walked to the bus with my younger brother; Anthony was in high-school so he caught a different bus.  We met up with my friend Rock (he obtained this name due to being all muscle and his attitude) who sat on his porch smoking a cigarette.  We approached the bus stop.  Josh had pointed to a boy wearing a blue track jacket with a matching Yankees hat.   Josh came home two days before, on a Saturday with an angry look on his face.  I had asked him what the problem was and he told me that his basketball was on the roof of the middle-school.  “This boy at the park kicked my basketball on the roof because I didn’t want him to play,” he said as he tried to hold back the tears, not wanting to seem weak.  The boy was a little bigger than me, but that did not hinder my next actions.  With a stern voice I tried getting his attention, “Yo!  You the one who kicked my brother’s basketball on the roof?”  Not knowing who I was he refrained from answering the question.  He looked me up and down and turned his head to watch the bus as it rolled down the hill, its place slowed because of the traffic.  I took this as an insult so dropping my backpack I approached him again—there was no talking this time.  The boy stumbled as he clutched his face; automatically his nose began to bleed due to its contact with my fist. The kids around the bus stop all backed away and I found myself encircled by a crowd of blood hungry children, screaming for more action.  The boy looked up and immediately rushed after me, his face stained red.  With a jab, I planted my fist onto his right eye.  Out of my right eye I saw as he raised his fist.  I was a little too late responding to its approach and it caught my chin—I stumbled backwards.  He came after me and tackled me to the ground.  Being a lot heavier than I was, I was paralyzed under his weight.  With every strike towards my head, it was blocked by my arms as I buried my head within them.  Attempt after attempt I tried wriggling my way from under him.  Luckily, the chance came.  The boy began to become tired due to his persistence with punching which had no affect on me; the blows had ceased for a second where in I sent a right hand crashing into his nose again.  This blow knocked him over, off of me.  As he grabbed his face again I quickly stood up.  Seeing him still on the ground I began to kick him.  I kicked at him as if he were a piñata—candy was not on my mind, it was the tears that I was looking for.  The kicking did not last, for after the fifth blow to his side, he began to wail—success.

Kids were still yelling, but began to line up for the bus had arrived at the stop.  I turned to find my brother handing me my backpack.  Josh looked at me and smiled.  He knew I was there for him and that I had his back.  Before getting on the bus I looked back to see the boy stumbling back to wherever he came from; his mom would probably be calling the school, scolding them for not having someone present at the bus stop in the event that fights like this break out.  I was the last person on.  When my foot had touched the first step, I tasted blood—I swallowed it…never showing signs of weakness to society was my mentality—I found my way to the back of the bus.

No Shoes

Basketball is what I loved, and what I was good at.  I had started on the basketball team in middle-school every year.  I loved this game; having the ball in my hands, dribbling it past the half-court line then screaming out a play that would allow us to penetrate the defense for a basket was what I loved for.

“Get on the line!  I’m sick of yaw slacking off!” My coach was getting annoyed at our motivation for this day of practice.  We had just come in second at a tournament that we should have won.  In the game, three of our starters got technical fouls for arguing with the officials thus making them unable to play in the next game—the game against our rivals were coming up in two days and we were not ready to play them.  “I’m sick of you guys acting like drama queens on the court, that’s for those teams who can’t play for shit.  I have worked too hard and you are not gonna waste my time playing like shit.  20 suicides…go!”  We all raced off, some of us stumbling at the take-off.  There was me and another friend who were the fastest so we had gained a sizeable lead by the tenth suicide.  I always competed with this kid;  Showing the coaches that I could work hard and push myself farther than the others allowed me to maintain my starting spot and good favors with them—“this kid is not gonna beat me” I thought to myself.  I ran along side of him until we had only 2 to go.  After I planted my right foot and pressed my hands to the ground while turning my body 180 degrees I took off in full stride, watching as my companion for the latter part of the race had slowed him pace.

“Good job Sam.  It’s nice to see someone wanting to work.  Common, push it—you better not be the last one or you will be running extra!”  I smiled as I walked to the water fountain, arms elevated above my head to open my lungs for air.

“Now how about we all drop the attitudes and start working,” my coach said, as my teammates and I stood under the hoop.  “Lay-up drills and then 3-point shooting.  Let’s go!”  We all scattered to our various places, pairing up with a teammate to even the sides out.  “this is some bullshit Sam, he has us running so damn much” one of my friends said to me.  I replied back quickly due to my turn approaching, “Maybe if yo ass wasn’t cursing at the refs and getting techs then coach wouldn’t be so mad and we wouldn’t be running so damn much.”  “Knowing that he could not justify his anger he cowered back and mumbled a “whatever” to the back of my head which was focusing on the ball that was headed towards me.

Coach had let us take a 5 min break after he was satisfied with our first warm-up.  Sitting against the wall I talked to a few of my friends.  “Sultan, why the fuck are you practicing in those damn nike forces,” one of them asked jokingly wherein others began to laugh.  “Why the fuck don’t you mind yo damn business” I retorted, becoming angry at the attention that was directed towards me.

The team always tried buying matching basketball sneakers; it was a sign of uniformity.  We were in the middle of the season and I still didn’t have any sneakers.  The shoes that I wore were low-top (the worst kind of shoe to play basketball in because a person can twist their ankle easily), and the colors were blue and white (which mixed with my uniform colors of red and white made me like a walking American flag—very different from the rest of the team).  My friends didn’t realize that I had asked my mother to buy me sneakers, but that she couldn’t afford them.  Most of my friend’s parents were well off and whatever they asked of them, being wrist bands or a new basketball, they were given it without hesitation.  “I’m sorry you got those punk ass shoes on right now, maybe that’s why you are so fast…I should get mo some of those!”  Everyone began to laugh, which made me pissed; he was being sarcastic and making fun of my so I jumped at him, knocking his against the wall.  He was the 4 man on the starting squad and he made it know that he was better than everyone (He was more physical due to his size and had a better shot, but I wouldn’t admit that to him).  He always made fun of people and looked down on others—a “punk ass spoiled bastard” is what I used to call him.  As soon as he came back to hit me the other players jumped in front of the two of us and the coaches soon got involved.  As we stood there, exchanging negative words to one another the head coach, Coach Anderson told me to get into the locker room.  I stormed off of the court into the locker room.

Kicking the locker next to the sink, I the door closing—someone was coming into the locker-room.  I turned to see who it was and it was coach.  “What the hell happened out there Sam,” he asked half angry, half worried voice.”  “Taylor is starting shit, I’m sick of his mouth” I said angrily, holding back the tears of anger.  “What did he say?”  “He was just making fun of me not being able to afford the damn shoes that everyone else on the team has.”  The coach stood there for a moment, probably because he didn’t know what to say to the situation.  “I will have a talk with him, but don’t let something so minor get to you.  It’s ok that you can’t afford the shoes, it doesn’t take away from how you play…and you’re one of the best damn point guards that have played for me—even without the shoes.”  I knew he was trying to joke with me, and after noticing the smirk on his face, my thought was confirmed.  I tried to resist the urge to smile, but coach had a way of making everything bad situation right.  “Take a deep breath and get out on the court.  Since you guys wanna argue and fight, I guess 20 suicides weren’t enough.”

As he walked out of the room I kicked the locker again, not because I was mad about the previous incident, but that we had to run more suicides.  I went back out to the gym floor and everyone began to stare at me.  I noticed Taylor walking over to me—his head staring downwards.  I figured he had a conversation with coach and he was coming over to apologize.  “Sorry man, I know we joke around a lot, but I realized I took it too far—my bad.”  I was surprised that Taylor had come to me because he hated apologizing for things.  “It’s cool” I said, as I reached for his hand that was outstretched.  We both wore a smile, and again, we were friends.  “Everybody get on the line—15 suicides—go!”

When I arrived home after practice, I immediately walked upstairs and crashed onto my bed.  I was so tired, that even the hunger pains which were eating at me couldn’t stop me from drifting away.

I Won’t Cry

I had awakened, still in my basketball uniform that was still damp from the sweat that had accumulated the night before.  It was a Saturday morning and the sun was shining through the window.  I had gotten up, and began to change out of my clothes, into some regular shorts and a tee-shirt.  I would usually here the sounds of televisions on, Josh watching power rangers and Anthony watching ESPN, trying to catch up on the Florida Gators; since my mother was working now, she would be out of the house by the time we woke up.  I descended the stair with only one thing on my mind…Toaster Strudels. The first time my mother had begun to buy these “strudels of goodness” was when she had gotten an increase in her welfare checks—we were never hungering.

I had reached the bottom of the stairs and there I saw a woman sitting on the couch.  I quickly realized that it was my mom.  There she sat, a phone in her hand and tiny paper tissues scattered about her side.  “Mom,” I asked, “What’s wrong?”  Still she sat there, not wanting to make eye contact with me.  “Come here baby.”  I slowly sat down beside her as she embraced me.

I had no idea why she was crying and why she was not at work.  “What’s wrong,” I asked my mother again, trying to get to the bottom of this mystery.  Clearing her throat of the phlegm that had built up from her crying she uttered out the problem; “Grandma’s dead.”  I drew back a little from her when I heard what she had said.  “Did she just say grandma died,” I thought to myself.  Starting to believe what I had heard I asked my mother what happened.  “A year ago, the doctors found cancer in grandma,” She began to choke up.  “They wanted to put her on some medication, but your gram didn’t want to.  She said she has survived for this long without the medicine, why does she need it now.  Your gram—so damn stubborn!”  She began to cry and this time there was no stopping.

The words that were said before began to marinate in my mind.  “Why am I not crying” I thought to myself, “This is the time to cry…my grand- mom just died!”  No matter how much I scolded myself internally, I could not find any emotion that would turn on the water works.  I thought more and more about my demeanor at the present moment and it came to me.  When I was younger, I told myself that I didn’t have an extended family that really cared about me and my family, so why should I worry about them.  Over that time I had hardened my heart towards my aunts and uncles—and my grand-mom.  Right when I came up with the explanation for not being sad at this moment, I began to cry.  I thought to myself of how I could be so selfish, so heartless towards someone whom I had loved before.  Over the years, experiencing what I had experienced, I began to forget about the world and only focus my concerns on myself and my brothers; Everyone In the world was against us, so to combat this problem, I decided that I would hate them—all of them.

My focus shifted back to my mother whom had begun to get off the couch.  “Are you gonna be okay mom,” I whispered.  “Don’t worry baby, imma be okay”…she was never the same after that.

The Dancing Toe and the Soda Can

A few weeks after my grand-mom had passed, my mother began to act differently.  She no longer went to work on Saturday mornings, or any other morning during the week for that matter.   She had begun to get angry about the smallest things such as forgetting to put the toilette seat down or running water over used dishes in the sink.

One night, I lay in my bed tossing and turning—I just couldn’t fall asleep.  I had gotten out of bed so that I could go to the bathroom; my bladder was about to burst, why I didn’t get up sooner…I had no idea.  I opened the door and saw as my mother jumped up against the wall on the opposite side of the entrance to my room.  She had stuck something behind her back and looked at me as if I had caught her doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing.  “What are you doing up this late,” she asked with a shaking voice.  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, looking into her eyes, a little scared because I could see a reflection of myself; her eyes were glassy and looked cold as ice.  She stood there for a few seconds without saying anything, almost catatonic.  Once she spoke again she asked me questions that seemed as though her brain was randomly picking out sentences from a hat.  “Are you hungry?”  “No mom, I want to go to the bathroom.”  “Okay baby, you don’t need anything do you?”  I started to become annoyed because she kept asking me the same questions over and over again and I really had to go to the bathroom.  I noticed as she talked, her lips would curl into her mouth almost as if she had no teeth.  I had never seen her act like this before and started to wonder if this was my mother.  She began to talk about what she was going to make for dinner the next night, most of it I didn’t catch because I became fixed on what her foot was doing.  She stood there and I her big toe began to move about, almost as if it were dancing with the other ones.  Occasionally it would slide across the toe next to it.

Problem Solved

“I can’t listen to this shit” I thought t myself as I anxiously glared at the clock sitting on the wall by the door.  I believed that schools only put clocks by the classroom door so that it can tease the kid, no wonder there are so many children left behind, their focus is on the door and clock instead of the teacher.  “Now who can tell me how to solve this problem?  No one?  How about you Sam?”

Mrs. Anderson was in her mid 40s and very good looking for her age.  She had been teaching at the school for 15 years and I had actually known her since I had been in elementary school; Mrs. Anderson was my mother’s sponsor when she had first gotten of a drug treatment facility.  She was married once before and had a son.  Unfortunately, one winter night when her family had began to make their way home from a Christmas party hosted by a friend of the family, they had gotten hit by a truck head on when it slipped on black ice; After spending 3 weeks in coma, Mrs. Anderson had awaken, only to hear that her husband and son didn’t make it.

Mrs. Anderson, or “mom Andy”, which I called her was always there for me.  She only lived about 2 miles from my house so I would make my way there on the weekends to visit her.  She always made me food (she made the best sugar cookies which were my favorite) and about every other week she would take my younger brother and I to the movies.  She knew that my mother was unable to do things like that for us so she took it upon herself.  My mother and her were so close—basically like sisters.  Mrs. Anderson knew my mother inside and out and was there to always offer her help when she found herself struggling.  The only flaw to knowing Mrs. Anderson was that she was a teacher at my school and knew everything that I did.

“I have no idea,” I said—I knew that she could tell I was lying due to her persistence In trying to get me to solve the problem.  “I know you know it—come to the board and work it out so that everyone can see it.”  Blowing out a breath that signaled to my friends sitting beside me that I was annoyed, I made my way to the front of the room.  I reached out for the blue marker (It was my favorite color and the red ones always were dried out) and took the cap off.  Looking at the board, I analyzed the problem.  I could hear my classmates breathing behind me, waiting to see if I would get the problem right.  I never liked to show that I was smart; growing up, we were never taught to really get as much as we could out of education, and my friends and I always looked down upon “book-worms” and other people who knew it all.  I was a student that did enough just to get by, I had more important things to worry about like fighting and coming up with jokes in the classroom.  I looked at the problem one last time and began to solve it.  When I had completed the problem, which was pretty difficult I signed my name next to it; “Everybody, take a picture of this because when I become famous you can look back and say this was the time when Sam solved one of the hardest problems,” I shouted, with a smirk on my face—everyone laughed.  Turning to Mrs. Anderson I saw a sign of disapproval.  “Okay everyone, settle down.  Good job Sam, you can take your seat now.”  I walked back to my seat and put my head down on the table.  “As you all can see, Sam used what we learned a strategy we learned 2 days ago that helps us factor out the problem more easily.”

The class bell had rang and it was time for lunch.  “Hold up Sam!  I want to talk with you for a moment.”  I knew that she was going to give me grief about my joking around in class and with that I knew my mother would hear about this and I would be in trouble.  I sat in the desk in the front and waited for her to come back into the room.  “What is going on with your mother,” she asked sternly.  “I’m don’t know what you mean,” I responded, perplexed that we were talking about my mother in school.  “She has been calling off of work and she has missed the last 3 meetings.  Whenever I try and talk with her she either doesn’t answer the phone or she makes up an excuse as to why she is acting the way she is.  I need to know, are you and you brothers okay?”  I sat there and though about the next words that came out of my mouth.  In my home, we never talked about personal things to people on the outside, even though Mrs. Anderson was close to us, there were still things I was uncomfortable talking to her about, and one of them was my mother’s drug problems.  “I can’t… ugh, well she started using drugs again.”  When I said that it felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders, but I knew she would want more.  I saw as her head lowered and she fell back into her seat.  “I knew it” she said.  “What is going on, why did she start up again?”  “well, my grandmother died a few months ago and she has been having trouble deal with that I guess.”  I really didn’t know the real reason why my mother started using drugs again, so I just figured this was the reason.  We both sat there in silence for a while, I could hear the younger kids outside on the playground—I was hungry.  “Are you and your brothers okay?”  “I guess so.  It is hard because she is never there anymore, and when she is, she just sits in her room, drinking her beer and watching TV.”  I began to cry—I didn’t know why.  Mrs. Anderson quickly got up from her seat and came over and put her arm around me, telling me everything would be okay.  “I can’t stand it anymore,” tears still streaming down my face, “she was better, but now its just hell again—I don’t want to be there anymore.”  “Oh baby, don’t say that.  Your mother is just going through some things right now and you need to be strong and help her out.”  “How am I supposed to do that, I’m still a kid, it’s not my job!”  Mrs. Anderson continued to console me; we didn’t say a word after that.  She led me down to the cafeteria and gave me a hug.  Wiping away my tears I entered the lunchroom and found the table with my friends.

From that conversation with Mrs. Anderson onward, I confided with her in everything.

Start Anew

I awaken from this slumber, where darkness blinds my eyes to the world, where my unconscious minds wanders free.  A great parade outside, a war, a million bombs ring out simultaneously, shaking the foundations of where I am supposed to feel safe, where I trust that as I lose contact with the, this place that I lay my head shall keep me cast, my hell safe until my mind and body reunite, into one.

It had been a long night; I lay tossing and turning, for this storm raged for hours.  It was only a few hours ago where I laid my head upon this pillow—the pillow still damp from the tears.  “Why am I hear,” I thought to myself, “Why do I have to keep dealing with this shit, I’m still a young kid, why do I feel so much pain—why do I know so much pain when I have not even lived yet?”  These questions polluted my mind, and with the commotion happening at my window pain, sleep seemed like a distant friend.  Lying tormented by my thoughts I decided to make my way to the bathroom.  Not knowing why, I grabbed a pen and notebook; I entered the bathroom and closed the door behind me.  The pale light created an ambience that seemed foreign to me.  I stepped inside the tub and spread myself out—opening to a fresh page I began to write,

My fears, my desires have been encased in a box with no key hole. My hopes, my dreams have been smashed by the tides of this changing world. My speech, my identity have been influenced by the changing seasons and I once more am laid upon a canvas for the whole world to see. As I type this a heavy heart fills my chest cavity and tears begin to accumulate in the windows of my soul, my body feels numb and my mind races faster than the speed of light. I sit here wondering what have I accomplished? What is the purpose of life? Sure it is a beautiful place some of the times, but to the trained eye it is a world that we do not wish to see. Turmoil and hurt fill the streets and yet some walk by, without notice; how I wish I saw the world with rosy glasses, but I do not and it is my burden. I am tired and at unrest, everything that I have accomplished, every friendship I thought I had formed, most of it is lay to waste and I’m sitting here still carrying it. It is too heavy and I am falling, my legs are giving out and my body is becoming numb. I want to be free, but I realize that this is a course that some must travel so I am forced to continue on this race. My hands are slowing so in that I will end with this: I am moving in slow motion and my soul cries to the heavens, I am on my knees…

I awaken to the sound of knocking at the door.  Lifting my body, the pen and paper, I reached to open the door.  She stood there looking me in the eyes, the cause of all this grief, the cause of the restless night that I battled with the demons in my life, the thoughts that persisted, causing mental images and thought that led to only one source of comfort, one source of release—eternal sleep, the sleep that would give me the peace that I sought after all the years of my life.

As I looked at her, I realized what I had to do—kill myself.  I knew that this world was no longer able to give me anything.  It had beat me up, and left me here broken.  I realized that I had been carrying something that could not be carried; I realized that in actuality, I was the source of my pain.  I have taken on this burden of looking after my mother far too long when it wasn’t my job to do so.  “Mom—I’m leaving—“The words lingered in-between our two bodies.  Without saying a word, she turned around.  Heading back to her room she turned to look at me.  I was a new person.  At that point I decided that I must live my life, and no one else’s

This is where I’m meant to be

I had knocked at the door as it open, it revealed a beautiful lady with a smile on her face.  “Welcome home” she said joyfully as she wrapped me in her arms.  I did not want to let her go.  I knew that this was right.  I had endured so much in my life and I thought to myself that I would have to hurt no more.  As she picked up my bags to take them into the house, I turned and looked back.  The life that I knew before was off that porch and realized that when I stepped off of it again to go to school, as a senior, my life would be anew.  I thought about my mother and how what she must be thinking about.  She had brought me into this world and she always said she could take me out—well she was wrong, I took myself out.  I released myself from the hurt that was present in my life, especially with the help of a special person, and I set my sights on creating something better.  I had thought about my eldest brother, he was in the military, carrying his country on his shoulders; I then thought about my youngest brother.  I would see him every day in school, would we still treat each other the same way, I thought to myself.  “Will he reject me because I left him, to bear to the life that I could not hold anymore” I thought to myself.  I realized that our love could never be broken.  He could have left, but he chose to stay.  No matter how bad he wanted to leave he knew that our mother would not survive alone.  “Sam, can you help me with these cookies” mom Andy asked, I smiled, turned around and walked into the door, shutting the door to my old life.

The End