Gay at heart

*This post is a continuation from the last post.

It wasn’t perfect and out lives went on and we adjusted to the fact that two were missing. But, the world stopped, when in June 2005 my brother David delivered some shocking news that positively slapped the wind out of my parents.

He was gay.

My parents, when he “came out” in their hush tones were exacerbated. My uncle made cruel jokes that I’m sure hurt my brother. David was no longer a man because he liked men…and the jokes continued that whole summer. My aunt with her whole heart believed that homosexuality was a choice. She believed that with enough prayer, he would be “cured” of his gayness.

That problem, due to their difference in opinions, would be the precursor to the beginning of a tumultuous relationship.

And it is ironic because the signs were evident.

But my parents opted for denial and so that summer when he came out all was shocked but me. I knew because his behavior changed, and he started to hang out with more gay friends. A popular saying is “birds of a feather flock together” and he was flocking to a group that accepted him. 

Something his family couldn’t do because we grew up believing that black men were the head of a heterosexual household. And to be gay and black was THE ultimate “crime.” A crime that David would have to pay the price for because he wanted to be happy rather than unhappy, but his happiness would cause him to be ridiculed and isolated.

The incessant jokes and Bible bashing got to the point that David packed his bag and left. He got a one-way ticket to New York.

He was angry and he felt it better to leave than live in a house that didn’t accept his behavior. And I sat there stunned because another wish was deferred.

I couldn’t fathom how he would make it because he didn’t have a job when he left. And New York was the city of partying, I couldn’t imagine him staying on track and finishing his goals like he promised he would. 

And he didn’t. The New York life captivated and engulfed him. He was free and gay! What more could he ask for...right? It would be years until the lies ended and the truth came out…he was struggling to make ends meet.  The happiness was a façade and deep within he was hurting.
                                                                                                           To be continued…              

A mindful heart

*This is a continuation from the last blog.

But I wanted to comment that the mind is a wonderful tool when it comes to remembering one's childhood. I talk to my aunt all the time about our childhood to fill in the blanks where my memory fails me. Some things happened that affected me directly, and I would never put that in a blog.  Other things happened, and I need her there to help me fill in the blanks. But all in all, from a different perspective the story could and would be different.

This is my perspective.

My aunt and uncle tried their best in the beginning to fulfill my mother’s wish, but several behavioral problems started to emerge in all of us. 

My brother David got into a lot of fights because he was picked on and taunted. My sister Jalessa tortured us on a daily basis—out of no fault of her own. Quendale, my little brother was hitting his head against walls and was becoming extremely destructive. Things that my mother did during her pregnancy precipitated their wild and often tumultuous behavior. And I was hyper, bouncing off of everything and insanely nosey; a precursor to what would one day be a career. 

And so, with these behavioral issues we were recommended counselors. These counselors were supposed to be the bridge between our past and our future. In my opinion, they were helping us cope with our past so that we could and would have a better future.

The counselor came in handy, until she recommended that I be put on medicine to help “calm me down.” Auntie was livid. She observed what the medication was doing to my brother Quendale, and she opted against it. 

We never went back after that, and I learned to cope with my hyper behavior by being— me and growing out of it. She felt that medication wouldn’t solve anything, but slow me down mentally. 

A wish deferred

My bother learned that his frustration and anger was misguided and that people were going to joke about how poor we were regardless if he fought or not.

For Jalessa and Quendale, their behavior became progressively worse and it started to affect the whole house. 

Jalessa had to be watched and constantly monitored because you never knew when her mood could and would change. She was like a storm that blew and nobody was expecting it because there were no warning signs. 

On several occasions, she would pick fights, be indignant and malicious. So much so that auntie was losing her sense of peace, and she decided with a lot of prayer that it was best that Jalessa be put back into foster care.  Her reason she said was because everyone was walking on pins-and-needles, and she figured that was no way to live—in constant fear.  

Quendale made it out here to Ohio with us. Like Jalessa, his behavior was becoming increasingly unpredictable. He started stealing and cutting himself.  He also developed an uncanny fascination for lighters and fires. To the point that the family would be watching a movie and just smell the smoke in the air, and my aunt response was he had to go because she couldn’t deal with his unpredictable behavior. For fear that he would one day burn down the house.

And so, what started out as six children was now deducted by two and life went on in Beavercreek, Ohio for the rest of the family. 

 Jalessa was adopted and her new adoptive parent was determined to help her out at all cost. The behavior hadn’t changed, but someone was there to help her out. Quendale was adopted and from the files and from when he contacted us his behavior was about the same.  

It wasn’t perfect, but our lives went on and we adjusted to the fact that two were missing. But, the world stopped, when in June 2005 my brother David delivered some shocking news that positively slapped the wind out of my parents.

                                                                                                          To be continued...

The beginning of an educated heart

*Here is the continuation from the last post.  

 

We had caseworkers because the situation in my home was unusual. The caseworkers would come on a weekly basis. As we settled into the new living situation, they began to come on a monthly to yearly basis. The caseworker’s job was to ensure that we weren’t getting abused or neglected.

It wasn’t easy because we were uncivilized children trying to live in a civilized world. Any caseworker could see that my aunt and uncle were doing the best that they could, but they had to hear it directly from the horse’s mouth. 

Like a conveyor belt, the caseworkers were in and out of our lives, each week a different person, a man a woman—but never the same person as before and a new set of files. 

But despite neglect and abuse, the caseworker’s main priority was to make sure that we were enrolled in school. For some reason, my mother hadn’t felt it necessary to keep us in school. My brother David was in school but because my mother moved frequently, he did poorly and his attendance was poor too. As for my sister and me, school was the last thing on my mother’s mind.

But auntie and uncle immediately put us in school because the caseworkers threatened to take us all away if she didn't enroll us for the new school year. 

School 

And so they immediately put us in school. The school was P.S. 144. At the time, it was a block away from where we lived in New York. 

The first day, I had my black composition notebook and number two pencils, and I thought I was all that and two bags of chips. The day had come when I would be getting an education and learning, which was an eye opener for me because things that I was supposed to know I didn’t, but auntie spent her nights teaching us how to do our ABC’s and count our numbers. In rotation and because we were so close in age, all six of us would sit at the table as she helped us with the homework. 

But the uncivilized six required more of her attention.

The fondest-memory and the worst-memory was this homework assignment that required me to count from one to 1000, but I had to write the numbers out. 

Crying, snot dripping from my nose and defiant, I explained to my aunt that I couldn’t count that high and that it was too hard. Smudges marked the page and the pages were tearing due to the incessant erasing. 

It was unfair, and I hated that assignment.

And so 501 appeared, and I got  stuck. And she would politely tell me that all the numbers repeat. At the time, I couldn’t get it, and I didn’t understand. But, I can hear her say, “If you can count to 10 then you should know what comes next.” And so I would peek at the pages before and figure out the next series was 502. 

            Tired, angry and hurt, I hated every fiber of the assignment. I kept nodding off during the assignment, but auntie sat there with me until I counted to 1,000, and when I was completed with the assignment…she made me rewrite it so that it would be nice and neat for the teacher. "Your homework should look presentable," she said.

I wanted to explode! I said, “Buuuttt I can do it tomorrow,” she said, “No you will do it NOW.” And so I did, because it was too early in the morning to complain and bicker any more. I was tired and the sun was starting to shine through the curtains. 

To be continued…

When the heart looks back

I wrote this blog because I got the chance to speak to Jeannette Walls, the author of the Glass Castle. During that interview, one thing stuck out to me the most, she said, “Everybody has a story and sometimes it takes things to happen in your life to finally let it out.” 

And so it is time to let it out. 

I was six when my mother lost her struggle with cancer.* I can remember that day as if it was yesterday. My mother, who was at the hospital at that time, called my aunt and uncle’s house and asked to speak with my sister Jaleessa and my brother David. My aunt pleaded for her to let us come see her, but her condition at that point was critical and her body was starting to deteriorate. She hadn’t wanted us to come see her in such a manner. Her idea of a compromise, I guess, was to place a phone call. 

A couple of days later, the hospital called and said she had passed away. And the day she made that phone call she hadn’t asked to speak to me or wondered how I was doing.

 

Six months after she died, I cried. 

My mother wasn’t a saint. But the best memory I have of her and the proudest I have ever been of her was when on her death bed, she asked my aunt and uncle to adopt us—all six of us. Looking back, I was happy for my mother because my mother died knowing that her children would be well-taken care of.

After the adoption 

My aunt and uncle got the privilege to raise, six ill-mannered, ungrateful and often wild children. Children who at the age of 6, didn’t know how to read, write or tie their shoes and  children who ate like at any point dinner would be taken from them or disappear because in the past there wasn’t any food to eat. 

Anger, aggression and hatred filled our hearts because in the past, no onewas there to teach us how to love. And so my aunt got all of the shouting and the “I hate you!” and you’re “not my mommy,” all because she was trying to turn her new children into something the world would call civilized.

To be continued…

*Since I promised the readers I would be honest, my mother didn’t really die from cancer. But if asked, no explanation will be given.

A happy heart

*This is a branch off of the last post, and how I was able to make my friend a priority.

And so I sucked it up and ended the six month silence that threatened to end our friendship.  Believe me it wasn’t easy, and when it comes to feeling unwanted I become really stubborn and often shrug my shoulders in response to the silence and betrayal I have felt from my friends.

But I did realize that it wasn’t their fault, I was at fault for causing them pain as well. 

I made plans to hang out with my best friend Veronica. Nothing extravagant, I came over to her house and ate dinner with her family. For once, I was able to recognize the joy that I always felt when I am in her presence.

What did we do?

Nothing! Well, her niece Naya kidnapped me and wanted me to watch Far Far Away Idol. It was hilarious! The cast of Shrek 2 made their own version of American Idol, in which we at home have the opportunity to pick the winner. My favorite was Puss Boots, the cat. He had cool moves and a great singing voice.

Then Naya demanded that I choose another winner and we did that for about ten minutes. I laughed and laughed. I did more laughing than I did any other time at their house. The most important thing was I enjoyed myself and made some “we” time.

Veronica was starting to feel a little neglected but by that time, I was sitting on the couch watching MegaMInd—an animated movie with an ‘eeeevvvviiillll’ mastermind. I don’t know what it is about super villains but their maniacal laughs (muaaahhhaaa) cracks me up! And so, I sat there with Veronica’s niece and put all my worries aside. I was able to laugh at MegaMInd for his craziness and his plot to take over ‘Metrocity.’

The one thing that made our night incredible was the fact that we had “we” time. It is a rarity, and we cherished the time and talked about the men in our lives. The night ended with us weary and ready for bed. But I had a happy heart knowing for the moment our relationship was going to withstand.

Good night!