Chapter 1.2: Found In Pain

My parents were teenagers when I was conceived. They were kids, just kids . . . with no idea of where they were going, or how they were going to get there. Their dreams were minimal because their eyes were blinded by a cataract by the stereotypes and labels that hung about their heads. Days run and run with no ending line in sight. So how were they to know, how am I to know . . . where it is people are going—where it is I am going. What the whole purpose is—skewed and deflected . . . This life, this time that we have here on this earth is fading . . . so quickly . . . and the consequences once decisions made lay so heavily burdening those sometimes to where those can’t stand. So by this cataract they could not see, and many of the things they could not see, could not comprehend, was that of the benefit of waiting to be together. Why not? When death was all around you and heartache was a natural common companion; when failure showed its face every turn of the head? So I, was conceived, and nine months later born.

My mother had been kicked out of her home when her stomach began to show signs that I was, and was living with my father in his home at the end of her tenth grade year. While his life was becoming torn by the distance being created with his mother and father, a new life was blossoming for him. He had me on the way and my mother was by him destined to be all his. My mother was 16 and he was 18, heading to play basketball at the University of Kansas the next fall. My mother was planning on going there too; because of her academic brilliance that enabled her to leave a year earlier than her other peers. And indeed they did go, and they lived life abundantly those four years together. For they were inseparable those years; deeply in love with each other. Mother and Father both finished college, obtaining their degrees and due to my father’s talent in basketball, he would play in the NBA the following year.

My Grandmother on my mother’s side would not take care of me. She stated to my mother strictly that I was “not her responsibility”, and that she had me and would therefore “take care” of me. My mother could not take care of me, because that would jeopardize her ability to receive an education. Unfortunately, and likewise, my Grandmother and Grandfather on my father’s side echoed the same thing as my mother’s mother that they would not take care of me. Plus, at the time they had young children of their own.

Consequently they put me in the orphanage as a holding place until they could come and get me. Rarely did I see them, and because of my young age I don’t even remember them, the times when they did come. My mother’s face was a blur to me for a long time and then as I became older it disappeared altogether. I stayed in the orphanage for four years, alone, and because of my age mostly in isolation. I could not speak because of my age, could not comprehend much because of my age. I was totally alone in this big, scary world—painful world.

You would think that, since college is four years, for my parents to return to me when I turned four years old. But instead it came to be that my father did not remain in the NBA long, because he was caught with a ton of drugs in his car and was put in jail for five years. He did not show his face . . . Neither did my mother. For she went on to work somewhere else . . . completely forgetting about me. Possibly she thought I could remain in the orphanage for a couple more months, maybe years . . .

I turn over onto my stomach and sigh deeply, looking at the ground as if in a trance . . . I wonder about my mother. I wonder about where she is and why she won’t ever tell me. I hate being a child and not knowing things. I hate how . . . she sends the letters and they come but she never comes. As if she doesn’t exist, because even though she kisses the paper at the end—her signature of sorts, it doesn’t complete me in the way that I thought it did or thought it would. And though I hold her picture in my pocket it’s like looking at the picture of an eagle in those books that I get from the library at school; where I run my fingers over it and try and grasp everything I can but I get nothing. Because wonder and awe is gone and it’s like progression and knowledge become stagnant . . . I need to be able to touch . . . feel.

I roll my sleeves up as slowly as I can. Scared to look at my wrists but I have to. It’s like getting a shot. And slowly I pull up my left sleeve, and while holding my breath, I look at my wrist, and immediately no tears fall . . . immediately no tears fall. Because feelings are no longer feelings—no longer existent in this world. Gone and adrift.

Small cuts on my wrists like paper cuts, with a few larger cuts that sting horribly still, worse than when they were created. And my wrist still swells, now turning from bright red to a faint purplish and blackish glow. I try to bend it but it screams out in pain and so I refrain, and spin on my back bringing the sleeve back over my wrist, staring out at the sky.

I like the sunset and the sunrise. But I feel it’s only because it’s the only thing that keeps me company.

I bring Big Bird to my chest and hold onto him closely and try and rock myself back to sleep for a few more minutes before mom comes in, in whatever form she might come in. And I cry for the first time in a long time. I suppose not immediately, but eventually.

“D.J.?” I look to my right wearily and see my mother. And praise something, I see my mother.

“Mommy . . .” She smiles sweetly at me and runs her hands through my hair staring at me as though she hasn’t seen me in so long. And sometimes, I believe she has.

“Hey baby . . . you going to school today?” I breathe in deeply and look across the room. I’m tired of playing . . . “Baby what’s wrong?” And this is the worst of it. I hate it when she comes back and she finds out. And she cries inside herself. Because she never cries in front of me and sometimes . . . sometimes I just want her to cry in front of me and let me know that she feels too. Or at least something in her feels and is real and living—righteous.

She frowns at me ever more as I begin to cry. Cry and cry, my chest heaving terribly. For she’s been gone for two whole weeks . . . two whole weeks without relief that I thought he had completely stolen her away and she would never come back.

“Baby what happened?” She whispers, barely audible. I shake my head no, and turn away from her. Crying from the depths of my soul so hard that I begin to wail and wail. I’d never do it if he was here, but she’s here. Or so I think. Or so I pray. And louder and louder my cries become because it’s only seldom that I cry. And with so much pain, I, I have to get it out somewhere . . . somewhere.

She touches my back and pulls me toward her, but I don’t budge. I don’t want her to look at me. I want her to know that I can take care of myself—that I can keep our secret a secret. I can Mommy, I promise. I will. I will. I will . . . I won’t let them take you away.

“Baby . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry.” I turn around and face her, my eyes so weary. And my heart so weary. Everything so tired and hurt, drained . . . I reach up and touch her face and hold her in my hands and shake my head slowly.

I wipe away her tears and try and breathe . . . breathe. For I know she hurts . . . I know she hurts.

“I’m so sorry baby . . .” I hear her whisper in life. But I’m dead. The dead hear nothing. The dead hear everything.

I close my eyes slowly and breathe—breathe. She’s back. She’s back. Even if for a little while . . .

This orphanage that I was detained to was full of corruption. The adults, who were supposed to protect the children

, were instead trafficking kids as sex slaves; sending children off with pimps. Mostly girls, but a few boys slipped through as well. I will always remember though, this boy Marcus. He was twelve to my four and was fairly tall for his age. In fact, that’s why nobody messed with him. He usually kept to himself—always reading things, and watching the news on television. News like CNN; sophisticated shows that spoke about the world and in a way educated him about more than his small world, but a grander world that existed beyond what he could see . . . Marcus had a plan like I’ve never seen. He was determined to leave where he was. He was determined that he was gonna be somebody.

I turn around from the entrance to the school and look back at her in the car staring back at me. And I wave at her goodbye and smile. Not because I necessarily wanted to, but because I know she needed it. She said she had a big case today. She was putting this man away for rape of a young girl . . . I found it terribly ironic.

She waved back at me and smiled with relief. And that made me better. I turned to my brother Michael and walked through the door that he held for me. For he wasn’t being mean today. For he knew I had, had one of those mornings where tears could just not go away. He and Charley and Deshon always thought it was because of all the time I had been on the streets. See one day I walked in on this girl being raped. I was so young I didn’t even know what was going on but the way those people looked at me it confused my innocence. I turned and I ran and I ran until I couldn’t anymore. Fell into an empty parking lot and turned on my back and looked up at the ever blue sky beside skyscrapers and buildings. I remember sitting up and looking around myself and seeing people walking around all around me and hearing cars, and whistles, and phones, and people talking, and music—and it was like ecstasy . . . ecstasy.

“You gonna be alright lil man?” I looked up at Michael and nodded my head.

“Yea . . .” Michael nodded, all of sudden happy again.

“Alright! If anyone mess with you, call me and I’ll whoop their ass.” I smiled weakly at Michael and walked toward my 3rd grade hall.

“Alright Michael.” He didn’t even hear me I don’t think. He just skipped down toward his 6th grade hall screaming at the top of his lungs “My brother bout to whoop some A today!” I figure he’s gonna get in trouble today and momma gonna have to come up here but that’s fine by me. Usually when that happens she takes us both out of school and we go somewhere fun . . .

He always kept this black Nike bag that contained his most prized possessions, and many of his writings. I remember he used to write late at night under a faint flashlight that he kept to himself. He never wrote any other time than late at night. I would watch him nights that I couldn’t sleep. Watch how he murmured things to himself, always constantly talking to himself. But during the day or any other time he never said a word. He just wore this hard, rock solid, mean mug that he gave to everybody. Which I believe added to why no one ever talked to him . . . messed with him.

He also carried this Frederick Douglass book with him in his bag and read it all the time. The book was starting to become worn by the time he decided to leave, but he cherished it and treated it with more respect than I’d ever seen man give himself. Another interesting thing was that he wore the same clothes every day. He was a very simple guy and needed very little. He had a humble spirit and needed not the flashiest things that other kids mesmerized themselves over. Instead he mesmerized himself with education. He said that if you had education you could go anywhere. Any clothes, shoes, anything he laid his hands on he sold it. I remember him saying that “stuff doesn’t make you powerful, doesn’t take you anywhere, money does; plus it’s light.”

“Good morning D.J.”

“Good morning Mrs. Jefferson.” I place my bag down on the table and sit down with a soft thud. Out the corner of my eye I see the other kids are in the center of the room playing with toys and other things. But . . . I’m not a kid. Plus, my mother is back . . . back.

I wonder sometimes where she goes when she leaves like that. Sometimes I get mad. But I can’t really get mad at her. I know it’s not her fault. But it still hurts . . . still hurts.

I sat down at the end of the table near the window, for it seems in this classroom that the window is my only companion at times; or more so a release from the chaotic world of crayons, colors, shapes, and animals that incessantly confuse me. I suppose it’s the consequence of living for too long in the real world . . . the world, for childhood makes no sense to me, but it’s the thing that I want the most—dream of the most besides my mother . . . call it love.

I open up my drawing book and look at the pictures that I drew yesterday, or the day before—but on someday, and I run my finger over the lines, figuring times. I stare at the birds and I begin to remember actually staring at them. A synced time, memory, but then it blurs to another one as I turn the page and see another. And the time in my head that I feel I remember blurs with another and my joy of being able to differentiate different times crushes . . . and I hurt. Or at least in my mind I say I do, I should. But my body feels nothing. Like it’s no big deal kid. Who cares if it was this time, or another time.

But it does matter. Everything matters.

“Hi D.J.” I look up and stare at the girl confused. Forever confused . . .

Marcus knew very well of the corruption in the orphanage and many of us looked to him to be the leader, the savior. We thought that in some kind of miraculous way Marcus would deliver us like Moses delivered his people. But he didn’t . . . one day he just up and left. And never came back.

I noticed Marcus and seated myself underneath him. He didn’t like me very much, because he saw me as a nuisance—I saw him as a brother. I remember tugging on him asking him to read me things and play with me. He would sometimes shoot me a glare, or kick me. Many times he pushed me away and I would tumble backwards due to my feeble state. But I was persistent and remained his shadow, and in turn he grew to having me around him. At first he wouldn’t speak to me as he wouldn’t with others. But slowly he began to speak to me, and teach me things; like learning to read, and math. These things to me then were only games and it was cool to have a brother to play with me and for once show me attention.

“Hi . . .” She smiles at me genuinely and sits down at the table straight across from me and looks down at my drawing book with a weird curiosity.

“See, you’re a magnificent drawer now. And the first time I met you, you said you couldn’t even color.” I smile weakly and look down at the book full of my drawings of mostly birds, but cars as well, and landscapes, and buildings, but mostly paintings of pains—pain-tings . . .

“I couldn’t.” She reaches out and touches my hand and inside I shudder, but then I remember its Kelsey. Just Kelsey . . . and she won’t hurt me.

Marcus on many accounts never let anyone harm me. No one ever picked on me, or stole my food, money, clothes, etc. Because Marcus was always watching me. His eyes, his peripheral vision never left me. He was always protecting me and gave me a bit of a childhood free of worry. Many nights Marcus would allow me to sleep with him, wrapping his large arms around me like a huge lock that would never allow me to leave. It comes to my mind now that Marcus was doing that because at the time, the traffickers were coming in pretty hard looking for little boys and girls that they could take and conform into their foul practices . . . Again Marcus was protecting me.

The day Marcus left he spoke to me in private in the dorms. He sat on the bed and I stood facing him. I was pretty hyper, because I was indulged in the freedom of childhood, my last wisps of it . . . He yelled, no barked at me . . . He told me that I needed to grow up, that I needed to become alert of my surroundings, to read people’s expressions, their intentions, and that I needed to learn to steal money. But most importantly to remember all he had told me, and to leave the orphanage as soon as possible. He shook me several times, wanting me to get it and understand. And I did fairly. I understood all his words, but I was still of the innocent phase; and wished to remain—him to remain. He hugged me for what felt like an eternity and then stood, collected his stuff and left out the front doors.

“Are you ok?”

I shrug my shoulders and look down continuously, fighting my urge for tears to flow down my face . . . I look up and over to the window and breathe in as deeply as I can and shake my head, biting down hard on my lip.

No. No I’m not ok.

That was the last time I ever saw Marcus. He had come and gone like night. And like many after him he disappeared from my life. Marcus was my big brother. I loved him—he was like all mine. He was everything at that age that I was searching for, yearning for. He was like a father to me . . . he was like superman.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I shake my head no and look back down at my paper.

“Good morning D.J.” I look up wearily and look at Mrs. Erickson walking in, in a gray wool dress like thing. A woman so in tune to fashion it seems her religion. Her hips are small, and her body is slender from the top to the bottom, curvier more so than my own mother.

“Good morning Mrs. Erickson . . .” I mutter between my lips, barely recognizable that she stops her rapid movement and looks at me firmly.

“We going to have a good day D.J.?” I stare at her for a long time, the light of the classroom blinding me to some degree. And somewhere in me I shiver at her. Almost the exact replication of my mother though she looks nothing like her. But age, maybe . . . age and gender . . .

I nod my head wearily and look down, away from her eyes.

“Yes Mrs. Erickson.”

That day in the empty parking lot I remember sitting up dazed and tried to make sense of where I was. All around me were tall buildings and roaring cars could be heard nearby, like lions roaring. I remember these, this, time very clearly, because I was alone and Marcus was gone. The streets were cold and scary. With the ominous buildings and the busy people rushing here and there.

I walked many days around and around, pointlessly. Scared I was, but too I was curious. This world was big, but yet the people were interesting. I remember loving to go into the stores like Wal-Mart and Target and watch people of all colors and hairstyles come in and out. I liked to listen to their sounds and analyze their movement. Acting out different people caused me so much joy and laughter and released my anxiety of the world. Some people were nice to me as well. Smiling and giving me suckers, or stickers. I started to not worry about “adults” or “big people”, because they were so nice to me. I loved the stores as well because I could try on things. Glasses, and clothes, and play in the kids section. I would stay there all day and at nights I would sleep and eat as much food as possible in the storage rooms. . . . For I thought in my innocence that I could never leave.

I look down at my hand as I feel Kelsey grip it harder as to bring me back to reality—back to life . . . seems I always fade. She tilts her head slightly to look up at my face—emotionless.

“I love you D.J. . . .” I just shake my head. Such mysterious words. “You’re my best friend . . .” I look up at her and she stares back at me with compassionate eyes. “It’s going to be ok.” She scoots closer to me, when nobody else in the room can see. And she whispers to me . . . “I love you.” . . . Those mysterious words.

It turned not to be this way because I began to hate the stores. Mothers would come in with their children, kissing them and hugging them. It made me begin to wonder where my mother was . . . Fathers would come in with their sons to buy bikes, and basketballs, baseball gloves, and video games. And then . . . they would leave . . . This scenario happened many times a day, especially in the evenings when kids were out of schools. And weekends were horrendous. That was when whole families came in, and shopped for countless items; stuffing their carts full of food and drink. . . . It wasn’t until this one man picked up his kid who was running full speed to him yelling, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”, did I leave the store once and for all.

I made residence in an alleyway behind this dumpster where I figured no one could see me. Again I was of innocence. I left my stuff there during the day when I would walk around searching for food. I always found food, but could never embrace it, because these people were not like those at the Wal-Mart or Targets. They were mean, and could care less about my frail state and hunger. It made me realize that the world was not happy and Barney. But that the world was truly cruel. Like Marcus had tried to get me to understand. But it was like I didn’t believe him. I mean I believed him and every word he said, it was just that I couldn’t, I guess, believe . . . understand . . . why?

“D.J. you should get out there and play sweetheart.” I look up at Mrs. Jefferson and dismally shake my head no.

“Yes D.J. you should go and play.” Mrs. Erickson says curtly to me, staring at me quizzically as to why I haven’t gotten in a confrontation with her, or as to why I haven’t hit somebody yet, or said something smart . . . misconceptions.

I shake my head no and lean back against the fence and look back down at my drawing book. Lost dreams can’t hurt me if I don’t dream them.

Because memories are bad enough . . .

Saying things like, “Look at this little nigger wit bread”, “He ain’t ate for days”, “Stupid kid where yo mammy at”, “Out here beggin”, “And nigga why you on my block, huh?” I remember being scared to death—shaking—young . . .

“I can share.”

Laughter.

One of them snatched the bread clear out my hands. I stood up reaching for it, but I was too small to even compete with them. I remember yelling “Stop, Stop!” But the dudes just kept laughing, tossing it around to each other. Fed up I kicked one of them in the shins. The boy stared down at me and then turned to his buddies and said, “I know this little nigga did not just kick me.” They all laughed and then that’s all I remembered. When I awoke my bread lay tarnished with crap all over it and the birds picking at it. At this I cried, I was young so what else could I do.

“Aye D.J. come on let’s play!” I look up at X. And then on to the other boys that surround him and stare back at me.

And I shake my head . . . I shake my head.

“Might make your life a bit easier kiddo . . .” I used to know a kid named Chris and this girl named Angel. They were like my world on those streets. I met Chris because he stole my money and Angel because she saved me. They were only teenagers, but they were my first parents. Chris got me in the hustle of gambling by cards and Angel protected me from seeing too much on the streets, but in the end I still seemed to see too much . . .

I remember Angel taking me up these stairs shortly after I had met her—being saved from this irate Asian man who in so many words threatened to kill me if he saw me again in his store. She took me to this building and we went up these stairs to the top floor. The building was vacant and old and seemed like it hadn’t been in use for years. The walk up the staircases was long, very long, and I found myself winded. But eventually we came to this door where Angel knocked loudly four times, and then softly another three. Then the door opened wide and this black boy stared out. He dressed like Marcus, in sagging clothes, and a chain around his neck.

“Where Chris wit the food yo!?” Angel pushed past him dragging me along inside. The room was lit by lamps and contained a couch, two tables, and a TV mounted on a box. All around there were mats with clothing and blankets. From what I could see there were five other people in here all around the television. They were of all different colors; kind of like Wal-Mart or Target.

“And who da hell is he?” The black guy asked pointing to me as he closed the door. Angel looked down on me and asked.

“Well, who are you?”

I shrugged and said, “D.J.”

“Really, is that your name?”

“That’s what my name was at the orphanage!” I chirped.

“Why this kid here!?” The black boy asked looking toward Angel who was busy preparing a mat.

“Because he needs a place to stay Isaiah!”

“He ain’t stayin here for free! He bout to work my hustle.” Angel turned to him from the mat and moved her bangs out of her eyes.

“Then let him work your hustle, but just allow him to stay here ok?” She went back to fixing the mat in the corner of the room. “And he had better not get hurt!”

“He ain’t gonna get hurt . . .”

“What are you drawing now?” I look up and see Kelsey standing over me looking down at my book in my left hand and my pen in my right. I’m a rebel . . . I never use pencil. As if I don’t ever want it to be washed away . . .

I shrug my shoulders and she sits down beside me and leans over me to view it. I stare at her. Her hair, and her face, down to her lips, and then back to her eyes . . . eyes amazed with me.

See she was never on hard times. She has never hurt. Never has she seen a person killed, murdered for their shoes or a hundred dollars or a couple of dollars. Never has she been left—deserted—unwanted. Never has she been marked or targeted for a pimps use. Never has she never cried because to do so shows weakness. And never has she ever been refused—looked over . . .

She has a kind heart. A beautiful smile. Round and gorgeous eyes—eager for the day, and restless for the night. She’s patient and gentle, loving, and things that just don’t make sense to me. Things that I have never seen. Her hair is brown and her skin is a dark caramel, smooth to the touch and the eye. She’s like life . . . like the Angel I found.

Angel introduced me to the remaining five people in the room. One was a black girl who was fourteen years old and she was the black guy’s girlfriend. Her name was Kiki and like Angel she was gorgeous to me. The other four people consisted of three boys and one girl. The girl was Hispanic and wore a lot of stuff around her eyes. I remember this clearly because she scared me. She wore the same clothes as Kiki, and her name was Latoya. (She was thirteen years old). One of the boys was like eleven and his name was Tre and he was black. He dressed similar to Isaiah and Marcus, and so did the other boy though he was white. His name was Cody. Angel told me her name was Kelsey, but she was ok with me calling her Angel.

“I like this one. It’s one of your best,” Kelsey said pointing at a picture of a boat at sea with the moon shining down. She looked at me and smiled sweetly. And I looked up at her and for the first time smiled back too.

Angel explained that they were like a family. That they depended on each other to survive. But she also said you had to pull your load. As far as paying for the family money, so that Chris could go and buy food. At first I was skeptical of all this. They weren’t adults but they weren’t kids either. They in a sense could take care of me. But at this I remembered Marcus’s words which were, “Always take care of yourself.”

“I like this one too.” I said looking down at it and running my finger across it. I felt Mrs. Erickson cut her eyes down at it and she gave some sort of look by the lips, as if a child from the hood can’t be anything more than a future casualty or tax cost to society.

And that’s why I hate her.

“When did you make it?” I look back at Kelsey and smile.

“My mother and her ex-husband I guess took me and my brothers on a boat three weekends ago.” I nod my head remembering the sun and the trees along the bay, and Michael beside me whooping and hollering. He’s always whooping and hollering . . . “That’s when David taught me how to fish.” I nod my head some more and look back down at the picture. “We had a picnic, and we all sat on the boat and ate it. My mother made all the food—everything from scratch. It was like we were a family . . .” I look at Kelsey and smile feeling relieved and alive almost. “I sat in my mother’s lap and drew this one,” I say looking back down at it.

“I miss that . . .”

It wasn’t long before Isaiah was teaching me how to make and sell crack. He was a drug dealer to a bigger drug dealer, earning a third of his make. He told me if I could sell enough or sufficiently handle his transactions that he’d make sure I was paid for. I denied this offer.

“What the hell is wrong wit you kid? You don’t tell me no. You lucky you stayin here. Stuffin yo face like a pig.” I stared at him blankly and waited for him to finish.

“I want you to pay me in cash of what I make for you.” Isaiah glared at me for a long time. I don’t think he expected me to be so smart. And it was annoying him.

“Fine,” he finally said and we shook on it.

Isaiah taught me everything about the game. He told me which block to be on, which blocks not to be on. Told me how to deal it to the “customer”, how to not look suspicious and be cool about it, and how to attract the “customers” as well. Anything I needed to know he taught me.

I remember my first night on the hustle. I was so scared. I was all alone in the middle of the night posted on the corner Isaiah told me to be on. All throughout the night I could hear loud voices and drunks would occasionally pass by in cars or on the sidewalks. Gangbangers would post up across the street and get high while hollering at girls. My body shivered most of that night. Not from the cold or wind, but out of sheer fear of everything. Even the slightest movement would send me into a frenzy, cause me to jump out of skin and drew tear stains on my face. In that exact moment I yearned for my father . . . To come and take me away . . . hold me and tell me that all was ok and that nothing would harm me. Just to have his arms encompassing me in this time of fear and anxiety was all that I wished for. Never had I wished for him ever more than what I felt at that moment in time that dripped slowly and ominously like water from a faucet in a vacant house.

I got four guys that night and made $200. I had never held that much money in my hands before, and as I started to walk to the building I grinned to myself. I could run away with this money. But I shook my head and continued in the direction of the building realizing in awe and a bit of fear that the streets had made me cold and evil. How could I do something like that? But then how could I not? But this was my mind, this was my mentality, this is what was in me. Evil and trickery. But if he was in my spot, thinking on it now, what would he have done? In any case, it made no sense to me because I had no “customers” but the ones he gave me. How would I make money? Money could free my hunger; free my cold—shivering skin . . . My mind was swimming.

“That sounds like fun. My daddy took me to Disney World this summer. It was so much fun. I think he’s going to take me again this summer. But to Disney Land. You should come with me.” I shook my head no at Kelsey. She was such a stupid little girl . . . But a beautiful, stupid little girl.

“Silly your daddy would never allow that. That’s just too much money. Why would he wanna take me anyway?” Kelsey frowned hard.

“I’ll make him!” I shook my head no and looked over at X playing on the hardtop with the other boys.

“You live in a fairytale land Kelsey. That’s not how the world works.” Kelsey shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ll make it work.” I turned and looked at her and I couldn’t help but to smile at her.

“I know you will.”

I was left with only $25 out of $200. I didn’t understand how I was up all night long, scared to death and I get back and they take all my money. I was not able to sleep with Angel that night on her mat either because Chris was sleeping with her. He was kissing her a lot this night more than usual. All on her neck I remember and grabbing her in places. She too, was kissing him. I watched for a long time, out of my curiosity as a young kid. I didn’t understand why they kissed, why they were grabbing each other, holding onto each other . . .

Latoya kissed and grabbed too. She was always with some man or another. Once I went into one of the rooms in the building and saw that Latoya was lying on the ground with this man on top of her. It reminded me of the girl at the orphanage and so I became enraged and went and started hitting the man, who was a business man, and looked to be like in his early forties.

He started yelling at me and then Latoya, asking, “Who the hell is this kid!!? Is this a joke?” He said he wasn’t paying Latoya anything. I didn’t understand “paying”. For what? But then he threw a twenty at her and stormed out in which she sat up and put her clothes on and then proceeded to yell at me.

“What the hell is your problem D.J.!? I lost a lot of money today cause of you!” I shrugged and murmured sheepishly.

“I thought you were being hurt.” Latoya looked at me with disgust and shook her head vehemently irritated.

“This is my hustle D.J. Just like you have yours, I have mine! And this is it!” I didn’t understand but I nodded my head.

“I’m sorry Latoya. I thought he was hurting you.” Latoya shook her head again and slumped to the ground and motioned me towards her. She sat me in her lap and hugged me.

“It’s ok D.J. I know you meant good by it. I hate doing this, but I have to you know? It’s how I’ma survive.” I hugged her back and said, “I understand.”

And for once, I actually did.

“We’re going to go together,” she said taking my hand. “One day we’re going to go.”

I looked at her and breathed in deeply.

“One day . . .”

Subscribe to get access

Read more of this content when you subscribe today.