The Way Things Used to Be, By Gregory

Photo by Markus Hartel

My childhood life travels across the boroughs, over the bridges and into Staten Island. I was born in 1990. I lived in West Brighton in Richmond County from birth to thirteen years old. In my environment, there were big grassy areas for football and other sports. Monkey bars, basketball courts, and a famous pool where everyone went. There were eight tall buildings surrounding all of this except the pool. The area I lived in used to be a wonderful place before I arrived. During the early 90’s the neighborhood took a drastic change. Marijuana wafting all along the project hallways. Thugs standing in the lobby, waiting for a girl to pass by so they can harass her. Pampers lying in the street. Guns under playground mats. People screaming and running from the sound of gunshots. Girls playing double-dutch, boys climbing the monkey bars, and playing basketball. We watched cars running past while the driver held the horn down in the middle of the afternoon and night.

My mother was always able to see things or hear things that we could not. She was a wonder to me and important to me because she showed me that there is more in this world than what meets the eye. She, Paulette, was a black woman who stood five feet, seven inches tall. She was, at the time, a thin and very agile person. Brown hair in box braids, lying on her shoulders. She never wore clothes that stood out or that were flashy. Paulette was a hard working woman. She was determined, persistent, consistent, dedicated and committed. She was so important to me because she was committed to raising us, determined to give us a better life. Dedicated to serving us; consistent with taking us to church and teaching us about God. Persistent when she drilled those words in our head, “Go to school, stay off those streets.”

My mind constantly raced. I wondered why my mother was the way she was. I also wondered why she seemed so mean. Why she would never let us go outside and play with the other kids who appeared to be having so much fun. They would participate in activities I loved. Some trees in my backyard were short so we could easily climb them. They would sit in the trees, and pick the fruit and eat them in the shade. They climbed my monkey bars and hopped my fences. I was so frustrated because the other neighborhood kids had no curfew. They would be out all night on their little adventures, playing “I-Spy” and, “Mystery Solver.” I used to wonder why she was so hard on us, but other parents were not strict at all. I was afraid that I would never be as advanced as my peers because I was being held captive by my prison guard; the window bars. That I would not know “the latest,” and that I would be excluded.

However, I was happy that my family spent a lot of time together. We played Monopoly, Sorry, Trouble, Red light-Green Light, video games, even Tag because the rooms were so huge. I had so much fun in my house, but when I saw a window, I desired outside all over again. I looked out the window and saw the kids of the area playing, my mind would wander.

Parents from the neighborhood, and even adults from our own church would try to intervene in my mother’s parenting techniques. They would say, “Why don’t you let those kids outside more? You’re a bad mother and you don’t know what you doin’. Let them come and play with the rest of the kids, like normal kids.”

“Because they’re my children and I have to watch them and make sure they don’t get caught up in the streets. Maybe you should raise your kids instead of lettin’ the streets raise them and you will see it is not an easy job. I have experienced the cruelty of the streets and what it has to offer, and it ain’t no good. In twenty years they will all be successful and not in the projects," my mother replied.

“Well what you tryna’ say about our neighborhood kids?.”

“I’m tryn’a say that they don’t have no structure, and they ain’t gonna get nowhere going down the road they going, and you takin’ them. The parents show them nothing so that is what they will get, nothing.”

“Well, don’t act like you betta’ than us. We all from the same hood.” Unfortunately, I rather agreed with the parents. I remember one time my mother and I were on our way home. On our way home to our building, we ran into a boy named Ricky. Now Ricky was a troubled young kid. He was about sixteen years old at the time. He was into gangs, violence, gambling, robbing people, etc. He was once a great kid and had a good relationship with his mother. Then, when he got involved in the neighborhood kids, he changed as well as his camaraderie with his mother. He digressed seemingly overnight from his innocence. There was no deterring him; he was in a labyrinth he had created with his own hands. Trouble would not come haphazardly, because he was indirectly requesting it. One day, my mother approached him because she had an ominous feeling, as if danger was coming his way very soon. She said, “Make it right with your mother,” but she did not know him or his issues with his mother!

“Uh, okay,” he said. A few days later, he took five bullets to the back of the head, and was thrown out of the back of a car in front of the neighborhood. When he died, my mind’s eyes widened.

The major conflict was with my mother and her strictness. She was hardy and rigid so you could not break, bend or manipulate her. So that meant that me and my brothers and sisters didn’t have a chance at getting to do what we wanted, but just to have the freedom as a child in my area meant respect from your peers, and that was something I definitely lacked. Though we went outside sometimes, it was with my mother. This never changed until I got old enough to see that respect from misguided peers meant nothing. Once I realized that the streets were a place you cannot just ignorantly roam, I was able to go out more often. At seventeen, I learned that lesson.

I began to see that the grass on the outside only seemed greener. It was my perception and my mindset that was off, not my mother’s. All the running around my peers did seemed fun, of course. However, their hanging out at all times of night was an effort to replace their parents’ love, affection, and time, like a prosthetic limb. Now my mind was at ease, and those phantasmagoric images of me vicariously playing through the neighborhood children began to fade away.

On Memoirs

I’ve been having internal struggle about posting these memoirs. If students are under 18, I don’t post their work without a permission slip from their parents, but even so, I know that some people might consider the content of these stories questionable for telling in a school setting. I just want to be clear that our (my students and I) decision to post these memoirs was not without thought and discussion.

I've heard English teachers say that they don't like assigning students personal writing because of all the crazy stories that come up. "I'm a teacher, not a counselor," they say. And I totally understand this point of view. I’ve had many uncomfortable moments during the crafting of these pieces, and I have often felt unqualified to really help them deal with their experiences and emotions.

On the other hand, I hate that we are a part a system that oppresses based on race, gender, and class, and then often expects our kids to bear the consequences alone, silently. I cannot tell them that their experiences, their lives, are “inappropriate.” Truthfully, we’re uncomfortable listening to their stories because we should be. We should be more than uncomfortable, we should be alarmed, outraged even, that when their English teacher asks them to write about memories that have shaped them as people, our kids so often tell stories of despair and loss.

My students were so, so brave in writing their memoirs. Telling their stories is a step towards figuring it out, towards healing and making their voices heard. And listening to them is an act of love and activism. They’re your kids too! So let’s take this opportunity to listen to their voices, use their stories to help find a way to change the way things are, to make sure that when future children write their memoirs, there are more and more stories of successes, love and hope.

The Day When I Ran Away From Home

It was June, 2008 and it was 6pm. I was coming home from my internship from school. I was thinking about what I would be wearing tomorrow for school and I was in a very happy mood. As I walk in my house, with a quick reaction she hits me. My mom is yelling at me, she’s yelling so loud I could barely understand her. She was yelling at me as if I was a little girl.

“Why are you coming home late?” she gets the belt and hits me once more. I fall and hit the floor. I started to cry of pain that I had on my arm and what she had done. I mean, she has never done this before and I was afraid it was like a demon went in her. I was afraid. After the fight, I go to my room and sit on my bed and think, think about why would she do that? To hurt me, or was she really mad? I was hanging out with my friends on 149th, just doing nothing, watching the cars roll by, just talking.

The next day I took a shower, got dressed and I was off to school. When I had finally got to school I went into the classroom sat down and tried to do my work but I felt this pain on my arm and realized what had happened last night. I sat down and started to cry. The teacher called the principal and I walked into the office. He asked what had happened and I told him. They called ACS, it’s some child services. I was afraid to go home so I left school and went to a shelter. It was Convent Houses, that’s all the way downtown. Lucky, I had my best friend Genesis to come with me. She knew what had happened and she wanted to be there for me if anything. After school I went to her house and explained myself to her mother, and she was willing to help me. She let me hold down some money so I can have something to eat in the shelter.

It was scary too in that place. What made it so scary is that the way that you had to worry about your stuff being taken. Or maybe one of the guys trying to do something in the late night while everyone was sleeping. In every room there were two bunk beds and one bathroom, and the bathroom was connected to another room so it was like you have to share the bathroom. You had to be careful with your stuff because there were thieves and people that would just get jealous of you and want to rob you. It wasn’t a place where you wanted to call home. There was this one girl that I know, her name was Samantha. She was a tall white girl with long blond hair. She had a nice body and everything. My first impression of her was that she was this rich, spoiled white girl and she didn’t need to be here. But then I realized that she was going through the same problem as me, and she understood me, that’s how we clicked. It’s like we were like sisters. I don’t know, I felt comfortable. It was like everyone was trying to get out, leaving for a better life, but they had to wait for their name to be called.

When I finally got my room and my bed, I sat there and thought what would happen next? Would I live the rest of my teenager years in a shelter or would I have to make a better change for myself? I was scared. I didn’t know what to do and when to do it, so I sat there and thought. I thought about the good times I had with my mother and how we used go do our hair together and how we used to just chill and relax. I really missed that. Also, I thought about how my brother will soon grow up without an older sister in his life. I was and still am a big impact in my little brother’s life. I think if it wasn’t for him, I would be dead. It was like he was my guardian angel. While I was thinking, I felt myself dosing off and I fell asleep.

The next morning I heard this loud horn, and I woke up very fast. It was some old lady screaming at the top of her lungs, “Breakfast!” like she was a horn. I got up, brushed my teeth and went downstairs. I looked around and saw only a few people downstairs. I went to go get a plate and saw the food. It was nothing like the food at home. It was like, cold oatmeal and the milk was tepid. I just left it there and just took an apple. I sat down near the table. It was just Samantha and I. We sat there and spoke about our family history and how hopefully things would change.

“How did you sleep?” Samantha said.

“Good,” I answered.

“So tell me about yourself,” She said.

“Well, I live in the Bronx. I have one brother younger than me, and he means the world to me. I go to school in the Bronx and I work. How about you?”

“I also live in the Bronx. I used to live with my boyfriend,” she replied.

“With your boyfriend?” I asked, with my eyebrow up.

“Yea,” she paused. “I was pregnant by him and he took me out of my house because my mom wanted me to have an abortion, and we didn’t want to have it. So she kicks me out. And I ended up with him.”

“Where is the baby now?” I said.

“I lost it,” she said. The room got quiet it was scary that someone that young can lose someone younger than her. I was going to ask how she lost it, but it wasn’t any of my business. When breakfast was over we both went upstairs and she started getting ready. I asked where she is going. She replied, “GED.”

So I lay there and think about what I am going to do next. As I see myself falling asleep, my counselor comes in and tells me that I have to go to the doctor and get a check up. I still remember her name, it was Ms. Hoover. She was a tall black lady with long black hair. She was in her mid 20s. She looked like she was 15, it was crazy. So I get up and get ready to leave.
We arrive at the hospital, so many people were there, it was like a concert with no music, but lucky for me I had my counselor to help me skip the lines. When I walked in the hospital, I felt like everyone was staring at me. Like I was fresh meat and they wanted to eat me alive. I walk in the doctor’s office and she checked my height, my weight, you know the normal things a doctor does. Everything came out good.

“Did you eat?” Ms Hoover said.

“I just had an apple,” I replied. She doesn’t say nothing more. We get in the car and she puts on the music and turns up the A.C. The song “No one” by Alicia Keys was playing. I started to sing it in my head. I wanted to go home; I started to think about how things would be different. It was a happy thought. But as we pull up to McDee’s my counselor messed up my thoughts.

“Do you want something from here?” she asked.

“No thank you,” I replied.

“Come on! Don’t be shy. I will buy you anything,” I stay quiet. She leaves the car and comes back with a chicken sandwich and passes it to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she said with a smile.

The Beginning of the Rest of My Life, By Regina

My story takes place in what seemed to me to be the heart of New York, Brooklyn. To me Brooklyn was the place to be growing up, especially my block Flatbush Avenue. Me and my sister shared a white bunk bed. I had the top bunk, she shared the bottom with my youngest sister. We lived in a two story building over a clothing store owned by the landlord. I am the second to last child out of my mother’s nine kids. We all went to school in a three block radius of a junior high, elementary, and high school. The best time to me was walking home from school though, because I saw all my friends and best of all it was just me and my brothers and sisters. We were like celebrities because everyone in the neighborhood knew us. In the summer time, all day and night you could hear the music playing from the cars passing by and the little merchant’s mart across the street playing music of Soca and Calypso all day long. Sometimes we would go on the rooftop and look at people passing by shopping and enjoying themselves. Sometimes people would see us and yell, “Hey! Get down from there.”

It was mid spring about a week before my 16th birthday. Me and one of my close friends were walking to my house after school. I opened the door to my building and I was feeling all happy because we were about to go buy the shoes that I waited a week for, to wear on my birthday. When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw bags and lots of them. I turned the corner and I spotted a note on my door. As I got closer the door open and my sister had this knowing look on her face, as if she felt the cold rush in my blood and the pain that now pounded in my heart. It was an eviction letter and it said that we had 24 hours to get our things out and they’ll return to put a lock on the door. I was confused, embarrassed and angry all at the same time. My friend asked if she should stay, and I embarrassedly told her to leave. When she left, I walked inside and stood next to my bed. The only house I had ever known was being pulled from under me like a rug.

My childhood memories were washed away as every garbage bag filled. My sister was the one packing the stuff. I hadn’t seen my mom in hours and my sister didn’t say a word to me because my face said it all. For the most part, I just felt anger building up inside me. I remember asking myself why? How could my mother go through something like this and not say a word to any us? Why didn’t she tell us she was that far behind in rent dues? Am I being selfish for being angry or do I have every right to be angry at her? I asked my sister with a gulp of tears in my throat, is this serious? And I still can see the sad look on her face saying, yup!

From that day on my life was turned upside down and I’ve been sailing on rough shores. I lived with my sister just ten minuets away from my old house. It was okay, but it just wasn’t home. I remember crying myself to sleep because I missed my old room and the closeness we all shared in that apartment. Most of all I missed waking up every day with my sisters and brothers annoying me with all the favors like, "Yoooo, iron my shirt for me,” or “Can you gimme two braids?" I also remember waking up every night yelling at my brother for blasting music at 1 am on a school night. It was annoying but I still missed it. I missed hugging my lifeless teddy bear which I could not sleep without, and most of all my decorated walls filled with posters and pictures of my favorite cartoons and singers.

Although we fought and had our disagreements, we were best friends and had one another’s back. My sister had a corporate job in the city and had gotten me a position as an assistant in her office. The days seemed to get longer and unbearable from school to work everyday. I began to feel really depressed. I remember on my birthday I was sitting at the kitchen table and everyone around me was smiling on the outside, but I was very mad not a smile on my face would change the feelings I had for everyone there. I was writing in my notebook about how I was feeling I was miserable and it took every ounce of energy for me to blow out my candles.
During the next couple of months I lived with my older sister and I was even more miserable than before. I slept on the couch and was greeted with disgusted faces that seemed to get worse by the days. I was a stranger in my own family’s house. It almost seemed as if she wanted me to do something she didn't like so she could have a reason to kick me out. It was within a month that I finally realized I was silently being thrown out. When my bags were put by the door, it was quite evident that she had wanted me out. My life as a 16 year old kid was nonexistent. My days began at 6am and ended around 9pm. I left and started staying with my mother in the same neighborhood we grew up in. At times, me and my mother slept on the same bed together. I no longer felt the anger I once held her responsible for, but I felt as if she had lost as much as I did, if not more. When the summer began to approach, things that had consoled me made me angry, and people I loved became strangers to my heart.

My life turned a new page and I was a rebellious young women. I hated school because all my friends would go to a place called home that I never knew, so I began to cut and chill with my boyfriend. Could you imagine at 16 years old being left out in the world to fend for myself? Honestly, what did they expect me to do? Whose arms was I to run to for shelter and protection? I got kicked out of school and was lost in the world. I came to the Bronx with a home-girl and that’s when I became reckless. I partied every night and I saw my family members usually two times a month just to prove I was alive. My pain was numbed by the endless partying because I never took time to think about anything. I was finally far away from reality and I liked it that way. I was trying to punish everyone for my pain, but little did I know I was hurting myself the most.

I see now that my mother tried to keep the house problems to herself so we wouldn’t have to stress out and we could continue being children. My mother tried to handle these situations alone, but things just got out of control and she had a lot on her plate. I was angry at everyone for my life. I was angry at my family members for all the wrong decisions that I made. I was doing the wrong things to make me feel better about the situations I had been through. I was foolish and immature and didn’t think of how much more stress I was bringing upon myself. Now I know that my mom had been fighting the eviction for a while now and that she had made an effort and paid off half of her back rent, but the landlord still gave the eviction letter. I wish we knew what was going on because we might have been able to get a little part time job and help. From this, I now see that God puts you through trials to give you tough skin for tomorrows, and he never gives us more then we can handle. My mother did what all mothers would do protect her kids to the fullest, and whoever disagrees just ask your mother and see what she says.

Traumatize, By Akena

It was in 1997 when I lived in the Villa area. My story took place in Villa, Antigua. It was a place where you had to run instead of walk. My mother’s two bedroom house was located on Christopher Street. We used to live in a green rental house. During the middle of the night, we would have to dash on the floor if we heard a gun shot. When I woke up in the morning, I would have to get up and cart water from the public pipe to my house. I used to carry eight gallons and a small bucket of water, which was so heavy. My hands and back used to hurt like crazy. My mother could not afford a private pipe in her yard, so we used to have to go back and forth for our water. I always thought to myself, why do I have to wake up so early in the morning? I hated it when my mom had to wake us up to get water. Most of the time the morning was dark as night and I always imagined I was rich, so that we wouldn’t have to cart water from all those blocks.

Most people on the island would wake up with fresh air, but I woke up with the smell of weed, and herbs wafting in my bedroom window. In front of our gate, we would see butt heads, and cigarettes lying in the gutter and neighbors screaming and yelling good morning to the folks walking by. Miss Lana is a little old lady, maybe the age of 65 or more, who would look out for us when my mother was at work. She smokes like a chimney and always offered my brother and me a puff. Her hair was always a hot mess with three curlers on her head. My mother would pay Miss Lana money to watch over me and my brother. Lana would send me to the grocery store, to buy her a little bottle of vodka and a 2lb bag of weed, or sometimes a box of cigarettes. When I arrived back from the store with her goods, she would say “Put this quarter in your pocket for rainy days.” The best of Miss Lana would be when she was sober, and that’s the time she took good care of us.

I remember the days when my mother had to work twelve hours a day to make a living. She worked at Woods Pharmacy where she was a cashier. She went to work at 3pm to 11pm at night. I was only seven years old at the time and my brother was only three years old. We never had a good babysitter. My mother was a single woman and single parent. One night when my mother was at work, I heard people running and screaming. My brother and I shared the same room, but different beds. We both got out of bed and looked through the window and saw a guy lying on the street in a pool of blood, ten minutes later the street was clear and everyone ran because they heard the sound of sirens rushing through the town.

I took it upon myself and went outside. I tried calling for help but the guy was in silence. “Leave him alone,” my brother screamed from the front step. I was scared to see a half dead person lying in front of the house.

“Who could do such horrible thing?” I said. My brother kept yelling for me to get inside and leave the man alone. I thought I was going to be in big trouble so I ran back in the house, when I saw the police cars turn the corner. When the cops arrived at the scene, they first looked at the green house and thought that someone in this particular house had something to do with the stabbing of the guy. While I was peeking through the window, I saw a fat heavy weight cop walking up the way. He then knocked on the door.

“Open up! Open up!” he said. Me and my brother ran straight to the back room and under the bed. We were petrified and we were crying for our mother. Once again we heard, “Please open up. It’s the police.” I slowly walked out to the living room and saw his shadow piercing through window. I open the door and hugged him. He saw that there was trepidation in my face. My brother was crying so much that he lost his voice.

“Young lady is there anybody else in the house?” said the police.

“No sir. My mother is at work and I don’t know where our babysitter went,” I replied.

“Where does your mother work?’ said the cops.

“She works at Woods Pharmacy,” shouted my brother. A female police officer took me into the room and asked me a few questions. Some of the questions were real difficult to answer. I was too young to know what was going on about this tragedy. My brother and I were taken down to the precinct for questioning. They fed us and gave us candy and all kinds of little cute treats. What the cops wanted to know was if we saw anything that happened to the dead guy. My mother picked us up at the police station, but before we could go, the cops had very long talk with her in another room. As we were leaving, my mother burst out crying, whispering softly “We got to get out.”

Until this day I didn’t see what happened; I still don’t know what happened up until this day. All I know for a fact is that I saw a half dead man lying in a pool of blood in front our house. When I think back on that night, I felt as if I was in danger. Maybe if I had seen what happened I would be a dead person too, because the person who did the crime was very brutal towards his victim.

When the morning breaks, we woke up with the sound of smashing windows, stones, bottles pleating at our house, and in front of our house. There were a lot of people in front of the house making noise and cursing my mother out. My mother had to call the police to get rid of them. The neighbors were very upset because of what had happened to the guy. For some stupid reason, they thought my mom had snitched on the killer. The anger and frustration of all the commotion had my mother stressed out. My mother lost her job and she stopped talking to Miss Lana. My mother had to make some rash decisions about leaving out of the ghetto.

Two months from the incident, we moved to the village of Bethesda. My mother had to call up a few family members to see if she could get a place to stay. Bethesda is a place that is in the country side and most of the high class people live there. My mother was raised in Bethesda and when she got pregnant, her aunt who was raising her kicked her out of the house. That is why we ended up living in the ghetto area of Antigua. We arrived at my aunt Hyacinth’s house in Bethesda. I had the most dreadful time living there. She treated us like slaves, and she would talk down to my mom. My whole life felt as if I was a pariah.

When I look back at my past, I think of it as a lesson. A way I can learn how to act towards others. I also learned how to mind my own business when I see a scene. Now that I am all grown up, I tend to take a lot of things seriously. I always tell people I know where I came from, and how much I struggled to get where I am today. Today I can’t see my soul rest because of the incident of the guy who had been stabbed.

The Ring Story, By Quantisha

I knew my mom had died when most of my family came to church. It wasn’t something that always happened, them coming to church and I could see it in their faces that she was gone. I was crying as they were singing. Everybody knew except me. Well I knew, but I wasn’t sure of it. Later on that day my younger sister and I went to my grandmother’s house from my mother’s side. Everybody was there including my aunt and uncle who were in the army, and my grandpa who hardly comes around. My grandmother asked for everyone to stand in a circle and hold hands.

“You know Nikki has been holding on for a long time now. Well, she finally decided to let go. She died this morning,” she said.

I don’t remember how others reacted when they heard the news. I only remember hearing a lot of weeping. When I found out that my mom had died, I was thinking to myself that this is the end of my life. I was also thinking that there was no way that I was going to be able to handle this. In my head, I wanted to kill myself because I felt like, now that she was gone, there was no one else to listen to me. Everything around me was moving fast, and I couldn’t control what was going on. I couldn’t help but cry. I felt like this was my breaking point and I was never ever going to be able to get past it.

I can see her in my mind right now. My mom was short and thick. She was not fat at all. My mom had really small feet, and dreads, but before she had dreads she kept her hair braided. Her favorite color was sky blue, and her favorite singer was Anita Baker. My mom always crocheted while eating a bag of Frito Lay sun flower seeds. She was very good at braiding hair and was a huge wrestling fan. She loved Triple H. My mom only wore silver jewelry because she was allergic to gold just like me.

When I was fourteen my mom started to get really sick. I found out that she had Leukemia when I was eleven. She had Cancer for six years and it had just started getting worse. We were really close. My mom and I used to go everywhere together. We used to go food shopping, to the nail salon, to the park, to the library. My mother was a bookworm, and in the house she had her very own personal library. She was also a writer; she wrote poems, songs, and she wrote almost everyday in a diary. She was very out going and went to parties all the time. My mom is the one that taught me how to dance. Then she had Leukemia. She had to go through Chemotherapy and all of that. I was out of school for that week, not only because of her death but it was also Thanksgiving break. That week my grandmother and my sisters and I went to Coney Island to spread her ashes.

It was at 172nd Morrison Avenue, in Bronx Bible Church. There were a bunch of children outside running around dancing. It smelled like bagels, jelly, and butter. After church, Ms. Florence pulled me to the side to talk to me. Ms. Florence is tall, brown skinned and has long hair. She walks with a limp now because she was in a car accident. She lives across the street from the church and comes to church every single Sunday and sits in the third row, and sometimes she even stays for the second service. She took me to the side and said to me, “If I were to tell you that I was going to give you a ring, but when I asked for it back, you had to give it back to me, and you agreed, and then I let you hold the ring for a long period of time and I finally decided to ask for it back, would you give it back to me?”

“Yes, I would give it back to you,” I said. Then she said, “That’s what God did with your mom. She was a ring that you held for a long period of time, but now he asked for it back.” I hugged her and cried.

When Ms. Florence was explaining to me that my mom was like a ring from God, at first I couldn’t understand what she meant until she clarified it. I felt special because she took the time out to talk to me and pass down a story that someone else told her when her favorite aunt had died. I never thought that she could make such an impact on me the way she did. I thought that I was just a regular person to her that said “hi” and “bye.” But she showed me that there was so much more to our relationship than “hi” and “bye.” I felt like there was somebody in the world that actually cared about my feelings.

My conflict was that I could not get over my mother. It hurt me bad and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it and at one point, I blamed myself because I ran away during the time she was in the hospital. My grandmother had told me that maybe if I didn’t run away, my mom wouldn’t have been in that situation. So I blamed myself. When Ms. Florence told me the story, it made me at ease. It made me able to deal with her death in a different way.

This story is important to me because this was an experience in my life that had a huge effect on me. My mother’s death was something that could not be turned over. This is something that I will always remember. It’s not like this is something that happens and you get over it within days, this is something I have to live with for the rest of my life.

Looking back at this story, it makes me think that this is something I can pass down to other people. When other deaths occur, I think about the story and how I can impact others’ lives. If Ms. Florence didn’t tell me that story, I would probably be suicidal after every death. Even though I have this, it is not going to be easy for me to deal with deaths, its just going to remind me that that person who died was a ring from God.