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.
“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.
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