Most nights I sit up and cry. Thinking … thinking, constantly in my thoughts. I can still remember the day I opened the door and allowed Kenya to implant himself there, just like I can remember the day his post was brutally ripped from my flesh, leaving me wounded, bleeding without warning. When I speak of it, the scar still burns from love lost, so most of the times I don’t speak. Thinking. The pain has become so familiar I’ve tricked my mind into believing I like it. Sick. To be in love with death, infatuated by it, almost. I remember hearing the screams in the background when his right hand called to inform me of our loss. I fell to the floor as the wind left my entire body. Lifeless. I didn’t even cry—I couldn’t. My body was in such shock as part of me literally departed from my body.
Life. A precious gift, priceless if you know how to apply it, to live it. Ironically I lost Kenya to death and gave birth to Kenya, giving his name new life. No, he was not Kenya’s child. I choose to uproot the seeds from my womb that God destined for us to share together. I was young then, and although the fascination of having a family was tempting, Kenya didn’t think we were ready, and I respected his decision. Never even questioned it. Imagine that, destroying your own future—self-sabotage. Some of the worst pain you will ever have is not from the hand of others but from the things you did to yourself. As a result, my sweet Kenya is the closest thing to me and yet the most distant. The most painful, and at the same time the most precious, the most pure. Love. My son named after my lost beloved. My child I birthed by a stranger, not literally, but in fact spiritually, which is actually even worse. I met his father a year after my love was at rest six feet underneath the earth.
Since I was a little girl, John Singleton’s Poetic Justice was always my favorite movie. I smile to myself thinking about it. I had no business trying to process such a mature film at that age, but it was something real about it, something true. I’d imagine it was my parents’ story, and Janet was my mother. I liked that. I mean I liked that Justice was different: she had a story, a reason she was who she was. I dug she was a poet; even though poetry wasn’t really cool, she wrote it anyway. She was strong, she was about her business, and she wasn’t afraid to be alone. Lucky was her love, but he wasn’t the whole story. It was like she became first—she went on her own journey. They just so happened to meet on the same plane—that was a real love story to me. It was true. I never knew back then that it would be my real-life story. It’s funny how God prepares us for things to come without us even knowing it. I always tell Kenya, “Pay attention, Son, listen to what the spirit of the Lord is trying to tell you.”
My grandparents adopted me after my parents’ murder. They loved me but we always struggled with the generational divide. They were well into their early sixties by the time they took me in. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am eternally grateful for them. If it wasn’t for their love and support, I’m sure I would be a completely different woman today. They instilled the fear of God in me, discipline, and provided a structured environment. However, a lot of connections about life were missing for me in my youth. To say I was sheltered is an under-statement. I wasn’t allowed to play in the front yard. I can remember school friends coming by the house on their bikes and asking if I could come out. “No baby, she’s not going to be able to make it,” my grandfather would explain. I can still remember the tears swelling up in my eyes and that lump building up in my throat. I watched them ride off, wondering what kind of adventures they would get into.
Needless to say, I rarely had visitors. Nobody wanted to come over to my house to be a prisoner. They sent me to a Catholic school where we had to wear uniforms, so shoes were all you really had to showcase your style. My grandfather didn’t believe in Nikes; he would say, “I’m not supporting no Nike. They pay their workers five cents an hour and charge me a hundred bucks a pop!” I remember registering that comment, like, Naw, that somehow isn’t right, but I’m thirteen years old and these kids at school are on my helmet about these penny loafers! My grandmother would say we were going school shopping and when we’d pull up to Payless, I would just cry. I remember one time I had enough: I had a complete meltdown and refused to go to school. Enough was enough: that day I wasn’t going out. I had an older cousin come around and visit. She ended up giving me her hand-me-downs and I was eternally grateful. Finally, I could go to school in peace. I don’t think I ever told her how something so small blessed me so much back then.
Most of my childhood was this huge gap. I couldn’t understand why I was living in a two-bedroom home on Roberts Avenue in a quiet neighborhood when literally a block down from me, Seminary seemed to be a completely different neighborhood. I was never into sports, but a lot of my friends played basketball. Every once in a while, I was able to convince my grandparents that I was the team’s water girl, and they would let me walk with a group of girls to the neighborhood recreation center. I lived for those days. I had a life! I got to walk to the store and hear the latest news, go to the store to buy pickles, hot chips, and now and later, just be free. It was literally like being in two different worlds. My grandparents’ home was safe, secure, full of scripture, gospel music, rules, structure. When I walked the streets of East Oakland, California, it was like a war zone, and I was the only one who noticed. It was “normal” to everyone else: the cursing, women fighting, men standing on the streets, police patrolling. I can remember my green eyes taking all of it in. I loved it.
I can remember early Sunday mornings my grandmother would make me wake up around eight in the morning, so I could be ready for Sunday school at nine. I would have to pee so bad in the mornings, but I wouldn’t want to get up in the hopes that they would oversleep and not make me go. It never worked. Every Sunday, it never failed. MeMau would be up making breakfast, and Granddad would be sitting at the table studying his lesson for that morning. My Sunday’s best would be lying out for me with bow, tights, and shoes to match. When I was old enough, I’d join the usher board and the choir, not by choice but force. I never even remember them asking me. My Sunday school teacher had to be at least ninety years old. The only reason I listened to her was partly out of respect, and that I felt sorry for her—that and the cookies.
She made the best cookies. They were these sugar cookies that had these red and green jelly candies in the center. Sitting in that class with her for an hour was bearable looking forward to those little treats. Some Sundays it would just be the two of us. On the rare occasion that other kids showed up, I would watch as kids had full blown conversations as the little old lady tried to teach us scripture. It hurt me to see the teacher’s face. I could read the hurt in her eyes and I carried it. I’ve always been able to see since a child. Embarrassment, shame, pride, anger, jealously, hope. I can almost see them like their people, or spirits. The positive traits aren’t always the easiest to recognize. Often they’re hidden; they take more time to discern. The negative ones, though, are obvious, loud, condescending. Doesn’t take much to spot those.
Observing certain church people was pretty funny as well. I’d watch as one group judged another, or as certain cliques excluded others. I can remember as a child recognizing the hypocrisy in this act, but also realizing that most of the time they didn’t even realize what they were doing, almost like looking into a mirror and not recognizing your own reflection. I’d watch people jump and scream during service just to get out of church and curse or roll up a blunt and spark it around the corner from the sanctuary. I’ve never been a judge; I’ve always been an observer. Something about that imagery didn’t add up to me, almost like acting. I’ve never been a great actor.