I never fit in. My peers called me “square.” I’d say I was well rounded. MeMau says it’s a God conscience. An awareness. The Holy Spirit. I never asked for it, Him. When I was younger I hated Him. I wanted to be “normal.” I didn’t want to see, to feel, to know. I’d be getting dressed to go out and I would get this horrible feeling. Secretly I thought I was going crazy, so I would brush it off most of the time. I could hear the truth in things people said, but I’d pretend it was all in my head. Although I was in Sunday school and the choir, I wasn’t taught about the Holy Spirit. Looking back, I wish someone had taken the time to guide me through those younger times. Maybe I wouldn’t have given my body away at fifteen years of age, or stayed around people who used me, or prevented me from achieving my goals. Maybe I would have actually aspired to have goals, to be somebody, realized that I was somebody.
As in most things, I believe God always provides us with a way out. An option. Something positive in the midst of mediocrity. Our responsibility, however, is to recognize, to choose. I had a childhood friend, Hope. Hope was black and beautiful. Not one hair out of place. I distinctly remember because it was a stark contrast to my wild and free locks. Her shoes matched her headbands, which matched her socks, which matched her jewelry. Going shopping with her mother is where I first was introduced to stores like Bloomingdale’s and Nordstrom’s. Her parents were black excellence. Her father owned his own business and her mother held a prestigious job working in the government. She was the only child, she had her own playroom full of dollhouses, Barbie dream houses, and baby dolls. She had an ATM where she saved her allowance. I didn’t know anything about allowances. I remember there was a huge oil painting of her in their living room. Even as I child, I noticed the difference between our lives.
She went to the best schools. Private schools where they would put on plays and concerts, and there were like ten kids per classroom. They lived in Antioch when the homes were super nice, and it was just being developed. We’d pull up to their home and I’d think I was at a mansion. We’d go on family outings on their boat, and be on the beaches having picnics. Things I’d probably never see or be exposed to if it weren’t for them. Her mom taught me about pushing to be my best, my greatest. I’d never in life been exposed to that concept. I would have a school paper due and she would stay up with me editing, showing me how to find sources. She’d even draw diagrams. Commitment. Success. Possibility. She taught me how to skim while reading, to move faster and get to the meat of what I was looking for. She even bought me my first journal. She said it was good to begin writing my feelings as a form of release. We weren’t allowed to eat and drink whenever we felt the urge. We would eat a meal and drink and the kitchen was closed.
That was strange to me. At home I got what I wanted when I wanted it. Most of the times I wouldn’t even ask. I could just get what I wanted without any regulation. Even with the large cultural divide between Hope and myself, I never remember being jealous. Inferior maybe, but never jealous. It never even occurred to me that a life like that could be accessible to me, or should be. It was just Hope’s life. I respected it. I recognized the good parts of it and was grateful I could be a part of it. She never made me feel less than. She was an only child, so she was happy to share with me. As we grew older, she would call me and ask me how school and my grades were going. I would laugh and explain how I was barely making it, getting D’s in Spanish and C’s in Algebra. Greatness was always in me, I just wasn’t trained to push it out. In that regard, the struggle was good for me: it forced me to fight. Hope wouldn’t laugh with me like the rest of my friends. She was disappointed, and I could hear it in her voice. This forced me to feel. To absorb the disappointment leading to acknowledgment of my lack of effort. Acknowledgment that I laughed at my own failure.
Hope wouldn’t preach. She would just remind me of who I was. “Queen, you know you’re better than that.” I knew she was right, but my maturity level wouldn’t let me admit it, so I would make up an excuse to get off the phone instead. Truth stings. It pierces straight through the heart of a lie. Truth exposes and forces one to choose. Complacency or legacy. No excuse is bold enough to stand to her light. She pulls off the mask of every false truth sent to confuse her children. As we grew, Hope and I grew apart. I had to choose my own path, but she was always a voice of reason no matter how distant. I’m grateful for the visual her life provided. Most of the times I would stay the weekend at Hope’s, then her parents would drop me back home Monday. I remember one weekend, “Hearts of Fire” by Earth Wind and Fire came on the radio. As kids we didn’t know much about artists from that period of music history, let alone what the words they were singing. “Queen, listen! They’re talking about you!” Hope turned the radio up. I smiled as she pointed to her heart and belted out the lyrics. I wasn’t sure what she meant. My mind was too preoccupied to ask. My fairytale weekend had once again come to an end: I was headed back to Oakland.