Chapter 3

3. First Twists of Darkness

I grew up in Fort Worth, Texas, in a walk-up garden-style apartment home with both my parents, Baby-Sis (two years younger), and Big-Sis (five years older). Baby-Sis was quiet and kind of like the stereotypical annoying little sister, but I loved her as my sister. We were never as close as I hoped we’d be, especially when I needed a friend. Big-Sis and I share the same mom but different dads. Big-Sis was outgoing and willing to talk to anyone, even strangers. Big-Sis and I weren’t close either—she had grown angry and resentful that my dad treated my younger sister and I better than her. She would complain about her darker skin complexion than my sister and I possessed. I never really saw a problem with her skin color, but then again, I never really remember paying attention to the color of anyone’s skin growing up as a little girl. I knew I was a young Black girl; however, I did not understand that my skin color made a difference as to how I would be treated later on in life by others who did not care for people like me.

The area we lived in slowly degraded into a ghetto, or what we called “the projects.” Throughout my time growing up in the projects, we watched people dance on the back patio of a night bar within view of our front patio window. The music and laughter eventually faded, turning into gunshots, car chases, and police sirens. The night bar closed, and the Fort Worth S.W.A.T. Team moved in. The Bloods and the Crips were at war, and all the kids had to stop wearing red and blue clothing. For me, it meant I couldn’t wear my favorite color, red, anymore. For others, it meant death.

I remember hearing loud music, being nosy, and sneaking into the living room one night to watch the people talking and dancing in the street outside from our front living room window. While I was watching the block party in progress, I saw a guy shoot a gun in the air and someone shouted, “Everybody run!” People started screaming, and I watched my neighbor, Mo, trip as he was trying to get away and fall to the ground near the dumpster. He got back up, but it was too late; the guy with the gun ran up on him and shot him multiple times. Then, the guy jumped in the back of a pick-up truck and sped off.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched Mo slowly fall to the ground face first. I heard screaming from our neighbor. My mom ran into the living room and caught me looking out the window. She yelled for me to get away from the window and chastised me for not being in bed. I ran back to my bed and buried myself in my covers, sobbing Mo’s name. I heard his brothers screaming. I heard people sobbing. I heard ambulances.

Mo was always nice to me—and everyone. He had dark skin, and the neighborhood teens always lightly teased him about his Gumby-style haircut. He was on the heavier side, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wasn’t a gang member, yet he died at the hand of one. Police categorized the shooting as gang-related—not as an innocent young black boy whose smile would never be seen again. I forced myself to bury this moment of hurt and anger that I couldn’t explain.

Whack! Whack! Whack! “Die already!” I yelled this almost every day as I would try to kill gangster terminator roaches that refused to die! I would smack the roach with something hard, run to get a tissue, and when I would come back, the roach would be gone. I hated roaches! This was my life growing up. We grew up in the projects, more infamously called the ghetto. We lived in a roach-infested apartment (another memory my mother wishes I would forget). Roaches were everywhere, crawling in the refrigerator, the walls, ceiling, floors, and in between our bed sheets. Once, a baby roach dropped from the ceiling and swam in the middle of my Cheerio. It was as if that roach had watched Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and timed his jump just as I was about to take a bite.

We lived on the second floor with no one above us, and the apartment manager lived beneath us. The manager had two bushy, tan Chow dogs. Even though I did have a fear of dogs, I’m certain these two dogs had been trained to kill, viciously barking and growling at everyone who passed. I was always so scared. Every time my sisters and I walked by the gate to go upstairs to our own apartment, the dogs would scramble in attempts to jump over the gate, scratching and clawing and barking the whole time. They looked like they were preparing to have me for dinner! I never really waited around to find out if my fears were founded. My walk always turned into a full sprint, and then explosive plyometric bounds up two flights of stairs. All my energy, all my fear, everything was channeled into running. Unbeknownst to me, running became a way for me to power through and level up.

After my kindergarten graduation, I was excited for the summer. Our twelve-year-old brother was coming to live with us. We were so excited because we had never gotten to meet him or his twin, our sister. My brother and his twin sister share the same father as me and Baby-Sis, but we have different mothers. Once he arrived, it wasn’t a smooth transition. My brother told us he didn’t like living with us because my dad spanked him and was too controlling, whereas he never got spanked by his mom. I tried to be a good sister and never tell on him to keep him from getting into trouble, even when he would get on my nerves. My brother would pluck my arm-hairs with his fingers, and I would scream at him as he laughed, but I still wouldn’t tell on him. Sadly, my plan to protect him from getting into trouble so he would want to stay didn’t work—he called his mom asking to come home, so he ended up leaving us after about a year.

Sometime before he moved back home with his mom, my brother called me into his room, locked the door, and said he didn’t want to play with Baby-Sis or Big-Sis. He said I was his favorite sister. We played a “game.” All I really remember is seeing my brother’s penis, and I asked what it was—I was five and had never seen a penis before—while I laughed and giggled. He quickly put it away and nothing else happened. He tickled me, and I remember he had a look on his face of regret.

He played my favorite game of airplane, where he placed his feet on my stomach and lifted me on his feet, and I spread my arms out and pretended to fly. By this time, my sisters were beating at the door for us to open it, and my brother said to me that we would play another time. He made me promise what he had showed me was our secret, and to not say anything to my sisters when he unlocked the door. I remembered having a brother was special. I agreed to keep his promise.

When he opened the door, Big-Sis asked him, “Did you touch her?” Then she looked at me and asked, “Did he touch you?”

I remembered to keep our secret, and I told Big-Sis, “No! Get away from me or I’m going to tell on you!” I thought Big-Sis was jealous of my relationship with my brother, but she only wanted to protect me. I looked up to my brother and was broken-hearted the day he left our family. He told us he hated living with my dad, and there was nothing I could do to get him to stay. I felt my brother was my protection from Big-Sis, and I was sad when he left. Big-Sis had begun to be mean to me because I thought I was a princess and Dad always called me “Daddy’s Little Girl.” If I dropped one crocodile tear, my dad and brother would go to war and give me whatever I wanted. It would be years before I would ever see my brother again, but it would only be a matter of weeks before the dark storm brewing over my head from Big-Sis would form and attack me.

Big-Sis was dark-skinned with tightly coiled hair, and a small gap between her teeth. She had a contagious laugh and a smile that brightened up a room. It was her dark side—the menacing look in her eyes, the hiss in her speech when she was angry—that frightened me.

From six years old to seven years old, I was molested—repeatedly—by Big-Sis. My dad entrusted her to watch us during the day. The first time it happened, Big-Sis forced me to take my panties off. I started crying and yelling for her to stop. She covered my mouth and punched me in the stomach. She pulled my hair and pinched me until I gave in. I cried because it hurt, and I was scared about what would happen next. Big-Sis told me that if I said anything more, she would continue to pinch me. Once she let go, I tried to run, and she punched me hard in the middle of my back several times. She yanked me back by my hair causing me to fall on the floor, hitting my head hard. I was in shock at this point. I had never felt the type of pain from someone deliberately trying to harm me. She punched me in...