Chyna

Crooklyn

I entered this world in the vibrant city of Chicago, arriving as the youngest among my eight siblings. The dynamics of our family shifted significantly when I was eight, as we made the transformative move to Brooklyn, New York. My mother, dedicated to her role as a nurse, and my father, serving as a janitor at a local high school, navigated life's challenges together. Remarkably, they were high school sweethearts, having welcomed my older sister Stacy into the world at the tender age of 14.

In those early years in Brooklyn, we inhabited a modest yet comforting four-bedroom house, relying on housing assistance for support. The fabric of our family was tightly woven, thanks in large part to my paternal grandmother, who played the role of the glue binding us together. However, tragedy struck when she passed away, leaving a void that profoundly affected my father. He would often drink and abuse heroin which caused arguments between him and my mother daily. 

 This descent into substance abuse marked the beginning of a darker chapter, where he transformed into an abusive presence in our lives. Unfortunately, my mother, too, succumbed to the allure of drugs, and the once harmonious household became a battleground for their daily fights. Our rent money was always getting used to pay the bills and my sister stacy would have to sell some of our stamps just to keep a roof over our head. We lived in the projects so the rent was fairly low but we were poor as dirt and my parents didn't give not one fuck. 

As my brother Deshawn and I silently observed from the top of the stairs, the distressing scenes unfolded before us. My father's actions escalated to the point where we bore witness to the harrowing sight of him dragging my mother across the room, fueled by disputes over mere $35 transactions.My father smashed my mothers head into the table after she hit him and she stopped moving. My brother Cornell came running down the steps and attacked my father.

"Mama!" I screamed when she wouldn't move. Blood seeped out of her head,nose and a cut on her arm.
My fathers eyes widened and he grabbed his coat before leaving the house. My older siblings told me and Deshawn to go upstairs and they called the ambulance. Paramedics rushed my mother off to the hospital. I waited patiently on my bed for someone to come tell us something...
My brother Cornell and sister Stacy walked in the bedroom the next day and sat on my bed.
"Is mommy okay?"
"Yeah mommy is fine... she had a concussion... me and Cornell will be taking care of y'all until mommy comes home Saturday.."
" is daddy coming back?"
"No that nigga ain't coming back..."
I shook my head and looked out the window I was tired of going through this shit. I wished sometimes that I was born to a white family and lived in the suburbs.

The weariness of witnessing needles and condoms scattered across the park or encountering bugs and destitute individuals in our apartment hallway became an overwhelming reality for me. The stark contrast of Annie's life, seemingly carefree when she visited that affluent man's residence, ignited a fervent desire within me. I yearned for a life that mirrored hers – one free from the harsh realities that surrounded us. I believed I deserved a life beyond the confines of our challenging circumstances.

As days elapsed, our mother returned home, ushering in the return of Cyf, who reentered our lives with a commitment to drug-test our mother every week. Despite the haze of her recent battles, my sister Stacy would step in to provide the necessary bodily fluids, ensuring that the drug tests were passed successfully. The aftermath of these struggles unfolded, and eventually, the authorities closed their case.

In a predictable yet disheartening twist, my father reappeared, singing the same old tune about reforming his ways and extracting us from the grips of the projects. The echoes of his promises filled the air, leaving a lingering sense of skepticism about whether this time would be any different.