To The One Who Has Lived Before

ııı

to the one who went to middle school

Fifth grade was hard for you. You had gotten off the plane and landed in America, but your mind was still in the spaceships and planets and explorations you had with your cousin Jahmar. You didn't like homework, and this was the cause of your mother's wrath. I don't know how you survived that year, much less the year after -- sixth grade was much worse.

Yet here I am, eh?

You first went to James Monroe Middle School, and you were so happy to be there. You made friends. You learned how to play Battleship and moonball. You began to play softball. You smiled all the time and your imagination still took you places. Life was good for a moment, wasn't it?

Then, you had to be transferred. I don't remember the reason why, but it had to be done. The adults said so, so it must have been necessary. It wasn't just you either -- it was a handful of kids. You were sitting next to your teacher and you saw the list of students in her hands, and you saw your name highlighted in a bright yellow. You were sad that day.

Later on, when you transferred into James Madison Middle School, you learned that you had a chance to go back and you didn't know it. You thought your fate was sealed, so the opportunity came and went silently. You wanted to go back, but you realized too late. You cried while you did your English homework.

What was it with naming middle schools after presidents in this country? And how many of them were named James?

In Jamaica, there are many things named after out national heroes. It shouldn't be that peculiar to me.

After a somewhat rough year, summer rolled around. I believe it was around this time that the first few seeds of hatred had been planted inside you, and angry tendrils of ivy made their way around your chest to strangle your heart. You disliked your aunt like cats disliked water. It was just the way she did things that distanced you from her. She would say one thing, and then do another -- sometimes the exact opposite. She'd criticize and demean people and make them feel bad about making mistakes. How could you love someone in this way? How could you respect a woman who treated others like that?

Your grandmother told you that she was your aunt and you had to love her. She might have been unbearable a few times in life, but you had to just bear it because you lived with her and there was nothing you could do. You didn't like that, and you couldn't tell your aunt how you felt. You turned to journaling your thoughts, but you aunt read those and punished you for it -- more than once or twice.

You entered sixth grade, and you made an absolute fool of yourself. You wanted to have boyfriends and know the gossip and do what everyone else was doing. You did it because you'd been ridiculed in fifth grade for being who you were, and people regularly made fun of you. You were happy to make attempts at being friends and being funny, but people just thought you were weird. Everyone thought you were weird. You were made painfully aware of that in sixth grade. By the time that year ended, you'd been called a whore, crazy, a weirdo, and maybe some other things to your face.

Not even I want to know what they said behind your back.

But you learned, didn't you? Seventh grade was much better. You earned good grades and did your homework. You made more friends and actually actively tried to stay away from drama -- not that it worked all the time, but you did your best. Your mother was happy with you, and you enjoyed your privileges once more without guilt.

You went back to Jamaica in the summer and saw your family. You should've been happy, but you wanted things to be the same way they were before. You wanted to return to the home you left years ago, which no longer existed. Jahmar had grown. Places and people changed. Jamaica was different, and you had to learn to accept it.

Eighth grade went by without a scratch. You thought you had it all figured out, and you thought the peace you'd been seeking all this time would finally belong to you. You never started any trouble, so how could it come knocking at your door?

You thought it was over before it really began.

the one who lives now