Mom was not a glamorous woman, by any means. Her appearance was far from trendy and fashionable. She was raised in a traditional Baptist church where she was taught to remain a virgin until she was married and to never divorce your husband under any circumstances, all of which she did. When she met daddy he attended church regularly with her. He even joined the Usher Board. He chose that over the Deacon Board claiming it was too much of a commitment. Mom cooked every night even when she was ill. She put everyone and everything before herself.
In the late 90s, my mom grew worried about the environment that she was raising her two pre-teen children in. Dad kept telling her not to worry, when the opportunity came we’d be gone. She believed every word he said, every time he said it. She proposed going back to school to earn extra cash that would allow for a timeline plan to rescue our family out of the Malcolm X Housing Projects within three and a half years. She even had props and materials that night to back her plan. I proudly watched the whole presentation, all excited about finally getting my own room and meeting new friends. Daddy denied her proposal by way of laughing it off. I wept all the way to my room after the verdict, feeling my mother’s pain.
From that night on I decided to never be like my mother. She lacked persistence and aggression. Daddy no longer said please or thank you. Complementing his wife on her culinary skills discontinued. I stopped hearing him talk nasty to her or touch her in grown-up ways. The gradual change caused acute pain and began my increasing resentment for him. I would never stay with a man who was not fully committed to me. I’d rather be alone.
Seven years and a baby girl later, we were still in the M.X.H. projects. When Akeem was seventeen and I was sixteen, he graduated from running weed for an older guy in building six, to flipping coke for himself with a sidekick, J-Boog. He stayed laced in the latest footwear and leather coats. He threw a few dollars my way once in a while when me and my boyfriend, O, would break up.
O was my god. I thought I would never love another being the way that I loved him. He showed me that attention that my father, who was too preoccupied with other women, wouldn’t at that critical age. O, whose birth name was Omar, was six years my senior. He watched me turn from a geeky, elementary school, boney kid to a blossoming young girl with a body of grown woman.
I never believed I was ugly, but didn’t consider myself a beauty either. There was nothing sensual about me. I was a little above the average female height, but not too tall. My toned muscles supported my five feet seven inch frame well. Hips and ass came in college when I didn’t participate in a dedicated sport like I did in high school, so for the most part I was slender with modest B cup breasts. My caramel skin isn’t considered light or exactly brown, but somewhere in the middle. My mom’s genetics gave me her round brown eyes and long and thick tresses that I always found difficult to keep under control, so I kept my mane in braids or some type of orderly ponytail all throughout high school.
O, along with other guys, would wait on the corner everyday starting at two in the afternoon to watch the kids walk home from school. Eventually I could tell he waited exclusively for me. It wasn’t love or anything like that, I now realize. I was a challenge, a new and fresh conquest. All the guys in the neighborhood would take their turn trying to get my attention but I stayed focused on church, school, and extracurricular activities like basketball and softball.