If we compare my life to a house, my parents are like the footings to the foundation in my life. In my case, the footings to my foundation are disproportionate, unstable, and insecure. Yet somehow, I’ve crawled out of the pits of the dirt and rebuilt my foundation by slowly repairing the footings which have condemned my house; giving me a lifelong project.

It was the summer of 1997; I was four years old, living in a section 8 neighborhood filled with the laughter and joy of children playing. Children improvised fun by unscrewing the fire hydrant to get soaking wet on those hot summer days. They chased the ice cream truck for blocks, while it blared its popular tune Hello, mimicking the Gameboy sound, and the children yelled and screamed, “Ice cream, ice cream, mama, mama I want ice cream!” I grew up here, in one of the deepest parts of Oakland, on 85th & Dowling, in a two-bedroom duplex apartment with my Mother, her boyfriend, Ubel, and my older Sister (I will refer to Mother and Sister as such instead of providing them with names).

It was the 90s, a time when flashy clothes and loud rap music were popular among East Oakland youth. Rappers like Too Short, Digital Underground, and The 2 Live Crew made it seem acceptable with their lyrics for mothers to be focused on sex rather than parenting. These lyrics influenced more than just promiscuous behavior from young women and mothers. It also encouraged fashions these loose adults should wear.

Mother, being one of them, dressed in multi-colored windbreaker jumpsuits or big flashy t-shirts and shorts which accented her flawless chocolate skin. She always wore braids, often styled as an updo with dangling earrings which dripped from her earlobes. Mother had a tight and trim figure; men referred to her as “slim goodie” which delighted her so much she embraced the nickname. She constantly sought attention and was bold in doing so. Mother would dance by herself in the middle of the room to seek the attention of all the onlookers. Mother’s glistening, smooth chocolate skin made her even more appealing, although I considered her beauty to be ordinary. Mother was more intriguing than she was beautiful. She had the darkest eyes, with bags so deep, one could place a nickel underneath her eye.

Mother was a single parent who had Sister and me by two different men. She had Sister at seventeen years old; as a result, she never graduated high school, then she had me at twenty-three. We were six years apart in age; and having different fathers caused us to have drastically different physical traits. The major difference between us was our skin complexions. Sister had the “ideal” skin tone; she was a buttery, rich caramel color, similar to those Werther original hard candies (our grandmother Audrey always had these in her purse), that we loved to eat. She resembled our grandmother Audrey with her freckles, and it was obvious she was the prettier sibling. I idolized her complexion while enduring constant criticism about mine.

Growing up, it seemed like a crime to be as black as the midnight sky because only the light or fair-skinned girls like Sister were accepted. I was ignorant of the concept of colorism, though that was what I was experiencing. Children teased me, calling me names like “blacky” or “tar baby”, laughing and raving on. My skin has always been a dark cocoa complexion, similar to Mother’s, yet she made me feel inferior for being darker than Sister. I was nearly identical to Mother; yet ostracized by her as if I reminded her of everything she was not. We even shared a similar smile. While she had a noticeable gap between her front teeth, I had an awkward smile in which I would clamp my teeth tightly together with my juicy bottom lip hanging in the balance for dear life. I inherited my often-mocked bottom lip and lanky height from Andrew; and to make matters worse, I wore prescription glasses. I was an average-looking child, not beautiful like Sister but not ugly either.

Sister and I were vastly different in complexion, causing children to doubt we were “real” siblings. Often, they assumed we were each other’s play sister (a close friend you wish was in relation to you for various reasons). Children continuously asked us, “Are y’all really sisters?” We would reply, “Yeah”. They’d continue, “Same mama and daddy?” We’d reply, “Same mama, fool!” I wasn’t light skinned like Sister was, but this public acknowledgment of our lineage, although I held a darker hue, made me feel better about being cocoa colored. I was tired of being constantly teased for my skin tone. I would’ve done anything to have lighter skin like Sister. I didn’t like feeling less than.

Sister was my mother, caregiver, and best friend wrapped into a child-size package. If Sister asked to go anywhere, Mother would be quick to announce, “You can’t go unless you take Tete!” (Tete is a nickname my grandmother Audrey called me.) When Mother was a teenager, Grandmother Audrey would impose this same demand on her. But unlike Sister, who always took me with her in the end, Mother would choose to stay home rather than take her little sister. Sister felt it was better to be out of the house than stuck in the house with me. It must have been a burden to be a child, raising a child. I never realized how much Sister meant to my household until she went to live with her father in Sacramento, more than an hour from Oakland. Sister was the cement which kept the walls of my house intact; with her gone, I was left to deteriorate with Mother; who often left me in this fragmented home, by myself.

I thought I might enjoy being an only child; I was wrong. Mother worked full time as a sales manager at a popular rental car company called National, and after work, she gambled at the bingo hall. So the attention I received was little to none. I missed Sister; I had no one around who cared for my presence. Mother reaffirmed her choices by saying, “I don’t drink, and I’ve never done drugs!” This was one of her favorite lines to affirm herself because it never made me feel any better. Mother made gambling seem just as addictive as a drug; like a rapid addiction that sucks in all its victims, swallowing them whole and then spitting them out. Gambling was as toxic as crack was to a junky who feigned for their next hit. Just like a junky, Mother would leave me by myself to feed her fix.

Some days or nights, while Mother went to work or bingo, she would pay our next-door neighbor, Jeanne, to watch me. I have heard different stories from various family members about how Mother would leave us (Sister and I) at home by ourselves as toddlers. The first time I remember being left by myself was not the first time, but it is the first time I recall. I am not sure if Jeanne was unavailable or Mother didn’t want to pay for her services; but either way, I was left alone. The scene replays in my head. Mother put “A Low Down Dirty Shame” into the VHS player on the living room television, one of my favorite movies because it was an action romance. I loved the banter between the main characters Peaches and Shane. After pressing play on the VHS, Mother said, “I’ll be back!” She continued, “Just watch this movie, and by the time it’s done playing, you’ll be asleep, and when you awake, I’ll be here”. I hesitantly nodded my head up and down; I was terrified. Knowingly, she asked, “Are you scared?” I said, “No!” She told me “to be a big girl!”

Mother continued with her rules. It was the first of many times I’d hear her reiterate her house mantras: “Don’t answer the front door for anybody, I don’t care if it’s one of your friends, the police, or my mama. Don’t answer my telephone! Don’t touch the stove or the oven. What goes on in my house stays in my house!”

Then she was gone. I sat in a scared trance on the couch. I was too scared to move out of fear something bad would occur. I kept thinking all these “what ifs.” “What if someone breaks into the house and gets me?” “What if I go to the bathroom and I come back to a stranger sitting on the couch?” “What if Mother doesn’t come back?” I just kept scaring myself with all these hypothetical situations. I don’t know if I fell asleep or not. But, I do know I stayed in that exact spot on the couch until she came back.

Don’t forget to follow my Instagram and comment on the videos I’ve created to accompany these stories. I’ve carefully selected music to match what’s happening, so pay attention. Through my book, I’m telling you a story and painting you a picture. With my Instagram, I’m bringing that story to life. My audio podcast read-alongs are coming soon to complete the experience!

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