I never had Mother’s undivided attention; so I deliberately misbehaved, thinking that was the way to get it. One day, I tried to get Mother’s attention by devising a plan to destroy Jeanne’s toilet. I thought that if I’d broken her toilet, she wouldn’t want to watch me anymore and Mother would have to watch me herself. I flushed anything down the toilet that would flush including but not limited to bars of soap, toothpaste tubes, hairbrushes and barbie dolls. Finally, the toilet overflowed and Jeanne had to call a plumber. Mother had gotten off work and picked me up before the plumber arrived. Silly me, I thought I was home free, forgetting Jeanne lived right next door. A few hours later, Mother received a phone call from Jeanne. Jeanne told Mother about the products, the plumber fished out; all evidence led straight to me. I knew a butt-whipping was in my near future. Mother punished me by publicly slapping me across the face, but when a butt-whipping was in order, Ubel did the disciplining.

Ubel’s butt-whippings were strange and inappropriate. Mother permitted these whippings without supervising them herself. She allowed him to take me in their bedroom and discipline me as he saw fit. Ubel would either make me strip down, nearly naked into my panties and under-shirt, bend me over his knee and whip my butt with a leather belt; or he’d lay me on my back on the bed with my legs raised over my head, then take the belt to my hinny.

Even with these harsh punishments; I continued to seek Mother’s love and attention through means of destruction. I pissed and defecated on myself at school, threw temper tantrums at social gatherings, drank medicine out of the medicine cabinet and climbed on the counters. These actions backfired. Instead of affection and love from Mother, I received spankings from Ubel. Mother suffered at the hands of Ubel too; so it befuddled me that she tolerated him at all.

It couldn’t have been physical attraction that bounded Mother to Ubel; he was unappealing in every sense of the word. Ubel was a short African American man with a brown-sugared complexion and a receding hairline that did not complement the braids he wore atop his head. He sported oversized jerseys and baggy pants, maybe to further his image as the low-life drug seller he was or to resemble the teenage boys who slung drugs in my neighborhood. Whatever the reason, he never dressed like he was in his late thirties, but he was. Ubel was a nickel and dime drug-dealer and petty con man who was constantly in and out of jail for menial crimes.

While he was a small-time criminal, he had connections that appeased Mother, like having crackheads install bootlegged cable in our apartment or swindle food stamps for us. Ubel would also marijuana for hair services from his young female customers. This benefited me the most because Mother could not do hair. When she attempted to style my thick mane; the results would be uneven ponytails. Mother’s inability to do hair led Sister to learn to experiment with her own hair. The female hairstylists he knew weren’t enough leverage for Sister’s approval. There was nothing he could do to win Sister over. She saw right through him.

Ubel didn’t have enough connections to right the wrongs he’d been creating, which was destroying our household. He was a part of the reason our foundation was cracking around us, it was visible in the walls. Despite the cons he presented, Mother allowed him to stay and obliterate our home. I never understood why; it wasn’t like she needed him to survive. Sure we saved money on cable television, food, and hair appointments. But none of those things were worth the mental, physical, and verbal abuse he inflicted on us. Ultimately, he caused more harm than good. And yet, he was the closest man I ever had to a proper father figure. He was not my nor Sister’s biological father. Still, Mother placed him on a pedestal which not only depleted our household but ruined our mother-daughter bond before it could grow. Even though Ubel was completely wrong for us. For Mother, he was the man in her life. Maybe this learned behavior came from her absentee father but whatever the reason she always prioritized men over her daughters.

A few weeks later, I was in my bedroom when I heard screaming, slapping, & punching sounds coming from the living room. I ran towards the sound to find Ubel huddled over Mother, crouched down on the floor, with blood dripping from the right side of her mouth. She yelled at me, “Go get Jeanne!” But when I ran for the door, Ubel tripped me, preventing me from getting help. There was no escaping this reality because Mother allowed it to continue.

My childhood memories of Christmas or New Year’s (1998) do not exist at all. In fact, there aren’t many fond memories of holidays or birthday parties in this book, however there is an unwavering flash of memories of my fifth birthday party. There was nothing special or eccentric about that fifth birthday on March 1, 1998, but I have never forgotten that day. Mother paid someone to style my hair in a bunch of ponytails adorned with green knocker balls and barrettes. They dressed me in a green and white striped top with green mini shorts. I can’t tell you what the cake tasted like or what presents were given to me. But, the moments I can tell you about are ones that include small joys children should experience daily.

A slew of Mother’s friends, their children and other family members surrounded me, making my house appear whole. The other children played and ran around the living room, laughing, smiling and dancing. While the adults drank Bartles & Jaymes peach flavored wine coolers and smacked their lips, eating Mother’s famous lasagna. I stood back, smiling my big kool-aid smile; taking in every second. In the same living room that I had just been so terrified to stay alone in;was now filled with unity. The same couch Mother left me alone to watch, “Low Down Dirty Shame” was now occupied by the butts of my family members. I was in awe of how a house which typically felt so cold and lonely could now feel so warm and inviting. Suddenly, I felt the urge to urinate. I didn’t want to leave the room; out of fear I might miss some unforgettable moment.

When I finally went to the bathroom, I accidentally locked myself in there. Once again, fear and terror took over, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t because I was alone again; it was because I was missing out on fun moments. Moments that were rare, at least in my childhood. As I was banging and screaming for someone to let me out, I could hear the song, “Can’t Nobody Hold Me Down” playing. It was the only cassette tape we had, so we played it on repeat. In 1998 (a year after its release), it was still a popularly played song; as dynamic duo Puff Daddy & Mase rapped it. That day, it became my favorite song. I continued to beat on the bathroom door while I sang along to the lyrics. “Can’t nobody take my pride, can’t nobody hold me down, oh no I got to keep on moving!” Finally, the bathroom door swung open, and I ran out. Ironic, isn’t it?

The lyrics in the song spoke directly to me, I let the music be my therapy. As the message of strength and resilience rang so loudly in my eardrums, no matter the circumstance, I would persevere. Every time I hear it, as it’s still played on the radio today, I am reminded of that fifth birthday. I couldn’t have known that was the last year I’d be the baby of the family; but it was.

Shortly after my fifth birthday, we were evicted and moved into a motel. It must have been hell for Mother because I’d hear her and Ubel arguing loudly from the bathroom. I would sit right outside the bathroom door, placing my ear to the door to hear the conversation as clearly as I could. There was no escape; it was a single room motel and the bathroom was the only place I could be alone. But it was always occupied. There weren’t any rooms, and therefore I heard all the horror Ubel inflicted upon Mother. It was terrifying hearing Mother being battered like this; it was in this hotel that I promised myself to never let a man abuse me in this way. As a child, I was constantly fearful because of the abuse in my household. So, imagine the happiness I felt when Mother said Ubel had gone on “vacation” (euphemism for jail) and we’d be moving in with my grandmother Audrey in Berkeley, a few cities from Oakland.