My Story

I don't want to just tell a story.I want to tell my story...

This one starts back in 1st grade. Now, most people don't remember that far back. Let's be honest, not much happens that makes lasting impressions other than death. I guess that's when I died or at least the kid in me and for some time the human part in me. Now I know that sounded far fetched but no I'm not an alien or pretending to be some superhuman. Humans connect via emotions, that's what being human is all about good and bad. Well, I went through a lot of traumatizing things and I was forced to learn how not to show feelings and eventually it caused me not to feel. You'll understand... So back in first grade, I went to a private school I was like a normal kid a little 6 years old full of laughter. The school was split into 2 parts the "baby school" which housed yes babies, pre-k, kindergarten kids and the after school program which was at the start of the block and the end of the block was my school daycare for kids in 1st-3rd grade. The school also had a summer program that started 2 weeks after the normal school year ended and then ended 2 weeks before a new school year began. So I basically got away from that school for 4 weeks in a given year, not including holidays and snow days. Now going to this school was almost tradition; I went there with my younger siblings and my cousins. I started first grade right after my cousin already left to start church school but even though I was alone a lot of people already knew me. I was that kid you know the teacher's pet. I always wanted to sit at the front, loved to volunteer, and always had a classroom job. I always gave out goodies bags for holidays to everyone including the teachers. Here is where the story gets sour. We were maybe 2-3 weeks into a new school year when we got a new student. Let's call her Ria. She wasn't very nice and to be honest kind of scary. She was dark-skinned and for a 6-year-old compared to me "the little twig" she was built. No not "fat" just bigger than me but back then everyone was bigger than me. I tried to make friends with her but she wasn't my biggest fan and I took the hint. After about another 2 weeks being at my school, she started picking on me. I don't know why I never did anything to her but I became her target and anyone who was friends with me became one too. After a few months, she had a group of girls that always bullied me. They threw me inside lockers, locked me in the bathroom, hid my backpack, and called me a bunch of stuff; not all in English. Now I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't tell the teachers. Well, let's start why that didn't work! As mean as she was it was nothing compared to her mom and the school tried really hard not to have a confrontation with her. Plus my teachers became no better than the bully herself. I used to go to a school counselor and I stopped going the day I found she told the teachers everything I told her. Then the teachers used me in class as an example of what not to do or say or be. That is how the student bullies found out about the things I said labeling me a snitch. We know the saying "snitches get stitches" and in my case it was true. Basic emotional abuse became physical. By now I had no friends. No one wanted to be and I can't blame them anyone who even tried to be nice to me would start getting bullied too and we were just kids no one wanted that. The last thing my "friends" told me was "if you ever talk to us again... even look at us and we will start picking on you too". Those words carried me for years... Now school got worse whenever we were changing classrooms kids would pull my hair, punch me, kick me, trip me and threw anything they could get there hands on at me and for a private school that was a lot of things; books, pencils, scissors, food, an air hockey puck, glue... honestly I could be here all day! The teachers that weren't directly mean to me just looked the other way. The bullies weren't just girls either the boys used hit me just as much as the girls. Next, I'm sure you're wondering WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS??? Well, I didn't have a dad. He lived in Florida taking care of my 3 older brothers (his side-not my mom's) so it was just me my mom and my Lil sister who was up the block at the Kindergarten classes. My mom was born in Guyana (South America). She came to America sometime around 3rd grade and I only know that because we had the same 3rd-grade teacher but I'll get to that later. She was raised still by a very traditional family who held onto strong values and ideals. For example, every school I have ever been in has told my mother to get me professional counseling for depression, ADHD and dyslexia but my mom never took me afraid they would just drug me up. So what did she do to help? For my ADHD she thought throwing me into every club to keep my little hyper butt busy would help but it never did change me always getting up randomly in the middle of class. To help my dyslexia she had me reading the dictionary and doing research projects (which I sort of loved so.... yeah). Whenever I got into trouble for example lying, she would make me write 100 times "I will not lie" and if I wrote sloppy well I had to start all over. Great practice for my calligraphy however it didn't solve my problems in the long run. In fact my basic reading and writing skills have only gotten worse (Special thanks to auto correct and Grammarly for helping type all this down). To help my depression we just ignored it because she always and still does believe we control how we feel so if you don't want to then don't... can you see how that might have shaped the future part of my story... If you're wondering what I had to be depressed about well a year before my great-grandmother died and at the time I blamed myself for her death. I always used to go check on her and that day I was a little late. When I did go and check on her she wasn't moving. I was so scared I called out to my family screaming because she wouldn't open her eyes. They pushed me out of the room. A lot of time passed and I didn't know what was happening but I knew she was gone. I ran to the bathroom crying. When I finally came out someone was carrying her body away and my whole family was in the living room in tears. I used to think if I had gone to her sooner maybe I would have been able to warn them in time but the truth was there was nothing anyone could have done. She was dying of breast cancer and all she wanted was to come home for her final days and she did. She died in the same spot her husband did years before of pancreatic cancer. I was a baby when he died so I don't remember him but I have all the stories from my family. Unlike my siblings and cousins, I am very family-oriented. I have a reason to hate each member of my family they all have hurt me in so MANY ways but that's also what shaped me and I'm stronger today because of it. So I love them nonetheless and they only raised us the way they were raised at least I know what mistakes not to make. Now that I'm older I understand why my mother did some of what she did and I no longer hate her for it but growing up yeah not my favorite person. When I tried to tell my mother about what was happening she responded "what did you do to start it" as if I was at fault... like there was some justification for someone to punch me in the face. Like I deserved it... So another set of words that followed me. I felt I had no one left to tell. My school wasn't going to stop it and my mother wouldn't defend me; why should I tell anyone else. From that day on it was my job to protect myself. If anyone ever asked about my bruises I told them I got them during soccer, tag, any of the sports I played or that I was just being clumsy which wasn't a far fetch because at home I was known for being accident-prone (walking into the fridge, walls, polls outside, trees... you get the idea) In school, I learned that if I cried or showed them that they were hurting me the beatings would only get worse. So I taught myself not to cry... eventually with all the beatings I just stop feeling the punches and kicks. Even to this day, there are places on my body when hit I don't feel it. Eventually, school ended and most of there tactics started to wear off but of course they found new ways to hurt me. However, that all started over the summer...

Stay Tuned for 1st Grade Summer!