The gloomy weather the following day mirrored my mood. I dressed for school silently, thinking about how hopeless our life was. A friend soon stopped by to pick me up, and we walked toward the school together. Considering our current circumstances, I kept thinking about my mother’s request and her audacity to ask God for anything. My friends chatted happily the whole time, completely oblivious to the weight I felt. As we approached the park in front of Rosemont Middle School, I glared at the ground, still trying to figure out how to escape this dilemma where my sister and I lived. Then I noticed my friend stepping over a wet dollar bill; as I bent down to pick it up, I quickly realized it was a one-hundred-dollar bill. I held back my tears as the reality of what had happened encompassed me. Of course, being an average teen, my friend wanted to skip school and go shopping. I informed her God had answered a prayer and sent the money. I found my mother in the living-room and showed her the wet one-hundred-dollar bill. According to Patty, she noticed a light reflecting off my face during her prayers the night before and felt the answer would come through me. Of course, my mother made the entire act of God about her faith, but I knew it was more than that. God was letting me know He was real, He was observing, and yes, He cared. We took a taxi, picked up my grandmother, bought groceries, and had a peaceful family dinner. That one day helped me hold on to the idea of God’s goodness for the next few years.
It didn’t take long for my mother to forget God’s provision, and once again, the abuse escalated. After a huge fight, I followed the advice of a friend to runaway; what I didn’t know was that my friend was gang-affiliated. At her boyfriend’s request, she was trying to set me up. I was walking over a bridge on E. Belknap St., and suddenly, an older teenage boy dragged me under the bridge and pinned me down with the intention of sexual assault. I escaped with minor injuries. When I arrived home, and my mother found out, she was more violent toward me than the gang member had been. She screamed; I deserved everything that had happened. Making me feel even more alone and vulnerable.
My mother always had people coming in and out of the house. She appeared friendly and outgoing; people enjoyed hanging out with her. Given our circumstances, I got to know some of her friends, who seemed decent. One lady, in particular, spent a lot of time talking to me about various aspects of life. She seemed to be authentic and compassionate. Then, one day, she asked me about my relationship with my mother. I avoided the subject for weeks out of concern for potential trouble. However, I eventually opened up and answered her questions. I downplayed the incidents but admitted that our relationship could be volatile. She listened and offered some advice on how to maintain peace. The next day, my mother came into the room with a smirk. She told me her friend thought I was crazy and had lied for attention. According to my mother, the lady had only spoken to me out of courtesy to her, and my mother had forewarned her about my dishonesty. Her statement shocked me, and I realized just how manipulative my mother could be.
At fourteen, I was relatively mild compared to other teens who lived in the Southside neighborhood. I had met my first boyfriend and had my first kiss. I smoked cigarettes and marijuana and drank beer occasionally. Marijuana had been a regular part of my life from a young age; I started rolling joints for my parents at seven. When offered more potent alcohol and drugs, I refused. Looking out for my younger sister meant keeping a clear head. I was far from perfect, but I still wanted to protect the little innocence left.
