​

One thing my parents have always told me was to have tough skin. I always knew we did not have a lot of money to be spent on careless things. Sacrifice: a word so scorched into my memory. At times I confused it with Godliness. God, family, and sacrifice were the core values of my family. Throughout the rest of my childhood, I lived with my mother and father and my three younger siblings in a three story on the Northwest side of Philadelphia. Every day my mom and (on special occasions ) my dad drove us the thirty minutes across town to get us to school, not always on time, but we still got there before our first class.

 

These were not quiet times, with KYW news station slowly fading into the background as my sisters and I slowly mouthed the words to their theme song. This was only when my dad drove us. However, with my mother, it was the closest thing to a circus. Everyone was yelling from the moment we entered the car. Gospel music poured out the windows as we sped down Broad St.

Papers flew all over the car, from unfinished homework to crumpled permission slips. My mom yelling towards the back of the car to stop tell us to stop screaming and to make our handwriting straighter. Flying down the street in our grey Honda SUV even though we were already nearing if not passing the speed limit. It was already passed seven during rush hour after the many times I looked at our car clock that was thirty minutes behind.

 

At this point, we would be two blocks away from our destination and my mother's yells are no longer for us to finish our homework and to hold tight. Instead, they turn to, ”Hurry up and pull out three pieces of loose leaf for y’all notes.” This was the time we were very creative, conjuring different excuses for why were late today because apparently living thirty minutes away from your school to my third-grade mind wasn’t enough. They ranged from the classic,” We woke up late….” or “we were feeling sick…” or even, “there was a lot of traffic on our way to school this morning.” Most of these were true half of the time, especially us being sick. There was the rule in our house only known silently to us as can you walk. This meant that if you ever wanted to make the trivial excuse to my parents that you were sick my mother will tell you if you can walk you can go to school. It doesn't matter if your menstrual cycle was on and these were your first ever bouts with cramps, or your nose is bleeding out large bits of tissue or even throwing up; we still went to school.

 

However, there was one memory that strayed from the melting pot of these mornings of forged notes. This time my mother had written the note, but she hadn’t asked me to make up a note aloud for her. This time she was quiet and wrote about a sacred subject; life at home. The sheer mention, I silently question how my mother’s hands didn't blister from this unholy act. Again I'll say I, even to this day have never outwardly hated my childhood. We did what we had to do to get by in changing and hard times, which for us was frequent. She let them into my only safe space

 

I had never told anyone this to anyone. My home and more specifically my family was my safe space away from all the chaos of school ad the judging outside world. Like every other child in this great nation, I was bullied. It was quite simply my expressive side was not well-received y those of the” boujee “ upper middle class. And that my uniform wasn’t clean and pressed enough to their likings. Their loss I always told myself, tough skin I reminded myself. These days all I ever wanted to do was go home to my sanctuary, the only place my perpetrators could never harm.

 

In the invading letter, my mom spoke of our current living situation. We hadn’t had heat in our home for over three months. Meaning we were forced to live out of my parents master bedroom for that duration of time. Even while she was writing it we were still living as so. We wouldn’t be allowed back to our rooms for another month. My younger brother and sister slept with my mother and father in their queen sized bed, just enough space for each to have a little wiggle room. While me and my other sister only sixteen months younger than I was made makeshift beds on the floor out of spare blankets and unused pillows. I especially had a fondness for my spot because I was able to put a sheet over top my head to act as a curtain.

A large kerosene heater would run all night to heat us. Thinking back it reminds of the hole the invisible man spoke so proudly of in the Invisible Man.

Thinking back I still don’t regret our warm-hole away from the world, as long as I was with my family.

​

​