I grew up on the streets of 54^th and Imperial on the 4 corners of death, in South East, San Diego. Gang violence terrorized the neighborhood, and it was never safe. My mother conducted herself around people that engaged in dangerous activities such as, the drug extortion world, the prostitution world and the fatalities that took place on a daily. She lost many friends to the streets, and you would think that she would’ve learned to make a difference, better yet BE a difference in society and in her neighborhood, but she didn’t.

At 5 years old, I shouldn’t have known what crack was and the things it could do to those who use it, but I did. I shouldn’t have known that women sold their bodies in exchange for drugs or money but I did and knowing these things played tricks on my mind, all throughout life. I was curious. I wanted to know what possessed people to turn to drugs, I wanted to know why everyone was getting shot, or why it wasn’t safe to be outside at certain times. I had all the questions but no one had the answers. I fantasized about this perfect life but later stopped wishing. I should have been somewhere playing with baby dolls and enjoying my childhood but that was all just a fairytale evidently.

From what I can remember life was fast paced and growing up I didn’t experience the typical lavish life of having both parents present in a household nor did I have a pet or a white picket fence. In fact my parents didn’t marry and my family wasn’t wealthy. Of course all of these things is what I dreamt of, but I continued to face reality as life went on. At one point my mother had her own apartment but when the tough got tough, she packed our bags and moved in with my grandma, her mother, who at the time was living large. She had a spacious two bedroom apartment, beautifully furnished and made a strict point that since my mother was lugging her no good boyfriend Rj with us, he had to at least have a job or be contributing to the household in which he did neither. But yet my grandma made it clear that she wasn’t taking care of a grown man and scolded my mother daily about it, but of course you couldn’t tell her anything about the men she devoted her life to. So as time went on my grandmother just let him slide, I just wish she would have noticed.

However, my mother was fighting a battle that at the time I wasn’t old enough to comprehend, my mind was not developed enough to unfold the true reason behind why she accepted ungodly treatments, and allowed negative examples around her children.

Once my brother’s father gave up on him, it seemed as though she gave up on all of us. She never asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, we never went anywhere and most of her time went to Rj. I’ll never forget the look on her face, she wore the expression of a woman with no direction. No matter how much I reasoned with her, how much I tried to ease her pain, there was nothing that I could do to replace the fulfilment she received from men. Were we ever enough? I recall incidents where I’d be present during her brawls and verbal altercations, sometimes even between old flings of my dad. Witnessing it made me wonder if that was the way I was supposed to be. Would the answer to my problems be violence or was I going to rise above the things that I was exposed to. I looked up to my mother in many ways but what I didn’t know then and what I now realize is that her choices weren’t always the greatest, risky environments weren’t the only thing, me and my siblings were exposed to.

My mother’s estranged boyfriend continued to cause complication, and my grandma was sick of it. She was tired of supporting two adults, someone needed a job, someone needed to be going to school, but sitting around doing nothing was not going to be tolerated, and she made that apparent, except not everyone caught her raft and the truth is, complication wasn’t the only thing he was causing.

“Listen T, I was going through the money for the bills and noticed some missing. First my stereo, now this. I know damn well it didn’t catch legs and walk, these kids didn’t take it, so where is my money?” My grandma asked, heated.

“So what? What you sayin’? Yo senile ass always tryna accuse somebody of somethin. He ain’t take nothin.”

“When I get my check at the end of the month, you ain’t gotta worry bout him, me or my kids. Cause we outta here!”

I stood in terror as I watched them go at it like a pack of wolves, I hated to see them fuss and fight. But it didn’t take a rocket science to know who stole the money, it was evident.

“This don’t have a damn thang to do with my grandkids and you know that, you just tryna stand up for that piss po’ of a man. But it’s alright, if anything else come up missing y’all gotta go!” She said, throwing her hands in the air and dismissing herself out of the living room.

All I wanted was for them to get along so that we can all do things as a family, I wanted my mother to be happy, not sad and upset all the time. I made sure to clean up like she’d ask, or be quiet when she claimed she wanted to rest but I knew the truth. The person who made her the happiest, was the same person that brought pain to our front door.

It was a typical Sunday, and my grandma was getting ready for church. I knew that she was going to be gone a couple of hours, but definitely wasn’t anticipating it. I wish she would have stayed.

“Shyra, I’m going to church. Tell ya mama to feed y’all and come lock this door. Don’t open it for anybody!” My grandma said, rushing out of the door.

“Can we go?” I said softly watching the door slam behind her.

Devin and Tamara were sitting on the kitchen floor coloring, while I stared out of the window, watching the other kids play and spray each other with water guns. I wanted to join them but knew that we weren’t allowed outside, “what he says goes, and we have to listen to him.” Was the lecture that I was so used to hearing, so it naturally played in my mind but who was he to dictate to me? He wasn’t my dad and wasn’t even father figure material, so I’d take any loss if he had to be the one to answer to me. I wanted to be normal, do things like other little kids, go to the park or out for ice cream. But my mother was too busy trying to buy love and my father was behind bars, so that left no time to cater to us, cater to our needs, our wants, our fears.

I found myself startled as I heard bickering and screaming coming from the bedroom. “Get out! Get out!” Mom cried. “Where’s the money? Where’s the damn money?” He barked. Infuriated with no response, the force of his slap sent my mother flying across the floor, and immediately my siblings and I rushed over to her, in shock.

“Who told y’all to get out the corner?”

“Get in the corner and turn around!” He ordered, deranged.

Afraid of being his next victim, we all found our way in the corner, obliging to his demands. Devin and Tamara looked up at him, as he was taking his belt off, they began crying hysterically, begging him not to hurt us, we all started apologizing for all of these imaginary things that we didn’t even do. We figured that it would make him stop and think, not realizing that it meant nothing to him. He was an unhealthy spirit who found pleasure in victimizing women and children. Everything from his posture, his voice and his words screamed demonic. My lips trembled the entire time, but I was too mad to cry. I was too mad to show emotion. I was too mad to do anything. I scanned the living room at my mother and when we locked eyes, her facial expression was blank, as if she shared no remorse. Physically it was her, but mentally she was not there. What did we do to deserve this? Aren’t you going to say something, attempt to help, anything? You can’t just sit there and allow this, I wanted to say but nothing came out. I was numb, indecisive and felt betrayed, but still loved my mother more than anything.

“Turn around!”

 I didn’t budge, and the more I didn’t cooperate the angrier he became.

“I said turn around you little b****!”

The torturous battle began, he started striking each of us repeatedly, almost in a pattern. Making sure not to give the other too little or too less, he wanted the pain that he was subjecting us to, to be exactly what he was making it, brutal.

“Don’t hit my brother in his head! Stop! Please! Mommy tell him to stop!” I panicked then lunged for the belt only for that to result in being hit even more, and even harder. The initial shock of it all, stopped my tears and for a minute I was breathing heavily, rocking myself in and out of sleep. I was so disgusted, I just didn’t know what else to do. I sat in the corner consoling my brother and sister, welts covered our body.

 For a while I was very distant from my mother. It was hard to even look her in the face, every night I went to sleep wondering why? Why didn’t she defend us? When family speculated on his alleged abuse towards her, she would single handily deny it and warned me to do the same, but why? Who in their right mind would protect someone that finds no problem abusing a woman he’s involved with and her 3 children, whenever he pleases or when things doesn’t go his way. It wasn’t fair but really life isn’t and I started playing the blame game, big time. I pointed the finger at my father for focusing his attention on negativity, when it should’ve been focused on me, I pointed the finger at my grandma for being oblivious when I needed to accept that it just wasn’t her fault and most of all, I pointed the finger at my mother. I was so disappointed in her, she let me and my siblings down in the worst way possible. ‘The things some women will do and the lengths that they will take, just to say, they gotta man.’