CHAPTER 1

In the beginning

Throughout our lives, there will be multiple decision we will face which will affect us in many ways. Some of those effects may be good, while others can be damaging. Depending on which way the scale sways, we can be changed for the better or worse. During my lifetime, there has been many problems that arose looking to destroy me. People who have used me for their own self gain and left me out to rot after they were done. There were times where left was down, up was right, and the blue sky above was filled with grey. I should be a completely different person than I am now, but God had other plans for me. The master’s ambitions were unknown to me in the beginning, yet over time I would come to see them clearly.

I was born and raised in the city of New Orleans for most of my life. Growing up I was always “bright eyed, and bushy tailed,” as the old folks would say. I was a young girl that enjoyed every aspect of life, nor did I have any major complaints about it. Being so carefree was afforded to me by my mother. A single parent who worked multiple jobs to make sure my two brothers and I had everything we could have possibly needed. She was a gogetter, a hardworking woman that did not allow any of her children to want for anything. It was something I truly admired about her and wanted to be just like her when I grew up. She made our lives easy and simple for a while.

When I turned 11 years old, my mother moved us to my grandmother’s house due to safety reasons. It was an unexpected decision, surprising to my siblings and me. I didn’t want to move, knowing I would miss my friends, the school I attended, and the neighborhood, but as all children should, I kept my mouth closed. I did not fuss or complain about it and did exactly what I was told. My mother always knew what was best for us, and after some time I began to adjust and understood it was the right choice. We were accustomed to moving around a bit. We’ve lived in many different areas of the city like Uptown, the Westbank, Downtown, and the lower 9th ward. It wasn’t the moving part that bothered me as much, it was more about the things that I had become used to.

My grandmother lived on the other side of town; her house was on Plum St. in Avondale. It was far away from what we were used to, nonetheless we were ready. My nana was the best in the world in my opinion and she treated us with so much love and grace. I always did love going to her house even before we moved in. Being around her, I knew I could get away with much more mischief than I could at home. The neighborhood she lived in was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a quiet little street which at times would be lively with children playing after school, and older women sitting on the porch gossiping. There would be block parties and DJs in the summertime, and ice-cold streets in the winter. Things were much different than before, but we were happy.

My mother continued to work hard and provide for us the way she always had, but our lack of time spent together was felt between my two brothers and myself. You see, during the holidays we never had the chance to decorate Christmas trees and cook dinner together like some families do. We didn’t have the opportunity to normalize traditions because of my mother’s go-getter mentality. I do not nor did I ever fault her for it, hell, like I mentioned previously I admired her for it. Yet even so, I cannot say that it hadn’t affected me in ways that my young mind could not understand.

Now don’t get me wrong or think that I held or hold some type do distain for my mom because I didn’t and don’t. She was an amazing woman who did absolutely everything she needed to in order to take care of her children. We never went without anything due to her determination and drive. Our stomachs nor eyes ever witness the effects of poverty and on top of that, we never had to depend on other family members for anything. She was the epitome of the kind of woman I wanted to become.

Her working Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months turned into a year. I was excited to get the little time with her as I did, but I wanted more. I desired more mother daughter time like I would see other kids have with their mom.

At times I wanted her to just stay home and hold me for hours while I asked a million in one question like some kids ask their parents. I would have dreams of us taking long walks in the park, holding hands, and eating ice cream while laughing at jokes she told. Dreams I never told her or anyone else about for that matter. Often my mind would be filled with the idea of us returning to our old house and doing more things as a family, but those days never came, and I grew to accept it.

When my mother had days off, her best friend would come over to visit. Tagging along with her would be her daughter, Laura, who was around the same age as me. We clicked instantly and got along great without any issues. Our taste was practically the same. We did things like play with dolls, pretend we were princesses in a castle, drew boxes on the ground with rocks to play hopscotch for hours and we even liked the same foods. We became best friends just as our mothers were and felt really connected to one another.

One Thursday afternoon, excitement swelled up inside of me like bread rising in the oven. It was almost the weekend, and I knew that meant I was going to see my friend soon. I walked to the front of the house, moving the window curtain aside to have a look outside. I stared out onto the sidewalk imagining us hopping inside of the faded boxes that were partially washed away by the rain. Only one more day left before our mischief could begin again, I thought to myself. We knew the plans we had for that weekend could get us into trouble with our parents, but neither of us cared when we talked about it and weren’t afraid of the repercussions.

Waiting patiently, I suddenly heard a voice rise from one of the bedrooms. Being the nosey child I was, I crept over and placed my ear to the door. I listened closely to the person on the other side speaking about something horrible that happened.

She was on the phone talking about someone who had died. Bracing myself tighter against the door, I listened in further on the conversation. My little heart dropped into my stomach upon hearing them call out my friend’s mother’s name. My eyes darted back and forth as the conversation continued. Having no real experience with death at that age, I was a bit confused and scared. How did it happen? I began to think. Where was my friend? What was she doing? So many questions circulated inside my head at that moment. “Get your nosey behind away from that door!” I heard my grandmother yell out from behind me. Frighten by her sudden appearance, I ran towards the back of the house and into my room, shutting the door behind me. My heart raced faster than a beating drum as I hoped she would not come in the room behind me. I waited a few minutes expecting her to barge in at any moment, but that time never came, and I was relieved.

For the rest of the afternoon, I sat on my bed replaying the events of that day over and over in my head. “How did she die?” I whispered to myself. I mean, I understood what someone dying meant of course, but having it happen to a person I knew was different. Sure, I’ve seen it in movies hundreds of times, someone falling over, grasping at their chest, and then abruptly collapsing on the floor, but it wasn’t something I experienced before in real life at the time, so I really had no clue on how to process it. It was a bit confusing for an 11-year-old to comprehend. I just sat in my room, peering out the window and watched as all the cars passed by, waiting for someone to come and explain to me.

Once I learned what brought about Laura’s mothers’ death, subsequently I found my self-questioning God because of it. Why does bad things happen to some and good to others? Why were people poor? Why do people get hurt? I found myself rambling inside my head on and on about all kinds of problems the world faced. I complained to myself so much about not being able to spend time with my mother, and here it is my friend has just lost hers. How could I continue to be upset at something so fickle when my best friend had just lost the most important person in her life. Even at that age I knew continuing to do so would be selfish of me. On that day, I promised that I would stop complaining about my own problems until I received an answer from God himself. On one hand I was super determined because I was sad for my friend, and on the other there were things I just selfishly needed to know for myself. Either way I wanted to know exactly what God had to say about each concern I had.

A few days after hearing the bad news, I sat outside on the porch feeling the cool breeze softly caress my skin. I pondered about hearing a voice whisper into my ears, giving me the answers, I hoped for. Perhaps it would be written in the clouds blanketed across the ocean-blue sky or possibly scattered about the stars later that night. I thought of a stranger who I’d never seen before, stopping, and giving me a message from God. So many possibilities, so many ways it could happen. I honestly didn’t care which way it came to me, the only thing I cared about was receiving it.

Soon, I was face to face with my friend, staring at her as tears shimmered in her eyes like diamonds. I didn’t know what words to say to her at the time that would ease her pain. I hoped that by the time I saw...