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Growing Up Pt 1

Updated: Jun 30, 2020

Growing up in a new home, and with a Hispanic family was interesting. Yes here I was an African American little girl being taken from an African American family to be raised with people who were Puerto Rican. Luckily it wasn’t such a culture shock because I was still so young and impressionable and adapting. I grew up in a loving home and considered myself to be so lucky and spoiled. I don’t ever remember having to go without or missing any meals. I had clean clothes, my own room, cable tv, a backyard and my own everything. My mom always tried to be fair so my sister and I always had our own everything. It was rare that we had to share anything. No we weren’t perfect and yes we had our shares of ups and down. But somehow everything was always consistent and stable. I went on trips and vacations. I’ve been to Disney numerous times. I’ve been fortunate to go to Puerto Rico and a list of other states and places. For that I am grateful. But this was not without me having to experience my share of mental and verbal abuse from my mother. This is something that her and I have talked about and healed from thank god. She loved me as much as she could and as much as she was equipped to. I don’t really talk about a dad much because the only one I ever loved that protected me, shielded me, and loved me unconditionally seemed to move away and vanish with my heart like a thief in the night. And the only other one I was left with was mentally, verbally and physically abusive to me. I loved him and respected him but feared him. He was stern and had a temper. He assumed the father role and felt like he could do with it what he wanted. I didn’t always hate him because he did have some good qualities. He was sweet and thoughtful and loving. He was hardworking and a hustler (just like my husband). He was extremely independent and had a good work ethic. Despite the fact that he was in and out of our lives sporadically because of his drinking and drug addiction. There’s that word addiction again. Seems like no matter where I went and no matter what family I went to I couldn’t escape that in my life. I wouldn’t say his addiction really ever affected me because my mom did a good job of shielding us all from that. Although I can remember getting a knock on the side door and the back door one day simultaneously. It was the strangest thing. There were cops all over my backyard and front yard and In the alleys scouring the neighborhood looking for him. They all went away once they searched the house and realized he wasn’t in the house. Even through all of that though I never thought any less of him. To me that was still my “Papi.” Thats what I called this man and that’s the last time you will ever hear me refer to him as that. Because it brings up so many memories and good times of when I HAD MY OWN PAPI! As I was saying he wasn’t a bad man and he had a lot of love to give. I don’t blame him for anything he’s done to me. And I will never forget the good times. I will never forget it being about March or May, couple of months after my birthday. I remember him coming home and telling me to get dressed because he was taking me somewhere. I had no idea where we were going but for some reason in my head I felt like I was being taken back to a foster home ( IDK WHY I THOUGHT THAT)! I remember being on the freeway for a while and then pulling up to Valleyview Movie Theater. He had brought me there with his friend Kevin because he wanted to celebrate my belated birthday with me by taking to me see a movie that I had been wanting to see for a while. YEAH YOU GUESSED IT, Diary of a Mad Black Woman. When I got there I was told I could get whatever I wanted from the concession stand and that this was all for me and in celebration for my birthday. I felt so happy and special and thought about. I loved him so much in that moment. “MY Papi.”

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