The Reason Why I Write

This is the corner of #ps123k in Brooklyn, New York. On March 7th, 1992, a Saturday afternoon, a passerby was walking by and noticed an unresponsive woman lying on the ground, behind the school. She called 911, and shortly thereafter, Officer Tyrone Kirton arrived at the scene. At 2:15 p.m., the woman was pronounced dead. She had been raped and strangled.

That woman was my mom.

My mom had no ID on her when they found her, so it was a few days before they discovered who she was. I remember the police coming to my house to talk to my great-grandmother (My Nana) to tell her what had happened. My Nana told me to go to the back of the house while she spoke with them… but I hid behind the wall so that I could listen to what the police were saying. After they left, Nana told me that my mom had died.

Although that was a terribly difficult time in my life, what I actually remember the most is how comforted my Nana made me feel. Without too many words, she Iet me know that everything would be okay, that I would be OK. She had the beautiful power of letting me know that I was loved and safe… just by the look in her eyes.

As long as my Nana was alive, she gave me that unstoppable feeling. There was nothing in this world that was unsurvivable… but when she passed in 2021, my world came crashing down… because the only maternal figure I had left in this world was the person who emotionally abused me and made me feel like everything I did growing up was bad… that I was bad. Over the years, I’ve often struggled very much emotionally because of this relationship – but when Nana died, without her presence as a protective shield, this person’s voice got even louder in my head.

And so, I write. Why?

I write to keep the “safe” feelings alive… the feelings that my Nana gave me. I didn’t realize it as a child, but my Nana gave me everything I needed to survive. I write to keep that survival plan intact. I write to preserve Nana’s memories and love alive, because she worked so hard to make sure that I was OK and that I would be okay when she died. She died at the age of 103, having lived long enough to see me graduate from nursing school, a career that allows me to survive in this world without any immediate family. I write to preserve the memory of my mom, who, despite being addicted to crack cocaine, managed to make me feel loved in her own special way. I write to drown out the “bad little girl” voice that constantly tries to re-emerge in my head. I write because I want all the struggling little boys and little girls inside to know it was not their responsibility to make the adults around them feel loved when they were a child. I write because I want every child to know it’s never your fault when someone abuses you. Abuse resulted from the choices that the adults decided to make. If they had any emotional distress or mental health issues, it was their responsibility to seek help and not take it out on you. There’s so much power in saying: “I’m sorry.” It’s not your fault if they do not want to say I’m sorry to you. You are precious, and you deserve that at a minimum.

It’s my dream to return to this school one day and do a public reading of my book, “A Broken Twig Can Sprout.” @ps123k, I hope we can make that happen one day. My Nana told me that, when the Detective arrived at our house to tell her that my mother had died, he was very sad to know she had a 7-year-old child. Thank you, Detective, for caring so much about me I’ve thought about you many times over the years, because my Nana would always recount the story. Whoever you are, I want you to know that I turned out ok

Dear Mommy,

I promise you and Nana that I will continue to “sprout.” I will live the life that you never had the opportunity to live. I love you and remember you so well … even these 34 years later.

My friends call me a “dreamer.” I will keep dreaming for you.

Officer Tyrone Kirton, if you are out there… I would love to meet you one day. Thank you for being the first to be there for my mom after she fell asleep in death.