I remember being with my best friend, my mom. (I never even met my father.)
I remember the fun we had when she first taught me how to cook rice and beans.
I remember when my mom got sick.
I remember when she died. I was eight years old.
I remember how much I missed her.
I remember when my life became a disaster.
I remember when my aunt took my mp3 away from me
because I hadn’t cleaned the kitchen by 8:00.
I remember feeling like a slave — stripped of all rights.
I couldn’t listen to my radio or play any video games.
I was expected to just clean, clean, clean.
I remember all the teachers who helped me. They were my real friends.
I remember changing and acting mean. “This is not me,” I thought.
“If only I could find someone who likes me and wants to be with me…”
I remember trying to do what I needed to do,
so I wouldn’t have to hear, “Blah, Blah, Blah.”
I remember trying to avoid confrontations.
I remember acting like a drama queen back in the day.
I remember deciding that no matter what happens, everything will work out
if I believe in myself.