Before you read today’s post, I want to gently let you know that it touches on childhood trauma, emotional harm, and family pain. Some of what I share may be heavy or triggering, especially for those who have lived through similar experiences. Please take care of yourself and read only if you feel grounded enough to do so.

After hearing the Sascha Riley tapes about what his adoptive parents did to him, it made me think about my mother and the things that happened to me. As a child, it’s hard to fully understand, but as I look back at the turn of events with maturity, I fully understand.

This story is honest, reflective, and deeply personal. I share it with love

Behind the chipped, faded white-painted door frame, now stained beige and gray from years of filth… was something that looked like a picture frame. Just the frame, though. Inside was our bathroom. Smaller than a prison cell. A tiny window hovered above the bathtub, letting in a slant of sunlight that shined on everything ugly: the dirt, the stains, the cracks, the flaws.

Mommy.

She used to be something. Skinny now, but once? I’m talking Beyoncé beautiful. She had wit, charisma, style. People noticed when she walked in a room. Then the war came. Reagan needed money for his secret mess in Nicaragua, so crack flooded the ghettos like a plague. It tore through families like AIDS did in the eighties. Fast, quiet, and deadly. Now Mommy was skin and bones. Her cheeks were hollow. Her sandy brown hair was slick and greasy, pulled back tight with a little short bush sticking out of the rubber band. She stood there in her usual bra and half-slip, clutching her Polaroid camera like it was the last piece of herself. She loved that camera. Maybe more than she ever loved us. It was the only thing she hadn’t sold.

I stood there barefoot. Hair thick and wild. Nails bitten down to the base, a nervous habit I picked up from Mommy. My eyes were round and brown and still too innocent. I was tall for my age, lanky, ashy. My t-shirt was knotted at the side, and I wore just my panties. I was almost eleven and starting to go through changes I didn’t fully understand. My chest ached in that way it does when something is trying to grow. I told Mommy, and she made me feel better about it.

“You growin’ titties,” she said with a smile.

I looked down at my chest, then at hers. I smiled, thinking maybe I’d look like her one day. I leaned against the bathtub, careful to keep my distance from the tall radiator on the wall nearby. I burned myself on it four years ago. Got out of the bath, bent down too close, and it scorched my backside. The scar was still there. That’s why I kept to the sink side now.

My legs were scarred up too, but I wasn’t ashamed. I was a proud tomboy. I climbed things, jumped off stuff, raced through alleys. But Mommy hated my legs.

“Stop fuckin’ up your legs,” she’d tell me. “You gon’ hate ’em when you get older. And it’s a damn shame too, ‘cause you got pretty legs. Tall and lanky like your father.”

I didn’t know what to do about the scars. They just came. I had one on my elbow that was still healing, and I kept running my fingers over it. It felt rough and bumpy.

Mommy saw me and gave me that playful glare. “Didn’t I tell you to let the scab fall off on its own? Why you keep pickin’ at it? Look at me. My body is flawless. I done told you.”

My sister Meelah stood beside me. She was nine, a year and four months younger than me, but always seemed older somehow. She had thin, straight hair that was easy to manage. Just needed water and grease and it would slick right back. Her clothes were always pressed, bed made, schoolwork done. She had friends, teachers who liked her, and a father who came to visit her often.

Mommy spoke highly of him. “Your father wasn’t perfect, but he was the best man I had. He’d cook, clean, wash y’all diapers out by hand, and I don’t know no man that’ll do no shit like that.”

I never asked about my own father. I didn’t want to hear it. Mommy’s words about him were never kind.

“Your father’s a liar. Ain’t shit. He’ll sleep with anything that’s got a hole. After I gave birth to you, I couldn’t have sex for six weeks. He had the nerve to look at my cousins and say, ‘so-so-so which one of y’all is gonna give me some pussy?”

Leeka stood next to Meelah. She was six, four years younger than me, short for her age. We called her, “Sweet-tooth” because she loved candy. Her hair was sandy brown like Mommy’s, thick and slow to grow. It was hard to manage, and Mommy would leave a style in for too long. Eventually it would matte up and collect lint and dust. My hair was just as dirty. We didn’t have shampoo or conditioner. Our hair itched all the time. Full of dandruff and dirt.

And then there was Yana, the baby. She was three. Chubby, dark-skinned, beautiful. We all had different fathers, but each of us looked like Mommy in our own way. The four of us stood lined up in our panties and t-shirts along the bathtub. Mommy proudly held her old Polaroid camera. She looked through it but didn’t take the photo right away. Instead, she walked in and grabbed the two toothbrushes we shared. We didn’t have our own. We brushed with water more than we did with toothpaste. My mouth was full of silver fillings already, even at ten. She placed the toothbrushes on a box in the cluttered hallway, then came back and snapped the picture. The photo slid out from the front. She laid it face-down on the toilet lid to let it process in the dark. We waited.

“Let’s take another one,” Mommy said.

We lined up again… me first, then Meelah, then Leeka, then Yana. She told us to smile, hold your shirt up, exposing our chests. She snapped.

She ordered, “look serious, hold still, keep your shirts up.”

She snapped another picture. “Turn around, lean over the tub.” She snapped.

“Stay like that, let me get a few more.” Snap, snap, snap!

I wanted Mommy to hurry up. Our face was almost in the tub… the tub we seeked to avoid. Mommy had started washing clothes in it by hand and left them sitting–wet, soapy, forgotten. The pile had been there for days–maybe weeks. Maggots had started forming from the dampness. The smell was awful. Like mildew and rotten fish. We all knew to keep our distance. But that day, just standing there next to it, we were too used to it to flinch. Besides, we were just happy to have her attention, even for a little while. That was rare. Later, she showed us the photos. We laughed. It felt good. A rare kind of good.

After the little photoshoot, I asked her about my birthday. I told her I wanted a party. I’d never had one before. She said I’d get one this year. We made plans together… talked about music and games and decorations. I was excited. Mommy was going to throw me a birthday party… me.

What an honor.

“What kind of cake you want?” She asked.

“Vanilla with lemon frosting… no chocolate frosting,” I giggled.

A few days passed, and something strange started happening. My stepfather,Buck, was being nice to me. He was usually mean, distant, and loud. But now he was showing me things, like how to sweep properly, how to use a dustpan the right way. That might sound like nothing, but to me, it was something. He never spent time with me or my sisters before. And now he was.

The night before my birthday, I lay on Mommy’s bed watching TV with my sisters. I tried hard to stay awake. She’d promised me she’d come home to plan my party. I didn’t want to miss anything. But the night grew late. We all eventually drifted off to sleep in her room.

I don’t know how long we slept. I felt a hand rubbing my leg. I opened my eyes and saw my stepfather, Buck. My panties were off and my sisters were gone. I don’t have to spell-out the rest. When he finally let me go, I rushed out of the room, glanced at the clock. It was my eleventh birthday.

He made me wash up at the bathroom sink.

He watched. Pretending it was nothing.

The water was cold. There wasn’t any soap. Just water in the crusted porcelain bowl and his shadow behind me, leaning against the door. I didn’t say anything. I just did what he said. Washed like he told me to. Dried off with the same towel that hung from the pipe.

After that, I went to bed in the room I shared with my sisters.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I stared at the ceiling, watching the patterns in the peeling paint shift like faces. I didn’t move. Just lay there, waiting for morning, waiting for someone to come in. No one did.

Time passed slow and strange.

I heard the front door open.

Mommy’s voice floated in… slurred, soft. Her heels scraped across the floor. Something bumped into the wall.

I shut my eyes.

I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to move.

She came into the room, smelled like smoke and outside and whatever bar or house she’d been in. She didn’t say anything. Just climbed into my bed, right beside me.

That was new.

She’d never done that before.

Her breath was warm on the back of my neck. Her arm slipped around my waist.

I didn’t open my eyes.

I didn’t ask questions.

I just lay still and let myself believe it meant something. That she was here for me.

And somehow, for the first time that night, I felt safe.

I closed my eyes.

And finally, I slept.

Christmas in the hood did not smell like sugar cookies or cinnamon pinecones. It smelled like cold air sneaking through cracked windows, metal radiators banging like angry spirits, and the faint sting of cigarettes drifting down stairwells that echoed with somebody’s business. People talk about Christmas magic like it floats through chimneys, but where I grew up, we didn’t have chimneys. We had fire escapes. Rusted iron ladders hanging off brick buildings like metal bones, waiting for somebody to climb down or run up, never for Santa to slide through.

Everybody loves to talk about their childhood Christmas traditions, like trimming trees with family, or sipping hot cocoa, or unwrapping presents in pajamas. I hear those stories and I smile, but I can’t relate. Not because I don’t want to, but because that was never my life. That wasn’t the hood I grew up in. My Christmas was different. My memories are stitched together with survival, not ornaments.

People assume childhood is universal, that the same joy is passed from house to house like a hand-me-down sweater. It isn’t. A former slave wrote about how Christmas meant joy for the plantation owner’s children, but sorrow for her. While the white kids unwrapped gifts, her children were dragged onto auction blocks. Same holiday. Different reality. That stayed with me. That truth taught me something: holidays don’t treat everyone the same.

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HALLOWEEN TAUGHT ME THAT FIRST

I once wrote about Halloween in the hood, and people got uncomfortable. I guess they wanted costumes from Spirit Halloween and bowls of candy by clean front doors. We didn’t have that. We didn’t have costumes. We didn’t have money. We used whatever we found. We smeared makeup on our faces and ran outside laughing. We didn’t cut up sheets because sheets were precious. Some families only owned one set. You don’t destroy the thing you sleep on.

We didn’t collect candy. We collected moments of joy. Rotten eggs left on a fire escape for days became our weapons of fun. We rang doorbells knowing nobody was giving us anything. We knocked and ran. We laughed. We were loud. We were kids. Not bad kids. Not ruined kids. Just kids without guidance in a neighborhood drowning in crack cocaine.

The world didn’t care why we played the way we did. They never asked why our pockets were empty. They never asked where our parents were when the streetlights came on. If people wanted to know the truth, they would have asked who dropped drugs in our neighborhoods and why. They forget it wasn’t just the dealers on the corner who poisoned the hood. That poison came from higher places. Government hands. Iran-Contra. Wars funded through the destruction of our childhoods. If you didn’t live it, be careful before you judge it.

All of that is why Christmas looked the way it did for us.

CHRISTMAS IN THE SOUTH BRONX

Crack hit our neighborhood like a hurricane made of needles and smoke. And nobody was coming to rescue us. Parents disappeared before our eyes. Some got swallowed by addiction. Some were too depressed to leave bed. Some were violent because the only thing weaker than their bodies were their dreams.

So no, there was no decorating a tree while Nat King Cole sang in the background. There were no stockings hung with care. There were no matching pajama sets, no Christmas Eve stories, and definitely no cookies cooling on the counter. The only thing cooling was the wind sliding through broken windowpanes.

I never had a Christmas tree growing up. Not one. I never hung ornaments with my mother. I barely saw her. She was often out collecting cans, trading bottles, selling anything she could for another hit. Laundry piled so high it seemed like another person lived with us. Sheets washed once or twice a year. Sharing one toothbrush. Shoes too small. Clothes stained. Childhood dignity stolen long before I understood what it meant to have any.

But there was one thing I loved about Christmas: the snow.

That first snowfall in the Bronx felt like a miracle. We ran outside in whatever clothes we could find. Dirty coats. Mismatched gloves. Sometimes no gloves at all. Didn’t matter. The snow was ours. Before it turned into gray slush mixed with oil and spit, it glittered. It was beautiful. It covered up the dirt and the pain like God gave us a new world overnight.

We built snowmen because Frosty told us we could. We made angels in the snow because nobody told us we weren’t allowed to be heavenly. We had snowball fights that made us forget hunger. We laughed. We screamed. We lived. And when the cold turned our noses red, I pretended I was Rudolph. Rudolph didn’t fit in. Rudolph was different. Rudolph found his purpose anyway. I didn’t have words for it back then, but I felt that.

A GLIMPSE OF ANOTHER WORLD

There were a couple Christmases where my sisters and I got rescued for a moment. We went to my uncle’s house in Long Island. A different planet. A house with a chimney. A tree taller than any dream I had ever seen. Ornaments shining like jewels. Apples and oranges left out for Santa. Cookies waiting on a plate. Gifts with our names on them.

We tried to stay awake for Santa, believing in him the way we hoped someone, somewhere, would believe in us. That house smelled like love. Like possibility. Like the life I thought only existed on television. But those moments were rare. Two Christmases out of a lifetime don’t erase pain. They just prove joy exists somewhere else.

Because when we went home, the magic didn’t follow.

If we ever got a present, my mother sold it. Sold the Walkman I was so proud of. Sold anything worth a dollar. Addiction eats everything, even memories.

MY SONS DESERVED MORE

So when I became a mother at 22, after surviving a relationship that almost killed me, I made a promise: my children would never feel Christmas the way I did.

A man I barely noticed, who later became my boyfriend, helped pull me out of depression by doing something simple. He sat with me. He brought movies and popcorn and made space for me to breathe. He believed in holidays. He believed in trees. He believed joy was something you created, not something you waited for. And he showed me how to build a Christmas I never had.

For 27 years, I put up a tree. Every year. Lights glowing. Ornaments shining. Cookies for Santa. Reindeer stories. Music playing. My boys grew up laughing, eating, sleeping in clean beds, ripping open gifts they got to keep. They had magic. They had childhood. They had everything I prayed for and never received.

I worked day and night just to see their faces light up. I guarded their joy the way nobody guarded mine. If they told you their Christmas story, you’d think I came from a Hallmark movie.

NOW IT’S MY TURN

My boys are grown now. One travels the country for work. The other has his own place. He already put up his tree. Sent me a video of it. His whole home glowing like the ones I used to stare at through other people’s windows. I did that. I broke a cycle.

But here I am, days before Christmas, staring at an empty corner where a tree could go. And for the first time in my life, I’m asking a question I’ve never had the courage to ask:

What do I want?

Christmas used to feel simple when my sons were young. Back then, it was just me, a single mom, doing the best I could. I stretched dollars, wrapped gifts late at night, and watched their faces light up at the smallest things. Those moments were magic.

Then life shifted. I got married again, moved to Atlanta, and suddenly I had two stepdaughters. It felt like a second chance at family. We did the whole thing: Disney trips, school dances, getting hair and nails done, birthday parties, games, laughter. I poured myself into supporting them and building a new life. For a while, Christmas felt bigger than ever, filled with more stockings, more memories, more love.

Then time changed everything. The kids grew up and went on with their lives. One of my stepdaughters passed away in 2022. My stepdad died on November 26, 2025, right after Thanksgiving. Both of my grandparents are gone. My biological father is gone.

And then came the blow I never saw coming. After my stepdad’s funeral, my mother sold her co-op, changed her number, and disappeared from my life. I did nothing to hurt her. She simply decided she did not want children anymore. She used to say she never wanted us in the first place, that drugs were the reason she became a mother. Hearing it once is painful. Living with it is something entirely different.

So here I am, in the middle of December with more silence than stockings and more memories than miracles. Christmas does not look like it used to. It does not feel like it used to. I am standing in a space where joy feels unfamiliar, and I am trying to figure out what it means for me now.

I am asking myself a question I have never asked before. What will make me happy this Christmas? Where does my peace live?

I never put up a tree for me. It was always for them. Now I wonder if I should decorate, or if I should build something new. A tradition that belongs to my spirit, not my trauma.

I know I love Christmas music. I know candy canes make me happy. I know I want to go to a Christmas show, get lost in somebody else’s magic for a night. And I know I want to serve the homeless. I can’t walk past a hungry person and pretend I don’t see them. That’s where God lives for me. Not in a building full of people shouting love while practicing hate. My worship is action. My church is compassion.

Maybe a tree will go up if my sons come by. Maybe I’ll cook because they love my food. But the rest? That’s for me to create now. My Christmas no longer belongs to my past or my pain. It belongs to my becoming.

FROM WHERE I STAND

Christmas in the hood taught me how to survive. Motherhood taught me how to give. Now adulthood is teaching me how to receive. Maybe that’s the real miracle. Maybe Christmas isn’t about perfection. Maybe it’s about finding pieces of joy in places that tried to bury you.

My story is messy. My story is mine. You don’t have to relate to it for it to be real. But if you grew up like me, you already know. If you didn’t, now you do.

Tell me how you celebrate. Tell me what Christmas looks like from where you stand. Because every story matters. Even the painful ones. Especially the painful ones. They are the ones that show us how far we’ve come.

And this is how far I’ve come.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I wrote this piece to honor the children who grew up without Christmas magic, the parents who tried to rewrite the script, and the adults still figuring out what joy looks like now. This is not a story about pity. It is a story about becoming. If my words reached you, moved you, or made you see the holidays a little differently, thank you. There is power in telling the truth of where we come from, and even more power in choosing where we go next.

We were three deep in a city that raised some of the biggest names in entertainment and sports. Mount Vernon was where Denzel Washington was born. Sean “Puffy” Combs grew up there. Heavy D moved there at just three years old. Al B. Sure, Michael Imperioli, David Chase, the creator of The Sopranos… all called Mount Vernon home at one point. NBA brothers Gus and Ray Williams made it to the league from Mount Vernon High School. Even Charlotte’s Web author E. B. White spent time there.

Mount Vernon was famous. But fame didn’t stop the pain in its streets.

And it didn’t stop the pain in my life either.

Everyone I had leaned on had walked away. My parents had fought their demons of substance abuse, and I had avoided that path, but I wasn’t free of struggle. I said yes to the wrong men, gave my heart away for the wrong reasons, ignored red flags waving like sirens. The bridges I crossed collapsed behind me, still on fire. Friends, family, even the father of my child turned his back.

When I chose to have Adam, people told me not to. They said I’d be alone. They said it wouldn’t be smart. They said I couldn’t afford it.

But it was my decision. My body. My choice.

My sons…Lance and Adam…were the best decisions I ever made.

Mount Vernon was only four square miles wide, but it was full of pressure. Crowded buildings, tight streets, tension in the air. In 2007, crime was rising fast. The murders were too many to name here. But I’ve included a link at the end of this story.

My daily life was routine, repetitive, barely keeping me afloat.

Wake up. Feed the boys. Get Lance on the school bus. Drop Adam off at daycare. Work. Pick them up. Cook. Clean. Tuck them in. Say our prayers. Sleep. Do it all again.

Then one morning changed everything.

I was woken up by birds. Not just chirping… talking to each other. That’s what it sounded like to me. A full-blown conversation outside my window. It made me smile.

I got up, got dressed, got the boys ready.

I buckled Adam into his car seat, then walked around to the driver’s side of the car… and that’s when I saw him.

A golden cat.

He wasn’t just following me… he was performing. Walking on his hind legs, twirling, bowing, flipping. He escorted me to my car like a little gentleman. I had never seen anything like it.

I thought to myself, Did this cat escape from a circus?

You don’t see something like that and unsee it.

I figured he was hustling for food. I always had a soft spot for strays, but I didn’t have time to stop. I had to drop Adam off and get to work. So I called out to my neighbor and gave him a little change.

“Can you pick up a can of cat food for that one?” I asked, pointing at the golden cat. “Just something under a dollar.”

He said yes.

That day, I couldn’t stop thinking about the golden cat. I told my coworkers. I kept picturing him doing tricks. I wondered if I’d see him again.

That evening, when I parked in front of my house, he was there.

Waiting for me.

He followed me again, twirling, flipping, showing off. But this time, when I reached my door, I realized there were at least a dozen cats gathered on my porch. All golden. All alert. Watching.

But the one who had been walking me… the one who greeted me… was a brighter shade. Lighter. Like sunrise on fur. His eyes had something in them. A kind of understanding.

That’s when it hit me. My neighbor probably fed the wrong cat.

So I turned right around, ran to the corner store, dug through my purse for change, and bought a can of cat food. The cat on the can looked just like the one waiting for me.

I brought it home, popped the lid, and fed him.

He loved it.

I said, “Okay, Whiskers. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have more for you.”

And he did.

Every day.

He walked me to my car in the morning. Waited for me on the porch at night. I’d sit outside on the phone, and Whiskers would nap under my chair, belly up, paws in the air. We had a rhythm.

At first, I didn’t let him in. I wasn’t sure if he had fleas.

But something about him made me trust him.

So I took him to the Mount Vernon Animal Shelter. They gave him shots, flea and tick meds, and neutered him.

He came home with me that night. Just like that, he was part of the family.

Whiskers was perfect.

He used the litter box like a pro. Never scratched anything. Never sprayed. He was neat, clean, quiet.

He slept on the windowsill in the boys’ room like their protector.

And he had his routine too.

Every morning, right around 5 a.m., Whiskers would walk into my room and gently tap my cheek with his paw.

Not rough… just a little nudge. Like he was saying, “Time for breakfast.”

If I pretended to sleep, he’d start playing with the covers or pawing at my feet.

One morning, I tried to trick him. I pretended I was getting up. As soon as he stepped out of the room, I closed the door and went back to bed.

Didn’t matter.

Whiskers sat outside the door scratching and crying until I got up and fed him.

That was Whiskers. Smart. Persistent. Funny.

Sometimes his old cat family would come to the window and call to him. He’d watch, but he never went out.

Until one winter morning.

A snowstorm had hit overnight. I opened the door to find Whiskers gone.

No shoes. No coat. I ran out barefoot, snow up to my knees. I called his name, heart pounding. I searched the backyard. Shivering. Praying.

And then I saw him. Curled up in a corner. Looking lost.

I scooped him into my arms and carried him inside.

In that moment, I knew how much I loved him. And I believe he knew it too.

He never tried to run out again.

But outside, the city was falling apart.

Broken glass covered the children’s park, shards of liquor bottles on the monkey bars. I saw a woman clean it up once. I smiled. It gave me hope. But then she lit a blunt while sitting next to me. My baby was in a stroller. I left.

One day, I was pushing Adam’s stroller, holding Lance’s hand, when a black Mercedes slowed down beside me.

The man leaned out and said, “You wanna buy some crack?”

That was the last straw.

I was ready to go.

But where could I go? I couldn’t afford a safer neighborhood.

I had no plan.

That’s when Jay stepped in.

He had been working in Stamford, Connecticut for years. He told me about a government job and a test I could take there. He said it could lead to something better.

I took the Metro-North to Stamford.

I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t know what to expect.

I found the building downtown after asking around. They handed me the test. At the time, my reading level was on a third-grade level. I barely went to school as a kid.

I just filled in the blanks the best I could. Guessed on most of it.

Afterward, Jay got off work and picked me up in downtown Stamford. It was around 8PM. He told me he wanted to show me something.

We pulled up to a quiet housing development.

It was brand new. Modern. Clean. The buildings looked like the kind I only saw on TV.

Jay explained that this place used to be the projects, but they tore it all down and rebuilt everything. I remember wondering, Where did all the people go? The ones who used to live here?

As we walked through the development, I started looking through the windows. Most of the units were still vacant.

Jay was nervous.

“Stop looking,” he whispered. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

But I couldn’t help it. I wanted to see. I needed to imagine something different.

Then out of nowhere, a man appeared.

Dark pants. Dark button-up shirt. A ring of keys clipped to his belt like a janitor would have.

He looked wise. Poised. Peaceful.

Jay’s whole body tensed. He thought we were about to get in trouble for trespassing.

But the man said, “Would you like a tour?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

I looked at Jay like, See? You worry too much.

We followed him inside.

The place was stunning.

Brand new carpet. Fresh paint. The smell of newness in the air. Ceiling lights shining down. Stainless steel appliances. Spacious. Cozy. Warm. Closet space in every room.

The man kept asking, “Do you like it?”

I said, “Yes. I love it.”

I walked around imagining my sons playing in the hallway, running through the rooms.

Then I said quietly, more to myself than to him, “I wish I could live someplace like this.”

As we left, he turned to me and said, “You should move here.”

I laughed.

“There’s no way I can afford this.”

But he wasn’t done.

He said, “You know, after Katrina, a lot of people came here with nothing. They got in through special programs. Maybe you should try.”

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.

I prayed.

I grappled with it. I wanted this for my sons so bad. But what if I failed again?

Jay looked at me and said, “Do whatever you have to do to move in here. Whatever it takes.”

So I applied.

They had a tax credit program. A certain number of units had to go to low-income families. But they vetted us hard.

The leasing manager didn’t play.

She grilled me like it was a courtroom.

Where were you born? How many men? Did they stay? Where are the fathers? Are you getting child support? Why not?

By the time I walked out of her office, I felt worthless.

But a few days later, she called me.

She said, “You really don’t qualify. But I feel like you need a chance.”

I had never felt so judged…and so grateful at the same time.

I got the apartment.

But there was one rule.

No pets.

The day I signed the lease for my new home in Stamford, I felt two things at once: joy and dread.

Joy because I was finally getting out. Out of Mount Vernon. Out of the violence. Out of the shadow of crack deals, sirens, and parks full of broken glass. Out of survival mode.

Dread because I knew what that lease said.

No pets.

No exceptions.

That meant Whiskers.

My Whiskers.

The cat that walked me to my car like a gentleman. Twirled for me. Bowed. The cat that napped under my porch chair while I talked on the phone. The one who woke me up every morning with a gentle tap to the cheek. The one who sat on the windowsill like a little guardian angel in fur.

The one I rescued from the snow barefoot.

The one who rescued me when I didn’t even know I needed saving.

How could I leave him behind?

I tried to make it make sense. Told myself, This is what’s best for the boys. We’ll be safe. They’ll have better schools, better parks, better everything.

But I kept seeing Whiskers in the window.

I kept picturing his little paw on my face, waking me up like he always did.

I had all kinds of plans in my head. Maybe I could sneak him in. Hide him in the closet during inspections. Keep him away from the windows. Maybe nobody would find out.

But Jay shook his head.

“You can’t risk it,” he said. “You worked too hard for this. You can’t lose it over a cat.”

That word… cat… didn’t even sit right in my mouth.

Whiskers wasn’t just a cat. He was part of our family.

He had been sent. I knew it deep in my bones. Sent from God to lift me up. To remind me I was not alone. That joy was still possible. That I mattered enough for something good to find me.

But Jay was right.

If I got caught, I could lose the place. And this place wasn’t just another apartment. This was a fresh start.

I had to protect that.

So I made the hardest decision I had made in a long time.

I packed up Whiskers. I placed him in a small carrier. And I drove to the Mount Vernon Animal Shelter.

He didn’t fight me. But he didn’t act like himself either.

He was quiet. Still. He trembled in the carrier. His eyes watched me, and I couldn’t bear it.

The whole ride I kept swallowing my tears.

I talked to him like he could understand every word.

“I love you. I love you so much, Whiskers. I’ll never forget you. I hope someone kind takes you home.”

When I got to the shelter, I sat in the car with the engine running. I couldn’t get out.

When I finally walked in, I handed him over with shaking hands.

He didn’t meow. He didn’t cry.

He just looked at me.

I turned and left as fast as I could.

I didn’t make it to the car before I broke down.

The next day, I woke up thinking about him.

Every part of my morning routine felt off. No paw to the cheek. No little whine at my bedroom door. No warm body on the windowsill.

The house felt colder without him.

I couldn’t take it.

I got dressed. Got in the car. Drove straight to the shelter.

I was going to take him back and figure it out. I didn’t care what the lease said. I’d hide him. I’d cover the windows. I’d lie if I had to. I needed him.

But when I got there and told them I was coming to pick up Whiskers, they looked surprised.

The woman at the desk said, “Oh… we actually placed him in the family room yesterday, so visitors could meet him.”

She smiled.

“A family came in. Soon as they saw him, they fell in love. He did his little tricks and curled right up in their kid’s lap. They adopted him within the hour.”

I nodded. Tried to smile.

But inside I was breaking.

He had been there just 24 hours.

He was gone.

I walked back to my car empty.

I sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, eyes full of tears, and whispered out loud:

“He was never mine to keep.”

Whiskers was an angel. That’s the only way I can describe it now.

He showed up when I was buried in shame, doubt, loneliness.

He brought me laughter. Companionship. Joy. Light. He reminded me I still had love to give. That even a stray can be seen. Even someone like me could be worth something.

And now he would bring that same joy to another family.

Someone else who needed reminding that they were not alone.

I moved to Stamford. I started a new life. And everything changed.

My sons made friends. I made friends. The mothers in the complex watched out for each other. We had keys to each other’s homes. We celebrated holidays together.

My boys went to magnet schools, joined after-school programs funded by the city, free for residents. They played football, basketball, wrestled, sang, danced, laughed. They thrived.

I went to college. I learned to read better. I found my voice through writing. I found peace. I found purpose.

I stayed there seven years.

Seven years of healing. Seven years of growth.

Seven years looking for the man with the keys.

I went back to the leasing office and asked about him.

They looked confused.

“No one like that works here,” they said. “And no one had keys to those vacant units. That’s not allowed.”

I believe now with everything in me…

He was never a janitor.

He was an angel.

If you’re still reading this… and you feel like you’ve messed up too many times…
If you feel unworthy…
If you feel forgotten or judged or like your dreams are out of reach…

I want to tell you this:

You are never alone.

Even when it feels like no one’s checking for you.
Even when the world turns its back.
Even when every door seems shut…

God is walking beside you.

He might show up as a bird’s song in the morning.
Or a golden cat on your porch.
Or a man with keys on his belt and light in his eyes.

You never know.

So walk on.

Walk on through the storm.

And never forget…

You’ll never walk alone.

In Loving Memory of Whiskers

You were more than a pet.
You were a miracle in fur.
Thank you for walking with me through one of the hardest chapters of my life.
You were sent.
And you served.

A Song That Carried Me

There’s one more piece to this story.

My grandfather’s favorite song was “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

I can still picture him… walking around the house with a dust cloth in hand, humming that tune as sunlight stretched across the floor. I didn’t know the weight of those lyrics back then. I didn’t know I’d one day cling to them.

But now I do.

That song has followed me through storms, through shame, through heartbreak, and through victory. It has whispered to me through cracked windows and curtainless nights. It held me up when I didn’t think I could keep going.

And today… it’s yours too.

If you’re walking through something...
If you’re carrying too much...
If you’re doubting your worth, your future, your story...

Hold your head high.

Keep walking.

God is walking with you.

Even when the world isn’t.

Listen to my favorite version of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” by Yolanda Adams:
Click here

Mount Vernon Murders – 2007 Crime Report

Gang Reverse Case Sentencing

Car Accident turned Homicide

3 Young Men Shot in Separate incidents

That trip to Hollywood cracked something open in me. I’d formed a bond with people who didn’t just say they cared… they showed it. Writers. Dreamers. Survivors. People like me. And something about all of us trying to hold onto the same light made it feel like family.

But let me go back to that Saturday.

I’m standing in Walgreens, weaving through aisles, looking for snacks that aren’t priced like airport food. That’s when I see the clerk. She’s trying to hide it, but pain is written all over her body. Her head’s tilted to the side like her neck’s frozen. Her eyes are glassy, jaw clenched.

I ask her gently, “You okay?”

“No,” she says. “My neck’s killing me. I can’t bend it.”

I felt it in my own body. “Oh my God,” I said. “I’m so sorry you’re in so much pain.”

She gave me a look like, Why do you care this much? Like I was being too much. And maybe I was. But I didn’t care.

“I know what that kind of pain feels like,” I told her. “I’ve struggled with my neck and shoulders for years. It’s brutal.”

She sighed. “Doctor said it’s a pinched nerve. Gave me some pills, but they’re not working.”

“I get it,” I said. Then I told her about Heal-n-Soothe. Her ears perked up. She leaned in. I had her full attention now. We started talking like old friends in the middle of Walgreens… trading remedies, warning each other about the meds that don’t work and the ones that do.

She walked with me through the store… neck frozen, still in pain, and lit up telling me about a homeopathic cold remedy called Oscillococcinum. “It’ll knock a cold right out,” she said, like it was gospel.

We exchanged numbers. Her name was Cathy Beck. I told her mine… Naz. That night I sent her a photo of the Heal-n-Soothe bottle and a link to order it. She texted me back, calling me a “dear friend.” We’d only just met. But something about that moment was real.

The next morning, I made the drive to Dahlonega. I spent time with Melissa and met her amazing team. The ride back was long, two hours there, two hours back, but my spirit was lifted.

That night, I saw Julie Cantrell’s post about the final day to apply for a Her Spirit Women’s Writing Retreat scholarship. I applied on a whim. Weeks later, I learned I’d been awarded the scholarship, along with my fellow summiteer, Lisa Finn. I was stunned. Me? I never win anything.

That retreat changed me.

Somewhere between the writing workshops, heart-to-hearts, and healing moments at Her Spirit, I got a message from home: my niece had been born. August 25th. I’d gained a niece while I was gaining pieces of myself back, too.

I saw faces I hadn’t seen since Hollywood… Julie Cantrell, Stacey Powells, Michelle Cowan. Michelle and I had clicked from the start. In Hollywood, she handed me her signed book and told me all about the Okoboji Writers’ Retreat. She said I should come.

Now we were sitting in the lobby in Santa Cruz, catching up. She brought up Okoboji again.

“I can’t afford it,” I said.

She didn’t blink. “There’s a scholarship.”

I shook my head. “I couldn’t. I’m already here on one.”

She didn’t argue. Just pulled out her phone and texted Julie Gammack.

Minutes later, a reply: “Yes.”

Just like that.

But I couldn’t celebrate. Something in me shut down. I was too worried about how it would look… getting two scholarships. I didn’t want people to think I was taking advantage. It’s strange how guilt can creep in even when you’ve done nothing wrong.

How many times do we let the fear of what people might think rob us of joy? How many times do we keep our mouths shut, keep ourselves small, just to stay safe?

But God didn’t let it go.

Back home, I started writing again. Really writing. Pages that had been stuck for months started moving. But the numbers didn’t lie. Even with the scholarship, I couldn’t afford the trip. I emailed Julie Gammack (Julie G.) to thank her and let her know I wouldn’t be able to attend. I told Michelle too. They both said they understood.

And then came another message. Julie G. reached out. I’m paraphrasing here, but the heart of her message was, “I want you there.”

And that’s when my heart cracked open again.

Julie G. and Julie Klein (Julie-bird), offered to help with travel. Julie-bird texted, asking what snacks I liked and if I had allergies. She said she’s picking me up from the airport and we’re driving to Okoboji together. Julie G. invited me to the reception. I’ve got a room on the lake. All of this love. All of this grace.

This is God. This is what God does.

Last August I flew to New York and ended up tracing every place I’d ever lived. I hadn’t planned it… it just unfolded. It felt like walking through the memories of a life I hadn’t fully made peace with. I’ll write about that soon.

My mom and stepdad, Wiley, picked me up from my sister’s place. We picked up my cousin Linda, went out to breakfast. Wiley ended up driving me all the way to Stamford, Connecticut. I thought he’d just drop me at the train, but he took me the full way.

That was the last time I saw him.

Three months later, I got the call. Wiley was in the hospital… emergency surgery. We spoke. He sounded strong. He had the procedure. We spoke again. Still strong. Then I got another call… he’d gone into cardiac arrest. A blood clot had hit his lungs and heart. They resuscitated him for 50 minutes.

My stomach dropped. Fifty minutes is too long. Too long without oxygen. But Wiley had been shot 12 times and lived. Once, they even rolled him to the morgue and he woke up under the sheet. I thought, He’s going to make it.

I sat on my couch, praying, calling, waiting. Then came the final call.

He was gone.

No brain activity. They took him off life support.

Then, something even harder: my mother cut me off. Not just me—all her children. Except the one she lives with. She vanished from all of us after the funeral. This is a woman who once told me, “If I hadn’t been on drugs, I wouldn’t have had you.”

So I lost two parents at once. One to death. One to abandonment.

I cried constantly. I didn’t even realize I was grieving two parents. I didn’t realize how deep the grief had dug into me until I couldn’t get off the couch.

Depression had me by the throat.

It’s not easy loving a sociopath. And my mother is one. I’ve made peace with that. I can’t let her back in. I won’t survive it. But knowing that doesn’t stop the heartbreak.

Then, God sent me a dog. She needed me just as much as I needed her.

She got me off that couch. Got me outside. We walked. We played. I cooked for her, drove her to the dog park, the trail, the lake. I taught her tricks. I laughed again. My heart softened.

Then one day, scrolling Facebook, I saw a free class from Margaret South… Story Summit’s beat sheet session. I took it. Got hooked. Joined the Summit. Then came Hollywood. Then came Her Spirit. Then came Okoboji.

Which brings me back to today… September 27, 2025.

I went to Walgreens to print photos. First thing I did was look for Cathy Beck. I hadn’t heard from her since I texted her the Heal-n-Soothe info on August 11th. I wanted to know if it helped.

But Cathy wasn’t there.

I ordered my photos, ran errands, came back thirty minutes later to pick them up. That’s when I saw the display… Cathy’s smiling face in a collage, with the words “Rest in Peace” above it.

She passed away on August 2nd.

Seven days after we met.

I walked out of Walgreens with my chest cracked open.

Heartbroken. And grateful.

Grateful for every day God lets me wake up. For every person He places in my path. For every conversation that shifts something inside me. For every crack in my armor that lets in the light.

I’m going to Okoboji. I’m being lifted up by a writing community that refuses to let me fall. They are healing me. God is healing me.

I’m rewriting my first book… with structure. And I’ve started my second: Not the Only One.

This journey? It’s messy. It’s beautiful. And I’m still in it.

This is Suicide Prevention Month. And I’m still here. I choose life. I choose joy. I choose to write it all out… laugh it out, cry it out, scream it out. I will put it on the page. Every last word.

And no more shame. No more second-guessing whether I deserve kindness. No more shrinking when God says expand.

I don’t know what you’ll take from this. Maybe it feels like too much. Maybe it’s all over the place. But if there’s one thing I want you to remember…

Live fearlessly.
Don’t let fear rob you of what God has already placed in your hands.
And if you’re on the couch, stuck in the dark, unsure if it’s worth sticking around…

Get up.
Look around.
Stick around.

God hears you.
He is near to the brokenhearted.
Brighter days are ahead.

Note from Naz: I wrote this on September 27, 2025, but I never posted it, until now. Some stories take a little time to find their moment. Thanks for reading.

And just like that, my mind slipped.
Back to another window.

A small room with my dirty footprint on cracked-detressed paint and a trundle bed pushed up against the wall. I was eight, maybe nine. No A/C. No fan. Just heavy South Bronx summer heat pressing down on me, stealing my breath. The window had bars across it like a jail cell, and I’d press my face to it, staring out at the world, waiting. Always waiting. My sisters were there, but not really. The one closest to my age was always gone, running with friends, not staying in the house with me. The younger ones… four years younger, seven years younger… they were still babies. Too little to carry my loneliness.

So it was me. Always me.
Alone with the bars, the window, the still air.

Nothing of value in that room. Not even us. That’s how it felt. They say a child sees themselves through the eyes of their caregiver, but what if those eyes are empty? What if they are always turned inward, chasing the next hit, the next high? Then you learn early that you have no value. That you’re invisible. I learned that staring through bars, waiting for a mother who never came home.

The Bronx outside was alive… hydrants spraying, double-dutch ropes slapping concrete, trains screaming on rusted tracks, but inside that room was silence. Loneliness thick as dust.

And that loneliness grew with me.
Followed me into this car, this parking lot, this moment.

I glanced at the students crossing campus. Young, bright, clean. Like they were all born with a plan.

First, I clocked this white boy. Button-down shirt with a black-and-white checker print, jeans that actually looked pressed, hair spiked with mousse, glasses perched like he was somebody’s honor student. He carried his backpack on one shoulder like a badge of pride. The way he moved… sharp, quick, eyes locked on the building like nothing in the world was gonna stop him. Like greatness was guaranteed. My stomach twisted. Something about him made me sick inside, though I couldn’t say why.

Then came a girl. Naomi Campbell before Naomi Campbell. Long legs, slim frame, hair laid, preppy clothes that screamed money and stability. She walked like she believed in herself. Held her chin high like the world already said yes. My throat burned with acid. Nobody should love themselves that much.

And then I saw them… the couple. Latino. Hands locked, mouths locked. Bodies pressed close, like nobody else in the world mattered but them. I hated how clear they were about what they wanted. Love. Belonging. I felt like they were teasing me, rubbing in all I didn’t have.

Why the hell was I here?
Why the hell was I trying?

Still, I sat, waiting for my spot. My spot.

The bell rang, and bodies scattered—running between buildings, some just arriving, some switching classes. Nobody coming to the lot. My hands gripped the steering wheel, nailbuds digging into the faded vinyl. Why didn’t this damn school have enough parking? In the Bronx, you circled for hours, double-parked, argued with neighbors over “saving” spaces with busted milk crates. Now I was in Connecticut, and it felt the same damn way.

Then I saw him. A boy walking into the lot. I stalked him with my eyes, heart quickening. He slid into his car, and I threw my Olds in drive, ready. But he just sat there. Seconds stretched long. Too long. Then, slam! The door opened again. He locked up and walked back toward the building. My chest caved in.

Then another boy appeared, keys jangling. He walked past my car, slid into the one beside me, and cranked the ignition. Yes. Finally. My chest rose. But I didn’t move the gear this time. Didn’t want to get my hopes up. He backed out, pulled alongside me. And then… bullshit. A slick driver slid right into the space before me.

Something snapped.

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It was Jose’s birthday… my friend Jose, who wanted to be more than just that. He never said it out loud, but I felt it in the way he looked at me. He was tall, Puerto Rican, a little rough around the edges… South Bronx born and bred, with a past full of gangs and court dates. He was almost ten years older than me. I was eighteen.

That night, I wasn’t there for him… not the way he hoped. I was on a church-approved date. Sounds strange, I know. But back then, I was caught in the web of a cult, one that dictated everything: who I could love, where I could go, what I could feel. Dating outside of the church was forbidden. So there I was, seated beside a man named Cello, who had only just arrived in the city from Portland, Oregon, chasing a dream of becoming a singer.

The first time I met him was that night—at Jose’s party. No sparks, no butterflies. He was tall and handsome with a smile that could light up a blackout. And within five minutes of meeting me, he was singing to me. Right there. In the middle of the restaurant. Everyone turned to look. Including Jose. I caught his eyes… he was hurting. The elders wouldn’t allow him to date me, and now here I was, the girl he wanted, being serenaded by another man. I was mortified. I never liked being the center of attention, and Cello? He lived for it.

My best friend at the time, Tempest, watched the whole thing unfold. She had dated Cello the week before. But she wasn’t interested. She was in love with someone else…Sylvester. Still, she thought Cello and I would make a good match. She even went to the elders on our behalf to get us the green light to date. That’s the kind of friendship we had… sisterhood born from survival. Her mother was an addict, just like mine. But where I stayed and raised my siblings, she called 911 and told the cops, “Come get me out of here.”

After dinner, Cello and I walked through Central Park under a silver-painted moon. He sang the whole time. Courtyards, flower bushes, trees whispering in the night. It was beautiful, surreal… something out of a fairytale.

I wasn’t attracted to him then, but I liked him. I liked his spirit. I didn’t have a home—not really. My mother had remarried a man ten years younger, and she didn’t want me around anymore. One night, I knocked for over an hour before my younger sister finally opened the door. “Mommy said not to let you in,” she whispered, “but I couldn’t leave you outside.” I knew then that the door would soon be shut for good. And it was.

She handed me a black garbage bag full of my things and told me not to come back. I bounced between friends from church, but most were young like me and still lived at home. When there was nowhere to go, I slept on trains, in movie theaters—places that watched me sleep. The city became my bed. And then there was Cello.

He became my shelter. If I had to ride the train all night, he rode with me. If I stayed at a friend’s place, he walked me to the door. If I hung out in the park, he sat beside me. He never let me be alone. And that’s when I started to fall… not for his voice, not for his smile, but for his presence. He was steady. He made me feel safe. We prayed together, studied the Bible, went to church.

Then I met Iris. She was a child prodigy, once a student at Juilliard, now a high-end party planner. Brilliant, eccentric, and unfiltered. She hired me to set up client appointments. Sometimes she asked me to lie to clients, pay me under the table. I always refused. I was trying to live by the Bible. One day she asked why my mother kicked me out. “You don’t drink, you don’t do drugs. Hell, you won’t even lie,” she said. “You just read your Bible and pray.”

I shrugged. How could I explain that my mother was a sociopath who saw me as competition for the man she married? Iris had no children, but she gave me a home. A place in one of her condos. She didn’t say it, but I think she saw me as a daughter. Another angel in disguise.

One afternoon, I stepped outside on my lunch break and there he was… Cello, again. Turned out he got a job in the building next to mine. He was everywhere. And the more I tried to resist, the more I couldn’t.

One night, he walked me to Tasha’s house. She wasn’t home. No one was. We stood on the steps, the silence between us louder than his songs. My heart raced. We stared at each other. It was the moment… the kind you feel in your bones, in your breath. We didn’t kiss. We both pulled back. But in that pause, I knew… I loved him.

After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I held his arm when we walked, rested my head on his shoulder. One day, he pulled away. “You can’t do that,” he said. “It makes me struggle.” In the Kingdom, even a thought could be sinful. If we kept going, the elders would end it. And I didn’t want to be the reason he stumbled.

He told me his truth. That before the church, he was lost—sleeping around, depressed, broken. He said he got baptized in a tub. I laughed. So did I. We both came to the church through strange doors… mine was selling Kirby vacuums. A girl invited me to Hershey Park. I was a sucker for roller coasters. The Kingdom was there by the thousands, arms wide open. I got baptized too. Another thing we had in common. Then he dropped the bomb. His ex-girlfriend, Quita, was pregnant. He swore he didn’t want her. Said she was an atheist. Just wanted to be a father. He even introduced us. She said she didn’t want him either—just wanted him to be a dad.

But that changed when the baby was born. Quita started studying the Bible. Got baptized. Became a disciple. And just like that, the elders encouraged them to date. Encouraged him to cut me off.  And he did. But I’ll never forget the way he made me feel when I had nothing. When the city was cold and I had no keys. When the trains were my shelter and prayers were my only anchor. He was there. Not perfect. But present.  Sometimes love doesn’t end in a kiss. Sometimes it ends in a song that plays in your memory, long after the voice is gone.

When the city was cold and I had no keys, he was there.

Who was there for you when life felt the hardest?

I learned that in seventh grade — the day I didn’t laugh, and the room went still, and the new king of the classroom decided I’d be his favorite prey. What followed wasn’t just my fight. It was the slow, dangerous way fear changes people, until good kids forget what side they’re on.

Before the Classroom

I met the Joker long before I had children, before I ever stepped into a college classroom, when I was seventeen and surviving New York City one stubborn breath at a time.His name was already everywhere — carved into the skyline, whispered in the streets. He didn’t need weapons. He had sharper tools: words that cut and the crowd’s approval to sharpen them.

From Survival to the Palace

If you asked how a girl from the South Bronx — a kid who’d gone hungry, worn clothes until they gave out, and missed a hundred days of school in a single year — ended up in the palace halls of Gotham’s elite, I’d tell you it’s because life never moves in a straight line.

Before I turned thirteen, the state had pulled me and my sisters from my mother. I knew foster care, courtrooms, and the kind of silence that swallows you whole after someone you trust crosses a line you can’t uncross. At twelve, I stood in court, lying because my mother told me to, because I knew what would happen if I didn’t.

When she finally threw me out, a wealthy woman — brilliant, a child prodigy, my angel in disguise — took me off the street and gave me work. That’s how I saw the Joker up close. In those marble rooms, he owned the air. People laughed at his insults like they were blessings. Everyone knew: it was better to be on his good side.

Fast forward. I’m a single mother in college, starting with a third-grade reading level, fighting my way from the lowest remedial class to the highest. Classrooms were minefields for me — the fear of being called on, the panic of not knowing, the old memory of being the kid who couldn’t read.

But before I fought those battles, I had another. Seventh grade. Co-op City, Bronx. A clean start. New clothes. Hair neat. A promise to my grandparents: No fighting. I thought this was my chance to blend in, to disappear in the crowd and maybe, finally, feel normal.

The first day, I stood in line in class, quiet, hoping my shyness would make me invisible. Then Duane Pinckney walked in. He cracked a joke. Everyone laughed. I didn’t.

That was my mistake.

He squared up, smirking. “Fck you, you fish-lip btch.”

The room froze. Shock on their faces. They looked at me, then down, then anywhere but at him. The teacher stayed silent. And Duane walked away like he’d just claimed territory.

Every day after that, I walked into school with my stomach in knots. I even wished I’d laughed at his first joke. I thought maybe we’d be friends, maybe it would have spared me the stares and the dread. That’s what fear does — it convinces you your dignity is worth trading for safety.

At first, the other students were silent when Duane went after me. Their eyes said they knew it was wrong. But silence turns into tolerance, and tolerance into acceptance. Soon, they weren’t just watching — they were laughing. The ones who’d looked uneasy now leaned into it. Cruelty had become a kind of entertainment.

That’s how people change. Not all at once, but drip by drip, until the wrong thing starts to feel normal.

Through it all, two people never wavered: Brandy Barrett and Jason Knowles. They were my friends from the start — before I stood up to Duane, before anyone knew how far his taunting would go. They didn’t care what he thought or what the crowd thought. They sat with me, talked to me, made me feel like I wasn’t completely alone in that room.

And because they chose me early, they paid for it. They took the risk of his attention turning on them. But they stayed.

One afternoon in Mr. Cassidy’s class, Duane started again — loud, sharp, dragging my grandfather’s name through the dirt. My grandfather, the man who raised me, fed me, loved me when no one else did.

Something in me snapped. My body moved before my mind caught up.I leapt over three desks, grabbed him, and tackled him to the floor. Years of swallowed anger came pouring out.

The room erupted. Teachers got involved. My grandparents were called. I was the one in trouble, but Duane never came for me again.

I’ve learned that Gotham will always have its Jokers. People will gather around them, laugh at their cruelty, and tell themselves it’s the smart choice. Some will start out shocked, even appalled, but fear will wear them down until they join in.

But every now and then, you meet a Brandy or a Jason — people who stand beside you from the beginning, before the fight, before the tide turns. They don’t wait to see how the story ends. They make their choice early, and they keep it.

I can’t tell anyone what side to take — that’s not my place. All I know is this: when I look back, I don’t remember the faces of the ones who laughed with the Joker.I remember Brandy. I remember Jason.And in a city like Gotham, that’s as close as you get to a real superhero.

I moved like a real New Yorker—fast, steady, eyes forward, shoulder brushing the tiles to carve my lane. Stick to the wall and you only have one side to watch. That’s how we survive here.

The tunnel was long. Some say half a mile, but to your legs it felt longer. A winding intestine of steel and sweat, lit by flickering fluorescents and the soft groan of distant trains. The tile walls were tagged with names, confessions, and promises no one would ever keep.

And then I heard him.

Not saw—heard. A sound like honey melting on hot iron. It cut through the chaos like a gospel note in a courtroom. A guitar, crying and smooth, electric and raw. It echoed against the walls, bouncing off puddles and chewing gum and broken dreams.

I stopped walking. I always did when the soul called me.

There he was.

Sitting on a red bucket, slouched like a man who’d lived too much too soon. Skin like polished mahogany, smooth and deep. High cheekbones, like royalty sculpted from rhythm. And though he looked no older than twenty, his eyes… his eyes were ancient. Like they’d seen cotton fields and spotlights, juke joints and jail bars. Like they’d seen God and argued.

He was high, that much was clear. Not loud-high, not liquor loud. Quiet high. Nodding. Heroin maybe. Whatever it was, it didn’t dull the music. His fingers glided over those strings like they knew the way before he did. Like they were remembering something he’d forgotten. Something old.

Then he opened his mouth, and the whole tunnel paused.

The notes poured out low and raw, and something cracked in my chest. I could smell my grandmother’s living room again. Fried fish in the air, the thump of footsteps on wood, the hiss of a vinyl needle. My mother twirling with a drink in hand, singing like her life depended on it. She used to tell me about James Brown—how she saw him at the Apollo, how he bent the mic like it was made of clay, how he screamed like salvation was stuck in his throat.

And here it was again. Not on a stage. Not in a suit. But right here. In the bowels of the city, beneath rats and steel and the weight of the world.

I wasn’t the only one frozen. Strangers who were sprinting a second ago had stopped. They dropped dollars, change, coffee cups—anything they had. No one looked at their phones. No one moved. Even the rats by the third rail stayed still, their beady eyes fixed on the young man, as if they too remembered.

He didn’t open his eyes.

Just sang.

Just bled music.

The train came and went. Six minutes. Another came. Another left. People moved on, but I didn’t. I stayed. Just to hold on to that sound a little longer. Just to remember my mother’s voice one more time.

He never looked up. But he didn’t have to.

He wasn’t there for the applause.

He wasn’t even there for us.

He was there because his soul couldn’t help it. Because sometimes your calling follows you across lifetimes. Sometimes you get born again, but the music stays the same.

And maybe this time, he wouldn't be famous. Maybe no tux, no arena, no backup dancers or spotlight.

Just a bucket, a guitar, and a song so old it could wake the dead.

Some say there’ll never be another James Brown.

But I saw him that day.

He came back.

Not to perform.

To remind.

That the soul never dies.

It just takes the train.

CLICK HERE to Watch Man in the Subway sing "This Is A Man's World"

Beyond the palace gates, the streets were crowded with children whose eyes had grown dim, their colors faded like old photographs. I was once one of those children. My sisters and I sat on a couch stained with time and sorrow, hidden behind black garbage bags taped over broken windows. The adults around us tended only to their own hungers—hungers for smoke, for thrills, for escape. Days passed and no one asked, Are you alright? Do you need anything? Are you hungry?

Hunger became a wolf pacing inside my belly. It gnawed at obedience, swallowed fear, and left only desperation. I searched the kitchen—rice without pots, cupboards echoing with nothing. I was nine, and the world had no recipes for me. There was no internet to teach me, no kind hand to guide me.

So I did what I had never dared before. I ran down five flights of cracked stairs, dug my hands into the earth and ate dirt. It was bitter, but it was something. Then I ran to the bodega, stole chips, and ran back, my heart pounding like war drums. My sisters’ eyes lit up again at the first crunch. In that moment, we had nothing, and yet we had everything—because we were together, and we had stopped the wolf for one night.

I never ate dirt again. I never stole again. I learned to pack bags at the supermarket for change, to sit in afterschool programs for a plate of food, to go to church for bread and hope. I learned that you never judge the hungry—you feed them, because you don’t know the deserts they’ve crossed or the nights they’ve survived.

And yet, in this same land, there are men in golden towers who pass starving children on their way to banquets. They see the dim eyes but never stop to ask, Are you alright? Do you need anything? Are you hungry? They make plans for marble floors and crystal walls while someone’s child digs their hands into the dirt to quiet the howl inside.

The ballroom will gleam. Music will rise. Glasses will clink. But somewhere, a child will still be sitting on a couch with no color in their eyes, wondering if anyone will come.

And the truth is—God bless the child who has his own. Because the rulers will dance before they will feed him.

By the first day, I had two paid subscribers. Two people who believed in me enough to put their money where their faith was. That small gesture lit a fire. Writing is art, yes, but art becomes something else entirely when someone says, I believe in you. I value this. It made me stand taller. It made me write harder.

So, on this day that already carried weight, I headed out. A quick stop at Dollar Tree. A Walmart run. The beauty supply store. Everything unfolded with ease. Even the Post Office, just minutes before closing, let me slide in to mail my sister a package for her daughter. It felt like one of those rare perfect days.

And then, on my way to the beauty supply store, I saw them.

A family: husband, wife, and three children no older than five. One in a stroller. The wife’s sign read:PLEASE HELP – MY NEED FOOD – FORMULA – RENT – GOD BLESS YOU.

The kids stood in the dirt under a tree. No bikes. No toys. Just stillness. Their eyes were dim. Too dim for children that young.

Something inside me cracked.

Maybe it was because I had just written While They Danced, my piece about starving children. In it, I told my truth—digging into the earth as a child to eat dirt just to quiet the hunger. No one had helped me or my sisters back then. And in that moment, watching these children stand there, I understood something about why. People often look away. They think, Someone else will help.

My first thought was clear: go back to Walmart and buy them food. But immediately, other thoughts tried to push in. Don’t give the parents money… they might not use it for the kids.

I knew where those thoughts came from. I had lived it. My mother, strung out on crack, once promised us pizza if we helped her collect cans and bottles. Starving, my sisters and I walked Harlem’s streets for hours. When we finally had enough for pizza, she cashed it in and bought drugs.

Standing in that parking lot now, I could have done what most people do. Drive on. There was a Sam’s Club, a pizza buffet, a wing place. Plenty of people passing by. Surely someone would feed them. Surely.

But “surely” is dangerous. It’s how children stay hungry.

I went to the beauty supply store, but I couldn’t shake it. My heart was pounding. I decided to follow my first thought.

Back at Walmart, I went straight to the Dunkin’ Donuts inside. “Do you have leftover food you’re throwing out?” I asked the manager. “There are kids outside who look hungry, and I’d like to give them something.”

She softened. “I can put something together.”

While she worked, I grabbed fried chicken and a box of Capri Sun. When I came back, she handed me a box of donuts and breakfast sandwiches.

I drove to the family. The kids lit up at the sight of the donuts, eyes wide, smiles breaking through. They danced. They moved. They looked alive.

In that moment, I knew I had done what I wish someone had done for me. I was glad I hadn’t listened to the second thoughts, the doubts, the suspicions, the excuses. I had listened to my first thought.

The father’s name was Kevin. He told me they had lived in their van for three months. They had finally gotten a place, but the rent was slipping out of reach.

I thought of the piece I am working on now, about a king dancing in his marble ballroom while outside, children starve. The king may never open the door. But we can. One child at a time. One family at a time. One good deed at a time.

It makes a difference. I saw it in their eyes.

Something we don’t talk about enough.
Something still happening now.

This isn’t just a memory—it’s a warning. A truth buried beneath the music and the lights.

I’ve carried this moment for years. And soon, I’m going to share it…

with words, with sound, with everything I’ve got.

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He was born in a dusty, slow-moving town called Louisville, Georgia—population barely 2,000. I don’t know much about his upbringing except that it was hard, and that he worked the land with his father and brothers. Rumor has it his grandfather was a slave master. That his grandmother was always in the house, while the boys worked the fields. I don’t know what kind of boy he was, but I know what kind of man he became because he raised me.

Frank Alexander Weems.
My grandfather.
The man I called Daddy, because he was the father I never had.

He met my grandmother, Carrie, when they were just kids. He a teenager, she barely older than childhood. She lived in Savannah. They fell in love early and stayed in love forever. Eventually they left Georgia and headed North—first to Philadelphia, then Harlem. That’s where my mother was born, the youngest of four. And when I came into this world, they were the ones who took me in.

I don’t remember coming home from the hospital, but the story goes my mother brought me straight to my grandparents. And from that moment on, I belonged to them. They were so attached to me, my mother had to sneak me away when it came time for her to move. I wasn’t told this until later in life, but apparently my grandmother came home from work, saw the crib was gone, fell to the floor, and screamed.

I didn’t know then, but I know now—I was wanted. I was loved.

But life has a way of flipping the script. I ended up in the South Bronx, living with my mother in an abusive household. I won’t go too deep into that today because today is about him. Just know this: my grandfather rescued me. At twelve years old, bruised in every way a child can be, he and my grandmother came and brought me back home.

Home, for me, was a Co-op City apartment filled with morning routines and the smell of grits, eggs, and salmon. It was the sound of laughter, the rhythm of spades being slapped on a card table, the daily debates over the Daily News and Walker, Texas Ranger on the TV. Home was safety. Peace. Predictability. And him.

Frank Weems was tall, handsome, and carried himself with quiet dignity. His eyes were like calm waters that saw through your nonsense. Even retired, he wore a full suit every morning—up at 5:30AM, reading the paper, ready to greet the day. I never understood why he dressed up when he had nowhere to go, but now I think I do: dignity was his uniform.

We were alike, he and I. Same DNA. Same stubbornness. Same soul.
We hated grocery shopping, so we’d split the list and meet in the middle of the store—teamwork. We watched sports together, even though I didn’t care for the games—I just liked being near him. We played cards. Took walks. Talked about everything.

He loved nature and saw the universe as a symphony.
“The moon keeps the water from overflowing,” he once said, comparing the cosmos to a woman.
It went over my head back then, but I hear him now, clearer than ever.

People in the building came to him for advice. Especially the young men. When Daddy spoke, you listened. He could motivate anyone—just with his words. He had that kind of spirit. The kind that doesn’t just live—it lifts.

He was never sick. He said it all the time:
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

And we believed him—because it was true… until it wasn’t.

It started small. Slower walks. Softer bones. Asking me not to drive over potholes. I had moved to Delaware and visited on weekends, so I missed the gradual changes. Then one day, during his favorite show—Walker Texas Ranger, with Chuck Norris kicking ass like usual—he sat down on the floor and couldn’t get up. That was the moment. The one that changed everything.

Colon and bone cancer. It had taken root in silence and spread like fire.

Watching him fade was like watching the sun set before noon. The pain was unbearable—for him and for us. I held his hand. Fed him ice cream. Told him I loved him as often as I could. There was nothing else to do.

He passed on February 27, 1998.
He left the pain behind and took his peace with him.
He gained his wings.

I see him still, in my mind—wiping the counters in his daily morning routine, humming his favorite song:
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
And he was right. I haven’t. I never will.

He wasn’t perfect. I learned some things after he died. But he was perfect for me. He was my Superman. He rescued me from a living hell and showed me what love looked like. What humanity looked like. What hope felt like.

He gave me a future.

And now here I am, a writer.
Just like him. A storyteller. Just like him.
I think he’d be proud.

So today, on 8•8, the day God blessed this earth with his presence, I celebrate him. I thank him. I carry him.

And I remember his words.
I remember his eyes.
I remember the man who never let me walk alone.

Forever your girl,
Naz

🎵 You'll Never Walk Alone - Gerry & The Pacemakers

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Beginnings are sacred. And a little bit scary.

That blinking cursor on a blank page? It’s been staring at me for days. But here I am, showing up—and I’m so glad you are too.

Welcome to From Where I Stand—my new Substack column where I share the real, the raw, and the reflective. Stories from my life. Thoughts about the world. Truths that need to be told.

Why this, why now?

I’ve always believed that words can heal, awaken, and connect us. I created this space because I wanted to write from the heart without restriction, and build something honest and hopeful.

My first post launches on August 8, 2025, in honor of my late grandfather, Frank A. Weems, whose quiet strength and deep wisdom guide me every day.

What kind of community am I building?

This isn’t just a blog—it’s a community. I’m inviting you into a space where we think deeply, feel freely, and speak boldly.
This is a space for those who want more than noise.
This is for seekers, truth-tellers, storytellers, and everyday people just trying to make sense of the world.

📬 What to expect

• Weekly posts: Short essays, stories, blog reflections, and sometimes voiceovers or video notes

• Free Subscribers will get access to all regular weekly posts

• Paid Subscribers (coming soon) will receive occasional behind-the-scenes content, extended stories, exclusive audio, and love notes just for you

Add some color & click "Subscribe"

I’m still learning my way around Substack, but I’d be honored to have you come along for the ride.
If you enjoy what you read, please consider hitting that Subscribe button below. It’s free. It’s easy. And it means the world to me.

Thank you for reading, for being here, and for supporting my voice.
I hope something I share speaks to your spirit. Be encouraged.

With love,
Naz

This is From Where I Stand.

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