Whirlwind: A personal Essay

I grew up unconventionally to say the least. If I had to describe it, I’d say I felt like a plastic shopping bag caught in high winds: weightless, directionless, and entirely at the mercy of the gust. Every so often, a pair of hands would catch hold of me. They’d smooth out the edges and fill me up with the things I needed: encouragement, love, discipline, or a hot meal.

Before I could get the chance to plant my feet firmly on the ground, the wind would whoosh past again, taking me with it. Sometimes, it was a sudden move to another house; other times, it was hands bigger than my own plucking at my innocence. Most times, the wind felt as chilly as my dad’s negligence or smelled of my mom’s Seagram’s.

My first memory of being caught in a windstorm wasn’t a specific moment; it was a feeling. I didn’t know what it meant to be an alcoholic, but by the time I was eight, I knew in my bones that something had a hold of my mother. She often disappeared for weeks at a time; I now know she was binging. I remember being worried and scared, wondering if she’d come back. During this time, we lived with my great-aunt who was in her late seventies. I hated when she had to do my hair for school because she’d sweep it up into a horrendous ponytail that led to quizzical looks from my peers and teachers. She wouldn’t use a lick of gel or grease, so my hair would just be flying everywhere by the end of the day. Those hands could whip up a delicious dinner, but that’s where the magic stopped.

In sixth grade, my teacher pulled me out of class. “I need to speak with you in the hallway,” she announced in front of the class. “Oohs” and “uh-ohs” instantly poured from the mouths of my peers. Internally, I reflected on the past week, trying to remember if I had caused any mischief. Nope. It was a pretty good week. I stepped into the hallway behind her.

“Your hair hasn’t been done and you’ve been late all week. What’s going on?” she asked.

I panicked, but I was also pissed! She acted like I came to school looking like I had a bird’s nest on my head.

“Nothing,” I replied flatly.

I really wanted to cussssss her out something serious. Even as a 12-year-old child, I knew she was out of pocket and was using the moment to be shady and petty. We didn’t get along too well. I challenged authority a lot as a child; she had a smart mouth, and I did too. Still do, I just know how to manage it better. She used to make sly comments to the class and I would clock it immediately. She was condescending, grumpy, and wore knee-highs that were too tight. I knew she didn’t genuinely care, and that’s exactly why I did not tell her that I hadn’t seen my mom in about two weeks. Furthermore, I grew up in the “what happens in this house, stays in this house” era.

This was the first time I remember her disappearing. It felt dystopian enough going to school not knowing where my mom was or when I’d see her again, but having to do it with jacked-up hair was just cruel. Especially because it wasn’t the norm for me. When my mom was sober, I visited the beauty shop regularly and kept a fresh set of box braids. I understand why my teacher noticed the change, but her approach was so nasty and perpetuated my fear that adults can’t be trusted. Meanwhile, I was hiding multiple secrets, trying to master long division, win the spelling bee, and adapt to my changing body. I learned to mask my emotions early.

It was the moments in between, the tranquil respites when I wasn’t helplessly flailing across the sky, that stuck with me. In each of those moments, there was one common denominator: Black women. These women didn’t just offer food and shelter; they offered me a blueprint. I survived on an anthology of mothers. They were the ones who saw me drifting and reached out. There is a running joke in my family that everybody raised me. Comedy is usually underscored by truth.

The woman I call “Mama” isn’t mine by blood. Outside of my biological family, she’s the person who has known me the longest and, for me, that matters. She entered my life as my seventh grade Language Arts teacher. It was my first year at a new school and her first year teaching—we were just two girls navigating middle school from different perspectives. And let me tell you two things about L.J.: her hair was always laid and she did not play with us! She demanded respect from her students, but she was also fun and understanding. We absolutely gave her a hard time at first, and she will not let me forget it. Ha!

I talked to her about anything, but she also held me accountable. I was absolutely distraught when it was time for high school, but she never let me go. She’s been right beside me all this time, keeping my secrets, pushing me to be better, and giggling at my shenanigans. Even now, if I were to call her during this ungodly hour, she would answer the phone, and I’d do the same for her. I call her my “No Limit Soldier” because she is a solid example of consistency, and was the first of many who helped me survive.

The Black Church gets a lot of warranted criticism, but there is something to be said about the tight-knit communities birthed in places of worship. The extended families created through Bible study, testimony service, choir rehearsals, and prayer calls often sustain us when our own families cannot. The congregation at Trinity Missionary Baptist Church was small, but we had fun. Through youth lock-ins, Vacation Bible School, and church retreats, we formed bonds that still hold strong even though we no longer worship in the same place. There were women like Michelle, the big sister who made sure the teenagers had fun and stayed out of trouble. Then there was Quita, who ran a strict program and kept us in line, but would give you the shirt off her back.

I’ll never forget getting caught with a Black & Mild in my coat pocket at fifteen.

“I just want to know why you had that in your pocket?” Michelle asked as we sat in her living room after church, right in front of Quita.

Of course, I said it wasn’t mine. The silence between the three of us sent a chill down my spine like never before. They didn’t say another word, and I knew I was absolutely cooked.

Later that evening, Quita, Tamika, and another church member, Taz, hemmed me up on the couch at Taz’s mom’s house after Sunday dinner. They were all good friends, and I would tag along with them on different adventures. The living room was cozy with warm lighting, and I remember sitting on the couch with Michelle to my left and Quita sitting next to Michelle. Taz sat right in front. I couldn’t escape if I wanted to. It was an ambush! I caught it from all sides. Before I knew it, Michelle moved, leaving no buffer between Quita and me. Quita, may God rest her soul, knocked the wind out of me. I remember coughing to try and to disguise my whimper.

Taz’s mom tried her best to save me. “What are y’all doing to her over there?!”

I don’t remember who, but somebody said, “Naw, she’s in trouble!”

Michelle and Taz questioned me like the FBI: “Where are you getting the money?” “You smoking weed?!” “Where are you smoking? At school? Are you skipping school?”

I couldn’t get the answers out fast enough. I laugh when I think about them plotting my takedown, but it was necessary. Needless to say, I didn’t smoke again until college.

They taught me how to carry myself. I watched them take care of their families and make time for themselves as hardworking women. We went shopping on the weekends, and I usually got something sweet out of the deal. We ate steak and lobster and got manis/pedis. They taught me the game.

How do you navigate loving the community that saved you while simultaneously mourning the parents who couldn’t? That question is the quiet weight I carry into every room. It is a strange, shimmering kind of grief. You realize that you are a mosaic of other women’s best parts, yet you always find yourself looking for the original glass.

My habits and rituals are what I learned from my village. I wish I could say my mother taught me how to navigate womanhood. I would love to say I learned how to walk in heels by watching her and sneaking into her closet to play dress-up, instead of someone else’s. I wish I could say she was an intentional mother, but she was not. It all leaves a waxy feeling of unbelonging. I wasn’t nurtured by my parents, but I also don’t “belong” to the people who have shown up for me the most. I am learning to reconcile the two. It’s okay to hold gratitude for the village that taught me and grief for the parents I deserved but will never have.