"Lashanda!" It was my mom calling in a tone that didn't too pleased.
"Yes mommy?" I called out while walking to her bedroom.
"What did I tell you about writing on the walls?" I was five and in kindergarten. I looked at her stupidly.
" No more writing on the wall." It wasn't so much a statement as it was a warning. She gave me a look that said I could go. I walked away surprised. She didn't sound too angry, which was weird for my mom. There were things she didn't tolerate, I was pretty sure writing on the walls would be on that list. I walked back to the living room and pondered my moms apathy towards our ruined walls. It occurred to me that she knew. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I just learned to spell my name and I had to write it everywhere. I entered kindergarden afraid, my parents left me at the gate with a stranger holding my hand. I held back tears as I waved back at them. The building looked like Cinderella's carriage after the bibbidi bobbidi boo. It was another world, nothing like the schoolhouses I had seen. Birthed in the Bronx I was whisked away to Ghana at the young age of two, and now I had returned to begin school. I solidified my knowledge of the ABC's in kindergarten. I learned to spell my name, I learned how to interact in a classroom. Those were the big take aways. I remember struggling with books in first grade, but by second grade I realized how much I loved story time. We would sit cross-legged on the rug and the teacher would read to us. I would be so engrossed, listening with my whole being, mentally in the world of the characters that when story time ended I felt as if I had woken up from a dream. My mom gave me a beautiful little journal around that time where I would scribble little things. My teacher would go through the pages and tell me how good each line was. Her attention felt amazing. She was blonde and tall, but all grownups were tall to me. She always spoke in a soft tune. I did whatever I could to get her praise. I'm pretty sure I would have jump out of the classroom window if she asked me to.
Third grade was a haze. I'm not sure if I read one book on my own that year. Ms. Milano, my fourth grade teacher was amazing. We read together as a class, books that were so good I was inspired to read on my own again. Ms. Milano believed in me she put in in 501. The smart class. I let her down brutally (I want to find her one day and apologize). I barely did any homework. The 01's were the kids on the advanced track, most of them had been together since first grade. None of them wanted anything to do with me, I was teased and alone in that classroom. I spent that year waiting for school to be over. A girl died in our class that year, Nathera. She had contracted a very rare disease that caused her skin to swell up and bloat. It was on News 12 the Bronx, reporters wanted to interview us. Our classroom was cleaned from top to bottom. Apparently the disease can be caused by sharing food. By the end of the year she was mostly forgotten. Her mom wrote and distributed a poem at the little memorial we held for her. It was beautiful and I would read it every couple of months when it was time to clean the house and I would come across it. I had it for a long time, It was ripped and browning before I lost it. When I was very young, I'm not sure when, the time is all warped and distorted, I had a tutor. I was having problems with basic math and reading. I didn't get it, and even though I was really young I thought my tutor was very cute so I did try. One day he was asking me something about a problem, I shrugged to say I didn't know the same time my dad passed by and Stephen the tutor told my father that I didn't care.
"No, that's not true!" I exclaimed. At that time I was really bad at articulating myself, I didn't know how to explain I had been misunderstood. My dad yelled a me and I was forever upset at Stephen. I sat there seething that day, hot tears in the corners of my eyes threatened to fall. From then on I didn't allow myself to be taught by Stephen. I would only pretend to listen to him, thinking I was hurting him when I was in fact hurting myself.
I had another tutor from fifth to sixth grade, she would tutor me with another Ghanaian boy who lived in my building, Keith. It helped but not much. I would only pretend to be having breakthroughs when I was still very lost. I'd almost forgotten about her but this summer, the summer before my Junior year of college, I learned that she passed away after a complication with her surgery. At one point in my life I was used to seeing her everyday after school. Looking back my parents really cared about my learning. I remember being surprised when my dad told me he payed her. I thought she just tutored us just because my dad asked her to.
Middle school was extra crappy, I could travel somewhere else whenever I read a book. I could get lost in the problems of other people. Pretty soon my love of reading started to come out through my writing. One of my teachers told me I wrote like I read a lot. I had been considering writing just for the sake of it. I was inspired by how the books I read moved me. I wanted to make the same magic as the authors I cherished. In tenth grade my humanities teacher, Ms.McMurdo recommended an organization called Girls Write Now. The program paired professional female writers with high school girls with a passion for writing. It changed my life. I ended up winning the scholastic gold medal for my writing portfolio, It came with a ten thousand dollar scholarship, which allowed me to go to Ithaca College. During the whole GWN experience I questioned myself, if what I was doing was actually considered writing. If my work was any good. But I won the national gold medal and it was a big deal, the people who hosted the event really pulled out the red carpet for us. I felt like a writer then.
There was a library a minute away from my middle school that I used to go to. In high school we had a library close by as well, that I didn't frequent like I should have. Growing up there was a stigma about liking school. I was called a bookworm. I was the "smart one" in the class. But I wasn't really, I was failing math all through school. I read a lot, people assumed I was smart. People would see me reading in the corner during recess or under my desk during class. I had no social life. I was always home watching my siblings since the fifth grade. I would sleep on the living room couch so I could hear the phone ring during those days. Staying up way too late watching inappropriate movies. My mom would call from work to wake me up so I could wake the rest of them and we could start our day. Those were the days my mom used to work nights, a shift that she didn't like but it payed a little extra and we needed it. My dad worked and continues to work two jobs so he couldn't be the alarm clock. We weren't poor but every dollar counted and it still does. In high school I wanted to join all these clubs, the guitar club especially where I could learn how to play the guitar but I had to go home and cook for my sisters and make sure they did their homework. I wanted to join soccer but it was the same situation. I'm the first to go to college in my family, my parents always remind me I'm setting the example for the rest of my siblings. It's all up to me and sometimes I feel like I'm faking it, like I've always done.
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