me going upside her head with the kitchen knife, but that’s my mummy and I don’t really want to see her dead. I’m just tired of the abuses to the body and the head, matter a fact sometimes I wished I were dead. It was at this point that I began to feel a complete sense of hate. Hate towards myself, towards peers, and a dark hate towards my mother, the woman who gave me life. Now it is as if every beating would take a part of my soul, on the outside, I am calm and collective but inside I am hurt and have lost all control. Growing up in Brooklyn I was given many chances to inflict the pain which I have received at home on to other people. There is one particular moment that stands out in my mind. It was when I was about to start the sixth grade, when one of my mother’s friends, Hakeem, came to the house and told me that I looked just like a man that he knew. Until then, I had never thought about it, I had known my mummy, and she was both my mother and father. My mom said nothing to me, just told me we were going over to Hakeem’s house. When we got there, there was nothing different, I played with his fishes in the tank in the living room, and then turned on the Nintendo. After about thirty-five minutes, a strange man came through the door; he walked over and spoke to Hakeem and my mom for about ten minutes. Thinking nothing of their conversation, I continued with my game. After their quick, quiet conversation, the strange man walks over to me, by himself, and says “Hi. What’s up? Do you know who I am?” Looking up from the ground, at this strange man, I replied, with a crazy face, “Hi. You’re a stranger.” He smiled. “Mummy come here.” Before my mom could walk over, the stranger replied, with a sense of hesitation in his voice, “I’m your father.” At that very moment, a million questions and thoughts went through my head. However, I smiled and said, “My father lives in Jamaica.” As soon as I said that, I stood up and looked into the eyes of this stranger. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing myself more mature. There was something in his eyes I cannot explain but I felt I had seen it before. It was like a sign from the all mighty Lord. He then explained to me his name is Orlando Petiford and he was my real father. He told me I have six other siblings. Tiffany my younger sister, Melissa my older sister, Jerome my older brother, Terrell my older brother, Mark my older brother, and Gavin my older brother. As any other child meeting their real father for the first time would, I became very excited and could not wait to meet my siblings. Before we went home, my father told me next weekend he is going to come and get me and I will meet my brothers and sisters. That night I did not sleep much. I was up all night feeling lost and confused but at the same time happy and relieved. Finally, I have a father. I remember thinking and praying maybe he was going to save me from all the pain. I did not see my new father for another month. After playing the fire escape, watching the block everyday, looking for my father with no result I developed a habit of carrying a mean face. Smiling for me was now just a memory or something I do to front for people when my mother was around. Everything, I had to smile about, has been beaten out of me. From TV, video games, to laughter, fun, childhood happiness and even the smiles themselves. Now to top it off, I have the pain of my father not coming to see me. The anger inside me grew and finally that Saturday came around when Orlando came and got me. I felt happy again for that moment. We went to his office at New York Life Insurance where I met three of my siblings. My little sister, by three years, Tiffany, who had a female version of my face, and I was blown away. Jerome my older brother by three year was a shorter version of me. I remember feeling like a new person; I had brothers and sisters. I then met my older brother by five years, Gavin. He is a tall street version of me. Within minutes, he was explaining to that if I had a problem with anyone let him know, he will handle it. He gave me the big brother feeling I always wanted. We ate and talked about the past and my other brothers and sisters. However, it was not long after Orlando started to ask questions about changing my last name that my mood took a sudden change. My sister agreed but my older brother saw the change in my face and that I was not feeling that. I started to feel out of place. You have to understand, my whole life I have been someone else. I just met him and what are my friends going to think if I change my name? They all think my life is perfect. Suddenly I miss my mother. Through all the abuse and pain, a part of me still loved her. It is like being the son of a beast. You will always have a place in your heart for her; despite the needless pain and hardship, she gives you. Mummy was my mother and as for my father; I didn’t know him. I don’t know if he was insulted but soon after he took me home. On the ride home, I heard promises of more days and visits, but it would be another year or two before I saw Orlando again. After a few months went by my mom explained why he wasn’t coming around. I was conceived while he was with his current wife, Tiffany’s mother. I got ahead of myself; my siblings and I all have different mothers. However, out of all the kids I wasn’t allowed to be around because he cheated on his wife with my mom. I came to learn he lived five minutes away, East 49th and Farraget. I didn’t know if my mom was telling me this out of love or to hurt me, so I took it as hurtful intentions. See my mother likes to play mind games until she finds a reason or a new way to hurt you. Being in the sixth grade at the time with all my past problems only increasing; the beatings, verbal abuse, emotional abuse, and watching and growing up in a domestic violence home never knowing which night the cops were going to take me away from my mummy. I could no longer maintain the hurt I felt from my father not seeing me.
With all this pain inside of me, I began to resort to the violence and humiliations towards other people, inside and out the classroom, that the streets love and expect so much. One day at school in Mr. Strong’s class, Charles, whom only really wanted to be friends with my friends and me, was unwillingly forced to feel my pain. He would always have to go to the bathroom and when he couldn’t, he would shit on himself. This particular day was a half-day and that meant we got to wear regular clothes. Anthony was only two years older and he went to public school. Whenever he didn’t have anything fresh to wear to school, he and Sherry wouldn’t go to school. So he was fly, and the days before half-days he would let me pick something out from his closet after a, fight or two. We would fight every other day to make sure we stayed on point. So here I am, fresh hair cut seasick waves with a part to the side, and new gear. Charles sits in front of me in class that day. It was a regular day in Mr. Armstrong’s class, loud and crazy; paper fight, arguments, fights and people running in and out the room. Charles asks Mr. Strong, who is now standing in the doorway trying to block anyone from leaving, to use the bathroom and he screams “NO”. The teacher’s head is boiling red as all he wants is for the class to settle down. Charles was at the point where he began to shit on himself. Honestly, it really wasn’t as if I honestly couldn’t just go sit elsewhere. However, something inside of me saw an opportunity to bring pain to someone and maybe vent my problems through violence. I began to kick his chair and bring attention to him to cause a disruption and embarrass him. Everyone laughed and threw paper balls at him. Mr. Strong was already so frustrated and furious that he never noticed or all he cared about was everyone sitting down. Finally, with the smell becoming unbearable he let him go to the bathroom. Once the chaos erupted again Adam, Ray, William and I ran out the class and went to the bathroom. William watched the door and the rest of us and my young dude Peter, who happened to be in the hallway at the time, began to kick and punch Charles. We threw wet toilet paper and splashed water at Charles after we pushed him back into the stall. All with a smile and a sense of no care. The poor kid, even after the pain and humiliation, thought we were going to be friends. It was as if my soul had died. See the more and more beatings I took at home, it became easier or almost second nature for me not to feel or care for anyone else.
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