Our struggles inevitably beckoned drugs. What started as a hustle ended with addiction. I stood on one end of the pipe—my mother eventually the other.  Nonetheless, this was our African Queen. Despite poverty’s discordance, she taught us how to get through hard times and stay warm in those cold winter nights as we lay bundled together in Grandma’s old quilts. Government cheese, beans and canned meat kept our stomachs full. And the hugs this fiend would give, along with the ass whippings, assured us that she cared. She handled her business given what she had to work with despite opinions. Rain, sleet or snow, if she had to “ho up”—Mr. Hood got a show. If she had to slang blow, she did-it-moving and indeed went all-the-way out—schizo—tryin’ to feed her crumb snatchers. 

Trapped in a world of disparity, I witnessed it riddled with drugs, violence and insanity. All too which would have its effect on my ghetto perspective. Yet, my ghetto was unique, nonetheless, the same. Though, there were no plywood covers littering project windows or other features that immediately come to mind when reflecting on  the scenery common to the inner-city ghetto. Nor was it the reality I’ve encountered in other countries where more extreme definitions of poverty exist. Yet and still, being poor is universal and embodies the same oppressive elements. 

My ghetto was one of illusions all the same. Here, cats came up stankin’ floating in the lake underestimating my country settings. I was raised for the most part in Seminole County, Oklahoma. At the heart of this racially intolerant stretch of land sat the county seat—Wewoka, my birthright. Yet, I resided here and there throughout the state. In thirteen years of school I attended thirteen different schools. My mother and stepfather often jumped from town-to-town, city-to-city looking for rare employment opportunities as our family grew. Most of the towns we lived in were small populations (800 to 25,000), with exception of Oklahoma City (OKC, hereafter) and Norman. These towns were just as insulating as the inner-city. They all were trapped in the cultural bubble of racism, drugs, poverty, and violence. 

From the jump my real father had checked-out. Though he abandoned my mother  and I, his departure was not by choice. Three bullets caught him in the back of the head. I was told he was murdered by a coward stepping to a hogg behind a “juice box” (a.k.a. some pussy). At the tender age of three, I vividly recall holding my sobbing mother’s hand as we approached… I was confused not realizing the impact of that day as we drew near the sky-blue box my father was lying in. Looking to my mother for answers, I recall asking: “What’s wrong?” “Why is Daddy just lying there?” “Daddy get up!” “Let’s play cowboy and ride my horse Big Red!” Daddy just stayed there as if he was playing sleep. As I continued to tug on my Mom’s dress tears flowed from her eyes as if a river as she attempted to explain my father was gone forever. “No he’s not! He’s right there,” I insisted not understanding the meaning of “gone forever.” 

The murder of my father would be the first of many life-altering events during  childhood that would harden my soul. Something inside of me would turn-off. Death and insanity seemed to ever claim those I cared for most. So I just stopped caring.