Freeing Myself

“Michelle! Chill out! You won. Please calm down, put the knife down, and lie down before you wake my parents up. I don’t think they will mess with you anymore. They are scared of you!” These words, combined with the look of amused terror on my best friend’s face, stopped me in my tracks. My hands were shaking; my heart was racing. I was filled with rage and sadness at the same time.

‘You won’ satisfied the competitor in me; ‘They are scared of you’ disappointed the lover in me. 

Who am I, and how did I get here?

Minutes before those words, adrenaline overtook my body. I did what I had to do to protect myself, and as a result, I redeemed the girl who silently took way too much shit. That night, I performed potentially the best roundhouse kick I had ever done — to my main assaulter’s face. The surges of energy I felt as I went into full savage mode on a total stranger and her “friends” who tried to jump me will be forever ingrained in my memory. The girl’s friends were acquaintances of mine from church school. Unbeknown to me and my best friend, they enlisted this girl to whoop my ass for no reason other than they decided they did not like me. Ignoring their bullying tactics made me appear weak, aka “scary,” a word loosely thrown around by certain members of the black community. Scary in Ebonics translates to someone who avoids unnecessary conflict because they cannot fight well and are afraid of losing/being embarrassed. It was as if partaking in riff-raff earned you some invisible badge that proved your fake street credit. My avoidance of their drama made me a soft target, but I didn’t care. I was always taught to let people think what they want, to let that kind of negativity go in one ear and out the other, and most importantly, not to engage unless physical harm was done to me first. But that night, in my best friend’s apartment living room, I went from the composed kid most everyone knew to a beast in minutes. A beast that only a few knew existed because I was trained to be one. I was proud of her and what she was capable of. However, she had remained a hidden warrior who maintained peace in any situation. However, control was lost that night, and I began a new era of not giving a flying fish filet. 

Who was I becoming?

Everything changed at this point in my life. I went from attending one of the best schools in my area (shoutout to Phoenix Magnet Elementary School) with the anticipation of moving on to another great school to a prison disguised as a top-of-the-line private school. This penitentiary I would now inhabit five to six days a week became my new home. The people in charge made grand promises and wore smiles that concealed their darker objective. Control. Control all in the name of the Lord and the greater calling on me and my new cellmates’ lives: the chosen youth who were the ministry’s future. I was shackled for eight years. Without resistance, there was little to no freedom to be who I was or wanted to be.

The control was accomplished gradually, eventually leading to zero separation between home, school, and church (the latter two were already connected). Ruinous management became a pivotal point in who I was becoming. I might say they met their match in some ways because I was born a wild and very inquisitive child. I didn’t conform to most social norms. To paint a small picture, I was the kid who asked more questions than I should have. I challenged ideas and always had two cents to add to someone else’s opinion on my life choices. I was the girl who played football in pretty dresses. I was also one of five girls on the boys’ PE team at my old school because I was too rough-natured for most other girls. I played with bugs and bathed in mud for fun. I jumped from rooftops and swung from trees for adventure.  I was a goofball, a natural entertainer. I was a dancer who left it all on the dance floor. I wore my heart on my sleeve and was always looking to help whoever I could.

I didn’t stop being who I was to fit into the new environment. It is partly why some of my peers, namely those who tried to jump me, didn’t like me. According to them, I was Miss Goody Two-shoes and concerned myself with things that did not matter, like a quality education and dance class. They had more important issues, exciting stuff like sex and partying. Therefore, their discussion topics were for mature ten- to fourteen-year-old girls who kept secrets. They did not need me ruining their fun.  Little did they know, I had a hidden past and knew exactly what it was like to have my cherry popped, as they referred to it. A secret my four-year-old self pinky promised to take to my grave. So, no, I did not find sex exciting, especially with grown men. But no judgment to them. Because, just like me, they were trapped in this prison, and these were things they felt gave them a little control and adventure.

On the contrary, my will to stay different is why others loved me. I stood up for those who were afraid to stand up for themselves. I called out the church school “leaders” for neglecting our educational needs and spending private tuition money meant for learning materials and teachers on “church projects.” Additionally, I called other injustices, including forcing children to believe and act a certain way without the ability to ask questions, the fact that the church labeled itself a street ministry whose sole purpose was to reach people outside the church to love the unlovable but shunned people inside who had different views, and the ministry for allowing separating convicted felons (many who had sex crime charges), who they were quote on quote rehabilitating from adolescents who were supposed to be learning in a safe space. The only thing it is safe to say is that I was a problem. The church and school were under a microscope, and I did not help their case. I became an inside rebel, and my cries for change landed me in the hot seat with certain administration members. My parents urged me just to shut up and do whatever was asked of me to avoid further conflict. Did I listen? Nope! Their effort to silence me fueled the fire even more, and it seemed that my rebellious behavior would be my ticket out of there. At least, that is what I hoped. Instead, it earned me a special spot in the ministry. They gave me an opportunity they knew I would not turn down – a chance to instruct underprivileged children in dance lessons. Before long, I was put on a pedestal that 15-year-old me naively took a seat on. But little did I know, it came with an ulterior motive. Once I established my program, they sat me down and told me I had to choose between it and my “secular dance studio,” where I had been a star student for nine years. Once again, they exhibited control at its finest. I chose the latter because I knew dance was my ticket out of there.

I have no regrets because dance was where I found freedom. I wouldn’t say I liked that I had to walk away from those kids, though, and only hoped that the little I did make a difference.

The dance floor became my escape, where I could express my feelings without saying anything. It was where I could release pain and not be met with questions or rebuttals. It helped heal the 4-year-old me who had her virginity taken by a much older, overgrown child. It also comforted the 16-year-old girl who lost who she thought was the boy of her dreams and one of the few friends at school after being brave enough to tell him she was not “pure.” Something she had not spoken to a single soul. Dance was the place where I escaped the turmoil happening in my home. Dance is the one thing that held me together when things got so dark that I thought about running away from life. And even more extraordinary, dance taught me lessons beyond myself.  Dance gave me forever friends, mentors, and family, who, through action, showed me I am never alone. It taught me that movement is healing and people are connected through the universal language of art. Things like exchanging tears with hundreds of audience members during a live performance change you. Knowing that your work touches people’s hearts and provides them a safe place to release their pain humbles you.

Dance has given me some of the best times as a teacher and performer. She is my first love, who has opened doors for me and helped me grow and realize who I am and want to be. Dance has given me some of my best memories. She’s my first love who helped me discover myself and opened doors for me. She is who ultimately led me to Alaska.

Alaska was never on my radar.

Alaska has become my home. When I moved here in 2011 as a service member, I never imagined setting permanent roots here. As a girl who hailed from Louisiana and loved the heat, I wanted out of here after my first winter. However, the longer I stayed, the more I realized why I ended up here and needed the stillness I did not find in my former home. I’ve learned some of my toughest lessons here – the biggest one being that I will never fully control what happens to me – something I desperately wanted based on my experiences. But with everything hard I endured, came twice the beauty and I have Alaska to thank for that. Alaska is where I officially became a wife and mother – two of my most important roles today.

Influential People

My oldest brother grew up witnessing my mom being abused by my biological father and his not-so-bonus dad. He can vividly recall my mom leaving her bedroom, night after night, holding on to the hall walls to keep her disoriented body upright after being beaten black and blue. Worse, he was often forced to watch the gruesome show while being blamed for her misfortune- it was his fault her nose bled, and if he were man enough, he would not cry. Because every time he released a whimper, she would suffer more.

No wonder my mom hated crying. Crying was seen as an annoyance and was a punishable offense in our household. The only exception was if we were gravely injured, and she had better see blood.

The images of our mom being beaten while he wept haunt my brother. Because of this, he took being my protector seriously. He promised me I would not grow up as a helpless woman who did not know how to protect herself. So, he trained me. He pledged to teach me real-world fighting skills, ensuring I had a shot in any situation. His lessons were unconventional; many would consider them overboard and breeding grounds for creating a monster. The lessons would only end when he was confident I could hold my own against him or another person. Our deal was that I could not tattle no matter how extreme things got. If I got hurt, I had to produce another excuse because if not, we knew it would not end well with my mother. She was overly protective of me as her only girl and was highly against me fighting. Also, my brother was the primary victim of cruel punishment, and what he did with me would easily trigger her into psycho-mom mode. We both wanted to avoid that.

I credit my brother for giving me confidence and pushing my physical limitations. His unconventional methods gave me an upper hand in many areas of my life, including my military career, where I excelled in combatives training and other physical fitness challenges, earning the nickname “Killah.”

If heaven had a phone…

My Grandma Barbara (my mom’s mom) was one of my favorite people on this Earth. I asked her for advice because she never judged and kept it real. She was against the strict, sheltered lifestyle my parents enforced upon me and was an advocate for me. Any time spent with her was refreshing. She kept me safe and allowed me to be a kid and express myself. Her openness with me brought a lot of heartbreak to my mother, who had unfortunately received an opposite version of her. You can say my grandma learned from her past, and I got her better years. Ironically, she became a social worker when my mother was an adult and devoted her life to helping others so I could follow in her footsteps. Sadly, she died in January 2021 at age 71 after succumbing to Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, aka ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease. Witnessing my grandma give so much and then turning around to see so little assistance available when she fell ill broke my heart. The meals, care, and services provided to those on fixed incomes in assisted living were well below subpar.  I believe the lack of funding and resources contributed to her rapid decline in health. However, I found peace knowing my grandma lived one hell of a life and was proud of me.

My Great Grandma Clara was an angel on Earth. She was someone known for her devotion to service. She fed and clothed anyone who needed it, no questions asked. She was a do-all woman. She was an excellent cook, homemaker, church member, fisherwoman, farmer, mother, grandmother, advice giver… She was sweet but stern, honest, and loyal. She was the type of woman you wanted to have in your corner and not against you. Luckily, I was her sweet baby, as she called me. She had me at her hip any chance she got, taking me to do everything she did. She was a second mom to my mother and became helped her through some of her toughest years, especially after becoming a teenage mother.

Many of my family members refer to me as “little Clara,” explaining that I am the most relatable of all her descendants in both looks to my interests. And when I think about it, they are right!

Closing Notes

All of the above people and situations taught me valuable life lessons. They aren’t the only ones who have helped pave my path, but I feel they are necessary to share as their influences remain in my life. As the years go by, I am growing into a more aware and disciplined version of myself – patient, loving, open-minded, intentional, understanding, vulnerable, eager, and inspired. And though I’m not sure what direction I want to go in the social work world yet, I would love to continue working with youth and potentially work with military families. I want to be someone who is a positive impact, advocates for others, and provide space for people of all ages to feel safe to be authentic to who they are and who they’re becoming.