Chapter Three: Between Innocence and Exposure
During my younger elementary school years, life was interesting in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. My great-grandmother’s neighborhood was quiet and filled with children. Kids played freely in each other’s yards, rode bikes until the streetlights came on, and neighbors watched everything even when they pretended not to.
My mother’s father owned a neighborhood store, and from time to time my mother would take me there to get school supplies, snacks, and whatever else we needed. One particular day stayed with me for years.
My mother gathered the items we came for and walked straight to the counter, asking for a bag as if she had every right to. The woman behind the counter looked confused because my mother made no attempt to pay. Instead, she stood there waiting for the cashier to bag everything up.
The cashier eventually called my grandfather and asked, “Who is this girl coming in here taking things without paying?”
My mother didn’t flinch.
“I’m his daughter, and this is his granddaughter. I’m not paying for a damn thing.”
Then she walked right out of the store carrying everything she came for.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand the anger behind her words. Looking back now, I realize it was never really about the merchandise. It was about years of resentment, disappointment, and pain between a daughter and her father. My mother felt he had failed her long before I ever came along.
Apparently, my grandfather and grandmother had once been married, but not for long. I was told my grandmother left him the very same day they got married. Their relationship was complicated, toxic, and filled with infidelity on both sides. Eventually my grandmother was murdered, leaving behind wounds that never truly healed inside the family.
My grandfather later remarried a woman my mother deeply respected. That woman already had four daughters from a previous relationship, and together she and my grandfather had two sons, making them my mother’s half-brothers.
Despite my grandfather not wanting her to, his wife would still keep me on weekends. She welcomed me anyway.
My grandfather was known throughout the neighborhood. He owned the corner store, worked on cars, and was part of a motorcycle club. At some point he was involved in a motorcycle accident that severely injured one of his hands from the wrist down, leaving it curved and stiff like a pirate’s hook. As a child, I stared at it with both fear and fascination.
The weekends spent at his wife’s apartment in the southeast side of town felt different from home. The apartment itself was crowded a small three-bedroom packed with children but somehow it still felt warm and organized.
The girls shared rooms. The boys shared rooms. Everyone had responsibilities.
The girls rotated washing dishes while the boys made sure the trash went out daily. Arguments constantly broke out over whose turn it was to clean until their mother finally taped a calendar to the wall to keep order in the house. No excuses. No confusion.
I admired that structure.
I called the girls my aunts and the boys my uncles, even though one of the boys and I were close in age, while I was older than the youngest. Titles didn’t matter to me. Family was family.
Back at my great-grandmother’s duplex, life had its own rhythm.
School was within walking distance, so every morning my mother and I walked together. We crossed several streets, railroad tracks, and passed a small basketball court before turning the corner where the school stood waiting on the right-hand side.
The neighborhood itself told a story about race long before I truly understood racism.
Cabbagetown was where most of the white families lived. Reynoldstown was where most of the Black families stayed. When Black children entered stores in Cabbagetown, workers watched us closely, assuming we might steal something. You could feel the suspicion without anyone saying a word.
Still, life back then was affordable in ways people today would hardly believe. A dollar could fill an entire bag of snacks. Bread, canned goods, and lunch meat were inexpensive. Families survived on very little and somehow made it stretch.
Just two houses down from my great-grandmother’s home was a corner store owned by a Black man. He sliced fresh meats exactly how customers wanted them liver cheese, souse meat, smoked sausages seasoned by hand, and thick bologna with the red ring around it. That meat with crackers and a cold soda felt like a feast.
He trusted people enough to give store credit, something almost unheard of today.
Back then children played outside without fear. We ran through each other’s yards, scraped knees on sidewalks, and stayed outside for hours without adults constantly worrying about kidnappings or violence.
School was one of the highlights of my childhood. I loved being around the other children both at school and in the neighborhood.
One memory that never left me was the school talent show.
My mother took me downtown on the bus to buy an outfit for the event. We shopped in stores like Kessler’s and the Bootery shoe store until she found the perfect look for me. I remember wearing black and red possibly a skirt set or slacks with a blouse and brimmed hat. My hair was freshly pressed with curls bouncing perfectly into place.
I felt beautiful.
The night of the performance, my mother and great-grandmother came with me to the school auditorium. I arrived early for rehearsal and waited nervously backstage.
Then my name was called.
I stepped from behind the curtain while the music played loudly through the speakers. But the second I saw the audience staring back at me, I froze completely.
I could see my mother and great-grandmother motioning for me to continue performing, but panic took over. I kicked my leg up dramatically, turned around, and ran straight back behind the curtain.
The audience burst into laughter.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t embarrassed. I don’t think I understood humiliation deeply enough at that age to care.
The next performer, one of my classmates, came out dressed to impress in a shiny silk outfit and Jeepers sneakers with stripes running down the sides. He danced to Anita Ward’s “Ring My Bell” like he was performing in front of thousands. In his mind, he had already become a superstar.
And honestly, his confidence made the whole crowd cheer.
After the performances, teachers reunited students with their families while refreshments and awards were handed out. I was more than ready to go home.
During those years, I never fully understood how my mother managed financially. I remembered her working at a hotel, and I knew my great-grandmother helped support us too. My mother eventually got an apartment on the northwest side of town, and there was a nearby store we often walked to together.
Outside that store, men constantly gathered on the corner watching women come and go. As a child, I noticed how they stared not always speaking, just observing and sizing women up.
One day while playing outside with neighborhood children, I accidentally stepped onto a thick piece of glass that sliced deeply into my left foot. I screamed in pain as blood poured everywhere. My mother came running outside immediately and called an ambulance.
I remember being rushed into the emergency room while doctors worked quickly around me. A woman possibly from social services questioned my mother about the incident while I lay there terrified and confused.
Eventually the doctors stitched my foot and placed my leg in a cast that reached all the way up to my knee. My heel was covered while my toes stuck out from the end. There was a rounded support under the foot to help balance while walking.
I wore that cast for weeks.
And still… there was never a father around.
Never present.
Never mentioned.
Never explained.
It was like a dark secret nobody wanted to discuss, so eventually I stopped asking questions altogether.
Instead, my world became my mother, great-grandmother, extended relatives, cousins, and neighborhood friends.
For eight years I was an only child, and during the holidays my mother took me to programs like Toys for Tots where children received gifts. I got dolls, bicycles, Easy-Bake Ovens, games, and toys alongside presents from family members.
At Christmas, downtown Atlanta felt magical.
Rich’s department store hosted the famous Pink Pig ride high above the city. Children rode around giant Christmas displays surrounded by lights, music, cotton candy, and people dressed in festive costumes.
Those nights felt magical.
Like the world still had innocence left in it.
I spent most days riding bikes with neighborhood friends despite my mother constantly warning me not to go too far. One afternoon we rode toward a dangerous road known as Dead Man’s Curve.
Ignoring every warning, I followed behind the other kids until my bike slammed into theirs. I crashed hard, scraping my knees, legs, and side badly enough to leave blood running down my skin.
My bike was damaged almost as badly as I was.
I had to walk home pushing it beside me.
The second I walked through the door, my mother yelled, “Didn’t I tell you not to go far?”
Before she could continue, my great-grandmother stepped in.
“Don’t be hollering at her. Come here, baby. Let me put some liniment on those scars.”
Between my mother’s discipline and my great-grandmother’s comfort, I somehow always felt both corrected and protected.
Sharing with other children didn’t come naturally to me. Maybe it was because I spent so many years as an only child. Maybe it was deeper than that. Sometimes I wondered if growing up without a father created anger or rebellion inside me that I didn’t yet understand.
Inside our household there was structure, but not much visible spirituality.
I don’t remember church services, prayer over meals, or strong religious teachings. If faith existed in the house, it was quiet and private. Perhaps my great-grandmother prayed silently on her own, but it wasn’t openly practiced in ways I recognized as a child.
Still, my great-grandmother remained my greatest example of strength.
She worked hard every single day, often catching the bus home exhausted before immediately cooking dinner for us. She rarely complained, rarely showed weakness, and protected her family fiercely. She was private, independent, and deeply grounded despite not having much materially.
Our duplex was small but full of love.
A red brick exterior.
A metal porch swing.
A tiny living room.
A small kitchen.
A clothesline in the backyard stretched over red dirt instead of grass.
I remember wooden clothespins holding freshly washed clothes while birds constantly ruined them with droppings before the laundry could fully dry.
Over time, one of the wealthy families my great-grandmother worked for upgraded their home and gave her used furniture, appliances, carpeting, and clothing. Some of the clothes fit awkwardly, but to me they looked stylish and preppy enough for school.
My great-grandmother appreciated everything because she knew what struggle looked like firsthand.
As I got older, I also started witnessing the darker side of life around me.
A man fell from a roof and died instantly after allegedly suffering a seizure while drinking.
A pregnant girl was murdered alongside her unborn child after an argument with her boyfriend.
Affairs, gossip, violence, and secrets moved quietly throughout the neighborhood.
Children heard and saw more than adults realized.
I spent summers with cousins in Bankhead, where apartments overflowed with life. Ice cream trucks rolled through constantly, neighbors sold candy from their homes, and people gathered outside laughing late into the evening.
My cousins loved dressing me up, fixing my hair, and taking pictures of me in matching outfits and denim jumpsuits with ribbons tied across my head.
But I was also known for being rebellious.
I cursed too much for a child my age, often yelling “got dammit” whenever I got upset. My cousins’ mother disciplined me quickly every time I slipped up. Looking back, I probably learned most of my language from my mother, who cursed openly and unapologetically.
There were also childhood moments of curiosity I didn’t fully understand at the time exploring boundaries with neighborhood kids, mimicking behaviors we likely witnessed from adults without understanding their meaning.
Life around us moved fast.
Adults cheated openly.
People switched partners constantly.
Neighborhood drama became normal conversation.
Some girls my age were labeled “fast” long before they were emotionally mature enough to understand what that meant.
The older generation could often look at someone and predict the direction their life was heading before the younger ones could see it themselves.
Meanwhile, my mother became involved with the man who would become my younger brother’s father. He worked hard, stayed employed, and genuinely wanted to provide for his son.
Ironically, my great-grandmother admired him more than my mother sometimes did.
As a child, I couldn’t understand it.
How could a man willing to stay and provide be pushed away… while the father who abandoned me was never held accountable?
That confusion stayed with me for years.
Eventually my brother’s father suffered a severe eye injury that permanently damaged his vision. He later wore a prosthetic eye so realistic I didn’t realize it was fake until the day he removed it in front of me.
I screamed and ran in terror.
Later, I adjusted to it.
Just like I adjusted to almost everything else life threw at me.
By the time elementary school ended, childhood already felt heavier than it should have.
I graduated wearing a white dress, white patent leather shoes, ruffled socks, and a small cap and gown while my mother proudly prepared me for the ceremony.
One by one, students walked across the stage receiving certificates while families cheered from the audience.
Some children everyone believed would succeed eventually struggled.
Others no one expected much from would later thrive.
Life had a way of surprising people.
And even then, without fully understanding it, I was already learning one important truth:
Childhood innocence doesn’t disappear all at once.
Sometimes it slowly fades away one experience, one secret, and one hard lesson at a time.