“Dana, I’m on my way out to work,” I heard my mother blurt from the living room as I heard her moving things around as she paced the living room floor. “Now what did I do with my keys,” she mumbled.
They were most likely hanging from her neck or somewhere buried in her purse. I thought, as I scrambled around to see how long I had been asleep. As I jumped up to look out the window, I must have been asleep all day I said to myself out-loud. I went to bed looking at sunlight and woke up looking at the stars I said to myself. “What did you say dana”, my mother yelled out. Now where is my keys, she then repeated to herself, forgetting the question she had asked me. Oh, will you look at this, they are in my pocket she yelled out, laughing at herself.
“Dana, did you hear what I said?” she yelled even louder.
“Yes,” I answered, slightly irritated. I wanted her to stay home with me, maybe catch up on a movie or two. I would go with anything, even sit with her through one of those drawn out soap operas she recorded to watch on her day off. I just didn’t want to be left alone, not tonight. Of course, she went into work.
That night seemed so long as I stared up at the ceiling as if morning would never come. I looked to and from the door that I doubled-locked myself into, feeling as if the locks were my only protection.
“I hate myself,” I said as I kicked the blankets off me, only to pull them back up over me. last night changed me. I was sad, hurt, and broken. I was no longer like my dolls, who had smiles on their faces and seemed happy all the time. That was just not me. From that moment on, I became a different person. I didn’t want to play with dolls any longer. I didn’t want to laugh anymore, for laughter was for happy people, and I was just not a happy person, I concluded.
As time went on, I began to hate the very things I used to love and that gave me great joy. I hated to smile. Day after day, numerous people told me “just smile” because I was too pretty to be frowning. Who are they to tell me to smile? I thought as I frowned even more at them until they turned their nose up and walked away. Playing with my dolls and dollhouses became foreign. I didn’t want to go outside any longer, for the fun and outside games became irrelevant to me. I didn’t want to play with the other kids, they seemed so happy. If they had a clue about what was going on with me, or what happened to me I would surely be the laughingstock of the community, I thought. I could see them now, pointing their fingers at me and screeching, “Ewwww, Dana has the cooties!” “Dana has the cooties!” And don’t let me get started with Tommy, who is the greatest teaser I have ever known. I could hear him now calling me names and making silly faces.
I was unable to let that night go. I would wake up from nightmares, thinking someone was after me, and the days felt as if someone was constantly watching me. While walking to school, I would suddenly turn, thinking someone was behind me. But to my surprise, it would be no one. As the days and nights went on, I continuously asked myself when the nightmare would end. Yet day after day, I woke up and the pain of that night still remained.
I started to suffer from low self-esteem. I thought I couldn’t be of any value, that I wasn’t important. I was meaningless in this world. I began to tell myself as I looked in the mirror at night. If I was important and special, then this wouldn’t have happened to me. I was not beautiful like I thought. I was ugly. “Just look at my hair,” I mumbled to myself as I turned in the mirror day after day. “It’s so kinky and unmanageable. Who would want hair like this?” I said as I picked up strands of my hair.
I’m a mess, I concluded! I used to love my hair, but now I had reached a point where I hated every part of me. I knew that what happened on that horrific, life-altering night wasn’t right, but why didn’t anyone else see what was wrong? Can’t anyone hear me screaming from within? I wondered. I need help, I wanted to yell so many times, but instead, I kept quiet just like I was told.
The rain began to fall, just as I expected. Gathering my belongings, I rushed inside and sat in the living room. As the water fell from my hair to my face and made its way down my back, I quickly grabbed a towel that was in the basket on the couch and patted myself, throwing the towel over my shoulders to catch the water that was dripping down my neck. I then noticed a photo album that was sticking out from the side of the coffee table that my mother had left behind.
As I flipped through the pages, I realized that there weren’t too many pictures of me smiling. After that night, there weren’t what I would consider happy moments growing up. My mother never understood why I liked staying in the room. She would yell, “Dana, come out of that room! Every time you come home, you go and hide in that room!” She would fuss as she walked through the house, looking for things to complain about (so I thought). My room was my safe area, I concluded as I laid in bed and listened to her complain about me staying in my dungeon or why I kept the room so dark. From time to time, she would barge in and pull the shades open to bring in some sunlight. I would think that nothing was light about what had happened to me or about anything that was going on with me.
As I flipped through the pages, I ran across one picture in particular. Anyone in their right mind would have known that something was wrong with this little girl. I looked lost and broken … scared of the existence of dwelling in life. I looked at the others who were in the picture. Somehow, they were all smiling—or maybe I didn’t get the “one, two, three, smile” warning, I chuckled to myself.
I flipped past that picture and looked at other pictures that were buried under more pictures. Some I laughed at, and others I cared not to even think about. I flipped past pictures of cousins and siblings and came across pictures of me in junior high.
“By the age of twelve, I am no better than I was at the age of ten, when my life was changed,” I said out loud as I scribbled in my journal. The situation grew worse, and every night became a living nightmare. “I am always lonely,” I said to myself. As I wrote, I looked to and from the door in case Jay decided to barge in, take my journal, and make a mockery of what I had written. Walking past mirrors became a chore, I continued. Looking at myself in any sort of light was nearly impossible. By this time, I literally hate myself. I think that somehow all that has happened to me is my fault, and I am the cause of the world not bearing me happiness, Love Dana.
I concluded writing in my journal as I heard my mother’s footsteps get closer to the door.
“Dana and Jay! Time to get ready for school!” she said, heading toward the kitchen, coming in off the night shift. I could hear her placing her lunch bag and keys on the counter, yawning, in desperate need of sleep.
I turned over in bed, hating that I had to put on a fake smile or try to be happy when on the inside, I was crying.
“Dana!” she yelled again. This was nothing new. In fact, it became a morning routine. I rolled out of bed, closed my diary and dreadfully went into the restroom, ignoring the fact that today was the first day of junior high. This is the time most girls are happy, they are no longer considered babies, but instead considered one of the “big” kids on the block. I shrugged it off trying to come to grips with me going into junior high. Instead I threw my hair into a messy ponytail, washed my face, and swiftly brushed my teeth. I could care less about what I looked like. I was not that normal kid who is so excited about the first day of school, the ones who couldn’t get any rest, too excited to try on the school clothes that their parents had gotten for the new year. My brother Jay, for instance, had been awake since 4 a.m. I could hear him in his room trying on his new clothes, as he talked to himself in the mirror, trying to decide what shoes to wear with what shirt, pretending to be at a photoshoot.
I laughed to myself in disgust as I fiddled with my hair. Afterward, I went into my room and looked in my closet moving past all the clothes that would have been suitable for the first day of school, pushing past the clothes my mother had bought me for the school year, and instead, I grabbed a wrinkled black shirt I had stuffed in my dresser drawe
r and a pair of old black pants that were folded up on the top of my closet. I didn’t want to be all dressed up, pretending to be one way when I deep down was feeling another way, I said as I put on the old converse shoes from last year that looked like they did not get washed one time this summer. Throwing my backpack on my back I darted towards the door and quickly went out before I could give my mother time to see what I truly look like, and to avoid the lecture about how she worked hard all summer for the new clothes she had bought.
As I walked down the road, I could hear the other girls chatting. I glanced over and noticed them putting lip gloss on their already glossy lips as they laughed and talked about the summer. “Like they don’t have enough on their lips already,” I murmured to myself. They look as happy as could be, I thought to myself. It seemed their boobs must have grown over the summer. Jessica in particular, she was just in a training bra last year, somehow it looks like she has apples sitting on her chest. Another girl who was with jessica was walking as if every shake in her buttocks would draw more attention with every stride she made. It made me want to scream, but instead, I rolled my eyes and kept walking.
“Hey, Dana!” Jessica called out.
As I looked over to embrace the happy hello, I noticed the smirks on their faces.
“Ummm nice outfit,” one of the others shouted out while covering her mouth to hide her laugh. Ummm don’t you own an iron, Jessica blurted out.
Rolling my eyes, I turned my head and kept walking.
“Look at them. Who do they think they are?” I murmured as I brushed past them, saving myself the girlie talk that I didn’t care to hear. I walked even faster, keeping my eyes forward, avoiding any other comments or questions that might come up that they would want to laugh at. Questions like, “How was your summer? What adventures did you have?” I already knew that I would have to hear enough of those questions from the teachers for the next week or so.
Walking into the school, I could smell the fresh paint on the walls and the sleek floors that have been waxed, which seemed like moments before school started, considering the smell that was lingering in the air. I could hear the kids yelling in the halls along with teachers trying to calm everyone down. I looked around and saw the popular girls walking together in sync, moving from side to side in unity. The perkiness in their walk made it seem like they had no care in the world, and their lip gloss outlined their lips to perfection, I thought as they walked by. Oh, how they seem to have their life together, I thought as I looked at them twirl their hair, switching their body weight from one leg to the other while they stopped to talk to the athletes, only to shake their hair back to the former side.
I could hear the boys chatting on and on about the cute girls, as they watched them closely as they passed by their lockers. I could see crowds gather around in circles, gossiping and carrying on about their classmates with excitement in their voices as they ranted on about their adventures over the summer break and how excited they were to see each other again. Then there was me, walking the halls alone, head down, which I lifted just enough to see what was going on, and down it would go again. I was afraid to talk to anyone yet at the same time wanting so desperately to talk to someone.
I could hear the teachers chatting outside their classrooms as they waited patiently for their students to walk through their doors, greeting them with a smile and a warm hello. As I passed, I admired how their heels matched their dress, and how their nails seemed to have the most perfect manicures I have seen. They always appeared so happy, as if they had no worries, no cares, as they stood there with lipstick that any teenage girl would die for, twirling their hair back and forth, hair I thought every girl dreamed of, standing with confidence that the sun always shines and never rained.
As I walked down the hall trying to find my class, I saw how the different crowds gathered together. I saw the macho football players laughing and talking as they shoved one another back and forth. I didn’t fit in with any crowd I said to myself as I quickly looked away. The cheerleaders were out of my league, the athletes were too sporty and outgoing for me, I was not the musical type and by no means was I considered a science kid. The ones who seemed like they knew everything, and whose hands were already raised before the teacher asked a question. Just look at them, I thought as I walked past them with their science shirts on and their glasses hanging on their nose just enough not to fall off.
I wanted to fit in but couldn’t seem to shake off that night and what was going on inside of me. How could I shake the unhappiness I was feeling—the loneliness, the heartache, the self-hate, the issues of my mother and father? How could I shake off the very essence of who I was? For who I was, I didn’t like anymore. These were my thoughts as I walked through the halls of Junior High East.
How can I shake it off? I thought over and over as I screamed in the mirror in the bathroom at school. I just know when people see me, they see what happened to me. I was afraid to let anyone get close enough to admit they see my issues, let alone the fact that most already considered me an issue.
The boys preferred the lighter girls; they would say, “the lighter, the better.” Caucasian, Mexican, or light-skinned black girls were the ones getting hit on. I wasn’t on that scale. I was neither Caucasian nor Mexican, not even a light-skinned black girl. I was on the darker end of the pole, a color most boys would not consider hot. So that added to my hate for self, I began to hate the very person I thought other people hated … which was me, my existence. I’m damaged goods, I thought to myself over and over.
“Just not hot,” I heard them chatting on and on in the halls as they passed by the girls, putting them on their hot or not list, pointing their fingers at them one by one as they walked by. Who do you think you are? I wanted to scream out to them as I rolled my eyes. A part of me wanted to be liked. I want to feel pretty, I thought as I walked up and down the halls, as I Watch other girls flaunt around, laughing and carrying on with no care in the world (at least that is how it seemed).
I wanted attention from whoever would give it to me. My mother worked too much to give it, and my father was still not around and from the looks of things he might not ever show up. Sometimes while eating lunch, I would think, Today is the day he will show up and eat with me. But with every day passing and no sign of him, I was left hurt time and time again. I figured out that I had to get attention from somewhere or someone. Bad or good attention—I wanted it.
Chapter 3
It was a rough day at school after listening to the boys, brag on and on about how the lighter girls were prettier. I figured I would just bleach my skin since my skin, I thought, was not pretty. It was not light enough, and for some reason, black girls with my complexion just were not hot. I don’t know who came up with this stupid conclusion, but it seemed that it’s what everyone followed. Since no one showed me any attention, I would do the very thing that would get me attention. “Yes!” I exclaimed to myself. “If I change the color of my skin, that will do the trick.” I mapped out my plan as I walked home from school.
Walking up to the driveway, I noticed that my mother’s car was not parked out back (no surprise), so this would be the best day to implement my plan. I rushed into my mother’s room—for she had the bigger tub, skipping over the uniforms she had placed on the chair that I had accidentally knocked over on my way to her tub—and ran myself a bath. I’ll just pick them up later, I thought as I dashed into the kitchen, reached under the sink, and pulled out the bleach. Running back to her room, I managed to knock down a picture frame. “Gosh darn it,” I yelled out. I’ll just pick that up later too, I said sarcastically. I opened the bleach and poured the whole bottle into the bathwater. As much as it burned my eyes, I told myself this must work! At least that is what I saw on the commercials. How the bleach can turn the darkest stains white, I thought about the commercial as I continued to pour the bleach into the tub. Eager to see what would happen, I sat back and watched as the water reach
ed the top of the tub, and then I quickly turned it off.
As the bleach became impossible to deal with, I grabbed a towel my mother had folded up in her cabinet and covered my nose. Before, I could take off my clothes I heard my mother barging into the living room.
“Dana! Dana!” she yelled out in a tone that told me she was irritated. “Dana!” she exclaimed, as her voice got closer.
“Yes! Yes, mother, I’m here,” I yelled out from behind the towel I had snuggled my nose into. Trying to breath I yelled out again “mother I am in your room”, then suddenly thinking “I am going to regret that I said that.”
I could hear her fumbling with things in the living room, organizing what I had messed up as she made her way into the bathroom where I was. I looked around panicking, trying to figure out a way to escape the room. I could hear her picking up the picture frame and placing it on the table.
“What is going on here?” she asked herself as she became more irritated, cleaning up the damage along the way as she made her way to her room. “What are you doing with all my bleach and in my bathroom! I can smell that bleach outside,” she exaggerated.
As I heard her footsteps coming down the hall to her room, I tried to figure out my next move. I looked around the room at the damage I had caused and knew I didn’t have nearly enough time to come up with an excuse that would suffice for what I was doing. As the footsteps got closer to the door, I quickly tried to let out the water but couldn’t catch hold of the string. I wish I had a genie in a bottle to make a wish so that I could magically disappear, I thought to myself as I panicked with every footstep she made closer to her room.
“What are you planning on doing?” she asked as she seemed to have popped up out of nowhere, interrupting my genie thought. Staring at me from the bathroom door with a glare that was so sharp it would have stabbed anyone right down to the bone.
The Product of a Broken Heart Page 3
