There Goes My Social Life

by Stacey Dash

  I walked into the studio with my head held high. Ballet was pure. When I leapt, I felt like I was really leaving the earth—where everything seemed broken and hopeless—and I escaped that pain for just a fleeting moment. There was also a certain romance of being on point.

  They gave me a number along with what seemed like a hundred other girls. They would tell us the moves to do—show us a combination, then we’d have to replicate it. As the music played, they’d watch us dance, then point at individual girls and say, “You—get out.” Harsh, right? After an hour or so, I realized I was one of the last people standing. At the end of the day, they said, “Congratulations, you made it.”

  I couldn’t believe it!

  “Just have your parent sign this form,” the instructor said, “and we’ll see you on Monday!”

  When I rushed into my mom’s bedroom, she was sleeping.

  “I did it!” I told her, handing her the form and gently nudging her awake. “I got into the Harlem Dance School!”

  “You’re not going,” she mumbled.

  “What?” I said.

  “There’s no way you’re gonna go to Harlem every day to dance.”

  I couldn’t believe that she didn’t want me to take advantage of this opportunity. Or, more accurately, that she wouldn’t let me. I’d taken an acting class in California, until my mom made me stop. Then, I’d refocused my life into my ballet. But what good was all that hard work? Every opportunity I got, Mom snuffed out.

  “Quit being a dreamer,” she said, before rolling over and going back to her own dreamless sleep.

  It was my sixteenth birthday, and my godfather was at the house. It wasn’t a party for me, but every day was a party for my mother. She was right at the coffee table, forming lines of cocaine with a razor like she’d done a million times before. But then she did something new.

  “Here, do you want some?” She looked up at me and smiled.

  I looked at her, then the lines. Though I’d been around hard drugs my whole life, I had never done them. But it seemed like my years of hard work at school, in acting class, and ballet had never really mattered. I wasn’t any better than they were after all. After living in my family for all these years, I didn’t need instructions. I leaned down, held one nostril shut with my finger, and clenched my teeth. I didn’t want to blow on the line. I snorted it, pulled back on my forehead above my left eye and inhaled sharply a couple of times. What was happening physically at that moment was that the cocaine was being dispersed in my sinus cavity, absorbing into my system. What was happening emotionally was far more complex.

  “Just sit back and relax,” my mother laughed. “Let it take hold.”

  It burned like hell, but I liked it. I really liked it.

  After that day I shaved my head, became a punk rocker, and started hanging out in Greenwich Village. There creativity emanated from cafes with the cigarette smoke and the aroma of pastries. When I walked through Washington Square, someone might offer me marijuana, someone else might be playing folk songs, another might be reciting a poem. The people who made culture lived in the Village, collaborating, arguing, inspiring, and catalyzing each other into greatness. Greenwich Village opened my eyes to the possibilities of life and art. Consequently, I didn’t see the world as something I couldn’t have. I wasn’t trapped in the Bronx—not for a second. The words Uncle Freddy said to me so many years ago had never left me: Don’t settle. You can do whatever you want. You aren’t limited to here. Now, I finally began to believe him.

  Though I began to do a lot of drugs, there was one thing I wouldn’t do: smoke cocaine. I hated the smell. The aroma of it always lingered around my mom, the fog of musty dysfunction. With my newfound drug habit, I stopped going to school unless there were tests . . . and only for the classes I liked. I would find out assignments, do them at home, and then go for the bare minimum requirements. At this point, I just didn’t give a shit about anything. Anger became all-consuming, though it was the quiet kind. I became very withdrawn and didn’t talk much. I had very few friends.

  One day when I was almost seventeen, I was sitting alone at the school cafeteria when I felt someone staring at me. I was used to the attention, since everyone was talking about how much I’d changed lately.

  What’d she do to her hair?

  What’s gotten into her?

  Have you seen Stacey lately?

  But this was different. I looked up and saw a blonde, blue-eyed Irish kid looking at me. Our high school had all kinds of different groups. I belonged to the “disco” group, but there were also “punks,” “nerds,” and “dirtbags.” This guy was considered a dirtbag because he rode a motorcycle. He and his brothers used to rebuild old Harleys.

  When my eyes met his, it seemed like he could see into my soul. We had a stare down, literally. I looked at him and he looked at me. I might have licked my lips! The next thing I knew he got up—our eyes still transfixed—walked over, and said, “Ay, you want to go out?”

  He had me at “Ay.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I’m taking you riding after school.”

  How could I refuse? Pretty soon he was coming by every day after classes to pick me up, and I’d jump on his bike. We were inseparable. I felt like I had finally connected with someone in a real, almost magical way. I felt that Mike “got me.” The issues with my family receded into the background whenever we were together, so I made sure we were always together.

  One night he came and got me around 10:00. I was wearing high heels like always because I’m so short, and I climbed on the bike and we took off. The next thing I knew, we were driving through the forest.

  “Where are we going?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  It was dark and trees were flying by. I couldn’t see anything in front of us.

  “Are you out of your mind?” I yelled into his ear, pulling my arms around his chest more closely.

  “Just shut your mouth.”

  Oh, hell no, I thought, but I didn’t have time to protest. He parked the bike at the bottom of a hill, grabbed me, and threw me over his shoulder.

  “Why are you doing this?” I began to scream. “Where are you taking me?”

  He ignored me and steadily climbed the hill, me kicking the whole way. Eventually, he put me down on the ground, put his hands on my shoulders, and turned me around. There, before me was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen: a lake surrounded by low-hanging trees, the reflection of the moon on the water. Oh, and a sleeping bag right by the lake.

  It was the most romantic moment of my life. We made love all night—my first time. In fact, the whole summer was one big romantic adventure. It was just Mike and me. That’s all that mattered.

  Or so I thought. It’s easy for teenagers—even for adults, really—to slip into the idea that a fun romantic relationship will solve all of life’s problems. That sex will be the thing that makes things better. I didn’t know it at the time, but the very thing that I thought was taking me away from my troubles was actually compounding them. In fact, researchers now say that young adults who engage in casual sexual activity are more likely to be depressed and to seriously consider suicide. Casual sex leads to poor mental health—in both guys and girls.1 Isn’t that a fascinating fact—one that feminists should deal with honestly if they really are about the well-being of women?

  Many times, Democrats stigmatize Republicans by saying that all conservatives care about are social issues, the so-called “family values” that rob the fun out of life. Democrats, on the other hand, present themselves as being sexually permissive and helping to defend the poor. This, of course, is exactly opposite to the truth. When Republicans talk about “family values,” they are talking about solving cultural problems that disproportionately affect the poor. They are talking about poverty reduction, suicide prevention, and much, much more.

  Did you know that marriage is our strongest weapon against poverty? It makes you wonder why Democrats attac
k it. A decline in marriage drives child poverty through the roof. It also increases welfare dependence. Of course, liberals wring their hands when conservatives start talking about “family values” and “traditional marriage” but it makes sense for the government to do what it can to strengthen marriages. If we ever come across a kid who wants to drop out of high school, we immediately encourage them to stick it out. We should view dropping out of marriage as we do dropping out of high school. It’s so important to get and stay married for everyone—especially parents in low-income neighborhoods. Children should arrive on this earth within the bond of marriage with parents who are more economically stable.

  Our current administration undermines marriage, and it’s time to quit “Murphy Browning” everyone who says that family values and traditional marriage are important. In fact, it’s time for Americans—including black Americans from lower-income areas—to realize that the smartest thing they can do to help their kids grow up well in America is to stop having sex outside of marriage. Once they are married, they should stay married . . . and stop supporting liberal politicians whose policies undermine the very lives they pretend to want to help.

  Liberal policies and attitudes harm people in the inner cities. I’m speaking not from a place of strength, not from a pulpit explaining how I did everything right and was rewarded for it. I made mistakes—lots of them. Hopefully you can read my story not with judgment, but with an eye toward helping people like me more easily take responsibility for their lives. I didn’t understand any of this when I fell in love with the “dirtbag” with the bike. But I knew from the times that my grandmother took me to Catholic mass that sex outside of the benefits of marriage was not a good idea. Against God’s plan. A sin.

  Guess what? I didn’t care. Having someone to love me, to understand me, and to hold me was too big of a temptation. It’s hard to turn down affection and love when at home all you get is contempt and scorn. I sank my life and soul into Mike, until one day we had a fight. It was a rather silly fight, in retrospect, but it was a fight nonetheless. We had been arguing more frequently now. But this time when I knocked on his door, ready to make up, his mother answered with a concerned expression on her face.

  “Sweetie, I think you ought to go home and talk to him tomorrow,” she said. Her voice was kind, with a tinge of pity.

  “Why?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

  Then the door opened a bit more, and I looked in the house. I saw Mike—the love of my life—standing there with another girl.

  “I don’t want to see you again,” he said. I guess the “dirtbag” name was appropriate for more reasons than just his motorcycle.

  “Come outside and fight!” I yelled at the girl, who slunk further into the house when she saw the anger in my face. “You better get out here, little girl! I’m not playin’ with you! I’m gonna kick your ass!”

  Wisely, she didn’t come outside. On my way out, I kicked over Mike’s bike, but it didn’t help me feel one ounce better. There was nothing to say, nothing to do. The one person in my life I loved and adored—the person I’d given myself to—no longer wanted to see me. Like everyone else in my fucking life, he left me.

  Alone, again.

  That was it. For the next three months, I went dancing at clubs all the time by myself; I slept with guys I don’t even remember; I woke up a couple of times in places I didn’t even recognize, before slipping out, hailing a cab, and making my way home. Not that home was that much better. Thankfully, my teachers liked me, which meant that somehow I was able to pull off high school graduation. I didn’t go to my actual graduation ceremony, though. I called my friend David and said, “Hey, did they call my name?” They had. I took his word for it—they called my name, but I never received that diploma. It didn’t matter anyway. I couldn’t imagine any sort of real future for me. It was time to end this.

  I went to the medicine cabinet and looked for bottles labeled “drowsy.” Plenty of options. I dumped the pills into my hand and washed them down with a large drink of water. I put my hand on my neck when the pills scraped on the way down and smiled at the irony. I’m literally killing myself, so what does it matter if my throat hurts a little bit?

  I sat at the top of the stairs and looked down over the house. I made peace with God. It was quiet, and I didn’t even hear traffic outside. My mom and stepdad wouldn’t be home for a while, so there was time. The heater came on, and the glow of the kitchen light at the foot of the stairs made the place—which was so full of pain—seem downright cozy. Darien and I had had some good times in that kitchen. As a part of our chores, we’d dutifully start washing the dishes but would end up laughing, telling stories, and spraying each other with the nozzle from the sink. Our antics always doubled the mess—and our work—but we didn’t mind. I loved my brother, and any time spent with him was well worth it. I loved watching him grow into a smart little kid. By the time he was old enough to think, he thought strategically. He was always thinking of ways to make money. He created a business loaning his Speak & Spell, Millennium Falcon, and Atari cartridges out to his friends. I loved watching him develop more into a man. But of course he was only twelve at the time. If I went through with this, I wouldn’t really see what the future held for him.

  Then it hit me.

  Darien.

  When would Darien be home? I certainly didn’t want him to find me. No kid should have to deal with that. If I died, who’d take care of him?

  A sense of dread came over me. Many times in life I’d made a mistake—the kind you can’t undo—and felt shame and guilt wash over me. But this sensation of regret was so acute that I lost my breath. I had just swallowed God knows how many pills. What had I done to myself? What had I done to Darien?

  I darted up and put my hand on the banister to steady myself, though it hardly seemed necessary. I felt fine. That’s good, I thought. The pills aren’t even working. I ran to the kitchen to try to throw up and get some water. I had time. I felt fine. When I heard a knock on the door, I jumped. Who could that be? What horrible timing to show up during someone’s suicide attempt! Well, it was just as well. The pills I’d taken must’ve been old, or simply weak. I was filled with gratitude that they didn’t work. When I opened the door and saw my friend Eric, I sighed in relief.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Come in.”

  When we sat at the table and began chatting, everything seemed normal. I could scarcely believe that just a few minutes ago I had thought I was staring death right in the face. Life wasn’t necessarily good, but I could handle it. I could stick with it and help Darien make his way in the world. But when I looked back up at Eric, I realized I couldn’t quite hear what he was saying. His eyes were as big as saucers. His lips were moving, but his words were muffled, like he was talking underwater.

  I thought I heard him say my name.

  Then, nothing.

  “How can you be so selfish?!” My body was tucked under crisp white sheets. Fluorescent lights were above me, but they weren’t turned on because the sun was pouring in through the window. Too bright. When I squinted, I could see the silhouette of my mother, hunched over the bed, screaming. “How could you do this to me?”

  Another person was in the room. Darien. I heard him crying. Apparently Eric had scooped me up and taken me to the emergency room, saving my life. I wiggled my fingers and my toes. Yep, I was alive, but my survival didn’t seem to be welcome news to everyone.

  “If you’re going to do something,” my mother said through clenched teeth. “At least do it right.”

  “Next time,” I managed to say, “I won’t fail.”

  Darien began to cry even more.

  “I’m taking you to a mental hospital,” she said. “Because you’re crazy.”

  Crazy Stacey. I’d heard that before. But in school the nickname had kept people away and protected me. Coming from the lips of my own mother, it was a vulnerability. It hurt. One of my biggest fears has a
lways been somehow losing control of my mental faculties and being left dependent on others. I spent my first years of life dependent on others, and that didn’t work out too well. Threatening to take me to an asylum was probably the only thing my mother could’ve said that would’ve gotten my attention. In fact, it horrified me.

  True to her word, she didn’t take me home after discharge. She drove me to a mental institution in New Jersey, a huge facility with imposing beige walls.

  “Mommy, Mommy, please don’t do this!” I cried. “I’m going to listen! I’m going to be good! I’m not going to do it again!”

  “You’re selfish and crazy.”

  “Please don’t do this!” I sobbed. “Don’t leave me here.”

  “Get out,” she said as she parked the car.

  She took me up to the window to sign me in.

  I dragged my feet, crying so hard I could barely speak. “I promise I won’t ever do it again! I promise!” She turned to look at me. I’m sure I looked like a mess. Surviving a suicide attempt should’ve filled me with relief, could’ve given me a new lease on life. But instead I realized the attempt had made my life even worse. “Mommy? Please?”

  “Don’t ever do that again,” she said, before turning around and taking me home.

  Two weeks later, we had a disagreement over whether I should go out. I admit it. It was later than proper girls should probably go out at night, but I was no proper girl. Since my own mother had given me my first line of cocaine, I thought we were beyond the pretense of caring about things like rules and social conventions. We stood there arguing in the kitchen, as we’d done many times before. Then, I saw her grab a knife—the kind that you use to cut large slabs of meat—and a lump formed in my throat.

  “Put the knife down,” I said slowly. I’d seen this move before. Before she had a chance to do anything, my stepdad intervened. He grabbed her and took the knife from her hands. My mom was furious, so she grabbed a bag of frozen collard greens off the kitchen counter and ran after me with it, trying to beat me.