In the First Person, October 2007 by N.C. Central University Campus Echo

A CAMPUS ECHO PUBLICATION

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EDNESDAY

OCTOBER 31, 2007

true stories from the lives of ten nccu students

My war against food

Not black, not white

It runs in the family

BY CHASITY RICHARDSON

BY KRISTIANA BENNETT

BY MICHAEL MORMAN

ooking down, she saw the water was blue, her hair was light brown, eyes the darkest hue of brown and skin a rosy yellow. Her image erased as the remains of the pizza hit the water. The girl was me, the blue water my mirror, the image I see. Bulimia. A life close to death was not what I predicted.

ow come your skin’s tan and your mom’s and sisters’ are white?” my best friend Erica asked. We were 6 years old and walking home from school. I frowned and slowed my pace, feeling a moment of anxiety. I had been wondering this myself. My mother’s answers were always so

“H

hat’s that on your face?” She asked me during a sand castle contest at Morehead City Beach. I was 8 years old. I don’t remember her name, but I definitely remember her facial expression: she looked at me as if I had some contagious disease. Then she made sure that her teammates got a clear view of my face.

I never thought of anyone as completely perfect. I could easily see that everyone had their flaws. But I looked at myself, I was completely disgusted. Those who surrounded me always begged to differ and showered me with compliments, but no one realized that if you’re not happy with yourself, the compliments go in one ear and out the other. It all started my freshmen year of high school. From the outside looking in I was what every girl dreamed of being: pretty, popular and dating one of the hottest guys on the football team. But inside I was miserable. On many mornings I would get out of the shower, stand in the mirror and cry until my eyes were so bloodshot I could barely open them. I just thought that every day there was something I had to do. I couldn’t hate myself anymore. I started working out to the point that when I went to bed I was in a deep sleep barely two seconds after my head hit the pillow. Even I could see a subtle change in my body, I still wasn’t happy. Then came the diet pills. It didn’t help that my mother was a health nut and had every diet pill imaginable. I started taking one pill in the morning and one in the evening. By the second week I was popping at least four pills a day and eating barely anything. I had dropped 10 pounds, but no one suspected that anything was wrong with me. They assumed my running and exhausting tae-bo tapes had paid off. Weirdly, I was still more depressed than I had ever been. My pills and work-out process was working, but still too slow. I had to cut out food. I thought that was the only thing I saw holding me back. There could be no more pizza, fries, chicken nuggets or

vague that I never fully understood them, and her discomfort was so obvious that I felt uncomfortable myself when I asked her why I looked different than her and my sisters. She would tell me things like, “Your skin is tan because you have more melanin in your skin.” When I asked her what melanin was she replied, “Pigment that gives your skin more color.” Or she might say, “Your hair isn’t as soft as mine or your sisters’ because it’s coarser, honey.” I searched for an answer as I gazed at my feet in their black patent leather shoes, engaged in their hypnotic backand-forth rhythm against the cracked sidewalk. Then it hit me. “I was out in the sun too long when I was a baby,” I said triumphantly. It made perfect sense to our 6-year-old brains, and we continued home, chatting about our day at school. Twenty-one years later, my differences were still causing anxiety. “You are not black,” said my mother with furious emphasis. “What are you trying to prove?” “I think going to Central would be a good experience for me,” I said. “I’ve spent most of my life around mostly white people, Mom, and I’m part black too; besides, it’ll only be for one semester.” “You just don’t know how it makes me feel!” my mother continued to rant as if I hadn’t spoken. “I am the one who loved you and raised you — your white mother, not that black bastard who donated the sperm.” I had graduated from Durham Technical Community College and had been accepted to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, but they didn’t take transfer students in the spring. I was loathe to sit out until the fall. I needed to go to a university for one or possibly two semesters.

I felt the anxiety of being watched with index fingers pointed my way, but my younger sister and older brother kept me focused on building the sand castle. Surprisingly, we won the contest. But as good as winning that huge bag of bubble gum felt, the look on the face of that girl and her teammates cut me inside. What was on my face was a keloid. Keloids are a special type of scar which results in an overgrowth of tissue at the site of a healed skin injury. Mine resulted from my battle with chicken pox when I was 6. The endless itching became unbearable, so I scratched the right side of my face. Why did I do that? I’ve had to live with the results of that scratch ever since. The chicken pox cleared up, but a bump-like keloid about the size of a nickel developed on my face. Back then, I was so relieved to be free from the itching I didn’t give too much thought to my face. However, when I went back to school, the reactions of some of my class mates made me uneasy. It started with their stares and whispers. Soon they were asking a million questions. One of my friends who knew I had been out with the chicken pox thought I still had them and refused to sit beside me. Although the bump was small, it enlarged in my mind and my self confidence began to wither. I felt abnormal. Things got better as the year continued and my classmates got used to the keloid. Keloids are less common in children and the elderly. Although people with darker skin are more likely to develop them, keloids can occur in men and women of all skin types. According to About.com, keloid scars occur 15 times more frequently in “highly pigmented ethnic groups.” The tendency to form keloids seems to run in families. My grandmother’s and my mother’s skin also formed keloids.

n See RICHARDSON Page 3

n See BENNETT Page 2

n See MORMAN Page 4

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Stories written by students in Feature Writing for Magazines and Newspapers, taught by Dr. Lisa Carl

Feature

Campus Echo WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2007

MY HERO’S TRAGIC FLAW The puzzle fell into place when I found out my daddy was a crack addict BY BROOKE SELLARS ids usually have someone they call a hero. Most of time it’s an action hero like Batman or Superman. For me it was my father. I was the typical daddy’s girl. I remember rooting for the New Jersey Jets as if I was a sports tycoon up on my feet in a football stadium. Mafia movies were his favorite and they became my favorite too. We must have watched “Goodfellas” a million times. Staying up late after watching R-rated movies was so thrilling. I held onto those memories throughout my adolescence and will continue to cherish them. I loved my daddy very much and never thought he could harm even a fly. But even then, there were some things I did not understand. Why would Daddy suddenly leave to run errands and be gone for several days? Why would he drive away with the family car, leaving us stranded at home? But when you’re a kid you don’t understand many things and questions are sometimes left unanswered. As I grew up, these behaviors became the norm for me. The role of a mother is to provide safety and protection. My mom assured me and my two younger sisters that everything was fine, so we continued life as usual. Then, in the spring of seventh grade, the life I thought was great got really bad. One afternoon, I got off the school bus, walked into my house and went straight for the kitchen. Mom was there, pacing back and forth.

I watched as poor people, professionals and people in fancy cars entered looking normal but exited with saddened faces, so scary they looked like zombies.

Something was wrong. My dad had taken the car and he hadn’t returned home. A car pulled into the driveway. I ran to the window, hoping it was Daddy. It was a police car. Mom sent me upstairs with my sisters as she opened the door to let the policeman in. I walked slowly up the staircase, hoping to hear something reassuring. What was going on? Why were the police here? My sisters and I leaned against the bedroom door, listening quietly. My mother whispered to the cops, “My husband is a crack addict and he has stolen our car.” I froze. My palms were sweaty. A thousand thoughts ran through my head as my sisters Jaime and Holly looked at me for answers. Was I in a dream? My daddy couldn’t be hooked on drugs. It couldn’t be true. Everything went silent around me and tears steamed down my face. I wanted to disappear in a dark closet and never come out. The secret was out. How was I supposed to deal with this? The door opened and mom sat on the floor beside me. “I didn’t want you to find out this way,” she said. My face buried between my

Brooke Sellars SAVIN JOSEPH/Echo Staff Photographer

legs, I replied, “Why didn’t you tell us, Mom?” I tried to hold back the tears but they kept coming. “You and your sisters are too young to understand,” she said. What was left to understand? My daddy was a substance abuser and I had had no clue. I was born in New Jersey., but when we moved to North Carolina things changed. My father had a hard time finding a good job in Fayetteville. The pay in North Carolina was a lot lower than my mom and dad were used to. So I guess the stress they experienced from the north-to-south transition led to my father’s drug use.

Indeed, I thought, if that was the case, why didn’t we move back? That couldn’t have been a good excuse because my mom was fine — she wasn’t using drugs. I had so many questions, but I felt too young to ask them. I went into isolation; I became cold to everyone. I didn’t want to go outside, didn’t care much about school or participating in any activities. The life I had thought was normal was not normal at all. It hadn’t occurred to me until that point that drug use was a likely reason for my father’s behavior. Now I knew why he disappeared after getting paid, or

why on Christmas Day some of the presents were missing under the tree and, even more alarming, why some of the spoons in our silverware drawer were burned black at the bottom as if they were held over an open flame. These mysteries became pieces of the picture I put together myself, trying to make sense of the situation. Another memory: after school, Dad would pick us up and we would head over to his friend’s house, a friend I would never meet because we were told to stay in the car. It was a tall, white house that looked empty from the outside, but people were always walking in and out. I watched as poor people,

professionals and people in fancy cars entered looking normal but exited with saddened faces, so scary they looked like zombies. We sat there for hours. Eventually it got dark and the streetlights came on. My sisters were asleep in the backseat, but I stayed wide awake, still waiting for daddy to come out. I dozed off until I heard him jingle the keys. Scared, I tried to fake like I was asleep. I was scared to see if he also looked like a zombie. This dreary white house has been a recurring symbol in my dreams and imagination. Why? I really don’t know. All I know is that when I heard my mom’s words that night, all my questions were answered and the pieces of the puzzle came together. My daddy, my hero, was a crack addict and he’d been in that house getting high. I can’t believe I have had the guts to write this down. My mom would be proud — she has encouraged me to do this for years. My father has been in out and jail since that day the police showed up at our house. My father and are not in touch but once in a while when I am home we bump in to each other. Sometimes when I drive through neighborhoods near campus I get chills when I see a white house with zombies staggering on the porch. I park my car and walk to my classroom building. I am a senior in college and plan to go to graduate school in public administration. With support from my mom, my sisters, and God, I will go farther than I could ever dream.

BENNETT CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1 “What’s wrong with Central, Mom?” “It is in Durham for one, it’s all black, and it has a bad reputation. You don’t belong there — you are too bright. Just go to N.C. State for a semester,” she said. “Besides that,” she went on, “you aren’t black. What do you think, if you go to a black school suddenly blacks will accept you? Is this about what happened in Highland Park?” My mother and I had moved to Highland Park, N.J., a predominantly Jewish town with a large population of black people, from a predominantly white neighborhood in Edison, N.J., when I was 12 years old. Until then, I hadn’t been exposed to many black people. It was a nightmare. I was teased and taunted, called “half-breed,” “sell-out,” “zebra,” “Oreo” and “high-yellow bitch,” and was accused of talking and dressing “like a white girl” by most of the black kids at school. One group of black girls thought it great fun to beat the crap out of me practically every day. They would lie in wait for me after school and kick me, scratch me, pull my hair and punch me. I knew better than to fight back; I was always outnumbered. It got so bad that I would skip school and hide in the woods or in town because I was so terrified of being assaulted and so miserable at not fitting in. I became ashamed that my mother was white. I would dread school events, or when my mother would have to come speak to the principal about my assaults, because that just gave the kids, especially those girls, more ammunition to use against me and my “white-ass mother.” This conversation with my mother brought all of those memories back with a vengeance. I felt that familiar elevator sensation in my stomach – the one I always got when conversations with my mother turned to race, and in particular to Highland Park, where my race became the ultimate stumbling block between us. My mother couldn’t get over those times when we walked together, and I would make sure there was a wide enough gap

I was ... called “half-breed,” “sellout,” “Zebra,” “Oreo” and “high-yellow bitch” and was accused of talking and dressing “like a white girl” ...

Kristiana Bennett BRYSON POPE/Echo Staff Photographer

between us that people wouldn’t think we were together. I started using slang and dressing in “hip-hop gear” to fit in. I would sneer at her and say, “It’s a black thing, Mom, you wouldn’t understand,” when she asked me what was wrong with me. She couldn’t get over how I started reading about how whites oppressed blacks for so long and the anger it sparked in me, or how even though I had been raised in a white family, the world still perceived me as black. Back to my 27-year-old self: I struggled to explain myself yet again. This disconnection between my mother and me about my ambigu-

ous race always made me feel desperate. My mother was my lifeline, touchstone and closest friend. My desperation, induced by the fear of alienating her, caused my inarticulation. “No, this isn’t about Highland Park, Mom, it’s about me,” I said. “No it’s not! This is still about what happened in that goddamn town,” my mother shouted. “You need to get over it already — you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” A tear slid down my face as I gave up trying to explain. She would never understand what it was like to be me, or why I felt that I should go to a historically black university, even if just for one

semester. I felt torn about where I belonged. I wanted to see what it would feel like not to have to fight being racially categorized. My mother had always drilled into my head that I should not accept the label of “black” and I had, but at Central, that wouldn’t be necessary. I could be just another black girl. In the United States, people of mixed heritage have traditionally been pigeonholed into a single racial category or identity. Gradually, that’s been changing. Advocacy groups fighting the “check one only” classification of race began to appear in the late 80s and 90s; in the 2000 census, Americans could choose to check more than one race. In 2004, Senator Barak Obama referred overtly to his multiracial identity in his address at the Democratic National Convention, showing a shift in the acceptability of multiracial identity. According to the American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy’s website (aamft.org), some 7 million people in the U.S. consider themselves “mixed race.” AAMFIT estimates that by 2050, America’s mixed-race population will increase to 21 percent. However, the site said, despite these gradual changes, multiracial and biracial individuals and families are still marginalized and face specific problems that are “poorly understood by professionals, coworkers, friends, and extended family.” These problems include racial definition, parental conflicts regarding race, racial devaluation, aversion to discussions regarding race by people around them, and rejection by friends or peers based on multiracial or biracial status. I dealt with all these issues and more. I get anxious when I have to indicate my race on forms.

I always end up checking white, black, Native American and Hispanic; my grandfather is Cherokee and black and my grandmother is Puerto Rican. I had to deal with white family members making racially offensive comments like “blacks are so lazy,” or “blacks and Hispanics are so violent.” They sometimes used racist terms like “nigger,” “spic” and, for Arabs, “sand niggers” in my presence as if these names were okay because I was “one of them.” In their minds, their words didn’t apply to me. When I expressed how offensive I found those comments or terms, I was told to “Stop being so sensitive.” Or the subject of race would be avoided in such an obvious manner that the tension made me wish I had remained silent. No one in my house spoke about the Rodney King debacle in my presence, though we often talked about the news at dinner. My sister, who is white and who I once worshiped, called me a “nigger” once. We rarely talk anymore. A black man I was involved with told me matter-of-factly that I was “really a white girl” because I look at the world from a “white perspective.” Whatever that means. I’ve had to listen to anti-white rhetoric from Central professors, like, “White people don’t care about us and whether or not we fail,” and to comments from my mother like, “Black people are too lazy and too willing to accept handouts to really make any headway as a group, unlike the Jews.” Two years after that painful conversation with my mother, I have no regrets about my decision to stay at N.C. Central. My mother still doesn’t completely understand why I stayed here, but she at least accepts it. As for me, I embrace my differences and all that I am. I am glad to be “other.”

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STUMBLING ONTO A NEW PATH A father’s brutality, a son’s anger and the will to succeed BY DAVID FOWLES ooking at me, you might wonder, who’s the big clumsy guy who’s always giggling about something? Where did he come from? I was at odds with myself when I pondered telling this story. How will my peers perceive me if they know my story? What will people think if they knew I dropped out of high school at 16 and had served time in prison? Would they judge me? Or would they overlook my dreadful past? My father, an illegal immigrant from Clarendon, Jamaica, came from the tenacious agony of poverty. Growing up, I told myself that this was the root of his fury, but now I believe that I was looking for some reason he hated us so damn much. There were times when the mere sight of me would anger him. The beatings, unmerciful and acutely painful, served as a form of Novocain, numbing every ounce of dignity encapsulated within both of us. Knocked on the floor, kicked by the door, I felt as though it was somehow my fault. I can’t take no more, I thought. He called my mother a whore. Every time I was punished I’d think, “What’d I do now?” What was I doing wrong? I’d stop doing it if I knew what, or if, or how? To listen helplessly as my mother was beaten and raped. This, I believe, is where the fire started. My father taught me how to hate. When he was killed in a drug deal, I didn’t care — I think. If asked whether I missed him, I’d have to answer, “yes.” Who was I, anyway? Maybe it was my fault. At any rate, from this point on I

Whenever I thought about what had happened in my life, I would get angry.

David Fowles SEBASTIAN FRANCES/Echo Staff Photographer

would never allow anyone to dictate my path or decisions. From this moment on I would be the leader of my own destiny. Why, though, could I not stop the tears, dammit? When I was 16 we moved from New York to North Carolina and I relocated to a new place in my mind, avoiding crowds whenever possible. I didn’t want to get close to anybody and I didn’t want anyone close to me. From the start I had problems in North Carolina. I didn’t feel that my mother could teach me how to be a man, so I ventured forth on my own. School wasn’t appealing,

and I stopped going. I hated seeing the students’ vibrant faces in the morning. One could see all the care that had gone into their appearance. Hell, it was a struggle for me to even get there. Some mornings, I didn’t even want to wake up. What was the point? I was still trying to work out my purpose for living. I didn’t have time for mathematical equations. I wasn’t ready to answer questions about the future. Whenever I thought about what had happened in my life, I would get angry. I can devise an elaborate reason for my decision to quit school, but the truth is

I just didn’t want to face the world anymore. I am 6 years old. “Mommy, Mommy look at what I did in school today!” “What in the hell is it, boy? Damn!” This message played over and over in my head. My mother’s words to me at 6 years should have rolled off my back. The world was unforgiving and I had to learn to be the same. By this time I didn’t care; my path was decided — so I thought. I would do everything in my power not only to survive but to be successful at it. Drugs would be my first-class ticket. I began selling marijuana. My initial interest was

fast money. Mother would leave for work at 11 o’clock and return at nine in the morning. Perfect. I could stay out all night and leave in the morning as if I were going to school or work. In four years I was hustling drugs and living on the streets of Chapel Hill. I eventually was arrested for assaulting a police officer and spent several months in jail. When I got out, I was back on the streets. One day, a group of UNC students came to the InterFaith Council shelter in Chapel Hill to offer a class in creative writing. As a novelty, I participated. What could it hurt? By the end of the six-month course I had gained new friends and found a love I never knew: writing, writing, writing. For once in my life I had a “thing” — something I liked and something I was good at. It was a place I could go when I had no place to go. I could discuss my feelings and emotions whenever it was convenient, and without judgment. This was when I decided to stop being a victim. This time, I was ready to make a positive transition. My first step was to enroll in Durham Technical Community College’s continuing education program. The feeling of accomplishment I felt was amazing. It was as if I had been born again. After two years I earned my high school diploma. I was so elated that I just sat on the floor of my apartment. For the average person, having a diploma and a place to live might not mean much, but for me it was a milestone. Just two years before, I

was living in a homeless shelter. Now I was leasing my own apartment and was a high school graduate. Although I never got to hear my father utter the words, I had proven to myself that I wasn’t worthless. I was an individual with promise, someone who could climb mountains if he chose. In 2003 I received an incentive scholarship to pay for my first two years of college. I had always dreamed of college but never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be granted the opportunity to attend. The first day I sat in a college classroom was a monumental experience. I looked around, watching, waiting and wondering what the professor would say next. Five semesters and 64 credit hours later, I earned my associate of arts degree and attended my very first graduation ceremony. I applied to N.C. Central University; three weeks later I received a letter of acceptance. This was another defining moment. I would not allow anything to stand in the way of my success. I was not a criminal, a convict or a victim — I was a respectable individual. Today I am in the throes of my last semester at N.C. Central and it has been a great experience. I wish I had applied myself more or pushed myself harder at times, but I made it. Sometimes I catch myself staring at my professors — I admire them so. They helped me and countless others achieve our dreams and for this I will forever be grateful.

RICHARDSON CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1 There could be no more pizza, fries, chicken nuggets or chips — by now, food was the devil and I had become a complete saint.

chips — by now, food was the devil and I had become a complete saint. Now that I wasn’t eating, the days got longer and my good nights of sleep shorter. Along with my weight, the girl I knew was fading away. I was getting away with murder — of myself. My mom mentioned that her diet pills were getting low, but I just denied taking them and she let it go. After two weeks I couldn’t deal with the pain anymore. The constant feeling of being empty and lightheaded was overwhelming. My peers knew what I was going through, but to them there was nothing wrong with killing myself to be what society called perfect. They were the ones giving me the worst — but what I thought was the best — advice. I asked my friend Amy what to do if I got hungry. She explained to me that I could eat as much as I wanted as long as I purged afterwards. At first the idea made me sick to my stomach. Yeah, I had seen the purge stories on the occasional Lifetime movie, but I thought purging was disgusting and definitely not me. Amy laughed at me and said, “If that’s what you

want then that’s what you have to do.” That sentence became my motto. Back at home everyone was still clueless as to what was really going on with me. My mom told me that I looked good, that I “keep up the good work.” Two more weeks went by and I became accustomed to my routine: wake up, run non-stop, do an hour of taebo, take a shower, analyze every inch of my body, cry for 15 minutes, skip breakfast. One day at lunch I was so hungry that my friend Nicole offered me a bite of her pizza. She went to the restroom, and when she returned I had scarfed down the entire slice. I figured that since I had already eaten the pizza, why stop there? Since my mom had taken her diet pills out of the kitchen I no longer had an appetite suppressant. So when I got hungry, I couldn’t do anything but eat. At that one sitting I ate two slices of grease-drenched cheese pizza and an entire box of fries. Leaving the cafeteria, I thought about what I had done and couldn’t handle the fact that I had put all that junk into my body.

I was disgusted. Then I remembered Amy’s advice. The next thing I knew my head was over the toilet and out came everything I had eaten. What I didn’t realize was that once I started purging, I couldn’t stop. After a week I had become a pro. I learned every trick of the trade: First, never throw up liquids with fewer than 200 calories; that’s what kept you from getting dizzy. This left only natural juices, unsweetened teas and water. Second, always drink first, never during. This get you full of liquids so you binge less. When you purge, use a toothbrush or something long. The acid from your stomach can scar your knuckles. Wear a retainer to protect your teeth from stomach acid. Purging had become second nature to me and I saw no reason to stop. It was the perfect solution — I could eat anything I wanted in public, then go to the bathroom and purge. And in case there was no bathroom around, I kept grocery bags in the car and shopping bags in my closet. Brilliant, I thought. I got away with murder for three months or so. It was one little Sunday dinner

at my grandparents’ house that gave me away. My grandmother had cooked all my favorite dishes: roasted corn loaded with garlic and butter, turkey with pepper gravy, my favorite pepper greens, and more. I ate so much that my grandparents asked my dad if he had been feeding me. Little did they know it would all soon be thrown up. I didn’t run the water like I usually do because there was a lot of noise in the house. But my cousin was standing outside the bathroom and he heard everything. There was dead silence when I came out. Everyone looked as if they had seen a ghost. My grandmother could tell that my head had just been over the toilet — she said all the color was out of my face. I felt horrible and guilty. For the rest of the day, my family called me Bulimic Betty. They asked me to promise not to do it again. My father threatened to punish me if I ever did it again. From then on, my mom kept a good eye on me. I had to sit at the table for 30 minutes to wait for my food to digest. I just sat there and cried, “Why are you doing this to me?”

Chasity Richardson BRYSON POPE/Echo Staff Photographer

My mom cried with me. She was hurting too. During my yearly physical, the doctor looked at my throat and said, “If this continues, you won’t make it to prom.” I was put on vitamin supplements and my mother monitored my diet carefully. Mentally, I will never be

cured. Today the thought of purging is always in the back of my mind, but I count to ten and tell myself, I’m okay, I am okay. When I look in the mirror, I will never see perfection. I’ve learned to live with that — but most importantly, I’ve learned to love myself.

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HANDS OFF MY DIARY A father sets the tone for future intimate relationships BY KESHA LEACH er father is the first man a young woman has a relationship with, the first she loves. He is the protector — but could he shield his daughter too much? According to Dr. Jane’s Notebook (dr-jane.com), when fathers exercise absolute authority, daughters quickly learn to rebel. If a father is overly critical and all-powerful, men become the enemy. If a father is fair and listens to his daughter’s thoughts, she will gain selfconfidence and pride in her opinions. Growing up, I sometimes felt uncomfortable talking to my parents about relationships, how I felt about myself — just day-to-day things that went on at school. So in middle school I started keeping a diary. I had started looking at boys, and would write down my latest crush. At first I was a little afraid to write down how I felt, but I was keeping things bottled up inside. There had to be an outlet, a positive one. So I would date the entry and let my feelings flow. A guy I liked in middle school played basketball at the park across from my house. I’d say I was going to the park, and I’d meet him there. We’d flirt around — nothing serious — and I’d go home before dark. Boys weren’t supposed to call my house, but they’d call anyway, and hang up if they heard my dad’s voice. I tried to pick up the phone first. I hid my diary, but I’d come home from school and see things out of place in

I sat there while my dad read my diary to my mother. She had tears in her eyes.

my room. So I changed the hiding place every day. It didn’t click at first that somebody was reading my diary and putting it back. I thought it was all in my mind. One day, my dad called my neighbor’s house and told me to come home. He never made me come home. When I walked in the house and went to my parent’s room, my dad told me to go get my diary. So many thoughts raced through my mind. I thought of the first page I had written. I couldn’t remember what was on the page — my thoughts blurred. There were things in there I wouldn’t want anyone to read. Then it hit me – he’d been reading my diary the whole time. What triggered him to make me bring it to him this time? My first thought was to tear out some of the pages. But by the time I got my hand on the pages the sound of my dad’s voice startled me. So I walked back downstairs and into the kitchen. My mom looked on the verge of crying. My dad opened my diary and started reading out loud. “I go over to my friends house to talk to boys,” he read. I started crying, I was so embarrassed. There were some harsh things in there about my parents also. Things about my complicated relationship with my dad. How I couldn’t talk to guys on the phone, how he listened in on my phone

conversations. About how my parents had never sat down and had the “talk” with me. I had things in there like, “I wish my parents would get a divorce” and, “I hate my dad.” I wrote about how trapped I felt when all my friends were going to the movies and to the Skating Ranch and I couldn’t. If I asked, I’d get a 30-minute lecture and interrogated for 30 more. After all that, I wouldn’t even want to go. I could see my dad being that way if I had been a problem child, but I was good for the most part — I went to school and came home. I was even on the honor roll. I sat there while my dad read my diary to my mother. She had tears in her eyes. Just knowing I was hurting my mother made me feel terrible. I didn’t know what to do. I knew my parents would look at me differently after this. I think this was a turning point for all of us. I wish I could have approached my dad about certain things without him blowing it out of proportion. When we argued I would go to my room and cry. It got to the point where I would cry every night. He never apologized, even to this day. So I guess I turned to guys for comfort. Not sexually, but emotionally. I had my first real relationship when I came to college. I felt he did more for me than my dad had ever done. He was there for me

Kesha Leach BRYSON POPE/Echo Staff Photographer

financially and when I needed someone to talk to. He was there emotionally. This also led to a downfall. I had so many emotions wrapped up in him that when we broke up, I felt like I was nothing. I have always wondered

why my relationships with guys have been so terrible. Now I can see that it all starts with the guy who loved me first — my father. This might sound crazy at least he was in my life. Girls usually feel this way when they don’t have a

father. Our relationship has never really gotten better. I still feel I have to hide things from him. Even though I am grown, I still long for that relationship; but I guess it is never too late.

MORMAN CONTINUED FROM PAGE 1 I was tired of the looks people gave me in the grocery stores, and in every public place, so I went into a shell of fear and insecurity.

Michael Morman BRYSON POPE/Echo Staff Photographer

There are several theories for why keloids form. About.com lists these: infection at a wound site, repeated trauma to one area, skin tension, a foreign body in a wound, or “a deficiency or an excess in melanocyte hormone, decreased percentages of mature collagen and increased soluble collagen, or that very small blood vessels get blocked and the resulting lack of oxygen contribute to keloid formation.” Of course I wasn’t always stressed about the keloid. However, from the first grade to the fifth I felt restless. I used to imagine how people would treat me if I didn’t have a keloid, espe-

cially the girls. I was tired of the looks people gave me in the grocery stores, and in every public place, so I went into a shell of fear and insecurity. I was afraid to initiate a friendship — I always waited to see how people responded to me first. I had a humongous crush on the prettiest girl I had laid my eyes on. But I was too afraid to write the famous “check yes if you like me” letter to her. Finally, in the summer of 1994, my parents decided to have something done. The plan was that by the beginning of the fifth grade I would have my keloid surgically

removed. My hopes ran high — I thought my dreams would come true if I had the operation. The morning of the surgery, I was afraid of going under the knife, but excited about how I would look afterward. This would be a turning point of my life, I thought. It would mean no more awkward stares, finger pointing or whispering giggles. Awaking from the anesthesia, I touched the right side of my face with my hand and felt the bandage. Yes! I was excited to feel that side of my face was flat. A couple of weeks later it was time to remove the bandage and

the stitches, and the mixture of excitement and fear returned. As I got up from the table, the doctor gave me the mirror. I saw a long thin scar at the site of the incision. “I can live with that,” I told myself. After everything was finished and my parents got a huge bill, I felt a surge of self-confidence. I didn’t feel like a leper, at least for that short time. As the years went on, I noticed the thin scar begin to grow and spread. Yes, into another keloid. I was not the only one who noticed its change. One of my closest friends said, “Man, it’s worse now than it was before you had surgery!” I wanted to knock the spit out of him; his statement made me think about how others would react to me. Later I learned that no treatment for keloids is 100 percent effective. About.com reports that surgical treatment of keloid scars is only 50 percent effective, and MedicineNet.com warns that this method is risky, because “cutting a keloid can trigger the formation of a similar or even larger keloid.” While non-surgical methods such as cortisone or interferon therapy are effective, they have side effects: a reddening and other changes in in the skin for the former, and depression and flu-like symptoms for the latter. Combined treatments, such as surgical removal followed by steroid injections, have a recurrence rate of 50 percent to 70 percent, according to About.com. My first reaction to the regrowth of the keloid was disappointment. It wasn’t fair. In junior

high school, when most boys experience insecurity about acne, I had this big lump of skin protruding from my face. Insecurity was beating me down. There were times when I didn’t even want to look in the mirror. When I suspected that someone was gazing at me, I propped up the right side of my face with my hand to cover the scar. And please don’t mention class photo day! In the tenth grade I reached a major turning point. Looking through my father’s extensive library, I came across a book by T.D. Jakes called “So You Call Yourself a Man?” The book addressed issues that men face at all ages. One chapter caught my attention: “Stop Cutting Yourself Down!!” I pondered that statement. Jakes related the Biblical story of Jesus healing a lunatic man. The scriptures say that the man had been cutting himself with stones. Jakes said that a lot of men allow life to pressure them to the point that they lose the will to love and accept themselves. I found myself in that chapter. I had allowed a few people’s reaction to my keloid to dictate how I felt about myself. That’s when I realized there’s more to me than the scar. I was growing into an intelligent, handsome and strong young man. Since that time, I’ve learned to be understanding of people’s reaction to the keloid. Things that are different catch people’s attention and I have a responsibility to respond to that attention positively. I have committed to building myself up instead of cutting myself down.

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PARENTS, DO NO HARM At 12 years old I was raising my baby sister BY JIMMY VINCENT hen I was a kid, the eighth and the twenty-third were my two favorite days of the month. Those were the days when the welfare check and food stamps came in. And if I needed some money, I’d better get it then or I wouldn’t get it at all. My mother was on drugs and my father was in jail. At the age of 12 I pretty much had to raise myself and my younger sister J’Cynda, who was then 3. If my mother decided not to come home for the night, I had to feed J’Cynda and get her ready for school. I had to answer her questions about where mommy was or why she was in the house alone. I had to stop being an older brother and become a parent. I didn’t have a model of how to do that, but somehow I managed. Though I always had plenty to eat, I never had the other things: new clothes, updated toys, or money in my pockets. Christmas was always the worst. My birthday is Christmas Eve, so you would think I’d get more gifts. In fact, I got fewer. Often I’d go Christmas shopping with my mother to purchase the gifts I wanted. But Christmas morning, nothing I had picked out was

Even if I hid the money in a sock drawer or in a box in the closet, I would never see it again. At times I believed there was a hidden camera in my room.

under the tree. My mother always returned these gifts so she could do what she wanted with the money. Usually there was just a bunch of bullshit gifts — mainly puzzles and books — from Globe Santa, an organization that gave away toys to poor families. When I was in middle school, the money I got from relatives or from doing odd jobs at the local barbershop or at my uncle’s video store would always come up missing. Even if I hid the money in a sock drawer or in a box in the closet, I would never see it again. At times I believed there was a hidden camera in my room. When my cousins stayed the weekend, their money or other items would be missing too. I never wanted people to come over. As a child, I was always ashamed of my situation. I never talked about it. The rest of the family knew what was going on, but never talked about it either. I guess we wanted to pretend that everything was perfect. As for my father, I saw him a couple of times while he was in jail, but we didn’t

establish a real relationship until he got out when I was in the fifth grade. (To this day, I still don’t know why he was sent away.) Even now, 11 years later, I try to avoid conversations with him as much as possible. He wasn’t there when I needed him as a child, so I don’t need him here now. Watching television with my mother or helping her cook, I saw her sweet side. But as soon as it was time for her to feed her habit, I became the target of her physical and verbal abuse. This caused me to lash out. I would go to school, but I wouldn’t do my work. I would interrupt classes and often got suspended. If I needed something and didn’t have money for it, I would steal it. I fought, and didn’t care who I hurt. I was hurt and I wanted everyone else to hurt. From middle school to high school, I was constantly in trouble. My grandmother, with whom I lived from the eighth grade on, got tired of going up to the school. She told me if I didn’t shape up, I’d end up like the other dummies on the street. When I looked at those

guys, I saw that that wasn’t the life for me. I didn’t belong out there. I don’t know how, but my senses came to me. I started hanging out with a new crowd, the ones who actually cared about their future. I started doing my schoolwork and even enrolled in AP classes. I got a part-time job at Old Navy. My junior year, I enrolled in a journalism class, where I discovered my passion for writing. I had always liked writing, but I’d been too scared to write down my true feelings. But in journalism class, I would write and write and write. The summer before my senior year I enrolled in a journalism camp for minorities, and that fall I became editor-in-chief of my high school newspaper, The Burke Banner. For once in my life, I thought about college. One thing I knew for sure: I was going as far away from Boston as I could. I knew I’d be running away from my problems, but that’s what I wanted to do.

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Jimmy Vincent BRYSON POPE/Echo Staff Photographer

A GAME, A GUN, A LIFE LOST The death of my best friend inspired me to drop my foolishness BY TORRY BAILEY still remember the first time we met. It was third-grade lunch and a short kid wearing a Megatron Transformer shirt came over to my table. I was new to the school and he was the first to introduce himself: “Hi, my name is Efland — Do you like Transformers?” Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that this kid would have such a profound impact on my life. We had a lot in common. We both lived in single-parent homes in rough neighborhoods, and we both loved dancing and music. I’d go see him dance at parties. Man, he was good. I could never dance like that, but he showed me moves he knew I could do. We were like brothers. You saw “Elf ” and you knew I wasn’t far behind. The 90s were a good time and the “deadly duo” added a few more members — we became a posse. This band of brothers from different mothers all took the same oath, a code of the streets: First, you watch my back, I watch yours; second, money is necessary; third, be the best of the worst. It’s crazy, but it seems everyone is afraid of a young black male who doesn’t give a damn. We went from wanting to dance to wanting to kill in the blink of an eye. We used music to fuel our rage over misunderstandings and hardships. Not knowing what we were going to eat or what was going to happen on any given day — even, “Am I going to get shot today?” can really have an effect on rational thought. A survival instinct kicks in and you become an animal with no respect for yourself or others. I still don’t know why we did what we did. Nonetheless, these decisions have molded the

man I am now. But if I could have done it different … As the world began to change, so did we. With no hopes of achieving the mythical American dream, we became America’s nightmare, with the philosophy of survival of the fittest. We would terrorize everyone we came in contact with and no one was safe. Everywhere we went, we would do the same thing … show up, act a fool, shoot up the place (maybe just shoot in the air) and then ride off. I can guarantee you that guns were involved in many instances. I cannot recall knowing anyone in my neighborhood who didn’t have a gun. Where I lived, shootings were the norm and only an idiot would be caught without a gun. Just to give you a picture, in my neighborhood, one day I was standing on the porch talking to my homey and a car with dark tinted windows drove by. To the average person, no big deal … until we saw fire come from the back window. We ducked. Overhead, bullets flew like it was a shootout on a battlefield. When things like this happen on the regular, your mentality is going to change. White, black, Mexican, old and young, women, children … no one was safe. We struck fear into everyone in our path. It was a road to self-destruction and I was speeding to meet death faceto-face. I’m not proud to say I owned my first gun at 15, when I was still in school. Now I look back and think of myself, underage, smoking cigarettes and surrounded by drug-selling … what a life. “No more school for me,” was my motto by the time I reached high school. School just couldn’t be as important as making money. Education was a hurdle you had to jump if you wanted to live in this society,

I didn’t know where I was going until that day the world paused for no more than a second.

Torry Bailey SEBASTIAN FRANCES/Echo Staff Photographer

which I didn’t. I was a loner, a misunderstood black rebel, and so were Elf and the posse. So every chance we got to rebel, we did. We just had no sense of repercussion. I didn’t know we’d have to pay for our actions one day. We used to play a game called “gotcha.” You’d catch

your opponent with his guard down, or slippin’, and you’d pull out your unloaded gun and pull the trigger and say “gotcha” when it clicked. Elf ’s girlfriend would see us play this modern-day Russian roulette with our life and ask, “Why?” Today I can give you a million reasons why life is

precious. Back then, I couldn’t tell you why one day was worth living. Then there was that day. Any other day I would have skipped school to meet up with the fellas. But that day I decided to go to school and try to complete my senior year. I wasn’t a failure in class; it’s just that where I lived it wasn’t cool to show you were book-smart. Someone might take an intelligent comment as an insult and shoot you faster than if you’d scuffed their new shoes. So I went to school that day. One of my posse got assigned after-school detention and I waited for him. We called Elf to come get us. His girlfriend answered. “Elf ’s been shot!” There was an eerie silence. I didn’t know what to say or do. Then I got the whole story. Earlier that day Elf and a mutual friend had gotten into a heated argument with someone who had threatened to come back and shoot them. So they decided to load up their guns in case he came back. The guy never came back. They forgot to unload the guns. I can’t say who started the game of “gotcha.” But then my friend caught Elf slippin’. One-shot, close-range, to the head. When I got back to the neighborhood, the police were everywhere. Elf ’s girlfriend was crying. My friend was in the back seat of a police cruiser, arrested for manslaughter. That evening, I went to the hospital to see Elf. His mom and little broth-

er were there, and I asked if I could see him but he couldn’t have visitors. I thought, no problem, he’s going to be fine and I’ll see him later. I never spoke to him again. The next time I saw Elf, he was lying in a coffin and I was in a nightmare. The walk down that church aisle was the longest I ever took in my life. It seemed like every step I took, the casket would get farther away. When I finally made it to the coffin, I could not believe it. Elf was dead. It was unreal. I could barely control myself. For a split second he looked like normal — then I saw that his head was twice the size it was when he was alive. The swelling to his brain had killed him. I stared at this corpse that used to be my best friend and didn’t know what to do or where to go. Elf was confident in whatever he did. He never turned his back on his friends. He was always there — until now. I didn’t know where I was going until that day the world paused for no more than a second. I asked myself, what will the future hold if I keep going at this rate? I had never been afraid to die but maybe I was scared to live. I didn’t want to end up in a coffin. That’s when I decided to drop the foolishness and head back to school. This was an easy decision — I had never failed in school, I just hadn’t gone consistently. I was, as my mom says, “sleepwalking in the daytime.”

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ONE DAY MY FEET WENT NUMB My daily struggle living with type II diabetes BY AMANDA POOLE ettuccine Alfredo has become my enemy. We are in an ongoing battle over territory and power. With food, my territory is not my own nor do I always have power over the effects. When I was 16, an endocrinologist, a doctor who studies hormones, told me I was insulin resistant. Insulin resistance? What does this mean? I did as much research and asked as many questions as possible. Insulin resistance means that my body does not use insulin effectively. My doctor discovered this when he found that I had high levels of insulin but also high levels of glucose. My body did not know how to effectively retain nutrients and rid itself of the by-products of food. My doctor told me that if I did not lower my intake of carbohydrates, especially those high in fat, I would become type II diabetic at an earlier age. My family has a long history of diabetes. My cousin Jocelyn, four years older than me, was diagnosed with type I at age 4. I remember going to Decatur, Georgia every summer to see Jocelyn and her sister Chelsea. I remember Jocelyn injecting her own insulin with a needle at age 10.

My aunt would make sure everything we ate, e.g., pancakes with syrup, had a “diet” alternative for Jocelyn. Then there were her mood swings, which I thought came because of her period. But it never occurred to me that Jocelyn experienced ups and downs in her moods because of the drastic ups and downs in her body. In their 40s, both my parents were diagnosed with the disease. I knew my mom had had it during her pregnancy with my little sister, but I never knew it could recur. After my insulin resistance diagnosis, I attempted to change my eating habits. I tried the Atkins diet, sugarfree this, sugar-free that, no sweets. Then came my love for Diet Coke. Then there were the bouts with extreme exhaustion. I was always tired, no matter how much sleep I had gotten the night before. I also would suffer from excessive thirst, never feeling quenched. The tell-tale sign for my mother came when I informed her that my hands and feet were numb and tingling uncontrollably. She decided it was time to visit the doctor. Shortly after a significant weight loss in late 2006, I was diagnosed with full-

blown Type II diabetes. I had just began to take Metformin, a common diabetes medication and thought I could stand clear of the thought of it. It found me. Even with medication, my blood sugar level is never constant and quite bi-polar. I can clearly feel the distinct difference in my body when I have become “low.” I become weak, low in energy, and began to tremble. At times like this, I have to have a snack on hand, high in sugar and carbs, to neutralize these levels. Then are those times I have just had a heavy meal with pasta or bread. The effects are instant — irritability and fatigue soon ensue. In the past, I did not normally eat breakfast. Now, daily, I have to make sure I fit in time for a trail mix bar or a banana. This small addition jump-starts my metabolism but also allows my blood sugar to level out and not drop significantly. I must carry snacks at all times. Any time my blood sugar drops, I need a snack high in sugar or carbohydrates. Little snacks such as chips, Goldfish, and juice are important. It’s a constant balancing act. While throughout the day I’m trying to avoid extremely low levels, at meal time I

fear increased levels. My infatuation with Fettuccine Alfredo and French fries must be set aside for mixed greens and grilled chicken. “Anything white,” as my mother says, could result in high blood sugar and then exhaustion. That means even those things considered healthy, like white rice, pasta, potatoes and bread, are my enemies. Ironically, these are my favorites; I tend to give in, in moderation. I am a chocolate-lover, but dessert is almost out of the question. There are sugar-free alternatives but I find them to taste 10 times as sweet with their artificial sweeteners. And I must not forget my medicine: two horse-sized pills to be taken at dinnertime. In laymen’s terms, the Metformin makes sure my blood sugar does not fluctuate drastically. I also am more susceptible to weight gain than most. My metabolism has plummeted because my body can’t break down food properly, resulting in those carbs quickly adding on pounds. It is a cycle. My body lacks a high metabolism, so I’m sometimes too tired to exercise, resulting in the packing on of more weight and lowering of my metabolism even more. While very busy as a col-

Amanda Poole BRYSON POPE/Echo Staff Photographer

lege student and often exhausted, I have made small changes to my lifestyle, bit by bit. Unlike those with type I, my body does manufacture some insulin. The Metformin, in increased doses, processes my insulin more efficiently. While I do not have to inject myself with needles, I occasionally have to prick my finger to check my blood sugar. This lets me monitor my levels and figure out

WHEN THE CELLS GET STUCK, THE PAIN SETS IN Sickle cell anemia attacks the body, not the spirit BY LA-TASHA DAVIS fter four hours of driving, we finally made it to South Carolina. It was the weekend of my best friend’s birthday and I was only in town for one night. We attended a football game and tailgated for hours afterward. The evening flew by — I hated to see the night end. The next thing I know, I’m waking up in a hospital bed. I glance around the allwhite room. It all seems surreal. After we’d partied all we could, I’d hit the sack; we had a long drive ahead. At some point in the night, I’d awakened in excruciating pain. Though it’s happened many times, this time was unexpected; I hadn’t been sick in almost two years. ... A sharp pain in my side releases me from my trance. My hands search for what I call “my peace.” The doctors call it a PCP pump; at the push of a button, morphine flows into my body through an IV. It’ll probably only take the edge off the pain. If I’m lucky, it’ll put me to sleep. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I try to recreate my evening. What triggered my crisis? Having dealt with this disease for nearly two decades, I understand that anything from stress to an abrupt change in the weather can trigger a small clot, and the smallest clot can become the most severe crisis. I was diagnosed with sickle cell anemia at 8 months old. Since then, I’ve been hospitalized nearly 20 times for sickle-cell-related

pain. Sickle cell anemia is a genetic disorder that causes red blood cells to become abnormally shaped. These cells can get stuck in blood vessels and form clots. Because the circulation is obstructed, mindnumbing pain can occur in and around these sites. For me, the pain usually flares up in my back. Growing up with sickle cell was a challenge, to say the least. I wasn’t allowed to engage in sports until high school, for fear that I might overexert myself and go into crisis. I was rarely allowed to spend the night away from home, for fear that I might wake up in the night and need medical attention. Each person coping with the disease has his or her own “triggers” and must learn them. Something as simple as an abrupt change in the weather can lead to an extended hospital stay. On the other hand, a long time might pass with no sickle cell activity at all. I’ve always been determined to live a normal life. Most people don’t even know what sickle cell anemia is, let alone what it entails. On a chilly November morning in third grade, I was sitting in homeroom. Over the intercom, the office secretary cleared her throat and asked us to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. I rose, put my right hand over my chest — and then it happened. Pain shot across my back with an intensity that left me crumpled on the floor behind my desk. No one seemed to take the situation seriously. The

what foods cause what changes in my body. Sometimes there is a real conflict, like when I crave Oreo cheesecake. I have always loved food and sometimes this presents some real issues in terms of willpower. But then I think of the long, successful life I hope to lead. And I think: What is more important? One moment of pleasure or a lifetime of pain?

BAILEY CONTINUED FROM PAGE 5 You don’t know how to live until you feel you may die. When I was with my posse, I wasn’t afraid to die. Maybe that was just the ignorance or despair of poverty talking, but I know now how precious life is. Graduating from college is a dream I am living not just for myself but also for Elf. His death gave me a second chance, and he will never know how much I love him for it. If it weren’t for this tragedy turning me around I wouldn’t have my wife and two beautiful children. And I wouldn’t be telling this story. So now I don’t just live, I am alive. When times get rough, I remember the thirdgrader with the Transformer shirt. And I wish he could know how he transformed my life.

VINCENT CONTINUED FROM PAGE 5

La-Tasha Davis BRYSON POPE/Echo Staff Photographer

few students who saw me fall returned their attention to the front of the room and continued the Pledge of Allegiance. One of my best friends had been watching from the back of the classroom. “You feelin’ okay? You want me to go get the teacher?” She was near tears. “Mmmhmm,” I managed to grunt. When my friend returned with the teacher, the other students looked on, confused. They’d heard I’d been sick before but had never seen it first-hand. “What seems to be the problem, La-Tasha?” my teacher asked.

“I need to go home,” I squeaked through my tears. “You were fine a minute ago. Don’t waste my time,” she said. “We begin our standardized testing today and you just conveniently get sick? You’re using your sickness as an excuse to get out of work and it’s not appreciated.” I’d never heard such crap in all my life. I had never once used my illness to get out of doing work. I got up, asked my friend to help me to the nurse, and left without my teacher’s consent. That crisis landed me in the hospital for 11 days. As I’d missed so many days of regular school, I was home-

schooled until spring. Eventually, I decided that being angry was not the solution, but that educating those ignorant to the disease was. In 1994, I became the South Carolina Sickle Cell Poster Child, using my position to spread awareness. Twice a year, I lecture at a South Carolina college to medical professionals about sickle cell anemia’s effect on the lives of carriers and those around them. I’ve learned to deal with the disease and I’m not ashamed — nor I do expect others to pity me. I still lead the life of any 20-year-old college student — overworked and in debt.

Who’d have thought I’d end up at NCCU? Not me. From my junior year of high school on, I had all the new clothes I wanted. I worked non-stop in the summer, so I had money. I won the yearbook’s best-dressed award. And I had friends who cared about me. But I felt empty. And I still do. I still resent my mother. On the phone, when she says, “I love you,” I hang up. As far as I know, she is clean now, but I just can’t forgive or forget. My father lives in England now. We’ve talked only twice in the last year, and that’s fine with me. When he e-mails me, I always take a long time to respond. I guess I’m still not ready to talk to him, either. He once said he loves me and wishes he could have been there for me. But he wasn’t.