Born Into the Ashes

From the ashes of adversity, rises the phoenix of resilience.

Born into Ashes

Hello my Gracefuls, this is my official first post! yayy!!!

So, if you have read the about me page then you know a little about me and the purpose that drives this Blog page. This is for all of the little girls in the ghetto/hood that was reared in a family covered in generational ash. I use the term ash because it comes from fire, it is the solid remnants of what is left after the act of destruction, it appears to be just that but all if you attempt to wipe it away it leaves its mark, or if it is still hot or alive and not yet dead it can burn wherever it lands.

I am one of those little girls, I was born of ashes.

My parents were teenagers when I was conceived. My mom broke and was born of the ash herself that had settled in with a family she did not know. She wasn’t raised by her parents but was cared for since infancy by a distant family member. She has her own story about being born of ash herself, maybe she will share it with you all one day. My father was born into the typical middle class family with a father who seemingly worked hard, but I’m not sure if it was all work or if it was the career that allowed him to spread his seed. My dad had six siblings and my grandmother worked two jobs to help care for her family.

I was conceived and a short time later my father went off to Job Corp (Not to secure a better future, but to escape). Although I knew both sides of my family growing up intermittently, I did not “know” my father other than what he looked like and his name. I remember random visits here and there but nothing more than that.

Shortly after giving birth to me my mom met/married my step father. He was my father figure, he and his best friend. Of all the men in my family, these two were the men that I can honestly say were my protectors.

My step father was not without fault, although a provider he was a man with issues, so he and my mom collided often…before i knew what a war zone was I lived in one a lot of nights. I am identifying their relationship as a trauma bond. (I had one too, I will share that in a later post) but from that bond my brother was born, a few years after is where my memories of this experience begin.

We were awakened from our sleep one night with shouting and yelling, furniture being moved around as a result of two grown people in a tussle. My brother and I in our room in bed, he climbs from his bed into mine, to seek comfort from the chaos as if a stranger was going to come in and get him. He cried himself to sleep that night in my arms, afraid, afraid of what was on the other side of the door. I do not remember being afraid that night, it was like I was numb to the chaos, all I felt was the need to be my brother’s safe place in a world that was chaotic. Although I do not remember their first fight or any before that night, I know just from the lack of emotion and position I took that night that this was normal to me.

Now as an adult having had my share of experiences, I can say that was the beginning of me emotionally detaching and moving on in survival mode. As I type this my heart breaks for her, the little girl born of the ashes. BUT more so the ones that no one seems to know exists, the ones going to school everyday moving about as if nothing is happening at home in the ashes of the war zone called her home, or her environment.