(she/her)

Growing up, mom gives Meme, Eddie, Jessy and Hicri her attention and cares for them. Me, I’m known as the ugly child. Not the beautiful one with the nice hair. No, I’m the smart one. I’m the “Black Bitch”.

I call my mother by her by her name, Alzonia. I don’t call her mom, because she doesn’t mother me; she doesn’t protect me, or show me love, or care for me. All she does is drink and then look for men to love her. We never have enough food, clothes or anything. I hate my mom and despise her weakness. I always want to ask her, “Why Mom?” I want to tell her how angry I am at her.

Now, she has Abe in the house. He fights with her and beats her. He gets fresh with me. One day I come into the house after mom has left to cash the monthly SS check, so it’s just me and Abe. I sit on the top of my bunk bed, rocking back and forth in fear. I daydream to soothe myself.

“One day I am going to meet a guy named Randall Grant and he is going to love me,” I tell myself.  “We’re both going to finish school and get married. He’s going to get a good job and have a lot of money; we are going to get married. I’m going to be special to him. He’s going to shower me with precious gifts and love.”

I hear Abe come into the kitchen. My self-soothing fairytale halts and I’m quickly filled with rage. I think, ”If he comes in the kitchen and takes his dick out again, I am going to cut it off.”

I enter the kitchen, pick up the big cutting knife by the stove, and begin patting it in the palm of my hand. I was right — Abe has his dick out of his pants. But when he sees the knife he puts it back in his pants and goes to the back room.

I head back to my top bunk bed thinking, I am so sick of this shit. I soothe myself again, rocking back and forth, daydreaming of marrying a Randall Grant. My daydreaming is interrupted when I hear my mom come back. I jump off the bed and run to her.

“Mom when you were out, Abe took his dick out again!” I shout. “Mom, do you hear me? You need to throw his ass out of the house!”

My mom replies, “Ah, Lynn, that’s nothing.”

She walks to the back room and my anger grows. I grab the bottle of Clorox and follow her.

I shout, “Mom, move out of the way!” and then throw the contents of the open bottle in Abe’s direction. Abe gets Clorox in his eyes.

I keep shouting, “I’m tired of this fucking bullshit, Mom. This motherfucker took out his dick. I keep telling you and you do nothing! I’m going to kill this motherfucker!” I am full of rage and know I have to leave this house — this house of no love, no protection, no care, nothing. I’d better leave before I kill someone.

Even though I’m only 15 years old, I do leave. I move into Covenant House in the East Village. That’s where I do the rest of my growing up.

Somehow, with no support, I manage to graduate high school and college, where I obtain my B.A in Psychology. After graduation, I work part-time in the bursar’s office at The New School for Social Research.

I see him come up to the counter. I’ve never been one to hide how I feel and while I process his registration, I say to him, ‘Wow! You are fine! What’s your name?” He just smiles at me. “Here, let me give you my number?” I say.

He calls me and invites me out. I tell him all about me and my life growing up on the Lower East Side, and he tells me all about growing up in Morocco.

We get married. We build a life together. We have four children. We don’t have much, but we take care of all of all the kids. I work hard to not be like Alzonia, making sure my children have a safe and loving upbringing.

But then, after 27 years of marriage, he throws away our history of trust, honesty, loyalty and friendship by getting involved with another woman. It really fucks up my self-esteem.

It never occurred to me that while I was working hard for the family, being a good, loyal Muslim wife, caring for our four children and supporting his endeavors, I had been sacrificing my career and ambitions. I was neglecting me.

He thinks because he controls the money, I’m going to stay. But my peace and my purpose in life are more important than anything. I leave amicably, relinquishing my power back to me.

I start to look for work. I have an interview scheduled, however I don’t have any clothes to wear. My clothes are in storage and my storage fees are overdue, so I can’t get them.

Luckily, someone refers me to Bottomless Closet. Not only do I get a full outfit for my interview, but they also assist with updating my resume and provide interview training. I take workshops in personal enrichment, professional development and financial planning.

I’m still legally homeless and unemployed, but I am happy. Now I know all the negligence and negative experiences made me the strong, compassionate, intelligent, powerful, courageous and determined woman that I am today. I’m full of resilience and work hard for what I want. I sometimes feel lonely but I don’t accept less than what I deserve. I’m living my life, my story, my way and it is possible in this world.

I may never find my Randall Grant, but today I know I am not alone. I am supported. I am loved. I am healed.

(she/her)

Growing up, I’m Daddy’s little girl. I love when I’m with him and he sings to me. The song I request most often is “Scarlet Ribbons.”

When he and Mommy separate, I only get to see him on weekends. Friday quickly becomes the best day of the week for me. Mommy has remarried a white man named Bob Blair. It’s the 60s and the civil rights movement is well underway. He lives with us in an all-Black neighborhood. This is not an easy time for a white man and a black woman in an interracial marriage. Mommy works nights and Bob Blair works days, so when I get home from school it’s just Bob Blair, me, and my younger siblings alone with him.

For years, Monday through Thursday, when Bob Blair touches me, I quickly press an imaginary button in my head and turn on “Scarlett Ribbons” so I can focus on the song and tune out his alcohol-ridden breath and the disgusting odor of his sweaty body hair. I squeeze my eyes and thighs tightly shut, while wishing my Daddy would pick me up bearing a handful of those beautiful scarlett ribbons.

But, reality reveals itself anyway. No matter how hard I try to close off my entrance, Bob Blair always manages to pry my legs apart to invade it.  I try to hear Scarlet Ribbons again. I try to press the play button. But I can’t hear it anymore, not over his cruel words, delivered with stinking hot breath. “If you tell anyone,” he warns, “I am going to kill you Nigger! Then I am going to kill your mother and your father and make you an orphan.”

Years later, long after I’m out of the house and away from Bob Blair and his nasty ways, I’m still traumatized. Desperate to escape the lingering mental torture, I spend 21 years, from 1978-1999, smoking crack.

You can’t run from reality for that long without some serious consequences. By the end, my wardrobe consists of somebody’s stained trench coat, a Victoria’s Secret Teddy, some flip flops and a rag on my head. And, I think I look damn good.

I do nasty things with nasty people. I say “yes” when I want to say ‘no.” My own mother closes her door in my face, during one of the coldest winter nights ever, for fear that I’ll steal the heat. Eventually, I’m not Zoe anymore. I’m 99G0947, compliments of The Department Of Corrections.

During my mess, the only two people who love me unconditionally are my husband Bill and my best friend Quretta. No matter my condition, how bad I look or smell, they’re there for me. I get locked up for close to three years, but I won’t let anyone come visit me. I just write letters. I know I’m still sick in many ways, and I have already put my loved ones through enough.

On July 17th, 2001 I return to the world.  When I get out, the only thing I’m certain of is that I do not want to get high ever again.

But when I return to the world, Bill is gone. While I was locked up, he’d been sentenced to ten years. There’s no time to say goodbye, to engage in a long kiss, or make love one last time. I immediately make the decision to do every day of Bill’s sentence with him.

During the time Bill is in jail, my legal status prevents me from ever visiting him, until the day he’s released. Our communication is limited to phone calls and letters. He instructs me to focus on myself, and that is exactly what I do. I work full-time while also attending school. I self-publish my first book entitled, “Poetic Recovery, Life Don’t Rhyme.” I carve out a career for myself and commit myself to recreating a new me for me.

When Bill is released, I’m ready for him. I get my husband back, and soon I’m offered a new job, complete with a decent salary and of course more responsibility. The job description says I will be responsible for providing eight teenage mothers with empowerment tools to help steer them towards self-sufficiency and independent living. It will require more information than I’m equipped with, and a how-to book will not suffice for this group. My area of expertise is that of a Substance Abuse Specialist.

This is when I become acquainted with Bottomless Closet, a dynamic organization, and take workshops in Personal Enrichment, Financial Development and Professional Development. During these workshops I receive handouts that I copy and reuse while facilitating similar workshops with my clients. I incorporate resume writing, creating a budget, proper attire in the workplace and etiquette. Each week I take what I learn at Bottomless Closet and teach others. I never run out of material. As a result, I’ve made myself more relevant in my position at work and have developed a strong desire to do more for the lives of the young teenage mothers I service.

Living a full life after adversity is a beautiful thing. Not only do I work doing what I love, I also have freedom. I can visit whom I wish. I can choose what I wish to wear and have much more than a trench coat and a teddy to choose from. I read my mail first, create my own menu and have keys to come and go as I please!

Bill and I have been together now for 38 years. We often reflect on the lives we’ve lived and survived. At the end of the day, before lying down for a good night’s rest, we make sure to make each other laugh before turning out the lights. We praise God daily for his grace and mercy because there were many close calls.

I’m no longer 99G0947. I am Zoe again. My name means life, and I am living it to the fullest.

(he/him)

When I was 15, the local media of Uganda outed a group of students my age for being gay, based solely on suspicion. This sparked anger inside me and I wrote an article pointing out that this would rob these students of a deserved education, affecting all of them for the rest of their lives. To my shock, shared by many readers, my rant (article) was published in a weekly teen newspaper pull-out called “Straight Talk.” This, to me, was my ushering into activism.

In my early 20s, I began to come across people like me. They told stories about rape, about their parents refusing to pay school fees, being kicked out of school and ending up homeless. We began to spend most of our time together in bars, and staying away from our homes.

We began to meet at a particular bar to support each other. When an article in a tabloid outed our spot as a lesbian bar, we decided to launch our meetings in a support group, inviting anyone who needed support to come along. In just a year’s time, the support group evolved into an organization, Freedom and Roam Uganda.

We began to search the Internet for information about running an organization and looking for resources to support rape victims and survivors. I borrowed a copy of the Ugandan Constitution and looked for solutions therein. We needed lawyers. We needed doctors. But, none were willing to take on the issues we brought forth. I decided that changing this narrative of helplessness, insecurity, and vulnerability would be my life goal. I felt I couldn’t sit home enjoying the support of my family, while my peers could not have the same, simply because they were either suspected to be gay or lesbian or queer. We began to create visibility through telling our stories on radio talk shows and in articles. These came at a high cost. Tabloids began to out people suspected of being be homosexual.

At this point I felt working in the background was not enough. I shared with my family that I was pursuing activism professionally and that I was going to work with Sexual Minorities Uganda, an organization aiming to liberate LGBTI persons in my country. When one of my uncles heard what he referred to as “this nonsense,” he bought me an airline ticket to leave the country. He wasn’t ashamed of me; he was afraid activism would get me killed. Regardless of his concern, this is an offer I never regret declining.

But, he was right. My life was, and still is, constantly in danger because of the work I do. I have become a public figure as a community organizer and advocate. It has attracted physical attacks, threats of murder and rape, rejection of housing, restriction of movement and several police detentions. Consistently speaking out has brought my name and my sexuality into living rooms across Uganda and brought my country into the spotlight. Now, the international community knows my name. In my case and for many other public activists, there’s a danger in speaking out, but at the same time, our public recognition provides a level of protection and privilege that others working on the frontlines don’t get.