My first memory is of a  big man in a white T-shirt named Babe, telling me to pick my own switch for an ass beating. I remember going out into the humid Alabama night, chickens at my feet, to pull a branch off of a bush. My five-foot-two mom was fighting for me, and Babe’s parents jumped in the middle of it. My next memory was of me and Mom sitting on a bench at the Greyhound Bus station in the early morning darkness. Babe was begging her to stay. We didn’t.

We went to the South Side of Chicago from there that summer and Mom got a job making triggers at a Smith and Wesson gun factory. When she worked, the downstairs neighbor family babysat me. There was a little girl my age with her afro tied to look like Minnie Mouse. Her Father grabbed her by those tufts once while we were playing, picked her up, and flung her against the wall over my head. I was three years old

The picture in this piece is of me on a tricycle that I got for my third birthday. It got stolen the same day.

We moved to Mom’s homeland then, Minnesota, and things got better.

 

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