When A Child Raises Children

I became a mother at 11, way before I got the chance to become a teen, get my first kiss, or graduate high school.

My mother gave birth to them, two beautiful girls who became both my responsibility as well as the loves of my life.

In case I haven’t made it clear, I did not birth “my children”. The girls are my sisters who I assumed responsibility for after my mother disconnected from us both physically and emotionally.

My mother and I were never that close in any aspect other than being in close proximity due to living in the same home. Everything I knew about her was from observation. At 11, all I knew about my mother as she was my mother (obviously), she loved to write in a journal, and she was in an abusive relationship. At the time I didn’t know the term “abuse”, but nonetheless, I was able to immediately identify that what was going on between my mother and her boyfriend was wrong.

The day it all started

I was called out of my elementary school classroom and told me that I was to not go home after school and to promptly go to my neighbor’s house instead. This didn’t alarm me because as a child I was extremely good at creating the reality I wanted in my head. I was too busy trying to convince myself that the “neighbor” the teacher was referring to was my childhood best friend, who lived absolutely nowhere near me, to think that something bad may have occurred. The teacher quickly clarified where I was expected to go by telling me the name of an older woman who lived in my building and was well acquainted with my mother. I went straight to her apartment after school.

When I arrived, the woman was acting slightly nicer than usual. She offered me some food and fixed my hair that had been messed up from the wear of a long day playing and being a kid. As some time went by I finally decided to ask her why I couldn’t go home, and to that, she replied “your mother is hurt, and she is in the hospital.” when I heard this I did not cry. At that age expressing emotions was not my strong suit, so no matter how I felt I managed to keep a blank expression. I asked her more questions, and her answers told a story that hurt but did not surprise me.

My mother and the man (her boyfriend at the time) had gotten into an argument about his infidelities, and in a fit of anger, he began to get physical with her. This was not an uncommon occurrence, but this time the harm he caused went further than a few bruises and hurt feelings. The man didn’t stop until he broke 3 of my mother’s ribs.

The woman told me that she heard my mother scream, and that is how she got help. My mother owned a cellphone, which the man took, and a house phone that’s wire was cut by the man so that she would have no way to call anyone and tell them what happened after he left. The woman was my mother’s savior that day.

When my mother came back from the hospital she was a lot different. She was in constant pain and she was always tired. This, even as a child, I understood. She had just gone through something that at the time I recognized as bad, but now as an adult, I recognize it as trauma. Either way, I tried my best to give her the time she needed by helping her as much as I could.

My mother gave birth to her youngest daughter a few months before the incident. Because of my mother’s injury, it was extremely difficult for her to take care of her newborn baby girl. Things such as holding her were difficult, and carrying her car seat or traveling with her was basically impossible for her, but still needed to be done. With the man gone (for now), there was no one else to fill in the gaps but me, her 11-year-old oldest daughter.

The years to come…

My mother eventually healed well… physically. Emotionally, on the other hand, not so much. She fell into what my adult self now recognizes as depression and my child self recognized as being tired. While she was injured, she started doing things like getting out of bed and speaking to us less and less. She was extremely distant, but I was ok with that. I was used to her needing me to fill in the gaps, so by the time she got better, it already became my routine.

She eventually dropped all her responsibilities at my feet and retreated off into her own world. From the time I turned 13, I was officially on parent duty for two little girls and my mother as well. My mother would lock herself in her room, only opening it when she wanted to be brought some food or for me to come to clean her room. No one did much except me.

I spent all my time cleaning up after everyone, attempting to feed the girls (because I had never properly learned how to cook at that age), doing the girls hair, dropping my middle sister off (at the time I was supposed to be at school myself) and picking her up on days she didn’t walk home by herself, as well as taking care of my youngest sister when I got home, and more.

Around this time I was living in Harlem, New York, and that in itself was tough. What made it even tougher was that I was a 13-year-old girl walking through those Harlem streets pushing a baby stroller. The reason for this was because I was not allowed to leave home without my sisters, so when I would have to do things such as run errands like grocery shopping, make a quick store run, or do laundry I would have to bring them with me, and people who saw me assumed that I was walking around with my 7-year-old sister and my baby. This got me a lot of stares, questions, and rude comments from people in my neighborhood.

I recall one day being called things like “disgusting” and “fast” by an older woman in a convenience store as I was waiting in line with my sister to buy a few things for the apartment. She then continued to tell the woman next to her that “I should be ashamed of myself” not only for having sex, but also getting pregnant and having a baby at such a young age. I remember thinking to myself, “If only she knew”.

That was just one of many reactions I got growing up. There was a mix of people being mean, genuinely curious, or shocked, but none of it phased me. This taught me at a young age that people will judge you on a situation that they know nothing about, and that you have to learn to not let it get to you.

Now that I’m older it is very interesting to me that out of all the reactions I received none of them seemed concerned. It seemed that everyone automatically assumed that I was a teen mom that made bad decisions trying to be “grown” as if there weren’t other possibilities such as something unfortunate happening to me. This, to me, speaks volumes on how much the negative stereotypes of black girls have effects on people’s perception.

The adultification of black girls is a serious and extremely prevalent issue, and I believe this has a lot to do with why people, adults, and teens alike, automatically assumed that I was a promiscuous girl who landed herself with a baby. (If you would like to learn more about this issue click here.)

Growing up, I never really got the chance to be a kid. Even before I became a mother, I was sucked into the reality of an abusive household that left me in a disconnected state for a long time. Along with this, I also never really got a chance to be a sibling to my sisters because I was too busy being their mother.

This caused me to feel a lot of resentment towards them, despite the fact that it was not their fault because I felt stuck taking care of them when I wanted to be doing what all the kids my age were doing. Now that I am older, I realize that they were never burdens, and they were blessings all along because without them I would have been all alone.

Lastly, I never got a chance to build a bond with my mother, and also began to resent her after a while as well. (If you want to read more about my relationship with my mother, and how it affected me click here.)

Conclusion

If I’m being honest, I don’t know what the purpose of my writing this was. I found myself thinking about my childhood a lot lately, and the thoughts kept circulating, so I decided to write about it. I guess maybe I just needed to share my story in a way other than poetry, and I am glad I did. If you made it this far, thank you so much for taking the time out to read about my life experiences, and I really hope my story resonates with someone.