Introduction
Sometime around March 2000 I was conceived, on the island of Madagascar, off the coast of East Africa. Family rumor has it that there was a meteor shower that night. I cannot confirm nor deny the truth in that particular statement but I reckon bullshit.
My mother married my father when she was 16, but their marriage was considered to be common law and they had been together for 7 years when I came into the world.
My parents, were an unusual couple. My father, was 26 when he met my mother at a dance party, and she was young, very out-of-control but ultimately impressionable and vulnerable. She craved the father figure she never had, and as someone who felt lost, my father was someone for her to follow.
Together, they were pretty much both wild hippies. Smoking pot, living in Jamaica before I was born, travelling around the world, and heading to Africa for some strange , rastafarian spiritual journey.
One day when my mother was pregnant with me, her and my father were driving through Ballito in their little brown Jeep, one of them tuned the radio, and it bellowed
“Got to have Kaya Now, Got to have Kaya now, Got to have Kaya now, For the rain is falling, I feel so high, I even touch the sky, Above the falling rain, I feel so good, in my neighborhood, so here I come again”
I’m not exactly sure what was said in the conversation, but somehow, it came under a mutual agreement to name me after the song “Kaya” by Bob Marley.
The “Kaya” he was alluding to was pot. My parents were fully aware of this and this made it all the better in their stoner-Hippie Rastafarian eyes.
On December 7th, 2000, I was born to David and Sarah in Durban, South Africa. I was a mixed race child, half west indian, half mystery 7 years after Apartheid ended.
As a toddler, my hair grew in blond loose curls and I was the spitting image of my mother. My father, was dismayed, because he had wished for me to be darker in skin tone and more “Hebrew” in appearance, aka Black but that’s a discussion for another time.
We moved from South Africa to Mauritius, to Seychelles, then to Cayman with my father’s family, but then Hurricane Ivan wiped out the infrastructure and flooded the house. After that we went to Florida to stay in a trailer with my grandmother, and then moved to Bathsheba, Barbados, renting the top level of a beachfront house that my mom also helped to manage. My parents surfed, would tell me strange retellings of the Bible and pretty much cursed the outside world. We were pescatarians and I did not taste eggs, red meat, or poultry until after my mother divorced my father.
I remember once when I was 4, we were riding in a jeep with friends in a jungle like setting, and my father was smoking pot as usual. He handed the blunt to me to puff on, and I handed it to his friend. The smoke made me cough and congested my chest but I did what was shown to me.
My parent’s marriage was very troubled at that point, and I would often hear them arguing. My mother would lock me in my room while they screamed and bickered at each other. My father was working illegally as an underwater construction worker at the time, and my mom, knowing his permit was expired, got him deported from the island, divorcing him.
We went to the airport to say my goodbyes, he told me that he loved me. That was the last time I saw him in person, and for 13 years I would have no contact or correspondence with him.
Me and and my mom moved to Florida to live with my grandmother sometime in 2005, who was living on this couple Anita and Mitch’s ranch.
When we came there, I had dreadlocks, because of my father’s religion. One evening my mom would prop me up on the toilet lid and take out a pair of glistening scissors. My tiny feet dangled off of the edge as my mom, one by one, snipped my locks, revealing spiral curl new growth which she’d place a little pink bow in.
She cut my hair to cut my ropes to the past.The past of Barbados, Cayman, and most importantly, my father.
My mom left with her boytoy to go on a vacation in Hawaii. She had gone there years before when she was married to my father, but this time, was different. In the time my mom was gone, I got to experience America. I would imitate the movements of those inflatable tube men outside of used car dealerships, tasted artery clogging abominations such as funnel cake and cheeseburgers, and went to places ranging from the State Fair to the Build-A-Bear workshop.
I watched movies with magic with my nana, something I wasn’t allowed to do when my father was around due to his paranoia surrounding witchcraft.
Chapter One
When my mom came back from Hawaii, we ended up moving to Kauai. I was enrolled in Hanalei School at the age of 6. I had a bajan accent and was a good amount taller than all of my classmates. In a sea of blond, blue eyed children, I was tanned and curly haired. I obviously stood out. The children themselves were too young to say off colored remarks regarding my racial background, but at times, adults were the ones to do so.
My second grade teacher compared my curly hair to a rat’s nest,astutely claimed my accent was a speech impediment and that I also was mentally disabled, so I was sent to speech therapy to rid me of this affliction as well as put in the “slower” kid’s math class,which was very easy for me. Later in my elementary school years, I would become quite the loner, and everyday, I went to the end of the school courtyard, propped myself against a lamppost, and drew. I had one friend that would come here and there, and we were closest during the last two years before I left the school in 5th grade.
In 5th grade I became a bit….popular, and started to mix with more friends. I enjoyed being at school, because my home life, was falling apart. We had moved from a large suburban home in an upper middle class neighborhood to a small condo in a lower middle class neighborhood in second grade, and my mom always had some drinking problems, but it seemed to be getting worse around the time I was 10.
When she first moved to Kauai she was very wild, much to the dismay of my grandmother. She’d bring random men to the house and come home drunk and high on both uppers and downers. She’d also practice witchcraft and try to rid the house of evil spirits.
After the first half year she calmed down, and started working at a hippie souvenir store called Divine Planet, the type of the store that sells tumeric dyed hemp wovens, wooden carved jolly fat mermaids, wind chimes, and jewelry. She’d make jewelry for the store as well as me and my nana.
She quit her job and started mooching off of my grandmother’s trust fund when I was in third grade. That was when she started losing her shit.
In 5th grade she became highly suspicious of me, and started becoming….purely….off. I didn’t wish to speak to her as often yet she became more and more clingy. She accused the bus driver of strange things such as giving the kids drugs and got into an odd involvement with the school that the bus driver was giving children drugs.
Chapter Two
One day after school, I had an exceptionally heavy backpack due to having to carry my history textbook and two binders in it. I was sucking on my ruby red, cherry flavored cup of hard ice, which melted into a sticky syrup in 85 degree weather. I was walking home, and went upstairs to the loft, which I shared with my mom. Curious on how much my backpack weighed, I placed it on the bathroom scale. I also discarded my hard ice cup due to its emptiness.
“Kaya, we need to speak” My mother said in a concerned tone.
“Yes?”
“What, was in that backpack Kaya?”
“Um books, it was heavy”
“Kaya, we need to speak, what have you been hiding?”
“Umm nothing mom”
“Kaya, you haven’t been yourself lately, what has been going on?”
And that was the end….of the beginning and the start of my absolute hell by the hands of my mom. As we spoke, she started throwing crazy accusations at my schoolmates that I was being sexually assaulted at school, by my classmates and that I was doing hardcore drugs such as ice in school.
She acted out sexual positions using my Barbie dolls and asked me graphic questions about “my sexual assault”. I told her she was wrong and that I had not been assaulted, been offered or had been using drugs but she insisted. She really believed what she was saying. She blamed specific children, children whom I knew she did not like the parents of.
She whipped me with a leather belt and boxed my ears for “my atrocious and disgusting acts”, shamed me for being a filthy whore, and relegated me to my corner of the room, in which she threw a Bible at me and told me to repent. She refused to feed me unless I propagated her lie to the school authorities.
Lucky me I got my period at the same time too, which my mom blamed on “the rape”. She performed “exams” to examine the “rape” often, aka pulling down my panties and touching me. She took me to the doctor to get tested for drugs, and still insisted I was on drugs despite the tests showing no traces of drug use.
At first I tried denying the whole thing and explaining that I didn’t know what the hell my mother was on, but strangely enough, they took her side and forced me to “tell what really had happened”. My grandmother, also sided with my mom. It’s important to note my mother started experimenting with drugs and having sex at this particular age.
Confusing the school with a bizarre and incongruent story, she pulled me out and placed me into a small Christian school, in which very wealthy, conservative Christian parents sent their children to. I hated this environment but my mom felt it was needed to cleanse my soul of the disgusting sins I had committed.
She told the school of my “sexual assault” and “drug use.” And the boy who had supposedly been a one of the suspects went to that school after the “incident”, which infuriated my mother.
By the near end of the year, the same story played out at this school, but with students from the new school.
My mom, claimed I was assaulted by older boys, and that I was too drugged to realize it. She threatened to kick me out of the house at 12 if I “didn’t tell my story” so I went along with it, albeit very hesitantly, feeling horrible, and shaking in the principals office. If I fudged a detail my mom would squeeze my hand. She held my hand the whole time. My grandmother was there as well, and refused to believe me when I tried to tell her the truth of the matter beforehand.
The principal said I wasn’t welcome anymore and that lying was just as bad as rape, so I never set foot on that campus again.
Chapter Three
My mom started homeschooling me afterwards, and told the online school I had been brutally assaulted, bullied, gang raped and had been abusing drugs. They sympathized with her “plight” and I wanted to die. She kept insisting I was thriving and was the happiest I ever was. She would tell people about how she had “saved” me from my horrific drug abuse and sexual promiscuity.
My mom, cut me off from any semblance of a social life over a year before that. I wasn’t allowed anywhere except if my mom was going somewhere. We were as if we were attached at the hip, I was her doll. She dressed me in tight maxi dresses like the ones that she wore, heels and full makeup. I was not her daughter, but an extension of herself.
She even attempted to dye my hair peroxide blond like hers, but ended up turning it to a garish shade of brassy orange that was quite unflattering to my skin tone.
My grandmother started working at a grocer when I was in 6th grade and this greatly dismayed my mother for a reason I don’t know. Everything would offend my mother. My mom would accuse me of poisoning the dog, inviting overnight guests, talking to my estranged father and other strange, improbable accusations.
My mom started smoking some sort of laced maurijuana when I was 12 or 13 and offered it to me on several occasions. The smell made my head spin, and felt nauseous and sick. It made my cough and my chest get tight.
My grandmother called the cops and I was taken away from my mother. I stayed with my grandmother in someone we knew’ house that they let us stay in due to it being empty at the time. I, never had been away from my mother, so I attempted to run away to her.
I got caught and I was sent back to my grandmother. My mother persuaded my grandmother to come back to her and we did. The case kind of just fizzled out.
When I was around 13, we started having financial issues and the trust fund was put on hold due to a bank transfer. My grandmother started working and living in another family’s house as a housekeeper.
My mom, refused to work because she believed there was a worldwide conspiracy against her to keep her away from her millions of dollars. She attempted to brainwash me into believing this was true, but I always felt it was off.
After 7th grade, we couldn’t afford the private online school due to the bank transfer, so I was out of school for around 9 months. My mom also started becoming obsessed with my teeth and wouldn’t allow me to start school until I got braces. She also shunned normal schools and wouldn’t ever allow me to go to a normal school.
My life, even though some have had it worse, was hard for me at the time, and I took refuge in writing and drawing. I made imaginary friends because I had none. I’d share these things with my grandmother secretly, because despite her living in the same house, I wasn’t allowed to speak with her.
My mom had a freak out where she yelled profanities at me, beheaded all of my dolls, spat at me and threatened violence. I hid myself in the bathroom. Cops were called by a neighbor, who let me come and hide in his house with my dog and my nana, but my mom bailed that night. The whole thing was swept under the rug.
Our financial situation worsened.
That thanksgiving, we ate stale cheese crackers and canned cheese from an expired gift basket. We were running out of canned food in the cupboard, and my mom refused to accept food from food banks.
Our neighbors offered us fresh food around December, but my mother refused to accept it after a while.
For Christmas we drank hot cocoa mix with water and had pancakes made with water for breakfast, which was the food for the day. We eventually ran out and she accepted small amounts of grocery items from the neighbors, but then stopped accepting it again.
The power was shut off, and we were being evicted. Out of desperation, my mom went on food stamps, applied for welfare and found a job at sales, in which she was fired shortly after due to her incompatible personality.
When the bank transfer was finished, it was around January. My grandmother came back. I got the braces my mother always desperately wanted for me and we moved to a small cabin in the woods, even more isolating than my previous situation.
I started 8th grade in February or March and was in a rush to complete my 8th grade year. I looked up all the answers to tests, and did everything in my ability to skirt through.
In this time my mom became excessively obsessed with straightening my long, very curly hair and claimed I was listening to other people’s opinions on my life when I told her I didn’t wish for this. The singing heat from the iron would burn the tops of the moles on my scalp and my hair would be burnt and fried.
My hair became extremely dry and brittle, something my mom blamed on me trying to harm myself by not conditioning it. She also insisted I was giving myself acne on purpose.
She also forced me to get acrylic nails. Something I absolutely hated but she loved.
Around the time I was 13, my mom became extremely obsessed with my physical appearance in general, but also, my weight.
When I was a toddler I was a bit chubby, but I hit a growth spurt at the age of 5. After that, I was always fairly slim and lank.
My mother was always fairly athletic and was never, ever, remotely, even close to being overweight.
She was anorexic throughout her teenage years and lived off of coffee, alcohol, energy drinks, cocaine and stimulants as well as took psychedelics.
My mom was going to be a model in New York before she met my father. Physical appearance and weight was extremely important to her.
When I was 13, she started not allowing me to eat normally and forced me to intensively exercise for long durations. She didn’t want me to gain weight as I grew taller.
I grew from 5’6 to 5’7” and fluctuated in between 115 and 125 pounds until I was around 16 and a half. My mom would praise me when I was the lightest, and warn me about being chubby and undesirable if I tipped 120. And anything over 130, was positively, absolutely, no doubt fat.
I thought I was fat and would refuse to show skin unless i was under 120. When my weight hit “normal” on the BMI scale my mom would encourage me to diet until I was “underweight” on the BMI scale.
When I was 16 the doctor expressed concern over my weight, told me it was unhealthy and that I should probably gain some for health reasons. My mother told me I should take it as a compliment.
She also placed me on birth control at the time, which caused me to bleed everyday and worsened my acne. She would put concoctions on my face that would make my skin raw, and then blame my flare ups on a lack of personal hygiene.
When I was 14, my mom threatened suicide unless she was able to get the plastic surgery she wanted.
Her request was granted, thus we went to Honolulu, and stayed at The One, an extremely expensive apartment complex built right on top of the Ala Moana Shopping center.
My mom booked a hair salon appointment she said was a trim, and I ended up getting my hair permanently straightened pretty much against my will or previous notice.
Meanwhile, she underwent extensive cosmetic surgery on her body. A tummy tuck, breast implants, liposuction, butt lift and more. She claimed it was medically necessary but I knew better. My grandmother thought it would help “her heal” from the abuse of my father. I call bullshit. We stayed on Oahu for a month and went back to Kauai.
Chapter 4
We moved houses again when I was 15, and then moved to the island of Oahu when I was almost 16, to a three bedroom city apartment on the 38th floor. Here, I would be mostly a shut in. I wasn’t allowed a social life or time on my own. I was an extreme case of helicopter parenting. Most nights my mom would become drunk and nonsensical. I didn’t like speaking with her and she’d suddenly become hostile or erratic.
I began going on Omegle at night, secretly, to kill my utter boredom and loneliness.
I was rarely skipped, namely due to online female privilege. I got attention from guys, which as someone who was pretty insecure, I sought validation in.
We’d usually exchange instagrams and talk for a few days. There I was exposed to photography of the male appendage, which I’d block promptly.
But there was one young man on Omegle whom would impact me years on.
He was a hint unfortunate looking and deathly thin, with deep smile lines, a bulbous nose and dark eyes. He had a look that I hadn’t seen in American white men. I guessed he was Russian, and I was right. He asked me if I knew Russian and I said I could spell “CTAC” or “Stas”.
He said that was his name. We exchanged instagrams and became friends. We shared the common fact that we were both lonely. Very lonely, to be specific. We both were in ruts. He began to fall for me. And I didn’t know how I felt about him honestly and thought I could be experiencing love. But I liked the thought of him and not actually him, because I ignored his red flags.
By the end of the year he wanted me to live with him, to come to America and escape both of our lives. We never dated but engaged in an odd dating role play. I never loved him or wanted to but I loved fantasizing about having a boyfriend. We were close friends.
When I was 16, I was taken into foster care after talking to my online school counselor about my home situation, which was becoming progressively worse. My mother was becoming violent and erratic, and I lacked any freedom to be, or a real social life outside of my friend Stas.
I was sent to a group home and I was miserable. I hadn’t been around people my age in a long while. There was one girl coming off of drugs, who was trying to get on the right track. The others were a bit rebellious. Never having been away from my mother, I broke into the safe for my cell phone and ran with two girls after one week. They stole my money and we didn’t have food to eat.
I stole sandwiches from supermarkets, and tampons and clean underwear from Walmart. I also stole art supplies, in which I wanted to draw portraits on the Waikiki strip at night for a few bucks a pop but didn’t get to doing that. I had more freedom than I had ever had. I relied on the kindness of strangers for a bed, was nearly raped by a man who gave me a ride and could had been killed multiple times. I turned 17 on the streets of Salt Lake City, Oahu.
I met a variety of people whilst living in the streets. Crazy people, users, drug dealers, and some genuinely good people. I will remember one older gentleman whom let me sleep at his place and made dinner and breakfast for me, as well as let me take some food items with me, in which I couldn’t carry the bulk of it and gave mostly to homeless people on the beach in Waikiki.
Meanwhile, my mother and grandmother were vacationing in New York. Initially I didn’t come back, but hot showers and warm meals lured me back to my mother like bait to a fish. I was not allowed to go outside for a while, and we went to stay in a beach house mansion on the north shore for about two months, in which my mother put me through hell in.
In that period, I realized Stas was not a good friend. He was emotionally manipulative and becoming creepily attached. I ended up dropping him, but he wouldn’t be dropped. He would create alternate accounts to contact me. We’d talk off and on until less than a year later I stopped responding completely.
Chapter 5
We went back to the city apartment that year in March, and much to my expectation, the trust fund was out. April 2018, we went to live in a Motel for a little bit. We packed what we could carry and brought our pet chihuahua Roosevelt with us. Me, my grandma, and my mom, in a tiny dingy motel room, for approximately 2 weeks, watching TV. My mom and my grandmother had an extremely strained relationship and it seemed to settle down during those two weeks.
We then headed to a hostel on the north shore called Shark’s Cove.
On April 29th, we started living in the car. My mom applied for food stamps so we had food sometimes, but spent it all too quickly so by the end of the month we’d barely have enough to get by. We’d bathe in public beach bathrooms or on campgrounds. We’d wash our clothes at the laundromat or in public sinks. I was still doing online school at the time, in which I’d study in Internet cafes.
In a stress and alcohol induced rage, after two weeks my mom kicked my grandmother out of the car. My grandmother began living in the public bathroom and started working full time at a grocer, indeed the same grocer chain she had worked at before.
There was one particular old man whom grossed me out and would constantly hit on me whilst I studied. Everyone else was fine though. The Internet cafes had a handful of regulars, some of which were also homeless.
My mom got a job waitressing at a restaurant across from the Internet cafe to support us, but was shortly fired after she got the job. She had been applying to jobs for a while but had no luck.
She’d spend money on alcohol quite often and would waste it on drugs. I graduated 11th grade with mostly Cs and Ds, but at least I passed. My mom had no intention on me continuing my schooling, so I was out at the time.
I had no whereabouts of my own. I was completely dependent on where my mom drove the car. So I’d get out and go exploring around small woods and forests. In this time, I also drew a lot in pencil and went swimming in the ocean. The outdoors was my home, the car was my shelter.
Meanwhile, my mom dodged CPS and had to hide from my case, which was still open. We became quite destitute and my mom, already having issues with finding employment, became more and more desperate.
We had nothing to eat, and my mom decided to audition at a seedy strip joint in the ghetto to put food in our mouths. My mother didn’t have money, but she did have beauty, and was slim and agile.
Immediately, she was hired. We could finally eat food. We splurged on quarter pounders and sushi those first few days.
But stripping, would prove to be an ascension into the worse. My mom, would drink heavily every night, and I was trusted with watching the car and my dog. When she worked, I was alone at night in the car.
There was a local mall in which I’d use the bathroom in before I went to sleep. Occasionally I’d pick up Chinese steamed buns (Dim Sum) because they were cheap and filling. The manager was a bit shady and started keeping an eye on me. Middle aged, short Hispanic guy with gang tattoos.
He’d ask me to come to his apartment (that was in the mall) and would tell me things of the area, who to avoid and what not. He’d give me gifts.
I went to his apartment once. He wanted to have sex and was saying how great ice was and I told him no. I noticed a bag of ice on the table and I made an excuse to leave.
I noticed every night there’d seemingly be a different young girl coming to his apartment all seemingly drugged out. I suspect he was a pimp.
I carried a knife wherever I went and slept with one eye open.
Chapter 6
Eventually, living like this took its toll emotionally. Having a phone, I got into contact with my guardian ad litem and I was removed sometime in September of last year. I was placed into the same group home, but this time, I stayed. In one week I was found a foster placement.
It was in a centrally located suburb I had never seen before. I was greeted by a short Filipino lady who seemed to be a bit artificial in demeanor. She was quick to badmouth the girl who had formerly stayed in my room, for being dark skinned and overweight.
I was expecting to get a GED, but they said it was too expensive. I agreed to go finish my senior year of high school. I thought, “Well, fuck it, might be like the movie mean girls”.
Beforehand, I cut my long, crazy, sun bleached, salt water damaged, relaxed, frizzy wild hair into a neat little Afro. Which grew into what it currently is like crazy.
With my big black back pack and brand new clothes, I started attending Pearl City High School on October 15tg. Alarmed by cliques, I usually sat in the classroom at the beginning. I was always friendly and was overwhelmed by being surrounded by so many teenagers. It was an utterly surreal experience. My marks were good, and I was driven.
But, I simply couldn’t relate to most people my age. My life was so different from theirs. I hung out with the “nerds” in the beginning and befriended this guy Ryan. He was really outgoing. Physically he was a stocky, tall Asian boy. Not bad looking but his personality rubbed me the wrong way at times.
But before he met me, I noticed one young man. He’d usually be by himself, drawing. He was tall, rather large, pale as a ghost, and wore glasses. He always looked angry and was kind of intimidating looking. He was a dead ringer for a specific character of mine named August.
To be honest I found him really fucking cute and wanted to talk to him, so one day, during lunch, my friend Ryan is making preparations for an event during culinary.
I initially am with him in the classroom, but decide to venture downstairs where the boy who usually draws sat. I was rushing with emotions and had my stomach in a knot but went down anyways.
“Hi, can I sit here?” I asked. I didn’t realize from afar but in person he had the most gorgeous light blue eyes that lit up his face. He was actually quite a nice looking boy.
“Um, yea, sure”
“What’s your name? My names’ Kaya”
“JJ…Ake”
I asked him his age and where he was from. He said he was a local, which was slightly disconcerting to me due to his very fair complexion and general style of dress.
I asked him about his hobbies, and he revealed he was into art and drawing. My eyes lit up. He showed me his sketchbook and it was amazing. Beautiful, realistic, detailed drawings. I hadn’t seen someone my age so into drawing in my life before. His skill was way beyond what I expected.
We talked about things and what not and I liked him even more afterwards.
The bell rang and I had to go. He shook my hand beforehand and said it was nice talking to me.
I’d see him around school but would be much too nervous to talk to him.
I ended up dating Ryan for a week and going for my first date. I gave my first kiss to that guy. It was cool having that experience but he was irritating so I’m glad that one didn’t last long.
He also almost kicked “Jake”. That was the day I broke up with him.
Chapter 7
Meanwhile, I’d become quite the social butterfly. I started hanging out with stoners, and smoker weed on multiple occasions. However, my grades stayed fine and it didn’t seem to affect me too much. That fell out due to my foster sister snitching on me knowing who I was hanging out with.
I was also reconnected with my biological father via CPS, so I began talking to him online at this time.
One day in November I made a note for my crush. He was speaking with someone. I hid behind the staircase with a note and tried to signal to give it to my crush. I thought both of them saw me so I ran.
I began hanging out with the local arthoes. They were curious who I liked, and I didn’t want to say who at first. They didn’t know who I meant when I said I liked a tall, stocky guy with brown hair and pretty eyes.
One time he passed by us and I said, “that’s the guy I think is kind of cute”.
My friend at the time turned he head at me and said
“He’s not attractive”
“He is”
“Kaya, what the hell. He’s just like...not attractive”
Over the next few months it would become apparent I wanted to talk to him. My friend at the time, despite her insults regarding my taste in men, his general appearance and weight, pressured me into talking to him.
On January 11th in a crowded cafeteria I sat down across from him. It took about 3 months for me to finally get the courage again. I was sweating buckets and reapplied my lipstick before I sat down across from him. He was looking down, picking at his food and I said,
“Hey, sorry to freak you out but, I think you’re kind of cute”
“No worries”
I learned I got his name wrong. It wasn’t Jake, it was...James...
After a bit of talking I got his number. He had to leave for a class. When I went outside he was waiting for me. Apparently he gave me his old number.
I texted him the next day on Saturday and we talked a bit about our lives. On Sunday he told me that he couldn’t talk for a while due to things going on in his life. I thought he was simply not interested so I texted him a few days later just saying I hoped he was OK. That upcoming Friday I saw him at an assembly and we spoke.
He said that he had a lot going on in his life but would date me later that year. Next Friday I saw him and spoke to him again. He seemed to be in better spirits and we ended out going to the park together on Sunday. We kissed and it was evident feelings were involved at that point. My friends dropped me after I started dating him.
We’d hang out every day at school and we’d become more and more close. We went out to the movies shortly after we began dating and I made out for the first time in my life. James was and is my only friend. While we’re dating, he’d slim down, shave a bit more and started wearing jeans. I started wearing less pink and quit wearing wigs to hide my natural hair.
We clicked as people and had chemistry that I had never felt before. I was in love. We were in love. And we are in love. Deeply, madly, in love.
Who knew the guy that looked kind of angry all the time would be the guy I’d fall madly in love with and be moving in with?
Meanwhile, my biological father finds out and disowns me because of my boyfriend’s race and my mom’s gone insane, but at least…..
I’m 18, I have the love of my life, my boo, James, I’m moving in with him this month, and am set to graduate.
To be continued is a story still being written....
Submitted May 03, 2019 at 07:24AM by kayasphotographs http://bit.ly/2PKkgoS
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