I dropped my backpack off in the living room that day when I had gotten home from school and plopped down in front of my mom’s new HP Touchscreen Desktop Computer. I had forgotten to plug my laptop up that morning and by the time I had gotten home from school it had died. I wanted to check my Facebook before my parents got home. I always remembered to delete the computer history. They did not like Facebook and had said I did not need to have one. It was three days before my eighteenth birthday. I could not wait! I was so excited. It meant college and moving out was coming soon. I had already gotten my first tattoo that past weekend. I had told the artist I just turned 18 and that was my present to myself. He had not even bothered to check
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I planned to take everything I could possibly carry. As I packed, my mind was racing with questions I did not ask: Was this really happening? Where would I go? How would I pay to finish the school year? I still had 4 months left before graduation in May. Surely, they were just teaching me a lesson. They would not have just thrown their daughter out into the world. Were they mad about the tattoo? Was it because I was dating a black person then? Still I packed in silence. My parents were Christians. They were not hard-core but they were believers. Growing up we never really went to church and we did not have family prayers in the evenings. Nevertheless, my father read the Bible every morning and all of us said our blessings before our meals. My parents believed in the races staying within their own race and of course sex after marriage. As I stuffed clothes and toiletries into the large Glad trash bags, my dad sat on the bed watching me. My mother was not there. She had gone to call my grandparents. “Where are you going to go?” my dad asked. I shrugged, not even looking up at him. I was so angry and confused. I thought I would cry as soon as I opened my mouth to speak. He asked, “How will you pay for school?” “I will figure something out,” I responded. I kept my composure because I did not want him to see I was hurting. I wanted him to think I did not
I planned to take everything I could possibly carry. As I packed, my mind was racing with questions I did not ask: Was this really happening? Where would I go? How would I pay to finish the school year? I still had 4 months left before graduation in May. Surely, they were just teaching me a lesson. They would not have just thrown their daughter out into the world. Were they mad about the tattoo? Was it because I was dating a black person then? Still I packed in silence. My parents were Christians. They were not hard-core but they were believers. Growing up we never really went to church and we did not have family prayers in the evenings. Nevertheless, my father read the Bible every morning and all of us said our blessings before our meals. My parents believed in the races staying within their own race and of course sex after marriage. As I stuffed clothes and toiletries into the large Glad trash bags, my dad sat on the bed watching me. My mother was not there. She had gone to call my grandparents. “Where are you going to go?” my dad asked. I shrugged, not even looking up at him. I was so angry and confused. I thought I would cry as soon as I opened my mouth to speak. He asked, “How will you pay for school?” “I will figure something out,” I responded. I kept my composure because I did not want him to see I was hurting. I wanted him to think I did not