I barely remember sitting in the front row and I don’t even remember what the coffin looked like. Now that I am an adult, I have the key to the grave. I was 4 years old in a fancy dress with patent leather shoes and lace socks. My hair, chemically processed, was styled half up and half down with Shirley temple curls. I got to ride in a limo with my brother and grandparents even though it was not a joyous occasion. Tears stained my face as the funeral took place. I still resent the fact that my dad's girlfriend was there. I refused to sit with her. I remember my grandfather's arm around me as I cried into his suit jacket. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like for him to lose a daughter but I knew what losing a mom felt like. It’s hard to walk through life and not have any memories of interactions with my mom. All I know is what I see in the mirror everyday. However, the hardest thing to accept is that she could still be here today. Even though she did not die directly in the act of combat, what she endured being a part of Operation Desert Storm had a detrimental effect on her health. Serving in the Persian Gulf War has left hundreds of thousands of veterans with the Persian Gulf Syndrome. My mom was one of those people. Being exposed to deadly chemicals created lifelong illness for many veterans and caused cancer for some as well. My mom endured breast cancer and chemo therapy for a long time. She lost a lot of weight, her hair and had to get a mastectomy. However, the mastectomy wasn’t enough. The cancer metastasized and developed a brain tumor, which she passed from. I don’t have vivid memories of her passing, but I know my brother does. He had to raise me for a while during mom’s sickness and take care of her since our dad was out somewhere ignoring his family. He was only 13. He was robbed of his youth and I was robbed of having a mother daughter relationship. No matter how much my grandma tried, she couldn’t fill that void and that wasn’t her fault. There are so many times in my life when I wish my mom was here but she never will be. I believe she is in spirit around me and guides me through my problems and protects me and I am grateful for that. Even still, I would give anything to hear her say “I love you” just one time.

As I look in the mirror at 6:45 a.m., I nervously fasten the last button on my oversized uniform polo. I adjust my skirt that is too big for my waist and tie the laces on my shoes. I can already feel the anxiety stirring in my stomach. The nerve endings along my body are on high alert. My head feels tight from the micro braids my aunt did a day ago. The braids were not as long as I wanted since I was 11 and my grandma didn't want me to look too old, so I knew my opinion didn't matter. I smelled like tea tree oil but soon my scalp would absorb it and I would have to add more grease. I had all of my supplies packed in a book bag already so I made my way to the kitchen for breakfast. I got a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice. The glass was only 1/3 full because juice is expensive. I butter my toast and anxiously wipe the crumbs off the counter so as not to get in trouble. Once I am done eating, I grab a jacket and my bag and head for the door. I get in the backseat of my grandfather’s dodge neon and as I fasten my seatbelt, he asks, “Are you ready?”. I manage to mutter a yes with my pageant smile and we pull out of the driveway. My eyes widened as I pulled up to the school and my heart felt like it was going to fall out of my chest. I had already seen the school but I still wasn’t used to it's castle-like stature. I hopped out of the car and went through one of the three main entrances, this one being for middle schoolers. The knots in my stomach got tighter and I felt a nervous sweat begin under my armpits as I looked around the classroom. There were some blue eyes and many brown eyes in the room but the skin was a different story. The girls looked at me as if I was a new concept they had to grasp. I looked back at them with the longing desire to gain their approval. Feeling intimidated made my brain go blank and consumed my face with heat when I was cold called to answer a question. I felt an exorbitant amount of pressure to do well because of my parental figures and because I was Black. I was holding the weight of the image of the entire Black community on my shoulders. My grandparents often added to that weight, by reminding me how expensive Laurel was, how I should have acted, etc. One of the many things I struggled with was figuring out what it meant to do well in school. In my grandparents eyes, straight A’s meant intelligence. Unfortunately I did not realize that grades and standardized tests did not determine my true capabilities. I wish I could go back and tell myself that I was going to be just fine. I would say to younger Devin: There will be people in your life who will try make you feel small, make you feel incapable, but they are wrong. Those people will try to diminish your confidence and define what success means to you, but don’t let that deter you. People will make judgments based on the color of your skin, but you have nothing to prove. You must believe in yourself even when you feel like you can't because there is another little Devin out there looking up to you.