and my first apartment was in the First Farmington projects, the “nicer” projects on the south side of High Point. My rent was thirty dollars a week, which I could afford, and the only things I had to worry about were the telephone and the electric bills. I was able to get into the apartment because I had a child and no income. It was the projects where many baby mamas were in the same situation. First Farmington Apartments was like a camp for single, uneducated women with babies.
I started singin’ to make money. It was the only thing I could do. I would sing at different churches and people would give me love offerings of cash to help support Zion and myself. My friends would sometimes give me money, too. I was survivin’—but definitely not thrivin’.
Then B. left college and moved in with Zion and me. I didn’t really want him to come back since he had been no help so far, but the fantasy of being a real family stuck in my mind and I couldn’t turn him away. Neither of us had steady jobs. My only “hustle” was singing at the churches. Those love offerings were all I had to pay for diapers, socks, and T-shirts for Zion. The only other help I got was WIC. WIC is a welfare program that is for baby mamas. WIC stands for Women, Infants, and Children. It provides milk, baby formula, cheese, and other food staples. WIC is set up so that you can get only a few vouchers at a time. If you run out of vouchers, you have to wait until the next month when more vouchers arrive. B. was paying into the Medicaid program. His contribution was so small that it was as if no money was coming to me at all.
My boyfriend had no problem stealing from me. He thought he was justified because his Medicaid contribution made him feel like he was supporting me. One day, I remember feeling so proud because I had a whole hundred dollars in my purse, which was for the rent and to buy food. He came into the house and said, “I need some money.” I said, “No, because I need it for food.” That was our first physical fight. He hit me and I hit him back. He hit me again and I hit him right back. Eventually, his hits were harder than mine, so I gave in and gave him the money. I thought that giving in to B. was coming from love. It was my “love” covering up my loneliness. I couldn’t stand being lonely, so I easily forgot his “love licks.” A couple of my girls in Farmington were victims of “love licks” as well. They all had reasons and excuses that made it seem okay to be hit by your man. It was a warped form of intimacy. In some way it was a privilege for the man, because he would say, “I’m the only man who is allowed to hit her.” That was the thinkin’ back in Farmington.
My lights were soon cut off because I couldn’t pay the electric bill. B. left us again and went back to his parents’ house. He wouldn’t and couldn’t ask his parents to help because his parents would not allow us in their house. I couldn’t ask my parents for help, because it was my fault that I left them in the first place and I knew that my mama was going through her own drama with my father. B. went home to light and warmth. Zion and I were once again in darkness and cold.
I had to ask a friend, Shanetta, if Zion and I could stay with her, temporarily. Shanetta was my brother Rico’s baby mama. She let Zion and me stay in her apartment. We slept on a mattress in the middle of her small living room floor. Shanetta had three children at the time.
Shanetta was struggling herself. My brother and she had gone through some terrible things. Their relationship was the talk of the Farmington Apartments. Not that it was so unusual, but because it was just the most recent incident of a woman standing up for herself. They argued a lot with each other, but mostly they were yelling and mad at themselves for ending up in a similar scenario to every war-torn relationship in each of the government-subsidized apartments.
My WIC vouchers had run out for
I started singin’ to make money. It was the only thing I could do. I would sing at different churches and people would give me love offerings of cash to help support Zion and myself. My friends would sometimes give me money, too. I was survivin’—but definitely not thrivin’.
Then B. left college and moved in with Zion and me. I didn’t really want him to come back since he had been no help so far, but the fantasy of being a real family stuck in my mind and I couldn’t turn him away. Neither of us had steady jobs. My only “hustle” was singing at the churches. Those love offerings were all I had to pay for diapers, socks, and T-shirts for Zion. The only other help I got was WIC. WIC is a welfare program that is for baby mamas. WIC stands for Women, Infants, and Children. It provides milk, baby formula, cheese, and other food staples. WIC is set up so that you can get only a few vouchers at a time. If you run out of vouchers, you have to wait until the next month when more vouchers arrive. B. was paying into the Medicaid program. His contribution was so small that it was as if no money was coming to me at all.
My boyfriend had no problem stealing from me. He thought he was justified because his Medicaid contribution made him feel like he was supporting me. One day, I remember feeling so proud because I had a whole hundred dollars in my purse, which was for the rent and to buy food. He came into the house and said, “I need some money.” I said, “No, because I need it for food.” That was our first physical fight. He hit me and I hit him back. He hit me again and I hit him right back. Eventually, his hits were harder than mine, so I gave in and gave him the money. I thought that giving in to B. was coming from love. It was my “love” covering up my loneliness. I couldn’t stand being lonely, so I easily forgot his “love licks.” A couple of my girls in Farmington were victims of “love licks” as well. They all had reasons and excuses that made it seem okay to be hit by your man. It was a warped form of intimacy. In some way it was a privilege for the man, because he would say, “I’m the only man who is allowed to hit her.” That was the thinkin’ back in Farmington.
My lights were soon cut off because I couldn’t pay the electric bill. B. left us again and went back to his parents’ house. He wouldn’t and couldn’t ask his parents to help because his parents would not allow us in their house. I couldn’t ask my parents for help, because it was my fault that I left them in the first place and I knew that my mama was going through her own drama with my father. B. went home to light and warmth. Zion and I were once again in darkness and cold.
I had to ask a friend, Shanetta, if Zion and I could stay with her, temporarily. Shanetta was my brother Rico’s baby mama. She let Zion and me stay in her apartment. We slept on a mattress in the middle of her small living room floor. Shanetta had three children at the time.
Shanetta was struggling herself. My brother and she had gone through some terrible things. Their relationship was the talk of the Farmington Apartments. Not that it was so unusual, but because it was just the most recent incident of a woman standing up for herself. They argued a lot with each other, but mostly they were yelling and mad at themselves for ending up in a similar scenario to every war-torn relationship in each of the government-subsidized apartments.
My WIC vouchers had run out for
Similar Books
