Have You Seen My Childhood?

I've always been basically a grown ass kid. Even as a teenager, as people grew older, I remained childlike. I found that one of the benefits of adulthood was that I could spend my money how I want, and the weirder, the better! I've always known that in some ways, I'm making up for a childhood where I wasn't allowed to bloom. Children were often told that they can do what they want as adults and I took that message and ran with it! And as an adult, no one can tell me shit! So if I want it, I get it. Not harming anybody, so if I wanna buy a 6 foot teddy bear, dammit, that's my business. Go broke putting up Christmas lights on my house and that huge inflatable Black Santa? Yep, bring it on!

Exactly 30 years ago, Michael Jackson was getting ready to drop his HIStory album, which coincided with my 15th birthday, June 20, 1995. Advertisements were everywhere about it. With zero internet to lean on, MJ managed to hold us all in the palm of his hand. I recall bugging the hell out of my father, with the understanding that I had to get the album on that day. I was already a Michael Jackson fan like pretty much all of the planet, but this album dropping on my birthday (of all days) was a sign that this was meant to be!

When I got the cd, a 2-disc set, which included a disc of 15 of his hit singles, plus a disc of 15 new tracks, naturally, I took to the song "Scream" (his single with Janet Jackson) and later "Earth Song." To this day, I will be in my car and play "Earth Song" at decibels loud enough to shock ocean plankton. After all, that is the only way to do the song justice. If you aren't shattering windows and setting off car alarms, you aren't doing it right! The album spoke to my soul, as Michael sang his heart out about the recent allegations he'd faced about sexual abuse against young boys.

When listening to the cd, I also loved the track "You Are Not Alone," a track written by none other than Robert Sylvester Kelly. This was before we were fully aware of the disgusting allegations against him. Being as zealoted as I am, when I switched all of my music over to digital selections, I never bought HIStory, because I did not want to buy the album and risk giving R. Kelly even a dime of my money. I'd buy my favorite singles, but never the album, lest I be supporting Robert's proclivities (this is before the Mute R. Kelly movement).

Recently, I thought to myself that since Robert is nicely resting in prison (where he belongs), I can finally step away and give myself permission to enjoy the album, in its entirety. What I hadn't expected was to be transformed back to that chubby 15-year-old who'd played that album to death! Songs I'd even forgotten about, like "This Time Around" which featured Notorious B.I.G. I thought back on how I'd mentioned something about the song to my ex, David. He thought that I was on hard drugs when I'd mentioned that Michael and Biggie had done a song together. And eventually, I was able to pull out the cd and play the song, to shut him up.

I'd picked up my son from school while going down memory lane, and as the song "D.S. (Dom Sheldon)" came on, I explained to him how Tom Sneddon was the district attorney that went after Michael Jackson, and how MJ was actually singing "Tom Sneddon is a cold man" while claiming he was instead singing about a phantom named Dom Sheldon. Ah, the memories.

Next up was "Childhood." I was transformed back in time. I'd forgotten what that song meant to me. My childhood wasn't happy. I didn't know what a happy childhood looked like, but even at 15, I knew something was wrong with mine. I cried a lot. I was sad and I thought about my death often, even constantly contemplating suicide. I'd spent my young years being physically assaulted, often terrified to go home. I've learned to work through it, but I don't believe my mother liked me back then. My father being a narcissistic puppet master didn't help. Being in the middle of their legal wranglings nearly destroyed me. The song "Childhood" was my escape. How I'd go to my bedroom and cry, and listen to Michael Jackson, who seemed like the only other human being who understood what it was like to have an unhappy childhood.

In preschool, I attended a neighborhood nursery, called Kiddie Cottage. One of my few things I remember was that there was a woman who would occasionally visit the family-run business and us kids lit up. She just seemed to radiate happiness and positivity. I don't remember her name, or what she looked like, but I remember that she seemed to bring something into the room that just made us kids feel better. And in spite of me having limited memories of that young woman, I recalled even then, that I wanted to be like her.

So in my teen years, when I'd go into my room to cry, I always envisioned an older, happy version of myself, coming to me and comforting younger me. And somehow, I always felt better imagining this older, accomplished version of Malika, coming in and telling me/her that I just had to get through this and that when I became an adult, things would be better. "Childhood" would play on repeat, as I cried into my pillow about how much I hated myself, and my life. The only thing that seemed to get me through was my connection to Michael Jackson and the visions older me, coming to comfort me.

As the song came over my song speakers, I was transferred back in time. I saw that little 15-year-old girl, with tears streaming down her face, and I wanted so bad to hug her. To tell her that she'd be okay. I wished like hell that I could tell her that her 20's would be a doozy and to not let any stupid ass dudes knock her crown off of her head. My heart absolutely broke for that little girl. And even at almost 45, with a master's degree, buying a home on her own, mother of a rock star of a son, an amazing therapist, and tons of accomplishments, I felt that wounded little girl, deep in my soul.

In that car, in my mind, I walked into my childhood bedroom, and I hugged that little girl so tight. I told her that I love her and that she did her best. I told her that we ended up okay. And right there in my car, I felt those tears starting to fall. Out of nowhere, huge heavy tears fell from my eyes. My heart broke for her. She didn't deserve it. Any of it. And even though we made it to the other side, and now work in mental health, helping those who need it most, that little wounded girl will always be with me.

Michael Joseph Jackson spoke to my soul, and he understood more than anybody. 

Have you seen my childhood?

Shielded Eyes

When I was about 11, my older sister had a baby. Suddenly her boyfriend and his family kind of became extended family to me and my family. It wasn't uncommon to see my nephew's father and his father's brother hanging out at our home, and his brother even began dating my babysitter. He was always kinda flashy. I'll call him Tobey. Tobey drove a sweet, small red convertible. He had a cute little puppy. He was dark-skinned and handsome. He reminded me of Eddie Murphy is Boomerang. The handsome fellow with the attractive, pressed clothing. He was also wickedly funny.

Around that time, I was also insanely interested in the news. Rapes, robberies, car accidents, politics, I wanted to see and know about it all. Probably kind of strange for a child that age to be so deeply into watching the news, but even then, I was always extremely interested in the human condition. Anyway, one day, I recall people saying they'd seen Tobey on the news, as I came to understand that he'd been arrested. Naturally curious, I'd ask the adults around me what he'd done, but they always brushed it off. I never got a full answer, and like most kids, at some point I got sick of asking, and eventually forgot about it.

Some point, years later, after Tobey came up in conversation, I asked someone and they told me- he had been arrested for a string of rapes and robberies in Atlanta. There are other identifying things to his crime, but I'm intentionally leaving it out, as I don't want people looking it up and retraumatizing my family. Regardless, I clearly remember those crimes. It was pretty distinctive, and I remember how paralyzing it had been and how terrified women were. The reminders to stay vigilant and lock doors. And the person responsible for those horrible crimes had been the same guy who'd cut my lawn and slid me and my little friends a dollar bill on occasion.

While in grad school, one my assignments was to do an analysis on an individual. We had to assess the person, based on the individual, and they had to be real. I'd been warned for many years not to attempt to do therapy on the people you know, and I'd never fully understood why. Anyway, around this time, I decided that this would be a the perfect time to do an assessment on Tobey. I took the identifying details about the case and Googled him. I saw that he'd filed an appeal, and I read the details of the original case. Even though I was aware of the nature of his crimes, I did not anticipate the difficulty of reading the crimes of a man who I'd come to love and know. Even reading about the streets he'd driven those poor women on, streets less than a mile from my house, which he'd often visit. 

One particular detail was so deeply disturbing that I had I had to put the case down and pick it up in another day or two. It was simply too graphic for me to read. I couldn't help but to envision how terrified that poor woman must have felt, with two men assaulting her. How soul crushing it must have been to have them touching on her genitals and the fear that she'd likely be killed after the experience (none of the victims were killed). My stomach turned. And while I completely center that those women were the ultimate victims, I still felt hurt, betrayed, and heartbroken, knowing what he'd done.

And while that was clearly devastating enough, I couldn't help but feeling a small degree of sympathy for him. I knew a bit about his family dynamic, and I can only imagine what he'd experienced to make him have that kind of hatred in his heart for women. Knowing that he had a mother and sister in his life, but he still did it. I'd read in the documents that they'd almost assaulted one woman, but she began talking about her faith in God and talking about gospel songs and he let her go. 

Some years later, I again decided to visit reading the details of the case. And when I got to the particularly disturbing part, I had to steady and steal myself. I didn't have to walk away for days this time, but I definitely had to stop reading for a moment and take a breather. That man was my family. And he was a monster.

((deep, sad sigh))

I'm mildly keeping up with the Puffy Combs case. While it isn't the first thing I wake up and look at every day, like many people my age, Bad Boy Records music played in the background for much of my development. Puffy and Mase, in those suits, running around. Biggie's murder. Tupac's murder. Total. Carl Thomas. Faith Evans. 112. Black Rob. The list goes on. So I can't say that it's not at least mildly interesting. Plus the only gossip blog that I follow keeps me with the updates.

I woke yesterday and saw that as the testimony from one man stating that he was often paid to have sex with Cassie and that Puff would be in the corner, masturbating. And then his 3 daughters, 18 and 19 year old twins, all got up and walked out. And while I hope that Puffy spends the rest of his eternity burning in hell for his crimes, my heart breaks for those little girls. I'm aware of the duality that his stealing from artists allowed him to fund the lifestyles that those young women will continue to enjoy, an extravagant lifestyle I could only imagine.

But my heart still breaks for what those girls went through. I'm a grown woman, with several years experience, and I still struggled to learn about the details of sexual abuse at the hands of a loved one. It has to be gut-wrenching to watch the world publicly disclose the sexual details of your father's life. Their dad is a monster too. But it doesn't make it any easier.

Decentering Men, and Centering Myself

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Part of this growth journey is taking stock in myself and my actions, recognizing when I'm off my game and doing better. That's it. So I've been sitting with something that's been floating around in my womanist stratosphere- the concept of decentering men. I've shared how much I've been hurt and damaged by various scenarios involving men, and it's finally hitting home for me what I need to consciously, intentionally do.

Even here. My little bubble, my little safe space, all I do is talk about whatever penis is floating around and how his relation to me somehow seems to impact my whole life. The fact is that it is time for me to unlearn that behavior. I have a whole life outside of men. So why is it that when I'm here, all I seem to talk about is what man I'm infatuated with, even if I'm not even sleeping with him? Something's gotta give.

I'm still leaning away from dating and anything casual, but life is once again smacking me in the face with the understanding that the time has come for me to fully decenter men. I am who I am (and damned good at being her), outside of my connection to any man. As I get ready to turn the big 45 next month, I want to again focus on me, and just me. Which means that I shouldn't just talk about things, I need to be more consciously intentional about centering myself, and my needs.

All of that being said, I intend to begin being more intentional about decentering men. Less about them in conversations. More about my creative endeavors, my traveling, my amazing friendships, my goals, the achievements of my amazing child, and my hopes and dreams. Time for me to dig more into me and mine, because I'm so much outside of men.

I'm loving this growth journey.