Not-So-Sweet Sixteen
I recently went to a birthday dinner for my niece at one of my favorite family restaurants. There had to be at least 20 16 year olds in attendance to help her celebrate. While I sat there observing the kids, I began to reminisce on the time when I was 16. That year was pivotal for my development.
I don’t recall exactly what I did to celebrate turning 16, but I can imagine that it was a worthwhile celebration. My 16th year was big for me. I graduated from Clinton High School and entered Tougaloo College eager to begin my adult life. I had attended Upward Bound at Tougaloo College and although none of my classmates were going with me to Tougaloo, I had made a good amount of friends at UB who’d be coming to Tougaloo. Besides, I had begun to be defiant and ridiculously rebellious with my mother. So I could only assume I was capable of taking care of myself.
I was ready to be grown.
Little did I know, I wasn’t ready AT ALL. I had not yet learned how to be responsible. I was a child. My friends were all at least one year older than I was because I skipped a grade in elementary school. I’m not sure that turned out to be the best decision my parents could have made for me. I lost a year of my childhood in that process. Therefore, when I got to college, I wasn’t equipped with the maturity I needed to stay focused. The fact that I didn’t have anyone waking me up for class or making me study or turn in homework was not a good thing for me. There was no pressure to come in on time. There was no one guiding me or motivating me to thrive. So, I didn’t. I managed to keep my GPA at a descent level at the start of my freshman year, but by second semester, things started to just spiral out of control.
Not only was I partying REALLY hard as often as I possibly could, I also started seeing a guy that would consume my life for the next 11 years. Once I started dating him seriously, school work, my future, my dreams for success, became secondary. I didn’t give a damn one day to the next about what I’d be doing in five years. All I cared about was making sure that he didn’t cheat on me (since when I met him he was already dating at least three different women). Before I knew it, I’d lost all interest in school. The only part of my experience in education at The Loo that made any good sense was taking Creative Writing under the instruction of Dr. Hillary Jacque Knight. He was brilliant. He was inspiring. I learned in his class that I LOVED writing. I loved poetry. I wanted to express myself and this would be how I’d do it.
Even my love for writing and being around writers wasn’t enough to keep me at school. I’d been in a car accident one night brought on by a physical altercation with the guy I was dating.
We’d just left revival at Davis Temple COGIC. We’d had a lovely time. But I suppose I’d done something wrong or looked at someone wrong. I may have even been too flirtatious with the wrong guy. Whatever the reason, my boyfriend, while driving the car, began attacking me and ran head on into a parked car as two men sat on the hood. As he argued with the two men outside the car, I remember holding my hands open in front of me watching the warm gush of blood pour into my lap. I'd been slammed into the windshield. Thank God I didn’t go through it, as I probably wouldn’t have lived. As a result, my hair was shaved on the right side of my head and I was gifted with 27 stitches. Ironically, of the four of us who traveled in the car, no one else was hurt – not even the driver.
I went back to that car months later to access the damage. Actually, I sort of felt compelled to see it. My boyfriend tried to convince me to stay away from it. He wasn’t in favor of me seeing the car. Needless to say, he couldn’t stop me. I can still clearly see the car in my mind. I can still feel the pain of my heart and jaw dropping once I realized that I could have easily been killed. There was broken glass and blood everywhere. The passenger seat that held me was off track and turned to the left. My hair dangled from a piece of glass protruding from the windshield.
A part of me died standing there as I relived that awful night. The part of me that was strong and confident – gone. The part of me that was a go-getter- evaporated. The part of me that was vibrant and anxious to face the world – deceased. Those parts of me hung in despair on that windshield with a huge chunk of my hair.
I didn’t feel beautiful. I didn’t feel smart. I didn’t feel strong. I felt alone, unprotected, shattered.
I was terrified each time I had to look in the mirror and see that scar on my forehead and the bald place where my hair would never return. I often stood there crying for hours trying to figure out a way to disguise the scar and the pain. Doctors told me I could have surgery to replace the skin that was there so that my hair could possibly grow back. But after all the bandage dressings I’d gone through, I didn’t want to spend any more of my life doing that. My choice to NOT go through the surgery ultimately influenced my choice to discontinue my college experience.
I had no desire to return to school. I was embarrassed about how I looked. I was ashamed of the reason I looked that way. I’d been assaulted by a man I loved – and I STILL loved him- and was STILL with him. The accident, its cause, my leaving school all during a year when I was supposed to be starting my life was the genesis to the diminishing self-esteem and lack of confidence that would plaque my soul for many years to come.
It would take years of depression and shame before I was even able to begin to live again after my 16th year. That car accident set in motion the person that I was to become. The one who doesn’t trust any drivers but myself and is particularly phobic about riding in the passenger seat of a car driven by a man I’m with. My husband can attest to that. Through it all though, I think it’s amazing that while my niece’s 16 year old life seems so easy and stress-free (by my standards), my book tells a totally different story for a 16 year old. People always make a big deal of Sweet 16. Sixteen wasn’t that sweet to me on one count. On the other, however, that year -- solely-- set the trend that would shape the Queen that I am today. I am still saddened and that 16 year old in me is still distraught. Yet, I am peaceful and proud once more. I am thankful for the adversity. For, without it there would be no measure of happiness.