This Son Also Rises in the West

By Ihsan Rajab

In This Son Also Rises in the West, Ihsan Rajab embarks upon his voyage, which begins in urban Newark, New Jersey, where he grew up in midst of the turbulent sixties,. It is the story of his search for the truth and inner peace in a world full of confusion and uncertainty. Through his struggles, changes, and exciting travel to seventeen countries, Rajab revisits the memories of his dysfunctional family. They are finally united by a spiritual thread of reflection, redemption, and belief.

He credits his fathers love and ability to rise above his own imperfections as a determining factor in his growth from child to man. Through his fathers mistakes and imperfections, he learned many life lessons that are now part of him forever. His fathers wisdom instilled identity, purpose, and direction in him. He was inspired by his fathers uncompromising principles of self-discipline, self-determination, and perseverance through adversity and his own unwavering belief in God when there was nowhere else to turn.

His powerful story strives to remove ignorance and confusion while journeying on the road to peace and salvation. A tale of a once typical African American family illustrates the choices its members have made and propels them along a new path of satisfaction to a bright and positive future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462022250

Ihsan Rajab

Ihsan A. Rajab has been a teacher at both a technical institute and a community college in New Jersey for over twenty-seven years. He has travelled to seventeen countries. Now retired, he lives in Greensboro, North Carolina, where he works with troubled youths and with youth mentoring programs.

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This Son Also Rises

in the West

Ihsan Rajab

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

This Son Also Rises in the West

Copyright © 2011 by Ihsan Rajab

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-2224-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2225-0 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2226-7 (dj)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 7/01/2011

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

And the Son Also Rises

Chapter 1:

One Family under a Groove

Poem of Summer

Chapter 2:

Gone Within the Sunset

Chapter 3:

Soaring Without Wings

Chapter 4:

For It’s Always Fair Weather

Chapter 5:

JOD a.k.a. God

Chapter 6:

Saying It Loud

Chapter 7:

Fire and Brimstone

Chapter 8:

Bang Bang, Beep Beep

Chapter 9:

Dancing in the Streets

Chapter 10:

Flashlight

Chapter 11:

Abu (Father)

Chapter 12:

Abu 2.0, the Beginning

Chapter 13:

The Deen

Chapter 14:

Movers and Shakers

ISNJ

Globetrotting

Mr. R.

For Abu

Epilogue

To the one I love.

To Khabir Adbul Azziz Rajab—(Abu, my father) and to all fathers of the world—without whom none of us would exist. This is a song for you.

To those that did their part and the others, although they tried, that could not hit the mark.

To the mothers who had to struggle to raise their young without needed support or finances and depended solely on God’s help, motherly wit, motherly love, and devotion.

To the offspring—young women and young men who had no positive director, but persevered in spite of the majority’s opinion.

Lastly, to those of us who have survived life’s lessons, trials, and tribulations—and can stand tall today because we have succeeded in finding our own promised land.

Endorsement - for the Passing of the baton

During life’s journey as boy’s transition into manhood it is essential that the influence of a Father figure is present to guide and protect the innocence of adolescence, while providing necessary education that will eventually lead to the proper wisdom that distinguishes boys from men and dad from fathers.

Through my father’s examples of imperfection, trial and error I’ve witnessed and absorbed many life lessons that are embedded forever in my DNA and continue to manifest as I encounter new frontiers that accompany life’s challenges. As I search to discover the causes of my own ignorance, I reflect on my father’s wisdom to instill Identity, Purpose and Direction into my character through uncompromising values of self-discipline and self-determination. I learned by his example the importance of sincere committal toward spiritual nurturing with the omnipotent One God when and where no other relationship could avail.

It has been said that History rewards its researcher. I can only concur because it is his- story that defines my present outlook for fatherhood, and the innate qualities that enable me to evolve as a man amongst men.

The pages before you are the story of one man’s evolution to find truth and inner peace in an ever changing world of confusion and uncertainties. I applaud Ihsan’s courage, intensity and honesty to share his mishaps, triumphs and altering life experiences. Hopefully it can serve as a guide towards character reformation or an insightful perspective of evolution from Africans to Americans, Niggers to Nationalist, and Black men who submit to the one everlasting God. I sincerely hope this untold story will inspire all who inquire with an objective view; and to mend and heal anyone affected by its message.

Furthermore, I salute Ihsan A. Rajab for raising a black boy to a man without instruction and finite examples, and his unrelenting love to assist my development where some fathers falter due to their own insecurities. Our relationship has been a rugged path paved with stumbling stones and stepping blocks which has re-structured the traditional estranged relationships of Fathers and Sons of past generations.

Lastly; If a man doesn’t know his history; how can he truly know himself?

Proper-Education-Always-Corrects-Errors (P.E.A.C.E)

Abdul-Shahid Sadiq Rajab honed his Social Service skills and graduated at Virginia Commonwealth University in 2001.He foundered his career as an intensive home counselor for at risk youth in Richmond Virginia for eleven years. Using specialized skills and techniques for therapeutic behavior he enhanced the lives of troubled boys at an alternative therapeutic day school for over a decade. Sadiq Rajab is a full- fledged youth motivator, mentor, and community activist; who loves to write stimulating poetry, while maintaining the title of gate keeper as a local Hip-Hop historian. Currently he continues his work to positively impact the lives of youthful males through counseling at the Criminal Juvenile Justice Center of Richmond Va.

Acknowledgments

The elders say, People enter your lives for a reason, season, and a time. This is to acknowledge all those who have inspired, informed, and made a significant difference along this journey called life. I am deeply indebted to these individuals for their collective wisdom and encouragements. Without their help, I couldn’t have done anything—nor would I be what I am today.

This is my thank you—for you have convinced me without doubt, that no man is an island and we all exist standing on the shoulders of those who have come before us. Whomever I have left out or forgotten, please know that it’s not intentionally to harm, ignore, or injure—it’s simply a lapse on my memory, but not from my heart.

If this page speaks to anything of value or importance, then all praises belong to the one true God—and only the mistakes are my own.

I begin with Ummi (Mother): without your undying, unconditional love and support, nothing matters, nor is it important. To Abu (Father): Thank you for being there when it really mattered. You have taught me things that no one else could have, and if they had, it wouldn’t have been the same. I look forward to seeing you in the next life (God willing). To Wajihah (Dee Dee): Big sister, there’s nothing like having one. You were my back when I didn’t have one—and you’re still there.

To Asad (Gary Pratt): My little brother, you’ve been my alter ego, my muse, and my gatekeeper. Thanks for keeping it locked. To my remaining brothers and sisters: Daphane, Della, Danny Girl, Barry, Allen, Vincent, Ahmed, and Sharieef: We are family. Never forget that because that is enough. To all my uncles and aunts: Thank you for being the role models and surrogate mothers and fathers—I miss you all. To my many cousins, nephews, and nieces (Marcyene, Elaine, Leonette, Tuwanna, Jamal, Al-Nisa, and the rest): The baton has been passed and we’re out of the gate. Now run hard and finish all the way.

To my children (Mali, Juba, and Sadiq): It’s in the genes—and that says it all. You’ve made me the proudest man in the land for all you do—and all you have become. Forgive me for my faults, bad habits, and errors—all I could do was to try. To my main men: Khalid, Askari, Wajid, Dawud, Ahmed, Kareem, Rashid, Zayd, Zain, Islam, and Muslim: One love, one God, one Destiny.

To PCTI, BCC, ISNJ, AFS: Thanks for giving me the opportunity to reach and teach the unreachable and un-teachable. They said it couldn’t be done, but look at all that light that’s shining so brightly. Right on!

To the hundreds of students: It’s been my pleasure to teach you and learn from you. I’m forever grateful for the opportunity. Now get out there and spread what you know—each one teaches one!

To all the women of my life: Latifah, Asali, Hakimah, Sakinah, Valerie, Ci Ci, and Grace: Thank you for putting up with me, for your patience with me, for teaching me, for your strength, courage, and all the love you’ve given me. The love was real for me—I hope it was good for you while it lasted. You remain in my heart forever (some more than others). Kisses and hugs because you know where you are inside!

A special shout out to the many heroes and she-roes that I learned anything from—alive or deceased. You are and shall be my role models forevermore. I continue with the light you’ve shown before me. Light up the darkness and spread the love always.

Special thanks to: Robyn Spencer for your powerful poem. Rebecca Fairchild for your creativity, style, and special touches (I met you right on time). I couldn’t have done this without your magic! To Pat Young: You are a special cheerleader. We are friends for life!

To that special woman who caused me to excel toward that next level—you know who you are. Thank you.

Harambe—all pull together.

Introduction

More than twenty years ago, I watched a documentary on a local public broadcast station. I don’t remember the particular name of the broadcast, but I do recall it causing a whirlwind of unanswered questions for me that lasted for many years. I grew up during the fading times of racist stereotypes about Africa and its descendants. What I saw on TV spoke to the heart of my questions. I still believe that Africa is the motherland of civilization, culture, and history. It has proven to be the origin of the first recorded birth of man and remains the cornerstone of civilizations that began the rich contributions and developments by the human race. I never learned or rehearsed any of this knowledge while I attended public schools (then or now). It was only through years of research about Africa and her contributions worldwide that I began to understand and love that rich glorious history.

The interesting lesson learned from watching that program was that a large percentage of slaves brought to this country originated from Africa’s west coast. The second point of interest for me was discovering that they had lived among predominately Islamic societies for ages. In my earlier years, I developed a curiosity for history—especially African and African American history. I was completely unaware of these facts and wondered why I hadn’t read about them before. As I watched the program, I began to connect some interesting historical facts about what my people were stripped of when first arriving in America. These facts were a big help for discovering my lineage, identity, purpose, and direction. The questions that speak about who I am, my purposes in life, and my directions of choice will be answered by the historical activities and decisions of the main character in This Son also Rises in the West.

I found myself asking why this information was kept hidden and what kinds of golden treasures I might discover that would possibly change how I felt about my connection to this lost religion and natural birthright. I further asked why the prescription for dehumanizing us as slaves for hundreds of years was still in effect. I believed that the key for unlocking this question and embracing my need to become the God-fearing, free-thinking person I was created to be existed with discovering these answers that remained hidden. Throughout my adult life, I discovered many reasons to rid myself of the slave mentality and adopt one of liberty and awareness. My learning has steered me away from the pitfalls of death and destruction and rewarded me with a new release on life. I know the average person of African descent will say, This doesn’t have anything to do with me so why should I care. The fact is that nothing can be further from the truth. If you don’t know the roots of your beginnings, you can’t return home to enjoy the harvest.

I was a middle child, and the elders have said that the middle child is the mystical, estranged, and changed child. From the time I was a young boy, I would often question the tall stories and lies told to me from the schoolhouse to the Lord’s house. I continually presented questions that puzzled and annoyed my teachers and generally would not be answered. As a child, I couldn’t understand this. I developed a unique sense of skepticism because of the falsehoods. The unanswered questions made me more determined to find my answers and subtract the truth from the lies. Fortunately, I grew up in a revolutionary environment wherein change was the order of the day. The old ways of looking at and doing things were being challenged by peers of my generation—and I was a constant, demanding voice for change. A rebirth of new ideas, consciousness, and conclusions was forming a different view of the world for me that I would forever embrace. I never thought that I would become a light or a magnet for attracting the broken parts of my family and uniting us all together as one. I review this noble and unlikely challenge as something no less than a miracle—yet I lived to see it happen. It’s highly unusual in these times to witness such a thing—although we need it now more than ever before. The need for a spiritual value system that would promote family unity in those days of separation, hate, and low self-esteem was the answer I needed—and it changed in my life entirely for the better.

The answers you find from this reading may surprise or enlighten you. Either way, you’ll see yourself as part of my evolution in the way that history connects us—whether we want to or not. I’m from a generation that boldly demanded answers from those hidden and swept aside questions about truth. My peers said, Black is beautiful and black power and all power to the people, and Hell no, we won’t go. I was one of the dried bones who gathered together to create a new awakening. The authorities and power brokers of my times thought of my actions as rebellious and without cause. They all thought that we were just a lot of noise—sound and fury signifying nothing. The end can quite often justify the means and, looking back, I can see the results of my efforts—and how it opened many highways and possibilities of today.

I remember reading Alex Hailey’s acclaimed novel Roots and viewing the TV epic. Unfortunately much of the story was about slavery in America and the evils it produced. I never accepted the view that slavery was our starting point in life and that our freedom from it made us human again. I usually questioned who I was before slavery and what was my contribution to humanity. I looked for answers about how I worshiped God and if I saw myself as an equal in the eyes of the world’s humanity. These two questions enabled me to realize an important conclusion of truth. I am not just a byproduct of slavery—nor am I subhuman. I am a man who recognizes my lineage to Africa, my acceptance to worship one God, and live free despite the horrors and atrocities of slavery in America.

The most significant aspect of that TV production was that many of my early ancestors in Africa came from an Islamic society—not an Arab society. This single reality forms the framework of my beginning and ending of my collective roots. In hindsight, it becomes a question of what was the basis for the lies I thought to be truths, and what I am prepared to do about it as I continue toward each tomorrow. The words of my beloved and esteemed scholar, Al-Hajj Malik Shabazz (Malcolm X), forever ring true. Of all my studies, history is best qualified to reward my research because it will lead me to the truth and the truth shall set me free!

In the beginning, none of this seemed to be very significant because I was born in Newark, New Jersey, and barely knew my relatives from a generation earlier. It’s amazing how much I have changed and matured over time and how my eyes and mind have become wide open. The awakening of my conscious mind’s eye has shown me who I am as an individual and my connections to the global community. It’s a beautiful view from where I sit—inside and out—and I am forever transformed into what I was created to become.

This Son Also Rises in the West covers specific events in the life of my family and the complex realities of those times. I describe the trials and tribulations of my less-than-functional family members who find their way back to a new consciousness and spiritual homecoming. This story recaptures my once-broken and strayed family and restores dignity where it had been lost. The metaphor is linked to a tree that provides shelter, shade, and yields fine fruits. The reclaiming of my ancestral roots provides me and my family a gift of life that we didn’t share before—a shield of protection, an honorable weapon to attack with, and a pillow of peace to rest our collective heads.

My family’s journey is overlaid with the history of social and political dramas that changed the course and consciousness of America. This autobiography begins in the fabulous fifties, continues through the turbulent sixties, and concludes with the events of today. The unfolding of my story is anything but atypical and it speaks of many challenges and successes that are parallel in the lives of a typical African American family.

This story begins in a once-thriving Northeastern city. Newark was once filled with hopes and dreams of becoming one of America’s greater promises. It became a different city—a new ark—and didn’t fulfill the destiny of its potential. People often say if you make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. That should be applied double if you make it through Newark. The current nickname—Brick City—is symbolic of its hard, rugged environment and the requirement to be strong like a brick if one hopes to survive or thrive there.

The subsequent events within this story in many ways are unfortunate and traditionally very typical. I am living proof of the courage, tenacity, and determination needed to overcome obstacles and a stacked deck that African Americans have endured time and time again. Consequently, I find the answer to the proverbial question: What happens to a dream deferred?

Reading about my life’s journey, you will learn what thoughts, emotions, and encounters—pro and con—shaped my search for truths that were unknown to me. The existence of scriptural references that remind me of the promise of how a child shall lead is perhaps the center of my inspiration for writing my story. This quote is more of a welcomed promise simply because far too many adults have failed—many of us lost—and led too many astray. I have been fortunate to have the support of forces within the universe that served as advisors, mentors, and signposts along my walks in life. This is testimony to the truth that it requires a village to raise a child. I have managed to find love, protection, and hope for my survival—as a singular male and collectively as a member of humanity.

This book is not a prescription for all souls, but it may serve as a remedy for many of the social and familial divides that leave us uprooted and distraught. There may never be a remedy that fits everyone, but for my family, a beckoned light paved the road to reflection, redemption, and reform. We all know that light dispels the darkness and there is no brighter light in our universe than the sun. When the sun rises, the darkness fades—this is the metaphor of this story. The sun rises in the west and sets in the east, but the prodigal son will rise in the west and direct his light toward the east. In these days of darkness, we could all use a little light. In the words of the old Negro spiritual, This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, shine on.

And the Son Also Rises

When we enter this world

We know not what will become of us

We know not the direction we will follow

We know not the purpose we serve

We know not what to embrace

We know not what to believe

We know not what to love

But through the journey of life

We are able to embark

Upon the multifaceted complexities

And rewards that the world pleasures us with

And it is our intellect that allows us to select and deselect

What will be

So regardless of the ups and downs of the experience

The spiritual strength, which is innate, when nurtured,

Allows us to arrive

Within our own

And so

The son also rises

missing image file

The author at 6 months

Chapter 1:

One Family under a Groove

We are given one unique gift at birth and—if allowed to develop and grow healthy—it can become a most prized possession. This remarkable gift of inheritance that grows while we are young and shrinks over time is known as memory. This amazing tool is placed within our brains, waiting for a triggered response by any of the five senses. It serves multiple purposes for our benefits—sometimes it is friendly, reminding us of happy times or a haunting ghost to remind us about a horrible past event. Memories can be our gatekeepers to all our journeys. It is a journal of pages and histories describing who we are, what we have become, and how we have arrived.

At this current time, I reflect about the different periods of my life as I collect my memories and enjoy the many rewards from my past journeys. It is with loving reflections that I begin my story of an American family searching to find peace, salvation, and redemption. Along this memorable journey, a spark is lit that removes the darkness and replaces it with light. This light opens the eyes and hearts of each member toward an identity, purpose, and direction that was once stolen, lost, and betrayed.

I was born under an August moon on a Tuesday in 1950. A few days later, I was a Christian named Craig Charles Dowdell. It was the first year of the fifties, and the continuation of the baby boomer years. In this era of new possibilities, choices, and decisions, I swam into the world as a bubbly, small baby weighing eight pounds and measuring nineteen inches. I was born with a full head of curly black hair, hazel brown eyes, and matching cocoa-colored skin. My elders like to remind me that I was easy on the eyes, friendly, peaceful, and well nourished with a calm temperament. Added to this, I was the pride and joy of being my mother’s first male child—despite my other siblings who came through that same womb (one before me and two after). Unfortunately, my younger sister died in early infancy, leaving room for me to occupy the position as a middle child.

My older relatives lovingly teased me by labeling me a greedy baby because I had a very healthy appetite. In that generation, breastfeeding was normal and I received more than my share nestled among two full-blossomed breasts. It is because of this loving and nurturing environment that I remained contented, peaceful, and well fed. I am reminded with laughter that I never ate baby food, but I did eat from the table early on. Following an old African custom of blending nutritional foods with small doses of honey was how I received my daily meals. Naturally my meal was balanced, sautéed, and adjusted to my taste and my delight. This formula and routine was introduced to me by my loving grandfather who sat me on his lap at the table and joyfully fed me whatever he was eating. Grandpa—a strong, gentle man—had the wisdom to know that this diet was good for me and insisted that my mother continue feeding me in this tradition. Subsequently this eating habit caused me to grow into a plump, robust child.

By most accounts, I was a happy baby that didn’t cause many problems about food, but at birth, I had serious medical problems that caused my growth pattern to suffer. The major problem I encountered was an abnormal bone defect that caused my legs to turn inward. It was so awful that my toes were facing each other, constantly touching, with a lot of pain and anguish. After many visits to the local clinic, the doctors suggested that I wear a pair of steel braces to correct the problem. In time, this method proved successful and my legs began to straighten out, becoming stronger and allowing me to stand and walk properly. As a result of wearing those braces, I remained bowlegged throughout my life, but I was grateful to walk and run. As I grew older, I realized that this was an asset rather than a hindrance because the girls loved to look and talk about my bowed legs.

At age two, I experienced another medical problem. I was infected with a severe case of tuberculosis, which in those days was a life-threatening situation. The dreaded disease was circulating throughout the country, causing havoc and death. I was hospitalized, inoculated, and separated from my family for a year and a half. Although many people suffered and died from tuberculosis in those days, I was strong enough and blessed to fight through it. I recuperated at a local sanatorium.

My mother contracted the same disease while working as a day laborer for a white family in Vauxhall, New Jersey. During those times, a day laborer was responsible for various domestic chores. Washing and cleaning exposed oneself to a greater risk of contamination. Mother was young, uneducated, and unskilled, but she was grateful to find any work that helped feed the family. Typically a white family was considered decent if they didn’t use the word nigger in your presence or treat you disrespectfully. The liberal family that employed my mother gave her a chance to earn and maintain her dignity.

It all began as the lady of the house where Mother worked was nursing her sick husband whom she thought had contracted a simple cold. The cold did not get better and developed into high-stage tuberculoses. Eventually, my mother became infected and unknowingly brought it home to two of my cousins and me. Shortly thereafter, all four of us were seriously ill and were carted off to a sanatorium for treatment—and eventually a cure. The family that employed my mother was wealthy and moved to Arizona where the treatments for tuberculosis were more successful. Mother and I suffered the worst from this ill-fated infection, staying in the sanatorium for nearly two years. Her condition was worse than mine and she unfortunately went through surgery to remove one of her lungs.

Although I was very young, my memory remains intact from the emotional trauma. I remember far too many details to ever forget. Beyond the absence of visitations and being held in my mother’s arms, I recall the strange-looking patients, foreign doctors, and smells that usually exist in hospital wards. I remember all of the indifferent physical surroundings, such as four patients to a room or the odd placement of medical instruments and devices scattered about. All of this was tailored to bring about relief or some remedy for our circumstance. An isolated stay in a hospital is a lonely and discomforting experience for anyone.

I remembered a small-framed Asian nurse with a light-skinned complexion and dark almond-shaped eyes. Her appearance was strikingly differently than other nurses—that’s the main reason why I remember her. Another reason she remains in my memory was listening to her high-pitched voice threatening to lock my cousin Elaine and me in a closet for being disobedient. Eat your squash, quiet down, and go to sleep, she would say. We ignored her and continued to play loudly after the lights were turned off. The sound of her voice and footsteps coming toward us would frighten us for a moment before we curled underneath the covers, looking for safety, warmth, and comfort. Although it was an idle threat, the thought remained with me permanently, resulting in my hating to eat squash today. My cousin and I survived the threats and maintained a close bond because of our collective experiences during those days at the sanatorium. My fondest memory of those times occurred on the day of my release from the sanatorium.

My aunt came to my rescue and delivered me from the Asian nurse and the horrors of the threatening closets. Auntie was a tall, stately brown-skinned woman. She was very educated and strong willed—a trait she inherited from my legendary grandfather. I remember her smiling as she entered my room, prepared to dress and escort me far away from the sanatorium. I wasn’t really sure of where I was going because home was still a foreign concept after the endless months in the hospital. Although I was relieved to be going, it felt as though I was being transported from one unknown and into another. As we walked toward an awaiting car, I still felt urgency and uncertainty about my future.

Although I was comforted by Auntie’s presence and warm embrace, I was more intrigued by the appearance of a little girl who suddenly emerged from the vehicle. She was smartly dressed from head to foot in a red and black winter outfit and a wide beaming smile. Due to my unfamiliarity with this person, I ignored her and proceeded to enter the car. As I was about to take a step into the vehicle, I felt my arm being held back and the stern voice of my aunt. Hold on, Craig. Aren’t you going to greet and kiss your sister? I froze momentarily, shocked by the request and stunned at the demand to kiss a stranger that I didn’t remember. For a moment, the world stood still and I said nothing and did nothing. I was frozen in time and confused waiting for the next awkward event. Well, said my aunt, unless you do, I guess we can’t take you home. Annoyed, I started to thaw out just a little while keeping an eye on the smiling face and open arms before me. I gathered my courage, took a step forward, planted a kiss on the cheek of my oldest sister, and jumped into the car. I was meeting my sister for the first time. I’m glad that she was there, her beaming smile made me to feel at home.

As I look back on that moment, it was a far better exchange to get into the car than to be captured by the nurse from sanatorium hell. The reunion of Mother, my sister, and I would still be a distance away, but at least I was healthy for the first time in a long while. Sitting in the car and looking through the window, I finally exhaled a sigh of relief. I smiled at my aunt, but kept an eye on my sister. It felt good to travel along a winding road, looking at the trees, birds, and clouds. God had been merciful in curing me—and I was truly grateful to be alive.

My sister, Denise Deborah Dowdell, was two years my senior and the firstborn of my parents. Miraculously, she wasn’t affected by the tuberculosis and was reared by my aunt and grandfather during my recuperation at the sanatorium. Our personalities are uniquely different, she was more outgoing and lively and I was somewhat withdrawn and introverted. Her natural energy was alive like fire, while mine was cool and relaxed like ice. Her nickname—Dee Dee—was taken from her initials. She became my protector and my playmate during my early years and I felt comforted having her by my side. Most people said her resemblance and energy came from my father—and mine came from my mother. As we both