Disenchanted

By Tiah N. Young

At some point in our life, we all must reconcile our beliefs and values with reality.
Intelligent, attractive and strong willed, Tiah Young had been groomed for success. An entrepreneur by 15 and across the country by 17, Tiah was ready to take the world by storm. However, she was not ready for what would happen next. On the brink of adulthood, she was diagnosed with a chronic disease. Suddenly her future looked very different than she had envisioned.
Without the sense of a goal, individual activity would cease to have any meaning. Alfred Adler

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468561364

Book preview

Contents

1)   The Life of a Princess

2)   Cinderella

3)   Many, Many Hats

4)   South Florida

5)   Back Home Again

6)   Stress

7)   A Life Change

8)   The Haunted Flat

9)   My Baby

10)   Life Lessons

11)   Something’s Wrong

12)   The Pursuit of Happiness

13)   Something’s Gotta Give

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my family: my mother for being there for me through it all, my son Julian for inspiring me, my dad for being my hero as a young girl and my son Christian for just being who he is.

Prologue

Grandad:   As long as Pop has known you, you always have a smile on your face. No one would ever know that you have a care in the world.

Tiah:       Oh Pop you know I’ve been through more than my fair share, she says laughing.

Grandad:   You know Pop knows. I’ve been right there for it "But if someone

                  Didn’t know you, they wouldn’t think you had a care."

Tiah:          Thanks Pop, she says reflecting on her life experiences.

Grandad:   Keep on smiling baby.

Tiah:          I will Pop.

The Life of a Princess

My childhood was a happy one; though I was technically from a broken home. My parents divorced when I was just three years old, but nothing felt broken in my life. My dad didn’t disappear from my life after the divorce. In fact, I saw him almost as frequently as I had when he was at home. I had two bedrooms, one at moms’ and one at dads’. Society being what it is, my dad naturally made more money than my mom, though they were both accountants, and it was evident in his lifestyle. He was a GQ dad; he had the clothes, cars, prestigious job, and penthouse on Lake Shore Drive. A brutha with all of those characteristics is rare enough, but for him to be a good father too. So, I was a proud little girl and probably a little spoiled too. I am an only child.

In my defense, I did work very hard to make sure that I lived up to both of my parents expectations. My dad wasn’t too hard to please; he just wanted me to go to school and do my best. Fortunately my best is pretty darned good. I was almost a straight A student, in a Catholic school. My mom, on the other hand, was very critical. I will never forget bringing home my report card, which contained about 12 courses. I may have had two B’s, no more than three, and the rest all A’s. That’s a good report card right! My mother would look at the report card and say to me, Oh Tiah, what happened here? She was talking about the B’s! My elation would immediately transform into disappointment. She did things like this on a regular basis, as long as I was around her. My father was a God send, fore he was my gauge. I would call him to get his feedback on my grades and he would always confirm that I did in fact have a very good report card. That made everything better. Keep in mind that my parents level of pride in me, their one and only child, was very important to me. So, if both of them had shown disappointment in my performance, I would have just resigned myself to working harder next time. I wasn’t rewarded for the things that other children seemed to be rewarded for. My classmates were always excited when report cards were handed out, because they received pay for their grades; $4 for A’s, $3 for B’s, etc. I was not so fortunate, but I could get anything that I asked my dad for, not just at grade time. Every new baby doll that hit the market—I had it. I also was not paid for doing chores around the house; it was expected. My reward was the plethora of activities that my mom and dad had me participating in. I started dancing at about the age of 5, starting with ballet. I took ballet at Mayfair Dancing Academy in Chicago, IL, for what seemed like forever. Then I moved on to modern jazz, by the age of eight or nine. I never got a chance to study tap dancing though. My summers were filled with camps and trips. Dad put me on the plane by myself for the first time, at nine years old. I think I went to California to see my uncle Len. I had four girl cousins there. Wherever I had family throughout the country, I was eligible to travel. That was fun. The favorite pastime for kids growing up in my era was sports. So, all of the kids in my neighborhood knew how to swim, play softball, do gymnastics, ice skate and ride bikes. Of course I had to take it a little further; I learned to play tennis as a young girl, thanks to mom. Tennis wasn’t and still isn’t a popular sport among the African American community. It was actually one of my favorite sports; but then I’m sort of a sports freak and I remained so until my doctor said I could no longer be. Over time, decades, I’ve realized that my experiences, starting from childhood, continue to influence my thinking and behavior throughout my life. I have continued to have high expectations, remained very driven and fiercely independent. You would think that such a collection of traits would make me a financially successful, but instead they have benefitted me in other ways. In hindsight, I also realize that these same traits have precipitated the major downturns in my life.

At 12yrs old, I had my first life changing experience. I was in my 7th grade school year when my school, St. Francis De Paula, finally decided to join the main stream. They announced that they were starting a Pom Pom squad. It wasn’t exactly a cheerleading team—but it was close enough. I was excited! Of course I tried out for the squad, pretty confident that I could get on. The day came when the new squad members would be announced and I was percolating! I got accepted and received my pom poms. Before they even finished announcing all of the members, I was called to the principal’s office. This was very unusual; I don’t get called to the principal’s office. My dad was there in the office. He was transferring me out! Could his timing be any worse? The worst part of it all was where he was sending me. I was escorted, along with my dads’ girlfriends’ daughter, to Hyde Park, where our new school was located. Louis Wirth Elementary was a magnet school that apparently was fairly prestigious, despite its lack of luster. Leslie, dads’ girlfriends’ daughter, was transferred from a public school also and acclimated quickly to our new school. I, on the other hand, came from Catholic school and felt like a fish out of water in our new school. I soon learned that dads’ ill-timed move was actually a strategic move. Louis Wirth was a prestigious Junior High that assured me entrance into Kenwood Academy, which was right next door. Kenwood was ranked #3 among the High Schools in Chicago at that time and there was a two year waiting list to get in. In hindsight, dads plan was brilliant. Thank God for parents huh?

Switching to a public school was challenging in more ways than one. The first noticeable difference was the lack of discipline amongst the students, as I watched the kids stop in the hallways to hug and chit chat, despite the class bell ringing 5 minutes prior. This school offered foreign language classes; in fact it was a mandatory elective. So, I took French. Most of the teachers did not seem dedicated and caring like the nuns had been. Frankly they seemed not to give damn whether the students passed or not! Aside from the added dimension of foreign language, the rest of the curriculum was a year behind Catholic school. Needless to say, my A average plunged as I tried to recall the material that I thought I was done with. I eventually recovered, but it took half the school year. This was turning out to be a very bad year. I have reflected on this unexpected turn of events many times in the past. My social life… hmmm. I went from being one of the most popular girls, in St. Francis, to a foreigner—without a guidebook! I met a couple of guy friends right away; but naturally there were girls who had their eyes on them, prior to my arrival, and didn’t take too kindly to me befriending them. I have never had a fight at school in my life and I did not expect to have one there either. Truth be told, I have a very nasty temper; but fortunately I don’t upset easily. I had to consult with my father about how to handle the situation, given that I wasn’t familiar with the social politics. My dads’ philosophy was pretty simple, protect yourself by any means necessary. So, that was the approach that I took and it seemed to be pretty effective. I was able to continue enjoying open campus lunch in Hyde Park, with my guy buddies. It was pretty nice—once I got adjusted.

The change in schools also brought about other changes in my world. I now had to commute, rather than simply walk across the street, as I had done for many years. It took a little getting used to. The first time my dad tailed the CTA bus that he watched me board in Hyde Park, on the boulevard at 51st, all the way to moms’ block off of 79th Street. I was extremely grateful for his overprotectiveness, fore this was the first time I had ever taken public transportation. I was twelve years old at the time. Once I knew the route, I was comfortable taking the bus to school each day, for years to come. I was able to walk from my new school to my apartment on Drexel Blvd on the days that I was scheduled to visit dad. My dads’ visiting schedule had been the same since he and my mother had gotten divorced. I went to visit him every other Tuesday and Thursday and every other weekend and had done so since I was three years old. My dad was notorious for surprising me. He would surprise me by picking me up in the morning before I left for school and treating me to a McDonnell’s breakfast before dropping me off at school. Everyone at St. Francis knew him because he came to pick me up from school in his 1938 vintage Bentley, with foot lifts, that the kids would be perched on when I emerged from the school. If not for the height of the automobile, I would’ve missed my ride, because it was usually covered with little children. Nevertheless, it was always very exciting to receive these unexpected visits; as I rode away I always felt like a little princess and subsequently felt that the parade wave was necessary. You know, the wave that the Queen of England does whenever she is photographed at a function. Those surprise, afternoon visits were also followed by a meal at my favorite Chinese food restaurant. Then he would drop me back off at home. My mom was a working mom; I was a latch key kid. Thus, these little interludes made the gaps in between my scheduled visits much more tolerable. My dad bought his first building in Hyde Park when I was eight years old. The first apartment renovated was mine. I had only spent two days a week in my apartment since I got it. Somehow, the new kids at my school discovered that I had my own apartment (certainly not due to my disclosure) and were constantly trying to invite themselves to my place! I am cautious about having a lot of company in my home; few would ever know what the inside of my apartment looked like. Now in a different environment, I became acutely aware of just how blessed I was.

Cinderella

My parents divorced when I was three years old, after having been married for 10 years. I don’t remember any fighting or much arguing prior to the divorce, but I do remember the tension in the room when both of my parents were present. When he left, he kneeled down to tell me that he was going to get another house for us, in which I would still have my own room; but he wanted me to stay there and take care of mommy. I said okay, but considering my attachment to my dad, I needed some assurance that I would be able to reach him whenever I needed to. So, he gave me his telephone number and showed me how to make a phone call before he departed. At 4 years old, I could use a telephone and leave a message on his answering machine. I may have needed help reaching the phone, but I had it covered from there. As he had promised, I had my own room in his new penthouse on Lake Shore Dr. And as promised him, I took care of my mother until I moved out of her house.

My mom worked full time so I was a latch key kid. Mom also wasn’t big on cleaning, so I did it. She was an excellent cook, but really didn’t have much time to cook; so I prepared the majority of dinner before she got home. She made sure to leave me a To Do list every day. By the time I finished my list of chores, which did not include the house cleaning, and cleaned our house, I would have just a little time to work on my homework before mom made it home. Her commute was a couple of hours; so she would get home around 6:30-7:00pm. She’d cook the meat, which is the only task that she reserved for herself, and we would eat dinner. Somehow, my mother would manage to clutter up the kitchen in the couple of hours that she was at home. Of course, I was the one who was expected to clean up, even though I had just cleaned everything when I got in from school. Despite all of my effort, my mother never seemed to be satisfied with anything that I did, including my grades. No sooner than I greeted her, when she came in from work, she would begin picking. It was as if she would be looking for reasons to complain. I wasn’t sure if it was the long commute home or work that had her so edgy; but this was not a phenomena—It was the norm. Frankly, I did not look forward to her coming home.

In addition to all of my household chores, I still had homework to do. In Catholic school there is a lot of homework. Most nights I would be up until well after my bedtime just trying to get my homework done. As you can imagine, I would be very tired by that time of the evening and could hardly concentrate on my work. My mother would have retreated upstairs to her bedroom by that time. She would only be in my presence for a couple of hours each night; long enough to eat, watch the news and trash the kitchen, that was clean when she came in. Let’s not forget the knit picking: pick, pick, pick, pick. That went on for almost the entire time that she was in my company, except for when she was eating. Strangely enough, although my mother rarely washed a dish, she certainly knew what a clean dish should look like. She’d rifle through the dish rack, which would be filled with dishes every time she came home, and one by one return dishes to the sink that she felt weren’t cleaned properly. So, by the time she retired upstairs, I had a full sink of dishes to clean again! It’s a wonder that I managed to maintain such good grades, considering the hurdles that I had to leap over at home just to do my school work! Then mom would still complain about those. If my child brought home eight A’s out of a possible 11 and the remainder were B’s; I would be a happy, not to mention proud, mother. Not my mom. This was my life by age nine.

Mom and dad were like night and day, which was a blessing for me. I could see why these two would have conflict though. Dad was meticulous about his household. He is the parent that showed me how to clean a house. At 3 years old, I learned how to shine our glass table until it sparkled! On my weekend visits, we always had to clean our two bedroom penthouse and grocery shop before we could go out on the town. It was our routine. Friday evening, every other weekend, dad and I went grocery shopping when he picked me up. He would fix a lovely spaghetti and meatball dinner or T-bone steaks and rice. After we cleaned up, we would watch a movie together, eat Oreo cookies and plan our weekend activities. Saturday morning we cleaned our house, decided which car we would drive and who we would visit; then we were off for a day of fun! You see, my dad was a single, educated and successful brother—in the 70’s. This was the Teddy Pendergrass era and dad reminded me of him. He favored full-length coats, fur or otherwise, tailored suits, heavy silk shirts, beautiful jewelry and cars. He was quite the head turner in those days. Needless to say, there was a long list of ladies just dying to spend some time with him. He was, after all, a very busy man and two of his weekends belonged to me each month. I was willing to share my weekends with the ladies that I really liked; those with children stood a better chance. I did have one favorite, Carolyn. She was a cute, curly headed, funny, Florida girl. We spent a lot of time together when I visited my dad and I thought of her as a mom of sorts. She had no children, but I suspect that she desired some and a husband to go with them. Dad had just gotten divorced; he wasn’t ready. Nevertheless, Carolyn was my first stepmom and it lasted about 5 years. I will never, ever forget her. Those visits were a respite from my real life.

Mom and I did do things together too. She taught me how to cook, bake and sew. She was an excellent seamstress. One evening she made me a blouse, on last minute notice, for a school recital. I was amazed at how quickly she threw it together: and it was pretty! Aside from those couple of special activities that we’d share, our time spent together was very stressful for me. Our personalities clashed. She was sardonic, critical and never accepted me for the person that I was. She always wanted me to fit into a predetermined, socially acceptable box. I, on the other hand, am a person who is not very concerned with what others think of me—accept for those who are close to me. I’m a happy person, so I smile a lot. My smiles are not reserved for certain people, like someone that I’m attracted to. I discovered early on that when you smile, the world smiles with you. My mother didn’t like that. We couldn’t have sincere open conversation, because everything that I said was stupid! I considered myself a pretty level headed and definitely reflective person. So, naturally I was offended by her comments. This atmosphere did nothing positive for our relationship or my ego. Subsequently, I had little desire to talk to my mother. I do not know what type of individual I would have become if my dad had not been around to be the voice of reason. Mom was not reasonable when it came to me; she felt like I was her Cinderella. Dad felt like I was being robbed of my childhood. He was periodically called to arbitrate disagreements between us.

By the time I was a teenager; I was good and fed up with my home environment. My dad and I had talked about my moving with him once I reached the legal age, which was16 at the time. One day mom came in with her usual pickin’ and I just wasn’t in the mood for her; so I went upstairs to my room. I had so much pinned up emotion that I wanted to scream, which is exactly what I did. I felt a little better… until