The Memoir of Laquana Morris: Survival on Red Road

By Laquana Morris

As I sip slowly on this blackberry tea on this cold winter night, I have my mother’s picture framed in front of me and a coconut almond candle lit to set the tone right. My son is fast asleep, and that noisy round clock in my kitchen is just ticking away. The wind is whistling, making it even harder for me to concentrate.

I’m nervous, I’m heartbroken, and everything that has happened to me left me in disbelief. I’m extremely hurt and crying silently right now. I can feel the warm tears rolling down my cheeks as I gather my thoughts on what I’m about to say. Coming from one of the most-talked about cities, being exposed to poverty, drugs, enslavement, verbal and physical abuse, neglect, sexual assault, domestic violence, single-mother struggles, being an unloved orphan, sex worker, drug dealer, engaging in substance abuse, child endangerment, feeling suicidal and suffering from severe depression, and being a victim of bullying just to name a few, it is not easy touching these places.

But I figured I should. Why? Well, it’s been long, long overdue. I kept this duck tape over my lips for too long. The more I speak on what happened to me and scroll backward, the more I’ll heal and start to grow an understanding about myself. Peace is what I’ve been striving for since forever. How can I have that, though, if I’m holding all these in? I’m suffocating. It doesn’t feel good walking out of the therapist’s office and still feeling the same way. So what’s the next option after you realize therapy ain’t doing a damn thing? I guess give up, right? Well, that’s been an option before for me, but it’s a selfish one, especially when I have a person depending on me. So tell me, what’s next? Well, I figured maybe I should embrace what happened and just make the best of it. So writing out my thoughts have been a tool I have been using lately in efforts to move forward in life so I can be the best I can be.

So welcome to the memoir of my life story . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543499940

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Laquana Morris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/25/2021

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CONTENTS

Patsy’s Shore

Bifocal Freak

Silent Vaseline

Brooklyn’s Stray

Open Avenue

Sunni-Day

Di La’Flare RTR

Mother of a son

Hoe-Sale 3D

Carla’s Emerald

Bloody Seed

Deadly Envelope

Crossing on Red Road

Dedication

As I sip slowly on this blackberry tea on this cold winter night, I have my mother’s picture framed in front of me and a coconut almond candle lit to set the tone right. My son is fast asleep, and that noisy round clock in my kitchen is just ticking away. The wind is whistling, making it even harder for me to concentrate.

I’m nervous, I’m heartbroken, and everything that has happened to me left me in disbelief. I’m extremely hurt and crying silently right now. I can feel the warm tears rolling down my cheeks as I gather my thoughts on what I’m about to say. Coming from one of the most-talked about cities, being exposed to poverty, drugs, enslavement, verbal and physical abuse, neglect, sexual assault, domestic violence, single-mother struggles, being an unloved orphan, sex worker, drug dealer, engaging in substance abuse, child endangerment, feeling suicidal and suffering from severe depression, and being a victim of bullying just to name a few, it is not easy touching these places.

But I figured I should. Why? Well, it’s been long, long overdue. I kept this duct tape over my lips for too long. The more I speak on what happened to me and scroll backward, the more I’ll heal and start to grow an understanding about myself. Peace is what I’ve been striving for since forever. How can I have that, though, if I’m holding all these in? I’m suffocating. It doesn’t feel good walking out of the therapist’s office and still feeling the same way. So what’s the next option after you realize therapy ain’t doing a damn thing? I guess give up, right? Well, that’s been an option before for me, but it’s a selfish one, especially when I have a person depending on me. So tell me, what’s next? Well, I figured maybe I should embrace what happened and just make the best of it. So writing out my thoughts have been a tool I have been using lately in efforts to move forward in life so I can be the best I can be.

So welcome to the memoir of my life story . . .

PATSY’S SHORE

May 18, 1988, oh, what a day.

A chocolate buttercream baby was born on that fine day.

Harlem hospital helped the lucky parents, Darrlyn Patricia Morris and Vincent Mark Mcclinton, deliver me.

Honestly, I can only remember up to the age of four. At four years old, I could remember being gifted by my dad a pink, yellow, and baby blue tricycle. I remember riding up and down 126th Street as happy as can be. Passing by the parking lot, all I could hear as the fancy cars started pulling out of it was legendary music soaring out the windows, like Didn’t I Blow Your Mind This Time by The Delfonics and What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye. My dad came home gifting me a Nefertiti 14k gold chain with a 14k gold ring with my name on it with a matching bracelet. He loved jewelry. Every chance he got, he made sure I match his fly. One day, though, a woman who was supposed to be friends with my dad ended up stealing that same jewelry from me.

She was watching me, and I remember having to wash my hands and her saying, Take off your jewelry first, and I have never seen my jewelry again.

At four, I didn’t understand why this had happened.

Now that I’m older, I do now though.

The 80’s and ’90s was a crack and cocaine era. That was the it drug.

Practically everyone did it and wasn’t ashamed of it either.

Harlem was rough and guttered out.

I remember walking with my mom, and literally on every block, we were seeing vacant lots on just about all of them. Rats and alley cats were everywhere running through them. Crack pipes on the ground like it was normal cigarette butts. I can’t even remember how many times I caught ringworms just from being outside.

My first day at preschool was a day to never forget. That was the day I learned that Mommy and Daddy weren’t going to be with me most of the time. I wasn’t prepared at all. I was excited to meet new friends, but I didn’t know my mom was leaving me there. I still remember her walking away and me crying my eyes out.

I remember waking up to my mom and dad having intercourse. I woke up hearing crying sounds, and it was my mom’s voice. I started to cry as well and they heard me, and I remember them both asking me what’s wrong. I told my dad, You’re hurting my mommy. Here they go giggling and laughing like it’s funny.

They were a mess. Little old me was terrified and felt hopeless. Little did they know I was trying to figure out how I am going to help my mom.

Those were the days of me living in a two-parent home.

Suddenly, though, the relationship between them two came to an end. I always wondered why but never knew.

Them deciding to part ways was a game changer in so many ways.

My mom and I started to move a lot.

I barely saw my dad at one point.

We slept in homeless shelters just to secure a home.

I remember standing on the line with her for intake and seeing all these women with children in strollers.

She assured me, though, that everything will be all right and I soon will have my own room.

During that difficult time, we would bond by going to our favorite park, Marcus Garvey.

We’d first get crabs from the crab man who had the dreads on 125th Street and 5th Avenue. My favorite thing to do was go on the tire swing. When she would push me It was so fast and furious, I couldn’t help but spin on it for hours. My mom would be on the bench with all her park friends, playing spades, laughing, and gossiping her tale off. We made the best of it. Eventually, we moved into our Bronx two-bedroom apartment on 170 and the Grand Concourse.

My mom and my dad came to an agreement that he was supposed to get me every other week.

There were times he would make it, and there were times I would get a phone call from him that he was on his way. I’d get dressed. My bags would be packed and ready to go. I would be so excited and ready to leave my mom, only to be waiting and waiting and he would never show up.

That was, for sure, the beginning of me experiencing the word abandonment.

I would sit by that door until I fell asleep, confused why didn’t he come. Then the next day or two, he’ll have a bizarre excuse why he couldn’t make it. He was my hero and couldn’t do no wrong. He was the fun parent. When he would drop me off to my mom, I always cried. I wanted him to not leave my side. So the question that always ran through my mind was, how could he do this to me?

When he would show up, we had this thing called the superman.

He used to swing me around my mother’s house before he went home.

Besides the gifts that he always brought me, he would take me to his job on daddy-and-daughter’s day, where I was treated like a princess by his coworkers. He loved it when they always used to say how much I looked just like him. I had a certificate from school that he hung up by his desk, and by my name, he added his last name on it.

Not sure why my mom didn’t give me his last name, but yeah, he wanted all his coworkers to know me as a Mcclinton too.

He worked for ACS, had a great job, went to college, and graduated.

He was funny and had hella style.

His eyeglasses stayed glue to the TV whenever the show Law & Order came on. That was his favorite show. How ironic now that’s my favorite show too.

I looked up to him.

He just had another side to him that helped his lack of parenting skills. I love him still to this day. I remember being about eight and him being so upset one day walking down a flight of steps to get on a train on my way home and him telling me I’m not his child. Talk about a moment I’ll never forget. Here was my superman making me feel like nothing. He was in a rage, shouting and everything. I was caught off guard with that one. Him not being consistent at times and being told I’m not his child really left me in disbelief.

I don’t want to make any excuses for him.

In reality, and to be honest, my dad was a drug addict and an alcoholic. I was a kid, though, so I hadn’t figured this out until I started to get older. I have seen crack pipes in his dresser, he went to the bathroom a lot, and yes, I have seen him intoxicated on multiple occasions. Little ole me didn’t understand his outbursts and questionable behavior. Everything was right in my view, but I didn’t have no clue these things were the reason. I’m older now, I understand the effects of