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Dreams, Love, and Music

Dream Your Life, Then Live Your Dreams

AuthorHouse

The Great Escape

Born on February 6, 1976, in Laurelton, Queens, New York, the fifth child of seven, living in a household of dysfunction at its best, would describe my unchosen lifestyle growing up. There were seven kids, three bedrooms, a basement that was always shared or rented to other family members, more cousins that my father adopted, a whole lot of different personalities to deal with, a dog, a cat, fish, birds, and even a monkey at one point!

My mom had a lot to deal with. She would have had eight of us; there was a girl who would've been two years older than me, but passed away in utero because the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. My mom had to go through labor and then deliver a deceased baby girl, so she later asked me to name my daughter what would've been my sister's name. So I added Melodee to my daughter's middle name out of respect for my mom. As I got older, my mother expressed the emotional pain and psychological damage she had suffered from that experience. But as a child, as far as I can remember, my mother was always stressed out.

My family was always at war. The only thing we all seemed to do well was fight. By the time I was born, there were already four siblings ahead of me. Attention was the main thing everyone seemed to fight for. Since I was the fifth child in line, I already knew that I would never get my own attention, so the only thing left for me to do was pay attention.

We often hear stories about females being molested, sexually abused, or raped. I've heard them from close friends and family. And as I look at reality shows, talk shows, and the news, I hear similar stories from celebrities and women I've always looked up to for inspiration. Many women are coming out with their stories! It's unfortunate that so many of us have such stories that affect us in so many different ways. My story, however, is just a little different.

My bigger brothers' intentions were to protect me from having stories like that, so for the most part they didn't even acknowledge the fact that I had a vagina. They treated me like I was their little brother, and they often left me with no other choice but to think like a boy. I went through a lot. Raised by the wolves, no holds barred! Being a kid wasn't easy for me. My brothers experienced a lot of pressure from their peers and were often beaten up by older guys when they were younger. So they didn't want me to experience what they had gone through — from anyone. In their minds, that was the way to make me stronger, to get me tough and ready for the world. But what they didn't realize was that I began to see them as the people they were so busy trying to protect me from — my worst enemies.

There were so many of us, my mom trusted that we were all taking care of each other. She would check in from time to time and ask if everything was okay, but my brothers had a way of making her feel secure that everything was fine, and would send her on her way — with my head under the pillow and their hands over my mouth. If I cried or showed any signs of distress, I'd get beaten up even worse, so I pretty much knew that I had to play it cool and act as if everything was all fun and games if I wanted less problems.

My father worked the overnight shifts at a hospital, so when he came home in the morning he would go straight to bed. It seemed as if he was too tired to even say hi. He was never really there to protect me. He slept during the day. Both of my parents had a lot on their plates. They always seemed too busy for me, so it became clear that if I needed help I was going to have to help myself.

My sisters were much older than I was, so they did their own thing with their friends when they could. My oldest sister knew how to keep to herself. She would go and read a book, or go to my grandmother's house to get away from the chaos, and I always secretly admired that. Because I was so young, and she wanted to be free, bringing me with her would've been like raining on her own parade. It always seemed like she was off the hook from the family beat-downs, or at least she knew how to dodge them when they came her way. But my other sister was always a part of the action. When she was around, she took me out, bought me stylish clothes, gave me great gifts, and did my hair just the way I loved it. I thought we were cool with each other, and sometimes I even considered her my best friend. She'd helped me out when I had to defend myself against my brothers. Yet, I had to defend myself against her too. We'd fight, but I had no idea what we were fighting about. I was always on defense with her and I hated feeling that way.

One day she and my brother were having a big argument. I had just gotten home from school and wanted some peace of mind, but that never seemed to be a friend of ours, and I always wondered why, so I would try to figure out how to make peace. I listened closely to see what the fight was about because I wanted to come up with a solution to the problem. My brother accused her of eating his cookies, and she said she hadn't. So I went into the kitchen to try to be the mediator. They were both so passionate about this fight and it bothered me to see how deep they were making it. I looked behind the table and found the cookies, three in a pack, still closed on the floor. I was so glad, because now the problem would finally have a solution, and we could adopt unity as another sibling.

I held the package up and showed them that I had found the cookies. They both saw me, but nothing changed. My brother said, "She probably pushed them back there on purpose!"

And she said to him, "You probably pushed them back there just so you could blame me!" And they kept arguing. The argument was just so pointless to me, and it didn't make any sense. I tried to break it up but finally realized that it would only be a waste of my time.

As I walked away, (eating the cookies!) I realized that they were both addicted to drama. They didn't want a solution. Each of them wanted to be the winner — as if whoever could better control the other would win. That's just one example of the many feuds I experienced with my family, from the outside looking in. Many other times, I wasn't on the outside looking in; I was on the inside trying to get out — and trying to figure out how I'd got in it in the first place.

After a while, the gifts my sister gave me and the good things she did for me felt like a trick, like cheese in a mousetrap — a way to control and trap me, to keep me where she wanted me. Whenever I wanted to go somewhere that was peaceful for me, or do something that would allow me to escape the drama, she would flip on me and find a way to pull me back in. Somehow the battle grew bigger, and things got worse between us.

It got to a point where I didn't want to be home. The streets were safer. I didn't want to partake in any of my family's affairs. I love my family, but the truth was — though sometimes we fought for attention, control, or for no reason at all — at times we actually had valid reasons to fight. Sometimes we didn't eat because there was never enough food. When there was food, we had to fight for it. It became so contentious that we had to put our names on our own food, but that didn't work; someone would still take it. There were far too many of us to find out who took it. The same thing happened with toilet paper: I was lucky if I found a roll of paper in the bathroom. If I did, I had to take it and hide it, otherwise someone else would. Actually, I was lucky if I could even use the bathroom, because my siblings were always scheming their way in first, and staying there forever on purpose just to make each other mad, so they could laugh. Anything of value had to be hidden. Money, jewelry, name-brand clothes, and shoes were always missing. Someone would steal them and sell them. Nobody ever really knew who it was because everyone always said, "It wasn't me!" I was always on defense at home. I became a monster. I didn't want to be that way, but sometimes you become what you're around, and that's how I had to be if I wanted to survive.

I never truly had the opportunity to be the little girl that I really was. I often found myself thinking thoughts far too deep and violent — thoughts that little girls shouldn't be thinking — such as how to defend myself against my own family. Guns were nothing new to me. I had been taught to use them since I was young. It's really bad when you have to consider using a gun on the ones who taught you how! Instead, I would go across the street to the park by the highway, sit on the swings, and watch the cars speeding by on the Belt Parkway. And then I would begin to think about running onto the highway to end my life. I didn't want to live. I felt there was no way my situation would change. I'd had these thoughts since I was about four years old, and at fourteen it still seemed that waiting till I turned eighteen to live my own life was too long. Committing suicide seemed like the easier thing to do than continuing to live at home. But before my emotions could take control, my thoughts would shift. I would begin to wonder, How would everybody feel if I killed myself? And, How would my mother live after a death like that? Being alone, thinking my own thoughts, and feeling my own feelings made the stress of everyone else's feelings and ways of thinking begin to subside. The thoughts of suicide and my unfortunate life shifted to dreaming about the life I desired. I only felt suicidal when I couldn't be myself, when I was forced to be the person everybody else wanted me to be. It actually felt like rape — everybody taking a piece of me without my consent and making me be this hard, cruel, angry fighter when really I was just a little girl with big dreams. I figured if I was going to die, I'd rather die fighting for the life I really wanted to live. My reality sucked, and I was ready to die. It was my dreams that kept me alive!

Once I started to envision the life I wanted to live, and to see myself as the person I wanted to be, I would just sit outside and dream. I pictured lots of lights, big beautiful buildings, a big stage, lots of people — and I was sharing my voice with them. I was telling a story, but the story had a melody. I was having a deep, passionate conversation and sharing my experiences with the world. I was emoting melodically!

You would've thought I was crazy if you had seen me singing in the park alone. I thought I was crazy, but it still felt better to dream about a good life than to think of committing suicide because of an unfortunate life. After coming from the park dreaming, I would run home to start preparing myself for that life. My family would think I had come home from jogging. They had no idea I was ready to opt out of life. I only jogged back home because I had a new perspective on things, and I was excited about life and living my dreams. It was that state of mind that made me focus on all of the good things about my family.

My father made us worship, sing church songs, and pray together every Friday night, which was the Sabbath. He made porridge Haitian style every Saturday morning before church. That brought us all to the table, together. It even brought all of the kids on the block of 238th Street to our house. My brother was a DJ. He often played music in the house super-loud. Even when my mother would yell and tell him to turn it down, he'd put on her favorite music and have her dancing in her misery.

Q-Tip and Phife from A Tribe Called Quest would come over after school to create music in the basement with my brother. They had no idea, but after my brother kicked me out of the basement, I would go upstairs and listen through the vents. They inspired me and didn't even know it. My oldest sister sang in the choirs at church, and would play the piano at home while I sang along. She is the one who set up my first solo in church when I was four years old. I sang "Jesus Loves Me" while she played the piano for me. My other sister gave me my first pink radio with a Whitney Houston cassette when I was in the fifth grade. That was one of the best gifts I ever received. She was creative and knew exactly how to choose the perfect gifts for everyone. That pink radio was the base of my homemade studio setup, and I would record myself singing just to see how I'd sound.

My other brother joined the army. Whenever he came home, he would wake us early in the morning and make us work out and clean the house thoroughly. He taught me how to discipline my mind regardless of what was going on around me. My younger brother and I would pretend we were television entertainers or superheroes. We would dress up in costumes and pretend to perform — acting, singing, and fighting. I was older then he was, so I finally had someone to boss around, but my first choice was to do artist development. Then, when my little sister came along, I'd make her sing and repeat after me. I showed her how to do vocal tricks and riffs before she could even talk.

Music is life to me. Music is what kept me alive. I would be punished and beaten up worse if I cried or showed emotions — because it showed weakness, in my brothers' minds. So I was able to live through music because it allowed me to express my feelings creatively, not negatively.

Once my family and close friends found out that I could sing, they didn't understand that it was my escape from death and my only way of life. My brother heard me one night by accident because I had fallen asleep listening to what I had recorded of myself on my pink radio. He woke me up at three in the morning and made me come downstairs and sing for his friends. I often felt as if they were pimping me. They made me sing just so they could get the props, or money. I didn't feel fully comfortable singing all the time if we weren't actually working toward something. I had a dream; I wanted to make plans, set goals, and then go after them. If we didn't discuss a bigger purpose than singing for its own sake, I'd question their intentions. They wanted me to sing for their own entertainment. But my thoughts were, Do you understand that I'm not happy? I didn't even want to be alive in those living conditions. I didn't want to sing just because I could and they wanted me to. I was ready to sing if they were just as willing to get out of the misery as I was and ready to make a better lifestyle out of it together. My mind wasn't only on the talent. It was on the whole movement and the work that was required to make it happen. I needed them to help me with my life. I wanted a team that would push me so that we could all benefit, but my singing seemed to be for their benefit only. Singing with no purpose was like trying to get me to talk about my feelings — not easy or fun to do, since I was routinely beaten up and taught to keep my feelings to myself. It was kind of private, and a very delicate, sensitive issue. So I shut down for the most part, if there wasn't a team with the same dream.

Regardless of our different personalities and the fights we had at home, we love each other and always have each other's back. We could be mad at each other one minute and cracking jokes, laughing out loud the next. It's hard for me to hold grudges, but easy to see when I deserve better. Instead of staying mad, I stayed busy. Instead of focusing on fighting my family, I'd dream about a better life, and that's what I wanted to fight for.

My parents didn't have enough money to put us in any activities. There were too many of us, and they were struggling just to feed us, so they balanced it out by keeping us in church and private school. Our church was our school and my mother was the secretary, so from Monday to Friday we went to school. Friday night was choir rehearsal and Saturday was our day of worship. Saturday nights were social events and basketball games against other Seventh-day Adventist churches. And Sunday was Pathfinders (something like a coed Girl and Boy Scouts), basketball and cheerleading practice. When we weren't home, we were at the church and private school — seven days a week.

When I was in the second grade, my mother let me go to the public school near my house with the neighborhood kids. I had the opportunity to exercise my talents because we had a dance club and talent shows that we spent a lot of our time practicing for. But my mother crushed my dreams without realizing it when she took me out of that school to put me back into private school. She said I was getting too worldly.

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Excerpted from Dreams, Love, and Music by Asiah Million. Copyright © 2015 Asiah Million. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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