Silhouette of Strength Chapter 5: The Rules Were the Rules

As early as I can remember, my mother drilled certain rules into me. They weren’t suggestions. They weren’t flexible. They were laws, and breaking them had consequences.

One of the first times I learned that lesson was on picture day.

I never went to kindergarten my mother decided I was ready for first grade, so thats where I started. For my first school picture, she crocheted me a blue and red vest, something she made with her own hands, stitch by stitch. She placed it on me with care that morning and told me firmly, keep it on.

At first, I felt proud. The vest was warm, a piece of my mother wrapped around me. But when I got to school, I quickly realized I was different.

The other kids whispered, pointed, laughed.

By the time I got in front of the photographer, I was burning with embarrassment. He asked if I wanted to take the vest off, and I hesitated. But then I nodded.

I told myself it was just for the picture. But as soon as I got home, the guilt weighed heavy on me. I slipped the vest back on, hoping my mother wouldn’t notice. When she asked if I had kept it on all day, I lied.

Weeks later, when the pictures arrived, my lie was there in full color. The vest was gone.

I barely had time to brace for the punishment that followed. She was furious not just because I had taken it off, but because I had betrayed her. She had made that vest for me, and I had let shame win over love.

That wasn’t a mistake I planned to make again.

So when she told me never to leave school until she or Pops picked me up, I listened.

That rule was tested one evening in first grade.

As the final bell rang, I stood in front of the school like I was supposed to. I watched as my classmates ran off, their hands slipping into their parent’s hands, their laughter filling the air. The sun slowly dipped lower, and one by one, the teachers left, too.

Still, I waited.

The sky turned darker, the streetlights flickered on. The once-lively schoolyard was empty now, the only sound my own breath in the cool evening air.

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t I had to follow the rules.

Finally, the principal stepped outside. His voice was gentle but firm. Little girl, why are you still here?

Waiting for my parents, I answered with a hard swallow.

His face shifted with concern. He asked me to come inside with him. I shook my head. No! I wasn’t allowed to go with anyone else. Not even him; he asked me for my address. Then he stormed off.

A long stretch of time passed before he returned. Your father is on his way, he told me. Minutes later, Pops arrived breathless, his face tense. Why didn’t you call he asked as he scooped me up.

But I had done exactly what I was told. I had followed the rules.

Years later, I would find out what really happened. After calling my home and getting no answer, the principal had to physically go to our apartment. He banged on the door, again and again, until finally, Pops answered half-asleep and confused. Thats when he learned that I was still waiting, alone, outside the school, exactly where I had been told to stay.  Because in my world, breaking the rules came at a cost.

In retrospect, I now understand what was really happening-they got high, passed out, and didn’t wake up on time. Back then, I couldn’t fully grasp it, but the signs were all around us. The black cloud of addiction loomed heavily, creeping slowly into every corner of our lives. Every late morning, every missed appointment, every slurred word was a quiet alarm. Heroin abuse was at an all-time high, not just in our home but in homes like ours across the city. It was a silent epidemic, and we were caught in its grip, learning to normalize the chaos just to survive.