I’ve been called whore and bitch, crazy and psycho, ugly and unwanted. None of those descriptions suit me. The kindest thing I’ve been called, outside of my own name that is, is Lisa Scurry. It’s close enough to my name, and the negative connotation it once carried no longer bothers me. It was a group of adolescent teens that gave me the name, after some boy took a picture of me rushing through the school hallway with the back flap of my skirt up, my ass exposed.

Funny though: that name which once hurt me also made me famous. In one week, I went from being the ignored student to the one everyone knew. And, well, even though I didn’t relish the idea of my backside being shared on social media, the guys LOVED it. They loved talking about Lisa Scurry, betting on who would be the first to have Lisa Scurry, attempting to write sonnets for Lisa Scurry. Sad for them that not one of them deserved the attention of Lisa Scurry attention, so I didn’t provide it.

As already mentioned: I wasn’t the whore they hoped I would be. We ladies rarely are, right? I was a girl catapulted to fame by an unfortunate turn of events. To clarify things: I’ve only been with one guy, I am a bit troubled but not crazy, and the one thing I could always depend on from my mother was her good looks. My name: Lisa S. Curry!

 

My truth begins a long time ago with my father dying and my mother abandoning me for career. She wanted to be an entertainer, not a mother apparently. She didn’t send me off to an orphanage though; I didn’t go to one of them until my grandmother had died. Then to live with my aunt and uncle. I never hated my mother for her actions. I felt lost because of it, of course. When would I have the chance to see my mother in person? To hug and embrace her? To have a real fight with her face to face rather than on Skype. The real disappointment came when she didn’t show up for my son’s birth. My pregnancy was risky and I could’ve died; she knew that. All she gave me was one of her usually excuses.  So what the hell was I supposed to say when I stood before her corpse at her funeral? She didn’t leave me with any good memories to say anything good. I made peace with myself. What I hadn’t expected, though, was that she would later speak to me from the grave to deliver the greatest treasure anyone could hope for. Maybe she did love me after all.

 

 

Every young adult has to start living their life. We have to figure out how to do for ourselves, how to survive. If we’re lucky, we have a parent around to help us out from time to time. With both my parents in the grave, and a newborn at home, I had to learn to be strong and independent. Well, I did have some help. My cousin Samuel. He offered me a place to stay when I didn’t have one. He became the father figure in my son’s life. But he had a life to live, and I had a life to fix. I did my best searching for work— not minimum wage places like I was used to. I had a degree by then and a sense of self worth. Apparently, that ain’t enough though. Countless applications, numerous interviews, many rejection. What the hell does a person have to do to get a good job? They give the impression in school that hard-work and diligence pays off. So far, I’m not so sure. Go get a degree they say? It may be a waste of time and money, I say, not unless you’re going to get a masters. But when life happens, studying has to take a backseat. When you have a crying infant at home and bills piling up, there’s not much time for learning. Some have said that our generation is lazy, but that ain’t true. We’re trying to figure out how to make it in this fucked up world/system our parents and grandparents have destroyed.

 

Okay, so I’m not going to lie: I’ve made a mistake or two. It’s no secret that I stayed to myself as a teenager and during my early years of college. Guys followed me and wanted me; I didn’t have time for them. I wanted a love I couldn’t have. But then Matt came along. Matt Gunther. His alluring eyes and seductive touch. He provided the love I had been missing. Or so I thought.

Love or Passion was the topic of our relationship. He did for me what I felt I needed at the time. When I felt alone in the world, misunderstood, he made me feel a sense of belonging. For all the years my life had been devoid of excitement, he made up for it by exposing me to new experiences. My sheltered past was temporarily forgotten through the many adventures he took me on. For a short time, I even lost my sense of ambition as felt that being held in his arms was all I needed.

One Valentines, he took me to a place where many tables had either a bouquet of roses or a uniquely crafted candle on it; only a few were bare. I walked through that dining room wondering what I’d find on ours. The candle, a symbol of the fiery passion between us; or the rose, a symbol of our soft, tender pedaled loved. There was a candle for me to take home. Later that night, as I attempted to watch a movie, Matt caressed me with his hands and kisses, his soft lips trailing from my chin to my breasts to my abdomen. He didn’t stop there, he removed my clothes. “Matt, I just want to—“ He pressed his lips between my legs arousing my passions. I thought to tell him that evening that we were already pregnant, unplanned accident of course, and that what I needed was a greater expression of love. The love of a family. What I got as I he glided his body over mine sending rhythmic waves down my spine was passion represented by the candle burning over on my nightstand.

 

Having a baby was not on my to-do-list. At least not at 23. I was just finishing up with school, I was in what I believed to be an awesome relationship and I was on my way to be closer to my mother. Funny how fate works though. None of those things were meant to be. Getting pregnant shed light on my life, the facade I had been living under.

My relationship? That quickly went to hell. The guy who had always been sweet, tender and compassionate to me accused me of being a whore impregnated by another. Anything to relieve himself of responsibility. Stupid me thought he’d come around for some time; a wiser me realized I didn’t need him; a hopeful me wished he’d at least realize he should be there for his son.

Then there’s my mother, Mary-Anne. I was willing to take time off from life to finally be a part of hers. I relished the stories about her traveling across the world to sing and dance. I wanted to be apart of her glamour, her lifestyle. I wasn’t to feel like her proud daughter for once in my life.

So when I discovered I was pregnant? She I carry the child and then give it to another more capable of raising him? Was I stable and mature enough to raise the child, single-handedly? So many questions flooded my mind. It was carrying that child that allowed those questions to subside. It wasn’t an easy pregnancy and I had an emergency and the doctor gave me the option of delivering the child premature. My baby would spend the remainder of incubation in a tube where it might not survive; but doing so would save my life undoubtedly. Time came to an abrupt stop and I had to make a decision on what the child inside me meant to me. My decision: I could not… I would not risk my child’s life to save my own. I think that day marked me becoming a mother.

 

Some grow up thinking life is going be some fairy tale. Culture teaches that doesn’t it? Disney films where the lost, depraved character comes out winning in the end. The impoverished Aladdin who becomes a Prince; sheltered Jazmin whose father breaks the rules so she could marry who she chooses; the beast nearly destroyed until that final moment when he hears the magical words “I Love You”; etc. We don’t parents to tell us everything is going to work out because the media tells us that.

The parents who tell their kids that life isn’t the fairy tale it’s been made out to do is doing their child a favor. The truth may seem harsh at such an early age, but the sooner we learn the lesson, the better.

Death visited me in my childhood so frequently that I got the message real quick. Things don’t always work out the way you want them to. Of course, that doesn’t mean we should be giving up on life, our ambitions or even our dreams. But we must prepare for failure.

 

We fuck up sometimes! Hard to admit when we do but it happens. I remember all the days I had devoted myself to work and being the responsible person I thought I needed to be for my child and for my our future. All the while, my baby was getting sicker and sicker. While I was trying to ensure to put a roof over his head and food on the table, he wasn’t doing well. My roommate sensed something was wrong. I wouldn’t listen… I couldn’t. She came off as a woman butting into mine and my child’s life.

That mistake caused me a year of heartache and hardship. In the end, though, it strengthened me more than I could ever have imagined. When it was discovered that my baby was sick, I was the one there day and night by his side. I wept, I tried to remain strong, I threw tantrums. It was an ordeal I had to live through, but i learned that people do care about you. I learned that I am not alone.