CHAPTER 4
GROWING PAINS
“Nou gen anpil bagay pou nou remèsye Bondye pou yo.”
(We have many things to thank God for.)
— Andrea Rosemond
Flatbush was changing. So was I.
When we first moved to Avenue D, the block was still mixed— Italians, Irish, Jews, Blacks, Haitians—a mosaic of people sharing cracked sidewalks and shared silence. But by the late ’70s, white flight had taken off like a cold wind. The neighborhood’s complexion deepened, and with that came new tension—and new rules.
At home, I was still Jimmy, the youngest of five under my mother’s protection. She worked tirelessly to hold the house together—cooking, praying, cleaning, checking in. A Haitian woman’s love doesn’t always show up in kisses or bedtime stories. Sometimes, it shows up in bruised feet, aching backs, and silent strength.
School was five blocks away—P.S. 269. Every morning, I walked there with Terrence, whose family was from the Virgin Islands, and as we passed Vanderveer, Wayne would join us, whose family was from Jamaica. We were all in the same fifth-grade class, but from different islands and those two became my first real school friends. We laughed, competed, learned together. We stayed tight until junior high pulled us in different directions.
But public school was no sanctuary. It was a jungle, and if you didn’t know how to defend yourself—physically or verbally—you were easy prey. I started learning how to read people more than I read books. You had to. Nobody cared about your last name or your mother’s dreams. Respect was something you had to carve out, inch by inch. Kids are mean and I took on my share.
I found myself drawn to the kids from Vanderveer Projects. It wasn’t yet called Vanderveer Gardens—that rebrand would come decades later. Back then, it was just Vanderveer, and it was rough. Walking through it for the first time to get to school, I could feel the air shift. The danger wasn’t hidden. It was bold. Loud. Alive. And somehow, it pulled at me.
I started experimenting—a hit of weed here, a swig of Old English or Colt 45 there. We were kids trying on adult habits. Girls were still a mystery, more talked about than touched, but the energy around them was growing louder. The pressure to grow up fast didn’t just come from peers—it came from the streets, the silence, the absence of safety.
My mother had to take on a second job. Her day shift as a nurse’s aid wasn’t enough to keep up with the house she bought on Avenue D. I understood, even at ten years old, that her absence wasn’t neglect—it was sacrifice. Every floor she scrubbed, every room she cleaned, was an act of devotion. I didn’t feel sorry for her. That wasn’t our culture. Hard work was a badge of honor, maybe a scar from slavery, maybe a survival mechanism. But she wore it with pride.
When she gave me money for bread or milk and bullies approached me on the way, I had two options—talk my way out or run like hell. And at ten, running made the most sense. That second-grader’s punch years back had carved itself into my memory like a warning bell. I knew a day would come when I’d have to fight. But not yet. Not when I had Kesner. Big brothers were for protection. I pitied the kids who didn’t have one.
Sundays remained sacred. Church in the morning. Dinner in the evening. Even Mario and Lyonel, now in high school, would show up to sit at my mother’s table. I’d grumble about not having new clothes, and she’d hug me close and whisper: “Bondye pa gade rad ou genyen sou ou. Li gade kè ou.” (God doesn’t look at the clothes you’re wearing. He looks at your heart.)
Kesner was changing. His walk had a different rhythm. His friends looked older, more hardened. You could feel the streets whispering to him, telling him who to be. My mother noticed too. Sometimes she’d catch him alone and say, “Kesner, ou dwe fè atansyon.” (Kesner, you have to be careful.)
And he’d respond,
“M konnen, Manman. Nou pa fou.”
(I know, Mom. We’re not crazy.)
I wanted to follow him. I wanted to be part of it. But I was still just a boy watching the fire from the doorway, not ready to step in.
It was around this time that I started realizing—survival isn’t just about fists or speed. It’s mental. Emotional. Spiritual. I was growing in ways I couldn’t explain.
By age 11 or 12, I was fluent in more than Creole and English. I was learning the language of survival. The codes of the block. The pauses in a sentence that meant danger. The stares that meant: “Test me and find out.” Each language had its own cost. Each one its own consequence.
These were my growing pains. Not the kind you outgrow—but the kind that grow into you.
CHAPTER 4
GROWING PAINS
“Nou gen anpil bagay pou nou remèsye Bondye pou yo.”
(We have many things to thank God for.)
— Andrea Rosemond
Flatbush was changing. So was I.
When we first moved to Avenue D, the block was still mixed— Italians, Irish, Jews, Blacks, Haitians—a mosaic of people sharing cracked sidewalks and shared silence. But by the late ’70s, white flight had taken off like a cold wind. The neighborhood’s complexion deepened, and with that came new tension—and new rules.
At home, I was still Jimmy, the youngest of five under my mother’s protection. She worked tirelessly to hold the house together—cooking, praying, cleaning, checking in. A Haitian woman’s love doesn’t always show up in kisses or bedtime stories. Sometimes, it shows up in bruised feet, aching backs, and silent strength.
School was five blocks away—P.S. 269. Every morning, I walked there with Terrence, whose family was from the Virgin Islands, and as we passed Vanderveer, Wayne would join us, whose family was from Jamaica. We were all in the same fifth-grade class, but from different islands and those two became my first real school friends. We laughed, competed, learned together. We stayed tight until junior high pulled us in different directions.
But public school was no sanctuary. It was a jungle, and if you didn’t know how to defend yourself—physically or verbally—you were easy prey. I started learning how to read people more than I read books. You had to. Nobody cared about your last name or your mother’s dreams. Respect was something you had to carve out, inch by inch. Kids are mean and I took on my share.
I found myself drawn to the kids from Vanderveer Projects. It wasn’t yet called Vanderveer Gardens—that rebrand would come decades later. Back then, it was just Vanderveer, and it was rough. Walking through it for the first time to get to school, I could feel the air shift. The danger wasn’t hidden. It was bold. Loud. Alive. And somehow, it pulled at me.
I started experimenting—a hit of weed here, a swig of Old English or Colt 45 there. We were kids trying on adult habits. Girls were still a mystery, more talked about than touched, but the energy around them was growing louder. The pressure to grow up fast didn’t just come from peers—it came from the streets, the silence, the absence of safety.
My mother had to take on a second job. Her day shift as a nurse’s aid wasn’t enough to keep up with the house she bought on Avenue D. I understood, even at ten years old, that her absence wasn’t neglect—it was sacrifice. Every floor she scrubbed, every room she cleaned, was an act of devotion. I didn’t feel sorry for her. That wasn’t our culture. Hard work was a badge of honor, maybe a scar from slavery, maybe a survival mechanism. But she wore it with pride.
When she gave me money for bread or milk and bullies approached me on the way, I had two options—talk my way out or run like hell. And at ten, running made the most sense. That second-grader’s punch years back had carved itself into my memory like a warning bell. I knew a day would come when I’d have to fight. But not yet. Not when I had Kesner. Big brothers were for protection. I pitied the kids who didn’t have one.
Sundays remained sacred. Church in the morning. Dinner in the evening. Even Mario and Lyonel, now in high school, would show up to sit at my mother’s table. I’d grumble about not having new clothes, and she’d hug me close and whisper: “Bondye pa gade rad ou genyen sou ou. Li gade kè ou.” (God doesn’t look at the clothes you’re wearing. He looks at your heart.)
Kesner was changing. His walk had a different rhythm. His friends looked older, more hardened. You could feel the streets whispering to him, telling him who to be. My mother noticed too. Sometimes she’d catch him alone and say, “Kesner, ou dwe fè atansyon.” (Kesner, you have to be careful.)
And he’d respond,
“M konnen, Manman. Nou pa fou.”
(I know, Mom. We’re not crazy.)
I wanted to follow him. I wanted to be part of it. But I was still just a boy watching the fire from the doorway, not ready to step in.
It was around this time that I started realizing—survival isn’t just about fists or speed. It’s mental. Emotional. Spiritual. I was growing in ways I couldn’t explain.
By age 11 or 12, I was fluent in more than Creole and English. I was learning the language of survival. The codes of the block. The pauses in a sentence that meant danger. The stares that meant: “Test me and find out.” Each language had its own cost. Each one its own consequence.
These were my growing pains. Not the kind you outgrow—but the kind that grow into you.