I was around eight years old the first time I experienced a family loss. My grandfather’s sister had passed away. She was a thick woman, as most Southern country women are, and we all called her ‘Sister.’ I still remember that every time we went to her house, she would give my big brother and me vanilla wafers, like clockwork. She would lie in her bed and reach over to hand us the box. I remember that I loved her. At the funeral, I remember not wanting to see her body. As I held my mother’s hand walking down the aisle, I shook my head vehemently, not wanting to see her. I can’t exactly say why, but I stood firm. It was the first time I ever saw my grandma cry. She was crying while holding my grandpa’s hand and looking at his face. Whether she wanted to be strong for him and still let the tears fall, or they were tears he couldn't yet shed for the loss of his sister, she was never far from his side, her body turned towards his, ready to be whatever he needed. The world seemed grayer.

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        That might have been my first experience with loss, but it wasn’t that death that changed my perspective on life. When I was nine and ten, a lot changed for me. I suddenly became a big sister, which was nothing short of exciting. Not only was I going to be a big sister, but even better, the baby was going to be a girl. A dream come true, I mean my brother, who is just four years older than me, was, for all accounts, my best friend, but he would never be what a little sister could be for me at that age. While I was beyond happy, my aunt, my dad’s big sister, my aunt Lisa, had cancer. All you know at that age is that cancer is bad, cancer kills, cancer makes you lose your hair, and cancer makes you skinny. I never knew cancer would take someone I loved. How could it? How could something that’s making her sick kill her? I mean, it’s a simple fix, right? That’s what doctors are for. Doctors make everything better…right?

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        We were close. My aunt and I. Especially me and my younger cousin Jazmyne. Only a year apart and thick as thieves. I would say I was tender-headed at that time; I’ve toughened up since then, by the way. Yet, I was never scared when my aunt Lisa would do my hair. She had the softest hands and a smell that was distinctly her. She was an amazing cook and had a laugh that made you laugh along with her. She was the best, and she loved me, and I loved her. She never smoked, yet lung cancer took her. At the time, none of it was making sense. I still remember the day, 5th grade, and we were having a Christmas party. In the early morning, we were dropping off my stepdad at his job, with my little sister in the car seat next to me. My mom gets a phone call, and to this day, I can’t tell you how I knew, but from her reaction alone, I started crying, and the next thing I know, my world had changed.

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        How could she be here one week and gone the next? It was almost Christmas, and everything should be happy. I was excited for my Christmas party, but now I might as well be Scrooge because every red and green decoration was a faded color of gray. The sugar cookies tasted like cardboard. All the laughter and jolly music might as well have been muted and static to me. I didn’t get how every other kid in my class was laughing and smiling when I was trying hard not to cry in front of my class. I failed at that eventually. I just didn’t understand how the world continued to spin when mine screeched to a halt, because my aunt Lisa has died. Didn’t they understand what this meant? My granny lost her only daughter, my father lost his sister, my best friend and cousin Jazmyne just lost her mother, and my 5th-grade class wants to talk about the Christmas movie playing on the projector.

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        The funeral was packed. This time, when walking down the aisle to view her, I still couldn't bring myself to. ‘She looks like she’s asleep, ’ my mom would tell me. But I didn’t want her asleep, I wanted her awake. I wanted her alive. To brush my hair softly in the way only she could, to sneak me another can of Vienna sausages even though I’ve had enough. To even hold my little sister again because she didn’t get enough time with her. I didn’t get enough time with her, and Jazmyne didn’t get enough time. Now we were all out of time. Now our world was a little more gray.

 

        In February 2012, a month before I turned 11, a tragedy struck the nation. Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old African American boy, was shot and killed. I recall the outrage, the disbelief, and the grief of every mother and father. How could someone, just a year older than my brother, die so tragically? I remember that he was carrying a pack of Skittles and it was mistaken for a weapon…but how could candy ever be seen as dangerous? The talk parents were having with their black sons about walking around at night, and to never reach into their pockets when approached. Suddenly, young boys were being taught how to talk to cops, how they should always have their hands visible, even in a car. They were being taught that they weren’t seen as equals; they were now seen as dangerous. That, yes, they are young, but death can now happen to us kids, too. Again, the world seemed to go gray, with loss, with confusion, fear, and rage.

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        My older brother Daron is a protector through and through. Once he considers you an important person to him, you should count yourself lucky; you will never find a more loyal person to have on your side. He was 16 at the time, and he was… shall we say getting into a scuffle? Yes, let’s go with that. He was getting into a scuffle alongside his friend because another guy was messing with his friend’s little sister. Things escalated, and the cops were called. Being the young boys that they were, they all ran. My grandmother just so happened to be over at our house when Daron rushed inside and closed the door. Unfortunately, he wasn’t that fast. The cop burst into the entryway of our home, taser already out. My grandmother, bless her heart, quite literally because she has a pacemaker, stood in front of the officer and blocked his way to Daron, and begged him not to shoot.

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        I was standing there, body stiff, chest heavy with my stuttered breath, eyes wide. Why would she say that? Why would this cop want to shoot my brother? I remember Daron was standing there with his hands raised. I was 12, and all I wanted was for my grandma not to work herself up because of her heart. I wanted the yellow thing in the cop’s hand to be put away, because Daron’s eyes keep flicking to it. I wanted my mom because she always knows what to say, and if my grandma thinks this cop is going to shoot my big brother, then our mom needs to be here; she’ll know what to do. Whether it was the plea of a grandmother to not have her grandson killed, my brother at just 16 with his hand raised above his head trying to calm her, or the fact that a 12-year-old little girl was standing behind him, the officer put the taser away and stated he just wanted to talk to Daron. That crippling fear, of not knowing what was going to happen next, was just another layer of gray.

 

        I first saw my mother cry from a broken heart at the age of 16. Nothing prepares you for seeing the strongest woman you know break down. She was going through a divorce from the man whom we all believed would be her forever. It was a quiet day, almost right after the events that would lead to a divorce, right before she closed herself off. Right before the silence. She was sitting on the couch, and she had just explained her hurt. The confusion of his actions, of the family that they built, and the home they created, which was no longer standing strong. She was in the middle of speaking when she sucked in a shuddering breath, and the most gut-wrenching sob broke free. She buried her face in her hand, and I have never felt more helpless than I did in that moment. I wanted to help her with her broken heart, just like all the times she’s done for me. I wanted to say the right thing to make her see the bright side, like she’s done for me. Nothing was enough, would ever be enough when the future that was once so clear and full of color is suddenly broken and bleak. That moment, with my mother crying over a love she didn’t think would end, turned her world and mine a little more gray.

 

       If my mother were to describe me, she would say I am very gullible, naive, and possibly overly optimistic, because I see the world through rose-colored lenses. She once said I could find the good in a serial killer. She says it’s a good thing, and that I have a good heart, but again, she also says I'm naive. I’d like to think that even with all the loss, the fear, the heartbreak, I still only see the good. Which, according to my mom, I do. Because when there is so much gray, why not try to find the oranges, the greens, the yellows? Life is too short not to see the colors. Despite all the muddy gray life seems to throw our way. I think we all can remember a moment where we realized the world is a little darker than what we thought, and it's a really heartbreaking thing because I think the beautiful thing about children is the innocence they possess and their outlook on life. Their hope and dreams of the future, which I still hold on to. I hope you can, too.