Coffee, Cigarettes, and Consistency

Malachi Chaney-McClain, Beyond the System Writing Contest

Eleven years ago I didn’t know it, but South Natomas would become the neighborhood in Sacramento where I could finally grow up. At twelve and a half I began to gain all I had envied of my cousins but not of my titi*. I’ve lived in this city my entire life—except for that ten-month stint in Orange County, more commonly mistaken as just Anaheim. However, Rancho Santa Margarita is another story much longer than this one ironically even though the time spent was a slither compared to what my life became and currently is. As I was saying, I’ve lived In Sacramento for more than three-fourths of my existence, but growth mentally was never consistent. From family member to family member and that one foster home. It almost became this sort of familial cycle, where we played ring around the Rosies but with family members' houses yet not with them. While today it feels like nothing more than a distant inconsistent yet recurring bad dream, I truly remember growing resistant to the overall ideology of consistency. My mental growth was stunted, mature in some ways but still in many others I struggled. The trauma overturned me, my mentality changed and on some days in some cases, I’d end up reverting. Before ten; or rather before CPS* I was forced to take on the role of a father because our* fathers were excited for our lives but oftentimes grew distracted and at times still do. I didn’t see it then but I know now my mother was trying her best with what little support she had been provided. I wish I understood better then as a child, perhaps my anger wouldn’t have dangled above my head for so long or been so misplaced and misguided. While she isn’t innocent she fought a good fight. Two and a half gruesome years that felt like an eternity to an adolescent. And most times were fine because I understood why we were separated but the summer we were divided is the summer I truly felt the child in me begin to cry for help. Desperate for any adult or authority figure to take over the punishment the universe had cursed upon me as the oldest. Desperate for anyone else to be in the room with that social worker. But I was alone and I had to do what my mom had taught me. Be an adult but also play the game. Just like chess, search for a checkmate.

Oh, how to decide at eleven and a half years old where my four sisters and I would be divided between two foster homes? Then I didn’t know it but this is not the average child’s life experience. Most CPS investigations last anywhere between thirty to sixty days and any child welfare case is typically six to twelve months. I was given an hour to think, ‘an hour to decide,’ she said. Her voice sounded like ice but now at twenty-three, I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as harsh. I rack my brain and I stare at the possibilities I’ve scribbled on a piece of yellow construction paper with a broken black crazy-art crayon. This decision was harder than choosing a college to attend, I can assure you that, but thankfully I ended up making the right one in the end. And even though it lasted four months, all I had tried to prevent happened anyway. The three little ones were in a household with boys and men alone whereas Olivia and I were placed together. I felt bad for not wanting to live with my dad, but that’s the thing about the rules of the game. Some rules just can’t be broken and the five of us had different dads. Olivia and I shared someone’s son and my sister’s a former thug, so in the end CPS didn’t allow them to come along. However, like I said this was a familial cycle, and this was also a placement that lasted all of ten months. This process, however, would not go on for much longer because after my dad we were gonna end up home. It turned out my mom and Nana had the same fears as I and quickly after we were placed with my dad my sisters went to my Nana’s home. They smelt coffee and the faint reminiscence of lingering second-hand smoke far before me but very soon this and consistency would be something we grew familiar with. Before we got there we were removed from my father’s care and my titi* came to rescue us from a possible Children's Receiving Home visit that could be days, weeks, months long, or possibly just overnight. Sometimes when I rub the crust from my eyes I can remember the drive that saved my life. My first true drive home. A fussy Liv, a warm PT cruiser, my half-awake titi, and bright traffic lights illuminated the early hours of a blue-collar employee's evening and a white-collar employees morning. I can't remember getting out of the car but I remember waking up. The smell of Folgers for the first time and the sunlight lingering in my baby sisters’ already arranged room. A bunk bed and a trundle but they weren’t here. They spent the night at my titi’s ironically because she took them to school sometimes. I sit up and feel the bedding beneath me, finding my phone. I slowly climb down from the top bunk and find my way down the hall. I didn’t see her last night but she looked beautiful in the morning. She smoked a cigarette as the dogs used the restroom. Mojo and Ema. I hadn’t seen them for a few years. Suddenly I hear her voice and realize I’ve been lost in my head, half awake. 

“You hungry, Memi?” She asked me. The coffee stopped pouring and I glanced behind me to the clean kitchen. I can see the bay window that would quickly become my favorite spot on the inside of the house during the day; rain, hail, or shine. I turned back to my Nana and nodded slowly, my stomach felt as though it was on its emergency supply. 

“Go wake up, Liv,” she smiled at me before putting her cigarette out in the ashtray beneath the cabana outside. She called for the dogs before kissing me on the forehead and marching to the kitchen determined to make us a home-cooked meal to help alleviate the memory that had occurred hours before. I walk to the girls’ bedroom and wake Olivia gently. I let her know Nana is preparing us breakfast. I just don’t know what. We brush our teeth with fresh toothbrushes, ‘did she plan us coming too?’ I remember thinking then. A silly thought now as most adults try to stock up on necessities, I just wasn't aware then. I didn’t know it then but the two and half year run would end with this woman. For the next seven years I would wake up to the smell of coffee and cigarettes, and for the next eleven I would be given consistency. I would be pushed to do better, be better, but most importantly be a child. I would have all my needs met and would be given life skills that my parents weren’t yet prepared to offer me. I would join clubs and band, do community service, receive academic awards, explore my interests and identity. Be recognized for my humility, kindness, and authenticity! I would get into three out of the four colleges I was forced to apply to because at the time I had no plan and I listened to my Nana as any good kid would. Following her guidance I ended up at Sac State. I think back to being twelve and a half, how I struggled to let her parent independently for the first few years. Sometimes, when I’m not doing the best, I spend the day at her house. To remember the place where I was allowed to truly begin to grow. South Natomas, somewhere twenty minutes from my current school. I don’t think I would be here today if it wasn’t for the coffee, cigarettes, and consistency provided by a woman who held the faith of a mustard seed for me. I didn’t know it then but I do now at twenty-three—almost twenty-four, that all I envied from my cousins I would quickly receive and eventually in my adulthood what I envied of that of my titi. I’m not sure if it was the Universe, God’s, or Nana’s plan but I know eleven years ago is when I was placed in safe hands and I haven’t left them since.

 

Read more stories from the Beyond the System Writing Contest here.