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- copy right 2019 - Living Press Magazine - all rights reserved

Prison Living press P.o. Box 10302 Glendale, AZ 85318 Phone # 602-384-7591 Email prisonlivingmagazines@yahoo.com

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Beautifully Unbroken…
My Story by Tiffany H
A lot of people call me heartless, so I’m ‘bout to give you the
background of how I became that way. Man, I can’t
remember a time when we weren’t poor. Don’t get me wrong,
we were filthy rich in love and loyalty, but in dollars our
wealth didn’t amount to much. I lived with my Mama, well,
my great grandmother actually, but I call her Mama. My real
mother is always in and out of jail and never around, and
even when she is I wish she wasn’t. I have no feelings toward
her. My Mama tells me I’m wrong for that, that I should love
her since she’s my “mom,” but she’s not, my grandma is my
mother, the one who stood by me in all my struggles, made
me feel as though I was somebody, and provided the real
parental love “that other woman” didn’t. Therefore, that other
woman is lower to me than an enemy. Not having parents
around, the people who look like you, affects the way you look
at yourself. I would not come to terms with my appearance
until late in life, if I even have now. But some things I learned
along the way helped me a great deal with the missing pieces. Another struggle: we’ve lived everywhere. In little apartments, abandoned houses,
with family members, in our car—I mean everywhere. But fast forward that, leaves change colors, I’m on the block, you already know which
one, no daddy around, so it’s time for me to find that male figure, someone to fill that void. Instead, I find nothing but trouble. Too much time
on my hands and growing up too fast, Mama sick and we need money, that’s all I knew. Not surviving was not an option so I became one of
those statistic kids they warn you about. No, not on a corner or in a bed, but hustling all the same. Knew I was tired of seeing my Mama cry
herself to sleep every night, tired of doing something like crying myself, but bitterness and loneliness had dried up my tears a long time ago.
Maybe I did cry then. I can’t remember now, that was too many lifetimes ago. My soul has gone through too many transformations since then.
My saving grace from getting caught up in all the drama that had engulfed my life, from becoming a copy of all the mistakes my mother made,
was my knowledge. Knowledge. The most powerful word I know. My ticket out, my way out. My thinking brain is my way to escape from
everybody and everything. The moment I found out I was smart, eighth grade, I think, when they were telling us that everybody in the class,
except for me, was in great jeopardy of not graduating. That jumpstarted my self-appreciation. Or, maybe it was the fact that I knew, I better
have good grades or else my Mama would have my butt. I like to think it was all me, and when I look back I know that it was my own
determination that got me through. Knowledge let me know that I was somebody, a reckoning force that sooner or later somebody was going to
have to deal with. All before then I was reading, reading, reading, anything I could get my hands on. I have read hundreds of books, some I can’t
even remember, just my brain steadily absorbing everything it could, until I finally took a breath. I realized I could pick up a book and what was
in it might help me get out of the predicament of either going crazy or not making it that, up until then, I thought were the only options.
Knowledge became my friend. Knowledge kicked in when my friends asked for help on homework. Knowledge made me accept myself.
Knowledge made me focus. Knowledge taught me that it was okay that nobody around me looked like I did because that just made it harder for
anybody to clone my greatness. Knowing that people of all shapes, sizes, and abilities can do anything enforced my driving will to succeed
because now my features or my thought of being ugly didn’t matter. Shoot, look at Oprah. And the fact that I didn’t have real parents, lived with
a sick grandmother, and knew too much for my time—I learned that was all part of a greater good. I realized that if I could just harness all that
anger, frustration, and knowledge into something good, there’s no telling what might happen. It took a while, but my thoughts started to shift.
Learning about all the mistakes made since the beginning of time taught me that everybody makes mistakes, and while I don’t forgive my
mother for the hell and strife that I had to live through because of her, I am more aware of the many people who do the same things she does
every day. I learned that sometimes you just have to say, “All right, we don’t like that it’s happening, but how can we prevent it from happening
again?” And then do everything you can to prevent it. I knew that I hated the person that my mother had turned out to be, but my main focus
was making sure I did not end up like her. My goals and dreams had nothing to do with that aspect of life. Now don’t get me wrong, this is not a
pretty story with a happy ending. Just a twig on one of the mighty branches of my life. So after we spruce this redwood up a bit, I’ll let you know
how far down I think the roots will go

- copy right 2019 - Living Press Magazine - all rights reserved

Prison Living press P.o. Box 10302 Glendale, AZ 85318 Phone # 602-384-7591 Email prisonlivingmagazines@yahoo.com
Beautifully
Unbroken…
My Story by Tiffany H
A lot of people call me heartless, so I’m ‘bout to give you
the background of how I became that way. Man, I can’t
remember a time when we weren’t poor. Don’t get me
wrong, we were filthy rich in love and loyalty, but in
dollars our wealth didn’t amount to much. I lived with my
Mama, well, my great grandmother actually, but I call her
Mama. My real mother is always in and out of jail and
never around, and even when she is I wish she wasn’t. I
have no feelings toward her. My Mama tells me I’m
wrong for that, that I should love her since she’s my
“mom,” but she’s not, my grandma is my mother, the one
who stood by me in all my struggles, made me feel as
though I was somebody, and provided the real parental
love “that other woman” didn’t. Therefore, that other
woman is lower to me than an enemy. Not having parents
around, the people who look like you, affects the way you
look at yourself. I would not come to terms with my
appearance until late in life, if I even have now. But some
things I learned along the way helped me a great deal
with the missing pieces. Another struggle: we’ve lived
everywhere. In little apartments, abandoned houses, with
family members, in our car—I mean everywhere. But fast
forward that, leaves change colors, I’m on the block, you
already know which one, no daddy around, so it’s time for
me to find that male figure, someone to fill that void.
Instead, I find nothing but trouble. Too much time on my
hands and growing up too fast, Mama sick and we need
money, that’s all I knew. Not surviving was not an option
so I became one of those statistic kids they warn you
about. No, not on a corner or in a bed, but hustling all the
same. Knew I was tired of seeing my Mama cry herself to
sleep every night, tired of doing something like crying
myself, but bitterness and loneliness had dried up my
tears a long time ago. Maybe I did cry then. I can’t
remember now, that was too many lifetimes ago. My soul
has gone through too many transformations since then.
My saving grace from getting caught up in all the drama
that had engulfed my life, from becoming a copy of all the
mistakes my mother made, was my knowledge.
Knowledge. The most powerful word I know. My ticket
out, my way out. My thinking brain is my way to escape
from everybody and everything. The moment I found out
I was smart, eighth grade, I think, when they were telling
us that everybody in the class, except for me, was in great
jeopardy of not graduating. That jumpstarted my self-
appreciation. Or, maybe it was the fact that I knew, I
better have good grades or else my Mama would have my
butt. I like to think it was all me, and when I look back I
know that it was my own determination that got me
through. Knowledge let me know that I was somebody, a
reckoning force that sooner or later somebody was going
to have to deal with. All before then I was reading,
reading, reading, anything I could get my hands on. I
have read hundreds of books, some I can’t even
remember, just my brain steadily absorbing everything it
could, until I finally took a breath. I realized I could pick
up a book and what was in it might help me get out of the
predicament of either going crazy or not making it that,
up until then, I thought were the only options. Knowledge
became my friend. Knowledge kicked in when my friends
asked for help on homework. Knowledge made me accept
myself. Knowledge made me focus. Knowledge taught me
that it was okay that nobody around me looked like I did
because that just made it harder for anybody to clone my
greatness. Knowing that people of all shapes, sizes, and
abilities can do anything enforced my driving will to
succeed because now my features or my thought of being
ugly didn’t matter. Shoot, look at Oprah. And the fact that
I didn’t have real parents, lived with a sick grandmother,
and knew too much for my time—I learned that was all
part of a greater good. I realized that if I could just
harness all that anger, frustration, and knowledge into
something good, there’s no telling what might happen. It
took a while, but my thoughts started to shift. Learning
about all the mistakes made since the beginning of time
taught me that everybody makes mistakes, and while I
don’t forgive my mother for the hell and strife that I had
to live through because of her, I am more aware of the
many people who do the same things she does every day.
I learned that sometimes you just have to say, “All right,
we don’t like that it’s happening, but how can we prevent
it from happening again?” And then do everything you
can to prevent it. I knew that I hated the person that my
mother had turned out to be, but my main focus was
making sure I did not end up like her. My goals and
dreams had nothing to do with that aspect of life. Now
don’t get me wrong, this is not a pretty story with a happy
ending. Just a twig on one of the mighty branches of my
life. So after we spruce this redwood up a bit, I’ll let you
know how far down I think the roots will go
Prison Living Magazine
Prison Living Magazine