When I reached my bedroom door, I turned around and shouted, “Look, I don’t want to talk! I don’t want you to talk to me!”
Then I shut myself in my room. I kept going back and forth in my mind, convincing myself I was tough and independent—I packed my bags and stuffed them underneath my bed, just in case he came into my room—while also crying uncontrollably, acting exactly like a little girl whose daddy had just walked out the door and wasn’t coming back. I felt like my heart had been stepped on, like my chest had been crushed. Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I decided what I needed to do next.
Meanwhile, my dad called DeCarlo and SheKera, thinking they would come talk some sense into me. But when they stopped by the house later, they just quietly slipped into my room, sat next to me on the bed, asked if I was okay, gave me a lot of support. They both said, “Get through this year, and then you’ll be at Baylor, away from all this.”
I cried all night. I think I knew nothing would ever be the same between me and my dad. I thought about throwing my packed bags in the car and just driving: away from him, away from school, away from everything. But I also knew I had a scholarship waiting for me in Waco. If I could just get to Baylor and hoop, then I could make it on my own, without him. So I called Ne’Keisha King, who was the assistant coach for my high school team, and told her everything that was happening, told her I couldn’t keep living under the same roof as my dad. She said I could come stay with her while I figured everything out.
At some point during the night, my mom came into my room to check on me. I showed her the bags underneath the bed and told her I was leaving the next day, going to stay with Coach King. She was sitting on the end of my bed and started crying. We were both crying. She didn’t want me to go, but she understood why I had to do it.
My dad left for work early the next morning. Despite his threats of taking away the car, a silver Dodge Magnum, he left it in the driveway. I carried my bags downstairs and put them into the car. My mom walked outside with me, and it was one of the saddest moments of my life. It felt like I was going off to war. I honestly didn’t know when, or if, I would ever come home. She broke down crying again, until she had no more tears left to cry. Then she gave me some money. DeCarlo came over, too, and slid me some cash. I hugged them both and got into the car.
When I got to Nimitz that morning, I went to see my criminal law teacher. The two of us were close, and I had talked to him throughout the year about how tough things were with my dad. I asked him if he could follow me home later, then give me a lift back to school, so I could leave the Dodge for my dad, because I would be staying with Coach King now. My teacher said yes, sure, anything I needed, and I felt a little better the next few hours. But as I drove back to my neighborhood that afternoon, I began stewing about everything my dad had said, how unfair he was being, how much I hated to hurt my mom by leaving home.
I parked at the clubhouse of our subdivision and called my dad. “You can come get your damn car,” I said. “It’s at the clubhouse.” And then I just hung up, didn’t even wait for his response. Nothing he could say would change my mind. I put my cell phone on the dashboard, so he couldn’t contact me, and left the keys in the cup holder. I got out of the car, slammed the door, and rode back to school with my teacher.
A few days later, Pier got me a new phone. My mom had the number, and we talked every day—my brother and sisters, too. Going to school and basketball practice felt the same as before; the difference was that when I got back to Coach King’s place, I could relax. I had a peace of mind that didn’t exist when I was in the same house as my dad. I could breathe easier, no longer tuned to the sound of his Hummer pulling into the driveway, as I braced for hostile interactions. Unfortunately, that new sense of calm lasted only about three weeks before he got my new cellphone number. I don’t know how he got it, but he did. And he started calling all the time, still saying the same things, that I was letting myself be influenced, that he didn’t want no gay-ass daughter. Sometimes I ignored his calls or would hang up as soon as he started in on me. But other times I would fight back, speak my mind, saying some variation of the following: “You don’t care about me. You act like I’m a different person, but I’m the same person I’ve always been. Ain’t nobody influencing me; you just don’t ever want to hear what I have to say. You say I’m not being myself, but you don’t even know who I am. You’re my dad, but you don’t even know who I am.”
None of it mattered. He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t hear me. The only thing that got his attention is when I ignored him completely. A few more weeks went by before he finally decided to change his tune.
“Can we just talk?” he asked when I actually answered one of his calls. “I just want to talk. I don’t want to fuss and fight.”
He started crying into the phone. But I was so angry and hurt—the walls I had built were thick and high—and I wanted to make him feel the kind of emptiness and pain I had been feeling.
So I hung up on him.
I HAD BEEN LIVING with Coach King for about six weeks when my dad showed up at Nimitz one day and tried to check me out of school. I was in the middle of my senior season, and I was playing better than ever. I’ve never cared much about stats—if my team is winning a lot of games, I figure I’m doing something right—but when I see the numbers from my senior year, I’m reminded of how far I had come in just a short time. I averaged 33 points, 15.5 rebounds, and 11.7 blocks a game. I actually had 25 blocks in our first game. That was crazy. I also dunked about 50 times that season. Best of all, our team would end up winning a regional championship, and we made it to the state tournament for the first time in school history, losing in the title game. I was on a roll with hoops, despite everything else going on in my life. So the last thing I needed was more drama with my dad. When someone from the main office pulled me out of class and told me he was there, I made it clear I didn’t want to see him. “No way,” I said. “I’m not going home with him. I’m going back to class.”
I had actually just seen him a few days before, on Senior Night, at my final home game for Nimitz. He had threatened to not show up, and he said he wouldn’t drive my mom, either. (She doesn’t feel comfortable driving.) Having her there was important to me, and he knew it. I think DeCarlo must have talked to him, because both my parents showed up that night. Before the game, the school had a little celebration honoring the seniors, and my mom and dad came onto the court for it. I had to give them balloons and flowers, but I ignored my dad and handed the stuff to my mom. It was so awkward, standing there with them, pasting a smile on my face for pictures. My dad looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world but inside that gym.
And now here I was, standing in the hall at school, facing the anxiety of having to see him again. When I refused to go meet him, he must have called DeCarlo on his way home, because my brother showed up at school later. “Baby girl, just come with me,” he said. “Just come talk to him for a little bit. And then I’ll bring you back to school.” I didn’t want to go, but I would do anything for my brother, so I got in the car with him and he drove me to the house. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, I put my head into my hands and burst into tears. I was crushed, just crushed. I used to be daddy’s little girl, and now I felt like someone he didn’t love or want anymore. Being around him, feeling his disappointment, was a constant reminder of what we had lost.
It was so hard walking into that house. But I did it. I went inside and talked to him. He was sitting in the living room, and I sat with him, and he began saying all these sweet things, about how he was going to let me be who I wanted to be. At first I shook my head, told him I didn’t believe him. But I felt worn down, and I missed my mom so much. And the more he kept talking—saying he was sorry, that he just wanted what was best for me, that he was frustrated we never talked anymore, that he wanted things to be right with us again—the more I wanted to believe things could be better with me and him. So I told him I would think about coming home.
I’m just not sure I can help it. I guess I’ll always be daddy’s little girl, wishing things could be the way they used to be.
RUNNING FREE
The drive from Houston to Waco is about three hours, depending on who is driving. I’ve made it in two and a half, but I have a bit of a heavy foot, as you might imagine (size 17 men’s shoe). The day my parents took me to Baylor for the beginning of my freshman season, we drove two cars. My dad led the way, driving his Hummer, and my mom and I followed behind in my Dodge Magnum, which was technically also his car, because he paid for it. I felt like I couldn’t get to campus fast enough; the miles ticked by so slowly. I just couldn’t wait to start this next part of my life, my big independence. I imagine that’s how most college freshmen feel, like they’re embarking on a great adventure, the whole world suddenly seeming within their reach. Mostly, though, I just wanted to be able to walk through the door every day without an inquisition about where I was going or where I had been, who I was hanging out with, when I would be back.
When we finally got to campus, we carried all my stuff into my dorm room. I was in a suite with the four other freshmen on the team; we each had our own room and shared a common space. Picture me standing there, bouncing from one foot to the next, antsy, like I had to pee—except what I really wanted was for my parents to leave. I was thinking to myself, Y’all can go now. Bye, bye. See ya! But I didn’t say that, obviously, because my mom was clearly struggling, not wanting to say good-bye to her baby. She immediately began unpacking my bags. She pulled out my sheets to make the bed. I was going to tell her not to worry about it, but she likes doing that stuff for me. If I had asked her to leave everything, she would have worried that my room would stay in disarray, bags sloppy and unpacked, nothing where I needed it. And she probably would have been right. Plus, I knew she wanted to delay the inevitable, stretch out our time together. So I let her set up my whole dorm room, even down to tucking my socks away in the drawer. I did not touch a bag or a piece of clothing. I just stood to the side with my dad, talking about superficial things like football and the weather. Once the last suitcase was stored in the closet and everything was squared away, Mom realized there was nothing left for her to do; nothing else needed her touch. I remember watching her and thinking she looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Finally she laced them together and looked at us with a shrug, as if to say, Everything is finished.
“I’ll walk you out,” I said to my parents. I think maybe they wanted me to invite them for lunch, but I would have spent the whole time checking my watch, wanting to be free of them, and they would have been eating slowly, hoping I’d invite them to stay for dinner, too. It was better to say good-bye quickly and cleanly, like pulling off a Band-Aid. We walked to the Hummer so I could send them off and get on with my day. But then, out of nowhere, a wave of emotion came over me. I felt like I had a basketball lodged in my throat. I looked at my dad, who had his hand on his brow, covering his eyes. He was doing the thing he does when he’s trying not to cry, puffing himself out, as if steeling himself. A tear came down his cheek, and seeing him so sad shocked me. I looked at my mom, who was a total goner, just dripping tears like a leaky faucet, her eyes bloodshot. She was a mess.
I really couldn’t say much, because I just wanted the moment to pass. I hugged them both, hard, and watched them climb into the Hummer. They were waving and blowing kisses. My chest was heaving, like I couldn’t breathe right, and I started crying, too. Standing there, in those few seconds, I felt pure loneliness—the kind you sometimes feel when you’re in transition and everything seems to be changing. I was watching my childhood drive away, and I wasn’t sure what college life had in store for me. Before the Hummer was out of sight, I turned and ran toward the dorm, stopping just around the corner from the parking lot. I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes and wiped away the tears. I took a few deep breaths, calming myself, then walked into the dorm to meet my new roommates.
“All right!” I said. “What are we doing now? Let’s go to the mall or something. Any parties tonight?”
PRESEASON TRAINING FOR BASKETBALL wasn’t that bad. But then again, I’m not one of those people who can’t sleep at night because they’re worrying about an important meeting or a big test—or, in my case, a killer early morning workout. I usually sleep like a baby, no matter what the next day holds. So even though I remember workouts being difficult while I was actually doing them, I didn’t walk around campus thinking about how hard everything was physically. When it comes to the pain of training, I have no short-term memory. I show up the next day and say, “What are we doing this time?”
But one workout does stand out in my mind: the timed mile from my freshman season. Before the first day of actual on-court basketball practice, everyone on the team has to run a mile in a certain amount of time, depending on what position you play. I’m not into distance running. I don’t really understand the concept of taking off from one spot, running for a while, then ending up exactly where you started. I’ll run all day on the court, because it serves a purpose. But running a mile for the sake of running a mile? That qualifies as “long distance” in my book—especially if you run it in skateboarding sneakers, which is exactly what happened to me.
In the days leading up to our final conditioning test, the coaches had reminded us to take our running sneakers from the locker room, because the gym would be closed on the morning of the timed mile. They had said it repeatedly: “Get your sneakers for the run. Don’t forget your sneakers. Everybody get your sneakers.” So of course I forgot my sneakers. They were locked away, along with my basketball sneakers, and I didn’t realize it until the morning of the run. I woke up around seven that day, because we had to be at the track by eight. And as I was getting dressed, I suddenly had a sinking feeling. I looked around the floor of my dorm room: there were clothes and books, a gym bag, but no running sneakers. All I had were a pair of flip-flops and my black Vans. Shit! I didn’t think Coach Mulkey would be too happy if I said I couldn’t run the mile because I didn’t have the right sneakers. That’s like saying, “The dog ate my homework.” So I made a quick decision: Screw it, I’ll run in my Vans. I grabbed them, sat on my bed, and laced them up as tightly as I could.
All five of us—me and the other freshmen—piled into my Dodge Magnum. As we walked to the car, one of my teammates said, “Um, Brittney, where are your shoes?”
“I left them in the gym,” I said, unlocking my car and settling into the driver’s seat. “I know you all said to get them, but I forgot. So I’m wearing these.”
My teammates laughed and rolled their eyes. They were already learning how I can be a little forgetful at times. But hey, at least I can improvise.
It was still kind of dark—the sun was just starting to rise—as we rolled toward the Baylor track, which is located off campus. (The school is now building a new track on campus.) We parked and walked toward the infield, where the coaches were waiting, wearing their Baylor polo shirts and sweats. I think we were all feeling a little uneasy, because this was the first chance for us to really prove ourselves to them, to show we were ready for college ball. Also, it’s not like any of us were excited to run the mile. It’s just one of those things you have to do before you can get to the good stuff and start hooping.
As the five of us made our wa
y to the starting line, some of the juniors and seniors on the team spotted my Vans and began laughing, giving me a hard time, saying things like “Freshman trying to run in those!” I played along, but the jokes just motivated me even more. I told myself if there are people in Africa who can run marathons barefoot, I can run a mile in a pair of Vans. Coach Mulkey had brought three guys to the track who would serve as our pacesetters, our rabbits, with each of them running a specific time, as fast as we all needed to go. The goal was 6:45 to 7:00 minutes for the guards, 7:30 for the forwards, and 8:00 for the post players like me. Kim explained that if we stayed near the guy pacing our group, we would make our time.
Each coach was holding a stopwatch, adding even more pressure to the whole thing. When it was time to run, I lined up on the inside lane, right in the front. I didn’t care that I was supposed to be slower than the guards. I had decided I was going to sprint that damn mile, and I didn’t care if I needed to be carried off the track afterward. There were more than fifteen of us, along with the guys, packed on the starting line. And when Kim gave us the signal—“Go!”—and all the coaches started their watches, I took off around the first corner like I was being chased by angry dogs.
We had done some longer sprint workouts in advance of the mile. Our strength coach took us through 100-yard and 200-yard repeats, just so we were prepared to run a little longer, because most of the other stuff we did was on the basketball court: quick and short, stop and start. After each lap that morning, each quarter mile, the coaches would call out how much time had passed, and whether we were on pace or needed to pick it up. I tried to ignore everything, including the time, and just ran as hard as I could. I kept a strong, steady pace through the first three laps, and once I hit the line again to start the fourth and final lap, I gave it everything I had.
In My Skin Page 7