Part of the Voice I Almost Lost – Blog #5
by Alana Pierre Curry
By the time we arrived in Dallas, it was clear: this move wasn’t part of the plan. Not for my mom. Not for me. But we were there—new city, new school, and still no solid ground beneath us.
We started off living with family, since there was no real plan in place. Dallas wasn’t a “fresh start.” It was a reroute after life in Louisiana fell apart. My cousin, who had made the move with us, initially stayed elsewhere but eventually moved in when we found a house to rent. His presence brought comfort, at least for a while. But the bigger the city, the bigger the temptations—and I’ll leave that right there.
Starting over, again, became my new normal.
It was my last year of elementary school—sixth grade—but unlike most of my classmates, I was the new kid. They had known each other since kindergarten. I found one friend, but even that didn’t last. Before seventh grade started, we moved again. New neighborhood. New school. New faces. Again.
Would I ever get to keep people in my life?
Back-to-school shopping was a big deal at that age—especially entering middle school. But this time around, it was barely a whisper. My mom was covering most of the bills on her own. Meanwhile, my stepfather was busy playing “keeping up with the Joneses,” spending his paycheck on himself while my mom and I got by on far less.
I’ll never forget when he took me to a house—yes, a house—with racks of clothes inside. He told me to pick out some jeans. That was my “back-to-school shopping.” One stop. One brand: Braxton jeans. If you know, you know. If you don’t? Let’s just say Braxton jeans were not made for girls with curves—especially not in the ’80s.
Big hips, thighs, and a growing sense of shame? Braxton jeans said: nope.
Nothing fit.
And instead of trying a different store, offering another option, or even acknowledging the issue, he flipped the narrative. Suddenly, I was the one who “didn’t want anything.” There’s a big difference between nothing fits and I don’t want anything. But for him, it was all the same. I walked away with nothing. Not one new outfit for the school year.
I wore what I had gotten for Christmas the year before. My mom tried to reassure me. “But that’s what they’re wearing now,” she said. It reminded me of how she used to tease my grandmother—“Who are they, Mama?”—because this? This wasn’t it.
Day one of school…the judgment was immediate. The looks. The laughs. Not behind my back, but straight to my face.
But I had one refuge: choir.
I joined in sixth grade and continued through middle school. Singing became my safe place. I loved it. I needed it. It was the only time I felt connected to something, to myself.
Academically, I held my own. I did well in most subjects—except math. Algebra? They could’ve kept it. Seriously.
Much like fourth grade, seventh and eighth weren’t my favorite years. The friendships didn’t stick. The environment felt cold—literally and figuratively. The classrooms had no windows. None. And the only time I felt like my classmates and I truly bonded was on the day of the Challenger explosion. A tragedy brought us together—if only for a moment.
Then came another move.
This time, we were leaving behind the only familiarity I’d started to build in Dallas. I knew high school was next, but I thought—just maybe—I’d start with at least a few familiar faces. A little bit of continuity.
Nope.
New home. New district. New school. New people.
Again.