Part of the Voice I Almost Lost – Blog #4
by Alana Pierre Curry
After everything that had unfolded, I was finally back in the comfort of my safe space—my grandparents’ home. Returning to Louisiana for the third grade brought with it a calm I didn’t even know I had missed. I re-enrolled in private school, this time with the added structure of a Catholic education. My grandparents were deeply involved in the church, and I had already sat through many “Come, Lord Jesus” meetings before officially moving in again. Church didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a connection.
Maybe it was the way people respected my grandparents. Or maybe it was just that, at that age, I didn’t yet know how to identify judgment. But there was a warmth in that small town.
When we drove down Anne Street, my grandfather would wave out the window to nearly everyone sitting on their porches. That sense of community, of ease, allowed me to breathe again. I could start coming out of the shell I had crawled into during my time in Houston.
I reconnected with my summer friends—we ran around playing hopscotch, kickball, and made up dance routines in front yards and game rooms in someone’s home. My best friend at the time was an amazing dancer, and we spent hours rehearsing our moves to Michael Jackson’s Beat It. I wanted to be as good as her. I was about eight or nine, and joy came easy in those moments. The rule was to be home by the time the streetlights came on. I usually made it… usually.
There was still something missing, though. Something unspoken.
I had no relationship with my biological father. He lived barely fifteen minutes away, though I didn’t know that at the time. In my mind, he might as well have been a thousand miles away—because surely, if he was close, he would have come. I last saw him when I was two, yet somehow, I idolized him. I built up this fantasy: that if he were in my life, everything would be perfect. He hadn’t hurt me, so I made him into a hero.
People in town would say, “You look just like your dad’s side of the family,” and I would smile, tucking that into my imagined version of who he was. I didn’t ask why he wasn’t around—I just created the story I needed. It would be another decade before I would hear from him.
At the same time, I continued to reject the idea of calling my stepfather “Dad.” My mother tried to encourage it, but I couldn’t. I knew too much about him. I couldn’t give that title to someone who caused my mother pain. I was her confidant far too young. And calling him anything other than his first name, felt like a betrayal of that bond.
Still, that third grade year with my grandparents was good. We played spades and Monopoly, visited family, went to church, and I even had my first slow dance at a school event—yes, in the third grade.
I spoke to my mom on the phone regularly and felt like I had some stability. In my mind, this was home now.
But then came the call. After the summer, I would return to Houston—to the same school where I had been bullied in the second grade. I begged to stay. My grandparents wanted me to stay. But my mom had other plans.
And here is where the memories get murky.
I have almost no recollection of my fourth-grade year. As an adult, I’ve come to understand that some parts of my past are missing for a reason. My mind has tucked them away for safety. I know that during that time, my body continued to change. I had already started wearing a bra. My stepfather began calling me “thunder thighs” and compared my “long” arms to an orangutan. What the actual hell?
Most of the women in my family were shapely—hips, thighs, curves. Today, that’s often celebrated. But as a fourth grader, it was a source of shame. I felt exposed. I wanted to disappear…a theme on repeat!
Thankfully, the summer after fourth grade brought me back to Louisiana—back to safety, back to my grandparents, back to my childhood friends.
Then something unexpected happened.
My mom called and asked my grandparents to enroll me in school there again. I had already packed my things to return to Houston, but now I was staying. At first, I was ecstatic. But the reason soon became clear: my stepfather had been terminated from his job after multiple women accused him of sexual harassment.
He decided we would move to Louisiana so he could attend culinary school. A noble idea, perhaps—but it came with no income. My mom, who had worked at the same company he did, now a teacher, carried the weight of our household on a single, modest salary.
They rented a house in the same small town as my grandparents. The move to another state did not change the womanizing ways, and it didn’t take long for my stepfather’s behavior to reach their ears. They voiced their concerns.
My mother pulled away—maybe out of shame, or fear, or pride. The result was distance. Even though we lived in the same town, I hardly saw my grandparents that year.
We struggled financially. We struggled emotionally. My mother began to shelter herself from gossip and whispers. But I noticed it all.
School became my safe space. Public school in Louisiana felt nothing like public school in Houston. I could breathe there. I could learn. I could pretend everything was fine.
That year also, one of my stepfather’s cousins from Houston came to live with us. He was grown, but he became my friend—my relief. He was like a big kid and made me laugh. And for a bit, our home didn’t feel so heavy.
Until the next announcement.
We were moving again. This time, to Dallas. My stepfather had overstayed his welcome in that small town and decided we needed a fresh start. I was leaving behind my grandparents—again—and all the little pieces of peace I had managed to gather.
Cowboy hats, big city lights, and a brand new school. Was I ready for it? I didn’t have a choice.