Kyleen Alana Ojeda

I thought my parents would be the ones to teach me how to tie my

shoes. <PAUSE> I dont remember her name, or what she looked like,
but she was nice. She took care of my little (CUE IMAGE SISTER)
sister and I for a few months, but she wasnt our parents. <PAUSE>
I was born (CUE IMAGE LA HOUSE) and raised in West Covina,
Los Angeles. <BREATHE> My family didnt have much, but we had
each other, and that was something we could always depend on, until I
was five. <PAUSE> Living in that part of LA, you were bound to get
involved in some sketchy shit. Unfortunately, that was my dad.
<PAUSE> He knew we needed money, so he did what most parents in
that area did, he started dealing. <PAUSE> It wasnt uncommon, it
didnt come as a shock to us. You were either the consumer or producer
of this. <PAUSE> My mom was surprised though, being a devoted
Apostolic Christian, that was something she clearly didnt want
associated with her family. <BREATHE>
I dont know who told CPS, a family friend, a neighbor, or
someone from the church, but they showed up one day. <PAUSE> They
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were asking to speak to us alone. They asked if he was abusive, asked to

see any bruises or cuts he mightve been responsible for. We said no. My
dad wasnt abusive. <PAUSE> I guess thats the stereotype though: if
you sell dope, if you have tattoos, you must be abusive too. <PAUSE>
Our testimonies werent enough for them to leave us alone. No one
wanted to foster (CUE IMAGE SIBLINGS) five kids, so they separated
us. We werent in the foster home for long before my mom got us back.
We go home, excitement masking the sadness. <PAUSE> But dad
wasnt there. Wheres dad? one of us asked.
Hes going to be away for a while, well try to visit him, dont
worry. <PAUSE> It was one visit, for Christmas. It was bittersweet for
my mom, but I was six, only thinking about seeing my dad at the time,
<PAUSE> not the reason behind only being able to see him once a year.
(CUE IMAGE FLYER) <PAUSE>
The change from an urban neighborhood to a suburban
neighborhood was an extreme one. It wasnt just the houses. The people
were different there, they stuck to themselves, only worried about
themselves. <PAUSE> The houses here were run down, paint peeling.
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You can see the struggle of the families represented through how shabby
their houses were. Their personality showing through the decor hanging
above their porches, toys scattered across the yard. But the people were
nicer here, they cared, they understood. <PAUSE>
I remember my mom telling us that we were going to move to San
Diego. I was seven, almost eight. The drive was silent. We knew what
we were leaving behind. My dad, still in the court ordered mens home,
the memory of what happened two years ago. Our house, the social
workers voice , a ghost echoing through the family room.
I remember receiving letters and gifts from my dad on my birthday,
the stuffed animals neatly tucked into the box next to the envelope.
Birthdays werent joyful, neither were holidays. <PAUSE> I know my
mom tried to make things seem as if they hadnt changed, Im grateful
for that, but her forced smile and the empty seat at the table werent
anything but a reminder of how much time was spent without my dad.
<PAUSE> My mom was gone a lot during this time. I dont know what
she was doing, we dont talk about it. <PAUSE>

This is awkward. This doesnt feel right. He doesnt feel like my

dad, that cant be my dad. I dont know him anymore. <PAUSE>
3 years later he shows up. <PAUSE> Hes aged. His full black
wavy hair now thinned and greying. I felt really distant from him, like
we were strangers being introduced for the first time. I shouldve ran
into his arms <PAUSE> , thankful for having him back in my life, but
we just stared. The wall I built up in those few years obviously holding
us back, preventing us from reconnecting the bond we once had. I didnt
talk to him, <PAUSE> then again, I didnt really talk to anyone.
Everyday was like this.
Good morning little lady hed say, every time he would see me
before work. Id respond with silence. I dont remember when we
became close again. I guess my stubbornness to try and hate my dad
wasnt as strong as I thought, or maybe I just missed him. Its weird, you
would think Id be closer to my mom than my dad with him being gone
for that long, but I'm not. We dont talk. Always just her asking How
was school? and me responding with a one word answer, not wanting to
share my thoughts with her. I always want to share my thoughts with my
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dad. Hes my favorite person to talk to <PAUSE> , he understands my

love for art and music, shit, he supports my art, thats a lot more than
what I could get from my mom.
Weve always been a part of the church. (CUE IMAGE CALVARY
APOSTOLIC) Calvary Apostolic was the only thing that helped my
mom stay strong for us and not break down. That was in Los Angeles
though. (CUE IMAGE SOUTH BAY) South Bay was a different story,
at least for me.
I wasn't a part of them. I was deemed "ghetto" or "imperfect" the
second I stepped into that church. My mom said this was a new start for
us, that no one would know what we went through. <PAUSE> We'd be
able to restart. (CUE IMAGE FLYER)
I did all I could to try and fit in with them. I wore the long skirts,
styled my mid-thigh length hair in all these different hairstyles, I tried.
I didn't start to feel like I fit in till I joined the praise team and the church
choir. Yet, I was still an outsider. It seemed like my past decided my
future. <PAUSE>

I came to church, I think it was one of those rare times I went just
to go. My used to be mid-thigh length hair was now mid-back. All I felt
were stares. I didn't want to be there anymore. <PAUSE> I was even
more of an outsider. I went up to one of my closest friends in the church.
The conversation ended a lot sooner than it would've before. She wasn't
my friend. It hurt. I had no one. I was alone again.
I started doubting my decisions,<PAUSE> if I was even worthy of
being at the church. I spent the rest of the service in the bathroom. I was
a backslider. The only people that ever backslid were past drug addicts.
"Was I as bad as them?"
I tried to keep going. I wore my hair up so no one would see that I
had sinned. I went to church every Sunday and Wednesday. It then
became just Sundays. Then every other Sunday. Sooner or later it
became only going on Mother's day, Easter, and the Christmas service.
Now, not at all. <PAUSE>
I was 14. I went to church on Mothers day. I figured that since I
hadnt been in a really long time that I should go, for her. I got ready,
put on some nice jeans, a simple shirt, my naturally curly hair reaching
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my shoulders. <PAUSE> Walking into the lobby was a challenge for me.
The overused smell of potpourri hits my nose the instant I walked in.
The too bright lights hurting my already squinty eyes. I can hear the
praise team warming up. The sound of heels clicking as girls run back
and forth, attempting to perfect their too tightly curled hair. I was an
obvious outcast. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I didn't belong. It's not
that I wanted to, I just didn't want to be such an object for stares. I
regretted wearing pants. <PAUSE> I regretted wearing makeup even
though I knew my self esteem wasn't high enough to go without it. I
regretted not putting my hair up. They could all see, everyone knew I
wasn't holy enough, pure enough. I was damaged. <PAUSE>
Their routine hadnt changed. Service started off as usual. The
women in the church stood in the back of the pulpit, softly singing
Thats Just the Way the Father is while the pastor or a preacher,
obviously a man, said an extremely misogynistic comment, made some
offensive reference towards gays or how things of the world are a sin. I
shut my mouth, I knew what they were saying was wrong, hypocritical
even.
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Towards the end of service they have prayer time. I sat alone in my
seat, deciding not to participate in this since I didnt feel like I believed
anymore. <PAUSE> The pastor, Arthur, comes up to me and sits down. I
was polite, I may have left my religion behind but I will never leave my
kindness. Hi sweetie. How have you been? he asks.
Hey! Im really good. How are you? I respond, a little too polite.
He placed his hand on my shoulder. As he gives it a little squeeze, he
softly says Im praying for you. <PAUSE>
I laugh awkwardly. Not wanting to be rude, I respond with Oh no!
Im good. Thank you though. <PAUSE>
You dont seem good. You havent been to church. I can see your
lifestyle decisions hurting those around you. Come back to church. We
can help you. <PAUSE>
Im sorry, but Im really okay. Im not here for you, Im here for
my mom. <PAUSE> (CUE IMAGE DRAWING)