My little sister has a tendency of stating fairly random albeit blunt things as a way to start a conversation and I’m thinking of her as I share this story. Or, part of myself? I don’t know what this is, but I’m writing and it makes me happy to finally say that again.

This one time, for some time, I stayed in a shelter with my mom, step-dad, and four other siblings. It wasn’t for too long, maybe a couple of weeks at max.

I had to edit the first sentence of the paragraph because I initially typed “lived” instead of “stayed.” There wasn’t a way to live there because we had to move our belongings in and out each day. We could only spend evenings and overnights there.

We had to stay at this shelter because, and this is the story that floats amongst my family, someone intentionally tried to set our home aflame for insurance purposes. I lived in Black Oak, which is a neighborhood in Gary, Indiana.

Whenever I tell people this, that I’m from Gary, they automatically make a face. I used to hate it, but I’ve grown to expect and somehow appreciate it. I like surprising people. That’s what I appreciate, their surprised faces.

Black Oak was annexed by the city of Gary in 1976 after being unincorporated and unofficially associated with the city of Hammond. It’s the whitest neighborhood in Gary, with its own school district, library, and racist white people. Everyone was poor. Even the apparent well-off folks sent their kids to the same shitty schools we went to. There were still tiers of who was poorer when going to school. And because I had head lice so often, I was one of the dirty poor girls who were ranked lowest of the low.

When I was a child, I didn’t understand why so many houses were burned and abandoned. I still don’t really get it. Insurance, I guess but how many of those folks owned their home? Black Oak didn’t have a bank. Not that you need one in a town, but it’s one of the examples I have of it not being a thriving place.

I didn’t understand why someone would want to burn our house down. They weren’t completely successful, but the inside was covered in soot and completely uninhabitable. My brothers and I snuck into the house months after the fire to try and find my brother Rob’s beloved teddy bear Stanley. We found him melted and gross. Rob cried. I laughed because my younger brother laughed, but I’m sitting here in tears writing this, recalling how much Rob needed Stanley because of what he represented: consistency and comfort. Rob was older, maybe 13 when this happened. He was still a kid. I wish I could hug him.

I carry around a word search in my purse most days because sometimes writing is hard but my mind needs to be kept busy.

My mom’s blue pen would hover just above the page as she and I lay in her bed just before lights out at the shelter. She showed me her method of finding words by going down the list one at a time. She would circle words she found while searching for the next one on the list. I learned so many different words this way. We would sound them out together.

That’s what I remember when I look at word searches. When I tell people that I love them. It’s really that I love memory I have of my mom during that time, despite how fucking shitty it was to be staying in a shelter in the dead of winter.

My mom wrote a message on my Facebook wall for my birthday. She may have tried to call, but she should know her number is blocked still.

I look into my purse and flatten the curled page of the word search book I’m making my way through. I wonder if she thinks of that memory when she hovers over the pages, too.