Baby Steps In this post, I am going to give you a brief rendition of what my childhood was like. I lived in my grandmother's basement with my young parents and older brother for the first two years of my #life. I don't remember much from that time. I do remember being unable to correctly pronounce the names of two little characters from an educational children's book my mother used to read to us. My brother laughed at me for that. I decided to keep my mouth shut in the future. I remember sitting on the living room floor in the house we moved to next. I looked up to see my mother, standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, and wondering how her hair had become so curly in the short space of time she'd been out. It's also where I discovered real music. The first song I remember hearing is Smells Like Teen Spirit. I learnt that having a younger sibling means you don't get all the attention, but that was okay, because my older brother was there to look out for me. I once dropped my stuffed toy orangutan into a tiny stream of water. At the time, it was the biggest, scariest river to me, but my brother jumped in to save my orangutan. Another time, I lost my pink, heart shaped balloon with Minnie Mouse on. My brother had a circular balloon. It was blue, and in the centre was Goofy. I tried to catch my balloon but couldn't, so I promptly stopped at our stairs and cried. He watched my balloon for a second and then let go of his, taking my hand instead. With his other hand, he pointed at the sky and told me to look. We watched out balloons drift away and laughed heartily. There is nothing quite like the carefree nature of a toddler. We moved again, and I didn't make friends easily. The one friend I had, I lost on my first day of school. I never quite recovered. A year later, she and her new best friend were bullying me, and so was the girl whose mother was our teacher, and her father was the school principal. It wasn't fun. The others joined in sometimes. I don't remember much, tried to suppress everything I suppose. I do remember one glorious day, just before the summer holiday after the worst year I ever had in junior school, where I was sat in the centre of the schoolyard, telling y classmates I'd be rid of them by the end of the year. I called then something bad, but I can't remember exactly what. I had learnt long ago to keep my mouth shut, but when they said nasty things to me, I never hesitated to bite back. Saying bad things was nothing I worried much about, even if I got told off for it a lot. During the summer, my little brother and I went on a little trip on the ship if which my dad was the captain. He said things no child should ever hear one parent say about the other. Luckily, my little brother was spared. Then, three weeks after the summer holiday, I left. My brass instructor, an Englishman who'd lived here it years, came to say goodbye. He gave me a £10 note that I regret using to this very day. My nan saw me and my little brother off at the airport. We were travelling alone and were to meet our mum at Stansted. I was twelve and he was nine. I learnt, then, to take responsibility.