On a personal note. The life of one black mother and her son... Me.

Paul used to go out on Friday nights. Winter, spring, summer and fall. He use to meet with his friends. (He has an international group of friends. Haitian, Chinese, Native American, American, Trinbagonian and Vietnam.)  From the moment he left home I used to remember the teenage years when he left home, I would be worried but he was always home before eleven at nights. He hit 22 and he would come home the next day. The first time he did it I was worried and I told him to call to let us know he would be home late. He did at times and when he didn’t I used to be worried. I would call him and he didn’t answer. I couldn’t sleep so I watched TV all night. His father would ask every now and then, if I heard from him and the answer was always no.

One Friday night when he was out he called around twelve thirty. They were in China town having dinner at a Chinese restaurant. While he was talking to me I could hear lots of laughter. I knew he was okay so I told him that I was hanging up, but to call when he was on his way home. After he hang up I decided I was no longer going to stay up and be worried about him, I was going to leave him in the hands of the LORD and go and sleep. That night I fell asleep and got up three thirty. When I was walking towards his bedroom, I was wondering if he was home because he did not call again, but the moment I got to the corridor, I saw his tee shirt and jeans on the floor then his sneakers by the front door. I was happy he was home but the clothes on the floor were a problem. I picked them up and was saying to Harold that I have to speak to him about that when he got up.
Harold said, “Be happy that he is home and safe and he did something to make you smile and not cry. For three weeks he hasn’t been out. He said that he is not in the mood… too much craziness out there at nights.