By Patrick Hardeman: A deeper look inside the book – In and Out of Darkness

There’s something haunting about a child having to plot out how to sneak food – not for mischief, but for survival. That was me, creeping through a house at 2 a.m., not because I wanted to be a problem, but because my stomach refused to forget it was empty. It wasn’t every night, but those nights I was hungry? They left a mark. Hunger has a way of hollowing more than your belly. It takes your trust, your sense of belonging, and your belief that someone – anyone – has your back.

The house I mainly grew up in seemed to have hated my very existence. Not tolerated me – but hated me. I was my mother’s child, and that alone made me a target in that household. I was raised in the South Side of Chicago, in the home of my father’s parents. And while that man didn’t act like a father by choice, he lived there on occasion and made it very clear he wasn’t taking an active role in my life. See, my father was convinced by my grandmother, who didn’t want to be replaced, that I couldn’t have been his child. He was my grandmother’s pride and joy, and she identified through him.

Despite how sorry of a man he was towards his son’s he had a deep love for his mother. He also had a strong work ethic. As for me, he had nothing but dismissals. My father was not going to ignore the advice of his mother. He down-talked everything I dreamed of becoming. He wouldn’t attend a single school or sporting event for me – but he’d show up front and center for my cousin or his girlfriend’s kids. Witnessing that my experience was orchestrated by choice was a hard pill to swallow.

Then again, he only visited the house on random occasions for mother-approval or desperation. Anyway, my grandmother was Irish. My grandfather, Native-Black from Mississippi. That made my father light-skinned, with long curly hair – white-passing from a distance, until you knew. My younger brother resembled our father when he was younger, being of a lighter skin tone with similar facial features. I, on the other hand, came out a darker skin tone with wavy hair and taller- an identity that made me too much and not enough all at once. I didn’t look like him, and in a house built on king-on-the-mountain ideals, the bottom wasn’t pretty.

On the rare occasions I stayed with my mother – things weren’t any better, actually much worse. She locked her preferred food in a closet and kept me locked out of more than just meals. I felt I received the worst of her anger, especially when I asked the wrong question like asking a question. But, even deeper than the abusive beatings was the emotional contradiction: she had desperately wanted a daughter as a companion. Tried three times and ended up with three boys instead. I was the oldest – and in her eyes, the enemy.

She made sure my brother and I carried the weight of that disappointment. I became responsible for her children while I was still a child myself. She loved to say, “I brought you into this world” – as if that was reason enough for us to owe her our lives, money, and dignity. That meant handling her responsibilities, being her shield, and protecting my younger brothers not just from the dangers of the city but from the dysfunction of our own bloodline. While I was still fighting to survive, I had to become the protector. And our mother was absolutely vicious. She punished and beat us for every feeling she had in resentment for her personal existence. To this day, she plays the victim to why her children refuse to be in her life; despite getting away with trying to kill us on several occasions.

The saying goes, “crap rolls downhill.” Every missed opportunity, every lost dream, every regret they carried – they dumped it on us. I was their punching bag for years with frustrations they were too cowardly or ill equipped to confront in themselves. And the irony? Crosses on the walls. Bible studies. Sunday sermons. Bible verses and praying over meals I wasn’t even allowed to eat at times. But I was forced to know the Bible and be thankful.

There are so many churches… yet  minimal corresponding values from its members and clergy. In and Out of Darkness.

Time and time again, I’ve risked myself to protect others – the innocent, the vulnerable – even when I was still bleeding from wounds nobody cared to see. Maybe I do it because I know what it feels like to be left defenseless. Maybe because I believe no one should be born into survival mode. But what I do know is that no one should have to ask for help when you know they need it.

What baffles me is the way some people – often wrapped in privilege and protected by systems that fail the rest of us – get angry when we call out the injustice. When we point to the rot. They act like it’s an attack on them personally. We have nothing to do with your deserved guilt. I didn’t see them when I had to survive a family that beat down brilliance? Where were they when I dodged both street life and the condescension of teachers who couldn’t see past my skin tone or zip code? Similar to the badges on uniforms or undercover officers, who provided fear instead of safety?

One thing my upbringing taught me: don’t wait around for empathy. If adults could use a child as a scapegoat to soothe their own cages, then I learned early – no one’s coming to save me. And because of that, I’ve never stopped moving forward. Never stopped trying. Never stopped giving. Even when the world seems to rarely give back in the land of take all you can.

Too many people say, “they didn’t know better.” I don’t buy that. Nobody wants the inflicted pain they’ve dished out to others to come back on themselves. So don’t tell me you “didn’t know.” You knew. You just didn’t care until it affected you. Accountability will come – maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. – but it will. And maybe it will come to who you care about the most. Wouldn’t you rather face it now, having a clean conscience, versus later, when the interest has compounded beyond what your soul can afford?

So I leave you all with this: Why does the majority of society – family, government, police officers, teachers, including witnesses – use more time and effort making excuses for the perpetrators than actually protecting the innocent?

I hope, in your time of need, you get treated exactly how you’ve treated – or protected – others ten-fold.

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