Taken from Humans of New York

“My mother came to New York from Alabama at the age of nineteen. She had nothing but a high school diploma. She almost didn’t make it. There was so much pressure because she was all alone. Later in life she came clean.
She told me that she’d gotten so depressed that she turned on the gas one night. But my brother and I started crying in the crib. And she was so touched that she decided to keep going. She became a nurse at Lenox Hill hospital. She was married three times. Three sets of children. Each time her husband claimed she wouldn’t make it without him. Each time she said ‘Go on ahead.’

She taught us all the proverbs. She taught us to love ourselves. The punishments could be harsh. Sometimes she’d go at us with the extension cord. But I always knew there was a steak dinner waiting for me at the end. She was only hard on me because she wanted me to succeed, which I never did. Thirty years on the street. Twenty years addicted to crack. But she never gave up on me. Even during the darkest times, whenever I showed up, she’d open the door. She’d cook me a meal. She’d let me get warm. She’d let me shower. But she’d never give me a dime. And I always had to leave.

But on the way out, she’d always say: ‘I love you Freddy, no matter what you do.’ We had ten good years together after I got clean. She’d come to some of my programs. She’d tell me how proud she was that I turned my life around. The last time I saw her, when she was lying in the hospital, with one hundred percent cancer, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her.
And she said: ‘I love you Freddy.’ Those were her last words.
Two days later she passed. She didn’t wheeze, or sigh, or scream, or grunt.
She just went to sleep.”

“Drugs are ‘cunning, baffling, and powerful.’ They teach us that in NA.
Drugs can change your soul. I’ve seen it happen to so many people. But through twenty years of crack addiction, I always maintained my sense of self. I took so many beatings from drug dealers.
I had my skull fractured, my nose broken, I lost an eye. I was shot twice with a 44 magnum at point blank range.
But despite all these afflictions, despite all that darkness, I was able to maintain my sanity and self-respect. I’d never rape anyone. Wouldn’t attack anyone. Would never rob with a gun or a knife. Wouldn’t yell, or scream, or frighten people. That’s not who I was. I never forgot my name. I never forgot my birthday.
I used to go to the library, and open the encyclopedia, and memorize all the muscles and nerves and organs. I wanted to document myself. I could always locate my sternohyoid. And my thyrohyoid. I’ve always known my human worth. I think so much of that came from my mother. There’s a word called ‘superego,’ and it means how you’re trained by your parents and stuff like that.
It’s the thing that guides you.
I can still hear my mother’s voice talking to me today. Telling me to take care of myself. And to respect myself.
Saying: ‘You’re a good person, Frederick.’ That’s one thing she always did.
She always called me by my name. Even when I let her down. Even when I stole from her. Even when the whole world was ignoring me.
She never called me ‘son.’ Never ‘boy.’ Never ‘idiot.’ She always called me Frederick.
And she told me that I'd always been a good person.”