"Growing Up on Schley Street: Music, Missteps & Miracles"

"Growing Up on Schley Street: Music, Missteps & Miracles"

Despite everything, I wouldn’t trade growing up on Schley Street in New Jersey for anything in the world. My teenage years were full of adventure, laughter, and life lessons that still echo in my heart today.

Things only got better when my baby sister came back home at age 11. She had been living in the rural South with our grandmother, and adjusting to the fast-paced northern world wasn’t easy—especially for her. But I was overjoyed that she was finally home. Mom was beyond happy.

Soon after, our family grew again. Her name was Ann. I remember the day her social worker brought her to us—frail, frightened, and unsure. The moment I saw her, I knew I would always love and protect her. It was as if God had hand-delivered her to us. Ann was just a year younger than my sister Terri, and they quickly became inseparable. What started as a temporary placement turned into a lifetime of love.

Mom adored Ann. It felt like God had restored a piece of her heart through this little girl. She fit so naturally into our family that making it official was the only next step. Our home was full, our family was complete, and joy overflowed.

Christmas was magical. Our tree was always bursting with presents—you couldn't even see the bottom branches. Gifts spilled out across the floor, and laughter filled every room. Ann was the biggest jokester of all—she could find humor in anything. Her laughter, I realize now, was her armor. And somehow, it healed all of us too.

I often look back and long for those days—the simplicity, the freedom, the closeness. I long for that version of my family before life started to infect our individual soil with different pesticides. Slowly, our once-beautiful garden began to look unrecognizable. That’s the thing about tilling a garden—you have to tend to each flower’s specific needs, and if you’re not careful, weeds you never meant to plant start growing.

But it wasn’t just family that made my Schley Street days special—it was my friends too.

My crew—Kelly, Jammie, and me—were always up to something. Skating, bowling, sneaking into college parties, riding our bikes, and clowning around on the block. My sisters tried to tag along. Sometimes I let them. Other times, I got annoyed like big sisters do. I didn’t see it as admiration back then—I saw it as aggravation. Now I wish I had told them more often how amazing they were, just as they were. I wish I had warned them to be more mindful of the invaders trying to plant weeds in their gardens.

And then, there was music—my true escape. Music has always been my therapy. It soothed my soul and gave rhythm to my joy. If there was a party, I was there, dancing my heart out.

Jersey was the place to be. I had a whole collection of 45s—and even a few 16-inch records. WBLS was my favorite radio station. Every night at 8 p.m., radios up and down the block would play “Moody’s Mood for Love.” I can still hear Frankie Crocker’s voice easing us into the evening:

“There I go, there I go, there I go...Pretty baby, you are the soul who snaps my control…”

Yes!

We’d run to Rem’s Record Store to grab the latest 45s, then grab Italian hot dogs and bean pies from the Muslim spot on the corner. The Nation of Islam was strong back then. Seeing brothers in bow ties, clean-shaven, handing out Muhammad Speaks made you feel proud. Made you feel safe.

And let’s not forget Weequahic Park. Summers were packed with outdoor events and free concerts. We’d hop on the number 14 bus to see major artists perform under the stars—no ticket required. Just show up and dance the night away.

Yes, those were the days—me, Jammie, and Kelly. Though truth be told, it was usually just me and Jammie. Kelly’s father was strict. She didn’t get out much. And besides, Jammie and I weren’t always the best influences.

I’ll never forget the one time Kelly cut school with us. We went to a house party and barely made it through the door before someone shouted, “Jammie, Kelly, and Valerie—you’re all suspended! They called your mothers!” Party over. That was the last time Kelly skipped school with us.

I wasn’t popular in school, but Kelly was beautiful. All the boys liked her. Being her best friend meant I got attention by default. I called those boys my brothers—they always looked out for us.

Jammie was different—loud, wild, bold. She won track races and had no filter. She was fearless and fun. She was my ride-or-die.

And me? I was somewhere in between. Known, but not really seen.

I didn’t date much in school. Most boys didn’t notice me—except Claude. Claude was tall, dark, handsome—and Jamaican. He was part of the popular crowd, so I couldn’t believe he liked me. But he did. He walked me to class, took me on a cruise in New York, and treated me like I mattered. I thought it could turn into something real.

But guilt by association is real too.

One day at the PAL center, Jammie got pulled into the back by Doug—aka “Milk Dud.” Of course, I had to tag along. I stayed in the corner, bored and irritated. I didn’t like Doug, but I didn’t say anything.

A few days later, Claude called me—angry. Doug had told him that Jammie and I were making out with a bunch of guys behind the PAL. It was a lie. Jammie might’ve been doing something, but I wasn’t. Still, Claude believed it. Doug told him he was a punk for liking me—that I was “just like Jammie.”

Claude stopped talking to me.

That moment taught me something brutal: people will judge you by who you’re with—even when they’re wrong.

Maybe that’s why I started dating older guys from different towns. I used to say the boys at school weren’t mature enough. But the truth? I didn’t think I was good enough. Not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Not enough, period.

Looking back, I now know—I was always enough.

If only I had recognized that back then, maybe I would’ve made different choices. Maybe I would’ve spoken up, loved myself more, protected myself better. I wish there were classes for young girls and boys that taught self-worth, self-love, and truth. I wish society poured more energy into building children up instead of tearing them down. I wish kids didn’t define themselves by their wounds or by what others say about them.

But then again, that’s like wishing for world peace—beautiful, but hard to grasp.

Still, bless God, I had the best teacher of all.

When I finally let the Teacher teach, God began showing me that my journey had purpose. All of it—the joy, the heartbreak, the missteps, the music, the ache of feeling unseen. He showed me that every chapter had value.

I now understand why I fight so hard for the underdog, why I uplift, why I nurture and protect—because I was the underdog. I know what it feels like to be misjudged, overlooked, and underestimated.

But GOD.

He took every broken, messy part of my story and turned it into something beautiful. He taught me that light still shines through shattered pieces.

And for that—I wouldn’t trade Schley Street, or any part of my story, for the world.