Floating and Growing Pains

I believe in the vision of this collective, and I'm grateful to be here and connect with you in a more personal way.

On August 28, I will release my debut solo album, Land Of The Neon Sun. I'm equal parts excited, anxious, and terrified about this because I'm releasing it independently. While I'm used to doing risky shit like releasing independent albums and touring the world with my friends, this time, I'll be doing it all on my own.

I've been in a Gulf Coast Soul band the last 15 years called The Suffers. We've independently released three albums together since 2016, played a bunch of late -night shows, and are prepping to release our fourth sometime next year.

I think I will use this space to share ideas I'm tired of sitting on, new work you may have missed, and content I'm not going to post elsewhere. I recently released a new song called "A Heathen's Hymn" where I explore the idea of beating trauma's ass. We all hold trauma differently. Mine can sometimes come out like an unintentional comedy set or in this case, a song. Check out the music video for "A Heathen's Hymn", directed by Tobe Mokolo.

Speaking of beating trauma's ass, I will end my first post by sharing a non-fiction short story called "Growing Pains." This is a story about how being young, dumb, and broke landed me in the city jail with my whole spirit out whack over unpaid traffic tickets. Don't worry, I'm riding clean these days.

Growing Pains By Kam Franklin

Between the ages of 18 and 22, I did a lot of stupid shit. I consider myself a smart person, but something about being that age often made me test the lines of what I could get away with. I was reckless at times. I skipped class a lot.  I mostly dated men and women that matched my levels of toxicity, instability and/or chaos. I partied way too much, and I had little to no respect for authority. When I first turned 18, if you offered me a job, I would take it. All I wanted was independence and money to fund my fledgling music career. When I got my driver’s license at age 20, I was barely making any money at the time, and I could barely afford to pay my rent or cover my bills. I knew I was supposed to keep liability insurance on my 2005 Ford Focus, but sometimes, I just couldn’t afford to pay the insurance bill, rent, and my phone bill all at once, so I let it lapse. I cringe thinking about this now because I couldn’t imagine putting myself in that type of situation at my currently more seasoned age of 37. 

That first year of driving, I had been caught twice on the road without insurance, and I was also at fault in a small and expensive fender bender. I was ticketed, and had multiple court dates scheduled to face the consequences of my poor decisions just in time for my 21st birthday. The weekend of my first round of court dates fell on the same weekend Hurricane Ike tore apart the city of Houston. My court dates got cancelled,  and I went on with my life. I showed up to the other court dates for the accident, and I came back to deal with the second insurance ticket months later. After paying thousands of dollars in fines, serving community service, taking a defensive driving class, paying dues to the state, and paying a more expensive premium, I thought my dealings with the traffic court were done forever. 

Two years passed and time went on. I got my first big fancy job at this office building, and for the first time in my life, I was making a living wage and paying all my bills on time! I finally felt like a responsible adult, and I felt like I’d put my life of being chaotic and irresponsible behind me. I had just started seeing this really nice guy seriously, and we decided to go out for a nice date night. Months prior, I had shaved off the last of my relaxed hair. Since I had braided my tiny afro into a protective style meant to last a few days, I decided to rock a cute new curly wig I had purchased a few days prior at the beauty supply. I took my time getting ready. I took one of those long two-hour baths that concluded with every part of me being freshly shaved and squeaky clean. When my partner was ready to leave, I suggested we take my car since it was smaller than his massive truck and had just been cleaned. He was so sweet to me. He’d made reservations to go eat at this new hot restaurant in the city, and we were going to go out for a nightcap somewhere afterwards . We looked just as good as we felt, and that feeling of joy was something I wasn’t used to at the time. Just as I was about to turn left at the stoplight to head towards downtown, I was startled by the blaring siren of the cop car that had just pulled up behind me. I immediately assumed it was an emergency, so I made a left and pulled over to the right side of the street. My heart sank when the red and blue flashing lights of the cop car pulled up behind me. I hated this feeling. I’d been pulled over before, but never with someone else in the car. Also, why was he pulling me over? My partner did his best to calm me down, but all I could do was think about what I’d done wrong. 

“License and registration," the officer requested with a stone-faced look. I already had it in my hands and handed it over with a smile, thinking kindness may help quell my anxiety. “Can I please know why you pulled me over, officer?”, I asked as calmly as I could. “Your back right taillight is out. I’m gonna run your license real quick, and if everything looks good, I’ll write you a warning so you can go about the rest of your evening.”, the officer responded as he walked back to his car. “Thank fucking God”, I told my partner in relief. ”I paid off all my traffic fines a while back, so I’m good.” He held my hand, and said, “Okay, cool. We can go to AutoZone and get your light fixed in the morning.” As we waited for the officer to come back to the car, I reassured myself that I’d taken care of everything. I was an adult who stayed on top of her responsibilities now. As I saw the officer walking back to my car in what seemed like slow motion, I’d convinced myself that there was no way this wasn’t going to work out in my favor.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”, said the officer in a dry monotone as he walked back up to the car window. “You missed a traffic court date in 2008. The system says you have two warrants, and I have to take you in.” Time stopped temporarily for me when he said this. If you had told me that we’d been sitting in that car for days or only seconds, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. I was having a panic attack, but masking it with smiles and tears similar to that housekeeper in Jordan Peele’s epic horror film, “Get Out”. Just as I thought this  could not be happening right now, it was. 

“What do you mean?”, I asked, trying not to choke on my own tongue. “I paid everything, and did all my service. How can this be?”, I said, fighting back tears as my throat started to cramp up from the stress of me holding back my authentic emotional response. The officer empathized with me, but reiterated that he had to take me in because of the type of warrant it was. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but it is what it is. Please step out of the car.”My partner did his best to keep me calm. He even asked the officer if he could drive my car home since his license was clean,and he was sober. The officer graciously allowed my partner to take my car home instead of being towed by the vulture-like tow truck drivers that pulled up as I was being read my rights. My fucking Miranda rights were read to me due to a God damned clerical issue. The cop tried to brighten what was left of the moment by informing me that I’d likely be released quickly since I was being taken into an overcrowded jail on Friday afternoon instead of late Friday night. I prayed that he was right because I had to be back at work at 8am Monday morning at my new job. My big girl job. This arrest felt like a punch in the gut at a time when I was working really hard to get my shit together.  Since paying all those fines, I had dedicated my life to growing the fuck up, paying my bills on time, and doing my best to show up everyday as a responsible citizen. 

As I cried in the back of that cop car on the way to the jail, I openly sobbed and felt like a failure. I’ll never forget the feeling of defeat that came from wanting to wipe my tears, yet being unable to do so due to the handcuffs holding my wrists behind my back as we rode downtown in that old dirty white Crown Victoria. I thought I was past this point in my life, and the shock that came along with this new set of consequences from my actions years prior was a lingering one that did not subside until I left that jail almost two days later/

The 36 hours that followed that ride have been permanently burned into my memory. As soon as I got into the jail, I was searched for everything by complete strangers. I had to let a female officer see my butthole and vagina during my cavity search  to make sure there were no drugs or weapons in there. The intake officers took my wig from me and put it in a bag. At least they let me wear it during my mugshot. Watching them toss my wig into a bin with my last name on it, like some type of free throw shot at a basketball game, was just the cherry on top of this sundae of shame I was swimming in. It made me feel a little good when Officer Asshole missed the shot, and the bag with my wig on it fell to the ground. I can’t help but joke about it now but please believe it hurt so bad at the time.

There was already a feeling of shame and rockbottom that came with the flash that accompanied my mugshot photo, being stripped of my wig just made me feel like I was nothing in a moment when I could. When I got to the holding cell, I was greeted by the sight of a woman I don’t know trying to take a shit on the only toilet in the room. The toilet had no privacy and was to be shared by all 60 of us in that cell. It was extremely cold. I had on a hoodie and a jacket and was still freezing in there. Every time they opened the cell door, it was to let someone in or to let someone know they were being released. More so than often, it was someone coming in, or being sent to the longer term prison population where you were fitted with an orange jumpsuit. Over the 36 hours I was there, we were offered two oatmeal pies and 2 juice boxes. The soundtrack was a mix of sobbing, yelling, arguing, snoring, toilet flushing -occasionally drowned out by soul-crushing cries of desperation from women, unsuccessfully trying to explain their innocence to deaf ears. 

I didn’t sleep, and I never went to the bathroom. I saw women coming down from drugs, and women that were mentally unstable. I heard women begging for pads and tampons for hours only to be ignored and bleed everywhere. I saw many fights, avoided making friends, and I minded my business. During the final hours of my time in the cell, the officers brought in two ladies covered in scratches, blood stains, and bruises. They came in arguing and were warned to stay away from one another. They were both there for domestic abuse. I don’t know what was said, but when my name was called about 8 hours later to be released, the couple that came in fighting were now hugging in a corner at the back of the holding cell. When I got out, I immediately  thanked and apologized to my partner for putting them in that position. I went home, slept 12 hours, and went back to work that next Monday on time.

When I went downstairs for my lunch break, I was exhausted but grateful to be out of that nasty ass jail. When I walked into the cafe, there was a woman working at the cash register covered in scratches wearing a hairnet and a hat. It was one of the girls that had come into jail over the weekend. Looking just as tired as me she asked, “Can I take your order?”.I ordered the Cali turkey sandwich with a bag of Zapp’s Voodoo Chips and a strawberry lemonade to-go. I stared at her the entire time waiting for her to recognize me from jail and she never did. Not even doubletake. I tipped her and walked out of the cafe, grateful that we both made it to work that Monday morning. 

It’s been almost 15 years since that night, and I still think about that woman at the cafe, my night in the holding tank, and anyone that has ever had to spend the night in jail over an unpaid ticket or missed court date for traffic violation. Since that night, I’ve been extra careful on the road. One might say I’m even a little manic when it comes to my vehicle maintenance and checking my car's tail lights. While I haven’t repeated any of the irresponsible bullshit that led to my night in jail, my fear of the consequences still haunts me on occasion. It is most evident when my money is tight, and I feel like my responsibilities are slipping through my fingers. The saddest part is that, even though I’m so far removed from that night, my fear still lingers.