I Lost My Drum at 14. I’m Taking it Back at 49.

I didn’t “kind of” practice.
I didn’t “squeeze in” time.
I practiced every single day, for hours. Not minutes. Not casually.
Hours. Daily. Relentless. Obsessive.

I was 11 when I started. My father tracked my practice time. He encouraged it in the beginning. He even told me I’d be the next Sheila E, that I’d make enough money to pay for his retirement. He was proud—but he never protected me. Not when it counted.

By 14, I had earned a spot no other Black girl had touched before—the snare line at a white, hyper-competitive high school in Texas. The snare is the elite. It’s the engine. It’s where the pressure is highest.

I was the only Black female on the drumline.
No private instructor. No financial support. No extra help.
Everyone else had tutors, coaching, private lessons. I had nothing but my fire.

⸻

They Watched Me—but They Didn’t Support Me

My family was proud—but their pride was possessive, not protective.
They didn’t lift me up—they used me.
They wanted to watch me practice—not to help, not to encourage—but to stare.
And when I said no, because I was under pressure and self-conscious and exhausted, they turned cold.
They got offended. Angry. Petty.

I was a 14-year-old Black girl fighting for legitimacy in a white world—and my family got mad that I wouldn’t let them stare at me like I was on display.

⸻

The Setup That Took Me Down

The summer before school started, during a trip to Florida for a family reunion, everything broke.
My parents fought in the car. My father abandoned us at my grandmother’s house in Florida.
My mother, manipulative as always, told me: “Your father is on drugs.”

This was 1990.
I believed those “brain on drugs” commercials. I thought he was going to die.
I was scared. I wanted to save my father.

So I asked my mother: Should I write him a letter? Maybe if I say, ‘Daddy, if you love us, you’ll stop doing drugs,’ it’ll help.
She said yes. Knowing what that would do.
Knowing it would destroy the one fragile connection I had with my dad.
Knowing she was setting me up.

So I wrote it. And that was the end.

⸻

My Spot Was Stolen with a Lie

We returned to Texas on the first official day of school.
My first day back was the second day of school.

When I walked into fourth period band class—my snare drum was gone.
My name was gone. My place was gone.

My father had taken my drum back to the school band hall, left it with a note that read:

“She moved.”

That’s it. No explanation.
No defense.
Just erasure.

The assistant drumline director, Kenan Wiley, who had given me private lessons the year before, did nothing but tear me down.
He ate my lunch. Humiliated me.
Nobody intervened.
Not my band director.
Not my parents.
Nobody stood up for me.

My father later cussed me out over the phone for the letter I wrote—screaming at a 14-year-old girl while my mother sat silent. She never admitted to telling me to write it until years later.
By then, the damage had been done.

⸻

Now I’m 49 and Reclaiming What Was Mine

I live in Playa del Carmen, Mexico now.
Not as a tourist. As a resident.
I pay my rent. I pay my bills. I show respect. I keep my integrity.
And I’m healing.

When I go to the beach, I dip my body in the water like it’s a baptism.
When I come out, I feel the rhythm again. I grab my drumsticks and I air drum as I walk.
Sometimes I do it with my headphones in. Sometimes I don’t.
But every time—it’s sacred.
I am reclaiming a part of myself that was stolen by betrayal, racism, and emotional neglect.

⸻

And Here Comes the Hate

Playa del Carmen is one of the most performative cities on Earth.
You can’t walk five steps without seeing a street show or a tourist flaunting for Instagram.
But let me—a Black woman—drum the air as I walk, and suddenly, it’s a problem.

And it’s not white people who respond that way.
It’s Latinas and Latinos.

Not all. But too many to ignore.
They don’t just glance—they stare with contempt.
They ignore me on purpose, sending the message that says:

“Who does she think she is?”

It’s a loaded silence. A silent hate.
A mix of anti-Blackness, colorism, and sexism that says I’m not allowed to take up space.
Not allowed to move my body in joy.
Not allowed to reclaim what I earned, fought for, and lost.

They don’t know what I’ve been through.
They don’t know I lost everything at 14 because my parents betrayed me and my community failed me.
They don’t know that drumming in the air isn’t performance—it’s ritual.
It’s healing.
It’s resurrection.

⸻

I’m Not Asking to Be Seen—But I Won’t Be Erased

I’m not drumming for their attention.
I’m drumming for the 14-year-old me who practiced every single day for hours, alone, unsupported, unheard.

I’m drumming for the girl who walked into the band hall and found her place gone.
I’m drumming for the silence that followed.
I’m drumming for every time I wasn’t protected.

So if you see me air drumming on the streets of Playa del Carmen, don’t look away.

You’re not looking at ego.
You’re looking at reclamation in motion.
You’re looking at a Black woman who lost her rhythm to betrayal and took it back 35 years later.

You’re looking at victory you don’t understand.

So don’t stare at me with hate.
Bear witness.