I recently saw a video on social media of a woman “jump-starting” her fan! With the front grill removed and the fan in the ON position, she manually spun the blades to get the fan to start spinning on its own. Someone observing her said several times, in a frustrated tone, “it’s broken!” but the woman insisted that the fan still ‘worked’. To my delight (but not my surprise), she did get the fan to ‘work’. I did not recognize it at the time, but a few days after seeing the video, I realized that it triggered me.

“A trigger is anything that sets you off emotionally and brings back memories of your trauma. It’s particular to you and what your experience has been. Triggered, we revert to feelings and behaviors we had in the traumatizing situation”.

(Trauma & Disassociation, 2020)

I grew up in The Bronx, which according to the New York Times is the poorest borough in New York City (Chen, 2018). I lived a relatively normal life. My home-life was full of love, my community was rich in culture and diversity and neither appeared to be poor. We made the best of every situation, in my family and in my community and we always did it together. We celebrated birthdays, graduations, weddings and baby showers and hosted neighborhood block parties, organized bus rides to area amusement parks and memorials for our dearly departed. We always had plenty of food, drinks, gifts, and decorations—none of that seemed poor to me either. So why did the video of the lady manually starting her fan trigger me?

For the first 17 years of my life I lived in a fifteen-block radius. My elementary and junior high schools were walking distance of each other. I did not leave the area that often, however, I recall feeling uncomfortable and out of place when I did. I attended Norman Thomas for high school, which was housed on the first 10 floors of an office building in midtown Manhattan. I vividly remember my commute on the number 4 train from Burnside Avenue to Grand Central Station (42nd Street), running across the platform to catch the 6 train one stop to 33rd Street.

As a Secretarial Science major most of my teachers were black women. My typing teacher, Mrs. Jordan, was lovingly firm and made clear her expectations for her students. I had her class on Tuesdays and Thursdays and was required to dress in business attire once a month. That is the first memory I have of someone expecting something from me I had never seen before. The academic aspect of the class was easy because I enjoyed all things secretary, I still do, but I was challenged in other ways that were uncomfortable and unfamiliar, just like leaving the area I grew up in.

Norman Thomas was as culturally rich and diverse as my neighborhood. The student body came from all walks of New York City and everyone was proud of their “hood” and borough. I have very fond memories of lunchroom discussions (over a game of spades, of course) about the newest music video or sneaker—school life resembled home and community life…except Mrs. Jordan’s class! Her class exposed me to something different. It was awkward and unusual, in a delightful kind of way, and I wanted more of it.
(Still wondering how all of this connects to the video about the fan. Good, I am getting to that (smile).)

I did well in Mrs. Jordan’s class, in fact, in my junior year, I was one of the highest-ranking students in my Secretarial Science cohort but there was a disconnect between school life and home life. At school, specifically in Mrs. Jordan’s class, I was expected to do better, reach higher and go further—that was the only way to succeed. But at home, on the block; I was a survivor and that is what I did—I survived.

“The human being is very resourceful. When you fight for survival, you don’t think much; you just do. If you think too much, you sink.”

– Frank Lowy

Before you envision me dodging bullets every day and eating out of garbage cans let me be very clear…THAT IS NOT WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT!!! My family had its share of issues and so did all my neighbors but life, for the most part, was good and so far, we all turned out ok. The kind of surviving I am talking about looked more like the lady with the fan in the video. In fact, we had several broken fans. Not one that needed a jump start but one did have to be taped or propped up on something for it to stand up straight. One had a short in the wire, so you had to position it exactly right to keep it on. Another had a broken button that would not stay down so you had to stick folded up cardboard between the buttons to make it “work”. I also remember using a plier to change the channel when the knob broke off the television and a wire hanger as an antenna. I did not know it at the time, but all of that weighed on me. It had the exact opposite effect on me that Mrs. Jordan’s class and expectations had had. Instead of spurring me on to do better, reach higher and go further, broken fans and missing knobs brought me down and caused me to feel broken too.

I walked around unmotivated and feeling confused for days after viewing that video and I could not put my finger on why. I was trying hard to get out of the emotional rut I was in, but nothing helped. Then, one morning after spending some quiet time with God I looked around my house and noticed that things had gradually become disorganized and cluttered with things that were broken and I was again, feeling broken too. Needless to say, I have been gutting my house ever since; literally leaving no stone unturned; closets, cabinets and under the beds…every “broken” thing has to go. I currently have two bulk pickups scheduled and a bag of clothes to donate…yup, Mrs. Jordan taught me well!