Every war is different, every war is the same. (Jarhead)

I was born into a world of dreamers and drugs where hope was everything so it only seemed apt that Hope would be my name. Hope was written on my birth certificate, it was my mother’s choice. My father wanted to name me Martha. Uncle Tony wanted to name me Lucy. Senior called me Honey. Eventually Honey replaced Hope.

Don’t be fooled by the charming little name, dripping with sweetness, I was not the conventional Honey. I was raised by men, not just men, but wise guys. My mother was the best, don’t get me wrong, but I was always more interested in what my father and Uncle Tony were up to. I clung to Senior like he was my teddy bear. I was a man’s baby.

My mother and father took me to church sometimes and I sat through Sunday school with all the other kids but they treated me differently and I was always aware of that.

Someone asked me once, when I knew my family was different. I didn’t always know it was strange to live with my grandfather and uncle. I didn’t always know it was strange to have guns lying around the house or a panic room – I actually liked it when we ran to the panic room and got locked in there for an hour or two. It was exciting and fun and everyone focused on my needs and comfort the whole time. The baby, everyone worried about the baby.

I didn’t even realize how far from normal my family was when my mother’s father came and tried to rescue me. He tried to smuggle me out of the house one day when I was home alone with Uncle Tony, which didn’t happen too often, I’m not even sure how it came about then. Uncle Tony caught him and pulled a gun. He threatened the nice old man and for the first time in my life I knew fear. It’s ironic, I guess, that the first time I was afraid was the first time I met anyone from my mother’s honest and innocent family. Meanwhile, the lifestyle of the gangsters I was very much incorporated into from birth, well, that didn’t faze me.

Still, I didn’t realize my family was different until I was six. My mother had a book club meeting. She went once a week. This particular week it was at our house. So my father and Uncle Tommy let me come along with them on a routine distribution run. We stopped at a rundown house and they locked the doors of the car with me sitting wide-eyed in the back seat taking it all in. They approached the house and a man staggered out, he looked confused and harmless. As my father and Uncle Tommy joked with him, he raised a gun in slow motion. Their demeanour instantly changed. They didn’t pull out guns but they tried to talk the guy into putting his away. I didn’t understand what was happening. I could sense the danger but didn’t feel any urgency. Guns were commonplace to me and didn’t hold a grave impact.

The man shot at Uncle Tony.

My father pulled out his gun and shot down the dazed aggressor with two bullets. Uncle Tony had staggered back and fell to the ground though the bullet didn’t hit him. My father picked up Uncle Tony and they ran back to the car and we sped off. They acted like I wasn’t in there as they thrashed through what had happened.

At age six, I witnessed my father kill a man. He had never done that before.