for gregorie, life began at age nine. he remembers waking up one morning to a packed suitcase and sleepy-eyed siblings he helped load into a car, then onto a plane. he remembers watching the air traffic control tower his father worked in from his window seat, and the feeling of his little brother's head in his lap. he remembers trying to call his dad from saint lucia but never being able to connect. he remembers getting a job at thirteen because when your parents split up and your mom splits the country, a father's first instinct is to cut the family off completely, kids and all. he remembers the first time he was caught by the rsl police force and given the title of vandal. he remembers being brought home by his uncle at 3am because even in the largest city in the country, everybody knows everybody's business.
he remembers finding his father, a decade after their last goodbye, in that same house in corona, the one with only one bathroom and the hall light that was always burnt out, this time with two new stepchildren to replace the ones taken from him. he remembers being handed a check: "school money" and his share of what his grandfather had left them. he remembers packing up what little he had with him and heading to philly, where his great aunt lived. he remembers two years at ccp because anger and pride go hand in hand, and he refused to owe an absent father gratitude for an education.
he remembers the nervous submission of his portfolio to temple university's tyler school of art, and the anxious wait before admission. he remembers the relief that came in the form of a partial scholarship which prevented him from having to agree to the crippling student loan debt that keeps his brother living with their mom. he remembers finally starting an instagram account for his art and selling his first print to someone he didn't already call friend.
