I remember being a little girl, spending weekends at one of my big sister’s homes. Her daughter—my niece—was just a year younger than me, and we had regular playdates. At the time, they lived in Brooklyn’s Marcy Projects. I vividly remember that we weren’t allowed to play in the courtyard after 7 PM because it could be dangerous.
One evening, my sister got into an altercation with a neighbor who had tried to harm my niece. After that incident, I wasn’t allowed to stay over for a while. I missed her terribly.
So, one Saturday when I was about nine years old and home alone, I made a bold decision: I was going to “get my niece.” I wanted her to spend the weekend with me, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop that from happening.
I grew up essentially as an only child—my half-siblings were all at least 15 years older than me—so the bond I had with my niece meant everything. Without asking permission, I hopped on a bus in Flatbush, near The Junction where I lived with my mother, and made two transfers across Brooklyn to reach the border of Bed-Stuy and Bushwick, where the Marcy and Tompkins Projects were located.
It was the late ’80s, and Brooklyn wasn’t the gentrified borough we know today. This was the era that Jay-Z raps about—the time of rival gangs named after the Transformers. But I didn’t feel fear. I was a kid with a single-minded mission: bring my niece home.
Surprisingly, my act of rebellion paid off. Because our mothers allowed us to return home alone that day, I earned a bit of new freedom. I was granted permission to ride the subway and buses by myself—with a few rules:
- I could only visit a family friend or relative.
- My mother had to know where I was going.
- The person I was visiting had to know I was coming.
- I had to call as soon as I arrived safely.
- I had to travel during daylight hours.
Keep in mind—this was before cell phones and pagers were common, so these boundaries were our version of safety precautions.
This newfound independence changed everything for me. Over time, my older sisters moved to Queens and the Bronx, and my dad—whom I adored—relocated to Queens after separating from my mother. Those solo rides became a bridge between me and the people I loved.
Not long after that daring trip, my niece came to live with us—for five years. She became the little sister I thought I wanted, and instead got by default. But truthfully? She was exactly who I needed.
Takeaways:
- Courage doesn’t always look like strength—it can look like a 9-year-old with change from a piggy bank and a mission.
- Sometimes our boldest moves open doors to unexpected freedom.
- Family bonds are powerful—they can give us the fearlessness to cross boundaries, both literal and emotional.
- Childhood memories often carry the seeds of our lifelong determination.
© 2025, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
