Queen

I laid my burdens down when I got to New York City.

There was just nothing left in Michigan after my mother passed, and I just couldn't stay there with all those painful memories.

My mom, Frankie Mae Robinson, was my rock, my everything. She was always there for me, always hustled to provide for us, and as long as she had the money, I had it. And when times got tough—and believe me, they got tougher than most folks could ever imagine—she would tell me that everything's gonna be alright.

Before it was just the two of us though, we lived with my father who would always drink, fuss, and fight. One day my mom got tired, so we ran off to my Auntie's house—and we were doing good for a month—until he found us. The day he came to get us, my mother's brother was there, and when he raised his hand, my uncle pulled a shotgun on him. Said, "if you hit my sister again, I'm gonna kill you." My father walked out the door, and I haven't heard from him since.

Soon after, we moved into a one-room apartment, and I had one of those little baby beds that fit into the closet, and that was my room. We also lived in a nice apartment when she found work, and other times in a family shelter when we had no place to go. Every place we moved, or moved away from, was because it got too old, or they tore it down. I remember my mom crying because there was no one there to help us, and I said, "Don't worry mom. As long as we got God in our life, we are good." But I couldn't bear it anymore. At eight years old, I struggled because I couldn't do things to help out.

By age nine, I called my little self trying to hustle selling "drugs." I had a big bottle of Aspirin I took out of my mom's cabinet because I thought it was something that could get you really high. I was young and didn't know nothing about that except that I was trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents, and was doing good, so I went to the store and kept buying more pills to sell. Then one day they just didn't sell no more. The police also stopped me, looked at one of the pills, and started laughing. I said, "What you laughing for? I'm trying to get some money." Since the Aspirins weren't selling anymore, I moved on to selling Excedrin by the pound. After a huge Excedrin sale, I gave my mom half the money, and I went shopping. I needed school clothes, so why not?

During the struggles, my mom always made sure I was in school and that my grades were up. She didn't ever want to see me fail. She wanted to see me with my head up, so it broke her heart when she learned about the molestation. I was molested all my life by different family members, but I was twelve when my mother caught my cousin Alfred, who, at the time, was in his late twenties. That abuse took something from my boyhood.

When I was at his mom's house, who was throwing a party, I was tired, so I went to her room to go sleep in her bed. Later, my cousin took me from his mom's room into his room. When my mom went looking for me, I could hear her clear as day, "Is my son here?" "Nah, nah, he ain't in here. He ain't in here," while trying to hide me. When I started hollering, she told me to come out. Then she told his mom and called the police, and that's how he went to jail. Even though I didn't testify because I didn't want to get him in trouble, he ended up going to prison until I was twenty-one years old—the first time I also went to my first gay bar in Detroit.

The bar was called the Duchess, and it was the first place where I started doing my shows—Anita Baker, Whitney Houston, and Ms. Patti Labelle. This is also when Queen was birthed, and for anyone who didn't agree, my only response was, "It's not your choice. It's mine," because the Queen will be protected.

I still needed to make money for me and my mom, so I started selling weed and then crack. At 25, I built a life that was good for me. Bought my own place, a beautiful canary yellow house. I took care of my house—built a gazebo, gardened, planted pear trees, and had a little gold Buddha. During the holidays, I would cook—sweet potato pies, peach cobbler, mac and cheese, cornbread, and dressing. Then one day things just didn't really go right.

While I was in prison, my mom got cancer. She didn't tell me anything until I got out because I guess she didn't want me to worry. The cancer started spreading when she started using, but I think it made her not think about her cancer. She was trying to forget. She also had diabetes, jaundice, was on dialysis, and had six strokes on one side of her brain. That's a lot. Then one day she went to dialysis, and her heart stopped.

I miss my mom and was like a lost puppy when her number came up. But she had told me, "If I die, you just live your life and don't look back." There were too many memories in Michigan, so I was thinking about going back to Mississippi, but I said no, because I'd be bored as hell. Instead, I moved to New York City, went to a shelter, and was embraced by love. I have found a whole lot of love since I've been here.

New York simply takes my breath away because there are so many activities to do, and so many communities to be part of. Most importantly, I get to be me, Queen—the person that is on top of her game doing everything from dancing, to drag shows, to winning pageants, to being a spokesperson, to lovingly attending my church. Queen is everything that comes with the package, and here I get to take care of myself and live an everyday life.

And when God gives me my number—because everybody has a number in the appointed time—then I will tell my mom that I made it and lived my life to the fullest.

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Queen’s Interview
Written by Antoinette Cooper