By Russell Estes
Guest Columnist
BRILLIANT—The Brilliant Housing Authority. Apartment 28. This was home. I spent my first 18 years here. Inside this little apartment, I learned right from wrong. Under my mom’s authority, I read my Bible daily, said my prayers and did my chores.
My dad taught me things here. He showed me how to properly use tools and grow tomatoes. I learned many words from him while working on our old car. I also learned that many of those words could not be said around momma. Should I use those words, my dad would question where I picked up such language.
In this shared yard, I made friends. I learned to play basketball on the asphalt parking lot in front of this little home. I left more skin on that lot than I could grow back. On that same lot, I was taught a game called half-ball, a sport that I thought my brother was the best at. Behind this little building, we played football that more closely resembled MMA cage matches. Two-hand touch was for sissies. Touchdowns were earned, and you could show the scars to prove it.
I learned to work on things here. I fixed my own bike… and this was daily because it was pieced together from multiple hand-me-downs. I patched tires with rubber cement and a Bic lighter. I could rebuild a lawnmower engine before I could write in cursive.
I learned to stand up for myself, but also, to stand up for others. My first fight was in that yard. We rolled around and swung our arms as if we had fallen into a yellow jacket nest. Forty-plus years later, we are still friends.
It was here at the Brilliant Housing Authority that molded me into the man I became. I have too many flaws to count. But I also have compassion that would weigh more than the entire Old Testament… all because of the place that raised me.
You see, this town was where I grew up, but this village is who raised me. The people who surrounded me not only protected me but would tan my hide should I get out of line. They celebrated my report cards and cheered me on under those Friday night lights. I ate at the dinner tables of many of these folks. I sat with friends who felt like family.
The people who found themselves inside these walls knew what life was like between paychecks. We borrowed from each other, gave each other rides to the doctor and if one suffered, we all did. Because we all felt like we belonged to a group. Not one of hard times and low incomes, but something bigger. We belonged to a group of people who knew what it was like to sacrifice for others.
I didn’t have some things that others had. We struggled to make ends meet. My mother and father did the best they could to raise me and two older siblings. It was close quarters, but we learned to make it work. I never had my own room until I was fourteen. Even then, it contained my mom’s sewing supplies, her quilt frame and my dad’s garden tools.
Was it easy? I couldn’t tell you. My parents never discussed that. All I know is that I never knew life any differently, and it was good enough. I do believe my childhood was blessed.
The Brilliant Housing Authority was my village. And you know what they say about a village… it takes one to raise a kid. Well, I guess this kid was lucky. I had the best village.
Apartment 28.
I wouldn’t change anything! This will always be home.
(Editor’s Note: Guest Columnist Russell L. Estes has published four best-selling books and writes columns daily for social media, digital and print papers and magazines. This specific column was requested for reprint in honor of the 75th Anniversary of the Marion County Housing Authority on Oct. 13, 2024.)
See complete story in the Journal Record.
Subscribe now!