My parents were Black Cherokee Indian. I was an only child. I never went back to them, I didn’t want them to know anything.

When I arrived to San Francisco, I started to work for white people cleaning their houses and I went to school too. I went to college and graduated in 1984 with a degree in Real Estate. I leased a building with a friend, who ended up selling dope on the side. This messed me up and I lost everything.

Then I met Calvin. He was a police officer at San Quentin. We fell in love and got married. He retired from San Quentin and became a security guard. He made good money and would buy me anything I wanted, but he became an alcoholic.

When he died, I was there right by his side. He told me he was going to miss me. I asked him what he was talking about, he wasn’t going no where, he was trying to tell me he was going to leave me, but I wouldn’t listen, I didn’t want to think about that. I was older than him, he was only 52 when he died, and I was 60. We were together for 17 years. His family wouldn’t let me come to his funeral, even though I was his wife, because I was black and he was white.