Invisible Child: Poverty, Survival, and Hope in an American City

by Andrea Elliott

By kindergarten, Dasani had also memorized the “supreme alphabet,” learning to break down the hidden meaning of words. This was an alternate form of knowledge, her stepfather said, a way of tackling the white establishment. The library was where the “lies are buried.” A television was “telling a lie vision.” Sometimes the two codes worked in tandem. The number 7 meant “God,” which was interchangeable with “Allah,” the meaning of the letter A. This meant that Dasani’s grandmother Joanie was cleaning the Allah train, the train of God. Five-year-old Dasani clung to Joanie, whose apartment in Bed-Stuy became a weekend haven. They would sit for hours, Dasani in her grandma’s lap as Joanie combed “the mess out of my hair.” They went to church and to Fulton Mall, where Joanie splurged on dolls and fussy outfits for Dasani. She knew all of the child’s likes and dislikes, fixing her favorite BLT sandwich (despite Chanel’s prohibition of bacon) and taking Dasani for double chocolate chip pancakes at the IHOP on Livingston Street. “Don’t be the same, like your mother and me,” Joanie told Dasani. “Go to school and graduate.”