Keke Palmer

Flamin' hot Cheetos and a pop.

A meal the teachers over at my Catholic school often criticized.

Even still, my family had love.

We was cash poor, but rich in culture and pride.

My mother was a substitute teacher for disabled children.

She sang for churches and did backup singing for extra cash.

My father worked in the factory at a polyurethane company.

He had Carhartt before it was fashionable, OK?

But they fell in love doing speech interp and theater, things circumstance slowly made no space for.

The love was there, the joy was there.

But even with both of my parents working multiple jobs, it wasn't enough.

When I was eight, we moved somewhere a little nicer and qualified for Section 8, which is a subsidized housing program.

I remember being told not to mention my father when the assessor came by because it would reduce the support we needed.

I didn't understand the system, but I understood the stakes.

Stability was fragile, survival was urgent, and in that urgency, I learned that protecting the whole sometimes meant shrinking parts of ourselves.

Growing up in a place where access is limited, hamming it up became my pastime, a dream passed down.

Then suddenly, performing was a gift that granted my family more access.

See, only a child could fit through the gatekeeper's gates, especially a child like me that was so eager to please.

So when I started auditioning and booking, it became clear I was the one who could do it.

I could do something I enjoyed and lift some weight off my parents.