My name is Bailey Iliana Lincoln. And before you ask: as far as I know, I’m not related to the former president. We just share a last name, that’s all. I was born on April 16th, 1986 to a latina plastic surgeon and a stay-at-home dad. I was raised in a little placed called New Orleans, maybe you’ve heard of it? Well, it’s an alright place to grow up, I guess.
My early childhood was a ‘rip-roaring’ good time, as my father sometimes put it. I was never an easy kid to deal with. If I wasn’t drawing on the walls or tearing off wallpaper, I was getting into the cupboards and throwing food all over the place. To me, it was all in good fun, though apparently my parents, Dr. Julia and Ben, never saw the amusement in it.
As I got into elementary school my wild streak began to temper out a little bit. I wasn’t as wild, though I still had quite a few mean streaks in me. I was sent home well more than once for causing trouble at school. “It wasn’t my fault!” I’d try to explain to my parents, “He was just ASKING for finger paints to be mixed in with his apple juice! And she kept asking me for crayons, so I gave them to her. But she was annoying, so I threw them at her head!” I always had an excuse, and I felt justified in those excuses, for the most part. I mean, there was this one kid, I put worms in his sandwich, well…anyway, moral of the story, I definitely felt bad for that. He didn’t deserve it, not really; I was just having an unusually bad day.
At the ‘tender’ age of 16, my parents had seemingly had enough. They sent me off to St. Mary the Immaculate School for Girls; an all-girls Catholic boarding school just outside of Modesto, California. I’ll be honest, I didn’t last long at that school. After a couple short months I was already planning my escape. I had the perfect plan, I had a small bag packed with clothing and some food I’d snuck away from the cafeteria. I was going to run away to Los Angeles and never look back.
I didn’t last long on those Californian highways, though. No more than a day and a half after my uneventful escape, which I assumed I’d pulled flawlessly, I was picked up by state troopers just south of the Oregon border in a place called Crescent City. Not only had I been found and returned to the nuns at the school, but I’d been heading in the absolute opposite direction than I’d intended. I felt like such a fool.
My parents flew out for a conference with the school’s board of directors. It was agreed I’d be allowed to stay, but I was to remain on academic probation. If I were to try anything like that again, I’d be expelled immediately. To me, that didn’t seem to be much of a threat. I didn’t want to be in that school in the first place. That began the next stage of planning for my second attempt at a daring escape.
It was the last day of school when I attempted to run away again. Many of us who were from out of state were taken to the San Francisco airport to catch flights back home. My plan relied on one aspect of it were go off without a hitch…the fact our escorts would leave after we passed through security. Then, all I had to do was double back out and hitchhike my way south. As easy as stealing candy from a baby!
As it turned out, getting out of the airport and on my way was the easy part. Actually getting a ride was a little bit more difficult. With nothing more than a backpack with a little food, some amenities, clothes, and a pocket with 50 dollars to my name, I had little to go on. After a couple of days, I was lucky enough to be picked up by an Oregon family who were going camping in Los Padres National Park. It wouldn’t get me the entire way there, but it would get me practically the whole way. For that, I was thankful. And, on the upside, I could keep myself around the park for a few days, and, if I could be resourceful enough, I would be able to sneak food off of other campers at the park. There was one downside. That family apparently called the cops. You know, ‘unaccompanied minor’ or something like that. I was never caught, but it’s annoying as hell to think about.
I ended up spending a little over a week around the campsites, pulling little bits off food from campers. Hot dogs, chips, sodas, and the occasional beer or three, you name it! And sure I was underage, but I thought to myself, ‘Screw it, I’m on the run, I might as well have some fun while I’m at it.’ It was also during this time at the campsite that I discovered a rather handy little talent of mine; it was a talent I was positive would come in useful to me in the coming years.
Admittedly, I was a bit freaked at first at my new found talent. I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t be? I discovered that I had the ability to make my skin glow. I didn’t have that much control over it at first. Having control over how much light I could emit and whether my whole body glowed, or just a small portion of my body glowed, that all came with time. But, for that time in my life, whenever I did light up, it was useful at night, for sneaking around the camp grounds and rifling through people’s coolers. But I wasn’t always lit up, mind you. And sometimes when I was, I felt like I was lit up like the fourth of July!
After the week and a bit that I spent there, and restocking my food supplies, I made my way to the highway again, finally being picked up by a trucker. It was near the middle of the night and I fell asleep near immediately. Having forgotten to ask him where he was heading, I didn’t think to ask him to drop me off near Los Angeles. That was a huge mistake on my part. When I woke up, it was morning and we were in Las Vegas.
Having been told in no uncertain terms that it was the end of the line for me and that I couldn’t be driven any further, I made to find accommodations. Not an easy thing to do on 50 dollars. I ended up sleeping on the streets; a place that would end up being my home for a few years to come.
I took to crime to make it through. I would pickpocket, shoplift, break and enter. I did what I felt like I needed to do. Through fencing and selling the stuff under the table and on the black market, I was able to get myself an apartment. It wasn’t the ritz, but it was a roof over my head and that’s what mattered.
I spent a few times in jail. A month here for stealing a fancy watch, a couple months there for shoplifting some jewelry. I never ended up spending more than a few months at a time in county lock-up. Every time was the same, with a month or more here and there. Finally, by the sixth time I’d been thrown in County, I was tired of spending time there. I opted to find a less jail-prone job.
So, it was with great hesitation that I even considered calling my parents. I’d been gone for six years, and I didn’t fancy them to begin with, but they had the information I wanted if I was going to work. Actually work. While they sent me over the documents I needed, they made a promise to me that they’d not come down until I was ready to invite them. So far, they’ve made good on their promise.
I eventually got a job at the Corinthian Casino, an amazing place in Las Vegas. I became a server, taking drink orders and food orders alike. I occasionally work in the chapel as the receptionist as well. I still live in the same crappy apartment, but it is what it is. And while I don’t go stealing stuff right now, I can always be persuaded to do it every now and then…if the price is right.