I come from a long line of big legged, big hipped and big ass women with tiny waists. Beautiful Women...eye-catching women. I remember my mother wearing skirts with side splits and white blouses that she always kept tucked in. She would top it off with a belt that showcased her tiny waist. My mother had legs that would stop traffic. I was too young to take notice of the rest, but I would always tell her that when I grew up I wanted her legs. When she would walk by, men would say "damn Cat yo ass is so fine ...pick a tree...I'll pull it up by the roots and make you a chair ... so you can come and sit by me." Growing up my body matured fast...too fast...because as a child it attracted the attention of predators. I was ashamed of my body. I felt that if it was "normal" I would be safe. What I didn't realize as a child was that my body was normal...lush...but normal.....it was the men that molested me that were abnormal.
As I grew into an adult it was the same. Men would notice my body, especially my ass...first. I was never comfortable with my body. I never enjoyed the attention...I wanted to be a pretty girl...not a body to be lusted after. Somehow it made me feel less than the other girls, the pretty girls with the average bodies. I never will understand men's attraction to a big ass. But I digress. When I was young and before this insane age of people getting butt implants, I wanted a butt-ectomy. My word. I wanted to get my ass reduced somehow. Between my beautiful legs, my hips and the prize-winning ass ( just quoting some of my admirers through the years) I made it through my young adult years wondering ....did anyone ever look at me above the waist? I know I have beautiful eyes, and a killer smile. But guys always came at me with the "your ass is so fine" line.
I think because I never liked my body, I took it for granted. The stomach would always be tight, the hips and ass would be just right and the legs and thighs would always be those of CATherinesdaughter.
Was my ass wrong about that or what? At age 35 my metabolism decided it wanted to take separate vacations from my body. At age 40 I knew it (my metabolism) was cheating because it was certainly NOT doing its job. I was gaining weight and and it was getting harder to loose it. Around age 46 a newcomer and not a welcome one- was introduced into the mix.....menopause. Now that bitch came in and messed up everything. Can you say everything? It appears that menopause and metabolism didn't like each other because later that year my metabolism packed up her bags and left for good. On the other hand menopause decided to set up house for the next 4 years. I will not even go into the hell of that heifers reign. Between night sweats, hot flashes, cold flashes, weight gain in places I did not even know I had, hair growing in places that did NOT need hair and hair falling out of my scalp....and don't forget the coochie getting dry as the Sahara....wait a minute...I said I wouldn't talk about Ms. Menopause. No I want to talk about that trick Mz. Metabolism. When she packed HER bags, I could just look at food and gain weight . The ass got bigger and I developed these hugh breasts. I am 5ft. 3 and was beginning to look like Dolly Parton. I woke up one morning...I swear it was overnight ...My breasts were sagging, my arms were bigger and I had a stomach pouch. The body I had always taken for granted decided to leave like a thief in the night. I guess it said "you never appreciated me bitch.....later!"
So now that brings you to where I am now. Ms. 50+ and wondering.....Lord if you just let me get a little of my groove back I will never ever complain about having a big ass, just make it firm again and get rid of the stomach pouch....and make my legs smaller ...and reduce these breasts....and if you see Mz. Metabolism strike that bitch with lightning. Sorry Lord.
Where am I going with this you say? Denial. And it not just a river in Egypt. Since age 50 I have refused to weigh myself. Even in the doctors office, the nurse would take one look at my face and walk right on by the scale. See all of the nurses knew if they insisted on me getting on the scale they would have to cancel all of the appointments for the rest of the day because I would turn that office out. Yes, the sister would go completely off. I still get compliments so I would say to myself that it couldn't be that bad. So what if you go from a size 10 to a 12 , then to a 14 ...then to a 16, I just stopped buying clothes with numbers. Let's do XL, then XXL. I just was not keeping it real. Until I saw a picture of myself last year. My daughter took me to LA as a birthday gift and while we were strolling through Beverly Hills my grandson took my picture. I had the nerve to do my America's Next Top Model" pose. Well. The pictures were developed. And there I was posing in my purple dress. My ass looked like Barney. But still I made excuses and steared clear of scales.
Which brings us to last week. I was in New York on 86th street window shopping. I was standing in front of Orva Shoes and you know how the window reflects your image. I looked in and gasped ....I said to myself who is that fat woman in that ugly ill-fitting dress. Girl needs the "What Not to Wear " team and Weight Watchers big time. I turned my head so that I could get a better look at the poor woman. My reflection turned its head. I looked back into the window with my mouth open....the fat woman had her mouth open. Oh Lord, the fat woman in the ugly dress was me. Where did my fine-ness go? Why didn't somebody tell me? Then...well first let me tell you about Esther. Esther is the part of my personality that doesn't take any shit, tells it likes it is and is really the part of me that needs the Meds. Esther said: "bitch that's you! You made us fat!" Your ass is so fat it can carry a 5 course meal on it with filled water glasses and not spill an ounce. I want a divorce...I want to go and stay with Mz. Metabolism." Now I am one of those people that not only talks to themselves, I will hold a conversation. I said (while standing in the middle of the sidewalk in front of Orva's) "Esther I didn't know" It's not my fault". Before I could get another word out that bitch (Esther) said: "heifer you knew ..why do you think yo big ass wouldn't get on a scale? The DMV ought to lock your ass up cause you been walking around here for the last 5 years with a drivers license that says you weight 134 pounds! If they didn't know it you did!. " Still she wasn't through. " If I could get outta this fat for a minute I would beat your ass for messing ME up! And check this Ms. CATherines daughter yo momma is probably turning in her grave. " Don't start crying...DO Something!"
Well Esther didn't have to be that mean. But she ain't never lied. I knew I was gaining weight just like I knew my first husband was a whore. So I took my shell shocked ass into Barnes and Noble ....and let me say here that I believe that the Spirit - GOD guides you....and the first thing I saw was this book "The 17 Day Diet"....and it was on sale for 30% off ...40% for members and I am a devoted Barnes and Noble member. The guy just wants 17 days of your life ....and your commitment to getting healthy...and getting your butt up and exercising for at least 17 minutes a day. I am giving him at least 30 minutes of exercise. I started exercising two days ago and I must admit I feel better. I know it is going to take more than 17 days to do this. But I've got the rest of my life. And this time I will love my body and embrace my beautiful big ass. Today is June 1st, I started my next chapter.
Oh and I weighed myself.....217 pounds. See how committed I am. I put that shit out into the universe. But I am CATherinesdaughter and I come from a long line of fine assed women. Too be continued............
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Words
I haven't written in awhile because of fear. Fear of revealing too much of myself. Fear of what others would think of me. Fear of someone stealing my voice. For a very long time I was unable to find my voice. I would mimic others voices. Their words would become mine. I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I never wanted to be on the wrong end of the conversation and have someone lash out at me. It was easier to be the appeaser. I did this for so long, my voice became lost in my head. When my voice did come out it was clothed in anger ...it would be the destroyer. Because I was afraid to be me. Afraid that anothers words would destroy me I had to make sure mine were more potent.
And it is not just speaking mean to me. I can be in a regular conversation and I will look for the hidden meanings behind someones words. It is not always what they say ....it was what I hear. Now that sounds totally out there...right? But it makes sense to me. My close friends understand this. They know that if I start to pop off at them....we need to talk. Have I taken my meds? Am I stressed? Do we need to talk about something that was said a week ago that I have been simmering about? In my youth I could never accept a compliment. I would always doubt the sincerity. I have grown out of that...thank goodness.
But once you hurt my feelings, once I find that you cannot be trusted verbally with my emotions..... your ass is grass and I am the lawnmower.
Now I can take a hit. Just be prepared to get one back. And be prepared to duck because I grew up with people fighting all the time and they did their very best to mess each other up. Anything could and would become a weapon. I remember people getting stabbed with ice picks. You don't see those anymore. But when I was a child, people would get stabbed with ice picks and die because the wound would be so small but the damage was often fatal. After the childhood I went through, physical violence always seemed to be a fact of life. One that had to be guarded against. When I was young I never thought I would live to see my 30th birthday. I never knew why I believed that but I did. And once that birthday came and went I was at lose ends ....I hadn't made any plans for life after that 30th year. The thought of my death doesn't scare me. And during my fight with depression I always kept it on the table as a manner of escape if things got too bad to endure. I have found that the hardest thing is just living. Taking each day as it comes and believing that a higher power -God is directing your path. That's what get me through these days now. That and trying to learn from my mistakes.
But I still fear my anger. Therapy and meds have given me some control but once it becomes ignited the danger of losing control becomes too scary. It becomes either you or me and I am prepared to sacrifice my life as long as I don't endure the beatings that Catherine did.
I still am Catherinesdaughter. I still hear her screams. I still see her face after each beating. I still want to protect. I am still casting myself into the role of the protector Even with my friends.
One day ....a month ago...I went to court with one of my friends to lend her "sister support" during her divorce hearing. First of all, her husband is a nut case. He verbally abuses her, steals and sells everything in the house that is not locked down to support his drug and alcohol habit. She lives in fear of staying with that man and even more fear of leaving him because of his unpredictable anger. So I went to court with her because she knew and HE knew that I was not the one to fuck with. And it hit me. My anger was still there. The anger at anyone who abuses. At anyone that destroys...pride....hope...beauty. That takes advantage of innocence.
Once I became and adult, I can't really ever remember someone hitting me. Definitely there were no ass whuppins from the men in my life or anyone else. All it would take was my perceiving someone as a physical threat and my rage would take over. My insanity would take over... I think you could see it in my eyes....the violence ...the loss of control. And they knew. They knew that once the violence started it could easily turn into a kill or be killed situation. For a very very very long time, I had no control when confronted with physical violence. So I would try everything I could to avoid those situations. I would never become my mother.
But words are another matter all together. Words still have power over me. They are my Achilles Heel. Not a slap. Not a punch. Not a mean look. It only takes one mean word to do my ass in. They had and have so much power over me. And then it hit me....why am I giving these people so much of my power? They know better than to lift a hand to me. Madea and I both pack. But why am I letting their words have such credence?
And do I really need to put up this shield of protection between myself and others? Since that epiphany I am trying to not look for hidden meanings in a persons words. And if they do speak daggers at me, I try to consider the source and the situation. Some criticism can be constructive and I try to keep that mindset. I am taking what I need and leaving the rest. I am a lot happier these days.
And it is not just speaking mean to me. I can be in a regular conversation and I will look for the hidden meanings behind someones words. It is not always what they say ....it was what I hear. Now that sounds totally out there...right? But it makes sense to me. My close friends understand this. They know that if I start to pop off at them....we need to talk. Have I taken my meds? Am I stressed? Do we need to talk about something that was said a week ago that I have been simmering about? In my youth I could never accept a compliment. I would always doubt the sincerity. I have grown out of that...thank goodness.
But once you hurt my feelings, once I find that you cannot be trusted verbally with my emotions..... your ass is grass and I am the lawnmower.
Now I can take a hit. Just be prepared to get one back. And be prepared to duck because I grew up with people fighting all the time and they did their very best to mess each other up. Anything could and would become a weapon. I remember people getting stabbed with ice picks. You don't see those anymore. But when I was a child, people would get stabbed with ice picks and die because the wound would be so small but the damage was often fatal. After the childhood I went through, physical violence always seemed to be a fact of life. One that had to be guarded against. When I was young I never thought I would live to see my 30th birthday. I never knew why I believed that but I did. And once that birthday came and went I was at lose ends ....I hadn't made any plans for life after that 30th year. The thought of my death doesn't scare me. And during my fight with depression I always kept it on the table as a manner of escape if things got too bad to endure. I have found that the hardest thing is just living. Taking each day as it comes and believing that a higher power -God is directing your path. That's what get me through these days now. That and trying to learn from my mistakes.
But I still fear my anger. Therapy and meds have given me some control but once it becomes ignited the danger of losing control becomes too scary. It becomes either you or me and I am prepared to sacrifice my life as long as I don't endure the beatings that Catherine did.
I still am Catherinesdaughter. I still hear her screams. I still see her face after each beating. I still want to protect. I am still casting myself into the role of the protector Even with my friends.
One day ....a month ago...I went to court with one of my friends to lend her "sister support" during her divorce hearing. First of all, her husband is a nut case. He verbally abuses her, steals and sells everything in the house that is not locked down to support his drug and alcohol habit. She lives in fear of staying with that man and even more fear of leaving him because of his unpredictable anger. So I went to court with her because she knew and HE knew that I was not the one to fuck with. And it hit me. My anger was still there. The anger at anyone who abuses. At anyone that destroys...pride....hope...beauty. That takes advantage of innocence.
Once I became and adult, I can't really ever remember someone hitting me. Definitely there were no ass whuppins from the men in my life or anyone else. All it would take was my perceiving someone as a physical threat and my rage would take over. My insanity would take over... I think you could see it in my eyes....the violence ...the loss of control. And they knew. They knew that once the violence started it could easily turn into a kill or be killed situation. For a very very very long time, I had no control when confronted with physical violence. So I would try everything I could to avoid those situations. I would never become my mother.
But words are another matter all together. Words still have power over me. They are my Achilles Heel. Not a slap. Not a punch. Not a mean look. It only takes one mean word to do my ass in. They had and have so much power over me. And then it hit me....why am I giving these people so much of my power? They know better than to lift a hand to me. Madea and I both pack. But why am I letting their words have such credence?
And do I really need to put up this shield of protection between myself and others? Since that epiphany I am trying to not look for hidden meanings in a persons words. And if they do speak daggers at me, I try to consider the source and the situation. Some criticism can be constructive and I try to keep that mindset. I am taking what I need and leaving the rest. I am a lot happier these days.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Who do you hate?
I read a book recently in which the devil asked a man: "who do you hate?" The man wanted to change his luck because his life had been so hard and happiness had always eluded him so he made a deal with the devil. To change his life he had to transfer his bad luck - his karma to someone in his life that he was close to.. but whom he hated. He transferred it to his best friend who he had been jealous of throughout their lives. It was a wonderful look into the dark side of human nature.
But that question has been turning over and over in my mind.
I asked myself: Who do I hate? And the answer surprised me. I didn't hate anyone. My mind reeled at this. With my childhood I surely had to hate someone. Didn't I hate the people who hurt and failed to protect me? Didn't I? Surely I had to hate Mr. Nap or Mrs. Alberta. Okay, if not them, then the men who visited the liquor house and tormented me...there had to be hate there. No? What about the cunning man who raped me, taking my virginity and leaving me with a son when I was only a child myself? No? Okay, okay what about the father who almost beat me to death when I was just a toddler? No? What about.........?
No I don't hate anyone. I feel sadness but no hate. I asked myself, why? The answer surprised me again. Forgiveness and power. I forgive them all. They took my power when I was young and couldn't protect myself. As an adult I take back my power. To let my past control my life now would be letting them still have control over me. And while I can't go back and change the past, I do have control over my present.....my now.
I take back my power. When I realized that, I also realized I was releasing the anger and the pain of my past and it staggered me. When did I take back my power? Did it matter? Those memories and the pain are things that will always be a part of me. However, they are not who I am. They are not what makes me unique...what makes me strong...what makes me a survivor...what makes me Catherines daughter.
I have been in the prison of my past for so long that this new found freedom feels strange. Don't I need my anger...my rage to protect me?
I remember the first time I saw my father after he was released from prison. We were strangers. I don't even think he remembered beating me before he went home and killed his wife. I remember Big Momma calling me outside...it was night and she said: "this yo daddy Neal...he came by heah to see you". I remember seeing a large man, very dark with huge white teeth. I was afraid of him. How could he be my father? I had only one dark memory of him. After that first meeting, they arranged for me to visit him at the hotel he lived in- The Mitchell Building- it was a big hotel boarding house on Cotton Avenue. Cotton Avenue housed most of the black businesses. Hair salons, juke joints, gambling houses, restaurants - it was all there. And the Mitchell Building was in the center of it all. People rented rooms by the month, the week and sometimes by the hour. It was a meeting place for hard men, bootleggers, pimps and pretty women with tight dresses and red lips. Anyone who loved the fast life would sooner or later make their way to the Mitchell Building. It was never called Mitchell Building, it was always The Mitchell Building.
And Neal's place was on the first floor by the door. It would be filled with men and women smoking, drinking, gambling and cussing. My father Neal was a violent man, quick to laugh, quick to pull out his gun and quick to hit his women. Plural. There were always at least two of them at his place when I visited. I would sit in the corner and watch all of this. Sometimes I felt this out of body experience, like I was standing outside of myself looking at everything but not really being a part of it. Everyone knew I was Neal's little girl and they wouldn't think about pulling the mess on me that I went through at Big Momma's. They were too afraid of Neal. So I was ignored by the men and fawned over by his girlfriends. I wonder why I never told him what was happening to me at Big Momma's. Of the torment and cruelty? I guess I felt I really never had a voice. Who would listen to me? Who would care? I think that I thought I was to blame and I was ashamed. And I was scared. I didn't want to make it worse. I realize now that if I had told him, he would have killed someone.
I usually visited him on Saturdays and one of Neal's girlfriends, Ms. Henrietta who had a beauty parlor on Cotton Avenue, would usually wash and hot comb my hair. I was tender-headed. I remember getting burned by that hot comb. You could smell the burned hair and hear the sizzle of the comb as she straightened my coarse locks. I would eat either fried chicken or fish with collard greens and corn bread afterwards and then he would take me back to Big Momma's house. This was our ritual every other Saturday until the Mitchell Building shut down.
Little girls and their fathers. The majority of my life my father was Neal and that was how I addressed him. It was only a year before his death that things changed. As he grew older he had mellowed and though I can never remember a time that he told me he loved me, he would always show up if I were involved in something. I'd see him in the audience if I did a speech at school or if I received some sort of recognition. I loved to act and was in several plays and he would always come to see me in them. When I became a television personality he always made a point of watching my show: Noon Over Middle Georgia and my news spots. He would never praise me, he would just show up or tune in. There was a longing between us. It was as if he didn't know how to express his feelings toward me and I was wary of him.
Time passed and my mother died. I felt as if the last person in the world that loved me was gone. My father and I got no closer.
And then I started to become reckless and dangerous to myself and others. I was so lonely...so angry. Neal started to call me just to talk. He started visiting me. He was a good grandfather, the love that he could not show me he showered on my two children. I would catch him looking at me and I would hold my breath......
We started having special lunches together. Every payday I would take him to a new restaurant and we would talk. I started to relax in his presence. He would work on my car, a Ford Pinto and tell jokes about it being found on the road dead. We started laughing together, I started calling him everyday. I love vegetables and he would cook my favorite foods. I'd visit him.
And one day while we were watching television at his house, I called him daddy. I was scared when I said it. He sat very still, but I knew he heard me. He didn't say anything but I could feel something changing. I leaned on him and he leaned back. We went to sleep that way and someone took a picture of us. That picture marks the day Neal became my father. It hangs on my wall today. After the first time I called him daddy, it seemed I couldn't say it enough.
That was in the summer and it was the beginning of one of the best times of my life. Thanksgiving came and he got tipsy after dinner and kept hugging me and telling everybody that I was his baby. I finally had my daddy and he loved me and he made me feel protected. I felt I could finally exhale and relax.
My father died of a massive heart attack a week and a half before Christmas of that same year. I felt tricked. I felt abandoned. We had just found each other. It was too soon to loose him. It wasn't fair. I loved him so much. For a little while I had had a father and I loved him and he loved me...fiercely.
But I was on my own again. Holding my breath...waiting to see what else would happen.
As I look back now, I see it was not all bad. I had the love of the most important man in my life. If only for a little while. And it was good.
I am Catherines daughter and I hate no one.
But that question has been turning over and over in my mind.
I asked myself: Who do I hate? And the answer surprised me. I didn't hate anyone. My mind reeled at this. With my childhood I surely had to hate someone. Didn't I hate the people who hurt and failed to protect me? Didn't I? Surely I had to hate Mr. Nap or Mrs. Alberta. Okay, if not them, then the men who visited the liquor house and tormented me...there had to be hate there. No? What about the cunning man who raped me, taking my virginity and leaving me with a son when I was only a child myself? No? Okay, okay what about the father who almost beat me to death when I was just a toddler? No? What about.........?
No I don't hate anyone. I feel sadness but no hate. I asked myself, why? The answer surprised me again. Forgiveness and power. I forgive them all. They took my power when I was young and couldn't protect myself. As an adult I take back my power. To let my past control my life now would be letting them still have control over me. And while I can't go back and change the past, I do have control over my present.....my now.
I take back my power. When I realized that, I also realized I was releasing the anger and the pain of my past and it staggered me. When did I take back my power? Did it matter? Those memories and the pain are things that will always be a part of me. However, they are not who I am. They are not what makes me unique...what makes me strong...what makes me a survivor...what makes me Catherines daughter.
I have been in the prison of my past for so long that this new found freedom feels strange. Don't I need my anger...my rage to protect me?
I remember the first time I saw my father after he was released from prison. We were strangers. I don't even think he remembered beating me before he went home and killed his wife. I remember Big Momma calling me outside...it was night and she said: "this yo daddy Neal...he came by heah to see you". I remember seeing a large man, very dark with huge white teeth. I was afraid of him. How could he be my father? I had only one dark memory of him. After that first meeting, they arranged for me to visit him at the hotel he lived in- The Mitchell Building- it was a big hotel boarding house on Cotton Avenue. Cotton Avenue housed most of the black businesses. Hair salons, juke joints, gambling houses, restaurants - it was all there. And the Mitchell Building was in the center of it all. People rented rooms by the month, the week and sometimes by the hour. It was a meeting place for hard men, bootleggers, pimps and pretty women with tight dresses and red lips. Anyone who loved the fast life would sooner or later make their way to the Mitchell Building. It was never called Mitchell Building, it was always The Mitchell Building.
And Neal's place was on the first floor by the door. It would be filled with men and women smoking, drinking, gambling and cussing. My father Neal was a violent man, quick to laugh, quick to pull out his gun and quick to hit his women. Plural. There were always at least two of them at his place when I visited. I would sit in the corner and watch all of this. Sometimes I felt this out of body experience, like I was standing outside of myself looking at everything but not really being a part of it. Everyone knew I was Neal's little girl and they wouldn't think about pulling the mess on me that I went through at Big Momma's. They were too afraid of Neal. So I was ignored by the men and fawned over by his girlfriends. I wonder why I never told him what was happening to me at Big Momma's. Of the torment and cruelty? I guess I felt I really never had a voice. Who would listen to me? Who would care? I think that I thought I was to blame and I was ashamed. And I was scared. I didn't want to make it worse. I realize now that if I had told him, he would have killed someone.
I usually visited him on Saturdays and one of Neal's girlfriends, Ms. Henrietta who had a beauty parlor on Cotton Avenue, would usually wash and hot comb my hair. I was tender-headed. I remember getting burned by that hot comb. You could smell the burned hair and hear the sizzle of the comb as she straightened my coarse locks. I would eat either fried chicken or fish with collard greens and corn bread afterwards and then he would take me back to Big Momma's house. This was our ritual every other Saturday until the Mitchell Building shut down.
Little girls and their fathers. The majority of my life my father was Neal and that was how I addressed him. It was only a year before his death that things changed. As he grew older he had mellowed and though I can never remember a time that he told me he loved me, he would always show up if I were involved in something. I'd see him in the audience if I did a speech at school or if I received some sort of recognition. I loved to act and was in several plays and he would always come to see me in them. When I became a television personality he always made a point of watching my show: Noon Over Middle Georgia and my news spots. He would never praise me, he would just show up or tune in. There was a longing between us. It was as if he didn't know how to express his feelings toward me and I was wary of him.
Time passed and my mother died. I felt as if the last person in the world that loved me was gone. My father and I got no closer.
And then I started to become reckless and dangerous to myself and others. I was so lonely...so angry. Neal started to call me just to talk. He started visiting me. He was a good grandfather, the love that he could not show me he showered on my two children. I would catch him looking at me and I would hold my breath......
We started having special lunches together. Every payday I would take him to a new restaurant and we would talk. I started to relax in his presence. He would work on my car, a Ford Pinto and tell jokes about it being found on the road dead. We started laughing together, I started calling him everyday. I love vegetables and he would cook my favorite foods. I'd visit him.
And one day while we were watching television at his house, I called him daddy. I was scared when I said it. He sat very still, but I knew he heard me. He didn't say anything but I could feel something changing. I leaned on him and he leaned back. We went to sleep that way and someone took a picture of us. That picture marks the day Neal became my father. It hangs on my wall today. After the first time I called him daddy, it seemed I couldn't say it enough.
That was in the summer and it was the beginning of one of the best times of my life. Thanksgiving came and he got tipsy after dinner and kept hugging me and telling everybody that I was his baby. I finally had my daddy and he loved me and he made me feel protected. I felt I could finally exhale and relax.
My father died of a massive heart attack a week and a half before Christmas of that same year. I felt tricked. I felt abandoned. We had just found each other. It was too soon to loose him. It wasn't fair. I loved him so much. For a little while I had had a father and I loved him and he loved me...fiercely.
But I was on my own again. Holding my breath...waiting to see what else would happen.
As I look back now, I see it was not all bad. I had the love of the most important man in my life. If only for a little while. And it was good.
I am Catherines daughter and I hate no one.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Prayer
The first thing I learned as a child was the Lord's prayer. Big Momma couldn't read but she taught me the entire prayer and every night would end with me on my knees saying " Our father who art in Heaven". That prayer has sustained me throughout my life, even in times when I doubted the existence of a just God. I would question why he made things so hard for me. I wanted to know why I didn't have a loving family. I wanted to know why I had to protect myself. I wanted to know why he let so many bad things happen to me.
They would say that God was good ...all the time. Surely he wasn't good to me. I would wonder what I did that made him not love me. If he did, surely he would not make my life so hard ...so empty.
I cried and screamed at him to show me that he was real and that he loved me. Then I would pray to be forgiven for blaspheming. I was taught to fear God.
When I was little it was hard for me to reconcile a deity that was to be loved
and feared at the same time. I already lived with so much fear in my life. How could I trust him if I feared him? It was a long time before I learned that he was a God of love and he wouldn't hurt me like the adults in my life did. The same adults would say that he never burdened you with more than you could handle. I didn't understand until I was much older exactly what they meant.
I know now that God has always looked out for me.
He saved a child from dying at the hands of drunken father who could have beaten her to death. He sustained a young girl who lived most of her life without the love of a family. He came again and saved the teenager from a neighbor who tried to rape and murder her. He sent a police officer to stanch the blood from a wound that should have been fatal. He gave strength to a reluctant young girl who through a violent act became a mother before her time.
He gave me the determination to not only finish high school but also get a college degree. I remember carrying my baby on one hip and my school books on another. I loved school and would finish salutatorian of my high school class. I remember working two jobs in the daytime and attending Mercer University three nights a week and half a day on Saturday to get my Communications degree.
Each time I fell to my knees and felt that I couldn't go any further...he lightened my load. In my ignorance I would think that I had gotten lucky or that I had gotten a second wind and taken care of myself.
I thought for awhile that I did this without any help....I was wrong....God was there. Many people don't believe in a higher power and that it their choice. Looking back on my life I know there was a higher power guiding and protecting me. That same power guides and protects me today.
As I write this my granddaughter Zorie is in the bedroom asleep. I have prayed these last three months that God would let me see my baby again. It doesn't matter now....why or what kept us apart. What matters is that he answers prayers. She is just seven years old, but when I picked her up from school today she said: "Franny I prayed every night to God to let me come over to your house again. I even prayed in my sleep". She looked up at me with those beautiful liquid brown trusting eyes and said "I love you Franny. Did you miss me? Did you pray too?" At that moment I saw the proof of God's love and grace standing right there in front of me.
"Yes Zorie, I prayed too" I replied to her. She reach up and hugged me and I felt God's presence. In that moment all the love and peace that I've looked for my entire life was right there. And it was asking for nothing from me but love in return. Lord, there are still times I ask why and how...but not today. I just want to thank you for your grace and for answering prayers.
They would say that God was good ...all the time. Surely he wasn't good to me. I would wonder what I did that made him not love me. If he did, surely he would not make my life so hard ...so empty.
I cried and screamed at him to show me that he was real and that he loved me. Then I would pray to be forgiven for blaspheming. I was taught to fear God.
When I was little it was hard for me to reconcile a deity that was to be loved
and feared at the same time. I already lived with so much fear in my life. How could I trust him if I feared him? It was a long time before I learned that he was a God of love and he wouldn't hurt me like the adults in my life did. The same adults would say that he never burdened you with more than you could handle. I didn't understand until I was much older exactly what they meant.
I know now that God has always looked out for me.
He saved a child from dying at the hands of drunken father who could have beaten her to death. He sustained a young girl who lived most of her life without the love of a family. He came again and saved the teenager from a neighbor who tried to rape and murder her. He sent a police officer to stanch the blood from a wound that should have been fatal. He gave strength to a reluctant young girl who through a violent act became a mother before her time.
He gave me the determination to not only finish high school but also get a college degree. I remember carrying my baby on one hip and my school books on another. I loved school and would finish salutatorian of my high school class. I remember working two jobs in the daytime and attending Mercer University three nights a week and half a day on Saturday to get my Communications degree.
Each time I fell to my knees and felt that I couldn't go any further...he lightened my load. In my ignorance I would think that I had gotten lucky or that I had gotten a second wind and taken care of myself.
I thought for awhile that I did this without any help....I was wrong....God was there. Many people don't believe in a higher power and that it their choice. Looking back on my life I know there was a higher power guiding and protecting me. That same power guides and protects me today.
As I write this my granddaughter Zorie is in the bedroom asleep. I have prayed these last three months that God would let me see my baby again. It doesn't matter now....why or what kept us apart. What matters is that he answers prayers. She is just seven years old, but when I picked her up from school today she said: "Franny I prayed every night to God to let me come over to your house again. I even prayed in my sleep". She looked up at me with those beautiful liquid brown trusting eyes and said "I love you Franny. Did you miss me? Did you pray too?" At that moment I saw the proof of God's love and grace standing right there in front of me.
"Yes Zorie, I prayed too" I replied to her. She reach up and hugged me and I felt God's presence. In that moment all the love and peace that I've looked for my entire life was right there. And it was asking for nothing from me but love in return. Lord, there are still times I ask why and how...but not today. I just want to thank you for your grace and for answering prayers.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Make it right
While there were times, when I did not always like my mother .......I never stopped loving her. I never did anything to harm her or treat her in a less than respectful manner. The bible says to honor thy parents and while I have always had a fear of God's wrath, that part of the bible was redundant for me, because I truly loved and respected my mother. My father too, but that is a story for another day.
Because of the way I grew up, when I became the mother of a daughter, I was fiercely protective of her. I loved her fiercely and wanted to shield her from anything that would cause harm to her. I never wanted the evils of the world to touch her. Maybe I loved her too much.... she says I did....she says I do.
I know I never wanted to share her. She was mine and I loved her...fiercely.
From the time my daughter was nine years old and I divorced her father, our relationship was contentious. She blamed me for taking her father away from her. The more I tried to love her, the more she turned from me. We fought, she ran away, she came back and we fought again. I could never love her the way she needed to be loved. And for that, I am so sorry. Don't get it twisted, I was not your average 'Father Knows Best' mother back then, because I was fighting a legion of my own demons. As I look back now, I believe I was quite mad, deranged, in need of psychiatric help. I had never been allowed to show anger. I was always afraid of everything. I just wanted to make everyone else happy and maybe, just maybe, I would be safe and perhaps...even loved. Once I found my anger, I raged at anyone, everyone, everything. My rage became a living thing. It made up for lost time. I could not control it.
There are times ...even now, when my rage peeks out from the darkness that is me, I loose control of it and it destroys.
My children were not exempt. As a single parent I searched for the things I believed I wanted but could not have because deep down inside, I had judged myself unworthy. I am not making any excuses for my anger and actions back then. Only now as I am peeling back the layers of my mind, I wonder, that like an onion, there will be nothing there left of me. Will it all be empty layers? Or will there be a core.. that is me? Even now, as I get the therapy and the medications that that I need confront my past and to tame my rage.
I wonder...is it too late? I am finding the strength to fight for my sanity. But is it too late? I am Catherines daughter, but I am called by another name. Who is she? Is she crazy? Is she just a bitch? Is it too late to break the cycle? My mother lost custody of me. My daughter and I have divorced each other. Who's fault? Does it matter?
Perhaps while I loved my daughter, I gave her too many conflicting signals. Perhaps I deprived her of the balance I have sought for my entire life. She says I was inconsistent and smothering. Perhaps, maybe...I don't know.
My best friend Pam says I spoiled my daughter to much. Pam, my first female friend. I broke one of Catherines rules: never let a woman get close to you.
This is not the story of Pam's and my friendship.
My daughter.... I only know that our relationship has become....... I can't find just one word for it. Loving at times....needy...spiteful...hateful...hurtful.. lost. I accept full responsibility for my part in damaging the relationship. There have been times when loving her became too much and I had to remove her from my life. There have been times when she has done the same to me. We just never removed each other at the same time. We have now.
People say... you will always love your children or you will always love your mother...my daughter and I have proven this to be false. My children and I have proven this false. And I weep. I so very dearly wish that things were different. I just don't know how. How can I make it better? How can I fix it?
God can you help me? I really truly want to fix it. I don't want my past, which never had any type of love in it, to become the present. My present. My children's present. My grandchildren's present.
The great event that brought me and my daughter back together, was the birth of my first grandchild...her son. My Zay....Xavier. We were both so close. What went wrong? My temper? Her conniving? All I know is the first ten years of Xavier's life were my paradise. But like my love for his mother, I did not want to share him with anyone else. I wanted it to be me and them, our own little universe. I was too scared to let anyone else in. Perhaps I felt I was protecting them. Maybe I was protecting myself. I felt I had finally found my "happy ever after". But like a plant that dies when you over water it, my need to have them to myself, wilted everything. ..killed it. My love and my temper and my fear put a chasm between us. Xavier turned away. It is my fault. I tried to hold on too tight. I choked him with my love. I alienated him. I miss him so much. But I cannot find the words to bring him close again. How do I tell him that I always have and always will ...love him.
He is nearly a man...fifteen...and made in his mothers image. Zay and I were once so close...I still love him. But he is his mothers son and this is not the story of him. Perhaps I made him make a choice. Perhaps I made her make a choice. I wonder what will become the story of my daughter and I? In many ways it is the story of sorrow. I weep for my relationship with my daughter. I fear that it is irreparable. That it can never be salvaged.
My son...my relationship with him. But I cannot start that story. It has to keep for another day. My sorrow is so deep, that I fear I will drown in it. But life is about choices. I have always said that. I have made my choices. I have made my bed. For every action, there is a cost . But dear Lord sometimes I find the price is too dear. Too costly and I am bankrupt.
And my Zorie. My only granddaughter is caught in the middle of this. Born at twenty six weeks... I was afraid to love her and now she is my one great love.
Everyone says that emotionally, mentally and physically... she is my mirror
image, my doppelganger. I feel a connection with Zorie that I have never felt with another human being...not even my darling Xavier. Being a preemie, she had a hard row to hoe. But hoe it she did. She is a little fighter. And she has a capacity for love that is just incredible. People say "Mz B....Zorie acts just like you, she talks like you". I would love it when they said that. But it scared me too. I would never want her to fight the emotional and mental demons that her "franny" fought.
Her franny. That's what she calls me. That's what all my grandchildren call me. When she says it...its sounds and feels like love. I feel wrapped in love. She knows I love her to. But her mother fears I love her too much. She fears my love for Zorie is too much and she needs to be protected from it. Three months ago my daughter and I removed ourselves from each others world.
But what of Zorie? She doesn't understand. I don't understand why my daughter would feel I was a threat to Zorie. All I know is, she will not let me see Zorie. All Zorie knows is she can't see or speak to her franny. She is sad. She cries. I mourn. I rage at the heavens. I weep. She sneaks and calls me. She begs for me to come see her. She told me today that she hates the word: separate.
She is seven years old and has come to know what that word means. It is nearly Christmas. It will be the first Christmas she doesn't spend with her franny.
She wants me to make it right. I don't know how to. The separation between my daughter and I is too wide. I tried to bridge it after I spoke to Zorie today.
I called my daughter. The conversation was so false and stilted, it made me physically sick. When I was on the phone with my daughter I could feel the temperature rising around me. I was nauseous. My head was ringing. But I needed to make it right. I have always made things right. When I was a little girl I was good at making people happy. So they wouldn't be mad at me. So they would love me. I need to make things right for Zorie's sake. Lord help me make things right. I don't know how. I am Catherines daughter and I do not know how to make things right. I have forgotten how.
Because of the way I grew up, when I became the mother of a daughter, I was fiercely protective of her. I loved her fiercely and wanted to shield her from anything that would cause harm to her. I never wanted the evils of the world to touch her. Maybe I loved her too much.... she says I did....she says I do.
I know I never wanted to share her. She was mine and I loved her...fiercely.
From the time my daughter was nine years old and I divorced her father, our relationship was contentious. She blamed me for taking her father away from her. The more I tried to love her, the more she turned from me. We fought, she ran away, she came back and we fought again. I could never love her the way she needed to be loved. And for that, I am so sorry. Don't get it twisted, I was not your average 'Father Knows Best' mother back then, because I was fighting a legion of my own demons. As I look back now, I believe I was quite mad, deranged, in need of psychiatric help. I had never been allowed to show anger. I was always afraid of everything. I just wanted to make everyone else happy and maybe, just maybe, I would be safe and perhaps...even loved. Once I found my anger, I raged at anyone, everyone, everything. My rage became a living thing. It made up for lost time. I could not control it.
There are times ...even now, when my rage peeks out from the darkness that is me, I loose control of it and it destroys.
My children were not exempt. As a single parent I searched for the things I believed I wanted but could not have because deep down inside, I had judged myself unworthy. I am not making any excuses for my anger and actions back then. Only now as I am peeling back the layers of my mind, I wonder, that like an onion, there will be nothing there left of me. Will it all be empty layers? Or will there be a core.. that is me? Even now, as I get the therapy and the medications that that I need confront my past and to tame my rage.
I wonder...is it too late? I am finding the strength to fight for my sanity. But is it too late? I am Catherines daughter, but I am called by another name. Who is she? Is she crazy? Is she just a bitch? Is it too late to break the cycle? My mother lost custody of me. My daughter and I have divorced each other. Who's fault? Does it matter?
Perhaps while I loved my daughter, I gave her too many conflicting signals. Perhaps I deprived her of the balance I have sought for my entire life. She says I was inconsistent and smothering. Perhaps, maybe...I don't know.
My best friend Pam says I spoiled my daughter to much. Pam, my first female friend. I broke one of Catherines rules: never let a woman get close to you.
This is not the story of Pam's and my friendship.
My daughter.... I only know that our relationship has become....... I can't find just one word for it. Loving at times....needy...spiteful...hateful...hurtful.. lost. I accept full responsibility for my part in damaging the relationship. There have been times when loving her became too much and I had to remove her from my life. There have been times when she has done the same to me. We just never removed each other at the same time. We have now.
People say... you will always love your children or you will always love your mother...my daughter and I have proven this to be false. My children and I have proven this false. And I weep. I so very dearly wish that things were different. I just don't know how. How can I make it better? How can I fix it?
God can you help me? I really truly want to fix it. I don't want my past, which never had any type of love in it, to become the present. My present. My children's present. My grandchildren's present.
The great event that brought me and my daughter back together, was the birth of my first grandchild...her son. My Zay....Xavier. We were both so close. What went wrong? My temper? Her conniving? All I know is the first ten years of Xavier's life were my paradise. But like my love for his mother, I did not want to share him with anyone else. I wanted it to be me and them, our own little universe. I was too scared to let anyone else in. Perhaps I felt I was protecting them. Maybe I was protecting myself. I felt I had finally found my "happy ever after". But like a plant that dies when you over water it, my need to have them to myself, wilted everything. ..killed it. My love and my temper and my fear put a chasm between us. Xavier turned away. It is my fault. I tried to hold on too tight. I choked him with my love. I alienated him. I miss him so much. But I cannot find the words to bring him close again. How do I tell him that I always have and always will ...love him.
He is nearly a man...fifteen...and made in his mothers image. Zay and I were once so close...I still love him. But he is his mothers son and this is not the story of him. Perhaps I made him make a choice. Perhaps I made her make a choice. I wonder what will become the story of my daughter and I? In many ways it is the story of sorrow. I weep for my relationship with my daughter. I fear that it is irreparable. That it can never be salvaged.
My son...my relationship with him. But I cannot start that story. It has to keep for another day. My sorrow is so deep, that I fear I will drown in it. But life is about choices. I have always said that. I have made my choices. I have made my bed. For every action, there is a cost . But dear Lord sometimes I find the price is too dear. Too costly and I am bankrupt.
And my Zorie. My only granddaughter is caught in the middle of this. Born at twenty six weeks... I was afraid to love her and now she is my one great love.
Everyone says that emotionally, mentally and physically... she is my mirror
image, my doppelganger. I feel a connection with Zorie that I have never felt with another human being...not even my darling Xavier. Being a preemie, she had a hard row to hoe. But hoe it she did. She is a little fighter. And she has a capacity for love that is just incredible. People say "Mz B....Zorie acts just like you, she talks like you". I would love it when they said that. But it scared me too. I would never want her to fight the emotional and mental demons that her "franny" fought.
Her franny. That's what she calls me. That's what all my grandchildren call me. When she says it...its sounds and feels like love. I feel wrapped in love. She knows I love her to. But her mother fears I love her too much. She fears my love for Zorie is too much and she needs to be protected from it. Three months ago my daughter and I removed ourselves from each others world.
But what of Zorie? She doesn't understand. I don't understand why my daughter would feel I was a threat to Zorie. All I know is, she will not let me see Zorie. All Zorie knows is she can't see or speak to her franny. She is sad. She cries. I mourn. I rage at the heavens. I weep. She sneaks and calls me. She begs for me to come see her. She told me today that she hates the word: separate.
She is seven years old and has come to know what that word means. It is nearly Christmas. It will be the first Christmas she doesn't spend with her franny.
She wants me to make it right. I don't know how to. The separation between my daughter and I is too wide. I tried to bridge it after I spoke to Zorie today.
I called my daughter. The conversation was so false and stilted, it made me physically sick. When I was on the phone with my daughter I could feel the temperature rising around me. I was nauseous. My head was ringing. But I needed to make it right. I have always made things right. When I was a little girl I was good at making people happy. So they wouldn't be mad at me. So they would love me. I need to make things right for Zorie's sake. Lord help me make things right. I don't know how. I am Catherines daughter and I do not know how to make things right. I have forgotten how.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Birds of a Feather
I don't know why I find this so hard to tell. I'm scared to revisit my past...afraid I'll get lost there.
My friends know me by a different name...they do not know who I am. They do not know what I am. They don't know that I am Catherine's daughter. They never met her. But when they look into my eyes, she peers out. She is long dead, but she breathes through me. They don't know that my past stains the canvas that makes up my life. Would they still be my friends if they knew? How would they judge me? Would they see me as tainted and too dirty to be a part of their lives? Birds of a feather....I remember someone else, a long time ago telling me that they could not be my friend, because they would be judged by associating with me....birds of a feather flock together. It wasn't my fault... but I was judged wanting and unworthy.
I thought this girl was my best friend.... she was my only friend and I was thirteen. I never had many friends. I wasn't allowed to. My world was Big Momma and Mr. Nap and their liquor house. I knew how to pour a fifty cent shot by the time I was five years old. By the time I was six years old I was keeping the books because neither of them could read. People would come in through the week to get a drink on credit. Friday's were when everyone settled up. If they didn't ...either Big Momma or Mr. Nap would go looking for them with their thirty eight and they would pay...one way or another...sometimes looking down the barrel of a gun. The sound of gunshots were as commonplace as pigs feet on Saturday and church on Sunday. People would fight and bleed and then come Monday morning they headed back to work, hungover and battered. The police didn't bother about colored people shooting or stabbing each other with ice picks when I was a little girl.
I thought everybody lived that way ....carrying a pistol. The juke joints and liquor houses always had weekend tragedies, it was a way of life, so I learned how to use my imagination as an escape. But there was no escaping the hands of the men who came for their shots of liquor. They thought that their money included me. I remember the smell of them, how they looked at me and how it scared me, how they would time their moves for when we were alone and how they would act like nothing was happening if someone else came into the room. I learned to be quick and to leave the room before I was alone with them.
Sometimes it worked...sometimes. Then there were times when they needed a refill. At those times I would try to become invisible and escape into my mind.
I loved to sit under a big tree that was part of our yard. It had a large bench that was built right into the tree. It was peaceful and quiet and I could loose myself in my daydreams. We had three dogs....Roscoe, Spot and Fluffy. Spot was my favorite. I would sit under the tree with the dogs and be happy for awhile. You see they loved me and asked for nothing in return. They never beat me with a razor strap until there were bloody welts on my back or yelled at me and told me I was lucky to have a roof over my head. I loved those dogs...especially Spot. Everyone came to sit under the big tree. They would play checkers or cards, drink beer, talk trash and laugh. When I had the tree all to myself I'd daydream about a place where I'd be safe and feel loved. Where everyone played in the sunshine and there were plenty of friends and everyone was happy. My imagination was the only thing that saved me. It was my refuge. At six years old I wanted live in my mind. In the real world I wanted to die. Dead people were safe weren't they? My life at 1721 Moore Street was one of uncertainty and fear after my mother left me, after she lost custody of me. Big Momma and Mr. Nap were afraid of only one thing and that was the Revenuer's . They would get a shipment of moonshine twice a month, usually late at night and they would need me to help them. I remember the night that they forgot me. I was six years old and it was dark.
The moonshine man had just dropped off the two large plastic containers of liquor; we were in the dark in the big bushes and we needed to hide it until morning when it could be measured out in pints and quarts. All of a sudden there was the sound of sirens and gunshots...lights were flashing, it was a raid and the revenuer's were coming. Mr. Nap and Big Momma started running, they were trying to hide the moonshine and not get caught by the revenuer's. But I couldn't keep up, I was six years old in the dark and they left me. I could see the white shadows running through the trees and I thought that they would see me ...that they would get me...I couldn't find Big Momma. Where was she? If I was found, what would they do to me? I remember running and falling and crying without making any sound. I remember lying there...and then...my mind just went away. The next thing I knew, Big Momma was leading me back to the house...she was talking...but I couldn't hear her....my tears filled my head. Why did she leave me in the dark? She didn't hug me or try to comfort me. She told me to go to bed. That was life at 1721 Moore Street.
Moore Street doesn't even exist anymore. It was swallowed up by I-75. If you go to Macon now, no trace remains....except in my mind. We still sold liquor when we moved to Grants Chapel Alley. I was older and starting junior high. My only friends were books and my teachers. Especially Mrs. Espy.
I don't want to remember this. I want to forget this. Please God I want to forget this. If I don't say it, it won't be so. If I click my heels three times it'll go away. Make it go away Lord.
I was so naive so innocent. I still didn't have many friends. It wasn't allowed. But I did have this girl. She was my friend. And then it happened and she wasn't my friend anymore. I was a virgin. And then I wasn't. I was twelve, going on thirteen. He became my friend. He told me I could ask him anything. He told me I was pretty. He was twenty one. One day, at school I heard a girl talking about kissing. She said people put their tongues in each other's mouths. I asked him if it were so. You see.... I trusted him.
He wouldn't hurt me, he was my friend. He wasn't like the men who came to Big Mommas.
Lord I don't want to remember this.
One Saturday ... Big Momma always sent me to town on Saturday. I would make a list and go to Mulberry Market and bring back the groceries. I would take the bus downtown and then get a cab back home. It was the only day that I had to myself...that I was free. I would take my time and window shop and dream about the pretty clothes. This day he was waiting at the end of the alley. He told me he'd take me to town and he would answer my question, but he needed to stop by his cousin's house first.
No noooooooo . I can't do this. I don't want to remember this.
When we got to his cousins house, he asked me to come in for just a minute. When we got inside, he said "let me show you how to kiss". He touched his lips to mine.
I don't remember. No I can't remember this.
Then he touched my hair. I remember saying I had to go. He didn't listen. He raped me. I was a virgin and he raped me. It hurt. It hurt so bad. He stole what was left of my innocence. When it was over, I felt broken. I don't remember how I got there, but we were back in his car and heading downtown and he was smiling and talking. I couldn't hear him. My head was full of my screams. He didn't hear. Nobody heard.
I was twelve going on thirteen and I was pregnant. The story of my pregnancy and how it reunited me with my mother is not this story. This is the story of my friend and how she told me after I had my son, that she could no longer be my friend because people would think she was just like me. She said they would think that birds of a feather flock together. The people in the neighborhood whispered that it was the quiet ones you had to look out for. Still waters run deep. She could no longer be my friend. I remember being so hurt and feeling so dirty, so unworthy. I can still see myself walking away and wondering if people were looking and whispering. I felt their eyes on my back as I walked away and I vowed never to have another person look at me the way the girl did. My friend who was not my friend. I swore never to let another's words destroy me again. My words would destroy first. I would never need another person. I would leave them before they left me.
I am older now and I still find it hard to fully trust anyone. I still believe, deep down, that they will leave. Even my children. But this is not their story. I still imagine the whispers. I say that I don't care. I don' need anyone. But I do and it terrifies me. What will I do when they see beyond the facade? How can I endure that hurt again? They call me by another name. I am Catherines daughter and the birds are still circling.
My friends know me by a different name...they do not know who I am. They do not know what I am. They don't know that I am Catherine's daughter. They never met her. But when they look into my eyes, she peers out. She is long dead, but she breathes through me. They don't know that my past stains the canvas that makes up my life. Would they still be my friends if they knew? How would they judge me? Would they see me as tainted and too dirty to be a part of their lives? Birds of a feather....I remember someone else, a long time ago telling me that they could not be my friend, because they would be judged by associating with me....birds of a feather flock together. It wasn't my fault... but I was judged wanting and unworthy.
I thought this girl was my best friend.... she was my only friend and I was thirteen. I never had many friends. I wasn't allowed to. My world was Big Momma and Mr. Nap and their liquor house. I knew how to pour a fifty cent shot by the time I was five years old. By the time I was six years old I was keeping the books because neither of them could read. People would come in through the week to get a drink on credit. Friday's were when everyone settled up. If they didn't ...either Big Momma or Mr. Nap would go looking for them with their thirty eight and they would pay...one way or another...sometimes looking down the barrel of a gun. The sound of gunshots were as commonplace as pigs feet on Saturday and church on Sunday. People would fight and bleed and then come Monday morning they headed back to work, hungover and battered. The police didn't bother about colored people shooting or stabbing each other with ice picks when I was a little girl.
I thought everybody lived that way ....carrying a pistol. The juke joints and liquor houses always had weekend tragedies, it was a way of life, so I learned how to use my imagination as an escape. But there was no escaping the hands of the men who came for their shots of liquor. They thought that their money included me. I remember the smell of them, how they looked at me and how it scared me, how they would time their moves for when we were alone and how they would act like nothing was happening if someone else came into the room. I learned to be quick and to leave the room before I was alone with them.
Sometimes it worked...sometimes. Then there were times when they needed a refill. At those times I would try to become invisible and escape into my mind.
I loved to sit under a big tree that was part of our yard. It had a large bench that was built right into the tree. It was peaceful and quiet and I could loose myself in my daydreams. We had three dogs....Roscoe, Spot and Fluffy. Spot was my favorite. I would sit under the tree with the dogs and be happy for awhile. You see they loved me and asked for nothing in return. They never beat me with a razor strap until there were bloody welts on my back or yelled at me and told me I was lucky to have a roof over my head. I loved those dogs...especially Spot. Everyone came to sit under the big tree. They would play checkers or cards, drink beer, talk trash and laugh. When I had the tree all to myself I'd daydream about a place where I'd be safe and feel loved. Where everyone played in the sunshine and there were plenty of friends and everyone was happy. My imagination was the only thing that saved me. It was my refuge. At six years old I wanted live in my mind. In the real world I wanted to die. Dead people were safe weren't they? My life at 1721 Moore Street was one of uncertainty and fear after my mother left me, after she lost custody of me. Big Momma and Mr. Nap were afraid of only one thing and that was the Revenuer's . They would get a shipment of moonshine twice a month, usually late at night and they would need me to help them. I remember the night that they forgot me. I was six years old and it was dark.
The moonshine man had just dropped off the two large plastic containers of liquor; we were in the dark in the big bushes and we needed to hide it until morning when it could be measured out in pints and quarts. All of a sudden there was the sound of sirens and gunshots...lights were flashing, it was a raid and the revenuer's were coming. Mr. Nap and Big Momma started running, they were trying to hide the moonshine and not get caught by the revenuer's. But I couldn't keep up, I was six years old in the dark and they left me. I could see the white shadows running through the trees and I thought that they would see me ...that they would get me...I couldn't find Big Momma. Where was she? If I was found, what would they do to me? I remember running and falling and crying without making any sound. I remember lying there...and then...my mind just went away. The next thing I knew, Big Momma was leading me back to the house...she was talking...but I couldn't hear her....my tears filled my head. Why did she leave me in the dark? She didn't hug me or try to comfort me. She told me to go to bed. That was life at 1721 Moore Street.
Moore Street doesn't even exist anymore. It was swallowed up by I-75. If you go to Macon now, no trace remains....except in my mind. We still sold liquor when we moved to Grants Chapel Alley. I was older and starting junior high. My only friends were books and my teachers. Especially Mrs. Espy.
I don't want to remember this. I want to forget this. Please God I want to forget this. If I don't say it, it won't be so. If I click my heels three times it'll go away. Make it go away Lord.
I was so naive so innocent. I still didn't have many friends. It wasn't allowed. But I did have this girl. She was my friend. And then it happened and she wasn't my friend anymore. I was a virgin. And then I wasn't. I was twelve, going on thirteen. He became my friend. He told me I could ask him anything. He told me I was pretty. He was twenty one. One day, at school I heard a girl talking about kissing. She said people put their tongues in each other's mouths. I asked him if it were so. You see.... I trusted him.
He wouldn't hurt me, he was my friend. He wasn't like the men who came to Big Mommas.
Lord I don't want to remember this.
One Saturday ... Big Momma always sent me to town on Saturday. I would make a list and go to Mulberry Market and bring back the groceries. I would take the bus downtown and then get a cab back home. It was the only day that I had to myself...that I was free. I would take my time and window shop and dream about the pretty clothes. This day he was waiting at the end of the alley. He told me he'd take me to town and he would answer my question, but he needed to stop by his cousin's house first.
No noooooooo . I can't do this. I don't want to remember this.
When we got to his cousins house, he asked me to come in for just a minute. When we got inside, he said "let me show you how to kiss". He touched his lips to mine.
I don't remember. No I can't remember this.
Then he touched my hair. I remember saying I had to go. He didn't listen. He raped me. I was a virgin and he raped me. It hurt. It hurt so bad. He stole what was left of my innocence. When it was over, I felt broken. I don't remember how I got there, but we were back in his car and heading downtown and he was smiling and talking. I couldn't hear him. My head was full of my screams. He didn't hear. Nobody heard.
I was twelve going on thirteen and I was pregnant. The story of my pregnancy and how it reunited me with my mother is not this story. This is the story of my friend and how she told me after I had my son, that she could no longer be my friend because people would think she was just like me. She said they would think that birds of a feather flock together. The people in the neighborhood whispered that it was the quiet ones you had to look out for. Still waters run deep. She could no longer be my friend. I remember being so hurt and feeling so dirty, so unworthy. I can still see myself walking away and wondering if people were looking and whispering. I felt their eyes on my back as I walked away and I vowed never to have another person look at me the way the girl did. My friend who was not my friend. I swore never to let another's words destroy me again. My words would destroy first. I would never need another person. I would leave them before they left me.
I am older now and I still find it hard to fully trust anyone. I still believe, deep down, that they will leave. Even my children. But this is not their story. I still imagine the whispers. I say that I don't care. I don' need anyone. But I do and it terrifies me. What will I do when they see beyond the facade? How can I endure that hurt again? They call me by another name. I am Catherines daughter and the birds are still circling.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Sober Mind
My mama use to say a drunk man spoke a sober man's mind.
I loved being with her, drunk or sober. When she was sober, she never made excuses for her behavior when she was drinking. It was a part of who she was. Drunk or sober I loved her. Sometimes she had seizures. I was so little and they scared me so bad - I'd think she'd be dying. I remember people putting a spoon in her mouth and how her body would thrash around. It was only when I became older that I found out she had been diagnosed with a tumor on her brain. I'd later see the scars on her lips where she had bitten herself and I would want to kiss them to make them better, but I was afraid to. Maybe I was afraid she wouldn't let me. I'd want to but I never tried. When I got bigger she told me she had meningitis when she was younger. I didn't understand how fragile she was. It was only until I was much older ....when our roles would be reversed and I would become the mother that I would understand.
When I became an adult my mother's dependence on me never felt like burden. I always wanted to protect her...to make her safe. When I was eight years old, during a drunken fight with her then lover...he hit her in the face with a piece of wood and took her eyesight. His name was Mr. Johnny. By the time she sought help...it was too late...her sight was gone. One eye gone and the other covered by a cataract. She was blind but she still drank and she still got beat by Mr. Johnny. Years would pass. She became able to make out colors if there was a strong light. But she was still blind. During these years I would come to know how much my mother loved me .... when her power had been taken. Things would happen. She was blind. She could see colors.
I would need her and be old enough to go to her. She would welcome me.
They took me away from my momma and gave me to a father I had never known, who almost beat me to death in a drunken rage when I was four years old and who then went home and shot his wife to death during an argument. They gave him custody of me and sentenced him five years in prison. He was familiar with the liquor lady, so I went to 1721 Moore Street and became a ward of Mr. Nap and Ms. Alberta. This became the address of my own hell for the remainder of what I remember of my childhood until when we moved to Grants Chapel Alley.
For the first part of my life on Moore street I missed my momma so much. She and Mr. Johnny had moved to Sandersville. But she didn't forget me. She came to Macon on the Greyhound bus every month to pick up her check which came to the Moore street address. It was quite a feat for a blind person. She would catch the bus in Sandersville and get a cab to come to Big Momma's. That's what I called Ms. Alberta. Earlier in my life I had renamed them. It was during the day that I remembered them hanging out laundry in the sun and laughing. My first memory. I said " One of you is big and the other one is little". My mother became Little Mama or Lil Ma, for short and Ms. Alberta became Big Momma.
I think Lil Ma had her check sent there so that she would still have some kind of contact with me. She didn't have custody of me, but she made sure...every month...that she was a presence in my life. It was during this time that I remember her hugs and her kisses. And she stayed a presence until she had a fight with Ms. Alberta and was told she wasn't welcome anymore and that she couldn't come to see me. I remember crying and wanting to go to her - go with her- but they wouldn't let me. I wonder what she felt when another woman told her she couldn't see her own child anymore. I know how bad it hurts to be deprived of seeing someone you love.
She could see colors. And there came a time when I needed her and she was there. When an event happened to me that tore me finally... bodily and forever from childhood, she was there.
The last sight my mother had of me before she was blinded, I was six years old. The next time she saw me I was seventeen. She had regained her sight. The story of how she regained sight is not for now. Not yet. Nor is it time to relive the event that brought us back together. Not yet.
A week ago I found out that I had some kind of inflammation of the brain or a tumor. Life comes full circle. I wonder how my mother felt when she was told. Was she scared? Back then they didn't have MRI's or CAT Scans. The medicine certainly wasn't as advanced. I remember her taking a white pill every day. It was Valium. It was the best that they could do for her back then. Maybe that was why she drank. Maybe it numbed the fear. She probably felt so alone. I know I do. I'm scared. I mean Lord haven't you thrown enough at me? I've been a good girl. I know the story of Job. But God I'm getting so tired. I know you've walked every step of this with me. But I'm not as strong as I use to be. I'm tired. I don't know if I can get through this. And this morning God, I get the call that says they're adding Lupus and Sarcoidosis to the mix. Enough.... please....enough.
I've always been afraid of dementia or strokes. Because then you had to rely on strangers. Their kindness or their cruelty. Who will take care of me? Will anyone miss me? Have I made a difference? Will anyone sit down and write about me and call me by name? Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Lord I need you to carry me but if you have to take something. Take my life. Don't leave me here without a mind to protect myself with. I know I've made mistakes. The ones I've made, I've taken full responsibility for.
I am Catherines daughter and I make no excuses for myself. .. I speak a sober man's mind.
I loved being with her, drunk or sober. When she was sober, she never made excuses for her behavior when she was drinking. It was a part of who she was. Drunk or sober I loved her. Sometimes she had seizures. I was so little and they scared me so bad - I'd think she'd be dying. I remember people putting a spoon in her mouth and how her body would thrash around. It was only when I became older that I found out she had been diagnosed with a tumor on her brain. I'd later see the scars on her lips where she had bitten herself and I would want to kiss them to make them better, but I was afraid to. Maybe I was afraid she wouldn't let me. I'd want to but I never tried. When I got bigger she told me she had meningitis when she was younger. I didn't understand how fragile she was. It was only until I was much older ....when our roles would be reversed and I would become the mother that I would understand.
When I became an adult my mother's dependence on me never felt like burden. I always wanted to protect her...to make her safe. When I was eight years old, during a drunken fight with her then lover...he hit her in the face with a piece of wood and took her eyesight. His name was Mr. Johnny. By the time she sought help...it was too late...her sight was gone. One eye gone and the other covered by a cataract. She was blind but she still drank and she still got beat by Mr. Johnny. Years would pass. She became able to make out colors if there was a strong light. But she was still blind. During these years I would come to know how much my mother loved me .... when her power had been taken. Things would happen. She was blind. She could see colors.
I would need her and be old enough to go to her. She would welcome me.
They took me away from my momma and gave me to a father I had never known, who almost beat me to death in a drunken rage when I was four years old and who then went home and shot his wife to death during an argument. They gave him custody of me and sentenced him five years in prison. He was familiar with the liquor lady, so I went to 1721 Moore Street and became a ward of Mr. Nap and Ms. Alberta. This became the address of my own hell for the remainder of what I remember of my childhood until when we moved to Grants Chapel Alley.
For the first part of my life on Moore street I missed my momma so much. She and Mr. Johnny had moved to Sandersville. But she didn't forget me. She came to Macon on the Greyhound bus every month to pick up her check which came to the Moore street address. It was quite a feat for a blind person. She would catch the bus in Sandersville and get a cab to come to Big Momma's. That's what I called Ms. Alberta. Earlier in my life I had renamed them. It was during the day that I remembered them hanging out laundry in the sun and laughing. My first memory. I said " One of you is big and the other one is little". My mother became Little Mama or Lil Ma, for short and Ms. Alberta became Big Momma.
I think Lil Ma had her check sent there so that she would still have some kind of contact with me. She didn't have custody of me, but she made sure...every month...that she was a presence in my life. It was during this time that I remember her hugs and her kisses. And she stayed a presence until she had a fight with Ms. Alberta and was told she wasn't welcome anymore and that she couldn't come to see me. I remember crying and wanting to go to her - go with her- but they wouldn't let me. I wonder what she felt when another woman told her she couldn't see her own child anymore. I know how bad it hurts to be deprived of seeing someone you love.
She could see colors. And there came a time when I needed her and she was there. When an event happened to me that tore me finally... bodily and forever from childhood, she was there.
The last sight my mother had of me before she was blinded, I was six years old. The next time she saw me I was seventeen. She had regained her sight. The story of how she regained sight is not for now. Not yet. Nor is it time to relive the event that brought us back together. Not yet.
A week ago I found out that I had some kind of inflammation of the brain or a tumor. Life comes full circle. I wonder how my mother felt when she was told. Was she scared? Back then they didn't have MRI's or CAT Scans. The medicine certainly wasn't as advanced. I remember her taking a white pill every day. It was Valium. It was the best that they could do for her back then. Maybe that was why she drank. Maybe it numbed the fear. She probably felt so alone. I know I do. I'm scared. I mean Lord haven't you thrown enough at me? I've been a good girl. I know the story of Job. But God I'm getting so tired. I know you've walked every step of this with me. But I'm not as strong as I use to be. I'm tired. I don't know if I can get through this. And this morning God, I get the call that says they're adding Lupus and Sarcoidosis to the mix. Enough.... please....enough.
I've always been afraid of dementia or strokes. Because then you had to rely on strangers. Their kindness or their cruelty. Who will take care of me? Will anyone miss me? Have I made a difference? Will anyone sit down and write about me and call me by name? Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Lord I need you to carry me but if you have to take something. Take my life. Don't leave me here without a mind to protect myself with. I know I've made mistakes. The ones I've made, I've taken full responsibility for.
I am Catherines daughter and I make no excuses for myself. .. I speak a sober man's mind.
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