|
Legacy
Mental Mastrubation and Other Musings |
 Blog For Free! Archives Home 2006 October 2006 September 2006 August 2006 July 2006 June 2006 May 2006 April 2006 January 2005 December 2005 September 2005 March 2005 January 2004 October 2004 September 2004 August 2004 July 2004 June My Links Eyleen's Blog HomeGrown Creations, LLC GIVE'UM DRAMA My Ryze Page tBlog My Profile Send tMail My tFriends My Images Sponsored Blog 
|
|
|
“And I bequeath my estate and money in the account at First Reserve Bank to my granddaughter, Zion. My grand aunts gasped so loudly they almost sucked out all the air in the lawyer’s office. As Aunt Agnes mouth hung open her twin Brandy became the spokeswoman for the unholy duo. “Surely there’s been a mistake? That can’t be the end!” Mr. Foster looked stoically over his glasses and said “I’m afraid so Ms. Haberdasher. Before you offer a challenge I can assure you your sister was of sound mind and body when she had me drew up the will.” The conversation volleyed back and forth with the sisters trying to verbally double team Mr. Foster but you could see why he earns the big bucks. Every point they made he countered with lawyer speak. I sat immobilized by the surreal moment and though only to snap my head back and forth between the argument.
My aunts finally backed down and strode to the door in a huff never acknowledging my presence. Before she left Aunt Agnes finally spoke up when “This is FAR from over.”
Aunt “B” shook her head in agreement and mounted their brooms and went like the witches they’ve always been. Mr. Foster assured me that the will was iron clad and though those two will try to fight it my inheritance was safe. I left his office and drove into the direction of Zeb’s Manor feeling as if I was in a very warped dream. I know you don’t know what I’m talking about so I’ve give you an abbreviated biography. My name is Zion Michaels. I’m a unemployed, first time novelist who just inherited a fortune and a large manor home from on five acres of land from my grandmother, Matilda Michaels, one of the meanest bitches to ever walk upright. Before you go all righteous on me about calling my generous grandmother a bitch I need to tell you more. I’m the product of Jake Michael’s, composer and his live in jazz singing girlfriend, Dominique Samuelson. They died in a bus accident that I was the only survivor of and when my mother’s mother died from the shock of losing her child I was given to my father’s mother . . . My white grandmother. I often wondered if she would have loved me if I wasn’t half black. Nonetheless she got custody of me and the where the real story begins... The miracle of my surviving the bus accident that decapitated my mother and snapped my father’s neck meant nothing to her. I was the only remnant of her beloved only child and she took me in though it meant harboring a “little half breed.” This was my nickname behind closed doors when she though I couldn’t hear her conversations with my aunts. They also helped raise me. Aunt Agnes and Brandy were her younger, twin, spinster sisters who lived together in a cottage on the manor grounds. After my grandfather Zebulon Michael’s died and left grandmother his vast fortune she had her sisters moved on to the property so she could have live in minions. From the first time I was conscience of my existence until my grandmother took her last breath the love she felt for me was trapped under layers of emotions I never could decipher. What made the love of these three women so insidious was how they’d always made derogatory comments about my mix parentage. “Come here nana’s little Tragic Mulatto.” This was her pet name for me. She made sure I had the best of everything because she “Didn’t want the circumstance of my birth me a hindrance.” I remember my Aunt Brandy bought me a beautiful doll with a porcelain head. The doll had on West African clothing with head wrap. Considering all my other dolls I thought she looked so odd but her facial beauty and colorful clothing and I named her “Dommie” after my mother. The rule was to keep her hidden from my other aunt and grandmother. I’d secretly pull her out and pretend Dommie was my mother. She heard my fears, dreams, secrets, and pain. Dommie remained safe for two years then one a day I was talking to her about my sadness when my grandmother barged in my room. She looked at Dommie as her face contorted into a frightening mask. Scared was not the word for how I felt and I wet my pants as I stood up. Grandmother never said a word. She snatched my hand before I had a chance to run and silently drugged me to the bathroom. My screams brought my aunt son the scene. Was I tried to resist I could see Aunt Agnes sneering while Aunt Brandy looked pained with index finger held to her lips. Grandmother and I stood in the pristine white bathroom. “Who gave you the doll?” she said this as she turned the cold water faucet only in the tub. Ignoring my sobs she asked again “Who-gave-you-that nigga-doll?” I never spoke I just cried and screamed while the clothes were ripped from my body.
She threw me in the tub with such force I became silent and numb as the cold water shocked my senses.
This life defining moment taught me the depths of hatred. The door to fear slammed shut as my child’s mind tried trapping the horror of the event with silence. Grandmother pulled out a dirty rag used to clean the bathroom floor and Ajax cleanser and scrubbed my entire body raw including my mouth. She was merciful in that I was allowed to rinse the bitter, metal tasting cleanser before I vomited. She lifted me out of the tub and made me stand shivering, wet, and naked as she went to the door and asked one of her sisters to get a nightgown for me. Grandmother looked back in my direction and I saw some other emotion seeping threw her anger and hatred but she kept it in check. My Aunt Agnes handed her the gown and grandmother closed the door in her face. The towel she used to dry me off felt like sandpaper against my damaged skin. I put on the gown she threw at me, then took her hand as she led me down the long corridor past portraits of dead white relatives who stared down in judgment of this “tragic mulatto” infecting their bloodline. My five-year-old legs barely kept pace but somehow I managed as I passed through the kitchen where Aunt Brandy fried pork chops for the evening supper. Somehow her guilt gave off a stronger aroma than the food. Grandmother marched me out pass the polished pine floor of the sun porch on to the beautifully manicured garden and lawn of the gardens and yard and she didn’t stop until we stood in front of the large palmetto tree in the front yard, “Stay here” she said in her famous calm steady tone. Grandmother disappeared around the side of the house and part of me wanted to take off running. The other knew there’d be no other place for me to go and just like in the bathroom my protector side told me to remain calm and except for the shivering I stood still. I was five years old and I could barely spell bravery less understand what it meant. Grandmother returned with a thick yellow nylon rope, pushed my back against the tree, and proceeded to tie me to it. The panic revisited and I began to cry. She stopped long enough to slap me in the mouth and with a look told me to shut up mouth or things could get worse. The task was finished and she slightly smiled at her handiwork and walked off. As I quietly cried she and the Aunts ate their pork chop dinners on the front porch. This was an aberration because they endured the act for my suffering. After dinner they went inside and left me there. I went to the bathroom on myself several times trying to break free of my bondage but I wasn’t strong enough. Night swallowed the sky and the only distraction from my fatigue, thirst, hunger and were the mosquitoes making a feast of my immobile body. I prayed for death and the response was a baby cries. At first I thought it was the rustling leaves but the distinct cries of a frightened infant faintly rode the breeze. I look around as much as I could move to see what direction the sound was coming from and wasn’t until I looked into the direction of the attic window with the moon shining on it that I realized it was coming from there. (To be continued . . .)