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| Legacy V |
| 10.24.06 (10:13 am) [edit] |
I wake up to the sound of my voice continuing my grandmother’s scream as my body rigidly sitting upright in the bed. I see two silhouettes through blurry eyes entering the now darken room in a shaft of light and one of the figures grabs me. The other turns on the room light and Bryant’s familiar scent fills my nostrils but the memory of the dream of him biting off my tongue is fresh and I attempt to fight him off but he pulls me close restricting my arms. I slowly calm down. Over his shoulder the motel’s night manager stands bug eyed and says “She alright?” Bryant pulls me away and does a quick inspection placing his hands on my face and arms. “Baby, are you hurt?” I respond as I collapse in his arms and cry. Holding me with one arm he turns slightly to the night manager “I got it from here.” The night manager leaves and I go into full sob. What makes Bryant so incredible his intuitive nature when I’m distressed. He knew I needed comforting not questions. He cups the back of my head and lays it on his broad shoulder; the tips of his fingers massage my scalp as he rocks humming our favorite song in my ear. I calm down in the security of his loving embrace. “Feel safe?” he asks in a whisper. His hand in my hair slowly grips a tuft and jerks my head back. Once again I’m faced the maniacal younger version of my grand father I just dreamt about. Sneering he says, “You’re far from safe ya’ lying bitch?” Before I could respond big hands surround my throat and I feel my air supply cutting off rapidly. As I lose consciousness I hear the shrieking voice of the same baby I heard all those year ago . I’m on the living room floor at grandmother’s house. It’s dark and there is someone banging on the door. I touch my throat wondering what’s real and what is a dream? I hear Bryant calling out my name and I make my way to the front door but I hesitate to open it. “Let me in baby. It’s me.” “ What’s wrong with you? Open the door.” He very annoyed. His head is backlit by a liar’s moon and the eerie glow adds to his distorted features caught in the ornate etching of the front door window. Fed up with freaky dreams I decide to get the jump on the situation. I fling the door open; windmill him with all my might. He steps back tripping over the dropped bag, and carries me with him. “Shit!” he yells after the back of his head bounces on the hard wood floor. I collapse on top of him quickly rolling off as I push away. “What is wrong with you?” You can hear the fear blended with the anger in his voice. I begin to cry just as I did when my grandmother tied me to the tree that fateful night. Between the bizarre happenings of the day and the never-ending nightmare I have no words to explain the depths of my terror. Despite my wild behavior he crawls over in pain and sits against the front porch banister grabbing me. Though we barely can see each on the darken porch our mutual mix emotions linger like a thick fog between us. He pulls me close and I warily lay tense in his arms. Softly he asks, “What’s wrong Zion?” I tell him about the reading of the will, my aunt’s protest, my coming to the house. By the time I mention the dead baby in the attic, my aunt’s departure, and the never-ending nightmare I’m sobbing again and Bryant patiently waits for me to calm down. Wobbly he rises with my assistance as apologize for my “greeting.” As we walk through the dining room we pass the sideboard where the red velvet box sits and the urge to take it with us never gets strong enough for me to pick it up. As we head towards the bedroom to drop his bags off he says, “I know you’re very upset and scared but I want to see this baby.” The knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. I want to show him but I’m scared shitless. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” I giggle at the irony of his promise of protection. “What part of supernatural don’t you understand, Bryant?” I asked. “Obviously the pressure of the day has your mind’s playing tricks on you.” My anger ignited by his condescending response motivates me to move beyond my raw feelings. “Let’s go the attic.” I say with conviction. Grabbing his hand we go down the hall where portraits of dead ancestors watch us walk pass. I know they are the real keepers of the secrets of this house. At the attic door the knot tightens. “I’ll go first,” he says. So gallant, so naive. I give him the key I now wear around my neck. He opens the door and up we go into the dark unknown. The light switch at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t work. He turns on the flashlight he brought and it acts light a spotlight on the attic’s creepy contents. From behind his back I direct him to the chest where I found the baby and I can’t believe it! All the satin sheets that I left strewn on the floor was gone and the chest closed. I wanted to say something to Bryant but he’d add to other strange things I told him. We slowly walk towards the chest as the goose bumps rise all over my body. He asks for the next key and I give with trembling hand. The lock turns as I close my eyes and hear the creaking top. I open them and I see piles of vintage clothing folded in neat piles, which makes me grab at them until I hit bottom. “T-there was a dead baby in here. I swear!” I say in a panic. Masking skepticism he quietly says, “You’re stressed Zion –““My ass!” I yell. “A dead black baby with ice blue eyes starting at me was in a coffin right here a few hours ago and whether you believe me or not I saw it!” He had that look between confusion and sympathy.” “Don’t you dare Bryant Anthony! Don’t-you-dare not believe me! I’m telling you some real scary shit is going down and I need you to support me. At least fake it.” He slid his glasses on top of his head and rubbed his eyes, which is the signal he’d back me no matter how crazy things get. I had him turn the flashlight on the photo albums I looked at earlier as we headed back downstairs. Looked back at the chest washed in moon light from the window above gave me a chill. We went in the bedroom, sat on the bed, and began looking through the pictures and of course they were different. Why should creepy things stop happening now? All the ones that contained black people vanished and the photographs left were pale faces with stiff smiles and hollow eyes however . . .The last picture was a beautiful sepia toned photograph of my grandmother sitting in a rocking chair holding a baby in her arms with her sisters flanking her on either side like sentries. My grandmother had a pained smile while my aunt’s stoic faces held solemn secrets. I maintained my calm “This picture . . . this picture wasn’t here when I first looked at the album this afternoon. Look! The baby she’s holding is brown and wearing the same christening gown I saw in the chest.” “You know what? . . . Bryant gave me a look that was skeptical. How could I be mad at him? Every piece of evidence of the scary events of the day is changing and if I continue to act so erratically he’ll never believe. Taking a deep breath I calm down and look into the face of the only person who has ever shown me love and the fear goes quiet. “I don’t want to be scared any more.” “What do want to do?” he asks innocently. I take that as a cue to slow kiss him allowing my hands to slide towards familiar places. Pulling back, he says, “You sure?” I gave him the look that told him that I’m sending those emotions on a union break.” Before another word was said I sit on his lap and lick the scar behind his ear. The area’s hypersensitive and the next cue I not only want to have sex I want it long, rough and reckless. In seconds I forget the day’s proceedings and surrender to the rhythm of my lover’s arched back. We have sex, make love, fuck, grunt, cry, and yell each names until we we’re sore, tired, and hungry-No tongue biting or choking just Bryant, me and the our devotion for one another. We take a shower, dress and decide to go out for a bite. I feel rested and relaxed. The red velvet box left for me in the foyer that I sat on the buffet this afternoon, in now on the dashboard of Bryant’s rental car. His eyes widen and he jumps back as if he saw a snake. “How the hell did that get in here?” Think I’m imagining this now? I ask . . . (To be continued). Melissa E. Taylor copyright 2006
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| Legacy IV |
| 10.23.06 (8:49 pm) [edit] |
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I walked back toward the house dazed by the day’s events. Sitting in the foyer was blood red velvet with a small gold key tied to an old black ribbon. If those hags just drove pass and I’ve been on the porch for five seconds, who left this? I know this is the part of the story where the heroine stays in the creepy house with the mummified baby in the attic and doesn’t leave until the mystery is solved. I grabbed my packed bags and the velvet box in the foyer and left. Driving up to the Pine Bur Motel ten miles from Zeb’s Manor seemed a safe distance. If you think I’m a coward, you’d be right. I already suffered too much pain and fear in that house. Growing up there scarred my past, no need to continue the nightmare in the present. I tried calling Bryant but there was no answer on his cell. I hope that means he’s on his way. I lay on the bed trying to calm myself. What happened today would have unnerved Job and I know this is just the beginning as I stare at the velvet box sitting on the dresser. I don’t want to open it alone so I decided to wait until Bryant got here and we’d open it together. I see that damn box before drifting off. I must be dreaming because I‘m standing on the landing of a room where people in the most elegant clothing I’d ever seen. I’m dressed in beautiful chartreuse gown and crimson cotton quarter length gloves with a large diamond ring sparkling on my left gloved ring finger. In the corner of the landing stood my mother who was only a face in a picture up until now. She grabs me in a desperate embrace and the weight and warmth of her body seems strange.
There’s a scent of a floral perfume wafting around us, “Mom?”, I say shocked by the realness of the moment. She releases her hold as we latch on to each other’s stare. “It’s your turn,” she says with a smile and tears in her eyes gesturing for me to join the party. I don’t want to leave her side but my feet willing glide down the stairs looking back on an empty landing. People are quite friendly and I’m lead to a banquet table filled with various kinds of sumptuous food. With full plate I seek a seat. I see Bryant beckoning me to sit next to him. I rush over, take a seat and from that position plant a sensuous kiss on his lips only he begins suck on my tongue and the force of the suction almost fuses his mouth to mine. The more I try to pull away the stronger the force coming from him mouth becomes as his teeth slowly pierces my tongue. I’m hitting him as hard as I can and the clench breaks and I’m on the floor. I look up to see him chewing my tongue like a chunk of rare beef as the blood drips from his mouth down his tuxedo shirt collar. There’s no pain and my trembling hands covered my mouth gushing blood paints soaks the crimson gloves. The horror of the vicious attack by the man I love is both frightening and devastating. He smiles, chews, then drinks a glass of wine as a gathering crowd applauds politely at the grisly sight. I make it to my feet and run towards a door in the distance. I enter a room whose walls look like pulsating raw flesh. I try leaving and as I touch the doorknob it slides from my hand. I also realize the beautiful shoes I’m wearing are off and my feet are resting on the moving fleshy floor. I try screaming but no sound comes from my bloody hollow mouth. The only refuge is a four-poster bed I jumped in where a handsome, naked, man gently caresses my face planting a light kiss on my bloody lips. He then kisses my neck and instead of moving away I surrender to his advances. My dress and gloves disappear and I too am naked and my hands roam the firm contours of his body. His hands touch me and the lust between us was unmistakable. He pushed me back on the soft satin pillow, opening my thighs like butterfly wings and slowly he entered me. There is no way to tell you how good he fells as his skillful penis strokes slow and deep into my vagina while fondling by breast and kisses the edge of my ear. Every thrust of his pushed away inhibitions and dark carnal need met with the primal urge to fuck like monkeys. I am thoroughly enjoying sex with this stranger forgetting about my missing tongue, clinging to his back like drift wood bobbing in deep currents. I glanced over his shoulder noticing my grandmother sitting next to the bed in a rocker. The black ribbon around her neck held the large key to the attic door, baby’s coffin, and the red velvet box. The diamond that was on my gloved hand was on hers and she was rocking a bundle close to her heart to the rhythm of the creaking bed. When our eyes met a sinister smirk slithered across her face. Starting with a low murmur she looks through me as very voice raises to an unearthly howl clearly a woman in more pain than one person could bear. I tried pushing the man off and then I suddenly recognized him as a younger version my grandfather Zebulon Linden and he looked down at me with lustful eyes continuing the rough sex he started. He sees I’m fearful and it turns from consenting sex to rape as he pins my arms above my head and grandmother watches unleashing a bloody curdling scream-Suddenly the door of the room creaks open, , ,(To be continued . . .)
by Melissa E. Taylor copyright 2006
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| Legacy III |
| 09.25.06 (9:13 am) [edit] |
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OHMYGOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Actually I’m backing up and screaming my head off but that doesn’t sound as dramatic as OHMYGOD!) On the small polished oak wood box I opened with the small gold key were the preserved remains of an infant-Mummified baby in the prettiest silk, lace christening gown. The skin had a dark brown leathery look but more horrifying were perfectly preserved, steel blue eyes fixed in a blank stare on me. Her head crowned in soft black curls. If not for the smell and the clearly human features I would have thought it was a demented doll. I stood trembling in the corner staring at the opened chest surrounded in a mound of monogrammed silken sheets that draped the tiny coffin hidden all these years. I tried calling Bryant on my cell phone but the reception was poor. I tripped going down the attic stairs not stopping until I got to the porch. Out of breath I speed dialed Bryant again. He picked up on the third ring. I never gave him a chance to greet me because I was spouting out my story about the attic and my morbid find. Bryant Cappricolla, has been by boyfriend since our freshman year of college. We met in a social club called “The Blended Bunch,” a group made up of children of mixed parentage. When he met my grandmother she referred to us as “A can of mixed nuts!” Anyway, Bryant’s dad is Korean/African American and his mother Native American/Philippino. He gave a whole new meaning to the term “other” but I found his Afro-Asian fusion stunningly handsome. The first time I saw that science geek decked in horn-rimmed glasses, rumpled shirt and ripped jeans I saw potential. My friends laughed at him until the day he strolled in our dorm with contacts and new clothes after my make over. Suddenly he became hot but I already had my claws in him real deep and haven’t let go in six years. Ironically, Bryant is a forensic scientist in Westchester County’s NY, Coroner’s Office. He was planning to visit this weekend but my call will have him arriving early.
“Put the brakes on, take a breath, and tell me the story again,” he said in a calming tone. “I repeated the story and before I could finish he told me he’d take the next flight out and be there by night fall. Trying to get a grip on the situation seemed impossible. “Bryant recommended I call the police but I when I thought of the media scrutiny my family would be under the scandal would be too great to endure. I’ll convince him to do an autopsy without all the legal intervention. This may seem impossible to you but I can do things to him that always guarantees I’ll get my way. I walked over to the palmetto tree my grandmother tied me to all those years ago and looked up at the attic window realizing the baby’s coffin sat underneath it. That had to be the baby crying that night but how could it be heard from inside a coffin under all those satin sheets behind a shut window? I’m more scared now than the night I first heard the cries as the questions out weighed the answers. I nervously reentered the house, grabbed my purse and keys decided I’d turn to the only place I knew would have answers. I drove towards the cottage grandmother had built for Aunt Agnes and Brandi. No doubt these women held family secrets in between still tongues and false teeth. Knowing how the Haberdashers love keeping their trump cards well hidden I had to think about how to play my hand without showing them. There they sat on the front landing as if anticipating my arrival. I pulled up, took a deep breath, and braced myself. They were snapping beans grown in the garden out back. Using identical bowls while moving in unison their synchronicity always gave me the heebie jeebs! “Look sister it’s the prodigal niece come to apologize for her nasty ass attitude,” Aunt Brandi said with out stopping the bean snapping. “REAL nasty ass!” Aunt Agnes echoed. I mentally swatted a way her gnat-like comment. The direct approach was needed “The baby in the attic . . .” I said calmly before they cut me off. “Ain’t no baby in the . . .” I cut them off “Yes there is fifty-two satin small sheets with the small monogram NB in the left corner; Polished oak coffin in cedar chest with cushion satin lining; Baby with leathery brown skin ; head full of black curly hair, perfect pale blue glass eye staring at you . . .” they didn’t cut me off this time in fact Aunt Agnes dropped her bowl of pea as the blood drained from he pale face. “Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout and we want you off our land or” Aunt Brandi finished the sentence “We’ll call the authorities.” I could tell they were genuinely shocked and scared which in turn made me more worried. “I’ll go now but I’ll be back and if you two don’t give me answers there’s a great move in y’alls near future.” I got back in the car and drove away. In the rear view mirror the conversation become very animated as they glared in the direction of the rearview. Now there were more questions than ever. I drove pass the backyard remembering all the unhappy times I sat in those manicured gardens wishing for freedom. As I park out front new fear commingles with my old unhappy. I summon bravery enter the foyer, enter the living room, and sit on the French provincial couch. Feeling uncomfortable, memories of being curled up on the couch at home in the safety of Bryant’s arms soothes my nerves. “It’s yours to carry now.” were the last words I heard grandmother say but I thought it was the ramblings of a dying woman. Did she mean I’d be the sentinel guarding family secrets as she had or was she referring to the mummified baby in the attic? A car in the private jarred my thoughts and I ran out to see my aunt’s car drive pass the house like it was a float in a parade. Simultaneously they looked in my direction and the expression made the scary afternoon seem like a typical day. Their departure was peculiar because those two don’t leave the property after sun down.
I walked back toward the house dazed by the day’s events. Sitting in the foyer was a blood red velvet with a small gold key tied to a old black ribbon. If those hags just drove pass and I’ve been on the porch for five seconds, who left this? (To be continued . . .)
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| Legacy II |
| 08.15.06 (12:37 am) [edit] |
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I looked 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. The situation was frightening already but the soft cry I heard took my mind off my problems and made me focus on the attic window. Whom was that baby crying? Why did I never see it in the house? Terror escalated when the tiny voice shifted direction and whispered behind the tree. I squirmed against the ropes that held me and the shrieks that left my mouth joined the baby’s cries and eerie duet evolved in the moonlight. When the ropes loosened and my five-year-old mind knew the baby crying was too young to unfasten them so who was the unseen person freeing me? The ropes fell limp and so did I. My limbs are numb. I landed face forward in my own waste. Cold hands that lifted me up. “How’d you get loose?” grandmother said with honest surprise. “She’s just foul turn on the hose Agnes”, she turned to Aunt Brandy who complied. Despite the coldness of the water it cleansed away the horror of the entire day and jolted my muscle back to sense of normalcy. “My grandmother asked again while stripping the filthy gown from my wet body and my reply was “Who was the baby crying in the attic?” You thought the cold water hit them as they all became prone with eyes darting back and forth across each other’s face like fire flies. “Ain’t no baby in the attic sugar,” Aunt Brandi saw sounding sugary. “Yeah it is. I heard it cry.” The three women shared a silent moment then my grandmother yank me close, got in my face and said, “There ain’t no baby.” Those words snapped me out of memory and I was shocked when I realized the hellish events of the night made my hour long drive to the manor seem like minute. The ancient wisteria lining the drive held their secrets as I approached the house and the real secret keepers, my aunt sat perched on the porch in their rockers. I knew those evil old crowns would have more to say after the reading of the will.
They’ll used their ancient tactics of verbally double team me but they’ll find I’m no longer a frightened five year old. “You know this ain’t over,” Aunt Brandi hissed. “Not by a long shot.” her twin echoed.
“No it isn’t and I know you two hags will spend your dying days fighting me over this house and grandmother’s money and when your high priced lawyer informs you that her will was impenetrable you'll squandered your inheritances fighting a loosing battle. Please go take your creaking evil butts off my porch and go talk about me at your cottage.” I always marvel at their synchronicity so when their jaws dropped at the same time as their left hand clutched their pearls it was almost beautiful.” I know they wanted to cuss me out but the Haberdasher women held their trump card against those clutched pearls and a sly smile worked it way onto their faces. “We’ll talk real soon,” Aunt Brandi said in her sugary sweet voice. “Real soon,” Aunt Agnes repeated. They slowly moved from the porch never taking their eyes of me as they’d roved back to their lair strategizing how they’d get my inheritance. I cautiously pulled out the key and opened the door to a place I hadn’t set foot in for ten years. I stood on the polished mahogany floor of the foyer and soon memories of me at various ages scurried past from every angle. No matter the age the sense of unhappiness overshadowed every thought.
The weight of each agonizing moment spent with my grandmother and aunts, and them treating me like a mix breed mistake not worthy of love . . . and the hardest part of the grief felt was the loss of my grandmother. As cruel as she was she was the only parental figure I had. I dropped my bag and felt the heaviness pull me to the floor where I cried for a long time. After the needed cry I got up and surveyed how all the furniture covered in white sheets looked like the grand old homes in the movies. I went around the house pulling sheets from table chairs, even paintings and soon the rooms where restored to their pristine condition. I sat on the couch trying to figure out why my grandmother would leave the money and this house to me? I was struggling unemployed writer a week ago so it will take some time to get used to playing “lady of the manor.”’ I’m not going to let my aunts’ protest stop me from going ahead with changing the five bed room house into something more suited to my tastes. I decided to explore the house, inspecting each room to asses their needs. Starting at the top the decision to check the attic was an uneasy one. The old stairs creaked louder each time I got near the door and the classic horror moment was in full effect. Grandmother never answered my question about the crying baby in the attic but that night I heard her try tiptoeing up these same stairs and now I hold the skeleton key she used that night to open the door and I’d bet that no one had been up there since then. My hand turned the lock and I push my fear back with the twist of the knob. A warm breeze escaped as I made the last dusty steps into the massive room. Everything was covered pulled back the sheets and was pleasantly surprised by the potpourri of objects I’d never saw all the time I’d lived in the house. Stacks of records old, beautifully carved dark wooden furniture, innumerable books and a pile of photo albums. I opened the one on the top and there was my grandmother dressed for church and looking like an adorably happy, child. There’s an identical photograph of me sitting on the baby grand and I never realized how much we resembled. There were photographs of my twin aunts as babies with one sneering and the other in classic scowl. I see that their evil started early. Aside from a few people I didn’t recognize the majority of the people but I saw we all were related. She never spoke much about our family so I was shocked by all the new faces especially the ones that looked white but seem to have some features of black people peeking threw. “Who were these people and how are they connected to the white side of my family?”
When my parents died in the bus accident I saw my maternal grandmother a few times but my grandmother said they were bad influences and they disappeared from my life. Despite my obvious mulatto features my grandmother refused to acknowledge anything other than the side of me that connected me to my dead white father. Looks like I have a family mystery to solve. I moved on from the album and moved on to the massive wooden trunk that sat under the same window I heard the baby crying from all those years ago. The hair on my neck stood up with that thought and I moved tentatively over to the trunk. I sense something strange but I couldn’t tell why? It was hard at first to open the top so I took a nearby fireplace poker and pried it open. The smell had an unrecognizable foul undertone but also a hint of eucalyptus and Brilliantine. “What in the hell?” I said to myself. There was a pristine satin cloth followed by another and with each reveal the smell got worse but my curiosity had the better of me. After pulling away fifty of these small satin cloths a beautiful shiny wooden box appeared with the inside of the trunk exposing a satin down cushion where the box rested. My chest tighten. I saw that this box had a tiny skeleton lock and looking on the key chain where I got the door key was a tiny gold key I hadn’t noticed at first. Logically I put it in but sensed that opened that box would change my like forever. The goose bumps rose and the need to pee suddenly hit but I had to know. OH MY GOD!! (To be continued . . .)
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| Legacy |
| 08.14.06 (3:43 pm) [edit] |
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“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 . . .)
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| Moon Over Me III |
| 07.12.06 (10:36 pm) [edit] |
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On the day Moon moved in with me I not only cleaned the house twice I hired a co-worker’s cousin to come in and professionally make the apartment pristine. I bought her favorite foods or at least the one’s we pigged out on when we were kids. I even put up a “Welcome Home Moon” banner for laughs. All this preparation and I’m having second thoughts and mini anxiety attacks for over a week. Don’t get me wrong I LOVE Moon, admire her ,marvel (and yes, I’m a little green around the edges.) Do any of you know what’s it’s like to have the Ultimate Alpha Female as your dearest friend? I thought I’d put the childhood envy at bay. Here in DC I’ve created my own life and learned to love her from afar and now what? . . .Oh hell my doorbell just rung and I know that’s not Moon because I’m suppose to pick her up at Ronald Reagan two hours from now-MOON! (Of course she’s standing there in her 5’9”, 130 pound curvaceous, sprayed tan and the red hair is now honey blond and she grew into her big tooth smile of hers. Did I mention her quasi ethnic outfit gives her rich girl gone bohemian look that posing for Elle feel?) “I thought I was suppose to pick you up?” “I got an earlier flight. Got bumped up to first class after a ticket glitch. You know I’ll always get what I want.” (Oh, how I know.) Just then a cab driving weighted down in designer luggage sits down her Louis Vittount like an obedient camel. ‘Shakrum Said”, she drops a twenty in his hand and he smiles ear to ear walking to the elevator with new found energy. We entered the apartment with me taking over for Said as Moon’s pack mule and as I struggle to bring in the bags I find her crying as she looks at the welcoming sign hang in the living room. I when she scoops me up, her very heavy bags drop and as we embrace I feel my apprehension melt under the weigh of our love for each. No matter what Moon is my girl and no insecurities, or fear is going to make our time together bad (I hope.)
I took her to my home office I converted into her bedroom where we brought her bags in and sat on the daybed catching up. Aside from the Hollywood look I can see where she’s grown more beautiful inside and out. “You look incredible,” she says.
I’m feeling those two strand twists. Wish I could do that with my hair.” “Why?” I asked perplexed. I’ve always like the way your wiry hair holds a style. Mine would need a ton of mousse if I tried it.” “What’s wrong? You have that damn-that- dumb-white-girl face on. I know it’s the hair thing? “- Ever since we were kids navigating the waters of interracial friendship requires you to be a strong swimmer. “Stop it. You’ve been here for an hour and all ready you’re having a “Moon moment.” She looked confused.” You had an entire conversation just now and I never got a chance to join in. “Oh I so”- I stopped her. “I know you’r e sorry Dear. You always are but can we move on from here.” You and I have baggage we need to unpack before you get settled but now I just want to enjoy a friend I hugged her to short circuit the tension that light up the room. There’s a cool place called the Scandalous Café on U Street. Lets grab a bite and just . . .just be, okay.” When I look at her tear filled I’m reminded that the message, complicated parts of loving someone is part of the package deal. We called a truce for now and we put on our cleavage bearing best and when to Scand We talked the whole time even through the bathroom door and eyeliner about memories that made us laugh, and about the new area our longstanding friendship could go. By the time we got the booth and got the calamari appetizer plate we we’re in our own little world. We didn’t notice the man approaching our table at first then when we look up neither could mistake his beautiful face. He looked about 6’4”, one eighty, broad frame, wavy brunette hair, olive skin, scar under on his left cheek, small mustache, big teeth like Moon’s that formed a big dimpled smile, framed by sensuous full lips and the most striking amber colored eyes. I realized I was holding my breath until my opened mouth dried out my tongue out. We stopped looking at him long enough to glance at each other and I could tell Moon was getting in predator mode because I swore her cleavage plumped up like Ballpark Franks and she put on her “Watch out now!” smile. He reached our table and the smell of sandal wood wafted around our heads . . .. (To be continued . . .)
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| Moon Over Me II |
| 07.09.06 (8:05 pm) [edit] |
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The day Moon Lauroitz kicked the Triad’s asses became legend because of how it changed the mindset of Woodside elementary student body. Everyone was shocked how the new girl on her first day eliminated the school’s scariest bullies without much effort. Her act made it open season on bullies in each grade. Lunch money extortions ceased, along with locker room wedgies and bathroom shakedowns. Woodside became a bully free environment and all because that freckled face, big-toothed girl name Moon showed us all that bullies are more afraid of us then us of them. She seemed unfazed by her amazing feat but I soon learned doing the impossible was her norm. For fifteen years she was the alpha female I became the “beta” sidekick. If you know the role of the sidekick than you understand standing in the shadow of that larger than life person can get very cold. Moon could charm the horns off the devil while making God laugh out loud. She could also suck the energy out of the room with her cheerleading mentality. I admired her gutsy approach dealing with life while quietly resenting her for the same traits. By the time we parted ways in college I missed her but was relieved as I found my on strengths. We maintained our relationship emails, occasional visits,and quirky greeting cards. While I missed her I didn’t miss being overshadowed. We kept in touch two years after graduation weekly phone conversations and settled into a comfortable routine until that fateful day . . . she called and said she was moving to Washington.
Moon got her dream job as Executive Director of The Association of American Future Leaders. She asked if she could stay with me until she found an apartment. I swallowed hard trying to dissuade her but she pulled out those famous manipulative powers and my weak ass caved in like the Triad. “C’mon it will be like old times,” she said in her syrupy voice. “Most definitely,” I answered with plastic enthusiasm. We discussed some preliminary needs for her move and we hung up telling each other how great things would be. After that conversation I ran to the fringe grabbed my pint of Chunky Monkey and a Molson, made a float in a tumbler sat in my messy living room and cried. (To be continued . . .)
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| Moon Over Me |
| 07.04.06 (10:39 pm) [edit] |
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The day I met Moon Lauroitz didn’t just change the trajectory of my life but the incident that followed is part of our small town’s many legends. She came to our school in the fifth grade and as the class’s unofficial diplomat she was sat next me. I was friendly and made people feel at ease so whomever the new kid was they ended up with me. Moon first name caused a wave of giggles when Mrs. Hither said it but she seemed unfazed. Her green eyes gleamed with a sense of confidence and self-awareness of a people far beyond her years. She smiled and her freckled cheeks and big tooth grin and I knew then that she had gotten over the silliness about her unusual name and could care less about the laughter. “Hiya there Sophie!” she looked me directly in the eye, shook my hand with a firm grip and conducted herself like a politician running for office. After her sincere smile she faced forward and looked at the teacher with that ready to learn stare. The whole introduction was unnerving but cool too. In that moment I new something was special about her. Throughout the day Moon was the first to raise her hand and answer questions and the room turned from new girl amusement to contempt quickly. The pack of class bullies known as the Triad turned their jealously toward her with each right answer I knew she was headed toward ending her first day at Woodside Elementary with a welcome to the neighborhood ass whooping. At lunch I sat with her so she wouldn’t feel awkward and we hit it off immediately. I found we had lots in common and I new ten minutes in we were going to be friends. I almost forgot the Triad until I caught them glaring over Moon’s shoulder. They leered over their sandwiches and I could tell they were plotting their beating and they were going to included me in from the looks I was getting. She saw the look of fear wrapped across my face and she looked back at them with the biggest big-toothed smile and turned to me and said, “Don’t worry about them.” She said it in the cheeriest voice with a “Stephen King” edge that gave me a chill. “No really, you’re safe.” She touched my hand for reassurance never loosing that big-toothed grin. I found out that she moved in the empty house on the end of Smith Street on my block. We’d be walking home together. At least there’d be two of us to fight them. It still didn’t matter I saw them beat up five girls by themselves and scare away on the mother’s who was coming to their aid. We were going to spend our first walk home together getting our asses kicked not the shared experience I wanted. I could barely concentrate the rest of the day and word spread like fire that there was a fight happening after school. When the Triad’s flying monkey, Jancara Wilson told me in gym class that they were going to get the new girl and me behind the gym after school. How is it every kid in the school hears about a fight but never the adults? Moon seemed unfazed and I thought she was nuts when the 2:30 pm bell rung. My stomach turned and I wanted to throw up and hide. I had made it five years without being a blip on their radar until today. Damn . . .I tried getting her to plan some form of fighting strategy but she grabbed my hand just as she did at lunchtime and with the same calm she said. “I know you’re scared but I promise everything going to be alright.” How crazy is this day is going? Four hours I was just an average fifth grader who got along with everyone. Now I scared shitless walking with a crazy white girl with big teeth and freckles toward the back of the gym to fight three of the school toughest black girls and I’m a Pequot Native American.
This fight was going to look like a bloody United Colors of Benetton ad. Moon grabbed my hand and despite my attempts to brake free she pulled me along like a rag doll and stopped long enough to ask directions to the back of the gym.
We hit the main courtyard and the crowd swelled and followed behind us like hyenas before a major kill. The moment arrived. The Triad lined up looking like a wall of sheer evil. They saw us coming and they became a whirlwind of cursing, threats, neck rolls, and high fives. Finally Moon dropped my hand looked back at me and gave birth to a legend. In slow motion she looked back at me with that smile, whipped that head around, and ran toward them with the most blood curdling yell and she got low as she got closer. Everyone stood still with their jaws dropped including the Triad. They had never fought anyone crazier than themselves but every dog has his day. What I saw next its undefinedable. Moon was heading for the middle girl then suddenly hit Nina the short one to the left with the blond braid in the throat, which made her double over then fall on her fat ass like Humpty Dumpty. Shaskenetta the taller one in the middle made a swing that Moon shook off pushed her forward with a force that had her kissing asphalt before she realized she was down (with no front teeth and broken nose.) Agnes the ringleader took off running leaving her two henchman to take the beating as she escape but Moon didn’t like that plan chased her down and ran along side her. This shook up Shaskenetta so bad she stopped short and fell to her knees. Moon stood in front of her and made that blood-curling scream in her face and ol’ Shaskenetta just covered her head and cried and we later found out wet her pants. Moon stopped yelling shifted back into the happy go lucky mood she began the day with and skipped back in my direction. People moved out of her way quiet except for a little murmuring. She held out her hand for me to take as she surveyed the crowd and said to the hyenas “Anyone else wanna fight.” They parted as she grabbed my hand and pulled me along. Little did I know this was the beginning . . . (To be continued)
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| To Whom It May Concern |
| 06.12.06 (11:11 am) [edit] |
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Her body was still warm and her eyes opened as if she woke rested from a nap. Roy the coroner was doing preliminary work turns to me and said, “It’s inconclusive but I believe its suicide.” He bent closer smelled her lips “Arsenic I think” said in his usual gruff tone. She was dressed in emerald satin gown with complimented her olive complexion and hazel gaze. She looked like she was posing in a Victoria Secret ad. “Why would such a pretty girl do this to herself?” I thought. Sometimes I can think of the dumbest shit. What does her looks have to do with her suicide? Pretty, ugly they’re all dead. What appeared to be a suicide note in a lavender envelope sat on the nightstand and I opened it. This is what I found: I won’t go into a diatribe about old boyfriends and ex-husband or write some poetic shit about my broken heart. My intimate relationships, no matter how wonderful or horrific helped me get to this place. I never could appreciate this peace if I didn't survive the battle. I don’t mean my struggle with failed relationships but was the opposing sides of a war within. - Self esteem would duke it out with self-doubt while I finger popped to the beat of Jack Daniel’s and denial. I wore my insecurities like Chanel No. #5 underneath body hugging clothes and the latest slang. The odor wafted in clubs, bars and anywhere I sought refuge from the work it takes to become whole. The ones who loved my scent of compromise, made their presence known, with red flags in back pockets waiting to be tied to each bedpost. Let the "for play" begin. I’d arch “Bendable Barbie and hoped "Mr. Right Now" whirled his magic wand sprinkling magic on my pain. Unfortunately sperm isn’t magic it just, just sticky. Ain't it amazing how sex feels like a prayer's answer during the act? Time stops and endorphins become manna running through your veins. As you climax you want that full feeling to stay even after your partner leaves. If the body truly is a temple why do I allow thieves to shoot craps at the altar? My therapist said it best . . . "If you keep giving gifts to the unworthy what will you give yourself?" Those words were ripe with understanding and I fed off them and tried getting my stuff together. Along the way I learned that blaming the exes for my pain was futile. Whom I allowed in my life and bed reflected how I felt about myself. Discernment is wisdom and wisdom is bliss. I raise my glass to the wisdom I’ve found, the past I cannot change, and drink my future in. As I read the last words I looked back at her eyes and saw a sadness I didn’t notice at first. We’ve all felt that sadness at sometime in our life. Her stare and this note will haunt my thoughts for some time.
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| Some Wonderful This Way Comes |
| 06.03.06 (11:45 pm) [edit] |
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I've mentioned in previous blogs I own HomeGrown Creations, an art collective featuring the works of (DC, MD,VA) artists, crafters, authors, film makers and musicians. The shop's location, 1514 U Street is one of DC's hottest shopping districts. It's my life's dream to own such a business so I can't tell how wonderful this is but something better than the business has evolved from this experience. I love, LOVE my customers!! I love them not just because they buy but for the love they give-On any given day you can find a cross dressers sitting in the lounge drinking tea and eating brownie cake with a right wing matron for hours. Today this man named Llewellyn and his son Yonnik came in already joining an eclectic group shopping and hanging out. He said he was "drawn" in by what he described as “the overwhelming joyous energy from the place.” He folded into the mix and before we all knew it he began reciting a poem he wrote that was so compelling everyone stopped talking and began listening to his mixture of powerful thoughts. When he stops we all wanted more so he recited two extra. You may think this Kodak moment ended with our claps but in reality he was drawn to HomeGrown because we're hosting a Gala on the 23rd and I want local poets to read their works. He not knowing this answered a prayer. I told him about the affair and asked if he be willing to recite them. Llewellyn was pleasantly surprised and said he would. If I told you that everything I have received has come, as effortlessly it would be true. When I cast fear aside and went for my vision a chain of spiritual events have come into play. Trusting your abilities to create something wonderful no matter and I mean-NO MATTER, what negativity may come your way, is possible. Before you think my last thoughts are some Hallmark sentiment, I was diagnosed with MS a few months before I opened the store. This could be considered devastating. For me, it made my passion for going forward even greater. My friends, whatever your passion is GO FOR IT! While you can.
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| Swing Low |
| 05.03.06 (9:52 pm) [edit] |
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I have a degree from Julliard in Composition, I’m a world traveled concert pianist, and was nominated for two Grammy’s but today I’m the funeral musician at my Uncle Delbert’s “Going Home” ceremony. Actually I’ve been the family’s unofficial funeral entertainment since the age of ten. Uncle “D” was the best mortician in Benefield County so the crowed church is packed with family, friends, and the families of the dearly departed he serviced with his stellar mortuary services. Uncle Delbert had a secret method of embalming a body that looked like any minute they’d rise from their coffin and cry with the mourners on the first pew. Evidently they used his magic potions on him because Uncle “D” in Seville Row, midnight blue pin stripped suit, Van Huesen powder blued button down shirt, silver tie with matching pocket square, and platinum tie clip with diamond stud looked like he’s ready to officiate his own services. I’ll bet if they flung open the lower portion of the casket you’d see Stacy Adams Spectators on his feet. Uncle “D” was always sharp and I’ve seen many a crying widow peek from behind their hankies and give him a second look. Being a fourth generation mortician he took great pride in his appearance and his clients as well. “I send them back to God in style”, he said as the whir of the machine pumped his “joy juice” through the corpses on the cooling table twitching in rhythm with his voice. That summer I stood there transfixed in horror with the sites and smells of his “workshop.” As he stood over me waving smelling salts under my nose I could still hear the machine filling up Mrs. Seawright, my first piano teacher a foot away from where I passed out. That moment ensured I didn’t have the stomach to carry on the family business. In fact of my grandparent’s brood he was the only one to pick up the torch. Behind his back his siblings called him “Deathbert” Anderson but in actuality he became the most successful of the nine children. He was the county’s mortician and the family’s loan shark who’d dole out his money to everyone of his siblings in the form of college tuition, bail, short and long-term loans and funeral arrangements. He’d make them sign promissory notes and pay interest and though they’d grumble at his fastidious money dealings they’d comply and come back for more. He paid my way through Julliard and once my career took off I repaid his generosity by using my notoriety to market his business. As I look out into the sea of sullen faces I see my own face staring back in a picture I posed for that he used on the back of fans now waving in the breeze. Softly I play Sweet Hour of Prayer under Reverend Higgins baritoned eulogy. My large family clumped together in all their tears and black clothing make me wonder how many are crying because they’ll miss the man or their financier. Will the same out pouring of grief be seen at the reading of the will? As I play and ponder I notice an unfamiliar person coming up the main aisle with two small children on each hand. The statuesque woman in haute couture black clearly appears devastated by the morning’s proceedings and I can see her steadfast approach tells me that when she reaches the coffin she’ll have a dramatic response once all three reach the body. Each step she takes forces the people she passes to shift from grief to puzzlement as folks speculate whom the mystery woman? The closer she gets I noticed my Aunt Neaetta, Uncle Delbert’s wife snap her head in the direction of the woman. I also notice the two small children eerily look like Uncle Delbert. Clearly death was not the only familial business Uncle “D” dealt in.
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| First Six Months of Owning a Business |
| 04.25.06 (9:05 pm) [edit] |
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I've owned my shop HomeGrown Creations, LLC 1514 U Street for six months. HomeGrown is an art collective selling the works of Washington, DC's best artists as well as elective handmade gift items and used books and antiques. We've been well received by the U Street community. People enter our store and see a beautiful array of color art, items and just when they think they've see it all they reach our lounged bathed in warm pumpkin spice walls and rust colored comfy couch and sip on my own blend of raspberry peach tea (hot or cold) and a homemade treat. I wanted the shop to feature great art and be an oasis from the maddening crowd. From the response I'm receiving these goals were achieved. As beautiful as the place is the harsher reality is maintaining while building this business. In later blogs I'll let you know how unusual marketing schemes work out. For instance . . .we had a Yummy Sale, buy $50.00 worth of items get DC's best barbeque free. It went well and people love our spontaneous and quirky approach to sales. I must get back and start the next six-month journey. Stay tuned.
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| Beyond the Dream |
| 01.23.06 (4:37 am) [edit] |
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As mentioned I opened a store called HomeGrown Creations, LLC in Washington, DC two months ago. We sell the art, literary, music, film, and crafts as well as antiques and used books. So far we've been well received in the U Street community and I've never felt a great sense of purpose. I realize how rare it is to reach a lifelong goal. I believe I was able to achieve this goal because of my strong spirit relationship I have with a power more loving and Greater than I’ll ever be. Fear has been replaced with a focus and confidence I've never felt before and the words of naysayers aren't heard. The most significant revelation I've gained from this experience is that wonderful does not end with the accomplishment of a major goal. I'm not sure what the next goal is as yet but I know that if I choose I can have more wonderful.
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| Owning Your Own Business |
| 12.14.05 (3:30 am) [edit] |
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October 29, 2005. . . The first day of owning my own business was surreal. Excitement and fear played tag between my thoughts as I reached this lifelong goal. The first customer came through the door, and I held my breath. Will she like the store and its contents? Will she buy or will she come back? She smiled, took her time, checked things out, and purchased a pair of earrings. I offered a quiet smile as she left, but inside I did a back flip. Her singular purchase won’t pay the rent, but it did pay off a much older debt.
This dream of business ownership was first introduced to me by my father when I was three. Somehow he saw an entrepreneurial spirit in me even then. Whatever he and my mother saw, they nurtured this spirit throughout my life. I’ve hand painted tee shirts, appliquéd jean and jackets, cut hair, designed flyers and posters, catered and made gift items and vended them for twenty years. All these moneymaking ventures were done around conventional jobs I hated. The yearning to operate my own business became my obsession. Despite my desires I allowed self-doubt to
keep my dream at bay. I worked as a switchboard operator for a local insurance company for twelve years. I sat in career purgatory thinking that this “stable” job was more sensible than opening a store. Every day I’d head home on the train, sitting quietly but silently screaming, “I hate my job!” From the looks of the other riders I wasn’t alone. My unhappiness gave birth to finding alternative ways to express my creative ideas. I started selling beaded jewelry at the job, and that evolved into throwing gift shows at my desk at lunch hour. As time went on, the jewelry became a legitimate source of income, and quietly my confidence grew.
For my fortieth birthday I quit my job to become a full-time artist. I was doing well, but the store idea pushed to the front of my other thoughts. When the decision to open the store was made, my passionate focus inspired my sister Cassandra to leave her hated job in New York to join me in this venture. It’s great to share a grand adventure with a traveling companion you love and trust. Neither one of us knows how this journey ends, but the most thrilling part was the step we took today. The destination can’t be half as exciting as the first step we took today.
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; Come with us!
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| Off my Chest |
| 09.09.05 (6:34 am) [edit] |
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It's been a very long time since I blogged but with the proceedings of Hurricane Katrina how could you not be compelled to share your thoughts? I won’t mentally masturbate and spew thoughts from the comforts of an unaffected home. I also won't hurl insults in the direction of people's whose opinion I don't agree with. At this age and stage you a few things differently:
LISTEN: Forget politicians, newscasters and John Q Public pointing fingers, I heard the voices of the victims. Hoarse anguished cried of people that have been pushed beyond the limits of reason. I'm still crying. When I listened to the people that REALLY mattered I knew how to . . .
ACT: In my younger days I'd get caught up in causes and felt that my presence at a protest or getting in the face of an opposing faction was a vital contribution to a situation. I now find a more immediate and proactive approach has far greater effect. I gave to the Red Cross in honor of my ailing father. He was the first to teach me the real meaning of activism so I thought I pay him homage. I will continue to give money, donations and anything else available to me to any LEGITIMATE organization working with survivors. They need the basics of life, not someone's rhetoric. & nbsp;
PRAYER: These private meditations have taken on a new meaning lately. I prayer for the recovery of the live of survivors, souls of the dead, and the misguided who think it more important to malign the situation with political and personal agenda. I pray for the greater global issues we face as humans as I try to find clarity in a time of sheer madness. Most of all I pray for . . . & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp;
HUMILITY: Taking personal pronouns out of an equation allows empathy to take hold. Compassion becomes the moral compass and gratitude for meaningful attachments become wondrous.
MAY WE ALL LEARN FROM THIS TRAGEDY
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| The Fisihing Trip |
| 03.20.05 (1:08 pm) [edit] |
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So I’m chewing, right, trying my best not to make any face to indicate my absolute repulsion for the concept of eating raw fish. I didn’t give a damn about how beautifully dressed it was in that snug coat of rice and seaweed, nor was I impressed by the brightly colored dipping sauces at my side. There was nothing to hide the fact that uncooked flesh was rolling around my tongue. I could feel the spirit of my Grandmother with blazing hot skillet boiling full of two day old grease whispering in my ear “Now I know you want to make a good impression on your first date, but did you have to lie when he asked if you liked sushi?” I try to focus on Grandma and that pan of hot grease imagining her snatching what I had in my mouth, dusting it with cornbread and deep frying that wad until it was an amber nugget. I’d beg her to scoop up all the pretty little morsels on the plate, including the garnishments and work her artery clogging magic. Oh shit, the phony smile I’ve been wearing as I chewed slipped off. Apparently he’s noticed because he’s looking at me while wearing a mask of concern. “You all right?” he asked. calmly. A lady never talks with a mouth full so I swallow hard as the raw fish slides down my throat like a salmon dying after the spawn and weakly answered “Oh yes.” I had planned to say more but my hand in reflex grabbed my water glass so quickly it clanked against my teeth and the loud gulping sounds blew the whole lady- like theory. I don’t care if he’s Mr. Right, Wrong or In Between no man is worth this kinda sacrifice “You sure you’re all right?” this time I hear a hint of suspicion in his voice. Nothing worse than allowing pride to over rule better judgement. Mind you this was two weeks ago and the only communication I’ve had with him was the check I sent with the copy of the dry cleaning bill that he sent me. It would be fair to say that I had not left a good impression but So I’m chewing, right, trying my best not to make any face to indicate my absolute repulsion for the concept of eating raw fish. I didn’t give a damn about how beautifully dressed it was in that snug coat of rice and seaweed, nor was I impressed by the brightly colored dipping sauces at my side. There was nothing to hide the fact that uncooked flesh was rolling around my tongue. I could feel the spirit of my Grandmother with blazing hot skillet boiling full of two day old grease whispering in my ear “Now I know you want to make a good impression on your first date, but did you have to lie when he asked if you liked sushi?” I try to focus on Grandma and that pan of hot grease imagining her snatching what I had in my mouth, dusting it with cornbread and deep-frying that wad until it was an amber nugget. I’d beg her to scoop up all the pretty little morsels on the plate, including the garnishments and work her artery clogging magic. Oh shit, the phony smile I’ve been wearing as I chewed slipped off. Apparently he’s noticed because he’s looking at me while wearing a mask of concern. “You all right?” he asked calmly. A lady never talks with a mouth full so I swallow hard as the raw fish slides down my throat like a salmon dying after the spawn and weakly answered “Oh yes.” I had planned to say more but my hand in reflex grabbed my water glass so quickly it clanked against my teeth and the loud gulping sounds blew the whole lady- like theory. I don’t care if he’s Mr. Right, Wrong or In Between no man is worth this kinda sacrifice “You sure you’re all right?” this time I hear a hint of suspicion in his voice. - Nothing worse than allowing pride to over rule better judgement. Mind you this was two weeks ago and the only communication I’ve had with him was the check I sent with the copy of the dry cleaning bill that he sent me. It would be fair to say that I had not left a good impression but I certainly left a lasting one.
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| Dr.King, Jo & Me |
| 01.17.05 (8:22 pm) [edit] |
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She was a shy strawberry blonde four year old with the largest green eye I'd ever seen, I a cocoa brown five year old who put the "p" in precocious it was the spring of 1968 and from the first backward glance I knew we'd be friends. I'd sneak in front of her yard, stop long enough to giggle and she'd reciprocate. After an hour of the giggle game, her mother saw me standing at her front steps and swept her up as if she saw a rabid dog heading for her child. I was too young to understand what scared her but I was smart enough to figure it had to do with me. I got home to find my usually composed grandmother sobbing uncontrollably while watching the television. "Once again, Dr. Martin Luther King was mortally wounded today. . . " It had to mean dead from my grandmother's reaction and with the intensity of her tears I figured he was an relative, an uncle if you will, I drank in her sorrow and cried too. My parents arrived home and I knew he had to have been a long lost relative with the heaviness of the air in our newly purchased home. I asked who he was but no one seemed to be able to articulate who this dead man was but I could see a reverence for his life. I remember thinking “Uncle Dr. Martin Luther King died; my family’s upset so I am too and why didn’t he ever come to supper?” I knew this wasn't a good time to bring up the girl with the big green eyes. I remember it being chilly outside but for the next few days. I played on the steps of our house feeling lonely. We'd only lived in Peekskill, NY for five months and I hadn't made any friends in my kindergarten class. I had to find the green-eyed girl to take my mind off the sadness in the house. I snuck out of the yard and there she was. Her skiddish mother wasn't going to keep me from the mission. I spoke to her and as children will do when not influence by their parents, we hit it off. She was friendly, chatty and a fellow giggle puss. By the next day we were officially having fun, so much so, we chased each other from home to home. We boldly ran into my living room, which got my mother quiet upset. "Exit, stage left", I thought and as I turned to say something to my mom there was Dr. King's flag draped coffin, on the back of a mule drawn cart somberly gliding down the Pennsylvania Avenue-RIVETED...I was riveted. That was my first time making mental note of an event. My new friend tugged my hand taking me out of that moment but I never forgot it. Johanna and we spent many years sharing our childhood in our colorblind “Utopia” until a minor disagreement caused my mother to make a chilling prophecy . . .”One day your friendship will end because race will become and issue for one or both of you.” I looked at her with a nine-year-old skeptic’s eyes. My mom and I had the extensive conversation on race that lasted the rest of the afternoon. I had no idea she was preparing me for later battles. Fast forward fifteen years later and my mother’s words rang true when Johanna acted strange among my black friends. I saw something in her eyes that I never noticed before-Uneasiness. Her conversation went from the typical friend jabber to stereotyped laced speak that made me wonder exactly when the paradigm shifted? In the end, the unanswered question weren’t important and our parting was painful at least for me. Distance and maturity makes me look back at that friendship with fondness. The legacy of our friendship is my current circle of multi-racial loved ones who make my life whole. Thanks Dr. King . . .
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| Dancing in the Dawn |
| 01.02.05 (5:21 pm) [edit] |
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I've been away for months dealing with some life changing issues. I'm opening a store in DC called HomeGrown Creations. It features the fine art, literary and craft works of Washington area artist. The process from vision to grand opening is labor intensive. The business plan is not for the timid but if you have a goal you have to see it through. January 10th marks my second year as a full time artist. The store is part of the evolutionary process. This part of life's journey has been precarious yet rewarding. I've learned a great deal about my strengths and face weaknesses head on. Ultimately, the fear that kept me in the 9 to 5 world is gone. It been replaced by a fierce determination to explore the best of myself. My artwork is selling well and there has been an interesting twist . . . .
I'm also a playwright that hasn't dealt with that part of myself for years and suddenly a play I'd written in the early 90's is being read in NYC in March 2005! Allegedly it'll happen the same month as the store's opening. The irony isn't lost on me. I'm sharing this with all the people on teetering on the edge of fear and faith. You have the power to make things happen.
Before I took the plunge I made sure I had a financial cushion for a year. That made the difference. If you have something you really need to do plan, pray and GO FOR IT!!
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| Want tbucks |
| 10.28.04 (9:47 pm) [edit] |
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Anyone want my tbucks?
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| Selling Body Candii |
| 09.27.04 (5:56 pm) [edit] |
I've started selling my jewelry @ a day spa called "Victoria's." It's been four days and my new line called "Body Candii" is selling like hot cakes I've been teaching theater prior to this experience so it's been a while since making jewelry It’s a euphoric experience to get paid to do what you love beyond the commerce it's been very spiritual. I'm near George Washington University so some of my clients are very young. They initially dig my jewelry but an hour after their purchase they stay and we talk. Once a teacher always a teacher. I see that jewelry may be the vehicle but the journey is the interaction I have with the people that pass by. This experience reminds me that nothing is ever as it appears. If anything intriguing happens I'll write about it.
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| If I should die . . . |
| 09.08.04 (7:11 pm) [edit] |
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Last Words of a Dying Love
By the time you read the last word, I’ll probably be dead. It’s getting harder to breath as the cool dirt mixes with the blood in my throat. The choking sensation is frightening because it makes me acutely aware of my eminent death. He buried me under a thin layer of damp soil and rotting leaves. As I suffocate, I can still hear the muffled sounds of life above ground. For instance, I think I heard him crying-THE BASTARD WHO KILLED ME WEPT over his handiwork, before he drove off. What makes this scenario morbid is how much I loved him.
We met last summer at Shimmer Lake where best friend Charla spotted Javier with his boys. I know she’s gonna cry like a baby at my funeral. She nudged me and whispered “Hottie at 12 o’clock!” Just as I glanced over her shoulder, he looked in my direction and I knew I was in trouble. His smile would make the Devil himself repent. We locked into each other’s leer and I made a decision. Without thinking, I walked over to him on impulse. Impulse is either the slippery slope leading to the best idea you ever had or this. It was dusk when he dragged me out here. This boyfriend I loved up until an hour ago, homicidal maniac, is also a sentimental fool. He buried me in the wooded area that edges Shimmer Lake. Talk about returning to the scene of the crime . . .
From the moment we spoke, destiny took the reins. He told me he saw me when Charla and I first laid out. He knew I was the one. The longing look of those hazel eyes were the backdrop he used to convince me that we had to be together. As my last will and testament, I leave this world with clarity and discernment. I’m pissed that I’ll never get to utilize these newfound skills. The soil in my throat seeps with blood as form an iron tasting mud that bubbles every time I take a weak breath. Just as my mind used poor judgment with Javier, my body betrays me with this slow dying. I’d read stories where people who survived near death experiences felt no pain as they entered the “tunnel of light.” Both my ass and vagina burns from the friction of the rubbers he used to rape me. The knife wound in the chest doesn’t hurt as much as the stomach wound-That’s throbbing LIKE A BITCH! I hope they find me soon so that my grieving mother doesn’t have to identify decomposing remains-What if I’m never found? . . .I could end up being another face on those mail circulars most people throw away. Allow me a moment of self-pity if you will . . . For no apparent reason, my loving boyfriend who appeared normal up until an hour ago, brutally beat, raped, and knifed me a few times, rapped me in a plastic drop cloth and buried me a live a few yards away from where we met. Despite my best efforts I’m not dying fast enough and I’m lying here in a pool of my own blood and shit- This is not the day I had planned.
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; Mel Taylor copyright 2004
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| Living the American Scream |
| 09.08.04 (1:51 pm) [edit] |
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American Scream
Marie sat in quiet mortification as her stepdaughter Dorence showed off the new outfit she suckered her father into buying. Her positive reactions veiled avoidance. “The color compliments your light complexion.” As she chewed her eggs, she allowed the more realistic comments their freedom as they screamed in her head. "Dorence . . . you’re too fat to wear cropped shirts. Don’t you see the stomach hanging over your skirt looks like a pouting BOTTOM LIP?” You look like you’re stuffed in a lilac colored sausage casing." She’d start WWIII in her kitchen by speaking these thoughts. She could tell Lawrence shared her sentiments but he hid the truth behind a divorced parent's guilt. "Coward", Maria thought. She has watched Dorence work her father like a pimp since their marriage. They argued quite a bit and just like Dorence's ill-fitting outfit, Lawrence doesn't wear the truth well. Maria walked into this marriage with realistic expectations draped in naiveté. She really, though the heartfelt conservations she had with Lawrence and Dorence regarding blended families made a difference. Dorence newfound respect for the relationship between Maria and Lawrence seemed sincere. It's six months later and clearly, the honeymoon between all three is over. Every way possible, Dorence schemes, manipulates and guilt her father in to meeting every unreasonable need she has. Lawrence futile attempts to appease the women in his life have him on the brink of insanity but his fear exceeds his ability to be honest-To be free. Maria chewing her eggs with conviction realizes that no matter what she does to ease the tension in both relationships nothing will change. So how's your morning?
& nbsp; &n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p; ; & nbsp; &n bsp; & nbsp; &n bsp; Mel Taylor copyright 2004
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| Midway |
| 09.05.04 (11:24 am) [edit] |
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 Thoughts eaten like cotton candy
@ the fair
Not relished but devoured
in spun sugar tufts with
no regard
as he stood like the discarded
cone with remnants of longing
sticking along the edge
unrequited
Mel Taylor copyright 2004
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| Dr. King, Jo & Me |
| 09.04.04 (11:03 am) [edit] |
She was a shy strawberry blonde four year old with the largest green eye I'd ever seen, I a cocoa brown five year old who put the "p" in precocious it was the spring of 1968 and from the first backward glance I knew we'd be friends. I'd sneak in front of her yard, stop long enough to giggle and she'd reciprocate. After an hour of the giggle game, her mother saw me standing at her front steps and swept her up as if she saw a rabid dog heading for her child. I was too young to understand what scared her but I was smart enough to figure it had to do with me. I got home to find my usually composed grandmother sobbing uncontrollably while watching the television. "Once again, Dr. Martin Luther King was mortally wounded today. . . " It had to mean dead from my grandmother's reaction and with the intensity of her tears I figured he was an relative, an uncle if you will, I drank in her sorrow and cried too. My parents arrived home and I knew he had to have been a long lost relative with the heaviness of the air in our newly purchased home. I asked who he was but no one seemed to be able to articulate who this dead man was but I could see a reverence for his life. I remember thinking “Uncle Dr. Martin Luther King died; my family’s upset so I am too and why didn’t he ever come to supper?” I knew this wasn't a good time to bring up the girl with the big green eyes. I remember it being chilly outside but for the next few days. I played on the steps of our house feeling lonely. We'd only lived in Peekskill, NY for five months and I hadn't made any friends in my kindergarten class. I had to find the green-eyed girl to take my mind off the sadness in the house. I snuck out of the yard and there she was. Her skiddish mother wasn't going to keep me from the mission. I spoke to her and as children will do when not influence by their parents, we hit it off. She was friendly, chatty and a fellow giggle puss. By the next day we were officially having fun, so much so, we chased each other from home to home. We boldly ran into my living room, which got my mother quiet upset. "Exit, stage left", I thought and as I turned to say something to my mom there was Dr. King's flag draped coffin, on the back of a mule drawn cart somberly gliding down the Pennsylvania Avenue-RIVETED...I was riveted. That was my first time making mental note of an event. My new friend tugged my hand taking me out of that moment but I never forgot it. Johanna and we spent many years sharing our childhood in our colorblind “Utopia” until a minor disagreement caused my mother to make a chilling prophecy . . .”One day your friendship will end because race will become and issue for one or both of you.” I looked at her with a nine-year-old skeptic’s eyes. My mom and I had the extensive conversation on race that lasted the rest of the afternoon. I had no idea she was preparing me for later battles. Fast forward fifteen years later and my mother’s words rang true when Johanna acted strange among my black friends. I saw something in her eyes that I never noticed before-Uneasiness. Her conversation went from the typical friend jabber to stereotyped laced speak that made me wonder exactly when the paradigm shifted? In the end, the unanswered question weren’t important and our parting was painful at least for me. Distance and maturity makes me look back at that friendship with fondness. The legacy of our friendship is my current circle of multi-racial loved ones who make my life whole. Thanks Dr. King . . 
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| AMERICAN Gothic |
| 08.25.04 (3:53 pm) [edit] |
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The unborn feeds on the fear lining her womb
Rocked to sleep by the rhythm of fists
Angry hands of a father
Who too grew in a fearful womb
And the blood and tears trail in a circle
as the path of torn flesh falls in a circle
Yanked from the haven into black and blue world
Loud noises, harsh voices lullaby through
the cracks of swollen lips
Nursery rhymes of the damned
Curses and slurs form circles round the room
Spoken pain hurled in a circle
The only quiet in family secrets
Publicly hidden for all to see
Caring stops where numbness begins
burrowing inside the heart
feeding on the fear within
And the heart pumps apathy round in circles
and the heart breaks into a circle
Mel Taylor copyright 1997
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