Niggers and Flies

Causality (Part 1)

2011-05-22T20:57:00.000-07:00

She wore big pink sponge rollers in her hair and a flowered housedress. Her mother had died when she was a girl. Her father was a drunk with one leg. The story of why he had one leg remains unknown. Based on other stories about him, it is probable he deserved to lose a leg. Her father had beaten her mother and when he tired, he turned his aggressions to her and her brother.

Her mother died giving birth to yet another child. She wondered if her mother’s death was the result of a blessing or a curse. Nonetheless, she was angry with her mother for leaving. Her father had broken her mother but the children remained. Beating them seemed not enough to break them. He molested his daughter and dared his son to speak against it. The son did not. He was silent. She was not. Like father like son is how the saying goes.

Her father did not care if she went to school and so she did not. She slept with men because that is what women do. Women sleep with men, cook their food, and do their laundry until another woman does it. Her mother had died and her father was a drunk with one leg.

Perception is reality. She grew up and moved away. She did not move far. Spell bound by her perception of who she ought to be; the product of a woman who abandoned her children and a drunken one-legged child-molester, she moved back. Here or there, she was still the same person. She was a woman who slept with men, cooked their food, and did their laundry until another woman did it. She was expendable and while she knew it and felt it, she could not spell it or articulate it.

Her father died. He was found laying face down in a puddle of urine. She felt comfort in the thought of oxygen and space wasted no longer to sustain his minute existence. Her mother died during childbirth. She is alive and knows not how to live.

She married a man who she believed would be her ticket to another life; a better life. He was not. As he hit her, she remembered how she hated watching her father behave that way. She took the beatings believing they would thrash away the part of her that embodied her father. Then, she got herself pregnant. Her husband tired of her and chose another, as women sleep with men, cook their food, and do their laundry until another woman does it. She hated her father. Her child has no father. Inevitably, the child asks questions to which there are no answers. Another man chose her. She did not marry him. He would not marry her.

Her brother was everything their father was not. He was tall, handsome, with a beautiful smile, and all his limbs. He landed a good job though he too was uneducated. He purchased a house in a nice neighborhood. The female neighbors welcomed the handsome, single man to the neighborhood with teacakes and cornbread made from scratch. He gladly accepted.

Her brother was everything their father had been. In exchange for teacakes and cornbread, he offered the female neighbors a smile and thirty minutes in the master bedroom of his new house. They gladly accepted. He drank too much. Kentucky Deluxe had been his father’s favorite whiskey and so the legacy lives on. He chain-smoked More cigarettes. He believed they made him look like Jimi Hendrix. He did not.

He married a woman who believed she looked like Chaka Khan. She did not. As he hit her, he remembered how he hated watching his father behave that way. Like father like son is how the saying goes. The last punch was always in loving memory of his mother. Then, she got herself pregnant. He tired of her and chose another; however, the other would not cook his food or do his laundry so he kept the first one for chores.

The other woman climbed through the window of the master bedroom for a smile and thirty minutes. She often bruised her knees on the window seal. He told her she could use the front door next time. In exchange for using the front door, she must cook his food and do his laundry. She gladly accepted. His wife slept with him, cooked his food, and did his laundry until the other woman did it. He did not marry the other woman. She would not marry him. As he hit her, he remembered how he hated watching his father behave that way. The last punch was always in loving memory of his mother. Then, she too got herself pregnant.

He did not molest his children. He looked the other way while other men did. He refused to hear the cries of his daughters who begged him to make their pain end. He told them the pain would end itself as women sleep with men, cook their food, and do their laundry until another woman does it.

Irony- she hates her father and loves her brother.

Generational curses…

RISE UP BLACK MEN

2010-09-08T21:13:00.000-07:00

This baby stood in front of me looking as if someone had dipped him; head first, into a barrel of cooking oil. Yes, his body was beautifully chiseled but that is not grounds to walk around top-less.

I was having an internal dilemma. I assumed him to be late 20’s to early 30’s. He was home in the middle of the day, and outside half dressed. He was wearing shorts that were so far past his waist they appeared to be too short pants. It was hot outside and he was sweaty, which caused his exposed underwear to stick to his behind, detailing his butt crack.

I was disguised.

On the other hand, the sheer beauty of him would not allow me to look away. He’s what I like to call fudge sickle brown. His muscles, wonderfully pronounced, glistened with sweat and oil. He was clean cut with a nicely waved fade. His big brown eyes surveyed me from head to toe and when he smiled in delight; his teeth were straight and white. I’m a sucker for a pretty smile. He was not tall which was a turn-off but otherwise, he was indeed a piece of art.

“WOW!” he said as I passed.

“WOW what?” I knew as it was coming out of my mouth that I should have simply smiled and kept walking. But as the old folks say, that would have been too much like right.

“You in Fort Worth but you look Hollywood. I’ve never seen a woman that made me say wow.”

That was cute. I thanked him and kept walking. He followed. He asked for my phone number and I asked what he needed it for.

“To flirt!” he said as a matter of fact. The response along with the “duh” expression on his face made me laugh.

By that time I had entered the elevator of the apartment complex I was visiting. Oh how I wish this was the end of the story…

He stood preventing the elevator doors from closing, refusing to move until I had given him my number and it had been verified with a call. Is this not stalker activity?

Over the next week, he remained top-less and sent me many random text messages. Most of which made me laugh and the others simply made me shake my head in disbelief. He would tell me how cute and sassy he thought I was, how sexy he was, and how sexy we would be together. There were tales of how he’d spent the last six years in the penitentiary for selling drugs. I learned he had been released on parole three weeks prior to our meeting and lived with his uncle’s ex-girlfriend.

How and why do these people find me?

Why do I entertain such foolishness? Because I’m the white girl in horror movies. You know the one; forever investigating the monsters. I wanted to know how he’d gotten to his current place in life. He told me, “All I’ve ever known is hustlin’”. His mother, who had singlehandedly raised him, had sold drugs and later became addicted. I felt sorry for him. After over thirty years of life, he had yet to be exposed to anything other than street and prison life.

I wanted to help him get on his feet and I attempted to express that in the most humble way possible. I know the male ego is an extremely delicate thing. I know some people who specialize in finding employment and education for felons. His response nearly floored me. He told me that he “wasn’t going to stop smoking weed to pass a stupid drug test to work for nobody” but wanted me to loan him money to buy drugs so he could sell them. He promised to repay me after he had doubled the money. When I refused, he asked me why I had offered to help if I wasn’t going to.

I didn’t know whether to laugh at him or cry for him.

“What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore –

and then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over-

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?”

Langton Hughes, “Harlem”

Why Work When You Can Be Disable

2010-08-24T23:06:00.000-07:00

I know I am a little impatient. I am working on that. However, when I am being very on purpose about waiting patiently and I’m confronted with foolishness, all effort goes out the window.

I’m sitting in the waiting area of a luxury car dealership. Half the seats are stained. The ice-cold air is thick with the smell of motor oil and coffee that should be spread rather than poured. The T.V. mounted in the corner is blurring "The Price is Right". I'm slightly amused by the two salesmen that trot back and forth sharing jokes. Strangely, I feel like I’m at a childcare center rather than a car dealership.

I’m distracted by a warm gush of air. I turn to see an olive skinned man walk into the waiting room. He was tall, thin, blond hair, and dark eyes. He smiled and came toward me. I barely had time to wonder what he wanted before he was handing me a worn 3x5 card…

... this card reads: Hello, I'm deaf. Please buy this card to help me support me. Thank you

Seriously?

1) Is a waiting room of a car dealership really the best place to solicit?

      A) I am here trying to buy a car so I have no money to give you.

      B) I am here having my car repaired so I have no money to give you.

      C) Is it not illegal to solicit inside a place of business?

2) If one is attempting to sale something and his/hers survival is dependent on the sale of that item, shouldn’t it be a little more creative? A postcard with a stick figure on it…

3) I understand that this person has a disability; he’s deaf. However, if this person is indeed hearing impaired, is he not receiving or eligible to receive government funds for that disability?

I have known people who are deaf and have jobs. In fact, they were hired specifically because they were deaf and/or mute. Obviously, this person’s legs and hands were not impaired. Why could he not walk into a business and hand someone an application rather than a dingy postcard? If being deaf renders one incapable of working or doing anything productive to earn a living, does that mean that I too am disabled? Am I to be expectant of others to finance my life? If so, does being Black and Female count as dual disabilities thus making me more entitled?

The fact is there will always be poor people. I understand that. I’m a single mother of two in college so I understand. What I cannot justify is a Young (under 40), White, Male, walking around panhandling. There is only one word to describe such behavior…

NIGGERISH

I just mentioned the top three qualifications of must corporations. In addition, if this person is indeed deaf, are my tax dollars not enough?

I know there are many people who are seriously in need presently and many more who are one paycheck away from homelessness. I am not insensitive to that.

But this …

is insulting. I would have felt better if this person had just walked up and said/signed, “Hey, you look stupid, I bet you’ll give me your money. How much are you willing to throw away today?”

Old School Pimp or Just Old

2010-08-19T19:25:00.001-07:00

Kobe on multiple screens + food + adult beverages = me at Buffalo Wild Wings with a friend. BWW was a little nicer than I expected it to be but it was a little bare considering this was one of the biggest games of the season.

Sidebar: I am not totally, but very near, sports challenged. I know little about basketball and even less about most other sports. My saying it was the biggest game of the season is merely the borrowed words of another.

There were no cuties in the house, and since the game had already started, they probably weren’t coming. We picked a table, ordered, and commenced our Kobe drooling session. When the waiter brought out drinks, he gave me a slight nod and a wink. It occurred to him that I didn’t catch the hint because he did it again, indicating the table behind me. I smiled in acknowledgement but didn’t turn.

I waited for my girl to give me a yay or nay since she was facing the table but there was nothing. Then, I remembered the guy she’d been chasing for months and thought better of her opinion. I shifted in my seat. Moments passed before I casually glanced back. A Dobbs hat and shades were the first things I noticed. It was 100 degrees outside and this baby was wearing a Dobbs. We were inside a dimly lit sports bar and he was wearing sunglasses.

Oh, but then he smiled a handsome smile. I’m clearly a sucker for nice smiles. I wondered what the rest of his face looked like when it wasn’t covered with glasses. I smiled in return and turned back to the game. I’d noted that he had the style of an older man, at least 40-45. Hat, short sleeve linen shirt, starched jeans, and nice shoes. He was clearly old enough to be established.

The game ends, my friend and I rise to leave. Before I could pass, the guy said something to get my attention. We chat briefly, and exchanged numbers. I handed him my card, he handed me a napkin with numbers on it

I dropped the napkin in the trash as my friend and I exited.

The next day I get a call from BWW man. I will credit him with pleasant conversation. That is, for about 20 minutes at which point he offered me a warning. Of course, I bit the bait and asked of what I was being warned. “I have a very high nature.” As if I was suppose to know what that meant. Again, I bite. He tells me he’s going to send me a picture and to call him back when I receive it.

I open the picture to see a blur of blue. I finally realize I was staring at a picture of his erect penis in blue briefs.

During our FIRST conversation, this idiot sent me a picture of his penis. Seriously?

Sidebar: A friend once told me that I was the white girl in horror films. I know there’s a monster but I’m not satisfied until I see the monster for myself and find out what find of monster it is. I say I’m just nosy by nature.

I call him back. What? I had questions.

1) How old are you?

50

2) Why do you feel it’s appropriate to send a picture of your penis to anyone, especially someone you met less than 24 hours ago?

He really liked me and if things should get serious and go to the next level, he wanted me to be prepared. Because he’s so well endowed, abnormally so, he’d been told that he shouldn’t just wipe that thing out without warning.

3) In the short time that you’ve been in the small town of Purgatory, how many warnings have you issued?

He laughed and assured me that I was the only one in Purgatory to receive a warning.

I was amused by the obvious lie. I thanked him for the gracious forewarning. Our conversation concluded with a dinner invitation. I accepted and was pleased that he set a time and told me he would know where we were going by the time he picked me up. I was curious to see which of the million restaurants in our small town he would pick.

We went to Buffalo Wild Wings.

This is not a blog about dating but I most comment on the subject. I refuse to believe that dating has been reduced to penis picture mail and chicken wings.