In Your Own Words – Page 3

Writing 101: Assignment #4 – A Story in a Single Image

Conquering Mountain

They say mustard seeds can move mountains. So how did I end up on the opposite side of it? Its tough exterior mocked the clouds hanging in the sky, mimicking their shape. Deceiving them like it did me the day Claire walked out the door. She didn’t take my heart with her, just some toiletries she didn’t really need. You know typical girl stuff. I wonder if she was being sarcastic again. She’d rather hold onto an old toothbrush than an old me. Claire was tough like that; tall but delicate. She had the appearance of a lightweight but I knew I could never carry her. She was a rare stone, or a beautiful picture carved into concrete. The wind blew a cool breeze slightly. I silently prayed it would rain. At least then I’ll have an excuse for why reality crawled its way out of my throat. Besides, they say men are not supposed to cry. Claire always thought that was stupid logic. Maybe that’s because she was always around water, so water on cheeks wasn’t a big deal to her. I smiled weakly. I’d always been in love with her mind. No wonder I found myself here; on the edge of the dramatic Columbia River Gorge, a steeply pitched, creek-like river chasm where the hills roll over and over like new carpet, and the water spread its body over the land like fine silk. I gave Claire silk once. An anniversary present for our six months together. She said it was too soon. That I should stop taking so much time out of my vacation to visit her. How can love ever be too soon? That is something we always disagreed on. Anyway, enough about Claire. I read somewhere that they were closing this place down. No more tourists they said. I bet it was Claire. This trip was supposed to be my celebration for finally having the strength to not care about her anymore. She may have me now but dear Mountain Claire, I will reach you soon.

Queen

We are south of Senegal, maybe Guinea, maybe Ghana, or maybe as far east as the Congo. In any event, there is a woman and she’s smiling; putting her body and her hands to work to the multitasking of the rhythm of hips, rolling shoulders and the calming beat of the sounds that influence them. You must not however get distracted by her dancing as if of some stereotypical performance the Africans must put on, for her tribes have always been comprised of dancers and musicians. After a wedding, and even after battle, the men assemble their drums and the women their bodies to tap into a spiritual formation of triumphant celebration. So, the woman is dancing, and showcasing the bright red and blue colors against her skin; the dyed cloths her mothers have handmade from fresh berries. Her hair is braided in plaits; it is strength like strong rope. The woman is gorgeous and the men stare as her chocolate skin glistens in the sun, soft and smooth like silk. He nods, returning her smile. She blushes, rolling back and forth to the appreciation of his hands, slamming with authority against djembe drums, a rope-tuned skin-covered goblet drum, as if massaging against her skin. The year is 1619, and she has just turned seventeen. Waiting this day to which he would smile at her since childhood.

Abba looks her way, it is what she calls Papa Joe, forcing her to turn off seductive eyes and transform into his innocent little girl giggling away in mama’s arms. Placing her index finger on mama’s lips she hopes she has gained enough trust in her to keep silent for daddy must not ever find out about her secret love. If so he may begin to think she no longer belongs to him, for in her village it is custom that when a woman found a man her father gives up his reign, and it now belongs to her husband. And this she can’t bring herself to fathom, that one of those fine strong men will take her away from King Joe. The one who have always protected her and was known for treating mama like a queen, yet it is what she wishes for, to be queen. For a chance to wear golden nose rings and flaring dresses— yes, to be queen is what she wants. The sounds of the village men still heard in the background of her thoughts; slamming strong hands into drums in time for her body to move in that way.

The night has come, and Papa prepares the tent for sleep, driving the stakes into the ground. The roof is thatched with reeds, the walls and floors covered with mats. She lays awake, this woman. No, better yet this princess. Her eyes wander from the plantain from which her bed is made, to the mats three feet below her. Her eyes cannot stop to think of morning when the village men will approach each tent in that they may search out their future wife. This was done every year to service the anxious seventeen year olds, young women who’d prepared for this day since infancy. Seventeen because the number seven is symbolic of perfection, and it is their belief that seventeen years represented the completeness of their womanhood, perfectly fit to become someone’s wife. For this reason alone she cannot sleep, there is just too much excitement! She would never be seen as a child again, for on this day she would officially become a woman. A man would soon leave his father and mother to cling onto her. And she would serve her husband like mama does Papa Joe and her children she would raise to be the most upright of all her country. If only upon the awakening of the sun it will rest on the heart of him, to choose her.

Yet the night is not complete. Mama screams, obliterating her thoughts into pieces of confusion as storms of men with pale faces invade the village. She cannot catch herself before falling, ropes that smell like death have embraced her space and blood creeps in from outside the tent; and then there was darkness. Pitch black darkness as if the moon, that usually sent pieces of light tapping against each tent, had suddenly run away from the men with pale faces and yellow teeth. Baby girl had never seen them before. They could have been men or they could have been monsters, she didn’t know, and had nothing else to do but wait. This woman or better yet, this princess. This semi-woman waiting in the darkness to become queen.

Writing Distractions

A surge of consciousness spills over your thoughts like a stream of mighty waters. Waves of ideas that suddenly dance upon the mental workspace of your brain, a wide collection of inspiration collectively manipulating ideas, images, and symbols. Together they battle against one another to see which is fortunate enough to make it on the page. Will they splash onto the screen or get caught between blue lines? These are the concerns of words who dream of nothing but getting out of your head. Who, if any, of these ideas will transition from thought to word and from word to living persona? Your fingers are excited by the mere contemplation of it and proceed to structure the foundations of a blank page. That is until something happens. It is usually at this point that someone knocks on the door, the telephone rings, the children are awakened, or a question is asked. Sudden interruptions startle your words out of their skins and they run into hidden spaces and behind writer’s blocks. I don’t know what it is about writing, but it is so easy to be distracted from it. It takes so much concentration and focus that sometimes I find it hard to get back into the swing of things once interrupted. It is an art indeed, a pictorial inscription; a steady stream of carefully arranged thoughts that must glide from the mind to paper without interruption. Any break in this stream may cause the artist to abandon his work until a more appropriate moment. Sometimes I find it hard to even explain this to people! Some just cannot understand how easy it is to break into that mode of concentration. ESPECIALLY if we’re talking about poetry. I can be sitting at the computer immersed in a very pivotal moment and then someone starts talking and then its like, “OK, but can I finish this stanza first?“

The Accident

“She shouldn’t have been running across the street!” said a familiar voice in the crowd.

It was Cousin Rachel and if I had the energy to throw a scowl her way I would have. I still had not felt any pain and only prayed now that I would live. I scanned the crowd, it appeared the entire neighborhood had come to see the event. Heads popped outside of windows, neighbors stopped in their places and strangers huddled together alongside family, shoulder to shoulder, as if shielding me from the outside and encasing me inside the core of the sidewalk.

Meanwhile, my fingers tingled with blood that raced toward the tips because someone was squeezing the life out of my left hand, and their tears kissed their apologies on top my skin. She was the woman who hit me and was knee deep in apologies and instant compassion consumed me. I forgave the woman over and over again while simultaneously praying I wasn’t going to die. But I was talking in my head again. The lady had not heard me, my mouth still had not moved, and my memory only went as far back as rolling off the hood of someone’s car, down the window and onto the ground. (For some reason I remember sliding down the window). Prior to this I was on a quest for ice cream and decided a quick dash across the street would grant me this prized possession. Needless to say I was wrong.

It wasn’t until I looked down at my right thigh that the full realization of what happened came to me: my right thigh was twice the size of my left one. Still, I felt no pain. I felt nothing in fact. I just lay there consumed by thought and words that had no sound. It wasn’t until the Ambulance arrived and I made the transition from the ground to the vehicle that the shock wore off and the excruciating discomfort started.

The arrival to the hospital itself is a blur. I was in so much pain that everything seemed surreal. It turns out that I’d broken my leg, or more precisely, my femur bone (the longest bone in your body, located near the thigh). I remember staring into the ceiling, my little brown body highlighted against the white sheets. My mom was to my left as we waited for the doctors to return. My whole right leg had been wrapped in some kind of casing and the feel of it was that it was getting heavier and heavier as time passed. As I cried out in agony, I could not understand what was taking them so long to come back. I also wondered who had done this cruel thing as to wrap my broken leg in a cast, which made my leg so unbelievably heavy that I could not lift it and supposed then that it was not only paralyzed, but by the time the doctors felt like getting started I would have no leg left, for it was diving deeper into the bed and the mattress began to fold over.

Of course, none of this really happened. My leg was not wrapped in a cast and was not sinking into the bed.

When the doctors and nurses finally did return, in what seemed hours later, they started to cut my clothes off which added to my rising dislike of these people. I was wearing something really cute that now sat in shredded pieces of nothing. Meanwhile, in my head, I was explaining to no one in particular about the evil doctor who commanded his men to try and make my leg disappear and cut up my nice clothes. I’m sure he wanted to do away with me and I was being taken to a secret laboratory in which this would happen. I was just about to imagine what he was going to do when someone put a pill in my mouth. When I woke up I was laying in recovery with a steel plate replacing my leg, twenty-four surgical staples piecing me back together and surrounded by family.

I still remember when mama took me to my first check-up. I assumed the clever doctors had found me and sought to continue their plan. In my head, I’d been rescued by family who found a way to piece me back together and store me away in recovery. Now however, we were on our way to the doctor’s office and had to cross a big street that I’m sure came out of nowhere. On my journey to get across, I wondered what kind of technology they were using. I’d better be careful not to step on the yellow lines; it may activate some special gadget and suck me deep into the ground. Because my enemies had decided it was better that I use a walker instead of crutches, which I’d hoped to experience, it took me what seemed forever to get across the street. The evil doctors had done it this time, they were back and I was sure that they had somehow stretched the already wide road so that with each step I was not getting closer, I was only getting further and further away. I thought about telling mama about these corrupt men but I didn’t want to blow my cover. If she was protecting me they couldn’t know about it.

When we got to the office and they removed the staples, I was instructed by the doctor to move my leg back and forth but I couldn’t do it. My body had not all the way adjusted to the steel plate and told me this wasn’t a very good idea. Instantly, I stopped and threw a scowl the doctor’s way, “Way to go genius that hurts.” But I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to kill me. I better not say anything, they may try to kidnap mom and throw me in that laboratory again.

*****

I would like to publish a memoir one day. While I am still undecided as to publish an entire manuscript, I have taken to writing down bits and pieces of my life story and publishing excerpts to this blog for practice. What you have read is the true story of when I was hit by a car at ten years old. Names of real persons have been changed to protect their identities.

Memoir Sample – The Aid Office

Our family survived off welfare and from that end I know it to be helpful. It was however, a possessive lover. In Robert Taylor, no one’s father was present since their mother’s couldn’t receive welfare with them. But not that men weren’t present; their existence was obvious since the projects themselves overflowed with innocence. Thousands of children the byproduct of casual sex, and drive by love pieced together somehow between the cracks of the doors left open by the ladies from the welfare office, who searched everywhere but the crack of your buttocks to ensure it wasn’t present. So the men were around, fathers of children who knew them as nothing more than the Ray Ray’s and Big Mikes of the block. Men who sort of hung out on the corners or underneath the beds of open women, too filled with desire and dreams to deny a no-good-man a place between her legs. So the kids kept coming, the men kept leaving, and the welfare office remained packed. And if it, the Welfare, sensed anything positive had taken place, even if it was a new hairstyle, they needed to know from where the money had come, how much was it and how often was it around so they may deduct that amount from the meager rations they were already giving out. It didn’t matter if it was a jar of peanut butter or a new hat, if it was expected to come from an additional money source, it would be calculated and deducted from the monthly government assistance.

If she was found to have a man living with her, whether he worked or not, she could lose her money altogether. Not only was my father not around, but my Uncle had to make a covenant with the closet when the social worker came by. You see, a man’s presence was a threat to the relationship between a woman and her government. Thus the poor were required to remain so in the buildings if they desired to receive the little nothings they were receiving from Welfare. If they showed any sense of pride that required a level of discretion at what we commonly referred to as, “The Aid-Office”, it was as if the clerk had been instructed to repeat their business louder than the person obviously desired over the intercom so that the entire room could hear it; this made it extremely embarrassing to visit the office.

If by any chance the women wanted a divorce by acquiring some fancy job, the government made sure to snatch away all its benefits so that she is better off to remain part of the relationship than to do away with it. What use is a “good job” when she can’t afford to pay the rent if it increases because of her salary? Or what use is a “good job” when she can no longer receive Medicaid for children who are constantly bleeding from the violence of their environment? This is a place where children used garbage dumps as a playground. What use is it, of a “good job”, when she can no longer receive food stamps as a means to feed her children? It is thus better for her to stay married, financially, to the system than to get a “good job” that leaves her just over broke and in the same situation as she started out as. Marriage? Out the question, she can lose her benefits by daring to marry her children’s father—she wasn’t allowed to have one in the home, let alone marry him. Needless to say, the system divided more than it brought together, and was quite jealous and possessive of its lover, the Black Woman.

– Concrete Children: Life Inside the Robert Taylor Projects

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I would like to publish a memoir one day. While I am still in the infancy stages of understanding memoir writing, I have taken to writing down bits and pieces of my life story and publishing excerpts to this blog for practice.

Story Time…

… with EC 🙂

So, Stella has gone through her first stage of editing and I am now in the rewriting stage, so I thought I’d have some fun and engage in a little reading. Speaking of which, I’ve thought about an audio book. Well, more like a passing thought in which I’ve lingered slightly, but what if? As a reader, do you find audio books helpful or harmful? Would you’d rather listen or read? Hmmm, perhaps I’ll do another post about just that. Until then, I hope you enjoy my acting skills….

Beyond The Colored Line Ch. #1

Beyond The Colored Line – Final Sneak Peek

Week three-four:

My apologies for the delay on this; I have recently come back to town and this week has been busy trying to get back on schedule. But, as promised, here are the final sneak peeks of Beyond The Colored Line:

Note: This excerpt is part of a book written by Yecheilyah Ysrayl. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stolen in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles and reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by Yecheilyah Ysrayl.

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1932
Age 16
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“Never limit yourself sweetheart.”

Aunt Sara was sitting at the vanity table applying red lipstick to lips that I didn’t think could get any redder. Aunt Sara was a thin but shapely woman, filling out the beautiful dark red dress that went down to her ankles, but held snug at the waist with a petite black belt. She wore black heels, and her red hat sat on the bed next to me as I sat watching her perfectly apply more make-up. She was in the middle of another lecture.

“We got the whole world just waiting for us and the least we can do is oblige. Besides, it’s not like you’re betraying anyone or denying anything. You have just as much a right to this life as anybody.”

It was Tuesday night and Aunt Sara was going out again. She tilted her head this way and that in the mirror and smiled her approval.

Mama lost the house. She tried to do the best she could with the visitors and such, but the depression didn’t allow for people to want to travel much. And the taxes came to be too much for a laundry woman’s salary. We moved to Chicago where things weren’t much better. The Great Depression was particularly severe here because of the city’s reliance on manufacturing, the hardest hit area nationally. Only 50 percent of the Chicagoans who had worked in the manufacturing sector in 1927 were still working by the time we arrived, especially Negroes. By now, 40 to 50 percent of Negro workers in Chicago were unemployed, including Aunt Sara. She was a school teacher, but wasn’t making any money. By the end of the year, the city would owe teachers more than eight months’ pay. But Chicago’s population grew enormously because of the mass lynching’s taking place in The South. Negroes escaped Mississippi as if running from a plague. And for just $11.10 they were brought by train to a new world. Everything was still segregated. In fact, Chicago is the most segregated place I’d ever seen. But you could hold your head up in Chicago. So to us, it still offered a freedom that didn’t exist in in The South. It was the land of milk and honey. And the crisis didn’t seem to affect Aunt Sara as it did Mama anyway. She didn’t particularly like being a part of the life Sara lived and she was depressed over our situation.

“Speaking of the whole world, what is it with you and that Timmy boy?” Sara puckered her lips for a final review as she spoke.

“Tommy Aunty, his name is Tommy,” I said.

Tommy and I had become rather close as we got older, though I couldn’t decide if we were dating or not. Aunt Sara clasped her hands together as she stood and sat next to me on the bed, “Oh, my memory these days.”

“Tommy’s a good friend, nothing special.” I lied.

“That’s my girl,” said Sara, grabbing her hat and putting it on, admiring herself again in the mirror as she spoke.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you two to see each other no how. There’s not much room for opportunity with such men. You must learn to play the game sweetheart.”

“Are we so different?” I asked.

Sara turned to face me, “You can drink your coffee black all you wanna, but I’d prefer a little cream to taste. I swear I don’t know what’s gotten into your Mother, teaching you to hate yourself is what she doing. There’s nothing wrong with embracing who you are, you remember that.”

I sunk down in my seat, embarrassed. I knew where she was going with this. Every day was Saturday for Aunt Sara. Uncle Bob, as we were instructed to call him (though marriage didn’t exist between them) was Sara’s new man, a wealthy doctor on Chicago’s North side. The problems of the Great Depression affected every group of Americans, but no group was harder hit than Negroes living in the cities trying to live like rich white folk. In some Northern cities, whites called for Negroes to be fired from any jobs as long as there were whites out of work. Otherwise, the depression meant nothing to Negroes who had been depressed in America for nearly 400 years. For this reason, we were Aunt Sara’s little secret hidden securely inside Uncle Bob’s pocket. She didn’t just pass for white, Aunt Sara was white. And coming from a white mother and half white father no one second guessed us, not even Bob.

“I tell you what, the ladies and I are attending a small gathering this evening, and you should come along.”

“But I’m only sixteen,” I said.

Sara smiled, “And? Who’s asking questions? Today you’re sixteen years old sitting in a house wasting your life away. But tonight, tonight you are the most beautiful twenty-one year old they’d ever lay their eyes on. The most beautiful white woman they’d ever seen.”

One Year Later

I laughed as Tommy and I strolled down the Negro area of town, arm linked in arm. We had decided to stop fooling ourselves and had begun dating. I must say, being with Tommy was one of the most refreshing parts of my life: smart, colored, and hilariously funny. His presence alone gave me a sense of relaxation I didn’t feel at home. I didn’t have to pretend or fear discovery. It was a relief being with him, and a lot of fun too. Indeed, the love I had for that man could never be mistaken and could never be traded. He was my first love and I love him still.

Tommy held open the door to The Shack, a mom and pop restaurant owned by Negroes. As I entered the restaurant, however, my foot stopped mid-air over the threshold.

“Sidney?”

It was Annie, one of the first friends I’d met in Aunt Sara’s circle. I had begun living a double life. It was easier than I’d expected. I had, after all, enjoyed the private education, the fine dresses, and the parties. I found myself looking forward to the freedom of going where I wanted and buying what I needed. We were one of the few European families doing well during the depression and loved by everyone. Aunt Sara and Bob got closer. We were invited to his inner circle of friends and family, which meant standing on top the highest hill and waving. Even Mama began to lighten up just a bit. Things were going well, until now.

“Annie, what a surprise!” I said as Annie and I hugged each other, planting dainty kisses on each other’s cheeks, fake grins all over the place. Annie looked Tommy up and down, while he held onto the door, as if she had just spotted a piece of trash on the ground that must be disposed of quickly.

“You must be the servant. I’m Anne, how do you do?”

Tommy let the door slip from his hands, closing quietly as Annie held out her hand; covered in a crisp white glove made of finer cotton than spread across his kitchen table. Tommy’s family were sharecroppers. Silently he wondered how many barrels of cotton it took to make it glow in the darkness. He looked at Stella, staring deeply into the green eyes he once adored, and the reality of the present situation lit a fire inside of his chest. He hoped he wouldn’t fall down dead from a heart attack. It would be a shame for his dad to find out his son died cause of a thing as a woman’s glove.

Tommy said nothing, just kept his eyes fixed on mine. I didn’t want to look away, but I couldn’t help but to feel them shooting little prickly darts into my skin, and it was beginning to burn. I had to think of something. Quick. I pleaded with his eyes.

“Why of course, where are my manners? Thomas, this is a friend of mine Annie. Annie this is Thomas, the new driver.”

I hopelessly tried to catch sight of his eyes. I wanted to plead mercy, but Thomas’ eyes searched instead for something on the ground. I turned my attention back to Annie.

“Why of course,” said Annie. “I was just telling Daddy about how difficult it is to find one these days. Why we just replaced a cook last week. Poor Mama was devastated,” we laughed, only hers was real.

“I told her we’d just have to get Miss Pearl to do it, but you know Daddy couldn’t stand for that. A housekeeper cooking? Why the next ball would be simply atrocious,” we laughed again as I silently prayed for a miracle.

“Anywho,” continued Annie, “I am off, but do come by tomorrow. The women and I are having tea, you know Mama’s dying to show off the furniture.”

“Of course,” I said as we hugged and kissed again.

As I waved goodbye to Annie, I turned to plead my case to Tommy, who was already halfway down the street. And just like that, our friendship had ended.

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I’m so grateful you’ve taken the time to read this far, I hope it means you are enjoying the story. If you’d like to continue reading and find out what happens next, you can get the book from Kindle for just $2.99 when it releases this summer and less than $10 in paperback.

I plan on writing another book in this series later this year, and with your permissions I’ll let you know when that’s available and send you some more free chapters. Until then, if you want to know what I’m up to, you can follow me on Twitter @: https://twitter.com/ahouseofpoetry.

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