Yellow Ribbon - short story - fiction

Maria, just one day away from starting the life of her dreams, away from the monster she married, must face her biggest challenge.

Yellow Ribbon is a tale told in the “stream of consciousness” genre made famous by James Joyce in Ulysses.  This genre allows the reader to go into the mind of the character at their most unguarded. 

Short Story Page<a href=”http://bkladyired.wordpress.com/short-stories/” target=”_blank”><span style=”color: #fd5a1e;”>The Yellow Ribbon</span></a>

Canterbury Tales - A literary review

Title:                             Canterbury Tales

Author:                         Geoffrey Chaucer

Date of Writing:           1380s (left unfinished and published posthumously)

 

“The Canterbury Tales” shovels opinions and morals down the throats of its readers through its coarse, yet entertaining, style.  Written in a language which could be appreciated by the common folk, The Canterbury Tales are truly the tales of the people.  Chaucer looks at his characters in the harsh light of reality insinuating their character through their physical descriptions and likes and dislikes.  He does not sermonize on their characters, yet manages to expose some as the hypocrites they are.  The prioress, although portrayed as a compassionate woman, is also portrayed as a hypocrite in her position by her love of the courtly virtues.  Through the Prioress tale we see her as an anti-Semite, which is in contrast with the portrayal of her as a woman of compassion.  Perhaps her only feelings of compassion are toward animals and small children.  To understand Chaucer’s time is made much easier through the reading of these tales.

To My Brothers and Sister - an original poem

If you read my blog, about the past, then this makes perfect sense to you…

To My Brothers and Sister

The chirping in the nest of late
has taken on a weakened tone.
As mother swallow follows mate,
Alas, the babies left alone

Yet as the weakened song sounds dire
the air feels heavy on their breast
and heat has risen from the fire.
Alas, a cool breaze gives them rest

But all too soon a perilous pitch.
A squeeking — no a purring sound
comes closer to their resting place.
Alas, the nest soon hits the ground

But fledgling sparrows with spirits high
with haste scramble for cover.
I know the sound when sparrows cry.
Alas, where is their mother

A hawk just passing ’round this way
swoops down to take a look.
Then talons steal cat’s prey away.
Alas, where were they took

Put into cages separated
from the comfort of one another.
“I want my sister” one had stated.
“Alas, I want my brother”

One day they had outgrown their cage
to soar high as the eye can see
to a place above this earthly stage.
Alas, they now were free.

A cool breeze brushed across my face
as the flames finally died.
The day we all were back in place,
Alas, another sparrow cried

Returning Home? (new period)

I was picked up by my grandfather and some guy that was with him, and only halfway to Grandpa’s house did I find out that this was “C” - my mother’s new husband. I sat silently as this soaked in, I was on my way to meet my mother.

For years I had heard about how she was a slut, how she was locked up in a mental institution, how she married a rich, crippled man and cheated on him with her now husband. Now, this “person” was waiting for me to arrive. My elation was quickly replaced with fear … no … horror.

I spied my mother immediately and it’s true, when you can’t remember your parent, and your given away, somehow you imagine them as these beautiful looking people - I guess so you can believe that’s how you will look one day. The reality came crashing down on me though as I saw this short, very round person with a braid that hung down her back nearly to her ankles. She was dressed in black with a very busy, bright, distracting patters across the front. Like an old gypsy who long ago stopped taking care of herself. LORD NO - I thought, don’t turn me into this. She immediately started crying, apologizing and giving her excuses and my naive, needy self bought right into it. Would I never learn.

Almost left this out, when I arrived at my Grandparent’s home I was put on the phone with Frank (who had returned early from work) and Nikki. I was warned what to say, and what to not say. Knowing “J” was still there I knew I had better watch how I word things and let it appear that I was just very unhappy there, that I was in trouble with them way too much, and I wanted to leave. This was followed about an hour or so later with the doorbell ringing - enter Frank and Nikki.  Their argument, they had legal custody and I was NOT staying anywhere but at their house.  After a short debate I found myself in the car headed back to Iselin.  On the way back Frank said he wanted to get my bike a new seat (I had ripped mine - which, of course - was punishable at the time).  Nikki couldn’t understand why I should be rewarded for what I had done - reward?  I doubt that was the motivation.

When we got back “J” was so happy to have me home.  But, no sooner did we get there than the phone was ringing, it was the “family” who made it clear that if I was not returned there would be a lengthy court battle and “J” would be taken too.  If I was returned, it would be the end of the story.  The deal was sealed.  I would be going back - the “fam” was on the way.  All of this left me confused and somewhat happy - more happy after “J” told me he did NOT want to go live with them and to leave him here.  I believe, in retrospect, it was fear of the unknown that drove him - but at that time I believed him.  Again, I was leaving for my new home.

My first night with my new “family” went well, or so I thought.  Since Frank and Nikki wouldn’t release any of my possessions, I slept in one of my stepfather’s jerseys, which went just above my knee.  I really didn’t understand my mother’s disapproving looks at me, I thought, I’m ugly to her.  But no, it was the young woman standing in just a jersey that got her goat. 

My uncle was staying there, and to me he was the most wonderful person in the world.  I loved him dearly and was always very giggly when he was around.  It didn’t matter to me that he was obviously gay, he was talented, gentle, funny and sweet - everything I thought men could not be.  My mother, noticing this, was quick to point out to me he was my uncle - hellllllllooooooooooooo - I knew that was all I could say, not understanding the undercurrent of her giving me that information.

My mother and her husband had two children, a small infant daughter and a two year old “prince”.  The prince was allowed to do whatever he pleased, could own whatever he saw, was able to dictate what you did and when you did it.  I wasn’t at all fond of him and could scarecely contain it.  This became a problem.  Christmas came not long after I moved in, and I had, by then, been in school for over a month - not doing well gradewise.  Thus, my mother decided I should be punished in my room (with the little ones) and not allowed to leave - at all.  On Christmas day she, her husband and her new kids loaded up into the car and went for a very family Christmas at my Grandmother’s house - I was left home in my room.  I was given an electric shaver by somone in the family, brought back to me, and a few items of clothing to replenesh what I once had.  Dinner was in a paper plate eaten on my bed.  Yay Christmas.  I had zero privacy and one day during my time of the month my mother barged into the bathroom to see me using tampons.  She demanded to know what became of my virginity - since obviously virgin’s can’t use them (so she said) and I panicked.  I told her I lost it on a hill by my house with some boy.  That was a lie.  I pleaded with her not to say anything - so imagine my surprise when I found out she told Frank and Nikki.  Thank God I had the foresight to not tell her the truth.

We moved right after that to a new apartment where my stepfather was a super (his second job - his first was mailman).  Immediately I was sold in a sense to this old lady to walk her dog in exchange for piano lessons - but I didn’t like her dog, or her, so quickly got fired.  My second job was to stuff envelopes for this woman in the complex.  One day while stuffing I told her, yeah I get locked in my room at night with a hook on the outside of the door - and I’m in there with the babies which makes me crazy.  She expressed her feelings about this to my stepfather who, quickly, quit for me. 

With my first paycheck I went to Kmart or something and bought my baby sister a stuffed animal (I liked her alot), and stockings for a skirt I had sewn in home economics, and a sweater.  But, being a bitch, my mother didn’t bother to tell me that you needed pantyhose not stockings, since I had no idea about those things.  That night I went home and was getting ready for school the next day.  I took out my razor, at last, and the prince saw it.  He yelped - he wanted it.  I tried to keep it from him but my mother made it clear - give it to him NOW.  So, reluctantly, I did.  He swung it over his head and it smashed against the wall - no more razor.  I was upset but knew it was useless to even say anything so I took my sweater into the bathroom, with my outfit, so I could see how it looked.  There was a knock on the bathroom door - my little brother wanted in, my mother wanted him to get in, I was mortified - there was no way I was changing in front of the little monster.  So, while in the bathroom I decided to just open the packages and get ready in the morning.  That’s when the monster started to cry because he was NOT getting the scissors.  My mother started banging on the door screaming “what are you doing to him” - so I yelled back, sarcastically, cutting him with scissors.  She damn near broke down the door.  I went to bed fuming and barely slept, the next morning I got dressed and ran out the door before we had to speak.  When I got off the bus in front of the school I found out why you needed panythose, my stockings just fell straight down to my ankles.  I was embarassed, confused, pissed.  I ran to the bathroom and tried desperately to keep them up.  No use, so my non shaved legs went around bare all day - thanks Mom.  What a laugh her and her husband had at my expense that night. 

After that I barely ever spoke.  I was unreachable.  So, one weekend, for my cousin’s birthday, I was invited to my Aunt’s (the one who gave us/sold us away) house for the weekend.  During that weekend she asked a million questions about my mother, which I was happy to share the answers about.  But one thing, in particular, made her livid.  I let her know that I was told that she was sleeping with her bowling partner (she was one of those amateur bowlers you see on TV winning purses).  The idea of such talk being thrown around made her crazy so she decided she needed to confront my mother.  When she brought me back my Grandmother was in tow, and it was on.  During the argument my mother threw one of the glass baby bottles at me bruising the entire side of my thigh.  My aunt took me with her for my safety - my mother was glad to see me go.  Now, I was living with my Aunt.

Although my cousin and I didn’t completely get along - she was a goody goody cheerleader type and I was the one making friends with the kids who smoked.  My friends would make fun of her and the fact that I was gaining some popularity on her street aggravated her.  I didn’t know yet though and trusted her.  I trusted her so much that I finally told someone - Frank raped me.  Please don’t tell anyone I pleaded- but before day’s end my aunt was asking me a million questions.  She claimed to believe me and I felt a certain amount of relief.  She promised I would not get hurt again.  A few days later; however, my time of trusting her, the family, anyone would end. 

My cousin and I were into our usual quarrels when she threw a hard punch verbally.  Her mom was talking to Grandma and nobody believed my lies about Frank.  Everyone thought I was crazy.  I was once again in that place where you no longer feel there’s a floor beneath you - I ran into the laundry room (so my cousin couldn’t see me cry) and sat with my back to the washing machine, rocking.  My cousin called my aunt who made me talk to her, she asked what kind of trouble I was causing.  I told her, I wished I was dead, I wanted to kill myself.  This said with the sound of my head hitting the washing machine.   The next thing I knew I was being taken to a police car, with cuffs (finding out later in life this was illegal) and taken away - into the belly of the system.

And that’s where we begin again, next time.

And then it happened …

At this point, during this period of my life, I am electing to be somewhat vague. I find this time of my life difficult to discuss or relive so I can only permit myself to remember so much when I shut off.

I did not get the beating my brother did, but instead, Frank approached me differently. This was the first time he had sexually assualted me. I think I was 10 but my age is somewhat of a blur. When he touched me I pushed him away and asked what he was doing. He said, I was the woman of the house now and had certain obligations. He was a big man, weighing over 200 pounds, taller than I although only about 5′10 at most, and, up until that moment, my father. I didn’t understand anything that was happening and my efforts to get away were a waste. When he was done he reached into his top drawer and pulled out a revolver which he held to my head - if I said anything he would shoot me. I looked at him and, for the first - but not the last time in my life I said, “Go ahead.” I meant that with all my heart, and had he shot me then and there I would have at least had peace. But he changed tactics and told me that if I talked, to anyone, ever, he might as well be dead so he’ll take out “J” and Nikki with him. I would be forced to watch knowing it was all my fault. I believed him.

Back then, at my age, there was no talk about child abuse, rape, or even sex for that matter so what happened to me, I believed at that time, was my fault. I felt so dirty that I could swear when people looked at me they could see it. That I had become disgusting. Yet, I kept my mouth shut. Our next door neighbor then was a cop and he and Frank were friends so every time I saw them laugh together I felt as if what Frank was doing was condoned. He continued this for months, 2, 3 sometimes 4 times in a week. At times he would wave around the revolver, at other times he would take the rifle from the sitting room closet. It never occurred to me then, as it would nowadays with all the open discussions on the subject, all the news coverage, that had I took one of those guns and shot him I would have been acquitted.

There were times when it would emerge in the light, ever so slightly. Like one time when he had told me to go to the Mall with my friends and the next day he said he didn’t remember saying that. I told him that he said it last night, in his room, and he threw me across the room hitting my eye into the base of this spanish conquistador statue. My eye looked as though I had went ten rounds with Ali and it took alot of quick talking to keep people from getting suspicious. I also remember one Christmas eve when my brother knocked on the bedroom door, then tried to open the door. Frank burst out and beat him saying that he was trying to peak at our wrapping the presents. This was as close as he had come to being caught and later, when I left that house, I used that to try and validate my accussation - not that it was worth anything in the adult world.

At one point during this period I was crippled with pain in my stomach while playing basketball in school. Frank did not let them bring me to the hospital, but instead came, picked me up and brought me to the hospital in the city where he worked. Someone who was friendly with him examined me and said that I had strained my stomach muscles. I believed this, was given a note for this, and was given medication for this. Years later I realize that this was a lie. I don’t know what it was that happened, I don’t recall all the details of that visit, but I know better than to believe that was it. Years later, although after leaving that house I had NOT been intimite with anyone, I was tested with an STD which had me laid up in the hospital for over a week receiving IV’s. This was a result of the SAME pain I had when younger. A result of later finding out Frank regularly visited prostitutes. This also, regardless of how it came about, was something that filled ME with shame and made me feel dirty.

Finally in Spring Nikki returned and I celebrated in my heart that as meaning the abuse would come to an end. I was wrong, it just became more discreet. I couldn’t bear to look at her, at him, and most especially myself. When she would send him to beat us for our housekeeping infractions, now, he would pretend to beat me having me scream. I missed just getting beat and having that be my biggest problem. I was angry, bitter, self-loathing and repressing all of this the best I could. At one point; however, the girl up the street - Caroline - had hit me in my stomach after seeing the note from the doctor that I couldn’t handle any physical strain. So, I held in my anger for weeks until I felt no sign of the previous pain and rescheduled our fight. Caroline’s sister was three years older, albeit rather thin, and from her perch in high school declared that she would jump in. Since, by then I was a known minority, the two black kids in my junior high had agreed to jump in if she did. So, out into the snow we went to fight it out. I was clearly winning as Caroline ceased being a person and became a target for my rage, and when her sister jumped in it was clear I didn’t need help as I beat her to the ground as well. I scarcely recall it but that there was blood all over the snow and their father (who looked exactly like Herman Munster) was pulling me off screaming that I was an animal. That was my last real fight - I was very afraid, very out of control.

Everything then seems to be a blur - just spinning out of control and about as bad as I thought it could be until one night, that summer. I had come down during the night feeling ill and as I approached the living room, which had a sheet over the door to hold in the air conditioning, I heard it. Frank was apparently bothering Nikki and Nikki said, as clear as day, why don’t you go to your little whore upstairs. The floor felt as though it had slipped from under my feet - I thought she would one day find out and save me. I trusted her. She knew. She called me a whore. I don’t recall much after that but being woken, feeling a throbbing in my head, seeing blood on the wall behind me. The next day Nikki asked what my crazy ass was doing. Why I was rocking and banging my head into the wall, was I as crazy as my mother and brother. I didn’t know any more. That was the day before I left forever. The next day I was getting ready for school and put some stuff called “mood blush” on - a gift from a friend who didn’t like it herself. I didn’t realize that after leaving the mirror it would darken so much. When I got into the kitchen Nikki was there, she took one look and screamed, get that shyt off your face you whore. You slut - wash your face and started punching me in my head. I ran off, washed it off, went to my room and paced. I then went downstairs, grabbed their phone book and found the phone number for my grandparents. I called them and begged them to come get me. Nikki overheard. She didn’t fight it but rather kept me home from school so they could pick me up. I was going to be free, finally - and, with no possessions (since Nikki said I could leave with only what I brought - which was nothing, no clothes, nothing) I climbed into the car with my grandfather and some man I had never met before and - without even looking behind lest they call me back there, I was gone.

I believed things would only get better now - I could be with my sister, my grandparents, my aunts and uncle. I’d get them to pick up “J”. It was over.

I was very very wrong.

Tag … You’re It…..

 just got tagged by St. Fallen…
And now I must mention 10 random things that make me happy
This is going to be fun

1. Hanging out with my kids - we’re more than just family but best friends
2. Taking classes where I am into the subject matter
3. Saturday nights chillin at the crib with some drinks, music and good company
4. Having an open, clean space to do something creative (paint, write, etc….)
5. A day on the Boardwalk, in the sun, spending money
6. Rearranging, or creating in my yard, to make a whole new environment
7. Shopping for stupid little shyt like doo dads for the house or pharmacy kinda of stuff
8. Marathons of my favorite, whacked out shows like Cheaters
9. Watching a comedy with someone who is almost a comedy themself - like the b/f when he’s feeling good
10. Sleeping late, without a care in the world, while dreaming out life’s little hassles, kinda like Garfield after eating his lasagna

Okay, I’m sure in about an hour I’m going to be hitting myself on the forehead saying, how the hell did I forget that … but that’s just a me thing.

Now, to go forth as did my friends, I shall now tag 4 fellow bloggers (:

I tag:
The Godfather of the The Slow Bleed
Mossavi of MOSSAVI MODEL ….. expression of thoughts
Claysol13 of Art in Motion
Inspiration is MY Goal, with Poetry for the Soul of Inspiration is MY Goal, with Poetry for the Soul’s Blog

Hope you enjoyed sharing your happy thoughts

So as we begin to wrap up this period …

I’ll try to incorporate a feel for this period and wrap it up with how it ended and where the next one begins. 

“J”, as I said, was very ADD and always in trouble.  He had few friends, his first crush was a blind girl (mainly because of his insecurities) and it would appear that nobody liked him at all.  His life was, to say the least, very hard and his actions were offshoots of this troubling life.  For example, having been nearly drowned when 4ish the foster parents decided that he should learn how to swim.  They threw him into a pool and said, do it.  He didn’t - he froze.  He just clung to the side for hours tentatively letting go, or having his hands pried away, only to reattach himself to the side.  Eventually, of course, he did learn but it was painful for both him, and anyone who cared about him.  To add to his water hatred after seeing the movie Jaws we went out on the boat to fish where Frank threw both he and I into the ocean and said, “good luck”.  How he laughed at our panic, and I suppose I would have been even more frightened if I hadn’t been distracted by “J”’s screams. 

“J” was not an all star athlete as a young one.  He was not, by far, an A student either.  I did relatively well where he would do poorly ending every parent/teacher day screaming as he was beat.  Me, my beating was less severe since rather than combating C’s, D’s and F’s they were combating my mediocrity with B’s.  “J” did do well in third grade though, as he had finally found a teacher with the prerequisite patience to reach him.  I still recall her name, Ms. Williams.  This was looking to be a promising year. 

For one, after numerous times showing up to school with bruises, welts, etc. a teacher saw the fork stab marks mentioned earlier, on my arm and called child services.  I remember that day clearly because it was a very traumatic day for me in general.  I was having a chorus performance that evening so I looked in my closet and found this really nice, tropical print dress with a nice cutout beneath the collar.  It was not trashy but class.  What I failed to recognize was it had short sleeves and what that would mean.  I wore it to school and received a few compliments, including one by my crush, about looking really pretty.  I was so happy.  As always we went home for lunch since we lived half a block away.  Nikki was making soup and grilled cheese.  When I came through the door she looked at me oddly so my nerves started to kick right in.  She asked where I got that dress, and why was I wearing it.  I told her, she nodded and turned back toward the soup.  When she brought over the bowls she placed my brother’s down and looked me in the face while the soup, boiling hot, hit my lap.  I screamed, she pretended upset, I was run into the bathroom to get cold water on my legs.  After sitting under the faucet for 20 minutes I was taken from the tub, cooed over, given a turtleneck and pants and told to get ready to go back to school.  I did, but although it hurt less it was still burning.  I sat, fidgeting, until 3:15.  When I got home I was nearly in tears so Nikki had be go back into the tub under the cool water - after all, can’t let that welt up now can we.  While I was in the tub a visitor arrived, a social worker.  She said she was given information and wanted to check on my brother and me - so out of the tub, back into the turtleneck and jeans, and with a sideways look and a shhhhhh I was introduced to the worker.  She said she wanted to see my arm, which I showed her right up until the sleeve could not be rolled any more.  This was, fortunately for Frank and Nikki, right below the fork marks.  When asked why I was fidgety Nikki answered that this was all upsetting me and making me nervous.  Thus, the social worker went her way and I remained trapped in this hellhole. 

That night was the chorus, and Nikki picked out a very gaudy, flowery, bow covered bright yellow dress that looked like it was straight out of a shirley temple video - as a compromise; however, she let me wear sneakers.  I was a horrific sight as my tomboy ass headed to school.  On the front lawn a few of the boys were teasing and laughing so I, of course, were trying to catch up with them to hit them.  I can’t even imagine how I looked.  Now, in reflection, it was the fact that I looked more mature that had Nikki (and her ever needy “look at beautiful me” ass upset).  Even now, so many years later, I really can’t abide eating soup (except won ton) and hate wearing dresses. 

So this incident, for a time, would keep Nikki from hitting, or having Frank hit, us too bad. 

This also was the year, as I said earlier, that “J” was picking up in school thanks to Ms. Williams.  So, in the first few months anyway, things were looking good.  That all changed around April sometime.  Ms. Williams, who would go to dialysis two or three days a week, died and my brother went into some kind of emotional coma.  He just didn’t see, hear or feel anything.  In school he went from doing well to having the school call every other day.  One day it became too much for Nikki to bear so she packed up and went to live with her mother in Connecticut.  She hated my brother, could no longer vent with me, and just left.  But, to us, this too was a good thing - for now.

Our chores were officially bumped down to after school where we would run through them quickly and effortlessly.  I remember having a boy come to the house and stand by my front door talking to me, even giving me the quickest of kisses on my lips (not in).  I remember the car pulling up and me shoving poor Dominick into the bushes.  Yeah, we were okay with this.  Neither “J” nor I missed Nikki, at least then.  The summer gave us extra chores but extra freedom as well so it just flew right past us.  I was turning 10.  Once school resumed we went back to cleaning after school and just living our lives.  At night, at first, nothing much seemed peculiar and if anything Frank would just come home late.  That all changed sometime right before my birthday.  School had resumed for about two weeks when Frank came home early one day.  Not only did he see me in the front talking to my “boyfriend” but he saw the chores that had not been done.  We were in for it. 

That night, of course, we sat at the dinner table reliving that same anxiety that we lived with Nikki there.  Frank went up to my brother’s room and the sound of him being beat with the hairbrush filled the house.  Then, he came downstairs.  This was odd in that he had always in the past hit us together; but now, he wanted to see me in his room.  We were being punished apart.  I was confused and more wary than usual which, I would soon find out, was with good reason.

But, back to the way things were …

Life in Jersey was not what you would ever call a childhood by the standards of today.  Times were different in the beginning of the ’70’s and many of those things that wind up in newspapers today were hushed behind closed doors then. 

Foster parents were rarely ever checked up on, especially if they were related, so pretty much these two ran amok.  In less than a year we went from relatively normal kids to flinching, nervous, sickly kids who were filled with nothing but distrust for adults. 

Frank was a fat slob who used us to obtain the sports glory he could never achieve himself.  Nikki was a narcastic bitch who needed to always look as though she were the number one stand out in whatever company she kept.  We were, in all ways, responsible for how these two looked to the world. 

We didn’t really look forward to much, there was always something we were guilty of when our birthdays or Christmas would come around so that we weren’t “happy” nor “spoiled”.  As of this writing I’m still waiting to have my first real birthday party.  We were dressed in some of the most ridiculous clothes known to man, we would cry when we got our hair cuts, we were called all kinds of names in front of the other neighborhood kids - much to their delight. 

Meals were a nightmare - especially on liver night.  As we gagged down this rancid shyt these two stood by screaming up from their steak.  My brother, not really wrapped too tight, once hid the liver behind a radio on the table.  Why, if he had the chance, he didn’t give it to the dog, I’ll never know.  Every afternoon at lunch we were given Cod Liver Oil by the spoonful - and if we gagged it up, we were given two more.  At least twice a week we were given that chocolate laxative, which also triggered gagging, but we were not dismissed until it went down, often with a bleeding lip for letting some escape.  As an adult, when going to the stomach doctor, I was assured that it was that practice that could account for much of the problems I was not looking at.

“J” did not handle all this well and seemed a little unhitched.  He would pop off his ADD mouth at some of the worst times leaving me to handle the messes he got into.  One time he had ran his mouth to two bigger guys who were taking turns hitting on him, so, of course, next thing I knew I was there in the mix also getting hit (until they grew tired and just left us tied to the flagpole outside of school).  “J” just couldn’t assimilate and, as his older sister, it was up to me to stand beside him when things got rough.  I didn’t realize it, but I had a growing resentment for this role.  This played itself out one day when I was home alone and had spilled some medicine that I was supposed to take for my stomach.  I knew that there would be a serious beating behind this so I scrambled to replace the contents of the bottle.  I searched out a replacement that would match in color, and in the fridge found a wine bottle that was also green, so I figured it would work.  Nah, the contents were brown so I paniced.  I eventually found a can of West Pine cleaner that was green - and so I poured it in.  Problem is, once it hits another water (unbeknownst to me) it turns white.  But whatever, I would just NEVER say my stomach hurt again and figured nobody would be the wiser.  Wrong. 

My brother got sick about a week or two later - and out came the medicine.  As soon as the top came off the gig was up - the smell of pine permeated the air.  Nikki blew.  “Who the hell did this” was the question of the night, and both “J” and I said, not me.  Problem was, it was me.  My knee jerk reaction was a result of panic, and anger I think now, albeit I didn’t realize then.  All night he and I were alternately beat.  When they got tired we were put outside in the car without jackets, to freeze.  After a few hours Frank came to us and said, “Listen, she is never going to believe your sister tried to poison herself so you might as well just confess.”  “J” looked over at me, and then my instincts finally jumped in and I told Frank it was me.  His answer - doesn’t matter, I’ll hit him lightly making a stink but he had better confess - so he did.  I knew he hated me, I hated me, actually he got even hiding a watch of mine under the shrubs buried in the dirt - but that was not even close to what I had done. 

Years later I apologized to him, now a grown man, and we got past that - although I still cringe.  Frank had my brother confess not only because it would be believable but because he himself had a hidden agenda - one that would seek to get the heat off me - but I’m not ready to discuss that yet so for now - we’ll leave it here.

Peace

Now, not to forget the good along with the bad

I don’t want to give the impression that the entirety of my childhood was filled with abuse.  There were happy moments, and although they were brief, I still remember them.

I remember catching 22 fish one day while out on the boat.  Pulling up double hooks both with fish dangling.  I remember getting an award for best player on my softball team.  I remember doing the hula in a sixth grade demonstration on Hawaii.  I remember playing in the tunnels in the park - hopping from one to the other - trying not to get wet.  I remember singing in chorus, sewing a skirt, seeing my name in a slam book as the likee of some unknown person, having boyfriends (the innocent, not even kissing types), fighting with Caroline up the street on a weekly basis and, in general, those moments when you were just a kid. 

I remember the only member of my family to come to see us was my Grandfather, a very sweet, dear man whom I miss and wish I had gotten to know better.  I remember going to my Grandparent’s house and seeing my sister, although she didn’t know she was my sister.  Somehow, I always knew it though - I was just not allowed to say.  I knew that out there, somewhere, was a family that I should have been a part of, but I wasn’t welcome.  Was it, as my foster parents said, because I was a “spic” kid and not white?  Was it, as my foster parents said, because my mother was a whore and hated by all?  I didn’t know, but I did know I longed to be one of them - to belong - I just never did.

Life as a kid was, inside my own mind, like any other kid’s life - the same need, feeling the same joys and sorrows, but - unlike other kids, my life held secrets and shame which would move me forward into some dark and frighting alleys.

Back at the Grind

It’s Monday morning and I’m back at the desk doing the whol admin thing.  My mother’s day was okay I guess, but it was kind of lonely being so far from my children.  Sigh. 

My daughter is feeling a little better about the Army, but, has begun the process of receiving help for those demons that haunt her.  My son is happily being a husband in Louisianna. 

As for me, I’m still in limbo in my personal, professional and financial life just waiting to see what happens next. 

Music on my Site

I keep music that is relevant on my site  - here it is

:http://bkladyired.wordpress.com/song-of-the-moment

My Whole Future (poem about being decieved in love)

The Whispering Angel screams
HELP ME
But nobody hears
and she dives
into
the pit

The Dark Angel whispers
Come Hither
and she hears
But
Only she hears

They just talk
and
she jumps

Who will the Dark Angel talk to now

Kinda Sad

I hear my b/f snoring beside me.  He stayed up late chillin with his brother the other night.  He was chillin, drinking and smoking with his friends today (and the fact he cleaned, where he wouldn’t before, make me suspect) but on the one night a week I get to chill - he’s not even trying.  He made sure to buy a bottle but had no intention of drinking tonight with me.  He had me shopping alone at the market, carrying mad bags, while he chilled on the low with his boy.  He only admitted to it when his boy wanted his money back so he had to meet up with me.

I’ll get loaded alone, singing sad songs and thinking about what I want and can’t have.  He’ll sleep well. I hope my self analysis helps me get why I do this to myself.

FYI

If you use the links on the sidebar, and choose: My personal life past, you get my story which is interestingly about abuse, foster care, and those things that weren’t discussed in the seventies, my personal life present is venting day to day.

This is the part of the story that starts getting ugly

The honeymoon period at Frank and Nikki’s (I’m not even trying to lie about these pieces of shyts names) was over as quickly as it started. Immediately we were informed what our chores were to be. Therein lies the reason to “adopt” children, little household workers. At this point I believe I was still 5, as I remember a brief period in Kindergarten. Frank was my mother’s cousin and, unknown to me until later in life, my mother and Aunt knew a secret about Frank that should have precluded him from ever getting custody of children. But I’ll get to that later.

My brother was, as was often the case, not wanted in this house. Nikki wanted a daughter (I suppose to pass on the abuse suffered by her at her own mother’s hands) but my brother and I were a package deal. She could barely hide her disdain so this trouble boy would only be getting more troubled.

But, moving forward, we were already nervous, unsettled kids but this new environment profoundly affected my brother making his ADD behaviors run rampant. He was frequently beat with a brush, belt or, on a good day, hand for things that later in life would fall under the diagnosis.

Our chores began at 6:30 - mine were to make the bed, dust my room, vacume my room, dust the house, clean the bathroom then, if done, eat breakfast and go to school. My brother’s list was the same except he had to vacume the house rather than dust and do any dishes they used after we did the dinner dishes the night before. After school it was picking up dog shit from the back yard and folding any laundry that had been done. Homework and then outside to practice sports. This was the routine and we were forced to adhere to it very strictly. I remember that feeling in my stomach when we would get home after school and hear footsteps upstairs in our rooms, or we would walk in and she wasn’t in her usual spot on the sofa watching soap operas. That meant only one thing, that she was inspecting. And with each inspection there came the inevitable beating when Frank got home. Sure she would slap us around a little - but the real beat down came after dinner. I can’t count how many nights we sat silenly, shaking, trying to force ourselves to eat what was in front of us knowing that once I finished washing the dishes, and my brother finished drying them, we would have to go upstairs to get beat. As an adult I find that I get that feeling when it comes to disciplining my children or my pets. I can’t abide their getting hit - when my ex-husband would hit my son for something I would have to leave the house I became so physically ill. But I digress.

Besides chores we were expected to excel in sports. Spring and Summer had baseball and fishing, fall had football which carried into winter where it was hockey. Neither my brother and I cared for playing because it was never for fun - it was honest work.  When we played well, we were left alone but when, in any way, we failed, it was followed by exhaustive workouts and beatings.  We were embarassing him.  By the time I was about 9 I was asked to join the region’s all-star team (softball).  On the day of the first game I was benched, not enough practice and being the youngest one on the team.  I was so afraid of what would ensue following the game that I protested not playing by standing on the third base line and refusing to move.  That was my last day on that team.  On another occasion the foster father was playing a little two on two with a friend of his and his son against he and me.  When I had to hold the ball so he could kick he kicked my finger causing some helluva pain.  When the next time came around for me to hold the ball I kept dropping it, kind of like Lucy does to Charlie Brown.  He got pissed and said I had to stop being a coward and just hold it.  I turned to him, in front of his friends, and told him that if he was so brave maybe HE should hold the ball while I kick it.  He laughed it off, until later, and that was one of the worst beatings I had ever gotten in my life.  To this day marks remain to remind me to hate playing football, to not trust things like falling into arms or holding a ball, and how to fear and hate with such ferocity that I could, when provoked, do enormous damage.

As for our chores, they were never, in Nikki’s eyes, done right. But one particular time stands out. I was doing dishes before dinner since they were piling up during a home made, day long, cooking of tomato sauce. As I was doing this some Palmolive dish soap, that green old school one, went flying and landed in the pot where the sauce was simmering. At that Frank went crazy and started beating me in the head, landing blows on my arms and stomach, but … on this occasion he had a fork in his hand. The fork stabbed me from my shoulder halfway down my forearm. I was, at that time, in fifth grade so I guess about 10. This was just a few months before it hit the fan - when, everything completely fell apart.

Two “different” kind of Sonnets (amusing)

While in school we were asked to write a sonnet, which, given that we were reading shakespeare’s sonnets, seemed {yawn} dull - so I tried adding my own twist to it.

Rainy Day on Maple Street

The light had flashed upon the glass like fire,
while cymbals clapped above in skies of gray.
The swoosh of rhythmic singing of the choir
forced little Jenny to her knees to pray.

The dog was heard to howl throughout the house,
and mother yelled at dad for all her worth,
“”Go close the kitchen window, you dumb louse,
or you’ll regret the day your Mom gave birth.”"

And suddenly things reached a fevered pitch.
When dad who had just way too much to drink
yelled back to mom, “”shut up you dirty witch.”"
So mom hit him with dishes from the sink.

Fear not for things turned out O.K., my friend:
When dad passed out, the rain came to an end.

Mourning Sky

The silver hay which lies atop her head
is caught among the bows which time does fade.
The chalk which has replaced her cheeks of red
like dust which cloaks the bed where once he laid.

The TV sounds blare out in every room
much easier for her to hear than naught,
and shattered crystal lies beside her broom,
her heel still stuck within the step where caught.

The doorbell rings, and yet she does not rise.
A sudden breeze blows softly by her brow.
A glimmer of a couplet once thought wise,
she strangely had forgotten until now.

“The Son will shine anew in mourning skies,
but first the sun sets softly on her eyes.”

So how did last night go?

It went really well. 

I got off work yesterday and found that the b/f’s brother was coming over for the night.  This was a good thing.

First of all, it gives the b/f someone to hang with that is not detrimental to his mental state.  Second, I like the brother so it’s nice having someone there who does not critisize, tease, lecture or intentially annoy the shyt out of me. 

The brother and I are more similar in taste and temperment than I and my b/f.  Where I’m merely an audience for the b/f, a facilitator, an ATM and maid, I feel as though the brother is genuinely interested in people when they speak and wants interaction rather than just a prop.  If the b/f were more like his brother so many of our issues would have worked out - but, it just ain’t so.  I do think he was more like that when we met - and over time just gave up caring about other people (well at least the people who love him).

So anywayz, point was, it was a nice night for once and today, at least, I am not going to have to blog some stupid drama.

Peace

Being continued

After leaving my Aunt’s house we found ourselves in the woods, in a small brick house with my Aunt’s mother and father-in-law.  They were not rich, but they had everything they needed.  It was a warm, comfortable home where the older couple lived with one grown son, one grown daughter (who we were amazed could remember all the lyrics to the songs on the radio - which, to us, meant every song in the world), his aged mother, and now my brother and I.  “J” and I shared a room next door to the very elderly mother who, despite her age, painted.  I was in awe of the beautiful canvasses, the smell of the oil paints, and the idea of being an artist.  I begged, incessently, to be taught to paint … but I’ll get to that soon.

The house was nestled back from the main road with an extremely long dirt driveway leading up to it.  Behind the house were the woods, and through the woods there was another boy and girl with whom we would scamper and play.  It was summer so our days were spent outside, playing in the clay pit, wading in the pond, playing in an abandoned car parked outside the house held by cinderblocks.  The car smelled musty, and its inside was a shambles, but we didn’t care as we pretended to drive, turning on the long-dead radio and singing to whatever song we imagined was on.  “J” and I were happy.

One night I woke, not really sure why, to hear bustling in the hall outside my room.  Far off in the distance I could see a red light slowly coming closer.  At that moment, the elderly mother “grandma” came into the room.  She said she was sorry and she knows she promised me that she would teach me to paint.  She said, you just have to feel it.  You start off with just very basic colors, the ones you expect the most, and then little by little you add detail.  That is, she said, the way you learn to paint.  At that she smiled and just left, gone.  By now I could see the red light very near the front window where our bedroom was, the noise was getting louder in the hall and I, dying of curiosity, got out of bed to see.  When I got into the hall and looked toward the noise, “grandma’s” room, I saw here partially hanging off the bed as her son kneeled beside her crying.  I just didn’t get it, how, she was just in with me.  But, my five year old brain didn’t register this.  I was quickly rushed to bed.  I carry in my heart now, as an adult, the beauty in that moment even if it was not appreciated then.

Shortly after the funeral, where I saw my first dead body ever, we were told that they had found a home for us with a couple, a younger couple.  We were brought there for a test weekend where we were wooed and courted.  Not knowing what was going on, feeling like the elderly couple didn’t want us, being told by this new couple that the others were too tired and old, when asked where we wanted to live we chose the younger couple.

We would live to regret that decision.

Picking up where I left off

My brothers and I began our exciting journey into foster care.  My sister, who was pretty much a newborn, went to live with my grandparents where she was raised as their own child - not knowing about us - but that’s for later.

We were split up, my brother “J” and I went in one direction and my brother “R” and Ray went in another.  “J” who was technically my half-brother, unbeknownst to me at that time, had some mental and physical issues.  I suppose having your father try to drown you, and the fact he has one of the worst cases of ADD I’ve ever seen, made him a bit to handle (at that time ADD wasn’t a diagnosis) so they kept him with me so I could take care of him. 

“R” and Ray, I later found out, were put up for adoption.  Actually though, I know Ray was sold to a couple who no agency on Earth would have given a child.  “R” was adopted to a couple where only the husband wanted him, and the wife was a complete bitch.  I’ll go more into Ray and “R” later.

“J” and my first foster home was a group home in another part of town.  An older, churchgoing black couple ran it.  I’m sure they did the best that they could as we were not the only residents there.  My only real memory was of an old, senile lady who lived there.  She would, daily, go running down to the railroad tracks because she wanted to die.  The lady running the house would have my brother and I chase after her.  This stayed with me because we were constantly petrified.  Scared we would be too late, scared we would get hit by the train ourselves.  Just always scared.

This was temporary housing though, so our next stop was a “money maker” foster home with this couple and their children.  We were treated like the outcasts we were, called spics and other lovely names, and always on high alert.  The children in the home were also always calling names, hitting, taking our things.  One day one of the little monsters took my brother’s favorite toy and threw it into their basement.  He cried and cried - but I couldn’t unlock the door and we weren’t allowed down there.  I told the “mother” of the house who said I was lying so, I turned to the kid who did it and told him, “next time the door’s open I’m throwing you down there too.”  I got hit and we got thrown out, guess she didn’t want to see if I would do it.

Our next stop was my Aunt’s house.  My sister had a bunch of sisters and a brother, all of whom really couldn’t take the extra mouths to feed; however this Aunt wanted to help house all of us (she was the one who found the lovely parents for “R” and “Ray”).  We moved in with her, her husband and two daughters.  I thought it would be good, someone I knew, a familiar face.  It didnt’ work out that way.  This aunt and her husband were already on the route to divorce.  He was an evil piece of shyt who I only remember because of what he did to my brother.  My brother and I were accustomed to eating when someone would throw some food at us - and if we were hungry that was our problem.  So we went shopping with my aunt that day and each got a box of twinkies or ho hos or whatever.  During the night my brother, then about 4, got out of bed to get one.  He was caught.  This uncle labeled him a food thief and told him if he was hungry, here, and dumped mustard, hot pepper, all types of condiments in his mouth making him swallow only to vomit it back up.  Then, covered in vomit, he tied him to the top bunk and left him there to throw up beside and onto himself all night.  I could still smell that smell on my brother a decade later.  With this, our Aunt sent us to go live with his parents - which was likely the best part of our childhoods.

*To be continued

Last night was …

relatively calm.  We “kind of” discussed what happened, I did NOT back down, we co-existed.

I get the impression that he was up to something yesterday but that could be paranoia since he didn’t wreck the place, spend a fortune and was happily singing away in the tub when I got there. 

But, bottom line, things are calm for the time being.