But, isn't that what blogging really is? Just memorializing random things/shit that cross your mind?
On whatever subject that you fancy to be interesting enough draw an audience. Who knows? Within this Web of the World there is our future American President somewhere. An Artist, a philosopher, a poet, a scientist. And he or she may be blogging right now. Imagine. What art or music would been available to the world, had we had the internet in pass centuries. We'd all be able to retrieve the writings and communications of prophets and world leaders before historians and those with agendas got a chance to misinterpret and revise. By the same token we would, as we do now, either give faint praise or loudly find fault, which may have crippled the spirit of a tender author, whose hesitant spirit may have actually shown promise.
Some of the postings and comments that I've seen online I agree with wholeheartedly. Some just may sound good in that moment, because it was brought to mind, but nothing I would focus on.
Some is just silliness and jokes, some are good advice. But some are just racism posted safely by those too scared to express their prejudices aloud, because all in their company is mixed company, and getting blended more and more daily, including their families, and sometimes themselves. Hatred finds a place to breathe freely on line. And the fearful become courageous. So, I guess in a way the internet serves a purpose, for those basic, everyday people who every now and them need a place to blow off steam. But, others are off the charts with their vitriol. They are planners and organizers, some who have decided that by having a Black Family living in the White House must be a sign of Armageddon and they have decided to either speed it up or stop it from occurring.
The rest of the world doesn't care, or understand what the problem is within our country. Why are we still treating each other so harshly and not hearing one another? Instead of embracing hatred we should still be living in that historic/magical moment when Barack Hussein Obama, the mixed race son of a Black man born in Kenya, and a White woman from the Midwest, born in Hawaii, a former Polynesian settlement, was elected to the Presidency of the United States.
Unfortunately he ran into the same reason that has, since 1776, kept man who has identified as (colored, Negro, Black or African American) from being chosen by the people of the United States to lead our nation, on his very public agenda.
The same people whom I described above, were there in Washington D.C. in 2009, to meet him.
Surely some politicians and celebrities have several different internet persona just like the rest of us. Who knows if marriedandhappy8 isn't some closeted State Senator from Hooters-ville who doesn't want anyone to know that they are secretly plan to vote for the other political party within the privacy of the polling booth, during the nest election.And that's their right. Because voting was sacred, just like reading and getting paid fairly for your labor. It's all the same, except voting supersedes every other Right we claim as American Citizens. If not, then what does make us different, extraordinary, exceptional? In the United States, Our Vote is Our Voice. It is what makes us all equal. One citizen, one vote.
Finding ways of diminishing the voices of Natives and Africans has always been a priority of the descendants of Puritans and the indentured criminals who crawled onto inhabited land and claimed it as their own, under the authority of a monarch who was more than happy to be rid of them.
By killing and locking up our men, sexism comes shining through also. They employ us to lock up and look after these men, pay us less monies than our male counterparts, forbid us from socializing romantically with these male inmates and keep us on forced overtime, away from our families and partners. Those are some the additional hurdles that female law correction officers face. In addition, the system had been set up for years to keep women down generally, but today, a high percentage of the African American female officers feel that they may have to barter herself with a person of influence in order to carve out some time to tend to her household obligations . Others work their rolls as eye candy for the masses, which keeps her pretty sure that a response team will respond if she presses that button, and ask questions later.
Some use/ view the job as an opportunity to find "Mr.(Ms.)Right" looking high and low. Most of the African American and Latina women who work there see it as a way to expand their families and provide descent health and life insurance for themselves. Many of us are the primary breadwinners in our homes, because our men, our brothers, our fathers, our sons, if not under employed, dead or on drugs, are the inhabitants of the Prison System that is owned and or managed through 1%, of our citizen population, (and surely quite less if every human being within our shores had been counted). The rest of us fight hard to get and keep the jobs and hundreds of careers and businesses that are the supporting under structure of the prison system, from the judges to craftsmen to the catering staffs of dining halls being rented for retirement parties. Female Correction Officers Risk their lives, their reputations and their relationships EVERYDAY. Doing a job that most of the 98% would never do,or even remember is being done. Standing between calm and chaos on both sides.
In the meanwhile, the 1% get to reap all the monetary benefits of this system, from the officer's uniforms to inmate jumpsuits to federal and local subsidies. And they sit back and watch the soap opera that they have created. This time, Mammy and the Vixen are both taking care of their plantations.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Too Many Fish In The Sea
So, I've already slacked off on this Blogging thing. Mainly, its due to fatigue, combined with menopause and depression. After 23 years doing a job that I hated, I had decided to retire due to health concerns. It was that type of job that after 5 years you're vested and can collect a partial pension. After 20 years you can collect a full pension, so they got 3 extra years out of me.
Many people would kill to have that job. It almost killed me to have it.
I was never the girl who daydreamed of walking down the aisle to the arms of My Prince. I dreamed of living in Paris, writing books, plays and poetry. Or of being a politician, making a difference in the lives of my people. These were my attainable dreams. All I needed was an education. My Fantasy was to be a famous singer. I had the voice, and no stage fright. But that wasn't practical. I try to be practical. So I was satisfied singing in church when I was a teen, singing when requested by those who knew I had that talent, and karaoke when out for the evening. That, along with singing in the shower and in the car backed up with my I pod or the radio I was famous enough.
My sisters have both asked me, "when did you give up the dream?" It's not that I didn't want to be loved, or even married. But it only was a priority once, and I learned a few lessons when I followed that path. Lesson 1: Marriage is giving someone total access to everything you've earned and accomplished. It means that you really have to trust another person, not related to you by blood, with your life and livelihood. Not everyone is up to the task of trusting or being trustworthy.
Lesson 2: Love and passion are not always the things that marriages are based on. Again, its about material things. And superficial things. How one appears to society and community. Who can help you acquire the things that are supposed to make one successful. A home, children, a nice car, perhaps an investment or a business or two. The person that will make things comfortable for both of you, agreeing to share the process between you somehow. Lesson 3: God looks out for me even when I fail to look out for myself.
Most of the marriages I saw were plagued with violence and tears. I saw affection sometimes but mostly I saw people struggling to be heard and respected. Do I have to trade my voice for title? To be Mrs. Somebodies wife? To have sex and children? Not really. For security? I could provide my own financial security, present and future. Someone to grow old with? Not guaranteed.
This is not to say that I have given up on love. Quite the opposite. I just not convinced that marriage is the best place for love to survive. I root for love. I applaud those who get engaged, married and live happily ever after. Or even for a significant amount of time. Marriage takes a lot of work, patience and trust, for better or worse. But when worse comes before better gets a chance to happen, you have to cut the line and throw that shark back into the ocean.
My shark swam up from Mississippi.
I met him while I was working as a dental assistant. He was a security guard in the department store next door, and he was handsome and friendly. He had come up to New York alone, by bus, and he had 2 half sisters who lived on Long Island. He had that southern drawl that was so familiar to me, and a pair of hazel eyes that matched his smile perfectly. He could even talk with his cigarette hanging off his lip without it falling, just like my dad. He was street-smart, a quality which I grew to admire in him, because I was book smart enough for both of us. He came into the office with a swollen jaw from an abscessed tooth that could have been saved by root canal, but the expense resulted in an old fashioned extraction. I took his x-rays and set him up for the doctor to exam him.
Once the decision was made to pull the tooth, he asked that I stay and hold his hand, because despite being numbed and on nitro-oxide, he was scared to death. This was normal for many of our patients so it was no big deal to give him my hand. The tooth gave the doctor quite a hard time and it was a difficult extraction. Afterwards, I gave him the after-care instructions and made him a follow-up appointment.
It seemed like he was coming in at every couple of weeks to have another tooth pulled. My co-workers were in a conspiracy with him because he was always scheduled when I was working, and one of the dentists suggested that I go out on a date with him before he ended up toothless. Once I agreed, I don't think he ever came back for any more dental work. But he came in to see me everyday.
Finally I invited him to my place for dinner. I made lasagna and he brought over some wine or beer, I can't recall. We had a great time, laughing and talking til late into the night. He tried the rest of the night until the dawn to get me to have sex with him. When I finally gave in I could have kicked myself for wasting so many hours trying to avoid it. Such an amazing, generous lover. It was stunning!
Our relationship lasted 5 years, many ups and downs, but finally one day, he asked me to marry him, and before he had a chance to change his mind we went to the Justice of The Peace and took our vows. My mother and sisters had other things to do, but my brother, Jerryl and Aunt Ethel showed up to be our witnesses. It was a Thursday evening in October, and the Mets had won the World Series that year. He had been working for a private sanitation company and taking Commercial Driving Lessons. The plan was for him to be a truck driver which would mean that he would be on the road a lot, which was fine with me, because I would still be able to have some privacy and independence while he was away, and we thought it would keep things spicy between us if we had some time and distance between us. Our sex life was off the charts and I swore that man owned my orgasms. Life was going to be good and we were going to have the nice suburban life that most young couples on Long Island aspire to.
My neighbors came over to our place to help celebrate. He and one of the guys ran to the KFC and came back with food and drinks. After everyone left we spent our night talking, rather than consummating. I thought nothing of it, as I said we always had great sex. We both took the next day off, and spent a great weekend together at home. Monday I went to work as usual. By this time I had left the dental office and was working for a bank as a collections administrator. I had a car, so I drove myself to work and my brand new husband went off to work as usual. Things were going pretty nice at work, everyone was congratulating me and wishing me well. About two weeks later I got a phone call from his boss, asking me if I knew where he was. It seems that the sanitation truck had been abandoned on the side of the road somewhere, the keys were gone, and so was he. I had no idea what could have happened and he never came home that night.
The next day I came home to find that the apartment had been robbed and my brand new VCR had been stolen. I filed a police report and after the police left, he finally showed up. He was upset that someone had broken in, and had some suspicious tale about quitting his job in a huff, and that his boss knew exactly what had pissed him off. He had gone over to his sister's and had gotten to drinking and playing cards and passed out on her couch. He had waited until he knew I would be home to come get himself together to come home so that he could tell me about quitting his job. I was so shook up by the burglary and being worried about him that I didn't get into a fuss about him not calling and telling me that he was at his sisters'.
The following day he drove me to work so that he could use the car to go job shopping. At 5o'clock he was a no show. I caught a ride home and called a male friend to come over hook the cable up to the TV since the connection had been interrupted by the absence of the VCR. While the work was being done, in he walks, and starts carrying on like an idiot because "I had some n****r in his house!" I had never seen him at like that and couldn't believe he was ready to fight with this guy who was just doing us a favor. My friend told him that the only reason he was leaving was because legally he was my husband and that he wouldn't risk arrest fighting with him in the apartment. With an assurance that they would cross paths again, my buddy left.
Now the target of his anger was me. Never mind that he had my car and didn't pick me up from work as promised. I was going to learn what being a wife meant. He picked up a sledge hammer that I had in the kitchen and went after me with it. I dashed out of the living room and ran to the bedroom, locking the door and and pushing furniture behind it to keep him out. I screamed for help so loud and long, that later one of the women in the building told me her blood curdled. Thankfully my friend had called the police as soon as he had left and they were knocking on the door.
Mr. Street Smart refused to open the door for the police. Actually, he opened the door, but locked the screen door so that he could taunt the cops and that they could see he had no firearm. Meanwhile, I'm begging for him to stop what he was doing and let me leave. The police were telling him to let me go also, but they weren't busting down the door to save me. This went on for a while until finally he called for me to come out and go get his baby daughter out of the car. I had no idea that the little girl was in my car which he had parked directly in front of the building. To this day I don't know why he decided to give me that way out, but I was able to walk right pass him to the car. I opened the door and woke up the child who had been sleeping peacefully on the back seat. I woke her up and gently directed her to the door towards her father. And I stayed outside with the police. He became irate. But not irate enough to come out after me. He passed insults back and forth with the police who were fed up with his antics. They gave me a police report with their assurances that if they EVER got a call from to this address with anything involving him and me, they wouldn't respond, and I believed them.
My purse and house keys were still in the apartment and he wasn't going to pass them out to me. I only had the key to the car. After the cops and the neighbors left, I was alone. My neighbor, Mary, who had been with us just a few evenings back to toast our nuptials, and had left her own husband after years of physical abuse, refused to let me sleep on her couch, because she didn't want to be perceived as taking sides later when things between he and I calmed down. I was more hurt than angry with her. And I let her know right then, that I was not going to be her or any of those women that I had watched get their asses kicked every weekend just to continue staying with an abusive husband. Not me. I wasn't going to live hiding busted lips and blackened eyes.
She told me that I was talking crazy and that if I had good sense I would go back to the door and beg his forgiveness for inviting my friend over to fix the TV. She told me that his reaction was to be expected, and that since I'm a married woman now, I couldn't do things that I would normally do where male friends were concerned. I thanked her for nothing. I spent the night in my car.
The next day was some holiday that called for the courts to be closed. Katie, in the next building let me into her place to call my mother and tell her what had happened. My mom didn't even let me get past "hey mommy" before she started to question me about having a man in the apartment when my husband wasn't home. She didn't ask if I was okay, if he had hit me, nothing about me, her child. Apparently he had called her to get his side of the story in first. I couldn't even get a word in edgewise. I slammed the phone down, crying hysterically. Katie poured me a cup of tea, and handed me some tissue to blow my nose and wipe my tears. She sympathized with me, and understood that I was innocent. She also explained to me that the reason she hadn't come over to visit with me since the marriage is that "single women don't have no business hanging out in the homes of married women, especially when their husbands are at home." This was a foreign concept to me, for many reasons. I guessed it made sense in a way, but I had never thought about it before. When I told her what Mary had done, Katie just shook her head. She walked with me back to my place. He was gone but the door was locked. At least he hadn't taken the car, but my purse was still inside the apartment. I hoped.
The next morning I was at the courthouse as soon as the doors opened. I was granted an order of protection and told to have the police accompany me to have him put out. That was the first time I ever signed my married name to anything. I went to the police station and lo and behold, the same officers were on duty. They were more that happy to proceed with the court order. By the time we got there, Mr. Street Smart was home alone, and not too pleased to see the officers again. He protested that he was my husband and that he had a right to remain, even though his name wasn't on the lease and he had nothing to prove that we were married. He went searching for our marriage license which had only arrived a day or two before the explosion, but he couldn't find it. The police told him that he could explain that to the judge if he wanted to go up to the court, but for now, he and his toothbrush were leaving. If he needed to come back for anything else, he was to call the precinct for an escort. He left with them, leaving his keys, putting on his charming smile, and feigning amazement that I would deny even being married to him. I was relieved to have him gone, locked the door and located my purse, which was bereft of cash, but my ID, keys,wallet and lip gloss were still inside.
About 45 minutes later, I heard a voice outside of the door, calling his name, asking him where he was headed. Apparently the police had remained close by because they expected him to return. He joked his way out being arrested and left.
The next time I saw him was a few weeks later, on Thanksgiving morning. He stood outside of the bedroom window, calling my name, which woke me up. I looked out of the closed window and asked him what he wanted. He said it was Thanksgiving and that he expected that I would have been up getting the turkey ready, as I had always done. I asked him what he think I would have to be grateful for. He said he was sorry, and if I wasn't cooking, why not go with him to his sister's house for dinner. I refused and wouldn't let him in. He didn't look well. His skin looked gray and he had lost a lot of weight. He hadn't shaved in days and he was holding a brown bag with what was probably a beer inside, by the neck. I told him to go away and stay away. He left. I cried the rest of the day.
Within a month I was able to I change residences. My job changed locations and my car finally died. I rented a car for about a month and was able to buy a used Camaro at a great price. The only thing that remained the same was my phone number. I hadn't heard from him for quite a while, when I got a call in the middle of the night. It was him, crying and begging me to meet him at a motel he was staying at. He was homeless and in the shelter system. He confessed that he had gotten into crack, it had started the night of the marriage, when he had gone to pick up the food, the guy he had gone to the KFC with had bought some and shared it with him. And it just was downhill from there. He had been the one who had stolen the VCR and made it look like a robbery. He wanted me to help him. He wanted me to remember that we had exchanged vows, to death do us part. He wanted to make love to me again. He sounded so broken, so desperate, so lost. My heart broke as I told this man, who I had loved so hard, for so long, that I wouldn't come to him or tell him where I was. We both cried to each other, such pain it was almost suffocating us both. But I stayed firm and said goodbye. It was over. It had to be.
Because we had married at the JP I couldn't get an annulment. I had to wait a calender year to be granted a divorce, but I filed the papers as soon as I could. The fat lustful attorney misquoted me a low figure, so it was affordable, but I had to locate him to get the papers served. Neither of his sisters would co-operate, they wanted me to take him back. So, I decided to file a missing person report on him. This way, if he got into any trouble, the police would call me. And of course that's what happened. He tried to steal some steaks out of the supermarket and got caught. Some police officer was doing his job and called me. But I had to move quickly because some woman who claimed she was his wife was coming down to bail him out. I called the attorney and he met me at the precinct a few towns over. Whoever paid the bail made themselves scarce when the cops let them know that I was on my way. He waited for me, pissed off that I had reported him missing. And I let him know that as long as I was his wife I would keep putting in missing person reports on him unless he signed the papers of divorcement. He had the nerve to ask me if I was going to sue him for alimony. I laughed and informed him that all I wanted was my name back. He signed the forms and handed them to my attorney and then asked me for $10.00 so that he could get something to eat. I looked at this man who had once been so gorgeous, whose skin was now gray and whose hazel eyes were bloodshot and asked him how he had gotten that knot on the front of his forehead. He told me a spider had bitten him. The desk officer chimed in that he had been living a stairwell in an notorious apartment building in a drug infested part of town.
I told him to get $10.00 from whomever it was that had bailed him out. I watched him walk down the street, looking like Skeletoid, with his copies of the papers sticking out of the back pocket of the dusty jeans.
I never saw him again.
Many people would kill to have that job. It almost killed me to have it.
I was never the girl who daydreamed of walking down the aisle to the arms of My Prince. I dreamed of living in Paris, writing books, plays and poetry. Or of being a politician, making a difference in the lives of my people. These were my attainable dreams. All I needed was an education. My Fantasy was to be a famous singer. I had the voice, and no stage fright. But that wasn't practical. I try to be practical. So I was satisfied singing in church when I was a teen, singing when requested by those who knew I had that talent, and karaoke when out for the evening. That, along with singing in the shower and in the car backed up with my I pod or the radio I was famous enough.
My sisters have both asked me, "when did you give up the dream?" It's not that I didn't want to be loved, or even married. But it only was a priority once, and I learned a few lessons when I followed that path. Lesson 1: Marriage is giving someone total access to everything you've earned and accomplished. It means that you really have to trust another person, not related to you by blood, with your life and livelihood. Not everyone is up to the task of trusting or being trustworthy.
Lesson 2: Love and passion are not always the things that marriages are based on. Again, its about material things. And superficial things. How one appears to society and community. Who can help you acquire the things that are supposed to make one successful. A home, children, a nice car, perhaps an investment or a business or two. The person that will make things comfortable for both of you, agreeing to share the process between you somehow. Lesson 3: God looks out for me even when I fail to look out for myself.
Most of the marriages I saw were plagued with violence and tears. I saw affection sometimes but mostly I saw people struggling to be heard and respected. Do I have to trade my voice for title? To be Mrs. Somebodies wife? To have sex and children? Not really. For security? I could provide my own financial security, present and future. Someone to grow old with? Not guaranteed.
This is not to say that I have given up on love. Quite the opposite. I just not convinced that marriage is the best place for love to survive. I root for love. I applaud those who get engaged, married and live happily ever after. Or even for a significant amount of time. Marriage takes a lot of work, patience and trust, for better or worse. But when worse comes before better gets a chance to happen, you have to cut the line and throw that shark back into the ocean.
My shark swam up from Mississippi.
I met him while I was working as a dental assistant. He was a security guard in the department store next door, and he was handsome and friendly. He had come up to New York alone, by bus, and he had 2 half sisters who lived on Long Island. He had that southern drawl that was so familiar to me, and a pair of hazel eyes that matched his smile perfectly. He could even talk with his cigarette hanging off his lip without it falling, just like my dad. He was street-smart, a quality which I grew to admire in him, because I was book smart enough for both of us. He came into the office with a swollen jaw from an abscessed tooth that could have been saved by root canal, but the expense resulted in an old fashioned extraction. I took his x-rays and set him up for the doctor to exam him.
Once the decision was made to pull the tooth, he asked that I stay and hold his hand, because despite being numbed and on nitro-oxide, he was scared to death. This was normal for many of our patients so it was no big deal to give him my hand. The tooth gave the doctor quite a hard time and it was a difficult extraction. Afterwards, I gave him the after-care instructions and made him a follow-up appointment.
It seemed like he was coming in at every couple of weeks to have another tooth pulled. My co-workers were in a conspiracy with him because he was always scheduled when I was working, and one of the dentists suggested that I go out on a date with him before he ended up toothless. Once I agreed, I don't think he ever came back for any more dental work. But he came in to see me everyday.
Finally I invited him to my place for dinner. I made lasagna and he brought over some wine or beer, I can't recall. We had a great time, laughing and talking til late into the night. He tried the rest of the night until the dawn to get me to have sex with him. When I finally gave in I could have kicked myself for wasting so many hours trying to avoid it. Such an amazing, generous lover. It was stunning!
Our relationship lasted 5 years, many ups and downs, but finally one day, he asked me to marry him, and before he had a chance to change his mind we went to the Justice of The Peace and took our vows. My mother and sisters had other things to do, but my brother, Jerryl and Aunt Ethel showed up to be our witnesses. It was a Thursday evening in October, and the Mets had won the World Series that year. He had been working for a private sanitation company and taking Commercial Driving Lessons. The plan was for him to be a truck driver which would mean that he would be on the road a lot, which was fine with me, because I would still be able to have some privacy and independence while he was away, and we thought it would keep things spicy between us if we had some time and distance between us. Our sex life was off the charts and I swore that man owned my orgasms. Life was going to be good and we were going to have the nice suburban life that most young couples on Long Island aspire to.
My neighbors came over to our place to help celebrate. He and one of the guys ran to the KFC and came back with food and drinks. After everyone left we spent our night talking, rather than consummating. I thought nothing of it, as I said we always had great sex. We both took the next day off, and spent a great weekend together at home. Monday I went to work as usual. By this time I had left the dental office and was working for a bank as a collections administrator. I had a car, so I drove myself to work and my brand new husband went off to work as usual. Things were going pretty nice at work, everyone was congratulating me and wishing me well. About two weeks later I got a phone call from his boss, asking me if I knew where he was. It seems that the sanitation truck had been abandoned on the side of the road somewhere, the keys were gone, and so was he. I had no idea what could have happened and he never came home that night.
The next day I came home to find that the apartment had been robbed and my brand new VCR had been stolen. I filed a police report and after the police left, he finally showed up. He was upset that someone had broken in, and had some suspicious tale about quitting his job in a huff, and that his boss knew exactly what had pissed him off. He had gone over to his sister's and had gotten to drinking and playing cards and passed out on her couch. He had waited until he knew I would be home to come get himself together to come home so that he could tell me about quitting his job. I was so shook up by the burglary and being worried about him that I didn't get into a fuss about him not calling and telling me that he was at his sisters'.
The following day he drove me to work so that he could use the car to go job shopping. At 5o'clock he was a no show. I caught a ride home and called a male friend to come over hook the cable up to the TV since the connection had been interrupted by the absence of the VCR. While the work was being done, in he walks, and starts carrying on like an idiot because "I had some n****r in his house!" I had never seen him at like that and couldn't believe he was ready to fight with this guy who was just doing us a favor. My friend told him that the only reason he was leaving was because legally he was my husband and that he wouldn't risk arrest fighting with him in the apartment. With an assurance that they would cross paths again, my buddy left.
Now the target of his anger was me. Never mind that he had my car and didn't pick me up from work as promised. I was going to learn what being a wife meant. He picked up a sledge hammer that I had in the kitchen and went after me with it. I dashed out of the living room and ran to the bedroom, locking the door and and pushing furniture behind it to keep him out. I screamed for help so loud and long, that later one of the women in the building told me her blood curdled. Thankfully my friend had called the police as soon as he had left and they were knocking on the door.
Mr. Street Smart refused to open the door for the police. Actually, he opened the door, but locked the screen door so that he could taunt the cops and that they could see he had no firearm. Meanwhile, I'm begging for him to stop what he was doing and let me leave. The police were telling him to let me go also, but they weren't busting down the door to save me. This went on for a while until finally he called for me to come out and go get his baby daughter out of the car. I had no idea that the little girl was in my car which he had parked directly in front of the building. To this day I don't know why he decided to give me that way out, but I was able to walk right pass him to the car. I opened the door and woke up the child who had been sleeping peacefully on the back seat. I woke her up and gently directed her to the door towards her father. And I stayed outside with the police. He became irate. But not irate enough to come out after me. He passed insults back and forth with the police who were fed up with his antics. They gave me a police report with their assurances that if they EVER got a call from to this address with anything involving him and me, they wouldn't respond, and I believed them.
My purse and house keys were still in the apartment and he wasn't going to pass them out to me. I only had the key to the car. After the cops and the neighbors left, I was alone. My neighbor, Mary, who had been with us just a few evenings back to toast our nuptials, and had left her own husband after years of physical abuse, refused to let me sleep on her couch, because she didn't want to be perceived as taking sides later when things between he and I calmed down. I was more hurt than angry with her. And I let her know right then, that I was not going to be her or any of those women that I had watched get their asses kicked every weekend just to continue staying with an abusive husband. Not me. I wasn't going to live hiding busted lips and blackened eyes.
She told me that I was talking crazy and that if I had good sense I would go back to the door and beg his forgiveness for inviting my friend over to fix the TV. She told me that his reaction was to be expected, and that since I'm a married woman now, I couldn't do things that I would normally do where male friends were concerned. I thanked her for nothing. I spent the night in my car.
The next day was some holiday that called for the courts to be closed. Katie, in the next building let me into her place to call my mother and tell her what had happened. My mom didn't even let me get past "hey mommy" before she started to question me about having a man in the apartment when my husband wasn't home. She didn't ask if I was okay, if he had hit me, nothing about me, her child. Apparently he had called her to get his side of the story in first. I couldn't even get a word in edgewise. I slammed the phone down, crying hysterically. Katie poured me a cup of tea, and handed me some tissue to blow my nose and wipe my tears. She sympathized with me, and understood that I was innocent. She also explained to me that the reason she hadn't come over to visit with me since the marriage is that "single women don't have no business hanging out in the homes of married women, especially when their husbands are at home." This was a foreign concept to me, for many reasons. I guessed it made sense in a way, but I had never thought about it before. When I told her what Mary had done, Katie just shook her head. She walked with me back to my place. He was gone but the door was locked. At least he hadn't taken the car, but my purse was still inside the apartment. I hoped.
The next morning I was at the courthouse as soon as the doors opened. I was granted an order of protection and told to have the police accompany me to have him put out. That was the first time I ever signed my married name to anything. I went to the police station and lo and behold, the same officers were on duty. They were more that happy to proceed with the court order. By the time we got there, Mr. Street Smart was home alone, and not too pleased to see the officers again. He protested that he was my husband and that he had a right to remain, even though his name wasn't on the lease and he had nothing to prove that we were married. He went searching for our marriage license which had only arrived a day or two before the explosion, but he couldn't find it. The police told him that he could explain that to the judge if he wanted to go up to the court, but for now, he and his toothbrush were leaving. If he needed to come back for anything else, he was to call the precinct for an escort. He left with them, leaving his keys, putting on his charming smile, and feigning amazement that I would deny even being married to him. I was relieved to have him gone, locked the door and located my purse, which was bereft of cash, but my ID, keys,wallet and lip gloss were still inside.
About 45 minutes later, I heard a voice outside of the door, calling his name, asking him where he was headed. Apparently the police had remained close by because they expected him to return. He joked his way out being arrested and left.
The next time I saw him was a few weeks later, on Thanksgiving morning. He stood outside of the bedroom window, calling my name, which woke me up. I looked out of the closed window and asked him what he wanted. He said it was Thanksgiving and that he expected that I would have been up getting the turkey ready, as I had always done. I asked him what he think I would have to be grateful for. He said he was sorry, and if I wasn't cooking, why not go with him to his sister's house for dinner. I refused and wouldn't let him in. He didn't look well. His skin looked gray and he had lost a lot of weight. He hadn't shaved in days and he was holding a brown bag with what was probably a beer inside, by the neck. I told him to go away and stay away. He left. I cried the rest of the day.
Within a month I was able to I change residences. My job changed locations and my car finally died. I rented a car for about a month and was able to buy a used Camaro at a great price. The only thing that remained the same was my phone number. I hadn't heard from him for quite a while, when I got a call in the middle of the night. It was him, crying and begging me to meet him at a motel he was staying at. He was homeless and in the shelter system. He confessed that he had gotten into crack, it had started the night of the marriage, when he had gone to pick up the food, the guy he had gone to the KFC with had bought some and shared it with him. And it just was downhill from there. He had been the one who had stolen the VCR and made it look like a robbery. He wanted me to help him. He wanted me to remember that we had exchanged vows, to death do us part. He wanted to make love to me again. He sounded so broken, so desperate, so lost. My heart broke as I told this man, who I had loved so hard, for so long, that I wouldn't come to him or tell him where I was. We both cried to each other, such pain it was almost suffocating us both. But I stayed firm and said goodbye. It was over. It had to be.
Because we had married at the JP I couldn't get an annulment. I had to wait a calender year to be granted a divorce, but I filed the papers as soon as I could. The fat lustful attorney misquoted me a low figure, so it was affordable, but I had to locate him to get the papers served. Neither of his sisters would co-operate, they wanted me to take him back. So, I decided to file a missing person report on him. This way, if he got into any trouble, the police would call me. And of course that's what happened. He tried to steal some steaks out of the supermarket and got caught. Some police officer was doing his job and called me. But I had to move quickly because some woman who claimed she was his wife was coming down to bail him out. I called the attorney and he met me at the precinct a few towns over. Whoever paid the bail made themselves scarce when the cops let them know that I was on my way. He waited for me, pissed off that I had reported him missing. And I let him know that as long as I was his wife I would keep putting in missing person reports on him unless he signed the papers of divorcement. He had the nerve to ask me if I was going to sue him for alimony. I laughed and informed him that all I wanted was my name back. He signed the forms and handed them to my attorney and then asked me for $10.00 so that he could get something to eat. I looked at this man who had once been so gorgeous, whose skin was now gray and whose hazel eyes were bloodshot and asked him how he had gotten that knot on the front of his forehead. He told me a spider had bitten him. The desk officer chimed in that he had been living a stairwell in an notorious apartment building in a drug infested part of town.
I told him to get $10.00 from whomever it was that had bailed him out. I watched him walk down the street, looking like Skeletoid, with his copies of the papers sticking out of the back pocket of the dusty jeans.
I never saw him again.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
A Lighter Sentence
So I checked the e harmony account this afternoon. I got caught up in my online games last night and decided to wait a while more. Both of the guys I messaged checked my profile, but left no responses.
I went through some more of the over 800 questions posed by the service. I'm being a little lazy I guess, but I think it's best to take my time. Some answers need elaboration so perhaps I'll go back and clarify a few.
For some reason I woke up fairly early and had a bit of energy so I did some surface clearing, swept the floor and baked some bread pudding. "Meet the Press" with David Gregory is just pissing me off these days. I miss Tim Russet. I'm very into politics and am very Liberal. I vote in every election and I keep up with whats happening politically. MSNBC is the source for me with a little C-SPAN every now and then.
My earliest memories of my Daddy and I are me laying on the carpet while he sat in his big chair in our apartment in the Bronx, watching the Sunday morning news shows, like "Face the Nation" and "Meet the Press". My dad was into politics and baseball, the Mets of course. He talked to me about the Civil Rights Movement and growing up as an orphan in Jacksonville, Florida in the 1920s.
My father's parents had both passed away by the time he was three. His mother, Agnes Adams was a short dark complexioned woman, who died while giving childbirth to a baby right after having my dad. The doctor had warned her not to have anymore babies, telling her to tell my grandfather to "sleep on the roof". It didn't work. So she left her husband with 11 children to raise.
My Grandfather, John Barton was a tall, slender Native American. His trade was construction, and my understanding was that he was pretty well set and even owned some land. There are no photographs of my grandparents, that I know of. My grandfather died of a heart attack after finding out that one of his sons, Jeffrey had been lynched.
My father, Webster and his sister, Ethel, who was about 5yrs old at the time, went to live with their eldest Sister, Elizabeth, her husband Charles, and their children. Uncle Charles was reportedly pretty unwelcoming to his little in-laws. The rule was that he and his children ate first, and once they were satisfied, whatever was leftover would be fed to Ethel and my dad, whom they nicknamed "Buster".
My father often cried when he complained about the harsh treatment he experienced living in Charles Long's home. One story was that Charles ran over Daddy's new bicycle with his car, when one of Charles' kids tripped over it.
Buster and Ethel were too young to have many memories of their parents or their lives before going to live with Elizabeth. My father couldn't say "sister" so he called Elizabeth "Tata". The nickname stuck and she was my Aunt Tata, all my life. Oddly, I recall that Daddy would call her "mama" when he spoke to her on the phone or in person. He knew that she was his sister, but she was the only mother he remembered. And she loved him like a son. As well she could. But she couldn't and wouldn't stand up to her husband. Ever.
A Census microfilm that I found listed my father and aunt as living with Charles and Elizabeth as brother and sister in law. The next Census indicated that Ethel had moved down the street and was employed as a housekeeper for some neighbors. She was still a little girl.
Other siblings of my father also living in Jacksonville but they weren't part of the Long household. His older sister, Maria, was a chef for a ship's Captain. She was an excellent cook and very meticulous about setting tables, and serving several courses, even for everyday meals. She had her own life, including a son, Kenneth, who was born deaf, and had been married at some point, to Mr. Cooper, who seems to have been a very dapper man. I never knew if he had died or if they divorced. She never spoke of him in anything but glowing terms, and kept a picture of the two of them on her vanity.
Dad grew up and married a childhood friend, Theora. They had a son, Webster Jr, whom they called "Butch". At some point, Daddy enlisted in the Army. He was honorably discharged at the rank of E7, and returned to Jacksonville to make a home for his family. That's when hell broke loose.
Theora, as I said, had grownup with the family and considered her sister-in-laws to be her friends. During the time Daddy was away, Theora hung out and partied with her friends, which included my aunts. She took up with some man, and they knew all about it, but it wasn't an issue between them. Until Daddy came home. Reportedly, my aunts , with rapid speed, told my father all about Theora's infidelity, which enraged him so that he got a gun and shot Theora and her lover, resulting in her confinement to a wheelchair and her boyfriend's death. Some quick talking and money exchanging by Aunt Ethel saved my father from the electric chair and banished him to New York City. It was a debt that she never let him forget.
I went through some more of the over 800 questions posed by the service. I'm being a little lazy I guess, but I think it's best to take my time. Some answers need elaboration so perhaps I'll go back and clarify a few.
For some reason I woke up fairly early and had a bit of energy so I did some surface clearing, swept the floor and baked some bread pudding. "Meet the Press" with David Gregory is just pissing me off these days. I miss Tim Russet. I'm very into politics and am very Liberal. I vote in every election and I keep up with whats happening politically. MSNBC is the source for me with a little C-SPAN every now and then.
My earliest memories of my Daddy and I are me laying on the carpet while he sat in his big chair in our apartment in the Bronx, watching the Sunday morning news shows, like "Face the Nation" and "Meet the Press". My dad was into politics and baseball, the Mets of course. He talked to me about the Civil Rights Movement and growing up as an orphan in Jacksonville, Florida in the 1920s.
My father's parents had both passed away by the time he was three. His mother, Agnes Adams was a short dark complexioned woman, who died while giving childbirth to a baby right after having my dad. The doctor had warned her not to have anymore babies, telling her to tell my grandfather to "sleep on the roof". It didn't work. So she left her husband with 11 children to raise.
My Grandfather, John Barton was a tall, slender Native American. His trade was construction, and my understanding was that he was pretty well set and even owned some land. There are no photographs of my grandparents, that I know of. My grandfather died of a heart attack after finding out that one of his sons, Jeffrey had been lynched.
My father, Webster and his sister, Ethel, who was about 5yrs old at the time, went to live with their eldest Sister, Elizabeth, her husband Charles, and their children. Uncle Charles was reportedly pretty unwelcoming to his little in-laws. The rule was that he and his children ate first, and once they were satisfied, whatever was leftover would be fed to Ethel and my dad, whom they nicknamed "Buster".
My father often cried when he complained about the harsh treatment he experienced living in Charles Long's home. One story was that Charles ran over Daddy's new bicycle with his car, when one of Charles' kids tripped over it.
Buster and Ethel were too young to have many memories of their parents or their lives before going to live with Elizabeth. My father couldn't say "sister" so he called Elizabeth "Tata". The nickname stuck and she was my Aunt Tata, all my life. Oddly, I recall that Daddy would call her "mama" when he spoke to her on the phone or in person. He knew that she was his sister, but she was the only mother he remembered. And she loved him like a son. As well she could. But she couldn't and wouldn't stand up to her husband. Ever.
A Census microfilm that I found listed my father and aunt as living with Charles and Elizabeth as brother and sister in law. The next Census indicated that Ethel had moved down the street and was employed as a housekeeper for some neighbors. She was still a little girl.
Other siblings of my father also living in Jacksonville but they weren't part of the Long household. His older sister, Maria, was a chef for a ship's Captain. She was an excellent cook and very meticulous about setting tables, and serving several courses, even for everyday meals. She had her own life, including a son, Kenneth, who was born deaf, and had been married at some point, to Mr. Cooper, who seems to have been a very dapper man. I never knew if he had died or if they divorced. She never spoke of him in anything but glowing terms, and kept a picture of the two of them on her vanity.
Dad grew up and married a childhood friend, Theora. They had a son, Webster Jr, whom they called "Butch". At some point, Daddy enlisted in the Army. He was honorably discharged at the rank of E7, and returned to Jacksonville to make a home for his family. That's when hell broke loose.
Theora, as I said, had grownup with the family and considered her sister-in-laws to be her friends. During the time Daddy was away, Theora hung out and partied with her friends, which included my aunts. She took up with some man, and they knew all about it, but it wasn't an issue between them. Until Daddy came home. Reportedly, my aunts , with rapid speed, told my father all about Theora's infidelity, which enraged him so that he got a gun and shot Theora and her lover, resulting in her confinement to a wheelchair and her boyfriend's death. Some quick talking and money exchanging by Aunt Ethel saved my father from the electric chair and banished him to New York City. It was a debt that she never let him forget.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
On a Mission
So, I'm making steps to expand my horizons and choices this week. At my age, a girl has got to try to live a little. Also, I deserve one more chance at finding my soul mate. The last few have been sorely lacking....But I digress.
I ordered a cheap treadmill from Amazon.com (no sense in wasting much needed funds yet). It can hold 250lbs and I'm down to 195. I'm 5'9 so I carry pretty well. Most of it is in my bra, not in my pants, but that's heredity. My grandmother didn't leave me money, but she left me a way to attract a man with some if needed. It also attracts broke asses. She didn't leave any instructions.
The plan is to start walking and the theory in my optimistic is that if I make walking as convenient as I can, I will do it. Walking should create some adrenalin within my system and also help strengthen my legs. I had a fall in July, and I wasn't able to get as much psychical therapy as was proscribed, so my ligaments are still a bit weak. besides trying to do my foot excersizes at home, I don't get what I should be getting. And I'm concerned for myself.
Next step is signing up for E@Harmony. com.
I did that yesterday. I bought the basic package andI have no intention of renewing. I'm giving it 6 months. However it goes.
I haven't signed back on to check it yet. I didn't want to look too desperate. Because I'm not. I'm just fed up. Boys are not a problem. I'd like to meet a man.
Last, I've got a lot on my heart and I want no more of our family story to be lost. So, I'm gonna try to blog faithfully. As much as I love to express myself, I'm no typist. And I can't write on a lap stop for some reason, I hate them. But I do okay on my I Pad and my Android phone. I have a bit of an electronics Jones, but I'm not over the top. I guess I'm more of a gadget person. That's it. Electronics sounds like mathematics, and that's never been my strong suit.
I'm not sure what happens when you blog. Do people read it as you go along and make commentary? Is there an option to limit your audiences?
If I have to get comments, do to respond, or just keep free flowing without divergence. I guess I will find out shortly. But I had to get started when the Spirit got moving, because I got to try to tell it and tomorrow isn't promised. Even if I don't finish, I know that I tried. and so will my family.
I will try very hard to keep this promise to myself. I've attempted it before. Perhaps then it wasn't time and I had no time. There's a part of it out there in cyberspace, and I expect one day I'll have a genius moment and remember the name of the site. Or the name of the blog. It has family pictures uploaded to it and a few of the stories I want to share. So, if I don't someone of them will find it after I'm gone, so some of it will survive. They'll just have to work for it.
I'm thinking this blog can be shared with them at some point.
I'm going to head over and see what responses I've gotten. Not expecting much. I've only chosen two guys and there's no guarantee that they are available or if they've even logged on.
I also plan on blogging about this adventure. Just in case the FBI has to be called in, they'll know where to begin the search. Well, one of the places...
I ordered a cheap treadmill from Amazon.com (no sense in wasting much needed funds yet). It can hold 250lbs and I'm down to 195. I'm 5'9 so I carry pretty well. Most of it is in my bra, not in my pants, but that's heredity. My grandmother didn't leave me money, but she left me a way to attract a man with some if needed. It also attracts broke asses. She didn't leave any instructions.
The plan is to start walking and the theory in my optimistic is that if I make walking as convenient as I can, I will do it. Walking should create some adrenalin within my system and also help strengthen my legs. I had a fall in July, and I wasn't able to get as much psychical therapy as was proscribed, so my ligaments are still a bit weak. besides trying to do my foot excersizes at home, I don't get what I should be getting. And I'm concerned for myself.
Next step is signing up for E@Harmony. com.
I did that yesterday. I bought the basic package andI have no intention of renewing. I'm giving it 6 months. However it goes.
I haven't signed back on to check it yet. I didn't want to look too desperate. Because I'm not. I'm just fed up. Boys are not a problem. I'd like to meet a man.
Last, I've got a lot on my heart and I want no more of our family story to be lost. So, I'm gonna try to blog faithfully. As much as I love to express myself, I'm no typist. And I can't write on a lap stop for some reason, I hate them. But I do okay on my I Pad and my Android phone. I have a bit of an electronics Jones, but I'm not over the top. I guess I'm more of a gadget person. That's it. Electronics sounds like mathematics, and that's never been my strong suit.
I'm not sure what happens when you blog. Do people read it as you go along and make commentary? Is there an option to limit your audiences?
If I have to get comments, do to respond, or just keep free flowing without divergence. I guess I will find out shortly. But I had to get started when the Spirit got moving, because I got to try to tell it and tomorrow isn't promised. Even if I don't finish, I know that I tried. and so will my family.
I will try very hard to keep this promise to myself. I've attempted it before. Perhaps then it wasn't time and I had no time. There's a part of it out there in cyberspace, and I expect one day I'll have a genius moment and remember the name of the site. Or the name of the blog. It has family pictures uploaded to it and a few of the stories I want to share. So, if I don't someone of them will find it after I'm gone, so some of it will survive. They'll just have to work for it.
I'm thinking this blog can be shared with them at some point.
I'm going to head over and see what responses I've gotten. Not expecting much. I've only chosen two guys and there's no guarantee that they are available or if they've even logged on.
I also plan on blogging about this adventure. Just in case the FBI has to be called in, they'll know where to begin the search. Well, one of the places...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)