It’s not yet 8:00 in the morning and we are once again caught in the slow, crawling processional of cars inching toward the school.
My daughter tells me that she likes the house next to us. We spend several minutes each morning more or less parked in front of this house, as well as a few others. I ask her why she likes this particular one so much.
“It has thick green grass, pretty flowers and decorations, a swing that the leaves have been dusted out of. I like the faded color of the bricks. It’s well taken care of and I want to acknowledge it.”
I raise my brow, thoroughly impressed with that last sentence.
She notices my surprise and says “Oh yes. I know lots of big words.”
“I have a large vocabulary.” she adds with a slight raise of the nose and turn of the head.
Indeed.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Away
Our things were moved into our house this week. (Yay!) I'll be spending the next few weeks -or months -cleaning, unpacking, & painting. (Ugh!)
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Lamentation
It strikes me every day.
Every day in a different way.
I’m old; older.
I’m at the place where I no longer know the person looking back at me in the mirror.
She’s a stranger.
Yet when I’m with my grandmother & father, I still have the familiar place. The granddaughter, daughter place. The young girl place. I think of my age and I feel immature. I haven’t grown up yet. I feel embarrassed. I’m a fraud.
I remember the person in the mirror. Who is she?
Brown spots, wrinkles, moles, a hair on the chin.
She is one of the blank faces. One of the people never noticed by the young.
When did this happen? When did my body abandon me?
I still feel like the young girl with the big eyes & long curly hair.
It seems there is nothing I can do to see her again. The one I know. The one that I am. The one that I feel inside.
No out-fit, no hair-do, no make-up, no microderm or chemical peel, no surgery has brought her back.
She’s gone.
I miss her.
Every day in a different way.
I’m old; older.
I’m at the place where I no longer know the person looking back at me in the mirror.
She’s a stranger.
Yet when I’m with my grandmother & father, I still have the familiar place. The granddaughter, daughter place. The young girl place. I think of my age and I feel immature. I haven’t grown up yet. I feel embarrassed. I’m a fraud.
I remember the person in the mirror. Who is she?
Brown spots, wrinkles, moles, a hair on the chin.
She is one of the blank faces. One of the people never noticed by the young.
When did this happen? When did my body abandon me?
I still feel like the young girl with the big eyes & long curly hair.
It seems there is nothing I can do to see her again. The one I know. The one that I am. The one that I feel inside.
No out-fit, no hair-do, no make-up, no microderm or chemical peel, no surgery has brought her back.
She’s gone.
I miss her.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Straight (Part 4)
In the afternoon the girls and boys are separated into different places.
This is the time to “share” sex stories.
One of the groups will go into the “carpet room.” This is a long narrow room with no chairs. There is a dirty, worn, cheap carpet covering the concrete floor. In one corner sits the luggage of those who will be sent to a different home that night. (The luggage awaits a thorough search for contraband or rule violations.) A girl and a chair stand guard at each of the three steel doors leading to the outside world.
Today we are in the carpet room. We are sitting on the floor in small rows with our legs crossed singing preschool songs complete with arm motions.
“If I had a ham-mer, I’d hammer in the mor-or-nin’
I’d hammer in the eve-nin’
all over this la-and”
We are awaiting “Girls Rap”.
Lyn stands up. She is from Alabama. She is here with her twin sister, Kay. She is the weaker of the two. She is sickly and small and tearful. “My stepfather would come into my room at night and I would lie there while he fingered me. I’m so angry at him....”
The hands start flying. Before she can finish the staff begins calling names. They jump up one after another.
“What were you doing to make him do that?”
“You are the druggie. You can’t blame your problems on your stepfather or anyone else.”
“You probably wore makeup and tight clothes and flirted with him.”
“We care about you. We’re not going to let you slide by. You have to take responsibility for what you did.”
Lyn is feeble. She cries. She’s “sat down”. She is a puddle of weepy mess.
I stand up and say “I was so horrible. I was such a slut that I almost had sex with a boy but he couldn’t get it to fit inside me. I was that close to having sex. I was a such a nasty slut. I’m so fortunate my parents cared enough about me to put me here. Or I’d be out on the streets shooting up in a gutter or in prison by now.” I plop back down on the carpeted concrete floor. The group shouts “Love ya, Becca!”
I’ve done well. I’ve humiliated myself. I’ve taken another chip at my already fragile self-esteem, my self-respect, my spirit.
Eventually it will crumble.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My First
I was sitting in the front row of the small plane with my daughter. She slept.
We were on our way to my brother’s funeral.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. No sobs, no sniffles, no snot. Just a steady stream of tears.
My brother had been a drag queen, aka Letha Weapons, and performed a couple of nights a week at local bars. He died in a car accident one morning in a heavy downpour.
I pictured his broken body being taken to the hospital on a stretcher underneath a clean white sheet.
I remembered seeing a movie with him during my last visit. I didn’t sit next to him. It was just the two of us, but I kept the seat between us empty. When we left, I walked slightly ahead of him.
He was large & had blue hair & no eyebrows. I was embarrassed.
I’m sorry for it now. I’ll never forget it.
At the funeral home I paused before opening the door. I expected to face something similar to the waiting room of a parole office -lots of junkies, freaks, bums.
Instead, I stood there stunned for a moment. The place was crowded. Packed. I had no idea my brother had so many nice friends.
It felt good to me. I enjoyed them; all of them.
I remembered that he had told me he had great friends -”the best in the world” -and I hadn’t believed him.
My dad, who wouldn’t even look at my brother when he was dressed “in that mess”, had placed large pictures of him in drag beside his casket. Now my dad embraced my brother fully.
The preacher was a disappointment. We all told him: No Preaching. He did it anyway. He spoke about answering the call, getting right with God, because you never know when you’re going to die, just as my gay brother hadn’t expected to die that morning on his way to work.
Afterward, my sister took me to see the crumpled heap in which my brother spent his last moments on earth. I pulled a cassette tape from the stereo. Cher. He must have been listening to this when it happened.
When I returned home, I played this tape often. I wondered which song was his favorite, which song was playing as he was spinning out of control and bouncing off of trucks that rainy morning in May.
I had grown up in a funeral home, but I’d never been to a funeral, never been the one doing the grieving.
This was my first.
We were on our way to my brother’s funeral.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. No sobs, no sniffles, no snot. Just a steady stream of tears.
My brother had been a drag queen, aka Letha Weapons, and performed a couple of nights a week at local bars. He died in a car accident one morning in a heavy downpour.
I pictured his broken body being taken to the hospital on a stretcher underneath a clean white sheet.
I remembered seeing a movie with him during my last visit. I didn’t sit next to him. It was just the two of us, but I kept the seat between us empty. When we left, I walked slightly ahead of him.
He was large & had blue hair & no eyebrows. I was embarrassed.
I’m sorry for it now. I’ll never forget it.
At the funeral home I paused before opening the door. I expected to face something similar to the waiting room of a parole office -lots of junkies, freaks, bums.
Instead, I stood there stunned for a moment. The place was crowded. Packed. I had no idea my brother had so many nice friends.
It felt good to me. I enjoyed them; all of them.
I remembered that he had told me he had great friends -”the best in the world” -and I hadn’t believed him.
My dad, who wouldn’t even look at my brother when he was dressed “in that mess”, had placed large pictures of him in drag beside his casket. Now my dad embraced my brother fully.
The preacher was a disappointment. We all told him: No Preaching. He did it anyway. He spoke about answering the call, getting right with God, because you never know when you’re going to die, just as my gay brother hadn’t expected to die that morning on his way to work.
Afterward, my sister took me to see the crumpled heap in which my brother spent his last moments on earth. I pulled a cassette tape from the stereo. Cher. He must have been listening to this when it happened.
When I returned home, I played this tape often. I wondered which song was his favorite, which song was playing as he was spinning out of control and bouncing off of trucks that rainy morning in May.
I had grown up in a funeral home, but I’d never been to a funeral, never been the one doing the grieving.
This was my first.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Straight (Part 3)
I hate everyone. I hate the whole world.
It’s early morning and we girls are squeezed into one of the intake rooms (closets) with a girl sitting at the door as guard. We sing stupid preschool songs (Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Little Bunny Foo Foo) and wait -no sleeping -until 8:00 a.m. for group to begin. The air hangs thick and heavy. I feel sick. I’m tired.
I wonder what my friends are doing at school. I wonder if my grandmother knows I’m here. I wonder how the hell I can get out.
I’m in a pissy mood.
Now we make our way to the large main room to form The Group. Lunch sacks are put away, attendance is taken. We are led by the beltloop to our hard, blue, plastic seats. There are no windows. It’s cold. More stupid preschool songs are sung. Morning rap begins.
There will also be an exercise rap, girls rap, afternoon rap, rules rap, evening rap (kiss my ass rap, fuck you rap). Topics are almost always what nasty little shits we were before we were saved by Straight. There will be raps on being stupid, being lazy, being mean, being shallow, being ugly. Each one begins with sharing things about yourself that confirm your general sorriness. Each one ends with sharing how damn lucky and thankful you are that Straight saved you from impending death in the gutter.
Raps are led by two teens who have completed the program. They sit on cushioned bar stools up front.
The sacred 7 steps hang on the painted cement wall behind them.
There is no doctor or psychologist or even a licensed therapist involved. (Hell, I don’t even remember an unlicensed therapist being involved.) There are just a lot of youngsters ready to dish out tough love to one another, just as it has been dished out to them.
If you’re bored, that’s because this is boring. Sitting in rap sessions all day long. 12 hours or more a day.
You’re a piece of shit. You’re lucky.
You’re a piece of shit. You’re lucky.
You’re a piece of shit. You’re lucky.
All day long.
Every single day.
A steel exit door is briefly cracked. I catch a fleeting glimpse of bright blue sky. I hear the passing cars.
I think about the world outside, turning. People are going to work, to school, to the grocery store, to football games. I’m disconnected and imprisoned inside this building. I have no contact with the world out there.
I feel utterly alone.
It’s early morning and we girls are squeezed into one of the intake rooms (closets) with a girl sitting at the door as guard. We sing stupid preschool songs (Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Little Bunny Foo Foo) and wait -no sleeping -until 8:00 a.m. for group to begin. The air hangs thick and heavy. I feel sick. I’m tired.
I wonder what my friends are doing at school. I wonder if my grandmother knows I’m here. I wonder how the hell I can get out.
I’m in a pissy mood.
Now we make our way to the large main room to form The Group. Lunch sacks are put away, attendance is taken. We are led by the beltloop to our hard, blue, plastic seats. There are no windows. It’s cold. More stupid preschool songs are sung. Morning rap begins.
There will also be an exercise rap, girls rap, afternoon rap, rules rap, evening rap (kiss my ass rap, fuck you rap). Topics are almost always what nasty little shits we were before we were saved by Straight. There will be raps on being stupid, being lazy, being mean, being shallow, being ugly. Each one begins with sharing things about yourself that confirm your general sorriness. Each one ends with sharing how damn lucky and thankful you are that Straight saved you from impending death in the gutter.
Raps are led by two teens who have completed the program. They sit on cushioned bar stools up front.
The sacred 7 steps hang on the painted cement wall behind them.
There is no doctor or psychologist or even a licensed therapist involved. (Hell, I don’t even remember an unlicensed therapist being involved.) There are just a lot of youngsters ready to dish out tough love to one another, just as it has been dished out to them.
If you’re bored, that’s because this is boring. Sitting in rap sessions all day long. 12 hours or more a day.
You’re a piece of shit. You’re lucky.
You’re a piece of shit. You’re lucky.
You’re a piece of shit. You’re lucky.
All day long.
Every single day.
A steel exit door is briefly cracked. I catch a fleeting glimpse of bright blue sky. I hear the passing cars.
I think about the world outside, turning. People are going to work, to school, to the grocery store, to football games. I’m disconnected and imprisoned inside this building. I have no contact with the world out there.
I feel utterly alone.
I am forgotten.
Do the people out there even know what goes on in this building they pass every day? Do they care? Is this really OK?
It must be OK because they’re doing it. They’re keeping us here. My parents know. They want this for me.
The world is a very cold place. I feel that coldness deep in my gut.
The heavy door closes with a thud.
Do the people out there even know what goes on in this building they pass every day? Do they care? Is this really OK?
It must be OK because they’re doing it. They’re keeping us here. My parents know. They want this for me.
The world is a very cold place. I feel that coldness deep in my gut.
The heavy door closes with a thud.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Straight (Part 2)
So there I sat. Alone in my own world. I looked around me. I saw freaks and rednecks and dopeheads. I was surrounded by them. I had the urge to vomit.
I was the youngest person there, save for one girl a few months my junior.
They flailed their arms about in the most ridiculous way, humming like a swarm of locusts. They were competing for a chance to speak. Not to compete enthusiastically would ensure you would be made to stand, endure being yelled at, shamed, cursed, spit on by the others. This was called confrontation, tough love.
First a boy, then a girl. Back & forth. Each sharing their experiences as a druggie. Each time they thoroughly denigrate themselves.
Those that do this most fervently are rewarded with a pat on the back and eventually a bump up to a higher phase.
The boy stood and said “I’m just feeling a little dazed and confused right now.”
The air around me is buzzing. People are bouncing up and down in their seat, faces contorted, desperate to be called upon. They're angry.
What? What?? I’m looking around; my eyes are wide. I have no idea what has happened.
The boy who is dazed & confused is on the receiving end of the group’s fury.
“How dare you bring up a song from my druggie past! I've worked hard to put all of that behind me & get straight. I was a worthless slut before I came in here, but Straight took me & helped me. We took you too and you don't even appreciate it. How can you be so selfish? You're disgusting!” she cried.
“I’m so pissed at you right now you freakin' loser! Are you trying to bring everyone down? Or are you trying to impress us? You piece of trash! You better look around. We’re the only ones who will ever give a shit about your sorry ass and this is the way you treat us? By talking like a druggie? You need to get real!” he screamed.
More shouting, yelling, crying, screaming, spitting.
I’m stunned. Why are they going ape shit on this guy?
The girl behind me pokes her stubby index finger at my head so that I’m now facing the other direction.
I learn that I can only look at the boy’s side of the room when a boy is talking.
She’s pushing my chin upward.
I can only look at the boy that is speaking & not those around him.
The girl next to me drives her knuckles between my back and chair.
I must sit up straight at all times with both feet on the floor. I may not ever touch the back of my chair.
She communicates this to me by consistently driving her knuckles into my lower back and pushing my legs apart if I try to cross them.
It is now the end of the day, after 9:00 p.m.
I am to go home with another girl. Her name is Michelle. She will be my oldcomer. Her family will be my foster family. She is on the fourth of the five phases that make up this hell.
We line up heel to toe, no exceptions. My nose is buried in the hair of the stranger in front of me. My beltloop is given a jerk and held extra tight. This is to remind me that I need not even think about running once we are outside.
Sitting in the backseat of the car I may not speak. I may not read road signs or billboards. I may not look out the windows. I may not do anything except write in a blank spiral notebook that she has given me.
I am to write something I want to change about myself. (Here’s a change: Get me out of this fucking place). Then I must write 3 goals (Get out), 3 things I like about myself, and a blessing. I have to discuss all of these things with my oldcomer. This whole thing is termed a moral inventory and I must do it daily. (And I may not do it lying down for that is against the rules.)
I must make sandwiches for my next day’s lunch. Peanut butter. An apple. A brown paper bag.
I must shower. I am allowed to step inside the shower & turn off the faucet when wet. I shampoo & soap up, turn on the water just enough to rinse & that’s it. Total shower time is about 3 minutes. It's called an army shower.
I dress in borrowed clothes.
We are locked in her bedroom for the night. All of the windows are locked. They have made sure there is no escaping. There is nothing for me to do. I lay there on the floor, my mind whirling, tears streaming, until finally I sleep.
We are up before 6:00 a.m. and on our way to the building (hellhole).
This nightmare is real.
I was the youngest person there, save for one girl a few months my junior.
They flailed their arms about in the most ridiculous way, humming like a swarm of locusts. They were competing for a chance to speak. Not to compete enthusiastically would ensure you would be made to stand, endure being yelled at, shamed, cursed, spit on by the others. This was called confrontation, tough love.
First a boy, then a girl. Back & forth. Each sharing their experiences as a druggie. Each time they thoroughly denigrate themselves.
Those that do this most fervently are rewarded with a pat on the back and eventually a bump up to a higher phase.
The boy stood and said “I’m just feeling a little dazed and confused right now.”
The air around me is buzzing. People are bouncing up and down in their seat, faces contorted, desperate to be called upon. They're angry.
What? What?? I’m looking around; my eyes are wide. I have no idea what has happened.
The boy who is dazed & confused is on the receiving end of the group’s fury.
“How dare you bring up a song from my druggie past! I've worked hard to put all of that behind me & get straight. I was a worthless slut before I came in here, but Straight took me & helped me. We took you too and you don't even appreciate it. How can you be so selfish? You're disgusting!” she cried.
“I’m so pissed at you right now you freakin' loser! Are you trying to bring everyone down? Or are you trying to impress us? You piece of trash! You better look around. We’re the only ones who will ever give a shit about your sorry ass and this is the way you treat us? By talking like a druggie? You need to get real!” he screamed.
More shouting, yelling, crying, screaming, spitting.
I’m stunned. Why are they going ape shit on this guy?
The girl behind me pokes her stubby index finger at my head so that I’m now facing the other direction.
I learn that I can only look at the boy’s side of the room when a boy is talking.
She’s pushing my chin upward.
I can only look at the boy that is speaking & not those around him.
The girl next to me drives her knuckles between my back and chair.
I must sit up straight at all times with both feet on the floor. I may not ever touch the back of my chair.
She communicates this to me by consistently driving her knuckles into my lower back and pushing my legs apart if I try to cross them.
It is now the end of the day, after 9:00 p.m.
I am to go home with another girl. Her name is Michelle. She will be my oldcomer. Her family will be my foster family. She is on the fourth of the five phases that make up this hell.
We line up heel to toe, no exceptions. My nose is buried in the hair of the stranger in front of me. My beltloop is given a jerk and held extra tight. This is to remind me that I need not even think about running once we are outside.
Sitting in the backseat of the car I may not speak. I may not read road signs or billboards. I may not look out the windows. I may not do anything except write in a blank spiral notebook that she has given me.
I am to write something I want to change about myself. (Here’s a change: Get me out of this fucking place). Then I must write 3 goals (Get out), 3 things I like about myself, and a blessing. I have to discuss all of these things with my oldcomer. This whole thing is termed a moral inventory and I must do it daily. (And I may not do it lying down for that is against the rules.)
I must make sandwiches for my next day’s lunch. Peanut butter. An apple. A brown paper bag.
I must shower. I am allowed to step inside the shower & turn off the faucet when wet. I shampoo & soap up, turn on the water just enough to rinse & that’s it. Total shower time is about 3 minutes. It's called an army shower.
I dress in borrowed clothes.
We are locked in her bedroom for the night. All of the windows are locked. They have made sure there is no escaping. There is nothing for me to do. I lay there on the floor, my mind whirling, tears streaming, until finally I sleep.
We are up before 6:00 a.m. and on our way to the building (hellhole).
This nightmare is real.
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