Hello Laverne, I Am Sorry

This here post is for a dear childhood friend Laverne who I dont have the heart to tell what's going on in my personal life. I figure I hurt her feelings the other day since I went off like a loose canon when I see her coming out of the Wawa's. I was rude, with the pain spilling over, and because it turns out I am losing my apartment and will not have a permanent home for my children and do not have enough saved up for a two month security deposit--yes, yes, this is my fault, I spend it on a silly thing like the large flat TV in the living room and I should never done that--becausae now I am feeling in a hard place, my heart breaking, and she thinks it's all about her.

The problem is that I couldn not bring myself to talk about it with her, how dire I find my situation. She thinks, Oh Sharita, she fine, she get by okay she just a big whiner, always complaining how there's not enuf fried chicken. But it is different this time. And me and my children aint have no place to go, other than to split my time between my aunt Ravita's house, and that is a very unsteady environment, and my neighbor Mr. L.,, but he is not talking to me so much since his daughter broke in. So anyways, Laverne was wondering why I hadn't called her back in the week, and why I seem cold when i see her, and I have to say that it aint got much to do with her. Not as much as she thinks, she so used to my being a-okay. But i just have no heart or wherewithal to talk about my situation which is the defining reality of my life at this time right here.

And Mr. L., too, he's like everybody else wondering what's wrong with Sharita. He wants to know why I aint taking care of the garden border around the house like I do every summer, making sure the vegetables get fertilizer and the tomatoes get the water they need. But my mind is gone right now, I tell you. I need you to understand, Laverne, and Mr. L. you too, that I have what feels to be a dire situation on my hand, plus the father of my youngest, he is sick and dying, and so there may be no more child support coming in from him. This is a world of weight upon my head, a weight that sometimes gets heavier.

So to all my friends like you Laverne, and Mr. L., dont take it personal, I am having a hard time finding much of myself to give anyone these days and this is a new situation that will take some getting used to.

God bless,

Sharita

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

sockittome,sockitome,sockittome,sockitome,sockitome,sockitome,

I was chomping yesterday on the rice crackers that Oprah eats, thinking maybe this the way to go, with seaweed yall, and so I will definitely let you know.

Why I am writing right now is because my heart is feeling somewhat twisted and irregular. There is a respectful gentleman who lives in the building that I'm going to call Mr. L, who goes to church, who holds a job, who has a daughter with an assortment of problems, the primary one being drugs. She doesnt live there but comes twice a week when her daddy gives her a little extra cash to take care of her baby, who stays with the baby's father. (Her clinic is not too far away from where we live).

Mr. L. is a very nice gentleman. In fact, in recent months we began dating in a conservative way, and I found him to be a god-fearing individual who understood that discipline and self-respect is the way towards advancement, plus faith in our savior. Not once did he do anything "fast" or questionable as we were mostly in the status of friends, which suited me fine for the time being. I'm not saying I would have minded a little physical affection, a touch now and again, but all right, I been without a "significant" man for so much time now, that it didntbother me all that much and still does not. I am a lady who is, i would say, spiritual and no longer one to get addicted to the ways of the flesh. I am all about the spirit and dont need much else, to tell you the truth, and if you know me you know this about me. (I might add that when I was younger I was FAST with the boys but turned myself around the same time mama died.)

I put this down because last week, after a Saturday matinee and some barbeque, Mr. L. and me rubbed shoulders when we walked back from the waterfront. I let myself rub his arm, not indecently nor nothing, but I was feeling close in a sensible and affectionate way. And this display of affection marked a turning point between him and myself, with me feeling like an attractive lady and Mr. L. dressed handsome and properly. He even joked and said, Sharita, if there is something you want from me, you best spell it out and dont be playing games or I will simply take it! And he winked.

I had chianti with my barbeque and the sunset was nice, so we were walking slow and when we got back to the building it was towards 8 o'clock. We walked up to the third floor where I'm at, and there what did we see but my apartment door busted wide open despite the three locks. I gasped and Mr. L. said hold on Sharita, let me go in first, which all things considered no one should have done, just in case someone was still in the rooms. And good lord, someone WAS still in the rooms. It was Mr. L's daughter rifling through my personal possessions looking for the cash. Oh my g-d, and the medicine cabinet had been turned upside down too! I COULD NOT believe it.

Mr. L. was furious. I had not known the man had such the anger in him. He raised his hand slow and trembling, and brought it down SMACK hard on his girl's face. And then again on her arms, and then on her back. He yelled in his fury, "You whore, you crack whore, what you doing in Miss W's apartment, who gave you the right to come rifling in here where you do not belong?" She was already half-way sitting down, kind of fending off her father's blows (she's 22 years old, his only child by Ramona), but then she sort of fell over on her side in a fetal position and was grabbing hold of her own knees as a way of defending herself. Mr. L. began kicking her then, and she be crying and moaning saying, "Daddyplease, daddyplease, daddyplease..."). Which is when Mr. L. yelled back "I aint yo daddy no more, you heathen, you whore, you disrespectful female. Where on the earth did you learn how to conduct yourself. What in teh good lord's name did your mama teach you?"

It went on like that for several more minutes, with Mr. L. casting me glances every now and again just to make sure I knew that he was on my side, the side of the victim. He was intent on teaching his girl a lesson and told her that from now on, he would not slip her baby money and that she could go out whoring for all he cared, that he didnt give a damn about her. Which of course was not true, a father's always going to love his little girl no matter what, but his point being the child needed to hear these things and certainly needed the discipline. But I have to say, a part of my heart did wonder if it werent in fact just a little too late for that kind of care.

Well, Today's All Right: for Mama Wilson

When I was a girl, my mama said all the time, "Sharita, why you not smiling? You have such pretty teeth, baby, you have a sparkly face, why do you not celebrate the day by thanking our maker with a nice big smile?" This was a source of consternation and annoyance as I believed as sure as I am sitting here on my work break sipping on my tea that I was smiling! Because I felt within me at every moment of the day that I was not alone; that someone up there's watching out for Sharita. Even when my tongue was sharp and my mood got moody. But how to let other folks know it, the folks who want to know that you okay and that you are satisfied with your life and are content with what the Lord has brought you? Well, I thought for sure my smiling belief come through my being without my having to so much as lift my mouth in a smile. "Well, I AM smiling, mama!" I would insist, knowing I had so much to be thankful for: my baby brother Willie, a landlord who did not spare the Williams family any heat, and food and sustenance on the table at the correct and proper meal times. My Mama Wilson had a GOOD job too, a hard-working nurse she was.

I thought this and I told my mama so, and you know what she said to me? She said, "Sharita, you are the laziest girl I ever known. I heard about young ladies not wanting to do their chores and so forth, the ironing and the like, but I aint never heard of a child say that she didn't have to put some effort into her own face. That she was just above all that. Now you lift those corners of your mouth girl and show the world that you are grateful for all you got. You'll be making Jesus happy."

I am sad to report that mama Wilson passed away two years ago today. But I am smiling with the memory of that lesson. So here I am smiling just for you, mama. Sipping my tea and smiling, and sure you are happy whereever you are. I know someday we all gonna be together again. much love, your Sharita. And now I have to get back to work. McGurgle's clocking me.

A Pain You Know Where

Now I will have to get personal because ever since Lady was born, my youngest, I have the worst awful hemmoroids. She was a ten-pounder, thanksgiving size, and you can be sure I gave my thanks after that beautiful child came outta me like stuffing that Uncle Elroy specializes in at holiday time. She was smiling from day one and my memory of the Maryland General room was that the sun came down and shone right there, even though it was 2:05 at night, that's how bright my Lady was. Everything sparkling with that child from the get-go. But, I have to say, my rear end was NOT sparkling after that particular delivery. Shes the child that ripped me front to back, not one of her brothers done that, and I aint never healed the way I should. Everytime I feel the call to move my bowels in the last three years, it is a struggle with almighty G_d, that is how hurtful it can be, my rear end practically falling out. Lord, a girl child is always the one to kill her mama. They say she takes away her mamas beauty too. Guess we gonna see about that.

As I have signed out on the break-log instituted by McGurgle, I will share with you a poem regarding my condition.

The Old South
--for my baby, Lady

My baby:
the body pain
reminds me where we come from,
way down there in the old, old South.
Humid and overgrown.
Like overworked dirt
thats got no more give,
somewhere in
the Land of Rotten,
once was fertile,
once was green.

My body:
she the field and she the house.
I aint nothing but her slave.
Dreaming of a man got 40 acres and
a you know what,
help free a woman
from her own captivity.
My body pay the price of bearing life,
when you were not content
with the customary exits,
when you came busting through.

That's how bad you wanted out, my very little lady,
when everybody heard our screams.


Okay. McGurgle's back. Hes "the man." He's clocking all my work so now I have to scram.

"Meets Expectations"

Laptop lost. Have to write here, sitting at work station Fry night, after mid-year review. McGurgle, night shift supervisor, bounced his knee through my review, nervous. He's new at this and just promoted. I am eight year older and been around the block; he's uncomfortable around me, he sees how I see him and I feel kind of bad. But I cant help it! When he pass gass he cant release it quiet like a civilized adult! He is still a boy and I am the scary Black Lady with righteous attitude in the office. LOL. Still, I show him props. I sign the break-log and noone else does. The break-log was McGurgle's invention so that way everyone knows where you are, and why he got position of supervisor over Harry DeCapa who was help desk.

So I have a new poem that I would like to share with you, as I am in that kind of mood. I am thinking thoughts about my life and why I am here.

Meets Expectations

She meets expectations
but nothing else.
Not the sleeping bird,
not the man in the hat
throwing down a shadow
by the crooked water tower.
He wrestles, never wins,
this man on the roof
where she will never go.
She's just a little girl
with a brain that tells her
No, No, NO!
Be smart, take care,
for soon you will see the sun up there
and the sun has its expectations:
That you will rise again today;
That you will dress in brightening night
to the tune of delivery trucks;
That you will wash and you will change
your overnight ways;
That you will be there when the time comes
for the coming of the day.
And the man on the roof shall disappear with morning.

Okay, if you like that here is another one, as I am bored tonite.

The File

The file hangs like a slave,
a name ripped off a face,
blankly defusing your gaze:
and it is so hard to look.
Meaningless silence,
eleven by fourteen,
concealing the embarrassment of
nothing at all.

How dare you!

Long dead, flies settle.
In southern heat so deep
you'd think the dead
would sleep,
but they never did.
For underground the dead filed,
who were not yet born.
The dead rode,
who were not yet free.
The dead lived,
who were not yet buried.
From Savannah
to New Bedford
on to Montreal,
the human train of tragedy,
that trail of recent sorrow,
would not have stopped for you,
my boss,
for your paperwork,
or your defiled slave.