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Limitless…
Love comes in many forms…
Family…
Friendships…
Lovers…
I am honored by the great loves in my life.
– Nova
WTF?
So a while ago I attached the link to my blog to my Facebook page and a Bible beating acquaintance read them and sent me an email today .
‘You know… not everyone needs to know what you’re thinking.
Not everyone needs to know what you’re feeling.
Not everyone needs to know what you’ve been through.
Just put your faith in Christ and you will be healed.’
I took a good long… hard… look at this and paused before I answered, because I felt cussing her out might be too much of an extreme reaction. Instead I replied:
‘Not everyone needs to know what I’m thinking? I speak the truth… if you don’t care to hear… then don’t listen.
Not everyone needs to know what I’m feeling? I don’t hide behind what others deem acceptable behavior. My face is an open book anyway… so why would I bother trying to do something that is not in my nature?
Not everyone needs to know what I’ve been through? I choose not to let life cripple me. Most people do… this is why the world is full of people in need of therapy, Jesus, or medication.
Why are you reading my blog anyway?
My spirit is immersed in sunshine even on the darkest of days. My faith is exactly where it needs to be… and I make no apologies for it. Healing is the ability to walk with God… acknowledge your hurts… but not be defined by them. I don’t walk in the shadows of my hurts… I walk with God.
Perhaps you should start a blog? While you seem to have found Christ… this dialogue suggests… you may be in need of therapy or medication as well.
Love Songs…
I believe you can tell a lot about a person by listening to the music that speaks to their spirit… so in the interest of ‘getting to know me’ I’m sharing some of my loves and why. There are so many that make my spirit buzz and my heart skip a beat… the rare ones that capture your attention the first time you hear them… the ones that make you nod your head in agreement and want to shout ‘YES!’ because they are telling your story….
People sleep on ‘Country’… I’m not sure if it’s the accents, the instruments or some of the more maudlin lyrics. In any event ya’ll are missing out on some b*e*a*u*t*i*f*u*l stuff.
This is a Garth Brooks song, I’ve always felt that if two lovers could feel this way about each other, there would be nothing impossible for them to achieve… for themselves… or for each other. I tried to go over the lyrics to pull out something… anything… that rubbed my heart better than the rest… and nothing. It’s just a really great song… and guess what… when I’m in love… I happen to be that fool for her smh…
Hmmm maybe I’ll outgrow it? Anyway I’m rambling… the lyrics are below… Sorry for the lengthy stuff but read them… all of them…
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SHAMELESS…
Well I’m shameless when it comes to loving you
I’ll do anything you want me to
I’ll do anything at all
And I’m standing here for all the world to see
Oh baby that’s what’s left of me
Don’t have very far to fall
You know I’m not a man who’s ever been
Insecure about the world I’ve been livin’ in
I don’t break easy I have my pride
But if you need to be satisfied
I’m shameless, oh honey I don’t have a prayer
Every time I see you standin’ there
I go down upon my knees
And I’m changin’ swore I’d never compromise
Oh but you convinced me otherwise
I’ll do anything you please
You see in all my life I’ve never found
What I couldn’t resist what I couldn’t turn down
I could walk away from anyone I ever knew
But I can’t walk away from you
I have never let anything have this much control over me
I work too hard to call my life my own
And I’ve made myself a world and it’s worked so perfectly
But it’s your world now I can’t refuse
I’ve never had so much to lose
Oh I’m shameless
You know it should be easy for a man who’s strong
To say he’s sorry or admit when he’s wrong
I’ve never lost anything I’ve ever missed
But I’ve never been in love like this
It’s out of my hands
I’m shameless, I don’t have the power now
I don’t want it anyhow
So I got to let it go
Oh I’m shameless, shameless as a man can be
You make a total fool of me
I just wanted to you to know
Oh I’m shameless
I just wanted you to know
Oh I’m shameless
Oh I’m down on my knees…shameless
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Now ‘Rock’ and I have had a special love affair forever. My all time favorite love song is Meatloaf ‘I would do anything for love…’ I was 14 when this song came out, and it was the template I followed for the things I’d be willing to do for the one I love.
Now the things he says… the things she says… huge eye opener… FOR me. So I’ve schlepped on in my relationships… trying to do all of the things listed below. Never once noticing I probably wasn’t getting them in return. I did a lot of growing up … so I’ve since noticed. This is an easy template to follow if you care and ARE WILLING, but everyone involved doesn’t always care and they aren’t always willing. For most… it’s just too much pressure.
Anyway… the part that makes my blood move is the section where the female vocalist is challenging his declaration… “I would do anything for love” When I hear it, I can imagine my future wife and I think to myself…
‘YES!!!!!!!
Just get over here already!’
(lmao sorry I just burst into fits of giggles)
Seriously though… while I want to RECEIVE everything this lady is talkin below… It’s more important to me to be able to PROVIDE them. I used to be a hopeless romantic… now I’m just hopelessly romantic for HER. I believe ‘My Future Honey’ is an awesomely amazing woman, and she deserves an awesomely amazing woman. It’s a struggle… but I’m trying.
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ANYTHING FOR LOVE (performed by Ms. Loud)
Will you raise me up?
Will you help me down?
Will you get me right out of this Godforsaken town?
Will you make it all a little less cold?
Will you hold me sacred?
Will you hold me tight?
Can you colorize my life I’m so sick of black and white?
Can you make it all a little less old?
Will you make me some magic with your own two hands?
Can you build an emerald city with these grains of sand?
Can you give me something I can take home?
Will you cater to every fantasy I got?
Will you hose me down with holy water-if I get too hot-?
Will you take me places I’ve never known?
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In conclusion boys and girls… my life is comprised of its own catalog of music. When it comes to love… hmm all I can say is… two years ago I penned the phrase “She’s my music… I’m her radio…” and this is why.
– Nova
Jack of All Trades…
He was a cab driver, a mechanic, a restaurateur, owned his own store, a limo service, an import export business (and these are the jobs I actually know about), pretty much a Jack of All Trades and a Master of None… i.e… a con man. My dad was one of the original silver tongued devils. He’d come up with an idea (see above) and talk you and your next door neighbor into financing it. Did anyone ever make a profit… did they ever get their money back? Let’s just say most didn’t.
When he drove the cab he would take me out for drives in the back and we’d end up at some garage where he’d hang out with his buddies for what felt like hours… and hours. He’d look back at me and say “Get down” and I knew the drill… I’d have to lie down in the back of the cab so no one would see me until he’d completed his business. Some of those days were rainy days… I remember looking up at the ceiling of the cab humming something (anything) to pass the time, and on those rainy days I’d fall silent… awed by the sound of Mother Nature tapping on the window. Rain makes an awesome sound on the metal of cars… I think this is where my love of rainy days probably started. I could lay there for days wrapped up in the smell of gasoline and my simple imaginings… fall asleep enveloped in the low drumbeat of raindrops on the roof.
There were days he’d come home sweaty and smelling like motor oil… a hush would drop over the house every day when we heard his heavy footsteps in the hall… the house would fall silent. I remember running to meet him at the door “Papi!” there were days he’d acknowledge me, and there were days he wouldn’t, depending on his mood. I remember his dirty hands, blackened with motor oil underneath his fingernails. I know this is where my affection for someone who can work with their hands started. My mom would always have dinner ready… and we’d eat 3 home cooked meals virtually every day. Things like Wendy’s, McDonalds, Chinese food and pizza… well those… were treats.
We had a detached garage, so a key was required. We kept all manner of things in there… tools, furniture my bike… my sister’s. It was the weekend and on this particular sunny afternoon my sister and I went bike riding. We asked my mom for the key to the garage and set out looking for adventure. We rode around the block several times, amazing how back then no one thought or cared about safety. We rode on the side walk, in the street, without padding and without helmets. Rebels right? When we were tired of moving in circles and had updated ourselves on the ‘going ons’ of the neighborhood we headed home, put our bikes away and my sister locked up the garage. She went into my parent’s room and placed the key in my mom’s glass vanity tray on their dresser. We went about the business of burning through the rest of the hours in the day watching TV and doing our own thing.
I remember hearing the front door open, running to greet my dad at the front door. He ws tense… and had with him a KFC bag and a bucket of chicken… TREATS! My mom was in the kitchen making preparations’ to sit down to dinner. I’ll never forget my dad’s face when he said he needed to go to the garage… “Where is the key?” My sister looked at him and said “We went bike riding today. Its on your dresser.” My dad walked into the kitchen, sat down at the table and said very quietly, “Its not… find it.” She hurriedly went into their room to get the key, when she came back in a few moments later she stood in the doorway of the kitchen and nervously said, “Um it’s not there, I can’t find it.” My dad stood up and said “Find it or I’m going to beat you.” I looked from his face clouded over with barely suppressed anger and her face wide eyed with the first sparks of fear, and we went to search.
We tore the entire house apart. I went into the junk drawer in the kitchen and got out the flashlight. My mom was seated at the kitchen table chewing away at that fried chicken. My sister and I went outside in the dark together to retrace our steps. She asked me over and over again if I touched the key, did I move it. While I was apprehensive I wasn’t really worried because girl genius that I was… I had secretly disposed of all of the belts in the house. Yup… in the trash… weeks ago, my dad had been pulling up his pants for a while now. As we made our way back she stopped me before going into the house, “Ok, we can’t find it, if it’s out here we can’t find it till morning. You won’t get in trouble, you tell him.” I looked up at her, and bravely said, “Ok.”
He was standing in the dining room… in what appeared to be a full blown rage. “Where is it” he demanded pacing back and forth. “Papi, we can’t find it. Maybe it fell outside… we can find it when its daytime…” he stalked toward his bedroom (presumably on the hunt for one of those long gone belts) and I stood there with my sister, uncertain but not yet afraid. My mom sat there looking at us through the kitchen door… eating that fucking chicken. When he came back into the room he had a long brown extension cord in hand. My sister and I looked at each other, then we looked back at my mom, she just shrugged and said, “Don’t look at me you should put things back where you found them.” I was still uncertain but not yet afraid SMH, sadly though… I should have been afraid.
He wrapped the two ends around his fist… leaving the rest loose and called me… “Carlyn… come here.” Now what you must remember is while I was intimidated by my father I never really feared him. Up until this point in my life his spankings almost always consisted of those damn thick leather belts (not that silly light weight stuff people buy off of the street corner… real leather) or the hand slap. He used to tell me to put out my open palm and he would slap it as hard as he could, and lastly… the head slap. He’d wait until we were walking by and would slap the back of our heads… really hard (this was usually followed by some variation of “STUPID”). In that moment when he called me and I eyed the cord in his hand I felt the first real fear of this man of my short little life… but then calm washed over me… reason prevailed… ‘he’d never hit me with that’… I looked him in the eye and I walked up to him.
When I looked up at him, my little heart trying to thump out of my chest I looked for something… anything in his face that would tell me everything would be ok. He looked down at me… nostrils flaring… eyes dilated… a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip… and raised his fist. I could tell you I braced myself… or that I flinched or even that I was clear on what was coming, but I’d be lying. The first lick of that cord on my skin was white hot… I didn’t see stars… I didn’t black out… my vision turned white and all of the breath in my body released as I dropped to my knees and the world was perfect silence.
Everything moved in slow motion and then I heard it… the screaming… like an out of body experience I listened… curious… until I realized it was me… I was the one screaming. Seems like the second that was clear I was back inside of myself. My wrist was in his grip and with each rise and fall of that extension cord I was screaming “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… please Papi… please!” Thinking back on it clothing is a Godsend… every place that cord touched me was on fire.. ruby red welts would form and stick around for days to come… but those places where that cord touched my skin? On impact… shredded. Thin white strips appeared… agony… those would bleed later. I remember two in particular… the one on the back of my knee… and the one on the inside of my elbow… I can still see the outline of the faded scar today.
When he finally let me go I took off running. I ran to my mother (still sitting there eating that fucking chicken) she shrugged me off and said, “Get away from me.” I looked at her and climbed underneath the kitchen table, where I sat and cried. Then he called my sister, “Thalia, come here.” She stood in the doorway of the dining room and just looked at him for a minute, “Not if you’re going to hit me with that.” He stood up a little bit straighter… pulled up his pants and said “Come here.” She stood her ground and said, “Not if you’re going to hit me with that” then he reached for her and she took off running.
He chased her through the entire house, lashing out with that extenstion cord, by the time they made their way back to the kitchen one end of the cord was loose and he was flicking it out like a full blown whip. He caught her mostly on her legs… she was fast. She ran into the kitchen… where my mom was still eating that fucking chicken and dropped down to her knees next to my mom… wrapped her arms around my mother’s legs screaming, “Mommy please” we looked at each other… me crying under that kitchen table and my sister cowering at my mother’s feet. My mom put down the piece of chicken she was chewing as my dad ran into the kitchen, panting heavily. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and said “That’s enough.”
I cried for hours… the kind of tears that are silent and numb. My mom took us into the front room and started applying rubbing alcohol to the worst of our wounds, chiding us the whole time…chiding us, “Next time you’ll be more careful, next time you’ll put things back where you found them, next time you’ll be more careful”. I looked up at her… my little heart broken for the first time in my life, “Next time? Mommy next time I’m calling the police” (yeah I know but my 7 year old azz was as serious as you can be at 7). She looked at me… “Oh yeah… call them… see what happens…” and resumed her rubbing alcohol torture.
My sister and I shared a bedroom and went to bed wordless. I lay for hours with water just leaking out of my eyes… just leaking… like a faucet someone forgot to shut off. I cried myself to sleep that night for the first time ever. The next morning my sister and I were stiff and moving slowly, sudden movements caused the freshly scabbed wounds to split open again. We ate breakfast in silence. I sat in our room watching tv… rather looking at it but not really seeing anything. “Carlyn… come here.” I paused before I realized it was my sister calling. Slowly I picked myself up and followed the sound of her voice. She was standing in my parents room, at the dresser shaking. “Look.” She said as I hobbled over and stood next to her and there in my mom’s glass vanity tray… rested the key to the garage. We looked at each other… silent… what was there to say really?
Dance Lessons…
We had one of those ‘Living Rooms’… you know… the kind no one actually LIVES in. It was at the front of the house in Queens. I remember my mom only let us go in when we had company. Or at least that’s when we were ‘allowed’ to go in, so of course you know I was in there all the time. I was crafty… I had stealth. In this living room we had an old school stereo system. You know… when systems were actually SYSTEMS. Everything was encased in a glass cabinet with a lock on it (probably meant for yours truly) equalizers, cassette decks, huge speakers with wire that went on and on for miles and the crown jewel… the turn table.
I remember there were times my mom would play music in there, Haitian music, Spanish music, Country Music. She’d get all dressed up, perfumed down and sit or dance around in that living room. I asked her a few times “Mommy, where are you going” and she’d look down at me and say “Ohhhhhhh… I have to be going somewhere to look nice?” So I’d climb onto the forbidden sofa and placed both of my sweaty palms on the mirror (two of the walls were floor to ceiling mirrors). I’d blow hot breath so I could draw patterns onto it and watch her reflection dancing around behind me.
Now the living room in question was the ‘scene of the crime’ for many events in my young life. The earliest memory I have was of the all glass… two tiered coffee table. The one we ABSOLUTELY were not allowed to touch because we’d leave finger prints all over it. (Mostly me in that we), picture me almost out of diapers (2 maybe 3 years old) dressed in nothing but some white cotton panties (no idea why people let little naked babies run around) climbing on top of that coffee table and doing my first ever booty shake, shoot I thought I was a star. Of course there was the inevitable… crack… crash… bang… boom… and everyone came ‘a runnin’. I sat a bit stunned surrounded by glass bits… looked up at my mother (who was practically tearing her hair out by the way) my sister and my dad. “Hmmm maybe not again” was my only thought as I picked myself up, “Stay there! Stay there!” my mom screeched at me practically jumping up and down. Hind sight tells me she was probably afraid I’d be shredded and bloody. I on the other hand had no such notion, so I hopped my barefooted baby azz through the shards of glass and rubble then bounced out of the room completely unscathed before my mom could switch gears and start screaming at me. Not a scratch on me, and I think everyone was so relieved I was OK I didn’t even get in trouble. Hmm… who says God doesn’t protect Babies and Fools?
Next were those afternoons I would sneak in and watch ‘The Muppet Show’ on the big TV, and by big I mean one of those huge monsters that were built into an actual cabinet, speakers and everything. I’d watch and call my grandmother (my mother’s mother) anytime Miss Piggy was on the screen. One of my only fond memories of her (as I have exactly 3) in those moments we got along (we mostly didn’t). She thought I was headstrong and mischievous (which I was) and should be more like my nerdy complacent older sister (which I wouldn’t). I thought she was cold and not very ‘grandmotherly’ but… she loved her some Miss Piggy and THIS was common ground. She was amazed that food could walk, talk and wear lipstick on TV. She’d clap her hands and squeal like a little girl, sit down on the forbidden sofa and watch until that glamorous bit of swine was off of the screen.
We had functions in there, like my dad’s surprise birthday party, my first communion party, pretty much all of the parties, and believe me my mother loved throwing a full swing Haitian house party. Our Christmas tree was always set up in there. My dad would talk me into ripping open all of the presents so he could find out what they were, and I’d only ‘half’ get into trouble because my mom would know he put me up to it. I was in love with all things Christmas. My mom would leave the tree lights burning all night and I used to get out of bed and stare at the tree. We had a wooden mini bird in a birdhouse that chirped the night away and I’d get swept away by thoughts of Santa, Rudolph and Chip and Dale. I’d curl up underneath the tree and fall asleep surrounded by gifts…looking up at those lights. Every Christmas till puberty struck that’s how my mom would find me… every morning, until the tree went down.
Now to the best memory in that room PICTURE IT… there is music playing (something with a lot of bass and REAL instruments) the windows and shades are all open (never happens) sunshine drenching the room… ‘Mommy’s not home’ I thought to myself, ‘whose in the living room?’ So enter… the stealth… I tiptoed my way through the dining room, slowly peaked around the corner and assessed the situation (I was an avid Inspector Gadget watcher) there was my dad, alone, beltless, slacks drooping low, right hand on his ‘Santa belly’, wife beater, eyes closed, left hand raised like he was going to recite the Pledge of Allegiance swaying back and forth like leaves on a tree. “Papi! What are you doing?” I demanded stepping boldly into the room. “Ha ha ha hiiiii” (his signature crazy laugh smh) “I’m dancing” he announced then proceeded to do HIS version of MY Chi Chi dance. “Na Uh… that’s not dancing” I laughed my way over to him. “Let me show you something” he said placing both of my bare little feet on top of his, taking my hands in his. He then proceeded to shimmy around the room with me in what I’m guessing was his version of a waltz… yes… to something with a lot of bass and REAL instruments. I giggled the whole time looking up at him. He looked down at me, winked and said… “This… this is how you dance”.
Kick Rocks…
So last week my cousin dragged me to the movies to see Steve Harvey’s ‘Act Like a Lady Think Like a Man’ and I in turn dragged one of my friends to see it for Mother’s Day (cause she wanted to see it). Sadly watching it I related to both the men and the women. What is the point of relationships anyway? I always thought it was to help ‘each other’ to be better, whether it was mother and child, friendships or lovers… to help each other… to BE BETTER. Funny how I look around and I don’t see too much of this ‘better’ going on.
As much as I can adore someone I can’t teach them how to adore me. You either do or you don’t. Getting to know someone has morphed into an ongoing job interview… but not too many people seem to be getting this job. Frankly… I don’t want to participate anymore. My friend told me actions speak louder than words but guess what… that may work for some people but I live and breathe words. The woman in me does a Chi Chi Dance at the actions… but the writer in me… SHE needs the words.
I could wax poetic about my failed relationships but what for? They failed… point blank… PERIOD. Some of those failures were my fault some of them weren’t, but I learned from each and every one of them. My hurts are not more important than anyone else’s and it’s amazing how many people walk this Earth thinking otherwise. It’s hard not being the one someone wants… and devastating not being wanted by the ones we want the most. I sit back and listen to my girls complain about their relationships or lack of and all I can think… ‘Is this really it?’ Honestly… I’m probably meant to just… BE… single. I will not be disrespected. I will not be ignored. I will not be that chick someone settles for. I don’t want anyone who doesn’t want me…
I… do not… want someone… who does not want me. Life is just too short…
What’s the point of ‘putting yourself’ out there and ‘jumping’ for the one you want… when they are unwilling or unable to catch you? Finding the right balance of want… need… physical and mental attraction, adoration AND respect? Seems like the Holy Grail… like a fictitious carrot someone somewhere made up to dangle in front of the starving masses particularly to drive women crazy. Me? I don’t want to be crazy, I like my sanity.
Go Kick Rocks.
– Nova
Unfamiliar Territory…
I knocked on the door and waited… the house was quiet, it’s late. I heard your footsteps as you made your way to the door. Then the muffled sounds of your irritation as the locks started to turn. “What are you doing here,” you demand… slow and angry. “I told you I was on my way…” I say as I breeze past you into the house. “I told you not to come,” you growl… angry… and low. Without looking at you I take off my jacket and begin removing items from the bag I brought with me. “And I told you I would come” I whisper back. I don’t look at you yet; because I know what I’ll find there… anger… pain… resentment. I also know most of it… is not for me.
I make my way over to the kitchen sink and begin cleaning shrimp. You stand there watching me… tension rolling off of you in heated waves. I choose to ignore you as I wash a few veggies then begin the task of chopping… making preparations for what I’ve brought you. I can feel your eyes drilling holes into the back of my neck… and we stay this way for a time. Finally turning away mumbling under your breath about ‘crazy azz women’ you open the fridge and reach for a beer. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and come up behind you. As you close the door I wrap my arms around your waist, press myself against your back and whisper, “I’ll always come for you.”
You hold your body rigid in my embrace and I rest my head against your shoulder, lace my fingers together and hold you tighter. “I’ll always come for you,” I whisper again and feel some of the tension leave your body. You reach over and put your beer down. Sighing you slowly remove my hands from around your waist. “I told you I was ok…” you say before turning to face me… and we look at each other, two lovers in unfamiliar territory, your eyes tired and stressed, mine concerned and probing. “I just had a bad day,” you whisper looking away from me.
I reach up and cradle your face. Using my thumbs I smooth down your eyebrows, lean forward and press a kiss to your forehead. “I know love… go back to what you were doing. I’ll make you something to eat, then if you want me to go… I’ll go. I just need to make sure my Baby eats something yummy first.” I rub my lips into your skin again then step back. We eye each other warily. You reach for your beer and I turn back to chopping. I feel your eyes on my back, as I finish deveining the shrimp, move this… reach for that… put things away and stir up others. I’m making you Creamy Spinach Rice and Sautéed Shrimp Creole, some quick comfort food.
I can only guess at your thoughts as I remember our earlier phone conversation … the sound of your anger hurt my heart… but the pain just beneath the surface… that’s what made me come, regardless of what you had to say about it. “Where did you find shrimp this time of night” you ask. Hmmm my babe sounds incredulous, grinning I watch as the rice bubbles… “For you? Oh Daddy I have my ways…” I start laying the shrimp mixture out in the pan… stirring slow … methodical… jumping a little as you wrap your arms around my waist. You rest your chin over my shoulder peering into the pan as I stir… I grab another spoon for the rice… “Ok…” I say turning in your embrace… “Go sit down, I’m almost done.” We eye each other warily, two lovers in unfamiliar territory… you’re still not sure if you should be angry at me or not. I’m still not sure my concern is welcome. Shaking your head you step back and head for the couch.
Humming to myself I prepare your plate… grab you a fresh beer then walk slowly over to you. You’re flipping through channels on the TV, a bundle of irritated energy. Reaching for the plate you finish the last of your beer. I take your empty; set the freshly opened bottle down next to you and turn away. You grab my hand and bring it to your lips, “Thank you,” you whisper looking up at me”. I smile down at you, “You are always welcome Baby.” Then I make my way back to the kitchen. I fix a small plate for myself and nibble while I clean up. When satisfied I head back over to you, just as you take your last bite. Without a word I take the now empty plate from you and head back to the sink. ‘Hmmm… I’m a lost cause… she has me washing dishes’ I think to myself as I wash both plates.
Putting the leftover food away I look around to make sure nothing is out of place. “Come here…” I hesitate; I’m not familiar with this tone in your voice. “Come here,” you say again… and I respond to the demand now in your voice. I walk over to you… now sitting on the bed, and we eye each other warily, two lovers in unfamiliar territory, “Do you still want me to leave?” I ask quietly. You take my hand and pull me forward, “No… I want you to come here… stay with me” you whisper… I move back on the bed and lay down, reaching out for you. You lay in my arms, resting your head against my heartbeat, and I wrap myself around you. We hold each other tight… I kiss the top of your head… then reach a hand up to rub your temple while the other rubs your back. My fingers trace slow designs through your hair and you drift into quiet slumber in my embrace. “Be at peace love” I whisper softly to you as the rest of the tension finally leaves your body.
To My Future Wife…
I’m here when you need me… even when you can’t say so…
– Nova
Devil in the House…
Her name was Ann Breanette, my mom’s baby sister and the youngest of 7. The first time I heard her name was when my mom announced she was coming all the way from Haiti to come and live with us. I was 6 or 7. Having lived in a house where my mother’s parents were splitting their time between our home in Queens and Haiti, this was only special because it was my AUNT, ‘Ta Ti Breanette’. Someone new and fun! I mean, everyone knows aunts are fun? Right?
The day she arrived was a big production. My mom spent the week scrubbing everything down, preparing an area for her in the basement apartment in our house. I ran to the window… and the first glimpse I had of her as she exited my dad’s car was momentous. “She looks like Mommy.” She looked up at the house slowly and I would swear to you our eyes met. Hers assessing, mine curious. My dad lugged her bags in behind her as my mom ushered her into what was now to be her home. (A lil background, my mom spent a lot of time, money and effort bringing several of her family member to the States from Haiti… with the intention that they could start fresh and lead better lives, hmmm believe me… that’s another story.)
My dad put her suitcase down in the kitchen and my aunt quickly unzipped it as everyone spoke at once. She handed my mom a bag of mangos, my dad a bottle of Barbancourt (Haitian Rum). When my mother made the introduction, “This is Thalia,” my aunt rummaged through her bag again, ‘oohed and ahhed’ then handed my sister a pair of sandals, authentic hand braided sandals… straight from the island. When my mom made my introduction, she folded her hands in front of her and looked down at me for the first time. We looked each other in the eye and there you had it, two wild spirits instantly offended by the other. “Hi.” I said cautiously. She just continued to stare me down. “Give her a kiss” my mom scolded. I folded my hands in front of me and looked up at her. “Nothing for me?” I asked bluntly (as is the ways of opinionated children… and trust… I was MUCHO opinionated). Now to be clear for this part I need you to know she didn’t speak a lick of English her response in Creole, “You? Ha, I didn’t even know you existed.” Considering I was my dad’s favorite, and my grand parents lived with us half of the time… doubtful. I suppose there is someone, somewhere that will tell me it sounds harsher in translation. I don’t think so… but who knows (shrugs)? Either way… that was the beginning.
I was a Daddy’s Girl, he was short, and fat, a liar, mischievous, a user, a little crazy, had stinky feet … and I loved him. He was the kind of man to get his kids to do something he knew his wife wouldn’t let him do then feign ignorance if they got caught. He taught me different ways to lie, the planning of the prank… the art of the grudge… and the methodology of payback. Considering he was only around until I was 11… in hindsight I can say these were odd life lessons for a child. She was young and wanted to do her own thing, and my mom was a grown ass married woman with kids and was having none of that. My dad never gave her a hard time though. Needless to say ‘Ta Ti Breanette’ took an instant shine to my dad. She started dressing like my mom, wearing my mom’s clothes. Styling her hair like my mom, wearing her jewelery. They would drive around town together… go off on shopping trips together… honestly I don’t know what they did together… all I know is they weren’t home and I was either playing outside or inside terrorizing the tenants, (Dennis the Menace had NOTHING on ME). My aunt and I would get into awful knock down drag out fights. I let her know, “This is not your house, this is my house.” She beat my ass a time or two… but that last time… when it was for something as simple as me not hearing her when she called me… he put his foot down. “You have a problem you tell me. You don’t hit her. I’ll hit her.” So she started running to my dad to complain and he would laugh his head off at her, “She’s a little girl! You can’t control a little girl?!” Needless to say we were not friends. We didn’t speak, or acknowledge each other. If a little heart could have hatred in it for another human being then I truly hated that woman. Things went on this way for about a year and a half. In my youthful ignorance I realized my mom had some sort of falling out with her family. No one was visiting, no one called, very weird. One day out of the blue my dad announces “We are moving to Florida”, my sister was very upset, she didn’t want to change schools or leave her friends, I was won over when he whispered to me, “We can go to Disney world EVERY DAY”. Disney World? What child that grew up on Sesame Street, Electric Company, Loony tunes and Everything Disney… could resist that? I was all in. So the house went up for sale, people came to see it and then we were on our way. My mom stayed behind to settle things with the house. My dad, my aunt, my sister and I all moved in with some relatives of my mom’s that lived in Miami. We lived with them for a little over a year. Interestingly enough, my sister and I slept in the room with the girls Merlandi and Ruth while my dad shared a mattress on the living room floor with my aunt… YES… you read that correctly.
The relationship between my sister and my dad went from bad to worse, we hated it there, the kids hated having us there, and we were miserable. My mom was still in Queens finishing up with her job and finalizing the sale of the house. When she called us my dad would stand right in front of us while we spoke to her, hand on his belt, stance threatening, monitoring the conversation. I never really got why he looked so crazed and angry when we spoke to my mom, ahhh… the innocence of an 8 or 9 year (back THEN). So we bought a house. My dad went looking, and my mom was on her way. Embassy Blvd. Miramar Florida… 3 bedroom, 2 bath, ranch style house (as most are out there), circular driveway, 4 car garage converted into a Den off of the kitchen, living room, dining room, a full size patio and pool and Lily… our parakeet that lived in a cage that was built in to the patio wall by the pool. (She didn’t talk but she was lovely). I of course was in heaven, spent every day of that particular summer in the pool. Sadly that was the year my mom decided to give me a jerry curl too. Between that mess on my head and the ignorance of sun block I became a rich dark chocolate color, man… do pics from THOSE days tell a story smh.
So now Mom is on premises. She works, he works, blah blah blah. Time passes in the way of children… as ‘who knows’ (shrugs). My aunt’s room was the Den. My sister, aunt and I shared a bathroom, our bedrooms in the front of the house. My parent’s room was toward the back of the house; their bathroom had another door that led out to the pool. (All of this becomes important later). So my aunt Elizabeth had a baby boy… and wanted my sister to be the God Mother… a big deal in traditional families. A TRIP!!! So my mom and sister pack their bags and go off on a 2 week trip back to Brooklyn. Leaving me (don’t ask me why) with THEM. Now let me explain to you how this went down. Mom and Tia (what I’ve always called my sister) left and the house was a ghost town. My Dad had the only car in the household, my aunt didn’t drive, and our house was nowhere near any form of public transportation. Everyday I’d get up (9 or 10 years old) and the house was a ghost town. I’d go check my parent’s room… nothing. I’d go check my sister’s room… nothing. I’d go check my aunt’s room… Locked (nothing odd about that though… she always kept it locked), “Nobody’s home.” I would make myself breakfast… usually something wildly inappropriate. I’d make myself lunch… probably something else inappropriate… dinner… need I say more? Now that first day I alternated between watching TV in my parents room (a forbidden pleasure) and swimming in the pool. On my way back from the kitchen with an unsuitable snack I noticed a car was parked outside, I ran to the window and saw it was my dad’s car. “He’s home.” So I checked the entire house again… Nothing… and my aunt’s door was locked. This went on for the WHOLE 2 weeks. I never set eyes on either of them. When my mom would call and ask for either of them I would say “I don’t know where they are.” Hmmm she didn’t seem worried so why should I? They came home and everything was business as usual.
I remember the day she ‘slipped and fell’ in the bathtub. There was a lot of banging, a lot of screaming and then the ambulance. A few days later after school I played hopscotch in the hospital corridor waiting for my mom to finish signing some paperwork before we could see ‘Ta Ti Breanette’, “Mrs. Andre and you come with me please.” The man I now knew to be ‘THE DOCTOR’ said to her. My sister followed closely behind her and I skipped away at their shadows on the floor as I followed them. “Your sister had a miscarriage.” I have never forgotten the look on my sister’s face… she was 15 or 16… and nobody’s fool. “What? That’s not possible. She’s new to the country, doesn’t have a boyfriend…” my mom argued. The doctor glanced at me and my sister before clearing his throat “Uh Mrs. Andre, she miscarried. It appears self induced. From the scar tissue we found this would not be the first time. There’s a lot of damage, conceiving again may be a problem.”
I watched as my mother vehemently shook her head, “No, no, that’s not possible. Are you talking about the right patient? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend!” He just sighed and handed my mother a chart. “No mistake, this is your sister.” When my mom opened her mouth to continue to argue… my sister touched her elbow, “Mom, stop.” My mother looked at all of us then walked out of the room. It’s funny how despite my lack of time keeping ability back then, I can tell you it was only a matter of months between my aunt’s return from the hospital and her moving out. She ‘met’ someone, got engaged and moved out in a matter of months. This heifer had lived with us for almost 3 years, no boyfriend… nothing. Seems she figured she should get out of Dodge before my mom grew a brain (I love you mom, but it’s true). Hmmm… now let the rumors fly… seems the whole family knew my dad and this b*tch were knocking boots (obviously). My mom disavows any knowledge that this was going on. Don’t even get me started on that. Ann Breanette went on to other things (another story) and stayed in touch with him rumor has it… they continued their friendly acquaintance after my parents divorced, during her marriage, after her divorce and even after he remarried. She even went to his funeral, to his funeral… like the ‘Gran Dam’ that she is. Interesting… since his children i.e. me and my sister were not welcome (yet another story) but SHE was there.
The child in me looks back, and I always wonder if there was possibly something I could have done to avoid that situation. I wonder if my terrorizing her and not allowing her to terrorize me… may have brought those two closer together, but the adult in me… the GROWN ASS Woman… knows better.
She was just a disloyal dirty bitch and he was the unfaithful dog that lent her his bone. Funny how he could sleep with her, knock her up then keep her around for fun but never marry HER. Damn… I’ve got to say they taught me a lot about people, denial, relationships… Loyalty and Faithfulness… but mostly… they just taught me ‘Never invite the Devil into your house”.
– Nova
Daddy Issues…
Carlo Andre – June 25, 1948 to July 10, 2004
I don’t think about him, seriously. It’s usually something or someone else that brings him to mind. My sister and I have called him Doo Doo Head since I was 12 years old. Yes, Doo Doo Head. I’m 33 years old… she’s 39… He’s been dead 8 years and memories of him are like scenes from ViewMaster… good and bad… a movie reel I don’t dust off.
Its odd how easily one can focus on the negative but today? Today I had the purest memory of him. The kind of memory little girls with good fathers grow up to have:
We lived in a corner 3 family house on 189th Street in Hollis, Queens. Our house… the big tree in the front yard had a fallen branch my sister and I swung from… but mostly me. I called him Mr. Magic Tree. My days were spent driving my mother’s tenant’s crazy (they were the other ‘families’ in the house), climbing trees, exploring the area, rolling down hills or just running around playing ‘war’. I wasn’t a wild child, but I was smart… and mischievous. I liked to figure out how things worked… how to break them… and how to put them back together again. Nothing irritated me more than something I couldn’t fix.
Then the bikes came. My mom and dad came home one sunny afternoon with a big blue 10 speed for my sister and a cherry red 3 speed… training wheels and all. I was 5 or 6, and excited. My dad whipped out the screw driver fully intent to remove those training wheels, but my mom told him no “Not until she knows how to ride it” and in his way he grunted his agreement.
I watched as he spent some time teaching my sister how to ride, and I just sat on mine patiently waiting my turn… leaning forward… making all types of “vroom vroom” noises. I watched as he held onto the back of her seat, running along beside her as he gave various orders, “pedal, sit up straight, watch where you’re going.” They performed this ritual once or twice. His expression frustrated, hers just terrified (I still find that funny), and then it happened. He let her go… and she kept on pedaling. He ran few steps more after her laughing… his big ole pot belly jiggling like jello and then he turned to me.
I braced myself as I listened to his instructions, calm because what did I have to lose? I had training wheels. He ran along beside me holding the back of my seat, and we worked this way for a while, my face scrunched up, determined with him panting along beside me… then he let me go and I pedaled this way and that for a time. “I got it!” I shouted as I stopped to look back at him, and I heard him laughing, “Now you learn to ride” He approached me and my cherry red bike screw driver in hand and proceeded to remove my training wheels. “Let’s go.”
I sat frozen for a minute… long enough for the fear of falling to fully claim me. “Let’s go” he said again in the tone I knew better than to argue with and we performed the same ritual he had with my sister earlier. I pedaled when instructed, sat up straight, and fell over almost as soon as he let go several times, until I landed too hard and skinned my knee and elbow… every time I fell down he would disentangle me from the bike, dust me off and tell me to get back on. Bruised in several different places I began to cry… I didn’t want a bike anymore. He looked down at me “Stop crying. Wipe your face. Get back on. You can do it.”
Sniffling and tortured I cried through the next session, pedaling as tears streamed down my face. I pedaled as I had my mutinous thought. ‘Oooooh he’s so mean!’ and I pedaled waiting for the impact of a fall that never came. Surprised I looked behind me and he wasn’t there. I was riding my bike! I watched my father in the distance doing a big bellied victory dance and I panicked… looking quickly ahead of me I pedaled and tried to remember what he’d said about stopping. I followed his instructions panting and stopped. I looked around for my sister but she was long gone, probably riding around the block somewhere. I felt the sun on my back as I looked up at my father’s beaming face “I knew you could do it”
This always brings a smile to my face. He was a rubbish father but this… a perfect memory left by an imperfect parent and as I look back if I’m honest, I have a few of them. Not everyone can say as much. I knew from my snooping that my toes could barely reach the pedals but in that moment I set my sights on my sister’s 10 speed…
Just a Lil Bit…
That perfect bite… spicy… sweet… tender… juicy…
Something volatile… C4… TNT… Gunpowder…
Beauty personified… a rainbow… a flower… puppy dog eyes… sunshine…
Something vital… oxygen when I can’t catch my breath… rain in the desert… food for a starving soul…
All I need is a lil bit…
– Nova
