A New Hobby? Maybe.

“What’s up man? Whatcha been up to?” the voice on the phone asks. It’s my brother-in-law, Cain.

“Aw, nothing really. I’ve got finals coming up next week. Been studying some and writing papers. What’s been happening on your side of the bay?” I answer. I’m not really sure how to talk with him on the phone. He’s only four years older than me, and he’s a cool guy. It’s just that there is a feeling of discomfort; of not knowing how “chummy” to be.

“Not much really. Just been working. You know, the usual. Listen, I was going to take the boat out on Sunday. You feel like fishing?”

Fishing? Great. I’m terrible at fishing. Cain knows this too. Every time he’s handed me a fishing pole in the last three years, I’ve handed it straight back to him within the hour; a seemingly unfixable mess of tangled fishing line. Is this some kind of joke? I wonder if he just needs a good laugh.

“Sure. What time do you want to go?” I answer after a few minutes of mentally reviewing my empty schedule. Regardless of how terrible I am at fishing, I can’t help but jump at the opportunity to get out on the open water. I’ve always loved the coast because of the ocean. If nothing else, at least I can relax and enjoy the ocean, maybe even get that first sunburn of the summer that will eventually turn into a tan.

“I was thinking early Sunday morning. Leave about 5:00 or so. I want to get out into the bay and see how active the fish are. It’s not really time for a whole lot of activity, but if we get on a line, we’ll be throwing ‘em in the box all day.”

What in the world is he talking about? Lines, boxes. I remember that this is a hobby I know nothing about, and like any other hobby, this one has its own language. I’m really going to have to pay attention, just in case any of his friends meet us out on the open water. I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself my describing something as a “thingy”.

“Sounds good man. I’ll drive over Saturday night if that’s cool. That way we can just wake up and leave.” As I hang up the phone, I notice my excitement. I need this. I need something to be excited about.

Saturday comes and it’s almost the longest day of my entire life. As the week has slowly rolled past, I’ve become more and more excited about the boat trip. I know I’m going to do horrible, but Cain seemed to be pretty confident I would catch something. The last three things I’ve caught in his presence were logs, trees, and a ticket for not having a fishing license. Fun stuff.

As Saturday’s sun slowly disappears in the rearview mirror, I can barely contain my excitement. I’m headed to Fairhope on I-10. I’ve got a bag of clothes including swimming shorts and a shirt with a fish on it. It’s tropical. I’ve never even worn it, but this looks like just as good a time as any. I pause, smirking, imagining myself in full saltwater fishing gear. Would I stick out like a sore thumb, as the first-timer with all the gear from the magazines? I get the vision of the Hawaiian shirt and sun hat wearing tourist. Hopefully I won’t look that ridiculous. Hopefully it won’t be that obvious.

When I arrive at my sister’s house, I have to tell myself to stay calm. ‘Don’t look too excited. Stay cool.’ Cain’s already been to a bait shop to pick up live bait. Live shrimp are swimming and jumping around a large ice chest with some kind of oxygen device on it.

“This is how you’re going to catch something,” Cain says, appearing from the bottom of the steps. “You’ll get the hang of fishing the more you do it, but anybody can catch a fish with live bait.” Anybody? I’m pretty bad. I keep this to myself even though I know that Cain already knows this.

I spend the rest of the night watching the NFL draft with Cain and talking to my sister about potential girlfriends she wants me to meet. It’s pretty hilarious that my sister is trying to set me up. Looks like I might have to be a really good boy with her picks. They’re all ultra “good girls”. It might be a good thing, considering the trouble I’ve gotten into with the last couple of girls I’ve picked out.

I finally go to bed, but I can’t help but stay awake, nervous, and excited about fishing. I can’t remember feeling like this since my childhood Christmases. It’s really funny that I feel this way. Fishing is something I’ve seen in the past as a redneck activity. Somehow, going out on the boat in the ocean, and not the river, makes it ok. Maybe I’m just ready to finally do things that men from the south do. I’ve never really fished or hunted. Maybe I’m just ready to embrace my southern manhood. Maybe I’m just tired of not having friends, and this gives me something to do with another human being. Maybe I should just focus on trying to get some sleep.

5:00 comes early. Lately I’ve been having dreams where policemen shoot tazors at me and I have to dodge them and run. Cain grabbed my foot just as a policeman from my dreams was closing in. I must have jumped 3 feet in the air. My eyes are all blurry as I focus and try to understand reality. It’s finally here.

“You ready there ol’ buddy?” Cain smiles. It must have been funny to see me jump like that.

“Yeah, let me jump in the shower. I’m glad you woke me up. That was a close one.”

It takes me all of five minutes to shower. I jump out and put on my swim shorts and fish-covered shirt. It looks like some kind of marlin on the front. The mirror isn’t too harsh. I don’t look like a tourist. This outfit looks like something I could wear all the time. Maybe I would if the marlin was swinging a big electric guitar around. I don’t know.

As I walk down the hall, the smell of fresh coffee hits me in mid-stride. Nice. Cain showered faster than I did. He must be just as excited to hit the water, maybe more. Two hot pop-tarts and a mug await me. Breakfast of champions. I fill the mug with coffee, sugar, and cream, grab the pop-tarts, and share a brief smile with Cain. We are both excited about fishing today. Without saying a word, we both walk toward the boat.
Cain and my sister live right on the water, so the boat is docked at the bottom of the hill. It’s very early in the morning. The sun is up, but it is so far in the distance that there is barely any light, and it’s pretty cold. I turn around to see that Cain isn’t stirring the boat. I’m not frightened at all, because we are pretty much headed in a straight line for an opening in the bay. He turns to smile with his hands in his pockets.

“Auto-pilot!” he yells. He has to yell. The wind is so loud that I would have to rely completely on lip-reading. He grabs the wheel and slows the boat down. As we enter into the bay he points into the distance.

“Check ‘em out. They swim through this area every morning. The water is only about 3 feet deep here, and when boats come through, the stir up the floor. Every time I come through here they are digging on the bottom for something to eat. Look at all those tails!”
At first, it’s difficult for me to understand what he’s talking about. He’s pointing pretty far off in the distance, but I can see something, I just don’t know what it is. Just as I give him a stock reply of mock understanding, they come into focus. Dolphins? There must be twenty of them; all face down with their tales sticking four feet out of the water. It looks like they’re waving to me.

“They’re here every single time you go fishing in the morning?” I ask. My excitement is obvious.

“Yeah, I don’t know what they are looking for, but whatever it is, they look for it every morning.”

I never knew there were this many dolphins in Mobile Bay. The site really is unbelievable. I can see that we only slowed down to make sure we didn’t hit one of them. I don’t really want to leave this scene.

“Should we just fish here? What kinds of fish are around here?” I ask, hoping to stay and watch the dolphins for a while.

“None. If you see dolphins around, you definitely aren’t going to catch much of anything. Most of the time, the dolphins are fishing for the same thing we are.” He turns back to the water, accelerating. I smile to myself and think, ‘Well, if I don’t catch a single fish, this whole trip will be worth it, just for the site of those dolphins in the early morning sunrise.’ I pause shortly and think, ‘Would a manly man have just had that reaction to dolphins?’ It’s hard to say. I don’t see how anyone could see that site for the first time without having some kind reaction. It leaves me feeling closer to nature; closer to the ocean. I’m definitely ready to fish.

As soon as we pull up to an oilrig out on the Western Side of the bay, we start fumbling through the poles. Four poles are quickly baited with the live shrimp, floats, and weights. Cain hands me a pole and explains that it will be easier for me to cast IT.

“This one doesn’t rely on you knowing what you’re doing. Once you’ve got this one where you want it in the water, grab this one,” he points to another rod and reel. “It’s the same kind you messed up the last time we were fishing in Jackson.”
Great. He remembers. He doesn’t seem to be holding it against me.

“Ok, before I even start this time, explain how to properly cast this thing. I think part of the reason I’ve messed it up in the past is that I don’t really know the purpose of any of these buttons, or what I’m even doing period.” Being completely honest feels much better than repeatedly messing up and making Cain stop fishing to help me. He doesn’t seem to mind explaining it to me.

“Well this reel is open like this, so you can drop it in a specific place. You have more control over how much line comes out, because you have stop the line with your thumb. The trick is to cast it with a smooth, sweeping motion. You can cast it really far, but you always want to stop it with your thumb before it hits the water. If not, it will backlash and look like a big jumbled mess…like last time.” We both laugh. I understand. It’s time for me to finally fish; to really fish.
For hours, we rotate around the boat. Checking lines, reeling fish in, recasting, and grabbing the net. We catch more fish than I’ve ever caught. Cain repeatedly says that it’s a slow day.

“You’ll have to come back out once it gets a bit hotter. The fish aren’t really hittin’ right now. Normally we’d have a box full by now,” he points at the cooler. That must be what box means.

“Absolutely, man. Anytime you want to go, just give me a call. I’m up for it anytime. Today’s been fun man.” I smile. I don’t care how excited I must sound. Fishing IS fun. Maybe I can finally have something in common with my brother-in-law.

We both put shirts on for the trip back home. We’ve been in the sun for about 7 hours now. Sunburn. I’m completely worn out from the sun AND the fish. The entire day in general has worn me out. The growling sound of the boat’s engine takes us back into the bay. The constant motion almost rocks me to sleep. What a beautiful day to fish. What a beautiful day.

Paula's Gun Essay

Paula Harris
Creative Nonfiction


Hanging Emotions

I never imagined I would feel the way I felt when I walked into the gun shop. Upon walking in, I heard the sound of muzzled gunshots coming from the shooting range. This instantly reminded me of the recent tragic events at Virginia Tech. I imagined what continuous gunshots must have sounded like. The chaos, the fear, the rage of a quiet yet mentally disturbed student, who decided to take resentment, contentment, hopelessness and place these emotions into two handguns behind bullets already lodged in the chamber of the murder weapons. Many said that he had a history of violence, written, visible, the epitome of a ticking time bomb. Have the unwritten rules of society caused us to become unconscious breeders of mass murderers? Whose fault is it? Where should blame rightfully be placed? Did this student feel as though the “American Dream” was truly obtainable? What disturbs me more than the fact that many innocent lives were taken that day is the fact that we cannot truly say what factors affected the way the murderer perceived himself within the context of the American culture and why? We have once again become a community of people outraged and equally paralyzed with the fear and terror of possible copycat attempts.

As the door shuts behind me, I look up to find that Kennon and Eric are both nonchalantly handling potential murder weapons. Although Kennon smiles reassuring me that he could never murder anyone, the sight of someone I knew holding a gun made me nervous. I looked around to find fear, caution, something that resembled what I was feeling on the faces of my peers. As I approached Aaron, his runny baby-blue eyes glistened with question and concern. His eyes looked the way I felt. He held his notebook closely to his chest like a bulletproof vest for protection. Clesonda’s infectious laughs and smiles seemed to shield her from the seriousness of her surroundings. I made eye contact with Dr.Alford, who wore an expression that I could not really read. I glanced around anxiously gathering words that caught my attention: glock, hi point firearms, a poster that read: Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.
A stout man, who seemed to be dressed in appropriate attire to work at the gun shop, directed the class to a classroom area in the back of the store. He talked about different types of guns and gun safety. He began to share some of his experiences with guns and added that he was a great shooter in reference to distance and accuracy. He interrupted his own mild boosting with an interjection of the recent events at Virginia Tech. He added the scenario of at least one other person in the classroom being armed with a gun and how the outcome would have possibly contained fewer casualties. This was my opportunity to ask Mr. Odom had he ever shoot anyone. He replied by saying, “Yes, I have but it’s not something that I’m proud of. Someone once told me that when you kill someone you take everything they were and everything that they will ever become away”.
I left the gun shop appreciating the essence of life, friendships, experience, and the fact that presently we all still have a future. I said my goodbyes, with tear-filled eyes I got into my car. Mt heart ached for the students who have no life, no more friendships or experiences, no future.

Paula's Wal-Mart Essay-Please Comment

Wal-Mart: The Family Store

While observing an array of people entering and leaving Wal-Mart, I found that America can truly be called a melting pot. This community of Wal-Mart shoppers did not seem to share any visible similarities; there was no specific dress code, no proper etiquette, and no particular ethnicity. The products sold there are just as diverse. There are flat screen televisions, the latest video games and other electronics, a technological candy store. However, there is also the garden center, which allows you to become one with nature in a sort of commercialized way.

As I sat on the blue wire bench with Elizabeth, I began to realize that she and I made up a sort of subculture within the Wal-Mart community. We are women, women observing things that women notice: cute little children, different hairstyles, and fashion mishaps. Soon we came together with the rest of the class. As we made our way toward the section where the condoms were kept, I noticed all types of Easter novelties, chocolate confections, Easter basket, and giant stuffed rabbits to tempt children as they saw them.
This was all evidence of Wal-Mart’s way of capitalizing on the Easter season. What would Jesus do?

As we approached the isle where the condoms were kept, our class became Condoms and Such 101; likewise there seemed to be about 101 different types of lubricants, massage oils, and condoms varying in color, texture, and even size. Nostalgia made me flashback to a mental scene where a guy I hadn’t seen in years stood behind me in the checkout line and nudged the arch of my back with the corner edge of the small box that he was holding.
“Hey Miss Thang, What are you doing here?”

“Ummmmm, Shopping!”

“Oh”

“Good seeing ya”

As I walked off, I caught a glimpse of what it was he used to poke me with. It was a box of MAGNUM condoms. As I turned quickly, I could not help but think if what the girls said about him in high school was true. After telling Ariel a version of my insignificant memory, we move along. Passing customers, staring strangely, reminded me that we were committing a social offense. We were shamelessly conversing about thong pantiliners and Aaron’s seemingly expert opinions on the best lubricants to use.
We move along coming around to the Pharmacy area where some of us take our blood pressure. As usual, I share a statistical fact pertaining the Blacks and its particular relationship to blood pressure and heart disease. I take the test and my blood pressure is normal. I do not fit into the statistical category of those you are threating to have heart disease. Surprisingly, Eric’s test tells a different story. Maybe it’s just all the excitement of Wal-Mart, maybe those machines are not always that accurate. Eric did not seem to be worried, so I decided to follow suit.

Dr.Alford approached us letting us know that class was officially over. Thank God, it’s Friday. Wal-Mart was not half as bad as I thought it was going to be. As Eric, Kennon, and I walked toward the door, I reached into my purse fumbling to find my keys and out popped a light blue tampon, Exposed. Where in the hell did that come from? And was the wrapper? Any other situation, with anybody else I would have been devastated. But it was only Kennon and Eric; besides they were part of my fictive kin, family, part of my Creative Nonfiction Writing class. They knew things that most people will never know about me. It’s funny how time, places, people, and sharing little bits and pieces of intimate events in your life can make you feel so close to others.

Steve’s Gun Shop and Indoor Pistol Range

Folk Beliefs

African American Folk Beliefs on Pregnancy in Baldwin County


There are sometimes many mixed emotions about pregnancy. These range from the fear of bringing a new life into such a cruel world or maybe just the anxiety of being responsible for the well-being of another life. While there are many myths, and legends if you will that surround the natural phenomenon of pregnancy; there are some beliefs that seem to transcend and exceed those barriers that are otherwise created and destroyed many times by constant changes in time and space. Being a African-American woman and many times not understanding the hidden innuendos of the legends of pregnancy that seemed to be must-dos among African-American women especially, as I began to look deeper I began to fall into a pool of legend where the passing of these legends signified a understood code of what was considered “lady-like” among African-American women. Woman stayed in the house at least six weeks after giving birth, your body was not submerged with water for several weeks after birth, and you were solely responsible for the care of your baby for the first couple of month. This would ensure the babies health and mainly make sure that menstruating women did not hold your baby, this was forbidden and was said to cause painful cramps for the baby. Just as many of their ancestors, black women were reminded on a constant basis of there inferiority to others, whether it be whites or there submission to the black man and the lore that surrounded our bodies.

For more than 400 years the body, mind, and soul of the black woman has been deprived, tortured, and violated to the point of death. This has breed attitudes that are still evident among them today. Through passing on these legends, seeds of heartaches, injustices, and many times unchangeable circumstances the past is sometimes avoided and denied to a certain degree. Thus, justification of legends that put limitations on African American women were embraced with ease, creating a basis for those things that were many times degrading, as well as, sexist.
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Introduction
In an attempt to showcase the simplicit; yet colorful, folk beliefs of African-American women, who bore children during the early nineteenth century, I have presented, transcribed and attempted to analyze for the reader the personal epics of a voice, not heard by “outsiders”. Although I am an African-American woman, who had the pleasure of growing up in the same small town where all four of my informants still reside, an insight to the information session about pregnancy of a generation, that was not my own, was considered a sort of right of passage.

I present to you, the reader, the testimony of four African-American women born between the years: 1917 and 1928, allowing you a semi-permeable passage to some of the many beliefs and sort of ritual believed and practiced during their pregnancies. Hoping that you, the reader, will be somewhat enlightened; it is but realistic to note that in its complexity and entirety, one can obtain only through experience.



PART I: THE INFORMANT

Although the encounter with my first informant was not an unusual one, the space and place that seemed to once connect us seemed somewhat violated and uncomfortable.
It was a normal scene, for a Wednesday in the shop. It was the day senior citizens got their, as many of them say, their well-deserved discount. As one elderly woman eased the door open, sliding her feet, others began to follow the same pattern, kind of primping their lips with a partial smile, waiting for one of us “girls” to respectfully speak first. This was a sort of understood ritual. One that best not be disturbed, lest you would face the sure possibility of public correction. With this, one of the low, raspy voices of the prestigious few may exclaim’ “Well, how yall doin, I didn’t sleep with you last night”.
A distinguished “Yes Mam” would be the only acceptable response. As the short parade of elders ended with the chiming of the bells hanging from the door, with bags and purses clutched tightly, they all began to be drawn to one corner of the waiting area, careful not to leave any room for walk-ins to invade their temporary territory. After being seated, there were talks of church programs, local deaths, aches and pains, and of course, the usual gossip.

As I escorted the first of them to the shampoo bowl, I began to tell the others of an assignment I had to do for school. Almost immediately, a few of them became mute. The more I pressed for an insight to sayings and olden beliefs surrounding pregnancy, the more the women refused me access. Almost dazed, I put away my note-taking materials. “Access Denied”! After the crowd died down and my last client, Mrs., born March 3, 1928 in Hurricane, Al, sat in the chair, the words came hesitantly, “Now baby, what was that you wanted to know about women in the delicate state?” I became a sponge; ready to absorb all that was earlier denied me. See, Mrs. is very particular about when and where she talks and especially what she talks about.

Mrs. Olivia Williams is a lifelong resident of Bromley, Alabama. She was born in 1919 and is 85 years old. Even though she has been diagnosed with cancer, she continues to be in good spirit and shows no outer ward signs of wear and tear from this infirmity. Being that she is one of those people that do not mind having an audience; I knew that she would be a great informant. Mrs. Olivia, being the high-spirited woman she always is, did not need any conditioning. She always welcomed visitors and could not wait to tell it “just like it was”. Being that Mrs. Olivia had known me since birth, I was always recognizable to her. Whereas, sometimes her daughter would say that she has had one of those spells, spells where she could not remember things about herself or anyone else. I have never seen her in this state, wouldn’t say that I would ever want to. She is always so full of laughter, smiles, and warmness you can feel as soon as she opens the door. I knew whatever she had to say would be rich.
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Christine Williams, 80 years old, a very sophisticated lady, is always the first person at the church and the last one to leave. She cleans the church every week and makes sure flowers are fresh and all other things are in tact. She can be seen on the front pew (dressed to kill), matching handbag, shoes, and accessories. She never wears a headpiece, with the exception of funerals, so that her beautiful silver- tinted pin-up, always designed the same, will show. Her raspy, yet melodic, whine echoes throughout the church as she douses herself song-leader on any given Sunday. When service has ended, she is careful to secure all before the doors are closed. Contrarily, on weekday evenings, just before the sun trades places with the moon, this the time when the fish seem to bite the most, according to Mrs. Williams, (Boots, what everyone calls her) can be heard putt-putting down the back trails leading to one of the area fishing holes. Not being characteristic of a busy city, the atmosphere of Bromley allows for sounds to travel long distances throughout the community and remain distinctive and of recognizable quality. When people in the community hear the putting, someone will always say,
“There goes Boots goin’ fishin”. She says that fishing is her livelihood. Boots attends all the community affairs and I believe is capable of serving as one of my informants for this project.
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Mrs. Ruth Sledge was born January 4, 1926 at her home, where a midwife, Laura Singleton, her grandmother delivered her. She recalls that at an early age, when she was old enough to keep up with her grandmother, the midwife, she was allowed to come along. Being full-blooded Indian, Laura had knowledge of medicines that grew in the woods, which were passed down to her from her grandmother. Laura and a then, young Ruth hunted for certain herbs and heart-shaped leaves on vines, which insured endurance during the wrath of childbirth. Mrs. Sledge is my grandmother and Mrs. Laura Singleton is my great great-grandmother. As time passed, Mrs. Sledge bore 10 children, six of which were also delivered by midwifes. As things advanced, other pregnancies were cared for with a combination of learned rituals and those, which the doctor educated mothers about. Being that my grandmother has had many successful pregnancies and has helped to raise her grandchildren, as well as great grandchildren, she proved to be a great contributor to this project.
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All four informants share the common time and space, the early 1900s. Although their personal experiences are different, the elements of time and space are the “glue” that holds them together. These accountants defined a specific group, African-American women, revealing inspiration, milestones, and often unconscious fears. Inevitably, folk beliefs concerning pregnancy differentiate many African-American women from other people groups. These stories may not be all fact-based in basis, but they establish realities, and concerns of past generations and African-American women’s views on pregnancy. The ideology about African-American pregnancy is a collection of folk beliefs. Folk beliefs are beliefs that members of a folk group hold because of that group or traditional beliefs that are circulated by word of mouth or by observation and imitation and because of this circulation undergo change-causing variation. It is worth noting in ordinary human activity (such as pregnancy) one also finds in most bodies of living folklore one can find enough descriptions of economics, as well as ritual, to extract a description of one’s daily life. The matter presented here, is that the teller of a folk beliefs, in this particular situation four African-American women who bore children during the early 1900s, is like the architect who designs a house and the orator or author, largely reworking familiar material. Today, many African American women
use the experiences and lessons embedded in these types of folklore and home remedy to preserve a particular part of African-American women’s culture that is unique.

“Are you awake?” asked Will as he gently shook my shoulder.

It took me a moment to remember where I was. I felt around in the darkness for my glasses and realized how hot it was. The power must have gone out. I could see him feeling around the room as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“It’s almost 5:30.”

I realized I must have fallen asleep at some point while watching the storm on the weather channel. I get up and stretch my legs being careful not to bang them on the coffee table in front of me and walk to the next room to check on my brother. He’s still stretched out on the too small sofa sleeping.

“Your mom called a little while ago to check on us,” Will called out from the other room that was now lit with the soft glow of a candle. “She said to be careful and that we could go there whenever the roads were safe.” I nodded and sat back down. This would be the first time that I have ever ridden out a storm without my family with me. At least my brother and Will were there. The next few days would prove to be very monotonous and hot. We had no air conditioning and our only entertainment proved to be sitting in front of the living room door watching the wind and guessing what would come blowing by next and then panicking when the weather radio went off alerting us of a tornado in the area.

My phone rang on the third day after the storm. The first time I was able to receive anything beside a text message since the storm had made landfall. It was my dad. I answered quickly hoping that he was going to tell us they had power, or they knew someone who had power and we were moving locations to stay with them. Instead, I could hear the tiredness in his voice when he spoke.

“Jay, put me on speaker and get your brother, I’ve got some bad news.” I called my brother into the room and listened as my dad continued. “Ben called this morning, the house flooded. Pack your bags and come stay with us because we are leaving at 5:00 tomorrow morning to try and get home.”

After four days of not knowing and two hours of driving we finally arrive to what looked to be a shell of a town that I used to call home.

At first there were tears, because our home was there, and then there were tears because of what we found on the inside. Water flooded through our home and the floors were bubbled up from being soaked for the last three days. After the initial shock, the tears left and the guilt set in. We still had our home, and most of our belongings were salvageable. Down the street and one block over was another story. Everywhere you turned, there was another story. In the face of destruction we were able to come together. People came without asking, some from far away, and some from down the street.

Sometimes you don’t know where to turn after devastation, you don’t know who’s looking out for you and who’s looking for themselves. My town is now a place that I’m proud to call home.

Besides Sumo Wrestlers, Have You Ever Seen an Obese Asian?

According to obesityinamerica.org, Alabama is among the states with the highest percentage of obesity at 23.05%. That’s almost a quarter of the population. This was actually something that was brought to my attention by a recent trip to Wal-Mart. This may seem shallow, but the whole time I kept thinking, “Dude, there aren’t any hot people coming in and out of here.”
I don’t have much room to talk, seeing as how I can’t place myself in the “hot” category, either. (I don’t have rockin’ abs or biceps with definition, and my buns are more like stale hamburger buns than steel.) I just kept thinking about how glad I was that I wasn’t as big as that person and at least I haven’t let myself get that bad. It led me to wonder, how do people get so big, and why won’t they do anything about it?
One overweight Wal-Mart employee answered this question for me. She was bringing in one of those motorized scooters with the basket on the front and instead of walking it in like she is perfectly able to do, she was riding it. She reminded me that the answer is often laziness. People would rather ride in their car for fifteen minutes through the parking lot to find a closer spot to park than walk a hundred feet to the door. Drive-thrus are becoming a must-have for any fast-food restaurant. Folks would rather pick up food from McDonald’s and make their drink a Diet Coke to make themselves feel better than eat something slightly more healthy at home because it takes more effort.
It’s not just about being “hot.” This laziness and obesity affects the quality of life for people and can hurt business as was demonstrated during this Wal-Mart field trip. A man talking on his cell phone activated the alarm when he was walking out the door and a manager happened to be in the front of the store. He was not a huge man, but had a bit of a belly. Some might refer to it as a “done-lap.” The shoplifter took off sprinting across the parking lot and was all the way to the nearby Steak ‘N Shake before the manager was halfway across the parking lot.
About ten minutes after the initial incident, I turned to see a woman walking through the inside set of doors. Her shirt was black and so big that it could probably serve as a quilt for me and in big white letters on the back said “SECURITY.” She was so large that she couldn’t have run if she wanted to. Her pace reminded me of that of a giant monster from a movie; similar to when the monster is coming through the city and you hear the steps coming very slowly and the whole city shakes and rumbles. No wonder it had taken her so long to arrive at the scene of the crime. Was she the only option they had for a security guard? Why would you not find someone who can run as fast as the criminal may be able to?
I’m not trying to be malicious or talk badly about people who are overweight. I just don’t understand how people let themselves get to be more than 100 pounds of fat. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I took something with me from this trip to Wal-Mart. I took inspiration to go running once in a while and pay more attention to what I eat. I probably won’t ever be a protein shake-drinking, organic food-eating, grunting, heaving, body builder. In fact, let’s face it. I’ll probably always have those ten or fifteen pounds to lose, but I will never let myself look as grotesque as some of those people in Wal-Mart.

A Memory of Death

The earliest memories of my childhood are like ancient manuscripts that have lost their bindings. I stumble through the pages unsure of where to begin reassembling them. The passage of time is completely lost. I see in my mind’s eye a towering Christmas tree and therefore know that I am recalling a December long gone, but what is the year? Birthday cakes glow in the deep dark of my past, but I cannot count the candles.

It is somewhere in one of these random recollections that my momma reaches down and lifts me into her arms. It is a sunny day with no season in a room with no location filled with flowers. The smell of roses is thick. I sit in my momma’s arms with tiny hands clutching her neck, and we stare into a long, carved box lined in a shiny material whose color I cannot picture. Inside the box is Mrs. Nelle who goes to my church, who is the mother of my momma’s best friend, and who lets me come over on hot days and swim in her pool.
“Isn’t she pretty?” Momma whispers in my ear. I reach out and touch her hand and understand that she’s not in there.

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I am in school, but I don’t know which grade. My brother, my cousin, Kathryn, and I are playing on the staircase of my grandmother’s church. Kathryn is a very pretty brunette with a severe under bite. Later, she would have it fixed and become one of the most gorgeous girls I’ve ever seen. We laugh and run while the sun slants through the large windows dappling the floor and catching the dust. For some reason which isn’t important, I decide to walk back to my grandmother’s house, about three blocks.

As I approach the house, I see Uncle Buddy, my grandmother’s brother and Kathryn’s grandfather, walk up my grandmother’s front steps and ring the doorbell. I run to catch up, and as I reach the front walk, he falls.

He falls hard and fast. I see his head collide with the black metal mailbox bolted to the clapboard just right of the door. The box has two curved rungs, curling upward from the bottom to hold letters for the postman to pick up. As the left rung makes contact, it bends until it points straight down, and he continues falling until he hits the bricks sprawling in an awkward position.

My grandmother opens the door and immediately drops to her knees, cradling his face in her hands. I run, beating the pavement with my sneakers, back to the church. Kathryn and my brother don’t know that I ever left. Her grandfather is dead. I sit in the tree house on the playground and listen to the sirens. I hear Nathan and Kathryn wondering where the sirens are going. Kathryn’s father comes down the long stairs onto the playground, wiping his eyes. She runs to him, and he scoops her up, whispering something in her ear. She screams.

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At Uncle Buddy’s funeral, all the brothers and sisters sit together on three small pews. His oxygen tank slowly following him on its small wheels, led by his daughter and leaning heavily and laboriously on his walker, Uncle Doc takes his seat.
“They say he won’t be with us much longer,” someone behind me remarks. Within the month, I am back on the pew, holding my mother’s hand, the smell of roses wafting sickeningly through the air.

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My Aunt Leila, my grandmother’s sister, and her husband Martin are a crotchety old couple. They fight like cats, but it is never violent. Rather, there squabbles are endearing. They used to run a nursery, and still have a small greenhouse in their backyard. They are always bringing people exotic fruits or vegetables grown in the climate controlled environment.

Aunt Leila has been sick for a long time. The pancreatic cancer which I was told took her sister, Dorothy, is now eating slowly away at her. At the funeral home, the weight loss has made her look frail and small inside her coffin. The cancer did not leave much behind to say goodbye to.

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Aunt Lucy is the sweetest woman I’ve ever met. My grandmother’s sister-in-law, she lives out on Judge Brown Road in a little green house with a long bed of day lilies running from the front door about forty feet all the way to the road. There are deep reds, bright oranges, dusty yellows speckled with brown, and a glorious plum color. Extremely late one morning, Janice, her daughter, finds her still in bed, peaceful and silent. She doesn’t wake up.

We all stand in the congregation of Fairfax Baptist singing a hymn, but I don’t remember which one. My tears splash the pages, darkening the notes.

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Aunt Helen, my grandfather’s sister, has been diagnosed with cancer. She is the only twin we’ve ever had in the family, but she lost her sister when they were in their twenties. When Aunt Helen passes away, she’s in her seventies and will see her sister again after fifty years.

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I am in the sixth grade and my grandfather has begun to decline. The stroke which forced him into early retirement and the mild heart attack which convinced them to put in a pacemaker have finally taken their toll. He has pneumonia and can’t shake it; a form of cancer is beginning to spread.

My bedroom is off the living room, and I’m awakened to the sounds of my mother crying. I walk into the living room and she’s sitting in the recliner with the telephone in her lap. He’s gone.

“This one is lovely,” my mother sighs, tired and numb, clutching the side of a light wooden coffin made of pecan. “We’ll have a thirty minute viewing for immediate family only.” A man scribbles on a notepad as my mother speaks. “Then, close the casket and open the doors to distant family and friends. Please, send all the flowers straight to the cemetery. Only bring the two large vases ordered by the family to the church; no spray on the coffin. Mother would like to use the American flag from when Daddy served in World War II. I’ll send my brother-in-law back with the flag and his suit.”

The parlor is full. Granddaddy was so kind; everyone loved him. I sit on the stairs, tucked away into the shadow at the top, crying.

My teacher comes outside and crouches down to where I’m sitting on the stoop. Her dark bob, streaked with gray, frames her thin face. Her eyes are blue and warm.
“I’m so sorry, Aaron,” she says, taking my hand.
“Thank you,” I mumble. I don’t know what else to say.

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During the first week of seventh grade, my English teacher has us each draw a timeline illustrating our lives. Mine is lined from left to right with little tombstones.
“Thank God I’m not in your family,” Tabitha exclaims over my shoulder. “You’re like the Angel of Death.” Mrs. Leonard tells us we’ll be hanging our timelines on the wall. I hide mine in my desk.

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I’m fourteen and my grandmother has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the same illness that took two of her sisters. She opts not to have the surgery. It can be very risky for someone of her age, and she’s lived without her husband for two years; she’s ready. We wait.

As the months pass, she starts to decline. She becomes weaker and weaker. Her pancreas can no longer operate at the rate it needs to due to the cancer that is consuming it. The bile begins to back up; her face turns yellow with jaundice.

Her niece, a gastroenterologist, believes her suffering can be relieved somewhat. She puts in a small drainage stint and it does wonders. Her face regains its natural color, some of her energy returns, and for a month or more she seems like her old self again. Over night, it seems, Hospice comes with morphine, oxygen tanks, and an adjustable bed.

My mother and I move in to my grandmother’s house. We move my grandmother into the front bedroom, Momma sleeps in my grandmother’s bedroom, and I take the basement room. In the coming months, I fall into a routine. I go to school and then come home and sit with my grandmother. The leaves start to turn through the window, and I hold her hand. I watch the light go from the far corner of the North window to the sill of West. Silence blankets the room interrupted only by a slight tick of the clock on the mantel and my grandmother’s occasional ragged breathing. Every day becomes like every other day. All actions become mechanical.

Finally, my mother’s sister comes. Better late than never, I suppose, but I still bear my anger toward her. I sit in the deep dark, hating her for taking so long, hating her children for not coming at all, hating my brother for thinking that he is too busy during his freshman year of college to come. They would come for the funeral. They would only see the beautiful part of dying. They would not push the morphine into her abused veins, praying it would relieve the pain of being eaten alive, praying she would sleep, praying she could rest. Next to my mother, my grandmother was the most important person in my life.

One night, my eyes flutter open and I know I should go upstairs. When I reach the door to the front bedroom, everyone is standing around my grandmother’s bed crying. She is speaking to them, and I sit in the overstuffed chair on the other side of the room and watch. I do not approach the bed. I will hold her hand once everyone has dozed off.

She goes in and out of consciousness for the rest of the night and next morning finally giving up the ghost somewhere close to 9 a.m. The machinery is broken; the daily mechanics which had become my life are shattered. I cannot hold back and begin to sob. I had watched death creep down the walls for months, just as the days and days I had watched the orange light go from the molding to the carpet. None of it had made the end easy.

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My sophomore year of college, I get a call from my mother. Mrs. Hattie, the woman who helped raise me, has finally passed. She was diagnosed with brain cancer the previous spring. I can’t make it to the funeral; I have class.

The city is world of eternal youth. Everyone is young and beautiful. I realize that class is a ridiculous excuse. I was not attending school in Europe; it was a four hour drive. In that four hours, however, I had left the world of small town death. Behind was a world of coffins and sickness, candles and wakes, cemeteries, hymns, hospitals, and handkerchiefs, that heavy smell of roses. In the city, death only exists in the newspaper. I do not want to go back.

I understand my cousins, my aunt, my brother. I understand them, but I do not forgive them. I sit in the dark, hating them. I sit in the dark, hating myself.

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On a late afternoon is December, I climb the hill to Chapel Hill Cemetery. The rain stopped about an hour ago, and the sunset is reflecting in each water drop, making every thing golden with light. Leaves rustle at my feet as the smell of wet earth reaches my nose. The wind blows the trees. The roses in my hand brush against one another, petals off white tipped in pink, a delicate sheer ribbon fluttering in the breeze, binding the stems together. Finally, I reach a tombstone with an open book carved into it. The page on the left reads “Hattie Murphy.” I place the roses on the stone.

“I’m here; a year late, but I made it…I’m sorry.”

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Edelweiss - Part 2

I had just become a teenager when my grandmother took me to her home town. Aachen was a charming city -- the winter home and final resting place of the great ruler Charlemagne and frequented throughout history by people seeking healing from its natural hot springs. To this day, I remember it vividly.

There was a massive cathedral in the center of the city. My grandmother told us it was the oldest of its kind in all of Europe and that Charlemagne himself commissioned its construction. Protruding from the wall in the vestibule was a statue of an open lion’s mouth. When Gran Gran was a child, Omi used to tell her that if she put her hand in the lion’s mouth, the beast would magically come alive and snap her fingers off. Truth be told, it was a frightening figure to see in a church.

Our hotel was called The Quellenhof. It was old, resembling a British palace. My cousin Scarlotte and I loved walking up and down the enormous wooden stair case to our room. We would hold our chins high and tell each other we were Deutschland princesses. It was at The Quellenhof that I was first introduced to the bidet. One evening, my grandmother found Scarlotte and me turning on the water full blast, sending the stream straight up to the ceiling. She was mortified.

One morning after breakfast, we walked through a small park that served as a supersized median between two streets. In the center of the park was a large circular flowerbed full of purple, white, and yellow blooms. It was protected by a brown steel railing that came up to my knees. I did not think much of it. Germany was full of flower arrangements and lush city parks.
Gran Gran walked up to the railing and stared at the dirt as if she could see right through it. After a moment, she looked over her shoulder and called for me to come. I walked up beside her. She looked very sad and almost instantly weary. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she spoke.

“Do you see those flowers, Elissibiss? Beneath the flowers is a bunker. Omi and I used to run to this place during the air raids. We would run down that street, you see?” She pointed with a frail, wrinkled finger. It was as if the bombs were falling then and there. “It would be so loud,” she whispered, “and I would run as fast and as hard as I could. ‘Komm schnell,’ Omi would scream.” Come quick!

It was eerie. An underground bunker, but now somehow befitting: unmarked, but all covered with flowers. A grave lavished with blossoms to cover the scars of the past.

My grandmother turned from the flowers and began to walk towards the street. When she reached the curb, she looked up at the roof tops of the adjacent buildings and like a bloodhound, locked her senses onto a target. This time, she did not have to call my name. I had remained close by her side.

“Look. There. On top of those apartments. Do you see it?” She lifted her arm and pointed her finger to direct my view.

It looked like a black soldier’s helmet stuck on the top of a pole. Its silhouette cut through the blue sky like a shadow in a spotlight. It stood over all the passing people and cars and cast down moments best forgotten.

“That’s an air raid siren,” she said. “I guess they never took it down. Maybe they kept it just in case. Just in case it should happen again. They would sound the sirens, and usually in the middle of the night. That’s how we knew it was time to hide. Sometimes, if the bombing wasn’t too bad, we would just hide in the basement we shared with our neighbors. Aachen was one of the first cities to be bombed.”

Traffic slowed, and we crossed the street. We walked a couple of blocks down rolling brick streets until we reached an intersection with a nice-sized corner store. “Schorn” was written above the glass frontage, and all kinds of miscellaneous merchandise were displayed in the windows. Above the store was an elegant home decorated with sculptures and chiseled ornate designs. Through the windows, I could see fine drapes. Even the hardware on the door was nicely polished.

“This was my home, and that was my family’s store. My cousin, Hans, runs the shop now, and I have no idea who is living in the house. See that top window? That was my bedroom. And that one, right there, that was our kitchen. And see the big curved windows that wrap around the corner? That was our living room.” Gran Gran paused for a moment.

“One night, through that window, a bomb came in. We were all down in the basement hiding, but my friend, Manfried, was in that room. He was hit by the bomb. It exploded around his body. You see, Elizabeth, he was Jewish, and we could not take him into the basement with us. People would know he was a Jew, then he could no longer hide upstairs. The living room was as close to the ground as he could get. It was just the way it was back then. People did not understand and accept other people like they do now. I will never forget …”

I did not ask any questions, and she did not offer any more explanations. Fear seeped into my stomach.

“Come on.” She said.

We walked across the street and into the shop. Cousin Hans was waiting.

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My final exam for senior social studies was not an exam at all. It was an essay on the effect of history in our own personal lives. The assignment was to look into our families’ past, then find an interesting person to interview. We were to write about this interview in a final essay. Many of my classmates interviewed their parents about civil rights, Vietnam, Woodstock, and the Cold War. One kid even bragged that his grandfather was a D-day survivor.

I wanted to interview Gran Gran. Her story was sure to impress my teacher. I knew that not every student had a German war survivor hanging from a branch of their family tree. I needed an A on the final in order to make an A in the class, but it would not be the end of the world if I didn’t get it. I had already been accepted to college.

The problem with interviewing my grandmother was that she hated to talk about The War, and even more than that, she hated people knowing she had been a part of it. Maybe she feared Barbara Walters and a camera crew would come knocking on her door, or maybe she was afraid that the people in Opelika would look at her somehow differently. Maybe she feared the equation that might be applied to her: World War II + German = Nazi. She enjoyed being part of society’s woodwork – just a quiet little old woman walking her dog through Municipal Park.

She had already overcome adversity in America, and I don’t think she wanted to open old wounds. Small-town Alabamians did not greet her with their infamous southern hospitality when she first arrived after The War. After being seasick for a week and shoved through Ellis Island, she had hoped Opelika would bring a clean slate and a new life in the land of liberty and justice. In many cases, she would have been better off a black woman drinking from the white fountain, than a German, fresh off the boat, living next door to a soldier’s grieving mother.

It was a hard phone call to make, but I did it despite my anxiety. I asked her if I could come over and interview her for a school project. She was hesitant, but eventually agreed. I drove over to her house with a tape recorder and a notebook. My teacher had given us a list of sample questions to ask in our interviews, but I didn’t bring it along. Talking about The War with Gran Gran could not be prompted. It just had to flow out. That’s the way it always was.

I sat on a footstool, and she sat in her recliner. She asked me to please not hand in the tape, and not to let other people have it. I promised her that I would only keep the tape for myself. She leaned back in her chair, took a long sip of cranberry juice and Sprite, and began to speak.

“In late November or early December 1944, Omi and I had fled Aachen across the border into Belgium. We thought it would be safer there. It was early winter, but the snows were already very heavy. It was extremely cold, and food was hard to come by.

“We could not have chosen a worse time to flee. Have you ever read or heard about the Battle of the Bulge, Elissibiss? I think it was Hitler’s last major stand against the United States and Britain. Omi and I got stuck in the middle of it.

“We found a potato cellar in the Belgian countryside to hide in. There were other people hiding in the cellar with us. I think that most of them were from Belgium and maybe one from France. We were all afraid, hungry, and desperate.

“One day, we all felt the ground shake and the cellar rumble. It was different from the bombings we had become accustomed to. This was a constant roar. The people started screaming and chaos filled the cellar. A woman looked out and saw tanks coming from the west. It was the Americans.”

She took a troubled sip of cranberry and Sprite.

“The people in the cellar began to murmur for someone who knew how to speak English. Omi spoke up and told them I could do it. She told them I had been privileged enough to attend fine schools in Aachen, and that I could speak bits and pieces of many languages, but was very fluent in English.

“They gave me a white handkerchief and told me to stand in front of the oncoming tanks. I was supposed to tell the Americans that we needed their help. I was so afraid, Elissibiss. The tanks were enormous and deadly. I was only eighteen.

“I walked out across the snow and into the path of the oncoming tanks. With my heart pounding and my entire body shaking, I closed my eyes and shook the handkerchief in the cold air. I felt certain they would run me over without a thought. I had made it through air raids, train bombings, and interrogations, and now I was going to die at the hands of the people who had come to liberate me.

“To my surprise, the lead tank stopped, and a very hard spoken soldier came out. I wept and begged him for mercy and for help. I told him I was German, but that I was no harm to him. He asked me how many people were in the potato cellar. I was so scared that I bumbled and mumbled and could not recall.

He screamed, ‘Listen to me, woman. How many Germans are in that cellar? I want you to think long and hard about that question, because if you lie to me now, I will cut your head off right here in the snow.’

I hesitated. I could hardly think. I told him that the only Germans in the cellar were my mother and me. But Elissibiss, I did not really know for sure. I prayed that none of the people hiding with me had been dishonest. I didn’t know for sure. A group of soldiers infiltrated the cellar. My body fell limp as a dish rag when it was finally confirmed: I had told the man the truth.

The Americans helped us all that day. They took us into their caravan, and I think they set people up in protected refugee camps once they got into Germany. As for me and Omi, once the Americans discovered that we were not Nazis and that I spoke both German and English, they set me up as an interpreter for General Patton and his forces, and let Omi live and travel with me.

The Americans took good care of us until The War was over. We had food and shelter, and once, when I became very ill, they got me penicillin from a ration reserved for their own troops.”
Her focus returned from visions of the past, and she was looking at me again.

“Do you think that’s enough for your paper?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think that’ll be plenty.” I said. I smiled at her.

C-SPAN

“I don't know what I'm going to write about this one,” Cleshonda said, and I agreed. With the rest of our class we stood in the afternoon heat. The sun bore down on us the second we exited the C-SPAN bus and gathered in the parking lot. It had been a brief, unexpected lecture given on a cool couch facing buttons and TV screens.

A chatty man with a black rat tail relayed anecdotes about the big days in C-SPAN history. A camera crew from a local station popped in to film us, which I found ironic, since I'd just told Elizabeth that I'd be O.K., “as long as we aren't filmed, I hate being on TV.” Then after a few jotted notes, a free pen and pamphlet, we were prematurely tossed back into the real world.

Wasn't what I expected at all.

Having toured CNN headquarters last summer, I expected a watered down version—part propaganda, part politics, part control room demonstration. Maybe we would get to do one of those cool fake broadcasts, or deliver the weather, or film something. Although, the CNN tour wasn't exactly what I had expected either, but I did get a wave from one of their anchors...I've forgotten their names now.

But Cleshonda's words rang in my head as I walked back to my car following the field trip. I tried to formulate the beginning of an essay on the C-SPAN bus, but kept hearing my classmates conversations. For a long while, Aaron, and Elizabeth studied the outfit a girl was wearing (she must of gotten dressed with her eyes closed, but they gave her points for...effort). Aaron noted that our guide was definitely not camera ready. We all joked about Bush, discussed Jamaica, and laughed when our teacher asked the guide about fast food. I couldn't remember one small tidbit about C-SPAN, but I laughed all the way home.

God's Real-live Coconut

“Amy, stop. God told me to prophesy over you.” A rather bold statement, I know. Amy was in a very conservative bubble considering her Christianity, but was not opposed to things like prophecy and praying in tongues that man doesn’t understand. I was afraid that she wouldn’t have anything to do with hearing what I had to say, but I couldn’t help it. The Spirit was stirring inside of me and I had something to tell her.
I was walking her home from my house which was only about six houses away from hers. It was nighttime, and it was kind of awkward to just stop in the gutter on the side of the street and tell her that God spoke to me. I know I sounded eccentric.
“Okay,” was all she replied. Her tone was questioning, but not judgmental.
I took a deep breath and began to pray. I always get nervous when things like that happen, but every time I just step out and let it happen, no one involved is disappointed. The Spirit began to show me pictures, as is usually the case when He decides to speak through me. I stood with my eyes closed watching the images flash in my mind and praying that He would tell me what they meant. Sometimes they are not literal.
“God has already delivered you from something in your past and you have returned to it for comfort. He wants you to turn to Him and not to the same struggles that He has pulled you out of,” I said with a slight amount of confidence. I’m always afraid that I just make things up and God will smite me for pretending that it’s from Him.
Amy stared with a blank expression in her eyes and her mouth slightly open. “Do you know what it is?”
“Yes, but I don’t want you to be upset with me for knowing. You haven’t told me, so maybe you didn’t want me to know and I didn’t try to know, so if you don’t want me to acknowledge that I know, then I won’t.”
“Tell me.”
“God showed me an image of you in your closet cutting yourself. I didn’t actually see blood or a knife, but I knew that’s what was happening. My view was from behind you. You were on your knees but bent over close to the floor. I felt like your wrists were bleeding, but your stomach was actually what was being cut at the time. God wants you to know that you don’t have to hurt yourself just to feel something. You have known Him and you know that He can protect you from that. You know that He can fix whatever it is that’s driving you to cut yourself.”
“Eric, there is no way that you could have known that.”


This time I was attending a “house church” in Birmingham. The church that I attended while in school at UAB did not hold a conventional service on Sunday nights. Instead they had house churches where people who lived in a certain area went and brought food. The responsibility of feeding everyone was shifted every week, and the purpose was to discuss the previous morning’s sermon. I liked this concept because it wasn’t like most churches where you hear something once and you’re not really ever given a chance to ask questions.
The discussion was done. The leader took prayer requests as usual. He prayed the prayer that I had expected, but my body felt as did every time I knew God wanted something more to happen. I felt heavy and expectant and my heart rate sped up only slightly, but I didn’t say anything to the leader. When he was done praying, not one of the 15 people in the small apartment living room moved. No one even went for the food.
“I feel like we’re not done yet,” the leader announced non-chalantly.
“I feel the same way,” I shouted with conviction.
The leader continued, “Let’s pray a little more and see what happens.”
There were a few words given that I don’t recall. I know that a few people were ministered to. I only remember that God gave me something to say, and before I knew it, my mouth was moving.
“Someone in this room is holding back. You have something that you need to share, but you’re afraid to.”
Silence. Stillness.
Emerging timidly from the background one of the girls who had not been so shy during the night’s discussion spoke up. She explained that she had been experiencing some personal medical problems that could turn into more serious conditions. She did not explain the nature of the problems, just that she was having some tests done would like prayer for her health and for the doctors to know how to treat her.
Like any other Pentecostal church group, everyone immediately gathered around her to lay hands on her and pray. Those who couldn’t reach extended a hand in her direction. She was comforted by holding tightly the hand of a friend she had brought with her to visit our house church and they sat side-by-side on the coffee table because that was the closest to the center of the group that they could get.
I never closed my eyes during our prayer for her. I don’t remember ever touching her during the prayer. I remember praying for all the things that anyone would expect. I remember when everyone was done praying, they relaxed their arms and she lifted her head which had been bowed and opened her eyes only to look directly into mine.
I had to say it before I thought about it too much, “I believe God would have you to know that whatever this condition is, it is not a punishment for your past. Your sins have been forgiven and this is in no way indicates God’s love for you or the amount of forgiveness you have received.”
Before I really knew what happened she began wailing. She melted into the friend who had come as a visitor and sobbed uncontrollably, snot and tears everywhere. The friend wrapped her arms around her and told her it would be okay as apologies and comforting words were racing through my head but not coming out because I had not expected that reaction at all. I thought I had just emotionally devastated her.
“We were praying for confirmation about that,” the friend explained. “These are tears of joy.”
“Oh, good.” I felt my face relax and the panicked expression fade. My heart began to slow, and breath returned to my lungs.


The members of the church that I visited in Bahia Solano, Columbia, live very primitively when compared to my luxurious American life. They raise chickens, fish, and knock coconuts from trees for food. I believe the way they utilize the coconut is very creative. They chop it up, grind it into a fine powder, and mix it with rice. It’s served in a small pile or mixed in with soup which is flavored with some sort of leaf and has a whole fish in the bowl.
This might sound appetizing to some. I, on the other hand, loathe the thought of coconut flavor. It makes me cringe on the inside to think about it, and the only food I hate worse than coconut would be the onion because it taste the same way that body odor smells. Coconut flavored anything leaves my mouth feeling dry and the bitter taste lingers on much longer than any taste is welcome to. I find nothing enjoyable about coconut.
When we approached the front of the church, there was an elderly woman outside working on a fresh coconut. I thought about how glad I was that didn’t have to endure that taste on a regular basis. Immediately after that thought, she offered a small piece of the coconut to me to eat as a welcoming gesture. She tried to communicate with me in Spanish, but I quickly explained, “No habla espanol.” (being the ignorant American that I was, I didn’t know that it was supposed to be hablo.)
I accepted the piece of coconut because I had been taught that when on a mission trip, you do not refuse the food of a native. If you are not hungry, if it looks gross, if you know it’s something you won’t like, you take it anyway and deal with it. I smiled and secretly thought, “I’m doing this for Jesus, I’m doing this for Jesus.” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and popped it in my mouth before I could think about it.
The ugly, brown outside part was kind of grainy, but not bad. The white part was AMAZING! I had braced myself for a terrible flavor, but it was not only one I had not expected, but the exact opposite. It tasted crisp and crunchy. It made my mouth feel clean. Oddly, it was similar to the feeling I have after brushing my teeth.
So what was the difference? God’s real-live coconut was actually pretty good. All I had to do was try the real thing. It made me think about God Himself. About how many times I had been hurt by the church or by leadership of a particular church. About all the evangelists on television that offer a vile of healing water and manipulate every last penny out of little old ladies who send in their last cent. I remembered all the stories about hidden sexual sins within the clergy and even the protestant pastors.
The God that I had gotten through these people was just like the coconut I had always gotten in America. He left a bitter taste in my mouth at times and I used to loathe the thought of what the He stood for and the flavor of affliction that He brought to the world before I actually took time to get to know Him. I would say that a large portion of the world looks upon the Christian God with such disdain as a result of corrupt pastors and people who are only trying to earn the prestige and the money with His name. He is often looked at as wrathful, vengeful, and even hateful at times. Why does a good person suffer from starvation and sickness while the corrupt pastor is living it up in one of his houses in Beverly Hills?
I don’t have the answer to that. I do know that God is actually more like Columbian coconut. The real-live, unhindered, non-processed God is so much more than power in Pat Robertson’s prayer cloth, or the anointing in a bottle of oil purchased from TBN. The sad truth is that a lot of people will never know, or care to know, the real-live coconut version of God.
I also know that if God didn’t love the people he created, he never would have spoken to me to speak to those girls. He would have let Amy go on cutting herself, never hearing from Him, and suffering in her confusion. The girl in Birmingham would have gone on with feelings of condemnation and self-pity and guilt because she would have blamed herself. He spoke to them out of love and concern for them, not wrath or judgment.
I’ve recently heard a song by John Mark McMillan that speaks of God’s love for us. He says, “Heaven meets Earth with a sloppy wet kiss and my heart turns violently inside of my chest and I don’t have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way He loves us.” I know God. At least I think I do. And I know that I would never eat American coconut ever again, even if I had liked it before.

Adventures at Planet Fitness

Two-hundred and thirty-one pounds. That’s not right. I should try this again. I reset the scale, sliding the weights all the way to the left and stepped off. I took a deep breath and stepped back on only to see the same result: two-hundred and thirty-one pounds. It makes me wonder if the scale is broken in order to manipulate people into thinking they really need Planet Fitness because that’s about 11 pounds heavier than my scale at home.
No matter. I was still enjoying the place. During the tour, the guide mentioned about, oh, 600 times that Planet Fitness DOES NOT cater to body-builders. The list of rules was quite extensive. Not only do they have normal dress-code rules about what could or could not be worn while exercising, the regulate sounds, too. No grunting, no dropping weights, no cussing, or you will be embarrassed by the “lunk alarm” and possibly have your membership canceled.
I think I like this extremist approach. That way I’m less likely to be laughed at when I go to work out. Unless someone like Bruce Alford happens to be there. He thought it was quite hysterical when I was trying to figure out one of the machines. I assumed it was something you used to work your abs, but as I was demonstrating for Cleshonda, Mr. Alford appeared trying to stifle a laugh. He didn’t do a very good job. Apparently the machine is intended to work out the lower back. Therefore, I was on the machine backwards. Yes, yes, it was quite funny.
After the ab/back machine, we moved to the free-weights. I volunteered to bench press, expecting to undergo more humiliation. I am not a fit person, nor do I believe that I have impressive upper body strength. In fact, I view myself as physically weak person. Mr. Alford proceeded to place the weights on the bar, and I almost hyperventilated: “DEAR GOD, I’m can’t lift that!”
His head moved backward a little, his eyebrows wrinkled and his eyes got bigger and shot back and forth. “What? This isn’t even that much.”
I thought, “So the humiliation will be worse that I thought.”
I said, “Oh, okay. As long as you spot me.”
It wasn’t as heavy as I anticipated. I underestimated myself. That’s good. Maybe I can do this.
Despite the rules and the slight embarrassment, I really liked the place. In fact, I purchased a membership. I have been inspired to get healthy. For ten bucks a month, what do I have to lose? I’ll just stay away from the free-weights just in case.

Side Effects

I witnessed my death three times. I was there, the moment my mind left my body and searched the air to come back in. I waited 11 years to construct the story.

When my father met my mother, he thought she was “eccentric.” She had an untamed afro, and long curly nails. She had just finished a few years of college at Xavier and AU. It was the summertime.

She was then, as she is now, a little headstrong, much too confident and brave. She maced a couple of men in New Orleans, and proclaimed to the New York relatives that she was going to explore Harlem to “get in touch with her roots.”

“You're going to end up getting stabbed,” they said. My father was the same, after serving in Vietnam, and returning home to find his “crew” shotting up heroine. “That was the day I left them,” he said. He got straight, clean, married, divorced. He never proposed to my mother, but they just “agreed” to get married. They wed without fanfare in a small courthouse and I came shortly after. Fathers job at Exxon moved him to Leigh Acres Florida, a small retirement community, small enough to have town hall meetings and town carnivals.

In pre-school a guest speaker came to my class. We gathered in a circle around the classroom rug. We faced the windows and I could see another typical Florida creek.

“What do strangers look like?” asked our guest speaker. She was blonde, outfitted in 80s garb. Massive shoulder pads hid beneath a blue suit on her small frame. She spoke with an artificial diction.

I rose my hand.

“Strangers wear all black, and they hide in the bushes wearing a mask,” I took both of my tiny hands and drew them across my face.

“No,” our speaker said. “Strangers look just like you and me. A stranger is anyone you don't know.” She widened her eyes. “A stranger is anyone you don't know.”
My mother had given me similar lessons, long drills on safety in the afternoons. I came home that day and told her what had happened.

“Ariel!” she said. “You know I've taught you that before.” And she had. She taught me my address, my phone number, how to scream when someone grabs you and how to page her if I ever got lost at the grocery. My sister and I also learned how to cross the street, swim, how to turn down unhealthy food politely, and mother made a song to teach us about the alligators.

When I drove twelve hours to Pensacola, Florida I was confronted with monsters. As a child strangers were always the enemy. But sometimes it's not the strangers at all.

My grandmothers house sits by the interstate and a gulf. It's peeling pink paint and covered in weeds. Seven of her nine children still live at the house. They have become drug addicts, they float in and out of jail performing sexual acts for bags of cocaine. My grandfather, the alcoholic, was like a dragon. He sat all day in the darkest corner of the darkest room, in an easy chair smoking cigarettes. You could only see the glowing ember of his cigarette in the dark, and the smoke floating over him like a hologram. His voice was always muddled like Louis Armstrong.

I was five on this trip, and it would be the first time that I died. I do not remember the season, the weather, or the drive there and back. But I do remember the sounds--”Love and Marriage” on a TV set, blue sheets covering a pair of bunk beds, the wood paneling and burglar bars, and inability to speak, to know that I could speak. I was wearing red polka dotted shorts with buttons shaped like strawberries and a white button down shirt. My sister was gone, and my parents gone too, I was all alone with a cousin five years older, ten or more.

“Don't tell anyone,” he said sternly, and I nodded, being more fearful than I had ever been. “Or I'll burn your house down.”


The next morning my eyes followed the flower print pattern wallpaper in my grandmothers bathroom. My sister sat on the toilet in a towel, and my mother stood drawing a bath. I found myself nervous and stammering for days, and even on that morning. I struggled to paint a picture of the happenings to my mother, requesting to talk to her in private.

“Later,” she said. She ordered me to sit on the couch and my cousin was there, with his arm slung over the back of the sofa. I glanced at him, he was so threateningly close to me.

“What?” he said. I was starring but I hadn't noticed. I said nothing. “What?”

The tale was old news the next day, as we pulled out of Pensacola. We would never be back until years later. I would keep it a secret, and thankfully the monsters of that house would be 11 hours away.

Two years passed, and I attempted again to explain to my mother the event of my death. Frequently, we stood in my pale pink room, and she extracted my strawberry shorts from the closet.

“Do you want to wear these? Why don't you wear these anymore, they used to be your favorite shorts,” she would say. I would hang my head silently and say nothing.

In those days, and still, I turned my head from the TV when “Love and Marriage” came on, and my heart would sink when his mother called on the phone and spoke to me.

“Hello Jennifer,” I would say.

“Aunt Jennifer,” she emphasized.

I began to have night terrors. Ants consumed me in my sleep, a large green bird in a cage turned into a spider. We lived in a split plan house then, and when I ran to my parents room, I jumped over translucent hurdles and road blocks near potholes. Years later I would speak to a psychologist who would tell me that night terrors were common in sufferers of childhood sexual abuse.

One night I screamed so much, the whole family sat in the master bedroom by my side. I couldn't separate dream from reality.

When I was seven, father was relocated to Mobile, Alabama.

“It's only an hour from Pensacola,” she said. “We can go there any time now.” I saw my cousin twice a month. He had grown. He liked baseball and the “Malcom X” film. He acted as though nothing happened.

My parents would abandon my sister and I with him in the dragons cave. I focused my attention on protecting my sister— and felt the stress of the possibility of her death. I sat by the door when she used the bathroom and would not let him sit next to her on the couch.

A photograph was taken that Christmas, when I wore a red poofy dress, frilly socks and paten leather shoes. I stood by the sofa in the cave, which is unusually bright because the door is left open. I am facing my sister protectively, and my cousin stands beside me, looking at my body with a predatory stare.

Planet Fitness - Respond Under This Post

from Hallucinations to Recovery

The ceiling fan is completely motionless. It’s the focal point of an almost pitch-black room. I focus on the small islands of dust that have gathered on the outstretched blades and wonder how long it’s been since it’s even been turned on. I haven’t stayed here in months. I want to close my eyes but I feel a presence in the room. Random noises fuel my curiosity and fear. I can’t help but pull the oversized comforter all the way up to my nose, barely peaking over the edge into the darkness.

A dim light from an old computer shines on the ceiling fan. There’s nothing that could possibly be current on the computer, but Dad still keeps it plugged in, just in case he ever wants to look for something he’s misplaced in files he’s forgotten the names to. My whole body is itching so bad that I can’t help but do full body scratches every 30 seconds. The computer screen suddenly turns on, and I find myself scurrying to the head of the bed against the wall.

“You didn’t deserve it. You know that right?”

It’s Momma’s voice, but where is she? I swear if I weren’t so constipated from the pills, I would shit myself right now. I hear the phrase again as I notice the light from the computer screen growing. It is slowly illuminating the entire room and the phrase is on repeat, echoing into oblivion. I can’t make it stop and I feel like my head is going to explode. It grows so loud that I can’t even hear myself think.

“STOP IT!!!!!!!!!!”

I notice my jaw is hurting from being tightly clenched. The feeling of rushing blood makes my face tingle as the wrinkles unfold and the color reenters the creases beneath my eyes. The room is still illuminated by the light from the computer, but it is filled with an eerie silence. I notice the french doors are open. It’s freezing outside and I can feel a damp wind. These doors haven’t been unlocked in years. Why isn’t the alarm going off? Maybe the censor has shorted out.

I fold the covers back and realize that my dog is no longer snoring beside me. Great. He’s my false sense of security, as if a 13-pound dog is going to guard me from any impending doom. Maybe he will sniff ‘em out and growl or something, I don’t know. He probably ran outside to pee. He might have gotten another drink of water before scratching on my door. Momma said he missed sleeping in the bed with me. Better go outside and call him.

“Elvis! Elvis, come here boy!”

Nothing. He never comes when he thinks he’s in trouble. I finally see him trot out from behind the shed in the backyard and I immediately feel a sense of relief; a flush and chill from head to toe. Instead of coming straight to the part of the back porch that leads into my room, he takes the stairs and sits attentively at my side as if to say, “All done.” I turn to walk back into the French doors but they are closed. Locked.

I look down to find that Elvis is no longer by my side and I feel my heart pounding. It’s beating so hard that my vision is blurred with every pump. At the end of the porch, where the dog came up the stairs, there are six demons staring straight through me with blood-red eyes. They’ve come to kill me. They want to finish the job. They’ve found me. How did they find me out here? My legs won’t move fast enough and I am crying. I don’t want to die. There’s so much I still want to do, and they are so close now. My lungs hurt with every cold breath and blood curdles from the inside of my throat as I fail at repeated attempts to scream. I feel twelve hands stop me in my tracks and I fall limp in their grasp. I pray that it will be as painless as before.

“Please. Knock me unconscious. Please? Don’t make me watch.”

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!” I hate it when Dad wakes me up. He’s always in such a great damn mood in the morning. He’s always in such a great damn mood in the morning. “I called Dr. Halbrook and he said he would see you as soon as we get there, so hurry up and jump in the shower. Here. I came in earlier and saw that your nose bled again last night. It’s all over your face boy. Momma’s gonna want to change that pillow case.”

“Thanks Dad. D’you get in touch with the lawyers?”

“I talked to Scott and he wants you to find out everything you can about what happened that night before we do anything else. You need to sit down and write it out on a timeline. Call Shawn, he’s the key. Scott really wants to help, but until you find out what happened, his hands are pretty much completely tied. Just get in the shower so we can get your teeth looked at, and we’ll see where we can go from there.”

This bathroom hasn’t changed a bit. My shampoo is in the same cabinet as before. Same brand. I look at my face in the mirror, carefully examining the bruises. I can’t believe those pieces of shit jumped me for no reason. My tongue is so swollen I can barely talk. I’m lucky. If my overbite weren’t so bad I would’ve bitten the damn thing straight off. I play with my nose for a bit to see if the swelling has gone down enough to set it back in place. No luck. The cartilage still floats on an underground river of puss and blood. I’ll never look the same again. It’s been eight hours since my last hydrocodone and it’s definitely time. I can tell it’s time for another pill when my jaw and teeth start hurting. Eight broken and chipped teeth are highly sensitive. I take the pill and drink some water through a straw. I have to bypass the pain somehow. The shower feels great as I wait for the pills to set in. Every time I’ve washed my hair for the past two days, I’ve started with too much shampoo. I forget that I had to cut my hair to keep my attackers from recognizing me. I finish rinsing off and the drain is stopped up. There’s a puddle of blood. What in the world did I do to deserve this? How much of my blood is even left?

The dentist’s office is filled with kids and their moms. I’m so tired of people staring at me. Believe me, you don’t really want to know what happened. I don’t want your kids to know how scary the world can be. Not yet. The constant sound of a drill grinding at teeth is driving me crazy. The world is fuzzy and all I want to do is sleep. If only I could. Hydrocodones change me. I feel the urge to do something, anything. There is a bathroom in the corner of the room. I can get a small break in there.

There’s nothing special about this bathroom. Some kid probably just finished brushing his teeth in here. The toilet paper is completely unrolled into the wastebasket. I can remember having to brush my teeth here before every visit. I haven’t had my teeth checked in a while. Maybe this will be a good opportunity to fix some cavities. I sit down on the toilet and look through my phone. Seventeen missed calls. I hope they understand. I’m not ready to talk. I’m too angry to speak with a clear mind right now.

I stand up and walk to the mirror. My left eye is almost completely swollen shut. I’m still mad at those doctors for not even giving me ice. What the hell are they there for anyway? I get sent home with a shot in the ass and they suggest Motrin for pain. Motrin for a broken freakin nose and eight chipped teeth. Maybe I should go to medical school. I can tell people to take Motrin.

I squirt some soap into my hands and reach for the faucet, but the water starts on its own. I look back up to see that my eyes are bleeding.

“You didn’t deserve it. You know that right?”

Get me out of here. The water pouring from the faucet is turning to blood and I can’t see my reflection in the mirror anymore. My feet seem to be stuck to the floor. It’s these damn shoes. I hate them. Why is that phrase repeating over and over?

“Stop it Momma! I can hear you! I heard you before, stop!”

My feet are finally free and I make a mad dash for the door, but when I open it, everything is different. The waiting room has changed. It’s much bigger now and there’s no one sitting in the chairs. Where did my family go?

“Dad? Dad!!”

What the hell is going on? The doors to the examination room swing open and there they are: six huge demons with blood-red eyes.

“Why are you here? All I want to do is get my teeth fixed. Why do you want to hurt me again?” No answer. I can’t stop crying and my jaw hurts. I can feel my heart beating in the cracks of my broken nose. There’s nowhere to run this time. They know it. They’re just walking toward me.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!”

I turn back around to run into the bathroom. Maybe there is a lock on the door. I turn the handle but it won’t open. It’s locked from the other side. I start pounding on the door and screaming. There’s blood everywhere. Suddenly the door opens and it’s my best friend.

“Shawn. They’re back. They keep coming after me man; they want to finish me off. Help! Help me! They’re afraid of you.”

“Kennon, seriously, it’s alright brodie. You just have to run straight at them. You have to show them you’re not afraid.”

“I can’t man. I didn’t even see them coming when they got me the first time. Why is this happening to me? Why did any of this ever happen to me? They want to kill me.”

“Alright, calm down. I’ve gotcha. Stay here.”

“But what are you gonn…”

“Stay here!”

He disappears around the corner with a broad sword drawn. Where in the hell did Shawn get a broad sword? My head is hurting so bad. I don’t understand. Those demons didn’t have swords, but shit they were big. Blood is spilling over the tiles in front of me. I can hear Shawn grunting with each stroke of the sword. I drop to the ground and curl up into a small ball. If I close my eyes they can’t see me. If I close my eyes they can’t see me.

“Kennon. It’s ok they’re all dead. Come on out and see. Kennon? Kennon!”


“Kennon! Wake up bud. They’re calling you.” Dad is peering at me over the top of his glasses. I must have fallen asleep in the waiting room.

“Do you want me to go back with you?” Momma’s been working on a smock outfit for my nephew. She’s so cute. She’s really getting into this whole grandma thing.

“No Momma I’m good. You can stay out here.”

“Well just go on back and we’ll come back there in a little bit. Remember to ask about your jaw. If your molars aren’t lining up, there might be something wrong besides the swelling.”

“I’ll ask him. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

Kennon's Get Well

McDonald's Field Trip - Respond Under this post

Memory is about choice.

The act of it should be precise, like cutting the tip of your thumb with a pocketknife and saying “Remember this!”

The redder it is, the better you remember. The trick to remembering is finding the emergency in any situation, to look past the window as clear as a stream, to see the war outside, to see the signs of the picketers outside as crude weapons, pieces of wood with nails that say “No” to the Starbucks. They don’t want the Starbucks here that’s been built beside the McDonald’s Restaurant where I sit.

There is blood there: the signs lettering written with bold red markers.

On the surface, nothing seems to happen here. And if I wanted it to be so, that’s all I would remember: nothing.

My mind would be as clean as this McDonald’s Restaurant—like we imagine heaven might be. I would remember nothing if I only sat waiting for something to happen.

Someone decides to do something—I admit I wasn’t paying strict attention. One of my creative nonfiction students, Elizabeth, and perhaps another gets up and goes to the nostalgic jukebox that sits next to the wall behind us. It doesn’t work. Nothing.

Nothing moves like a glacier. The greatest emergency no one sees, bowdlerizing everything in its path. That is what the picketers outside are afraid of, but they can’t see that the movement has begun. The franchise, like a juggernaut moves eastward, toward China.

I see that my students in this creative nonfiction class are bunched together—defending themselves from barbarians: the woman with her hair shorn like a field of milkweed, the Mafioso with black leather jackets and slick hair. The Spanish girl saying “queso … mesa.”

I realize that soon my students will all be dead. Killed—bored to death. So I say, why don’t you go sit there or there or there. They say they are scared.

So I stand. I decide to look for emergences, conflict. I ask the girl at the counter how much for a cup of water. “Twenty-five cents,” she says. She reads the expression on my face. It says, ‘for a cup of water?’ Her face says ‘ridiculous ain’t it.’

She hands me a cup and whispers “Don’t worry about it.”

We are conspirators.

After I’ve gotten my ice water, I sit near a door away from the students behind a couple. I notice the man has a bad rash under his beard. He bites into a cow’s fetus, belly, cysts, cancers. I shake my head.

They know just what to do—to get people here. They give the children dolls. They put them on the walls. It’s a way of hiding the dangerous things here.

Listening to the monotonous voices, I concentrate on this moment. Then I see it. Hierarchy. Race. Gender. Ageism. Those who come in direct contact with customers are both young, female and white: the one at the drive-thru window, dressed in a clean t-shirt, the one at the register that gave me the water.

The ones in the back, the ones that sweep and wipe and clean, are all, as we have been taught to say, African-Americans.

A woman pulls an old blue Chevy up to the curb right outside the window where I sit next to the door. She waits for her order. She waits and waits. Finally she has had enough, she gets out of the car, slams the car door and throws open the door to the restaurant. Her mouth is poked out, her infected black mouth, her face is paper thin white. I think she’s been putting up with indignities all her life.

She walks in her heels stomping the floor. She’s angry but restrained. She says where’s her order. She’s been waiting for a long time.

“Oh, I’m sorry miss,” says one of the workers. Someone else gets the woman’s bag and hands it to her. “We apologize for your wait,” she says. The woman takes the bag, stomps back out, gets into her car and drives away.

There are other emergencies. A lost purse. A woman blocking the drive-thru, the angry young woman behind her who shakes her head. The man with the rolling pink stomach who doesn’t have long to live.

The next day, in class, Eric says, "Can we go somewhere more interesting on our next field trip. Nothing happened there."