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.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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
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.
Friday, April 6, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
........................................................................................................
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.
..................................................................................................................
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.
..................................................................................................
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.
...................................................................................................
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.
..............................................................................................
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.
..........................................................................................
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.
.........................................................................................
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.
..........................................................................................
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.
...........................................................................................
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.
....................................................................................
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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