http://jademaze.com/news.html Jade Maze: Book Jannis' PHPRss class - http://www.jannis.to/ Fri, 18 May 2012 01:04:50 -0700 http://jademaze.com/news.html#17


Chapter 10- Liar, Liar


As I reached the door to Cable Channel Six, instead of turning left and entering the building, I walked past it. It felt, literally, like there were hands at my back pushing me forward. The hands were strong; the grip, firm. Immediately, I surrendered to their authority and felt a great sense of relief—an almost ecstatic bliss.



I suppose this was the “something I had to do.” I was embarking on a journey, destination unknown, and felt incredibly lighthearted at the prospect.



I took a right onto Thompson Blvd. All I could feel was the rain on my face. There was no sensation in my arms or legs. Wow, was I excited! Newfound bravery and strength pulsated through my veins. My stride became purposeful and rhythmic. I was into this, truly enthusiastic for the first time in a long time. I walked about forty minutes from Thompson to Telephone Rd. Hesitating there, I turned left on Telephone, as if compelled. This was the route to Dave’s house. A horn sounded.



“Do you want a ride?”



It was David’s mother of all people.



Her sudden presence shook me up. I didn’t want to deal with her, or be stopped, or have to explain myself. I couldn’t allow her to take me back to Ma. I didn’t want to have to come out of this powerful, purposeful state of inspiration I was in. To maintain a sense of normalcy, I hopped in her car my brain scrambling for ways to get rid of her.



She started saying how sorry she was for Dave and I—that he told her we had broken up. I started crying. She took me to lunch. Most of what she said went in one ear and out the other. I was crying through the whole meal, not for Dave, but because I was afraid of being stopped, and I didn’t want to tell her anything.



“I understand how upset you must be about breaking up with my son. You’ll get over it, sweetheart. You just need some time. I know he was your first real boyfriend and how special that must’ve been. He did the best he could.”



This was great! I didn’t have to say a thing. I just sat there and played with my food shedding alligator tears to reinforce my incoherence until she felt she had done her duty.



“Where were you headed anyway? I’ll give you a lift.”



Time to stop crying. I needed to be clear. “Just going up to the mall—Ventura Mall.”



She didn’t believe me and wanted to take me home. My fear, again, gave me the tools needed to finally convince her otherwise. "Shopping would distract me from my sadness”¦it was my way of reaffirming that I was worthwhile”¦it would help me stop crying, and I needed to do that for at least an hour or two." With a knowing nod and a sympathetic squeeze of the hand, she started the car and took me to the mall. I watched her drive away, a self-satisfied smile playing across her lips; her work was done here”¦



”¦and so was mine. Yay! I was free. I hadn’t been stopped!



It was cold now. So what? I was on my way. Not wanting to risk anymore chance obstacles, I stood at the freeway entrance ramp and stuck my thumb out. Los Angeles became my immediate goal.



A decrepit looking, turquoise, Dodge van pulled to a stop. I could feel the heat and smell the mingled odors of sea salt, sweat, and reefer as the door opened. It was full of long haired, surfer/hippy boy-men in their twenties. Intuition told me they were harmless enough, and I felt adventurous, so I got in.



Conversation was at a minimum. They were totally loaded. Five minutes passed, and they still weren’t talking; they were, however, looking at me very intensely and sexually. Unnerved, I asked to be let out because I wanted to go shopping.



They asked me if I wanted some pot or booze.This inspired me to judge the olive colored shag carpet on the floor. Olive and turquoise do NOT match. Nervously, with a little shake in my voice I said, “I just want to go shopping. That’s all (nervous laughter).”



The hard edge broke, and I could feel the change in their attitude. I think they realized I was a scared, little girl even though I was five foot-ten and fully developed. Laughing, they took the next exit and dropped me off, unscathed, at the Esplanade Mall in Oxnard.



I made a mental note to be a little more cautious. It was very clear in my mind that as a young female wandering off to wherever, I needed to be wary of men; nonetheless, I, being your typical know-it-all teenager, thought I was a pretty good judge of character. After all, hadn’t I just handled those guys? I felt triumphant and powerful as I exited the van. I had won a battle. Actually, two battles if you counted Dave’s mother. I considered myself to be very mature and wise—jaded no less.



Reality took over as my feet hit the pavement. It was cold outside and still raining. No coat”¦no money”¦I was getting chilled to the bone and decided to go into the mall for a while. See? Even my cover story had been wise. My subconscious had made the best choice. Where else can you walk around for hours on end without causing suspicion? Was I on top of things, or what?



I wished I "could" go shopping. Well, at least there was window shopping to be had. I remember feeling physically happy—superlatively slinky, agile and light as I browsed the racks of clothing. Another mission accomplished.



Starting to relax because I was far enough away from home now, I thoroughly enjoyed my window shopping expedition. Ma couldn’t find me here for quite a while. I had no plans, no goals... I was just free. I could let my guard down, I wasn’t even sad about Dave. Yay!



The bliss of liberty was fleeting. Being carefree was a new and, therefore, stressful experience for me. An edginess slowly started taking me over. I wanted to be in Los Angeles, damnit! I left the mall and headed towards the nearest freeway entrance sticking out my thumb.



It was five in the, evening. The sky was darkening and the rain was coming down harder. But, I was no longer cold. I did not feel the weather. All I felt was good about myself and purpose driven now that I was, once again, in motion. Onward to L.A.



A couple cars stopped. My instincts told me not to get in, so I didn’t. Finally, a fortyish looking man stopped with his ten-year-old daughter. They were happy looking people. I hopped in the car without a second thought. It was a fun ride. They hadn’t seen each other in a long while. Their energy was upbeat and boisterous. I happily and thankfully joined in all the merriment.



This is the exact point in time when my constant lying began. I had entered such a happy scene. I didn’t want to be a downer or feel the strangeness of my situation. I wanted to imbibe in their infectious joy and add to it if possible.



They asked me where I was headed. I made up a dramatic story about having some kind of musical opportunity in L.A, the audition of a lifetime, and that my ride had canceled on me at the last minute, and how it was do or die, so I had to get there no matter what. They thought this was great and kept asking me for details. Within fifteen minutes, I had created an exciting adventure of a lie, which was so convincing, I believed it, myself, the whole time I was telling it. It did not feel like a lie. It felt exhilarating. The little girl was looking at me with stars in her eyes and the man was so enthusiastic and supportive. I loved all of this happiness and adoration.



They took me as far as they were going and sent me on my way with congratulations, good luck wishes and smiles. I was feeling ten feet tall as I watched them drive off in there little pod of joy.



Feet on the pavement equaled my bubble quick1y bursting. It was now fully dark, and the rain was falling even harder. The freeway was safer than this unknown neighborhood. I left the gas station they had dropped me off at and went back up the freeway entrance ramp very aware of the fact that I was nowhere near Los Angeles.



The night scared me. I was shaking from the cold, but I didn’t feel cold. Perhaps I was shaking from the dark. I walked along the freeway shoulder for a while but the slow pace made everything seem nebulous, as if I were going nowhere. More fearful of hitch hiking in the dark, I struggled with my caution as I plodded along leaning into the night. After an hour or so, my night anxiety prompted a decision. It was time to take a risk, so I halfheartedly stuck my thumb out.



Instantly, a black Camaro pulled over. In it was a macho, mustached Hispanic man looking self-consciously cool in his black leather jacket. I knew right off the bat that he would make a pass at me, but something told me he was okay. I got in.



He asked me my name. I made one up. He asked me why I was hitch hiking in the middle of the freeway in the dark. I made up some story about my boyfriend and me fighting, and him kicking me out of the car on the freeway.



It never ceased to boggle my mind how every time I made up a story, it felt very authentic as I told it. I didn’t miss a beat. The whole tale would just roll off my tongue feeling like and ringing of truth. I would have the emotions around it, too. As I was describing this fictional boyfriend, I started to experience real anger, pain, and despair. It was an amazing phenomenon.



The pass I had anticipated started to manifest within the first five minutes.



“You have beautiful eyes, beautiful skin. I love your body. You must have beautiful thighs. I want to love your beautiful body and make you feel better.”



While he was talking he kept alternately rubbing my cheek and thigh. At first, I was paralyzed. Part of me was fearful, but the other part of me was curious and flattered. I was, again, getting so much attention. I liked being told I was beautiful and sexy by a grown man.



He asked, “Have you ever had a man want to please you? I want to make you feel good.”



Somewhere along the line, he pulled off the freeway and stopped the car. He started kissing me—long, deep sexual feeling kisses. The curiosity was gone. I was frightened.



An innate protective measure kicked in. I knew not to fight or say, “Please, don’t.” I started crying and begging with my eyes for him to stop. He stopped abruptly, his pride utterly wounded.



“You don’t want my loving?”



“No.”



He looked at me with stunned disbelief and sped back onto the freeway, tires squealing from the sudden acceleration, mumbling to himself, “What am I supposed to do with her? I can’t just drop her on the street... can’t make love... (something in Spanish),” and yelling at me, “Why did I ever pick you up! Now I have to worry!”



He turned the music up so it was blasting. I felt so bad, so guilty, and so very much in the wrong. I had told a bunch of lies, given this man mixed messages, been trying to act grown up, and I had not been able to handle it. I felt worthless”¦like a complete loser. I asked him to let me out. He refused to and told me to shut up. Shame usurped my fear. I needed to get away from him because his presence magnified that shame to an intolerable degree.



We traveled without talking for a while. After a nerve-wracking twenty minutes, he turned the music back to a normal level. He looked at me, and I could see the anger had left his eyes, that everything was okay again. He made small talk. I gladly chattered away pleased that I had been forgiven.



I was so grateful when we hit L.A. almost daring to reenter my former know-it-all status. After all, my goal had been LA, and here we were. Hah! Señor Amor drove me to the vicinity of the Greyhound bus station. There were several cheap, sleazy motels stacked in a row down one street perpendicular to the main thoroughfare. They looked dirty and threatening. And the people in the doorways appeared despondent and hostile. He pulled up in front of one of the buildings.



“I’ll get you a cheap room,” he said. He went in leaving me in the car. After a few minutes, he came back to escort me in.



The place was strange in an otherworldly way, veiled by a dull, gauzy aura. It reeked of urine and cigarettes. There were lots of people listlessly standing about or leaning on the staircase cutting ghostly figures. They were all poor and black. Their clothes were dirty, torn, hair was a mess, alcohol and cigarettes were everywhere...



I was not welcome. The men looked at me with lust and contempt. The women looked at me with unmasked hatred. No one said a word. I was inundated with an intimidating, hostile silence.



As we warily maneuvered the stairs, I became keenly aware of how huge the contrast was between me and this environment. I seemed so neat and clean in comparison, both physically and spiritually, kind of saintly or something. This surprised me. Fear and fascination played equal parts as I took in the scene.



We entered my seven-dollar room. The light was incredibly bright emanating a high pitched buzz. It must have been a hundred-fifty watt bulb or more. There was a bed with an old, stained, sheetless mattress and a sink—no chair, no table, nothing but starkness. The oversized window was stuck wide open. Neither of us could get it closed. It was freezing in there, the mix of bright light and cold air making the atmosphere seem two-dimensional, like a photograph.



Señor Amor had sex on the brain again. He started trying to fondle me and kiss me. Now, I understood how to make him stop. My brain said with confidence, “I play dead equals he stops.” The word “no” was taboo with this man. It would’ve turned him on in this environment; however, my mental state was complicated by the fact that I couldn’t possibly say no, even if I had to. I would’ve been guilt ridden if I verbalized my unwillingness. My logic went thusly: he got me a room and drove me to L.A.; therefore, I do not have the right to refuse him. Regardless, I became a rag doll not responding on any level. As planned, my silent indifference offended him, and he quickly lost interest.



Instead, he opted to vent for an hour about his wife and family. He said she was nice but not beautiful or exotic like I—that she had lost her figure and was always yelling at him.



I remained silent throughout his complaints. What could I say? I was past feeling flattered. Cold, hungry, sleepy and anxious, I wanted nothing more than to be left alone but was afraid to be left alone, there, in that motel. I couldn’t decide what would be worse, him leaving or staying. Finally, he got tired of bitching about his life and left saying he would return.



When he left, I became very jumpy. I was afraid of the night, the cold, the open window... I heard people arguing and screaming at each other down the hall. Every now and then, the man verbally attacking someone with his unending onslaught of profanity would hit the wall for emphasis. It sounded like he was right there in the room with me. The walls were so thin. Yes, I became very jumpy and wide awake. I sat on the bed in constant anticipation of someone breaking in and hurting me.



Señor Amor came back with a blanket. He made one last attempt at getting laid. This time he was frustrated with me and half jokingly scolded me for being so selfish and such an unappreciative taker. He looked around the room gesturing with his hands.



“You didn’t even say thank you!” He laughed as I cringed with guilt. “Relax. I’m just kidding.”



It was too late. I had already taken all he said to heart, the kid in me at last coming fully to the surface. I started to cry and apologize over and over again.



“Stop being silly. I’ll be back in the morning.”



He left.



I didn’t sleep all night. I was in a strange physical and mental state, afraid to move, or think, or do anything. I sat on the bed in the same cross-legged position all night with an empty mind. The only thing I was aware of was every single noise and my fear. The bright light made everything seem surreal, like I was looking straight into the sun in the middle of the night. The bright light and the gloom and misery of this place just didn’t jive together at all. I didn’t dare turn out the light.]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#17 Sun, 27 Mar 2011 00:00:00 -0700 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#16


Chapter 9 - Enter and Break



What an obvious solution! It took me approximately one month to get going full force. At first, I was afraid to make myself throw up. I thought it would hurt and that I would feel nauseous, as if I had the flu. Starvation was far more attractive, but it was impossible for me not to eat.



Then it happened. We had spaghetti for dinner one night, and I ate entirely too much. My tummy was stretched tighter than tight; I felt unbearably heavy and grotesque. Now was the time. I told Ma and Sis that I was going to take a bath, and went into the bathroom, locked the door, ran the water, bent over the toilet and stuck my fingers down my throat.



It was terrible! Most of the food came out of my mouth, but some noodles and meat went up my nose. It hurt. I was coughing and hacking, my nostrils burning, a horrible, acrid taste in my mouth. What a ridiculous, self-imposed ordeal! My fingernails were scratching the back of my throat. My stomach contracted so hard I didn't think it would ever relax. There was spaghetti sauce and chunks of ground beef spattered on the wall, toilet and floor. Unbelievably, no one heard me. I cleaned everything up and got in the tub thinking, "I'll never do that again."



My throat still hurt the next morning. Curious, I got on the scale and, wow! I'd lost a whole pound and a half! I was impressed. Success was mine all day. I was snug and smug inside my clever little secret.



The weight came back on over the next few days. Desperation convinced me to try throwing up again. This time it was pancakes.



This time, it was no problem. One big glob of food came out in a matter of seconds—no fuss, no muss, no pain, and no noise.



Sold! All I had to do was figure out what to eat. If I had spaghetti for dinner, then tons of ice cream for dessert would smooth out the process. Cake was easy. Bread you had to let digest a little first. Stay away from rice and spicy foods. I had it down to a science—food combining for neurotics.



It seemed as if Ma and Sis had no clue (later, I learned that was not the case). I had to be careful that my meals didn't look too strange. After all, who eats sloppy joes with oatmeal? Ma was hypervigilant, and her suspicions would quickly rise. Soon, the need to be thin outranked caution, and I was throwing up every meal and could care less what people thought of my meal combos.



I started crossing over into even more extreme behavior when our performing arts class had to sell Swiss chocolate bars for a fundraiser. This is when I willingly and utterly succumbed to my addiction. You see, I had all these candy bars in my room. How could I resist? I'd get up in the middle of the night and eat seven or eight ... a dozen bars at a time, then toss 'em up.



At first, I paid the money for the bars but quickly ran out of the funds needed to support my growing habit. Instead of legitimately restocking, I now stole them from the school closet and had an endless supply for about two months. The teacher was outraged and wanted to know who was guilty scolding the entire class. But miss-straight-A-quiet-serious-girl was never suspected. There were no consequences.



My existence at this time was all about obsession and anxiety. I was literally throwing myself up into the toilet four or five times a day. Now that I had this secret I had to keep from home and school, I became more of a reflection of my mother: I too was hypervigilant and ceaselessly on edge, and had a hard time deciphering what was real. I became obsessed with sit-ups, eight hundred per day. I was obsessed with a size four skirt. Where I got this skirt from, I don't know, probably a thrift store, but I loved it and needed, urgently, to fit in it for my own approval. I succeeded, and, at last, the tailored, size four skirt with the starburst print and contrasting black background hung just right off my newly protruding hip bones.



I, now, bought into my own bluff. I was pretty, thin, smart, popular, athletic, talented ... I even fancied I gave the appearance of coming from money and had the elitist attitude to go along with it. Looking back at the pathetic figure I cut inspires nothing but pity; all my self-worth lay in everyone thinking I was amazing and on top of the world. And everyone WAS impressed with me. A life or death determination infused everything I did because I couldn't let anyone down.



There was a boy in my TV production class that had a crush on me. I liked him, too, so, naturally, I avoided him like the plague because his advances embarrassed me. Besides, he was a bad boy at school, and I wasn't sure exactly what that meant. He, Dave, was a big roguish, Irish boy--eighteen and mischievous as hell--with black hair, a devilish smile and an endless supply of playfulness in those sparkly, blue eyes of his. I was very mean to him whenever unavoidable contact forced me to respond to his flirtation.



He convinced Mr. Evangeline that he needed me as a tutor. Now it was my duty to spend time with him. He actually came to my house to study a few times. My mother didn't seem upset with his presence at all. This confounded me. Maybe it was because he was Irish. Maybe it was because I was so snotty to him.



Eventually, we cut the crap and started seeing each other. It wasn't long before his primitive charm convinced me to cut class. To have someone that doesn't seem to care about anything pay attention to you is very flattering. What did I have that the rest of the world didn't?



I wrote absentee notes, forging my mother's signature by tracing it off of her canceled checks. And this is when I caught her in her big lie.



There, at the bottom of a stack of canceled checks, lay one that had never been cashed. It was dated back to 1976 and drafted to my mother. The signature at the bottom? Jesse Mayes. I didn't react. I put whatever thoughts or feelings I had into the small freckle on the inside of my right wrist. That was a safe place for them. They only snuck out once.

We were watching the World Series with the Milwaukee Brewers and the St. Louis Cardinals (Willie McGee and Ozzie Smith, the short stop were my favorite ballplayers). We were having one of our more successful evenings as a family, getting excited over the game, cheering and yelling. When it ended, a conversation sprung up that led Ma to singing her own praises.



"I've had to give up a lot for you kids. I've played Mother and Father to you, and..."



"Don't say that."



I wasn't shouting. My voice, loud like a shout, was more emotional. The words, barely able to form through my hyperventilation, seemed to be coming directly from my heart, as if my chest cavity had opened to give direct access to the power and truth in them, thus removing all chance of superficiality or misinterpretation should they lose one iota of energy traveling up to and escaping from my mouth.



We polarized to opposite sides of the room like two magnets. With a quick glance and a small wave, Ma told Sis not to interfere. I had my back to her. My eyes were averted.



"Where is my Father?! Dead men don't write checks."

It's as if Ma and Sis evaporated into thin air. I only heard indecipherable, detached whispers as I walked to my room. I never did get an answer. An occasional excuse would come up, while we were at the grocery store or in the car...

"I thought it would be easier if you thought he was dead...He had a family..."



Whatever. She could tell me anything. It didn't matter. There was no truth in this house. She was the liar. No wonder she was so paranoid. She thought we were as bad as her.



Surf was up! Now I had the beach and Dave. I felt a lot of real joy when we spent time together. I could laugh. I could talk and he would listen. He never accused me of anything. Though he drank and smoked cigarettes, I didn't care. He was fun, exciting, warm, easy…I was desperate for this kind of company. He was the big, sloppy light in my day.



We were such an odd couple at school. Suddenly, I was cool because I was hanging with bad boy Dave, and he got a little prestige hangin' with Miss Smarty Pants. It must be true love.



We started talking about the future. We started sleeping together, mostly in his mother's car. I was very pleased with this. Truthfully, I didn't feel a whole lot of sexual stimulation, but I was very excited about the fact that I actually wanted to sleep with him and was doing it.



Ma didn't know. I don't think she wanted to.



Her behavior surrounding Dave was completely out of context, just like the Vegas trips. She was almost normal. I still haven't figured that out.



Simply put, Dave became too important to me. He was the only place where I could go and relax. My shoulders were down around him. I didn't waste my time with him talking about the insanity at home. I reveled in each precious moment of being accepted and wanted. This newfound warmth, cushioned with laughter and silliness, was just what the doctor ordered. My guard was down…nonexistent. That didn't last for long.



He got comfortable with me, too, and started an incessant teasing, all of which I took to heart. This teasing! I could not process his calling me names and making fun of my long legs and big feet. I get it, now. He felt close enough to me to endearingly try to get a rise out of me whenever possible. I did not get it, then. I was horrified at what I perceived was constant criticism and meanness. What changed things? Why was he doing this? My insecurities reached a new height. In the blink of an eye, I was lost, despairing and clinging, my smiles and laughter, once again, fake and full of wariness. It's sad to think how little I thought I had to offer him. At any rate, he was no longer a safe place go. Still, it was much better than life without him.



I did a strange thing right around this time.



One day after school, I went home to the usual routine, and it just got to me, like I was a stranger walking, unknowingly, into this Pandora's Box for first time. That afternoon, I felt the cells switching around in my head. I could not play the game anymore. The next morning, right after Ma left for work, I sat down in front of my bedroom door and methodically rammed the doorknob into my eye repetitively for about five minutes. I got up, grabbed my books, and went to school. I felt cold, numb, out of touch--gone.



My eye swelled up, and a few of my teachers asked me what happened. I said, "Nothing."



I was tired of putting up the front I had created, but was incapable of being responsible for my own pain. I didn't premeditate, ”I'll give myself a black eye and then someone will help me,”on a conscious level, but it was a cliché cry for help, nonetheless.



Mr. Evangeline had my mother hauled into the school counselor's office for questioning. I didn't know about it until after the fact.



Her behavior changed markedly as a result. She said less--much less. But her eye was more accusing. This was, clearly, the calm before the storm. The school questioning didn't make her afraid. It challenged her reality and, literally, drove her deeper into crazy. The cells changed around in her head too. I could see the pressure building. When she did speak, it involved less finger-pointing and became more and more about going away from society to live in the mountains, so people would stop trying to brainwash her or make her accept their evil as the norm.



Dave continued to tease me about my cloths, my hair, and, now, a new routine; he kept talking about how he was going to cheat on me. I mean, he'd really play it up for all it was worth, which, in turn fueled my overdeveloped sense of inadequacy to reach an even higher plateau. My panic soared and I went into a childish form of self-protection.



"If you cheat on me, then I'll cheat on you," was my comeback. I couldn't think of a better one.



This back and forth betrayal banter got out of hand. Why were we doing this? We'd been together for about four months when, one night, he said, "I'm going to cheat on you tonight."



"I'll cheat on you first" was my response.



He laughed. I laughed louder.



We said good-bye after school the following day, and I was on a mission. I meant it. I couldn’t live if he really did that to me. I needed to know the hurt would at least be even, or I would've had a complete meltdown.



I walked out the back door in my favorite size four skirt, took a left on Main Street, and redefined the meaning of the word "strut". It was a strange mentality to be in—very instinctive. I don't know where I was strutting to, though I had purpose and destination in my stride. My journey's end, apparently, was the front annex of Betty's Fabrics. I stopped when I got to the main entrance of the fabric store, as if the scent of quick, meaningless sex hung in the doorway.



Fate exited the shop about a minute later in the five-foot, six-inch, forty-six-year-old body of a man who would soon introduce himself to me as Jack. He came out, looked me up and down, kept walking, turned the corner and, a couple minutes later, drove up in a new, white sedan. He rolled down the window and said, "Hi, my name's Jack. You want a ride?"



I hopped in, told him my name, and he turned on the radio.



Not much in the way of conversation transpired. We commented on the weather. It was a warm cloudy day. He didn't even bother going through the motions of asking me where I was going. We arrived at his house about seven minutes later.



It was a nice little place in a lower middle-class neighborhood. He was a car repo guy. For some reason, I thought this was funny. I hated his bad hair cut; it was an early Beatles style bob, but he had a beard. I liked the idea of the beard. I liked the idea of f*%king a forty-six-year-old man with a beard.



This calculated sex thing was coming quite naturally to me. I marveled at how easily my fifteen-year-old mind went from being afraid and longing for love to being turned on at the idea of having sex with a complete stranger because I could. I realized that I thought he was ugly, and was enjoying the challenge of trying to find something stimulating about him just long enough for me to stand his ugliness and the mismatch of our pheromones. Huh? Where was this coming from? What I'm trying to say is that I was a real natural little whore to my complete and utter astonishment.



We went in his room and got naked. He was pure, pasty white bread, not skinny, not fat, not in shape, not flabby—average. At least he had a decent sized dick and strong looking hands. Was this me thinking like this? I couldn't believe it!



He lit some candles, put on soft music, and started trying to sweet talk me in the most respectful way. I was getting pissed off. He was ruining my turn on. I didn't want a soft, lovely experience. I wanted to feel the crudeness of this situation—the reality of it. I asked him to turn off the music. Much better.



He started petting me softly, lightly...At last, I found the point of concentration: his hands. I didn't like the way they were touching me, but I liked the way they looked against my skin. His hands looked old and perverted touching my young, taught body. His hands looked like they were salivating with lustful hunger. He was still touching me softly, but the truth was showing in the way his hands looked.



I wanted to feel that truth and instinctively started adjusting my vibe to bring it out. I didn't return his touches and made sure to keep my eyes cast down. When he kissed me, I didn't kiss him back. He started kissing me harder to invoke a response but to no avail. Finally, he said, "Kiss me," and I did. "With your tongue," and I did.



He liked the sound of his own voice telling me what to do. It lost the sensitivity and got very gruff, but not loud. His hands started to act as they looked. I did whatever he told me. I remember thinking, Not very imaginative, or, Wow, I'm really doing this, or, I don't like the way his sweat smells, etcetera, etcetera.



Right in the middle of the actual f#&king;part, there was a knock at his bedroom door.



"Dad?"



"Come back in about forty minutes, son."



The kid left. He walked right by the windows. I saw through the sheer curtains that he was a boy I went to school with. He was a couple of grades ahead of me. He was seventeen.



Papa Jack finished about ten minutes later. He wanted to hold me from behind for a while. I let him. This was disturbing to me. I didn't want to be there with him in this manner. I held my breath, it seemed, for the next fifteen minutes, as he held me and stroked my hair telling me how beautiful and wonderful I was. Finally, he got up to take a shower. I threw my clothes on and left.



I was feeling pretty smug. I'd done it with a much older man. If Dave had a cheating story for me, well, I would have one for him. I thought my story was sure to be more impressive than his because I'd f*%ked an old man with a house and a son almost as old as Dave, so there.



My walk home was more of a confrontational strut. I was ready to fight the world! Seven minutes in a car translated into a one and a half hour walk.



I came home to my red faced, angry mother. Three feet away, "Where have you been?! I thought you were in the back yard." Two feet away, "How 'dare' you pretend to be going out back. You knew you were leaving. You are such a liar! You were probably seeing that Kim girl." One foot away, "I know you guys are touching each other! Do you let boys watch when you do that?" Six inches away, "Look me in the eye and tell me the truth! Are you high? I'm sick of your bull sh*t!" Three inches away, "Who've you been bending over for today?"



Me looking her straight in the face with the most calm voice, "Well, actually, Ma, I went out, picked up the first man I saw, went home with him and f%$ked his brains out."



Touche!



"You little condescending bitch! You think you're real cute. I know when you're lying to me. Now you're making fun of me. You're lucky I'm your mother and that I have to put up with your," one inch away, "worthless lies. What a chicken sh@t! Unbelievable! You're gonna end up nowhere. It makes me 'sick', sick with pain. I give up everything for you kids, and all you do is lie. Helluva way to be. Helluva lot of character you have. Go on. F@#k up your life. See what I care!" Squinting, “I know you snuck off to see Kim, and I know the dirty little games you play with each other. You are such a worthless piece of sh&t, and it makes me so mad because you could be so special. Thanks for realizing your potential, 'sweet daughter'. I love you, too. I'm right, Goddamnit, and you know it."



I back my head up to three inches, "Okay, Ma. Whatever you say. Sorry."



And there you have it: one of the sweetest, most satisfying moments of my life.



Dave called later that night. We got into our usual laughing joking mode. I was waiting for the cheating thing to come up. I didn't want to be the one to bring it up, though. I didn't have to wait too long.



"Well?"



"Well what?"



"Aren't you going to ask me if I went through with it?"



"Went through with what?"



"You know, it."



"Well?"



"Well what?"



"Did you go through with it?"



"I don't know if I should say."



"Why?"



"Because if I did, you probably wouldn't handle it so well."



"I'm cool. I can handle it either way."


"How about you? Did you do it?"



"How do I know if you can handle the answer to that question?"



What seemed endless silence...



"Oh, my God. You did it."



"What do you mean?"


"I can tell by your voice. You really did it. Oh, my God."



Click.



I didn't dare call him back. I'd heard the horror in his voice. I was really confused. He had started this cheating garbage. He always talked about it with a straight face and never said just kidding. I didn't know what to do or say. How was I supposed to handle this disastrous situation?



If I told him the truth, we would be finished. He was the only warm fuzzy in my life. I needed him beyond reason. It would more than devastate me if he left. And if I lied and told him I didn't go through with it?



Contrary to what my mother thought, I lacked the sophistication of a well-seasoned liar.



I had no one to talk to about this. My sister would be horrified, and everyone at school thought I was perfect, and happy, and well adjusted. I couldn't admit my dilemma to anyone, there. I, also, knew I would be greeted with shock or judgment by my peers. I didn't know what to do. I didn't go to school the next day.



Dave showed up at my house around one o'clock. No smiles. No hellos. An extremely accusing eye. A very different feeling when the accusation isn't false. What was left of my one bright spot was crumbling rapidly. I went into a paralyzed panic.



“I didn't go through with it and never intended to! What kind of person, no, monster, are you that you could actually do that or even think that I was serious? Oh, my GOD!! Don't even talk to me. I can't even look at you. I can't talk to you for at least a week. I'm going to try to forgive you for this. Just look me in the eye, and tell me. Did you do it? Did you cheat on me?"



I was at a complete loss as to how to answer. I just wanted to say whatever would make it okay, whatever would make him love me. What is the right answer? What's the answer?



"No."



"You told me just what I needed to know. Liar!!" his eyes screamed at me. But all he said was, "I'll talk to you in a week. Good-bye."



I knew in my heart of hearts that good-bye was a lot more final than one week. That whole week hurt more than anything I can describe. I ate and threw up everything. I did a thousand sit-ups a day. I ran. I swam. I walked the beach. Nothing numbed this pain.



My mother was no help. She scrutinized my hurt relentlessly, her voice made rancid with gleeful scorn.



"What's the matter?"



I hadn't shown her any emotion for so long. She gobbled up my grief like a starving, mangy dog.



"You hurting over your poor little boyfriend? You're stupid enough to shed that many tears over some little fool? Do you cry like this in front of him? Aren't you being a little sickening? His dick couldn't have been that good. I know you two had sex, so don't even try to deny it. He ain't shedding any tears for you. He's probably been messing around with all kinds of girls, so why do you keep blubbering and carrying on? I want you to stop this right now! You’re weak! You're being ridiculous!"



I didn't go to school all week and, finally, school called Ma at work and told her about all my absent marks. She came home furious.



"You've been deceiving me all this time!"



Blah, blah, blah!



You know how your foot feels when it's fallen asleep and you start to get sensation back right before the pins and needles stage? You know...that kind of numb, tingling sensation? Well, that is how my entire head and spine felt. I was losing it big time. I couldn't even hear right, my tears and her noise all a blur.



Dave didn't call me for ten days. When he did, we set up a time to meet.



He came over, and I had a spark of hope. His eyes were friendly. He held my hand. We sat on the couch. I just kept crying and apologizing. He pulled me up against him and gave me one of his big, warm hugs. I leaned against him lapping it up, warm and happy for the first in a long time. He started kissing me, and I kissed back with so much love and appreciation. We started having sex. My whole body relaxed into a sigh of relief. I was his. He was mine. We were gonna make it.



I opened my eyes and looked up into his. Something was terribly wrong. With each thrust his eyes exuded more contempt, disgust, anger, no love. He came, and while he was still inside me said, "I don't love you. I never did. We're never going to be together again."



I started crying and searching his face. How could he be this cruel? He pulled out fast, ferociously discarding me like I was garbage, threw his pants on, and walked out the door without looking back.



I couldn't think or feel a thing. I was in shock. I put my clothes on and ate and ate. Ma came home.



"Well it's about time you stopped crying. Good girl. You've got to be a bitch to get through life. Showing people your weaknesses just gives them better tools to hurt you with"



I went to work, came home, went to sleep, woke up, went to school, went to every class except the one he was in, came home, showered, changed ... I put on my favorite midnight blue, oversized cowl-necked sweater with the dolman sleeves and my favorite rose-colored, straight cut corduroys.



It was January. It was drizzling outside. I decided not to take an umbrella because work was only four blocks away. I didn't take a purse because the shift was only two and a half hours and I didn't need money for anything. I said bye to Ma and Sis. I had told Sis about an hour earlier that there was something I had to do.



"What?"



"I'm not sure, but I have to do it."



I had no clue as to what I meant or why I was saying that.



I walked out the door and pointed my feet toward work.]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#16 Sun, 13 Mar 2011 00:00:00 -0800 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#15


Chapter 8—The Accuser




We moved again, this time to the far end of town onto five and a half acres at the end of San Gabriel Lane. I knew this would not bode well for Sis and me. We were able-bodied young ladies now, and good old George Higgins wasn’t there to lead the way. The land, completely untended, had Ma’s eyes getting big with all the possibilities.



I walked home from school everyday with Sarah or Kelly. It was a long, hot walk, but we’d talk and stop for orange flavored Frosties at the Foster’s Freeze, which made the daily trek seem a leisurely jaunt. Surrounded by mountains, trees, and horses, it felt safe and satisfying to be completely drained from the heat of the day in this peaceful environment. Turning into the final two block stretch before I reached the front door, I felt I had earned the right not to think or feel.



Going through the door was easier these days because I had the attic. The attic was my sanctuary, my escape, my focus, and my hope. I would ascend the stairs to the attic, lock the door with ceremony, and turn on the tunes.



The songs were to me what I imagine drugs are to others, and, man, oh, man, would I go on a trip. Donna Summers, Michael Jackson, Olivia Newton-John... I would lip sync "Last Dance" or "Macarthur Park" and live a whole concert fantasy. I was a superstar/super hero leaping and bounding onto the stage, singing from great heights with green fluorescent lava light cascading down as I looked over the sea of people, while catapulting and spinning through the air on the "Oh, noooooo" part of the song, and vanishing altogether at the end of the concert in a burst of silver flames. I was experiencing quite a phenomenon in that little attic—rapture in the rafters in the little town of Ojai.



Music to do homework by was Peaches and Herb or side "B" of Michael Jackson’s "Off the Wall" album. I can’t tell you how many "A" papers I wrote jamming to the tunes.



I received a radio for my birthday that same year. The radio, about the size of a letter page including its handle, always looked happy because of its short, fat stature and bright golden color accented by the black tuning dial. The plastic always smelled new and important no matter how long I had it. It meant something.



Every Sunday I’d make sure I was awake in time for "America’s Top 40 Countdown" with Casey Casem. This was serious business. I made detailed charts and graphed the journey of each pop hit accumulating books and books of Top 40 research over the next few years. The complete picture of concentration until Andy Gibb’s "Shadow Dancing" came on or Cher’s "Take Me Home", I have to admit I was a disco child at heart and would boogie away if the beat hit me just right. The attic was, indeed, a very productive place.



But, now I had reached the point in my young life where it was time to enter reality or break. And I did both. My several worlds started to noticeably separate, which meant collision would soon be inevitable. School life was where I looked smart, reliable, and well adjusted; I was Heather the super student. Attic life was pulsating, sexy, productive, intense and all-powerful. Home life was where I completely and utterly failed.



My failure coincided directly with my mother’s first and only solid attempt to enter Sis’ and my life as a hands-on parent. It was too late. We were fourteen and fifteen and very used to doing whatever, whenever and however we wished. Ma’s effort was valiant but off base.



Her idea of parenting was to raise her voice and accuse us of bad things, which we weren’t doing, then, to try to catch us in the act of committing these imagined crimes. As a freshman at Nordhoff Senior High School, it was more than humiliating to have Ma following me in her car as I made my way to choir practice via foot or bicycle. She would duck in and out of the parked cars a few blocks back thinking she remained unnoticed. Ma routinely insisted that Sis and I were flirting with everyone, it didn’t matter what sex they were or how old, and she would go into major rages over trivial things like a broken glass. Everything was an unforgivable tragedy to her. And our whorish, careless, useless ways were something she took extremely personally. We MUST be trying to disgust and humiliate her with our lack of character and shameless desires. I had no tolerance for her need to control. And as this snide, martyred self righteousness intensified, my main goal in life quickly became: How to get Ma to shut UP!



To say, “Being falsely accused is not a good feeling,” is a gross understatement. My logic was short-circuiting from the barrage of her paranoia. She wasn’t rational. Coming to terms with Ma’s continuous onslaughts sucked away all of my energy. I would try to have sensible conversations with her about it (how could I be a straight "A" student if I spent my time doing drugs, and guys, and experimenting with girls as she accused me of?). I tried laughing off her attacks. Not making any headway, I resorted to senseless arguing, banal invective flying through the air on both our parts—a contest I couldn’t possibly win. Ma meant and believed what she was saying; her eyes looked at me as if I was born of the Devil. All of this was more than a drain. My last ditch effort at ending her antics was to shut her out and shut myself down with all the force I could possibly muster.



This crescendo of delusional magnification happened over a six month period. Another side effect of Ma’s deciding that we needed to act like a family was the fact that I was no longer allowed to go from school directly up to the solace of my attic. She wanted me to do my homework downstairs, and for us to have dinner together, and hang out in general. Now, she was messing with my only source of guaranteed sanity—my sanctuary. Sorry, Ma—I can’t stress it enough—too little, way too late. Her request for family time took the balance out of the phrase; things escalated, and only one dynamic was possible: CRAZY LOUD!



How can I convey to you how horrific it is to have to kowtow to a mentally ill person that is trying to play head of the house? Certainly, it isn’t any less dramatic than being asked to cheer on someone running a two-twenty with an uncasted broken leg. They’d hate you if you didn’t cheer them on, and condemn you for letting them run when their bones started shattering and piercing through the skin. The panic that sets in when you have to participate simply by proximity... no way to please her, no way to help her, no chance of peace, no simple escape...



I was afraid to express "anything" because of her overreactions. "Everything" sent her into a rage. She and Sis didn’t have good chemistry. Sis and I weren’t allies. Ma and I liked each other, but... I never knew who was going to show up—Jekyll or Hyde? I viewed her as an incredibly competitive, jealous, foot-stomping, impatient, impudent, conniving, oversized child.



A brief interlude from her suffocating presence, mercifully, presented itself when it was time to build our latest version of the farm—a diversion made bittersweet by my lack of enthusiasm. How easily and quickly I was distracted by my own whining. No words can accurately describe my frustration at being forced to be a "farm girl". I had fully embraced my identity as a poverty-stricken, gritty, ethnic, city girl. I liked feeling tough and urban. But Ma was determined to have her farm; therefore, so were we. For Ma, our toughness translated into brawn. We should’ve toned down our protest a bit. Perhaps, a little less rebellion would’ve spared us the honor of being extensions of her arms and legs.



This time when Ma said, "Go build a chicken coop," we were on a whole new level. First, we had to clear brush from the designated area, ten yards by ten yards, which was dangerous due to the high population of black widows and small scorpions. No, they weren’t fatally poisonous. But you couldn’t convince me of that. It is safe to say that my fear of bugs reaches the height of phobia to this very day (so much for toughness). Step two was a trip to the feed store where we bought a supply of nails, wood, cement, post hole diggers, three different kinds of wire, and a dozen or so seven foot high, four-by-four posts that had to be driven a good one and a half feet into the ground and braced with cement. Did I mention I was a city girl? What the...? I tore my hands up, good, with that posthole digger as I concentrated all my anger, fear and indignance into busting through the earth and clay.



The shed where the chickens slept at night is a sore memory, as well. We got it for free. All we had to do was disassemble and move it. This was not a small shed. It was at least six feet by ten feet and sturdy, made of wood and tiles. We took it apart and moved it all under Ma’s supervision one wheelbarrow at a time.



My problem with all these projects, and the fuel for the continual whining spewing forth from my lips like an endless fountain was the fact that neither Sis nor I had any stock in them. "We" did not want all these animals. "Ma" was the one with all the enthusiasm, but we were the ones doing all the work.



Once everything was built, we put all the poultry out including those damn geese, as well as our new addition to the family, Rodney, the St. Bernard Ma brought home. He was supposed to cure me of my fear of dogs because he was so big.


Forgive my repeating myself, but have I made it clear to you that I did not take to all the animals? It was too many at once with too much responsibility. I didn’t even want a pet, for God’s sake. And, besides, I was terrified of the geese, and they knew it. They’d hiss and snap at me. I would hang back as far as I could, while throwing them food, and turn tail at the last minute running. Every now and then I’d get a heel snapped. I detested those geese with a passion. As for the dog cure, let me just say that Rodney walked me and his favorite hobby was attacking other dogs.



No, I really didn’t appreciate spending my after school hours this way. With all the household/ farming chores, dog walking duties, and dinner as a family unit, attic time was now pushed back to at least nine or ten o’clock. I said TEN O’CLOCK!
Our routine now firmly established, it didn’t take Ma long to start her let’s-hate-the-neighbors antics. The catalyst this time was Moomba, the retired thoroughbred. She died, suddenly, causing Ma to charge Pat, the next door neighbor, with her murder. The scene was quite dramatic because a horse is a big thing, and Moomba lay dead in the car turnaround for a couple of days before whomever you call to pick up dead horses came to take her away to the lye pit. Of course Ma disposed of the horse without the owner Jerri’s permission.



When Jerri got the double dose of news that her horse was dead and had been tossed into a lye pit, you can imagine how furious she was. Ma tried to distract her by relaying her murder theories. The scene turned from mournful to surreal as Ma delivered the news with a child’s level of hysterical delight. Too well-bred to yell, Jerri sobbed noiselessly while Ma rattled on in awe of her own telepathic powers of communication with animals. She claimed that she could feel the horse’s pain as if she were dying herself, that she went through all the stages of nausea and chills simultaneously with Moomba, and that the horse had been trying to tell her that it had been poisoned by Pat. Unfortunately, now that the body had been eaten up by lye, there was no way to know the actual cause of death. Not to mention the fact that Ma was missing the whole point. Jerri was upset about Moomba being thrown in a lye pit, the very thing she had saved her from”¦her upset compounded by finding out all this horrible news on the spot. The poor woman had just come up to visit and drop off supplies.



The horse incident seemed to accelerate the impending meltdown in our house, and the din of Ma’s uninterrupted paranoia turned up yet another notch. She now exuded a turbulent, rabid, distressed version of craziness that was snowballing into God only knows what. Ma was always a mess, her sex appeal buried under her thunderous rage and fear. She only looked presentable for work. At home she wore the same button down, oversized men’s shirt for days on end and a pair of flowing purple pants, reminiscent of her more glamorous days, now snagged and stained with oil spots and dirt. A franticness hung about her. She felt cold and clammy—feverish; her breathing was shallow, her face unsettled, one moment drawn and pale, the next, red, the tension visibly rippling through her clenched jaw.



She was scared. Ma was ready for war. In her mind, everyone was against her. She searched obsessively for ways to stay one step ahead of her enemies at the Holiday Inn and the post office. Our landlord was on her "wanted" list too. She insisted he was manipulating her brain, and that rays shone out of his eyes, and that we mustn’t speak to him because he would turn us against her. Her only allies were her psychic and her astrologer. Only they could help her ward off evil.



I had one moment of compassion for her the whole time we lived in that house. She was pounding away on the old piano, now relegated to the tool shed down by the chicken coop. I walked in, and she was sitting there playing the piano amid the spiders and their webs and cages of cooing fancy Jacobin pigeons that couldn’t walk correctly because of the hardened mud-balls on their feet, (another pet whimsy). You could see the thick dust in the air and the haphazardly packed storage boxes skewed here and there with no particular order. But there Ma sat working on a song she was writing:


I’m what they call---- a liberated woman doin’ everything they say,
Workin’ at a full-time job, bringin’ down my own pay.
I’m a father to my daughters, runnin’ things my way.
I’m a liberated woman until the end of day.
Then I’m so lonely. Who do I talk to?
Who says, “Aw, honey, everything is gonna be all right?”
Who says, “Don’t worry?” And where’s that touch?
I’m a liberated woman, but, baby, it ain’t enough”¦



Wow! An actual human being not knowing what to do or how to fix things. If only her fear didn’t become so perverted in the translation. The sane human response behind her sickness was so incredibly valid. It made my heart ache for her. But”¦



The more I interacted with her, the later the nights became in the attic. I wanted with all my might to take the power out of her distorted world by laughing at her outlandish claims. Her distress was so heightened and so righteous; I would get all tangled up in the heat of her emotion and forget the nonsense thoughts that had caused her anxiety in the first place. It was just too much to take in. I needed to escape her busy, paranoid mind at all costs.



Soon, I wasn’t sleeping at all. I mean it. Sleep was no longer a part of my life. I’d stay up all night and study, daydream, and completely obsess on being a superstar/superhero, or anything that equaled calm and victory, right up until it was time to go to school.



I was still able to perform quite well. I got to class. My grades were perfect. I aced every test because I spent my sleepless nights memorizing the materials sometimes verbatim. I made it to work and participated in track, drama, choir, etc. As long as I had the attic, as long as I had me, as long as I had a place to be me, I didn’t need sleep. I don’t know how long I could’ve continued to function in this insomniac state. I never had a chance to find out.



Ma’s accusations got worse and worse. It got to the point where she was following us everywhere. She didn’t even try to hide it anymore. Her in her car, a menacing presence crawling along five feet behind me, or Sis, or us together, oblivious to the fact that she was holding up traffic, her eyes set in a narrow accusing squint. I used to think of her in a movie as a female version of Clint Eastwood waiting for one false move from the person she was just looking for an excuse to blow away. How else could I make sense of all her lurid thoughts? Order had to be established somehow in this operatic twilight zone. Somehow”¦someway”¦I finally came up with what I thought was the most logical solution to the problem. She thought I was bad, right? Well, why not put some truth behind her charges? Then everything would make sense.



Ma started working the graveyard shift. After my sister was asleep, I would sneak out of the house to meet Dean Anders on a back road in his pickup truck. He was the trombonist from band at high school. I don’t even remember how we started talking, or who suggested these late night rendezvous. We weren’t really attracted to each other. He was pretty much the only boy in school tall enough to date me, and, since I needed it to be a secret, he had the built-in advantage of not having to tell anyone he was dating the black girl.



So, we would meet between two and five a.m. He’d smoke a lot of pot and try to get me to have sex with him. I’d say "no" and feel very grown because of his crude passes. We eventually did have unpleasant, uncomfortable sex in the front seat of his pickup. I didn’t want to, but I was trying to be grown up. I definitely felt a lot better when Ma accused me of having sex. Now, she was right! Dean and I did "it" twice, and "it" repulsed me both times. Instead of Dean and then the attic, I just went back to the attic.



The first hints of my eating disorder started showing up at this time. I was always a little chunky. Now it bothered me. I became obsessed with looking perfect and started trying to fast away the weight. No food, no sleep, tons of activity, exercise and stress—something was going to have to give.



The weight would come and go. I really liked the way I looked whenever I lost five or ten pounds. I thought I faintly resembled a black Farrah Fawcett. That made me very happy. I didn’t realize I had the potential to look that foxy. It made me more determined than ever; however, my efforts were unsophisticated at best, and I was incapable of starving myself with any level of consistency. I needed advice, but this wasn’t something you could talk about with people. Come to think of it, I didn’t talk about anything with anyone. All I was good for was a laugh and an "A".
Suddenly, Ma decided that we needed to live closer to her work. Inside of a month we had gotten rid of all the animals, enrolled in Ventura Senior High School, and moved into a little one-story house on Anacapa street. Boom! Just like that. Good-bye attic.



Numbness ensued.



At first I was happy with the move. Ventura was more of a seaside city. The school was racially mixed. We also lived walking distance from the ocean.



I became a fixture on the pier—the tall, dark and silent mystery woman-child, lean and sleek in my string bikini, dancing my private dance with the waves. People would smile and nod. They quickly learned not to bother me with small talk. I was merely a presence.



School was interesting this time around. It was a little bit more urban than Ojai. Instead of just choir or band, there was also a performing arts class where we could work on popular songs and dances. There was even a girl from Australia in the class. I was in awe of her relaxed, way-cool vibe.



This more varied mixture of students created another new, highly unexpected development. There were boys of all different ages, sizes, and colors, and they all seemed to be interested in me. I hadn’t experienced real male sexual aggression before, and these boys were aggressive. Completely inexperienced in such dealings, I was clueless as to how to handle them. I wouldn’t dare talk about this with Ma or Sis. I walked around simultaneously flattered and flabbergasted, more confident and more insecure, more proud and more ashamed. But nothing could detract me from my studious joy.



My favorite class was an elective I signed up for—television production. Mr. Evangeline, the teacher, was a short, stylish man with a New York accent and a head full of loose, curly hair. He was another curiosity for me. I hadn’t been exposed to the East Coast before. Once, after the third or fourth class, my interest in it emboldened me to the point of action. I snuck back into the lab when no one was there and started messing around with the cameras and lighting, the SEG and soundboard. I heard a voice behind me and turned to face Mr. Evangeline just waiting to absorb his tirade of anger. The look on his face assuaged my fear. He wasn’t mad at me. He was thrilled!



"Amazing! You just did everything right. You’re a real natural."



I soon became his prize student and he got me a paid internship at the local cable channel where I was being trained in every capacity from camera person to talent. In no time, I was taping all the high school and college sporting events, editing and even assistant directing. I loved it!



I was also becoming very high profile in track, volleyball, and the performing arts class at school. My grades were up and I was well liked by teachers and students. I even started taking private piano lessons, something I’d always wanted to do.



And I was finding a way to sleep at least two or three hours a night.



A strange aside started developing in my family life at this point. Ma started another extreme behavior that put a constant question mark over my head.
Ma’s astrologers and psychics (now plural) were giving her lucky numbers, which we immediately played in Vegas. She’d get the numbers and we’d hop in the car, school or no, and make the five-hour trip to Las Vegas anytime of the day. Children aren’t allowed by the gambling tables, so she’d drop us off at the Circus Circus Hotel for hours on end while she went and played her numbers.



Sis and I would dress in a manner that made us look at least nineteen. We wore long, backless dresses with slits up the side that we’d made ourselves or bought from thrift stores. Too many episodes of "Charlie’s Angels" informed our fashion sense. We would don these dresses, our faces fully made up, and Ma would drop us off leaving us completely unsupervised. Ma would let us sit at the bar and talk to men with absolutely no imputations, reactions or consequences from her whatsoever. It was a recklessly bizarre mixed message. And, in my mind, it sealed the lack of logic I experienced in my mother’s reasoning. The more I tried to rebel by acting grown and even embracing my sexuality in this particular environment where it actually could lead to a very real scenarios, the more Ma seemed to be perfectly unconcerned.



I loved these times with Ma, though they puzzled me, because they were so easy, exciting and fun. They were a welcome snag in the tightly woven fabric; however, the minute we got home, Ma would revert back to her routine of talking about what liars we were, accusing us of every deviance under the sun, and following us everywhere. It was almost as if she’d forgotten all about our sin city outings together. I was truly baffled.



It was at this point that two things sent me spiraling out of control: number one, a Phil Donahue episode I really could’ve stood to miss; , and, number two, a big lie I caught "the Accuser" herself in.



Now that there was no attic to retreat to when Ma came through the door, the only way I could shut out some of the verbal finger pointing was with the T.V. I became a complete T.V. head. I knew all the programming around the clock and watched whatever I could whenever I could.



My musical fantasies were not to be witnessed. They were too important and too revealing. Ma would’ve have soiled them and had the power to hurt me deeply if I opened up that much in front of her. She knew about my countdown stats on Sundays and that I enjoyed singing, but that was it. My songwriting days had to be temporarily over along with the fantasy concerts. I started keeping a journal instead. Ironically, it seemed much less personal.



Without the attic, the walls started to close in quickly in this small house. Ma’s paranoia was definitely magnified. You couldn’t say anything to her without getting a huge overreaction. She was quite a sight. Her face would turn completely red and her voice would get louder and louder, her body language more overbearing. The threat was never physical. She never actually hit me. Ma had only tried that once back in Ojai in the dining room on “the farm".



She had been ranting at me about something I hadn’t done and furious at my refusal to accept responsibility. She raised her hand, her intentions very clear. I grabbed it in mid-punch. Our eyes locked.



"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," said I, holding her until she backed down.



The look in her eyes told me she was surprised, not expecting that reaction at all. I turned and went up to the attic. I had surprised myself. I believe I would have tried to beat the hell out of her if she had actually hit me.



This was extremely out of character for me. I was so angry at being falsely accused of things and tired of her dragging my thoughts into the gutter with her ludicrous grilling sessions. I was sick of this unnecessary rigamarole. That physical confrontation was the first time it occurred to me that I was deeply angry with her. I also realized that I was not afraid of her, that I really thought she was crazy, and that I loved her and wanted to trust her. But her reactions to me made it impossible to be open or close to her. It didn’t matter what I said or did. She would always make up some terrible sin for me. I could never please her or bring her peace of mind or have any myself. I was sad, but determined to live my life in spite of her.



That interrupted punch melted everything down to one simple bottom line: I was not afraid of her. I perked up. I was not afraid of her. I smiled. All this time I had believed I was. What a discovery! As refreshing as it was, my new found bravery gave birth to a new found fear. Now that her bluff had been called, and my tolerance level had peaked, I could no longer passively avoid or ignore Ma’s unchecked tyranny.



I made a last ditch effort to rationalize her way of thinking so I wouldn’t be pushed to the inevitable—so I wouldn’t be pushed to leave because I really had nowhere to go. We didn’t have any solid family ties or close family friends. The few times I tried to express how uncomfortable living with my mother was to teachers or other outsiders, they just didn’t get it. "All mothers are a little overprotective. Don’t blow things out of proportion. Everyone’s mom is a little crazy," etcetera, etcetera. I stopped bringing it up.



To outsiders, she was interesting, feisty and passionate—a woman to be reckoned with. She was so captivating. Her lifestyle put colorful thoughts in bored minds. To them she seemed harmlessly eccentric, even instilling jealousy in more cautious types with her seemingly carefree ways. It made me question myself and my perception of her behavior. Maybe I was overreacting.



Regardless, things were getting worse. I had a new philosophy now that I viewed Ma with such scorn. It was every man for himself. I don’t know how Sis was doing. I couldn’t afford to care. I just noticed that she radiated white-hot anger and was very unavailable. My only focus, my only goal was to keep Ma out of my face as much as possible until I was old enough to leave.



I had a pretty busy school schedule, so the majority of hours were taken for the day. The days she was working were fine; our interactions were limited to somewhere between fifteen minutes and two hours. These points of connection were always agitated, but I knew roughly when they were going to end, so I could manage them with a fair amount of grace. I would head to the beach as soon as she left for work. That was my new attic, my ocean, my sand, my sun and stars, my turf.



Her days off were another story. She’d pop her head in my classes or drive in circles around the school. More humiliation. If I talked to anyone, she thought I was having sex with them. As a teenager trying to be remotely cool, she was mortifying me. She’d grill me in front of my friends, and I would act like it was no big deal. If a boy was talking to me, she’d threaten him.



"Don’t let me catch you talking to my daughter again, or I’ll call the cops! I can get someone to come and beat you to a pulp at the snap of a finger, and I will!"
She’d call all night long at my work place to make sure I was there.



At home she was yelling all the time. At first I tried responding in a very quiet, calm voice. She would just get more in my face, an inch away, "Stop lying to me!" her eyes bulging, a vein popping on the right side of her red face as she tried to squash me with her body language. Man, I was really sick of this sh*t.



I decided my final option was to let her believe that everything she thought I was doing, was true. I’d come home to a barrage of accusations ranging from any kind of sex, to stealing, to lying, to whatever, and now my pat answer was, "Yes, you’re right. Sorry."



It seemed like the perfect solution at first. Her face would relax into an "Aha!," and she’d say, "I 'knew' it!" And that was it—end of conversation. Everything was cool as long as she thought I was the worst kid on the planet. I’d found the formula. She just needed to be right—end of discussion.



Then things changed again. Ma changed her hours at work to coincide with when we got out of school. She became omnipresent. Now, I always had a distrusting eye looking my way. We’d listen to her for hours on end as she spewed forth her rotted thoughts about the evil mind control people at the Holiday Inn trying to brainwash her. I’d glaze over and tune out sitting silently through her lambastes so as not to encourage her with reactions.



My indepth relationship with the T.V. turned up, yet, another five hundred notches. It was my best friend now. Phil Donahue came on one afternoon with a particularly fascinating subject. The topic was eating disorders.



I paid very close attention. First they paraded the anorexics across the stage. I already knew about starvation and knew that I didn’t have the discipline to starve myself like those girls on the T.V. Then they brought out the compulsive eaters. I figured my mother belonged in that category. Next were the bulimics. What a brilliant concept: eat all you want and never get fat! The possibilities seemed endless”¦]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#15 Tue, 08 Mar 2011 00:00:00 -0800 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#14


Chapter 7—Culture Shock




Astonishing, it is, how five hours can change the course of events in one's life. That's how long it took us to drive to the Ojai Valley. The last forty-five minutes of our journey were filled with the perfume of orange blossoms and smudge pots as the sea air slowly wafted away. We were winding down into horses and houses. Downtown, though I shuddered to call it that at the time, was one street of red-roofed adobe—one street of perfectly manicured middle-class money. We were still in California, but this did not look like the kind of place where people put wheat germ in their orange juice or protested the paving over of old ladies' gardens. I harbored a desperate hostility toward Ma for bringing us here. Why "here" of all places?



We took a right turn onto Old Creek Road, drove past the feed store, which stood directly across the street from the town art center, and went half a block more to our new house. The first thing I did was turn Mousy loose.



Oops. I shouldn't have done that. The landlord was showing us around, where the fuse box was etc. He went out on the back porch by himself for a minute. All of a sudden, we heard a curse and a whack! He thought Mousy was wild and had killed him in one fell swoop. I saw it as an omen. Mousy's untimely death added fuel to my fire. I was not going to cooperate with this move come hell or high water.



We picked up right where we had left off in Oakland, only now, we were in a more appropriate environment. We didn't have to build a chicken coop because one already existed. The cats were free to come and go from the house as they pleased immediately bumping their lives up to humane. I anxiously eyed the acre of land the house sat on praying that Ma would not feel compelled to recreate her garden. I hoped in vain; however, a couple of days of our comic attempts to cultivate half of the land with a hand spade and hoe proved even to Ma that it was sheer absurdity. We were off the hook. So, by all means, I should've been happy. Things were better, right?



My whining continued. I missed the Lantern, my favorite Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. I missed my friends Christine, Kristy and MaryJo. I missed seeing the cars parked overnight in a line at the gas station due to the fuel shortage and the people in a line circling the block to see the thriller "Jaws". I missed the smell and feel, the hair grease and cigarettes, the hard shoes on pavement clicking out the rhythm of a strut. Where was the tired maternal voice soulfully hollering in the night for her son to come in? I missed the glare of TVs in lonely windows and drunks or junkies "sleeping" like babies by the curb. I was supposed to adjust to the change of scenery?



No! I couldn't and wouldn’t rise to the occasion. I wasn't a country girl or even slightly rural by any stretch of the imagination. "Awkward" was the only adjective I could apply to myself that was anything other than negative in this situation. My discomfort ran deeper than the mere adjustment of moving from inner city Oakland to out-of-it Ojai. It is clear to me, now, what my problem was, but back then, I couldn't pinpoint the unidentifiable emotion, which made me feel the need to repel this new place with something akin to disgust. It was the inability to blend in or see myself reflected that I found so estranging. The mélange was gone, and I was surrounded by the energy of medium to small white people, most of who were middle class or rich, and completely invested in the safety and softness of their norm—soft being the operative word. Simply put: I did not fit in, in any way, shape or form. Worse, yet: I stuck out like a sore thumb in everyway possible—physically, mentally and emotionally. What a rude awakening!



I was a freak, a side show in this five-foot-four-inch, blue-eyed community. No special effort on my part was needed to achieve this status. I didn't need to have an over the top personality or a deformity. My five-foot-nine, kinky haired, caramel skinned existence alone merited all of this special attention—and understandably so. Add to it my dark, heavy emotions and the intensity of my hyper-alertness”¦people could not help but stare. I had to stare, too, at myself for the first time. My defenses went up as high as they possibly could.



It was all Ma’s fault! I blamed her for her insensitivity, not “them” for their obvious curiosity. How could she casually throw us into this magnifying glass of an environment? Couldn’t she have foreseen the obvious? My conclusion? Either she didn't care, or she was trying to train us to be white.



We didn't have any discussions about the difficulties that might arise or insecurities that could be bred being the ink spot on the white shirt. I didn't have the skills to hang on to my own self worth. To me, the entire situation translated into one lousy message: I don't care who you kids are or what you're about. I'm tired of the city, so we're going rural, and since I'm tired of black people, just pretend you're white. I felt deeply betrayed by her fickleness. I know this was not her intention, but, honestly, I couldn't see it from any other angle.



And the way it went down—it was such an affront. We had spent the last five, six years essentially un-parented—left to our own devices. And we developed, accordingly, with a higher than average level of independence. Now, she was stepping in and rocking our whole world on what appeared to be another one of her fanciful whims. Yeah, I love you, too, "asshole"!



Off to school we trekked. I didn't sense the presence of evil or hate in this place. We were greeted with polite racism, stupid racism, if you will. Most of the kids had never seen black people up close and personal before. Naturally, we got a lot of dumb questions.



"Do you have to wash your hair?"



"If you scrubbed for a long time with soap would your skin turn white?" (giggle, giggle)



They'd call us "jungle bunnies" and several other fun names like that. Thanks a lot, Ma. This is the life for me. (Hardy, har, har).



It was interesting, all right. Mixed in with their naiveté was a mildness, a mediocre quality that threw me for a loop. These kids had no fight in 'em. I was so ready for a fight and making noise. Resorting to violence only when provoked, I was completely beside myself with confusion and rage. No one was trying to beat up on me! Nobody swore. All I got were the stupid questions and that basketball of stereotype tossed accidentally and consistently in my face, hurting like a mother, but”¦what could you do?



These kids weren't seeing "us" when they stared. I could tell by the look in their eyes that they thought we were stupid, klutzy and freaky—not ugly, but alien or, perhaps from a different species. Sis and I took it as a challenge of sort.



However, our reactions were quite different. Sis was visibly upset and became deeply introverted escaping into her books and the pursuit of excellence. The way I saw it, I now had a job. It was my duty not only to undo all the insulting stereotypes going on in their sheltered, unenlightened heads (condescending attitude firmly in place); but to make them feel stupid, while simultaneously becoming my friends (I’m in control).



I set my plan into action and proceeded to go out of my way to become unavoidably present at school. Now, it was all about good grades, theater and laughing way too hard.



This laugh I developed was the best cover and release for my pain and nerves. It was a laugh that would rack my body and inspire others to double over in their own fits of mirth. But mine wasn't coming from joy. It verged on hysteria, this laugh of mine. No air of insanity echoed through it, but if one listened very carefully and threw out all preconceived notions of what laughter was, only one conclusion could be drawn: this laugh was the essence of fear. The rapid fire bullets of sound shot from my lips and hit the air like explosions of nervous sweat evaporating in the sunshine.



It took about three months for me to completely win over my fifth grade class at Topa Topa Elementary. I became teachers pet and was hanging out with the “in” girls and even singing a solo in the musical version of "Huckleberry Finn". Unfortunately, I didn't get any sense of relief from my victory, the aforementioned actually enhancing my self doubt.



Every goal I set for myself was so easily achieved. I wasn't certain I had duly earned it. I discounted the “A’s” on my report card. My teachers surely had given them to me out of pity. The kudos I got for singing must've been false. They probably didn't want to hurt my feelings. The constant verbal approval¬ (this kid has what it takes”¦she's Harvard material) and pats on the back must've been based in sarcasm. I wanted to crawl in a hole, not to die, but to begin again without a contradiction at every turn.



None of this cheerleading was new. I'd received lots of affirmation at other schools. But I couldn't handle it here. Something was messed up inside of me. I felt ugly and slow, and thick, and worthless. Sis was also heavily praised, but we didn't compare notes or, for that matter, interact much at all while at school.



We did spend a lot of time together at home, though—more than anyplace else we’d lived thus far. We made a tire swing and took turns swinging on it for hours. I found this exceedingly pleasant. The tree from which we swung was in front of the house on an easy hill, so when you kicked your legs up and went forward, you got further and further from the ground reaching a surprisingly dramatic height. The wind created by the motion gave a moment’s relief to the hot humid days. The tinny ringing of tennis balls shooting out of a machine, and the dull “puck” sound of a person's racket making contact created a ritzy, recreational backdrop, as if we, too, were members of the country club behind our house. Sis would swing and sing, "Apricot pie, Apricot pie, Apricot pie, oh me, oh my. Please tell me why I like Apricot pie. Please tell me why. Oh, what a state of bliss. Almost as good as my first kiss. If I go on like this I could miss my piece of Apricot pie..." the song inspired by Apricot, the little orange kitty Sis adored.



Perfection was swinging until dusk, all hot and lazy from the sun, filthy with dirt and sweat, maybe a bit of pomegranate juice stained on our fingers, hating to give up the moment, but ready to as soon as the crickets broke into song warning of less friendly nocturnal creatures.



Sis and I really played together—badminton, monopoly”¦there was an old car on the property that we would pretend to drive, or we'd go explore the creek bed. We had, had fun back in Oakland, but here it just felt different. Maybe it was our age, eleven and twelve, or the fact that we were so out of place. I'm not sure. All I know is that I became much more aware of my sister. I saw what she looked like. She was pretty and much softer in appearance than I. She liked writing, and I believe she had an affinity towards the animals, which I did not share.



I only liked two kitties, Mellow and Ocelot. They were both boys, brothers, and bigger than the rest. Mellow was tiger striped, and nothing bothered him; hence, the name. I could flip him over on his back or squish him into the tightest ball possible, and he would just look up at me with his calm yellow eyes and purr. Ocelot was named so because his markings resembled that particular type of wild cat. He was beautiful, black and silver, and surprisingly buff for a domestic kitty. The two were inseparable. I loved watching them lope across the property or stretch out together on a big rock in the sun. We had an exclusive agreement, those two kitties and I. They only let me pet them, and, in return, they’d bring me dead squirrels and birds as love tokens. The Ponderosa comes to mind as I recall their ways—Ben and Hoss Cartwright to be more specific.



Oh, no! It was happening again. The place was filling up with animals fast. The cats had become so numerous, they actually started eating there own kittens. Ma added geese to the brood and rented out the field next to the house to Jerri for her retired polo pony/ race horse, Moomba.



Moomba was a big thoroughbred. Suffice it to say, she did not have a very good temperament. She was taken off the racing/polo circuit because she'd kicked around a stable hand. In fact, she was on her way to becoming glue when Jerri saved her. One of Moomba’s favorite tricks was to take the opposite end of the field and run at you full speed, only to stop on a dime two inches away from your face, snorting and wild-eyed—her polo training, I guess. She had my utmost respect.



The duck population went up to a dozen or so. Now, Ducky had lots of girlfriends, as well as some competition. Those ducks were always screwing or fighting. Though, Ducky still found time to bite my toes.



Mom solved the gardening problem by hiring an old eccentric named George Higgins. He was skinny and leathery, his eyes permanently squinted in protection from the sun. The deal was, he'd tend the garden to earn his fair share of vegetables, which he promptly made into juice. Being an extreme vegetarian, he eventually ended up in the hospital for not eating solids, but he was with us for a good long while before his proteinless palsy set in. The garden was hard work, but with George pulling the majority of the weight, it wasn't so bad. He was also a good planner, so our work hours were maximized, and we felt a sense of accomplishment.



Life was becoming an odd series of juxtapositions. We now had a mini-farm, but Ma still walked with her city strut. I left for school everyday in miniskirts or jeans with a low cut tank top and a face full of make-up even though it alienated me further from the norm. Now that we lived in a place safe enough to leave the doors unlocked at all times, I was afraid. The rural silence was an unknown entity. It kept me up nights.



The thorn in my side here was Jaime, the seventeen-year-old boy-devil next door. He liked scaring Sis and I with his BB gun. The rest of the next door family was average: a pretty, conceited daughter, a doormat of a mother and a yelling dad complete with crew cut and beer belly. Funny, how there's always one of those kind of men no matter where you go.



I had acclimated by the time I was about to hit junior high. What else could I do? Ma was less annoying because she was working more, and she wasn't bringing men home. All I had to do when she got home was go outside to avoid the consternation listening to her ramblings brought me. She worked at the post office and the Holiday Inn leaving her no peace from her enemies and future murderers. I spent most of my time avoiding her paranoid verbal onslaughts on the tire swing fantasizing about being a superstar.



This undoubtedly was the best period with Ma because though she wasn't around due to working all day, you could perceive her attempt at being responsible, and we kids desperately needed to feel that. She was never gone overnight anymore. That gave us some sense of continuity, more so than if she'd been there during the waking hours. Things were fairly peaceful, and I was numbed out to my complex set of emotions associated with school. Everything was just fine.



My, God! Ma relaxed enough at that point for Sis and me to actually throw a party at the house. And, even more shocking, it was a success! Ma kept her cool. All the kids showed up. The music rocked. And it was all fun and innocence. The only racy moment was when Sis caught Drew, a boy we both had a crush on, kissing mournful-faced Karen in the back yard. I didn't mind because I'd already had my first kiss, ever, with Drew under the mistletoe at the Christmas dance. But Sis still liked him and wanted Ma to make him leave. We’d always had that problem of liking the same boy, since we were so close in age.



We were in Matilija Junior High, now, in seventh and eighth grade. Nadia Comaneci was on the verge of becoming passé, and Michael Jackson was on the verge of becoming bigger than life. I was your typically depressed teenager but was too busy feeling sorry for myself to notice others around me were going through a similar discomfort. I had really caved into and embraced self pity because I blamed the race issue for everything.



True, it was more pronounced here in junior high. There were a few hateful racists, in particular, a big bully named Stan. His nastiness caused Sis to become more academic and me, friendlier. I told myself that, since my peers needed to be cruel, it was my duty to bear the brunt of their ridicule because they didn’t know any better, and I did (implosion almost complete). Problem was: I could not take it.



Now, nothing seemed to make me happy. Every good time I had was temporary relief from my chronic distress. Ma tried to assuage my upset a bit. I painted my room a light green this time, and she and I made a special trip to the mall where I picked out and bought a “field theme" bed spread. I liked it so much with its little white tassels and the pattern of green grass and flowers. It kept me happy for a week or so, but I was the champion moper and would quickly return to my woeful ways.



Sis and I got jobs at the Ojai Valley News Press as inserters. We worked hard stuffing the sheets of advertisements into the papers, our fingers dry and black from the constant contact with the newsprint. The job was mindless, and we'd chatter stupid teenage chatter to make the long hours pass, or have speed races with the other inserters. We'd leave at dusk, our satisfied faces streaked with traces of ink. Most important was the pay check from that job.



I, now, got on the bus every weekend and went to Ventura Beach. I'd leave at nine in the morning and not come back until five or six at night. Most of my time was spent in the water body surfing. I'd treat myself to a soft serve cone about midday, vanilla with just a hint of coconut. The way the ice cream melted on my tongue was perfect as it mingled with and softened the bite of the sea salt.



The best part of those weekends was the emptiness that my mind and spirit experienced. The only thoughts I had were sparked in reaction to the beach. "Whoa! That was the' best wave I caught all day. S#*t! That was too strong. Aaah, warm sand. Hot hot hot! Where's the towel? My toes can't stand the heat. It's weird how everything looks gray when I open my eyes. I love the wind. I don't care how cold it gets. I feel wild and beautiful and strong. Look at how dark I'm getting. Funny how I don't sweat out here. Too rocky here... better move over. Here's the perfect spot, no seaweed or rocks, and the drop-off's only two feet."



It didn't matter how many people packed the beach. I was alone and at peace. The water understood me and said all that needed to be said leaving me no option but to remain silent.



The bus ride back was soothing, as well. I loved how the air changed as we passed Devil's Gorge where the off road four wheelers and dirt bikers recreated. That was the dividing point where sea breeze turned into valley humidity. My cold body welcomed the suppressive, hot air as I searched with my eyes for the wild mustangs that sometimes appeared just past the gorge on the left. Even walking past Libbey Park down Old Creek Road—the unpaved roadside tickling the soles of my bare feet, gently coaxing my spirit out of the waves back into my body—was wholly sweet. And home was fine, too, until I had to speak. Then, and only then, did I reenter my inevitable, overwhelming grief and worry.]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#14 Thu, 17 Feb 2011 00:00:00 -0800 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#13


Chapter 6—Home Sweet Home, Part Two




Now, don’t let me mislead you. Home was not just animal farm and omelets. Ma was down, but she wasn’t dead. We had a very sexy mother, and she had no qualms about flaunting this undeniable truth. Ma loved attention and got plenty of it. In fact, our house oozed sex from just about every corner.



Ma was the kind of lady that wore silver go-go boots and plunging necklines. She’d dye her hair to whatever color was in that week, and, I must say, I’ve never seen a woman work her walk better. I have witnessed men on two separate occasions walk directly (bam!) into a telephone pole because they were staring at her so hard. I liked looking at her, too, and loved having such a colorful mother. My silent Sis’ face registered enough distaste for me to realize she did not approve; nevertheless, this did not keep either of us out of Ma’s closet.



We loved all the exciting clothes Ma had. We’d dive into her closet and dress up in the boots and fringe vests and have an absolute ball. It was so fun going to Bizarre Bizarre, the vintage clothing store that Ma frequented almost daily, trying on all the thirties style heels, while Ma did her shopping. She’d ooh and ah over the jewelry with the store clerk as Sis and I ran our fingers over all the different materials appreciating the sensory delight the various textures afforded—satin, suede, wool, silk”¦.



But back to the merciless aura of my mother's sexuality: it wielded an awful lot of power. One grand example is when she persuaded the entire construction crew from around the corner to drop everything they were doing in order to move an old piano for her that she’d found by someone’s garbage can. They heaved, huffed, and flexed that heavy, old, upright all the way up those three sets of stairs. It got wedged at the turn to the landing on the final flight. But fear not! Those macho men toiled and sweated for eight hours to get that thing through the door. All of this for some spaghetti, a few beers and the opportunity to bask in the glow of Ma's flirty smile, firm breasts and endlessly long legs.



I don't think she was ever a prostitute. I'll never know, but she didn't seem the type to tolerate that. She needed too much control. That may seem a rather extreme idea to ponder, but, not really when you take into account the neighborhood we lived in and the dialogue we heard.



She definitely was a go-go dancer. She used to take us with her to rehearsals. We'd sit reading on the floor, while Ma and company coordinated there jiggles, bumps and grinds on the table tops. They all looked so lovely and “Hollywood” to me as they batted their false eye lashes and tossed their fake hair.



Even though Ma accented her physical femininity, she’s one of those ladies that could not look tacky, no matter what she wore. She was woman. Not “a woman,” but “woman.” Not cute, adorable, soft or pretty, but “woman”—the beautiful epitome of female.



My disapproval of her didn't kick in until the men started coming home. I saw red and raged just like Ma when that happened in apartment number six. I didn't understand exactly why I was so upset, but I could not control my anger. When the living room door closed, I would lose it completely and start banging, kicking, crying and screaming, “Get Out! Get Out! Ma!! 'Pleeease!!' Make him leave!”



No threats from them could stop me. I would tantrum relentlessly until the “he” of the day would leave, or I fell asleep with my fist to the door. On days I could bear it, I would go to the front room door to Ma’s room and put my eye to the hole where the door knob was missing (that was her way of locking the door). I'd watch, cry, beg and shout. It wasn’t jealousy. I think I was upset that my innocence was being infringed upon, and, also, horrified with my own morbid curiosity. Or perhaps it was some type of territorialism. Maybe I was simply grossed out and disgusted by the live pornography act taking place in the front room. I didn’t want to know about these things, and hear these sounds, and see these actions. I wanted to shame them into stopping. The only thing I knew for certain was that my anger ran deep. My rage raged.



I was so happy when Ma didn't come home for days on end during this stage. Things got stranger every time she returned. I couldn’t relax for even a moment in her presence. The culmination of circumstances, daily events, underlying sexual tension and the general chaos was making life feel like a frayed tight rope. Everything set me on edge.



Things were setting Ma on edge, as well. She couldn't stand the sound of the telephone ringing anymore. The “brrrng” truly sent her into a sort of mental discord triggering a kind of writhing response in her body. Her melodramatic reactions made me defensive because they seemed embarrassingly abnormal. I didn’t want to participate in what I thought were theatrics. She always had me lie to the callers for her. I did it a couple times before opting for honesty.



“She's here but she doesn't want to talk to anyone. The phone is upsetting her.”



Now, we were constantly fighting. I didn't care. I felt a lot of contempt for her even though I still loved her and was in awe of her beauty. I walked around in a general state of alarm. Her behavior was so jagged.



She also started getting nasty to Sis at this point. We must've been eight and nine. Sis had allergies, and Ma refused to accept it.



“Stop sniveling!" (Smack). “Go blow your f#!king nose instead of sounding like a sickly little weakling.”



Sis' eyes would bulge with unexpressed anger and sadness as the allergies helped hide her tears. Her hands were blunted by numbness as she attempted to dab her nose with the tissue. I now see her body was checking out in an immediate reaction to Ma's snide onslaught.



These interactions were accented by the fact that Ma didn't hit me at all and rarely ordered me around.



But Sis and I still had plenty of fun. We spent many hours roller skating behind the Catholic school in clamp-on skates or playing "Gilligan’s Island" in the back yard. We still loved Ma and would make breakfast for her walking it four blocks over to the gas station she worked at. Ed Kelly, her boss, the big black man with the two-¬tone shades in his blue mechanic's overalls, always had a big smile for us. And besides...



I had my pogo stick. You could barely get me off of it. I loved the rhythmic noise it made with each jump—that sound somewhere between a squeak and a crunch—1, 2, 3, 4 ... How many jumps can I do in a row? One-handed? No hands? Not too smart on a pogo stick. I still have the scar on my inner knee from that silly experiment.



”¦home because I remember one night in particular. Ma was preparing for a party she was throwing. This was a big deal. We hadn't had a party in the apartment, yet. What kind of people would come over? We hadn’t invited anybody into our space, thus far, accept horny men.



“Girls, please be good tonight. If you're quiet, you can stay up through the whole party. If you can show me how well behaved you can be, I'll take you everywhere with me. That's a promise.”



Now I had a goal. I wanted to know what went on in the world and solemnly vowed to be the best, quietest little girl possible.



And I was. I didn't make a peep. I sat in corners and watched everything with all- absorbing eyes. I found this suited me. I liked people watching and was learning a lot as I listened to the chatter and took in facial expressions, some of which were not meant to be seen.



The company was pleasant enough—normal people trying to look a little edgy and artsy. Most of them were from Laney College and Ma’s ballet class. A few full-time musicians and jive-talkin’ street men were thrown in the mix to add an air of urban authenticity. But that was it. Nothing outrageous took place. I enjoyed the scene and hoped we would do it again sometime.



Everyone thought Ma was so cool with all of her animals, her two mixed-race kids, the organic garden, and her home-farmed chicken and duck eggs. Sophisticatedly complex was she with this “organic, hippy s%#t” coexisting next to her false eye lashes, glamour girl make-up, high teased hair, sexy chic cloths, and cosmopolitan ways.



Ma was giddy with the success of the party and her image. By the end of the night, she had been described as "deep, truly liberated", and a "bad motherf!#%*r". And, now, she saw "us" as assets”¦commodities”¦we had further authenticated her coolness! The reward we got was more than I'd hoped for.



Ma sat us down the next day. She told us what champs we’d been the night before. “Sweethearts, I didn't know you could be so polite. You can come with me almost everywhere.” She meant it too. I was tickled beyond pink.



Our family outings were a blast! Ma was culturally very hip. We went with her to San Francisco to watch black and white films of Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo. We never missed Chinese New Years and even saw a few ballets. She took us with her to her dance classes where I found a new passion—Helga, the short ballet teacher with the thick Slavic accent and the big stick she kept count with, really made me feel like I could dance. That was the first time in my childhood I remembered feeling graceful. I was digging our new lifestyle. We went with Ma to her music classes at Laney College. This was especially exhilarating for me.



I knew since age five that I was a singer/songwriter. I'd announced it to Ma back then, and have never changed my mind since. That was my thing, period. My first song was about a couch that I wanted: “There/s a nice big table, a nice big couch, and I'm gonna move in this little old house. Oh, baby...,” a blues.



Anyhow, the music lessons were a dream come true. I couldn't understand what the teacher was talking about, but just being there was enough. I sat in the corner with a music book busily copying all the notation on the chalk board. The teacher stopped mid-lecture, “Is that coming out of that kids head, Mary Jane?”



“No. She's just copying.”



Yeah, I loved traipsing around with Ma. We hitchhiked just about everywhere we had to go. Ma looked so cool now. She was going through her “tough” phase, and sported a denim apple hat with her hair all tucked in, black boots, skin tight jeans (she had to lay down to zip them up), a Danskin leotard, and one of her variety of vests. I was proud to walk into Fenton’s Ice Cream with her and Sis and order our banana nut or pistachio ice-cream cones.



Things got a little more stressful when Ma got another car. This time it was an old tan VW bug. Ma’s driving was upsetting enough (can’t forget that detached retina) without the added complication of a stick shift. She was running into or rolling back on everyone. And Ma was all fight. Even though she was at fault one hundred percent of the time, she'd jump out of her car and get into the other drivers’ faces cursing and making threats. She even backed up on the freeway, once, to follow a driver off an exit ramp so she could make her point. And she always got away with it, too. Always. I literally did have white knuckles driving around with her.



The only time her in-your-face style was ever challenged was during an altercation she had on foot, while we were walking down a San Francisco street one Chinese New Years. Ma decided to try to break up a gang fight and, without hesitation, walked amid flying chains and knives to smack some guy in the head, and tell him to pick on someone his own size, since the guy whose head he was kicking against the marble building corner appeared to be smaller than he. Still, nothing really happened. The gang members called her a few names, spit at her, and continued fighting till the cops came.



Consequently, I started staying home more—because of the car, and the fights”¦and the piano—in that order. I spent hours noodling around on the keys. I didn't know what I was doing, but it didn't matter. My obsession with learning how to play was a much more productive form of escapism than the mindless hours I spent watching T.V.



My favorite memory of me and Sis takes place at the piano. Ma taught me a simple chord pattern with a catchy melody and easy words. With the tape recorder poised at the ready, I had Sis sing the song, while I played. We did it again and again, adjusting a note here or an accent there, until two hours later she squeaked out a heart felt version, “The wind in the trees is a wandering breeze coming in from the sea and the ocean ...” I judged it to be “perfect!” and exaltedly announced, “That's it. That's the keeper!”



To my childish eye, everything was cool except for the men. The men were the problem. And the bigger we got, the bigger the problem got. It finally dawned on me that Ma viewed us as competition the more we started to look like women. She accused Sis of flirting with one of her boyfriends at age nine. I was right there and saw no flirtation of any kind taking place. He had only said “hello” and given her a smile, but sweet Sis never heard the end of it for smiling back.



“Let me tell you girls something. All men are assholes. You can never trust a man. Use them and manipulate them because they're all a bunch of chicken s#!ts. That's all you need to know to get along with them.”



I was tall for my age. Gary down the block had asked Ma if I was dating yet. “What did you do to make him look at you? Did you talk dirty to him? Did he come on to you? I don't want to hear any bull s#!t!” I didn't know what to say to her. I knew who Gary was because he was her friend and had a big pretty dog named Sesame.



“You girls better not be trying to get away with sexy s#!t when I'm not here. I'm not going to have any little whores for daughters, Goddamnit!”



Ma’s eyes changed. Now they were filled with fear and distrust every time she looked at me and Sis leaving me greatly alarmed. It was no small matter to be on this woman's bad side. I wanted to put her at ease but didn't know how. I was getting really sick of her accusing looks, since I wasn't doing anything wrong. Our growing bodies (what could we do about that?) were threatening her reign over sex and womanhood. Her wariness felt extremely primal and constant. The threat was real. Sassing her would get me nowhere. My instincts told me it would be dangerous to confront her. This is the moment in time when I started to develop a bad attitude toward strangers. It was the one way I could safely let off steam.



Somewhere in all of this hullabaloo, we enrolled in school. I'm not sure how much we had missed, but it was a lot. Thank God we were quick studies.



The first school was not so good. I learned to fight there. Had to. Michael and his gang would've beaten me to a pulp if I couldn't fight back. My friends were Claudia and Luba. I was in third grade. The beaters were in fifth. At last my height was paying off. One teacher named Kathy seemed to sense I was coiled like a spring. She gave me a special journal to write in. I would hand it back to her with tears every morning saying I just couldn't. The coil was too tightly wound to risk releasing. Still, her kindness and caring gave me a glimpse into another way of living. She looked so gentle”¦so sensible. It made a difference.



We switched to another school that had a program for gifted kids; I don’t know if we were part of it or not, but Ma brought it up often to others in conversation, as if she were bragging. Every morning, we caught the College Ave. bus to Berkeley, transferred to the school bus, and went up the hill to Kaiser Elementary.



Sis and I had lots of friends: Kristy, Evan, Pam, Maurice, Allison”¦Allison had the most beautiful hair, which ended up being at the center of a huge tragedy in her life. She was from the Phillipines and had the most silky, beautiful, straight black-blue hair. One day, she was swinging upside down on the monkey bars gearing up for a flip, her long lustrous hair blowing and flowing in the wind. All of a sudden, a girl from the special education class that was playing nearby became mesmerized by the beauty of Allison’s shining black hair and wanted to touch it. She leaned over and grabbed Allison’s hair with both hands tugging hard, which caused Allison to fall from the bars and land in a crumpled, unnatural position, her face a blanched study in pain, though she made not a sound. Teachers held us kids back as the ambulance came and somberly took her away. Sis and I weren’t at Kaiser long enough to find out the end result of that horrible accident. But rumor had it that beautiful serene Allison had landed in a way that stunted her growth for life. I hope it was, indeed, a rumor.



My best friend was Christine Larson. She brought out some of the bad girl in me (locking ourselves in the nurse’s room, or scaring people with special effects at Ouija Board séances we held in empty classrooms). Smart, pretty, and sarcastically witty, she was a half Italian girl with long luxurious chestnut brown hair. When we weren't pulling pranks, playing tether ball, or in class, we were chasing boys and talking about Rod Stewart, Peter Frampton or John Travolta (Vinny Barbarino). I'd go over to her apartment, and we'd listen to “Frampton Live,” or the big hit, “Tonight's the Night,” and talk and giggle over our crush on John-John Robinson, the cute boy at school. This felt so fun and normal. I never wanted to go home to Ma's evil eye.



Orlando and his gang were the bullies in this school. I learned to run here. A more serious threat than anything I'd come across so far, Orlando was tall, mean and hell bent on hurting me and Sis (I recall an incident in which he and his crew viciously chased Sis with pins of all things!) for nothing more than entertainment value. He did a pretty good job of it, too, Orlando with his black jacket and crooked, snarling smile, before I got him expelled. He and his crew were pounding me good. They had me backed in a corner. He was bearing down on me intending to put his full weight behind the punch. I ducked at the last minute, and he messed up the window frame almost knocking out all of the safety glass. Since he busted school property instead of my face, he was expelled.



Ma was smoking a lot of pot at this point. She didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore. She left the paraphernalia on the kitchen table, her vanity—everywhere. One night, she was cutting my hair while high. She was so fascinated by how my hair kind of rolled off in fluffy balls that I was one-half inch away from baldness by the time she was done. The kids called me “baboon face” and beat me up until my hair grew back. This did not help my already strained relationship with Ma even though she came to school and called them a bunch of “chicken shits” on my behalf.



School was a little rough, but the teachers, the Mrs. Wongs (always smiling, yet serious) and Kathy types, were very good for me. They brought me joy and made me feel like I was special and bright. I appreciated that greatly. They paid attention to me in a trusting, friendly, smiley manner unlike Ma. I am certain it was their presence that saved me from becoming deeply bitter.



Yes, Kaiser Elementary was a bona fide school experience: my first talent show (Winners: Me and Christine singing Close to You!); dances (Popular songs: "Rockin’ Robin", "Kung Fu Fighting", and "You Make Me Feel Brand New"); plays (I played a drug attic in some production); more singing, more dancing, and friends”¦I was actually getting comfortable enough to not try to be perfect. Kaiser was the place that taught me people could get mad at you and get over it. And because of this, a strong mini-segment of history was built in my life as well as Sis’ and all of our friends.



Even so, I was becoming a real asshole. I had to let off steam somewhere. I needed my friendships badly, and knew better than to test them with verbal abuse. So, my unexpressed anger was vented in all the wrong places; for instance, I said “F#!k you!” to Mrs. Reynolds, another Kaiser teacher, because she was too prissy for my taste with her blonde Suzy-homemaker wig and swishy stride; or I'd be riding the bus and an old lady would ask me for my seat. “F#!k off!” I'd say turning my back to her. I was starting to enjoy the fights at school, and my language had gone all the way over to the land of filth.



Luckily, I went through this neighborhood unharrassed. No rapes or violence occurred in this house. Lots of weird neighbors dropped by whether Ma was home or not, but no one molested us children. Charles, the artist, was a druggy. His portraits were fascinatingly haunting and dark. Jim Parker, the skinny, little, pot-head, white nigga-wannabe, just bullshitted. He wanted Ma badly, but she wouldn't give it up to him, and that ruffled his bantam feathers mightily. Big Percy brought soul music into the house, and somewhere along the line, Ma started building a jazz collection.



I was getting heavily into music. I knew all the words to Ella, Billy, and Sarah's records. The soul made me want to dance and Judy Garland made me feel. Barbara Streisand in "Funny Girl" made me want to be a star and Carole King’s songs just made me smile. All of this helped me escape Ma's paranoia. The record player was in her room, so, when she had company, I would watch T.V in the kitchen as an alternative. I escaped into "Charlie's Angels", "Wonder Woman", and "The Brady Bunch" religiously. This actually was a very good thing. Before I’d had these distractions, I’d spent hours on end full of sadness or rage. Now I was relaxed and able to concentrate.



I was almost happy. My biggest problem was that I went to school with dirty clothes on. Sis and I did the best we could, but we didn't have money. Ma didn't budget laundry in on a regular basis. Though frustrating and embarrassing, it never occurred to us to wash our clothes by hand.



Sis and I were in band at school. She played cello; I, the saxophone. So, what did occur to us was the idea of making money for the laundry with our musical skills, amateur though they might be. This led us to the streets with our instruments. Now we could go see "Sinbad" movies at the Elmwood Theater and the Kurt Russell surfer movies at the Alameda Theater. We'd even go to man-made Lake Temescal to swim with Gina from across the street. We never did get around to the laundry. Priorities”¦



Though, clearly having our priorities a bit skewed, Sis and I were, nonetheless, developing inside and out on many levels. But Ma persisted in being a child. I tolerated her whims and tirades with silent exasperation that looked like patience. If any sweets were brought into the house, we would immediately divide them into thirds. We actually had to hide our portions from Ma, so she wouldn’t eat them. Sis took to licking her share for extra insurance. We were developing horrible eating habits. We'd divide a pack of Oreos into thirds, and I'd eat mine in one sitting to avoid the risk of having to get angrier inside at Ma for eating them—Ma, who either pigged out, or was on a five-hundred-calorie-per-day diet. Eating was not just about nourishment and taste in our house. There was a storm brewing.



For “unparented” kids, we were hanging in there pretty well and staying fairly productive. The only very upsetting occurrence for me happened across the street at the Catholic School. A bunch of us neighborhood kids were playing hide-and-go-seek, and home base was right next to a window. I was so busy watching the kid who was “it” chasing me, I missed the base and ran through the full length, plate glass window. My arm was split wide open only half an inch away from that very important vein in your wrist. You could see my bones and everything. All the kids ran screaming. Sis tried to find help. Ma wasn’t home, so we went to our neighbor Agnes who gave us vanilla ice cream every Sunday. It was left over from her shriveled up old husband, Warren, who visited every weekend from jail where he was serving time for tax evasion. Poor Agnes fainted. A stranger ended up taking me to the hospital to get my sixty-two stitches. The doctor wanted to graph some skin from my butt to my arm. I was already freaked out enough without entertaining that unpleasant thought. I wouldn’t let him do it and still have the scar today. That’s how I learned my left from my right.



”¦home because there are too many memories to jam into this chapter. The apartment number six tapestry was, without a doubt, of “rich and royal hue.”



We had another big dose of health, while visiting Kristy, Sis’ good friend from school, and her family at their house. I was fascinated by her parents, Judy and John, who were two incredibly beautiful people that were clearly in love with each other. I had never seen such a thing! Wow! Ma would drop us off, or (miracle of miracles!) we’d actually visit as a family, and that felt great. No evil eye”¦merely laughing, and talking, and sharing.



So, just as life was beginning to establish a manageable rhythm, just as I was beginning to let my shoulders down for at least a third of the day, things were about to change yet again.



It was during our final week of unsupervised time. Ma had gone on a trip with Bill Ganslen, an older well-established San Francisco photographer. I don’t know what happened while she was on that trip, whether he had talked to her, or if some kind of parental instinct started kicking in. But, when she returned home from that particular trip, Ma looked at things realistically for the first time in a long time, and made a good, very grown-up decision—probably the best one of her life thus far. She decided it was time to get out of the city.



Not only did she decide this, but she actually had the wherewithal to plan the move a month ahead of time and tell us about it. This was unprecedented! Granted, it wasn’t a lengthy plan, but, for Ma, it might as well have been a year.



As with most kids, we were opposed to the move. As eccentric as it was, we did have a routine and had made friends here in Oakland. So, even though I knew from past experience, that whenever there was a complete break in pattern”¦a total change was going to take place, I opted to remain in denial. I did not allow myself to worry. I mean, what were the odds of our depressed, disappearing, paranoid, sex-crazed, narcissistic Ma getting organized enough to actually follow through? I found out when she pulled up one evening in a rented Ryder truck.]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#13 Tue, 24 Aug 2010 00:00:00 -0700 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#12

Chapter 6—Home Sweet Home, Part One




Move number six—Howe Street—the middle of the block—an eight step cement stairway sandwiched by large patches of ivy heading up to a three flat with peeling dove gray paint—the eye sore of the block.



We moved into the second floor apartment. The first floor was divided into two apartments occupied by our immediate neighbors, ninety-year-old Mrs. Frickholm, and sixty-five-year-old Agnes Graham, who smoked so much over her many years in the apartment that her dinner plates were stained yellow and gave the food an acrid ash flavor.



Our city block appeared to be on the verge of being run down. A walk around it starting left brought one to a lone crab apple tree looking sickly and out of place on corner one, a beautiful, well-tended rose garden with some of the biggest roses I’ve ever seen on corner number two, a long expanse of browning lawn on corner three, and two vicious unchained, unfenced German Shepherds staring hungrily just across the street on corner number four. The Catholic school across the street stood an architectural beacon of light amid the fading two-flats and the partial view of the tacky red and white gas station peaking through from Piedmont Avenue. A few long blocks south brought one to Kaiser Hospital and the Mayfair Market. Mosswood Park brushed up against all of that. Walking in the opposite direction led to a huge cemetery immediately followed by a long row of rustling eucalyptus trees. The aromatic trees melted into the mini-mall located directly behind the College of Arts heading you into College Avenue, the gateway to Berkeley, the infamous land of intellectuals, freaks, and philosophers.



Up the eight cement stairs, to the six wooden stairs, to the door, which opened to the dozen plus, once carpeted stairs, to the second floor flat one would go. Once the stairs were traversed and you collapsed on the landing, you would find yourself faced with two doors: one on the right opening into the front room now turned into Ma’s bedroom, and one on the left opening into the kitchen. The kitchen led into a hallway with a small, narrow bathroom. Sis’ and my bedrooms were off to the left next to the back door. Heading back through the hallway to the right was a small room which functioned as the living room. That room had French doors which led into Ma’s bedroom where there was a small balcony. The place was set up in an oval of sorts.



Mr. Albertini, our landlord, was a quick moving little Italian man with fresh, faithless eyes. He and my mother instantly fell into a volatile, love-hate banter. He’d be screaming at her, half in English, half in Italian, that she had lied about the number of pets, children, blah, blah, all the while, his eyes never leaving her breasts unless they were locked firmly on her crotch. She, in turn, would display the perfect blend of disgust and lust while delivering blatantly empty and therefore punishable apologies. In retrospect, I felt I was privy to some type of perverted fetish and really should not have been in the room while they carried on in this manner.



So here we were in our first home—home because we actually lived life in these rooms for what must’ve been two years, maybe even three; home because we knew the people in the neighborhood and became familiar with certain smells and patterns; home because this was the most routine my life had been thus far.



Ma went through lots of changes here. She literally crashed. I don’t know how else to describe it. Everything seemed such an effort for her. There was so much weight and stifled sorrow in her voice. She looked swollen or beat up. Her solution for everything was sleep. She wouldn’t, or perhaps, couldn’t get off the couch for days on end. We’d pull her, pinch her, yank her, but”¦nothing. No more lovely smiles”¦ just a mild frown or a weak moan. When she was awake, her brow was always furrowed so I could study well the unusual, solitary, vertical crease that would form between her eyes. She didn’t talk much. Sometimes she’d disappear altogether for days on end. This upset us at first, but she’d always return, and we soon became impervious to her unexpected absences. The initial feelings of fear and worry due to her being gone were quickly replaced with the distractions of noise, TV, lights, reading, candy, and eventually a rationalized relief.



I liked Ma this way. I was now seven about to turn eight. The last couple of years had been so tumultuous; I had already written her off. It was the only way I was able to embrace her fragmented way of living. Tired of surprises and sudden change, her sleeping for days on end, or disappearing altogether, seemed a blessing to me. Now that she was depressed, I could get on with life.



We compensated very well for Ma’s inaction. We learned how to make scrambled eggs, homemade pancakes, biscuits and cream-of wheat”¦I recall most fondly the two or three months I had Kraft macaroni-and-cheese and hamburger for dinner every night. I never got sick of the synthetic cheese taste and the hamburger drenched in Heinz or Delmonte ketchup. The first bite was the highlight of my day. It never let me down. Sis became the bread and pie baker, and I specialized in cakes. We had a good time eating too much and sleeping with the lights on.



Every now and again Ma would snap out of it and we’d have great fun together. She was a gloriously creative soul. All of our activities revolved around music and art. Dancing, singing, drawing, paper maché... Fun! And it was always glamorous with Ma. We didn’t draw flowers and stick figures. We drew ladies with three shades of eye shadow, mascara, contemporary hairstyles with flips covering one eye, luscious, lipstick-covered mouths, and designer clothes. Nothing was cute. It was all beautiful or precise.



Ma was lenient, too, as long as it was done in the name of art. I recall that strange paint job I did in my room one weekend afternoon while she was gone. I found some aqua paint in the garage and expressed myself on the walls. I thought it was beautiful, my three-foot wide aqua stripe on each wall. So did Ma!



Once in a while, Ma would "come to" with more fire and try to make us jump through her ridiculous, paranoid hoops. Sadly enough, I’m not exaggerating. She really was paranoid. She always thought someone was trying to brainwash her, or kill her, or something. It wasn’t unusual and actually was quite routine for her to wake us at three or four in the morning demanding that we sit in a circle with her in the living room wearing copper bracelets and chanting to ward off evil. Or she would insist that we hide in a closet because some bad guy was in the house trying to find her. She’d come stomping into our room shaking us awake with adrenaline pumped hands.



"Shh! Get up! Come on. Now!!" she’d hiss.



I don’t know if I can convey to you how highly unnerving it is to witness someone experiencing so much fright and torment when there is clearly nothing wrong and no danger in sight.



Again, the only way I could process her behavior was to detach—to write her off. Sis seemed to be using the same method. Our response to Ma’s overactive imagination was unsophisticated, cold, and completely in the moment. We thought she was weird, and, at least for the first few times, almost hoped there was someone or something lurking in the shadows to offset the bizarreness of the scene. Over time, it took a lot to get us kids to worry about "her", let alone "them". We just wanted to have a good time, and she was ruining it. I would roll my eyes behind her back and make the crazy sign to Sis, or pretend that I didn’t hear her to avoid the issue entirely. I didn’t know words like "schizophrenic" or "delusional". If only she would calm down and get the crayons out.



It got to the point where I was certain that something was terribly wrong with her. No longer could I humor her imagined emergencies even with my condescending attitude firmly in place. The instinct to protect myself from her delusions, so intense and panicky, became overwhelming. You know when a mosquito is humming and buzzing right by your ear, how after a while you snap and start swatting at it in a hysterically violent manner? That hyper frustration is what Ma inspired in me. The only reason I couldn’t snap is because she was bigger than me. All I could do was wish her gone after one of her episodes and be ever so thankful when she finally did disappear for a few days.



My limit was finally reached, and I became fed up enough to draw the line out loud one day. "You’re not a real mom," I told her in my childish voice. "You don’t think right. You can tell me to do whatever you want, but I won’t do it unless I think it makes sense." I looked her right in the eye as I said this. My statement was unprovoked, which gave it more weight. That particular morning she was sitting at her vanity applying mascara as I lay watching sprawled across her sheepskin-covered bed. She didn’t argue with me as our eyes locked. Time just stopped, and those few seconds froze like minutes punctuated with icicles for exclamation points; then, she went back to her make-up. Subtle as it was, that is the only time she ever acknowledged her illness.



This is also the exact point and time where my sister and I lost all chance of forming a real bond. I knew Sis wanted, needed things to be normal. She needed Ma to be a parent you could listen to, and this made her a prisoner to my mother’s insanity. She did do what she was told; Sis did jump through Ma’s farcical hoops, and she had a lot more pain in her life as a result.



...home because we had most of our family pets here. Our place was a virtual zoo. Ma loved animals so.



There was a large balcony through Sis’ room. That’s where we kept the cats that Ma kept bringing home. The cat adoptions started because Leroy had been stolen and Chicky had run off. But Ma’s efforts went beyond replacement. She kept bringing these kittens home. They’d get big and have babies; before you knew it, we had twenty-one cats. Chicky miraculously found her way home three months later, but the pattern had been irreversibly set.




A visit to the Japanese Botanical Gardens in Golden Gate Park gave Ma a yen for carp. Of course, the only logical thing to do was to fill a child’s wading pool full of carp and stick it out on the balcony with the twenty-one cats. Those poor fish. None died, but all incurred battle wounds from the many attempts on their lives.



On Easter, we added a baby duck to the compound. Once big enough to hold his own, he, too, went out on the balcony. It was only natural, having never seen another duck since birth, that he thought he was a cat. I found it highly amusing to observe him slinking in the house to lie under the bed or sit on my lap while I watched T.V. He would show his affection by maniacally biting ones toes. No one got as frenzied a toe attack as I. True love!



The real cats didn’t like another kind of love he was trying to offer them, so, without further ado, Ma got Ducky a girl duck to solve the problem. They honeymooned in the garage for two nights. I can still hear Mr. Albertini’s ranting...



You can imagine, with twenty-one cats and a couple ducks all sharing the same porch, a hygienic problem developed. One had to watch one’s step, there being no litter box. Every Sunday we’d get out some laundry soap, a janitor’s broom, and a hose and get down to business, scrubbing and spraying away. That meant poor Mrs. Frickholm was subjected to watching globs of cat crap slide and dribble down her lovely sun porch windows on all three sides. At ninety, standing just under five feet tall, it’s safe to say her protest was feeble at best.



We can’t complete the food chain without dogs. Sidney, the short-haired collie, was our first. He got mauled by the Shepherds on corner four and hit by a car twice (the first hit made him blind in one eye) before he died. Casey, dog number two, was a German Shepherd. She only had to get hit once to die a particularly dramatic death in the front yard with Ma pushing the blood out of her body to hasten the end of her misery. Dog number three, Doggie, was a little Sheltie we rescued from the dog pound. He also was hit by a car. We think he died. We saw him get hit, but there was no corpse to speak of. Sis and I were convinced that he was a ghost or a magic dog, since he seemed to have disappeared into thin air.



We didn’t have money for food, and it was becoming a real problem. Yes, we got the government-issue cheese and peanut butter. Yes, we were on the list of human guinea pigs for new cereals, but it just wasn’t cutting it. So...we got chickens.



Ma had interesting logic. There was, indeed, a method to her madness. The practicality of her farm training paired with her creativity formed a curiously effective result. She was trying to stretch what little money we had as far as it would go. So, since chicken feed was cheaper than human food, she bought two chickens, and we ate their eggs (protein problem solved!). Certainly, Ma did not want to deprive the chickens of their sex lives; hence, in walked Roosty.



She forgot about the fact that cock’s crow. Now we were getting lots of questions from the sleep-deprived neighbors. Roosty, his Leghorn majesty, was definitely disturbing the peace every sunrise. Eventually we hit upon the simple yet effective solution of putting him in a dark kitchen drawer at night and not letting him out until around eleven the following morning.



Let me state the obvious. The apartment was getting excessively crowded; it was virtually overrun with animals. Consequently, we needed to expand beyond the front door. This is when our bigger projects, born of necessity, began. Ma wanted all these animals, which, by volume, was defeating the purpose of stretching the food money. This being a reality impossible to ignore, she now had her sights set on a garden. Without Albertini’s permission, she had me and Sis pull up all the ivy on either side of the eight cement steps in front. Not just a little patch, but ALL of the ivy. We planted corn, Swiss chard, tomatoes, carrots, etc. Once that mission was accomplished, we moved into the back yard to build a chicken coop—accommodations for our ever-growing hen farm. Ma came home with supplies: wire, wood, nails and a hammer. Sis and I threw something or other together. After the coop, it was a fence she wanted us to build. We made a monstrosity of a contraption four feet high and twenty feet long that was impossible for us to pick up and put in place. Ma came out to help us and, with one mighty heave, tore all the muscles in the right side of her torso. She was bedridden for a month. The fence just lay there in the middle of everything inconveniencing everyone. Someone put it in place after several weeks.



Meanwhile, the animal theme continued spanning beyond our own pets and food providers. Sis and I became a superhero team of sorts and carried out several rescue missions throughout the neighborhood.



We discovered our first victims while building that ramshackle chicken coop in the back yard. Rumor had it that our neighbors in the house directly behind us raised and killed rabbits for money. To our horror, this rumor was confirmed as a fact by the anemic looking fourteen-year-old girl who lived there. She told us in great detail how she helped her dad skin and boil the little innocents three times a week! We occasionally heard the poor babies’ shrieks of terror as the left the world. Something had to be done. Hopping the fence, Sis and I put as many bunnies as we could fit in a cardboard box and walked them up to the cemetery to their freedom. So proud of ourselves were we. Every time I saw a bunny scurrying amongst the tombstones, I was sure it was one of our rescues or their babies.



Our next victim was found on top of the garage roof while we were building a fort with the leftover wood from the chicken coop. He was old, dirty, decrepit, and his days were undeniably numbered. This foul smelling, weak, wobbly-legged, white tomcat immediately won our hearts because even though he was so close to death and winced with each step taken, he seemed to be in remarkably good spirits and was always genuinely pleased to see us. Our expectations were realistic enough. We just wanted to offer him a little comfort in his last days. An old pillow served as his bed, and we fed him scrambled eggs till he was no more; however, this kindness backfired on us. His disease was contagious and knocked off many of our own cats. May you rest in peace dear Jason, Sweetmeat et al! We had quite a cat cemetery in the back yard.



One more rescue needed to be made. I gave my friend Luba a mouse for her birthday. Mice and those black-and-white, tame rats were very popular pets in the seventies right around the time the movie “Ben” came out. Shortly after the birthday party, I went to Luba's house to play and went up to her room only find her twirling the poor rodent round and round in a wrapped up curtain. Shocked and appalled, I snatched the mouse from her in an indignant huff and took him home to the zoo.
Mousy was so forlorn. He looked like a prisoner in his yellow and orange habitrail. His front claws were almost constantly pressed against the yellow plastic walls in a wistful, pleading manner. I built him a large cage, planted grass on the bottom of it, and moved him out on the front balcony in Ma’s room. I prayed the fresh outdoor air and the natural grass would brighten his spirits. Still, mousy moped miserably. I asked Ma if I could set him free in the house.



“Sure.”



Now Mousy was happy! We hardly ever saw him. I knew he was there though. Every morning, I’d check the little clay dish I had made at school that was on the kitchen floor by the sink to see if the small glob of government-issue peanut butter had been eaten. It was gone every time. Mousy showed up in a plant pot every now and then, or I’d feel him run across my toes at night once in a blue moon. Startling and heartwarming it was.



Even though we enjoyed snippets of the animal experience, it wasn’t without a lot of annoyance. Ma made me sigh and shake my head a lot. We whined about taking care of the fifty plus animals and tending the garden and building the chicken coop and the many other contraptions too numerous to mention. The whining was brought on by the fact that, other than the rescues, all of these animals were Ma’s idea. She wanted them, but we took care of them. I, for one, was not happy with all the mess and responsibility. One or two pets sounded good, but more than fifty and a huge garden too? And besides, we were normal kids in that respect. Yuck. Chores!



The animals were with us the entire two or three years we were there. We lost one chicken to a stray dog, and, as stated, many cats to disease, and all the dogs to cars, but other than that, they were a constant presence. Ma’s depression, absence, and paranoia were also constant, which is a grand testament to her resilience”¦]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#12 Fri, 20 Aug 2010 00:00:00 -0700 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#11
"Walking, walking into the night, through the night, into the day—through the day, into the night... night... day... night... day—dark... light... dark... light..."



Chapter 5— Going Nowhere Fast





We spent about three weeks living in the car. It was cozy in a let’s-play-house manner with towels hanging over the windows acting as curtains and flashlights on the dashboard at night. We ate our meals on top of the occupied rabbit cage and read or played cards while listening to the radio humming along with the popular music.



Our routine was simple, just as Ma had said it would be. Most of our daylight hours were spent hanging out at the Cactus Café, a dingy little diner on Telegraph Avenue run by a middle-aged man with a round, leathery, grill-cooked face whose slanted eyes defied his predominantly Irish features. Ma yakked at him incessantly while Sis and I sat swiveling round and round on the counter stools occupying ourselves with nothing for hours on end. The sunlight shone through the yellowing blinds, never quite able to touch the faded pink walls in that dusty, humble corner of the world. We would walk out of the quiet almost rural atmosphere of the diner into the slick, quick, agitated city streets, and we’d meander our way back to the “car-house” stopping first at Vern’s Market for one of their yummy sweet potato pies (still the best I’ve ever had).



Once “home,” we’d let the animals out to play; they never wandered further than they would have in a fenced-in back yard. Chickybits and Leroy stepped gingerly among the rusted car parts and empty bottles. This was all so beneath them. The last bit of daylight would be filled with the omnipresent strains of hit tunes. If we felt really ambitious, we would drive over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco and head up to the Cross—the white, neon cross where people would go to kiss or pray. The view of the city from said cross was a steep, eerie silhouette mysteriously covered with a layer of fog, which hung just below the subtle sparkle of lights dipping in and out of the hills. Eventually, we would make our way back to the dead-end ally and fall into cramped, furry, smelly sleep.



The way I saw it, life was good. I was too young to be embarrassed by the circumstances or feel the hardship. This was a great adventure to me—yet another extension of our ongoing game of make-believe. I’m not sure how Sis felt about it. She didn’t look too thrilled. Her silence conveyed nothing.



After those initial three weeks in the “car-house,” we moved into Louis’ apartment. Louis was a good looking, young black man, a thirtyish fiery, wiry "nigga" that Ma had taken up with. When I say "nigga," I mean it in the street sense of the word. We were on the Street, and Louis was a fast talking, good looking, strutter—a quick thinking survivalist that could act any part in the blink of an eye to stay alive and well; he was a "nigga." In his world, this was the ultimate compliment. Life with Louis consisted of greasy breakfasts, games of tag and me always asking, “What?” because he talked so fast that I couldn’t understand him. Moving in with him was the beginning of a series of unstable, colorful environments.



We moved into our first apartment alone a couple of months later. We moved a lot of places. Ma went through a lot of jobs and a lot of men. Most of the apartments were just there; most of the jobs were mindless; and most of the men were big and black.



My favorite was a dapper, tall, strong, beautiful black man named Jim Kent. I was only five and even I knew he was incredibly sexy. I loved strong, fearless male energy, and, boy, did he ever have it. It made me relax and laugh from the belly. Dumb stuff like crossing a big, busy avenue and him saying, “Watch this.” He’d stick his leg right out in front of a car and bring rush hour traffic to a screeching, angry halt. My terror was so fun because as long as his strong arm was wrapped around me and I could feel the muscle of his leg flexing against my cheek because I was pulled so close to him as we crossed the street, I knew that no real harm could come to me. God, what an incredible feeling. In those moments I was truly a child, trusting, dependent, safe and happy. And he cooked great breakfasts to boot. We’d laugh and eat ourselves into a state of paralysis overstuffed with food and joy.



Everyone else was substandard at best. Each relationship reeked of sex, drama, and violence. The joy was missing, and Ma became expert at saying “Good-bye.” Louis got dumped because he blew up the big, black car with a bomb in a political rally. Lots of others came and went. My least favorite is a toss up between eighteen-year-old, nappy-headed Eugene who sat on our front porch a pitiful puddle of tears everyday for a week straight when Ma dumped him, and Bill, the funny, smelly, crunchy "granola", white guy that fancied himself to be a philosopher.



So, the Bay area was our home for the next five years as we moved from place to place. Each apartment became associated with certain incidents in my life:



Apartment one—the second floor of a white house with yellow trim just down the street from our old "campsite"”¦our first place alone after moving out of Louis’. This is where we added doves and a snapping turtle to our pet collection. I played with matches here, and found on old ”˜45 of "Spooky," which I listened to over and over again.



Ma became part of a hippy commune down the block. All the people there had renamed themselves colorful names, such as Prospector, Roots, Empty Sky and Kookie... That was interesting. They were very free. Prospector was tall and willowy with a beard—kind of Jesus-like; Anya, his wife, who always wore overalls, was a short, cute, buxom freckle-faced woman with wavy, strawberry-blonde hair. They believed in giving their children LSD and teaching them to swear. Hey, they were free. My incredulous gulp never lessened no matter how many times I heard four-year-old Blake say, "F%!# it all," with great conviction, his two-year-old brother Morgan trying hard to follow suit.



Reefer smoke filled the neighborhood air. I was fearfully mesmerized by Sonja, the albino black girl that lived two houses down. I couldn’t come to terms with her blonde kinky hair, her white, freckled skin and her eyes, one blue, the other a kind of pink. She looked otherworldly to me as she sat on her front porch in her Catholic school uniform slinging a pink yoyo.



Sis and I spent hours alone, which I used to satisfy my curiosity about everything that went on in the neighborhood. I liked walking around talking to people, and seeing so many blacks mixed in with everyone else. After all, up until this point, I’d been raised in white-bread America. This integrated panorama was quite a treat.
Unfortunately, I learned more than I ever wanted to when the eighteen-year-old boy next door took my virginity at knife point on the garage floor. "Cold, hurt, dirty sex— warm, slimy gunk running from my crotch in between my cold, gritty butt cheeks making me feel humiliated and guilty like you do when you’re too old to wet the bed and it happens anyway." Waiting for the right moment to run back in the house so my sister wouldn’t see, I, at five-and-a-half, had my first big secret to keep.



Move number two—a small house with dark, wooden shingles right across the street from the school we would attend. There, I got beat up a lot by gangs of second and third-grade girls that called me “chicken” because I wouldn’t help them beat up other people. Cedric used to chase me into the girls’ bathroom and hit me because he liked me. Velda was the freak in school because she stood five-foot-one in first grade. The vicious guard dogs on chains in front of many houses on our block intensified my already heightened fear of dogs.



Ma couldn’t afford rent on our place. We kept the front of the house dark and only lived in the kitchen and one room in back so the landlord couldn’t confront us. Every other day we’d hear a knock on the door and the landlord David’s exasperated voice, "Mary Jane, I know you’re in there. I need the rent."



We would turn all the lights out and sit still until he would go away. I could see his tolerant profile through the missing shutter slat. His slightly tinted glasses couldn’t hide the conflict, landlord versus humanitarian, in his eyes. He would wait for a response, one hand nervously running through the hair flip and down the side burn. This routine went on for a couple months.



One night, instead of knocking and talking, we heard a picking at the door. My handsome, Irish, six-foot, straight looking, very gay cousin Scooter, who was visiting at the time, became very upset.



“Mary Jane, you have to face him. I’m sure you can work something out.”
She shushed him and they argued in whispers for a minute.



“Enough is enough! I’m letting him in.”



Scooter walked over to the door, opened it with great flourish and exhaled, “All right, David.”



He found himself face to face with a nervous looking little black man hunched over the lock with crow bar in hand. They stared at each other frozen for a moment; the, the would-be thief ran off with the most bewildered look on his face. We laughed about it for hours recalling the moment again and again with more mirth each time.



“What if his name actually was David? Wouldn’t that be funny? Ha, ha!”



It wasn’t long after that when we snuck away to another house; not, however, before we lost the rabbits to insecticide covered leaves.



The next three moves were insignificant, merely variations on the same theme. But apartment number six... apartment number six deserves a whole chapter.]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#11 Sat, 24 Jul 2010 00:00:00 -0700 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#10


Chapter 4 - Through Rose Colored Glasses




“Kids, this is Jerry Row. Don't worry. He’s a nice man. Guess what? He’s driving us to California!”



Wow! We were going to California! I was more than excited. I’d always wanted to go there. Being stuffed in the back seat with pillows, blankets, animals and my sister wasn't so bad. Actually, I rather enjoyed it. It was so unusual leaving in the middle of the night like this. We must be on some kind of grand adventure. I could hardly contain myself!



Jerry had a low, soothing voice, which I very much liked the sound of. The voice, so mild and sane in tone, made it easy to forgive his rather gawky, gangling appearance. He was a tall, skinny white guy with big bushy sideburns and an even bigger Adams apple. I couldn’t see much else in the darkness. All I knew for certain was that Jerry was very tall, very skinny, and he seemed to make Ma very happy, so everything was cool with me. She was almost pretty and fun again.



Morning came soon enough. I could see Jerry had big, blue, droopy eyes as I watched him through the rear view mirror. His gaunt frame was topped off by golden hair cut in a Lancelot bob, which didn't match the rest of him. Every now and then, he'd throw one arm over the back of the seat, and his hand would dangle. I had never seen such a big hand with finger joints protruding almost as markedly as the gargantuan knuckles. I found it truly fascinating. Its size alone made me relax. The combination of the low, friendly voice and the big, masculine hand made me feel safe and completely at ease.



Details of our journey escape me for the most part. I was more impressed with its ambiance, which was golden like Jerry’s hair.



We kept the radio on all the way to California. Three tunes dominated the air waves. Each time we crossed a state line, there would be a moment of static prompting us to adjust the radio, but, still, the same three tunes: “I've got a brand new pair of roller skates. You've got a brand new key”¦;” and, “It’s the last song I’ll ever write for you. It’s the last song to show you just how much I really care”¦;” and, “Bye-bye, Miss American pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. And good ol’ boys drinking whiskey and rye singing this’ll be the day that I die. This’ll be the day that I die...” Yep, the same three songs again, and again, and again, "and" again. That in itself was a lulling comfort.



By adult standards, the trip was pretty uneventful; from a child’s perspective, it was exhilarating. So what if it was the middle of winter? Each hour was filled with something new: a kind of tree, the gas attendant’s accent... It was so exciting stopping down some random country lane to let the cats out and clean the rabbit cage. Even the stupid, crappy, little arguments with my sister were fun. One night, we stayed in a youth hostel. I remember being amused by the fact that Jerry slept on top of his guitar as if it were a pillow; he was worried that someone might steal it. All these average little hiccoughs along the way read as new angles on life to me—a broadening of my horizon, if you will. I approved.



The further we drove, the warmer the temperature became. We were literally driving into the sunshine. True, the car was becoming pungent with the smell of human sweat and rabbit droppings. I didn't care. As far as I was concerned, this was the life. That is, until Jerry left. Things felt a bit scary when we said good-bye to him.



We’d gotten as far as Denver. The time was eleven p.m. I knew things were about to change again because Jerry was driving slower clearly looking at street numbers as if trying to find a specific address. He slowed to a stop and parked. Guess we’d found the place. The street was dark except for the dirt covered, neon sign of a bar. The sound of a live band thudded through its walls. Jerry got out of the car and grabbed his duffel bag from the trunk. Ma scooted over to the driver's seat and rolled down the window. Jerry leaned in, whispered something in her ear, and kissed her on the cheek.



“Good-bye and good luck, girls. I'm going into this jam session here. I'll play the first song as a prayer for you kids.” One more kiss for Ma, and then, with guitar slung over shoulder, he disappeared into the bar. Good-bye, Mr. Sunshine.



The cold came as soon as Jerry left. We were heading up into the Rocky Mountains. Ma had a detached retina and couldn't see things correctly unless they were at a forty-five degree angle left of straight ahead. No doubt, this made for interesting driving since she refused to wear her glasses. I wasn’t too worried even though it was pitch dark and the roads were minimally marked. Logically speaking, as long as we were climbing uphill, she couldn’t build enough speed to be dangerous. Sis and I took turns riding in the front seat. It was spookily fun being in the middle of nowhere winding up, up, up amongst the night and trees.



Down was a different story. No more front seat for me. Ma let the car gather speed with each turn. With no guard rails and no lights, it looked like certain death. I tried to will myself to sleep but had no such luck. We had a momentary respite when we hit the mecca of Salt Lake City. There, the warm glow of the cabins and salt deposits around the lake charmed a little color back into my cheeks. Not for long. No time for an overnight stay. Back on our dark, erratic roller coaster ride we went. Thank God night ends.



Things were less stressful by day. It wasn’t slow and sane as it had been with Jerry, but I’d been used to this vibe with Ma for years; I could handle it. When Jerry had been around, he had been the grown up and we were the kids. With Ma, we were all kids and she was the most wayward one.



We made one last stop for a short glimpse of the Grand Canyon by which, surprisingly enough, I was not impressed or excited. Being in that particular environment felt as subconsciously innate to me as breathing. The still air, dry heat, warm, golden earth and endless blue of the sky felt wholly natural and awoke in me a sense of wisdom and strength beyond my years overriding the impact of its stern beauty, and expressing the essence of my existence to perfection. Its barren, fossilized beauty validated and completed me as if it were my one true love. I took note.



We were now heading into the final stretch of our cross-country trek, and it wasn’t long before we rolled into California. Now "this" was impressive. "This" was thrilling! The coy glimpses and brief rendezvous I had with the ocean amazed me the most. I fell in love with this unrestrained body of water and the fine, warm, white sand surrounding and cupping it in love. The strong misty breeze equaled sinful delight as it blew against my uninitiated face. I had great reverence for the strength of this world wonder as I resisted the undertow and was ruthlessly pummeled about by waves only to be unceremoniously deposited ashore gasping in glee and basking in sunshine. So magnetized was I by this magnificence called Ocean that my mother had to constantly yank me out of it lest I drowned. I would’ve gladly surrendered my life as an offering to this that made me so intoxicated with pure joy.



Oh, yes indeed, our first two weeks in California were sheer heaven. We stayed in four star hotels that hugged the coastline every night eating and drinking whatever our hearts desired. We even had live lobsters in the fridge and all the sweets we desired; I was hooked on Oreo cookies at the time. We went through a continuous rotation of game rooms, plays, and movies. The rabbits stayed on the balcony. The cats were properly groomed. Chicky lost her babies (thanks Clifton!), but was otherwise okay. Needless to say, I was happy, happy, happy. Ma looked great! She was her colorful, beautiful self once again. Everything was too good to be true. This was a fairytale time--a fantastical whirlwind of entertainment and luxury.



Our surreal game of make-believe continued via an odd detour to the Gulf of Mexico. This involved packing a small suitcase and getting on an airplane with the animals, while leaving the rest of our things in the California hotel. There was no prep time. One minute Sis and I were swimming and building sand castles on a beach somewhere in California, the next, Ma was calling us in telling us to towel off and to hurry because we had to be at the airport in an hour. Upon landing in Houston, we rented a VW bug, drove down to Galveston, Texas, stopped at a mall and went on a HUGE shopping spree before checking into yet another luxury hotel located on a Texas beach. A fantastical whirlwind....We snuck the animals into the room in some of the shopping bags, but left everything we bought and the suitcase in the car in the parking lot.



Retrospectively I realize Ma must've met a man that promised her the world. I can vaguely see in my mind's eye a red-faced wooer in a cowboy hat and a gray business suit chomping on a cigar handing out twenties to me and Sis and telling us to go check out the hotel and have fun while he talked to Ma. He was some kind of famous car dealer. I had seen his face in T.V. commercials before. Whatever. Money! And no supervision! Sis and I continued our splurge buying bathing suits, and stuffing our faces, and laughing, laughing, laughing so hard...By day we explored the new ocean, catching blue crabs with big sticks and storing them in a trash can filled with sea water out on the balcony near the rabbits. Crabs on the balcony, lobsters in the fridge, cookies in the cupboards, twenties in our hands, and now flowers upon flowers from the red-faced wooer filling our room--the red-faced wooer who came to talk to Ma an awful lot—we had it made!



In the evening, we’d tip-toe back into the hotel room hearing muffled laughter and voices behind the closed bedroom door. We’d feel so special when we saw the room service, metal covered plates waiting for us and giggle with surprise and delight every time as we removed the covers to dig into our food with relish. Then we’d pull out the hide-away bed in the couch and flop on our stomachs to watch T.V. through all hours of the night. I’d hear the brief sharp sound of the bedroom doorknob as it turned in the earliest part of morning. Red-face would come out fully clothed with cowboy hat on head. I’d catch blurry views of his silhouette as the light from the T.V. glanced off his hat and shoulders. He didn’t tip-toe or creep but walked straight-backed with full authority. Funny how those cowboy boots never did make a sound at that time of night—almost like magic. They definitely clicked during the day.



It didn't last. Within a week we were buying new suitcases to pack up all the fluff we'd bought in the hotel stores and were headed back to California. We missed our flight because we couldn't find the VW Bug in the parking lot. Someone had stolen the car with all the stuff in it from our initial mall shopping spree when we'd parked there a week ago. So, we taxied it, animals and all, to the airport. We were back in our California comfort zone in a matter of hours. The big black car was still in the parking lot. Red-face showed up once or twice and made a few pleas over the phone, but it was official: we were once again a trio of playmates. No men, no women, just three little girls on a constant sleepover. Wheeeee!



On one of our nights of decadence when we were out to dinner, Ma appeared unusually thoughtful...



“Kids, get whatever you want tonight and really enjoy it because after tonight, we’re going to be living much simpler. We really needed this fun, but I don’t have anymore money, so I have to get serious again. Don’t worry. We’ll be all right. Just enjoy tonight and we’ll deal with tomorrow when it comes.”



“Okay, Ma.” Any excuse to indulge. I only translated the “go for it, kid” into child language and did not hear nor heed the warning.



Yet again, things were about to shift significantly. I now knew all the signs. Whenever there was a complete break in pattern, I now knew that meant a total change was going to take place in how our day, week, or month went. We received a wake-up call at five a.m. the next morning. We never got wake-up calls. Something was afoot. Lots of packing and getting the animals ready... Perhaps another plane ride? Instead of using the elevator, we went down the fire stairs. Now I was frightened. This was an extreme measure. Ma wanted us to be quiet so badly. She glared murderously at us whenever we uttered a single peep, startling us into silence. What was the big deal? We loaded up the car in a silent panic and took off fast.



Yah, we were on the road again, but something didn’t feel right. Ma answered our “destinational” questions vaguely. Now that we were in California, she couldn’t just blurt out California anymore. We needed the name of a town, or place, or”¦something. But she seemed very hard pressed when it came to specifics and snapped defensively till we hushed.



It felt like we weren’t going anywhere. We drove to San Francisco and rode up and down hills all day long looking, pointing, “enjoying”¦” Yet, still, I had a sense of great foreboding. At dusk we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge. Ah, there was the ocean again. Okay, things weren’t all that bad. We went back over it again into San Francisco, and then took the Bay Bridge into Oakland. I couldn’t ignore the fact that Oakland was not so nice, at least the part we were in. It looked poor and felt ugly. Ma kept driving up and down every street aimlessly. It was getting late. Even I could no longer find the fun in our everlasting Sunday drive. Ma was emanating waves of stress. No one spoke. She took a left turn into a dead end alley and turned off the engine.



“Okay, kids. Get comfy. This is our campsite for tonight.” She lay across the front seat with a pillow and blanket, and closed her eyes. Fun! We were sleeping in the car! Sis and I pet the kitties and tried to sleep, but it was, as usual, too exciting for me. Finally, I fell asleep as night hinted at morning. We got up about ten a.m.



I took a closer look at our “campsite,” a shallow, dead end alley with dumpsters at the back, a partially demolished building to the right, and rusted old car parts to the left. I’m not sure if it’s a child’s powers of rationalization, or the change of pace, or an overdeveloped sense of looking on the bright side, but, believe it or not, I thought this was all real cool.



Ma opened the car doors, and we let the animals out to play. They stayed near as they stretched. We locked them back in the car, cracked a window a bit, and went walking”¦]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#10 Mon, 19 Jul 2010 00:00:00 -0700 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#8

"My face is falling. It can't be saved. No longer can I play this game. I've got to keep moving or it's all over..."

Chapter 3--I Hate You


It all changed almost over night. All chances of routine, security, comfort and confidence were lost at this sharp turn in life's road. The house in Robbinsdale sold. Between that and the money Ralph left her, Ma suddenly bad a big wad of dough. She decided it would be nice to live on a farm and bought a hundred and fifty acre ranch in Syracuse, New York. Off we went. Just like that. She didn't hire help or have a game plan. All at once, poof! We were living on a huge ranch in upstate New York in a big, rickety, drafty, old farmhouse with wood-framed beds. As large as the house was, it wasn't big enough because Clifton came along.


Clifton was my mother's new boyfriend. Simply put: I hated him. An extremely well-spoken black man with an enormous chip on his shoulder, he reveled in negativity and cynicism. Clifton hated white people but was dating my mother and another white woman she knew named Pat. As a matter of fact, Ma and Pat both looked a lot alike. It was now nineteen-seventy. Long hair teased high was the fad, as well as black cat suits and severely tailored pant suits. Their tearful lunches together--sometimes united, sometimes opposed in their love for this asshole--sickened me. I was dragged everywhere with them and party to all the sordid details of their depressing conversations.


Harshly critical and exceedingly uptight are the words Clifton embodied. I don't recall him talking to us kids directly...only on rare occasion. But he never, ever missed an opportunity to put down Ma. He was constantly on her case.


He beat her almost nightly in that big, rickety, old house. Sis and I would go upstairs to bed and he'd start lecturing, haranguing, harrassing and patronizing, getting louder and louder, breaking something for emphasis, and then laying into her full force. We'd creep down the stairs to hear better, whispering in the darkness, our comfy, flannel nightgowns in stark contrast with events below--the scent of dusty, old wood permeating the air. I never felt worry. I never felt fear. I just could not understand why my mother would let him do this to her. It was so illogical to me.


He was yelling at her about the Himalayan cats now. We had brought two with us: Leroy and Chickybits who was pregnant. Louder, and longer, and nastier, and even louder...throwing Chicky against the wall for emphasis...


"These cats are another symbol of the white way of life. It's so frivolous. A sign of status..."


Let the games begin. Whatever.


It was now time to enroll in school. The stingy landscape of leafless trees poking up out of the thin layer of dirty snow was metaphoric; new friends did not await me here. As I awoke the morning of the first and last day of classes, I tried to shrug off my instinctive dread. It correctly prevailed as I almost clinically observed my physical manifestation of fear--the quick dry breaths, the cold clammy face, the ice cold extremities, and the ringing blue aura around my eyes and ears.


Icy and evil is how the paved path leading toward the campus entrance felt beneath my feet. Empty hallways signified that Sis and I were entering our respective classrooms late. I'm sure the teacher greeted me in some manner, but I was too consumed by my fear to hear her. She walked me over to an empty seat and sat me down. Everyone was drinking milk. I was afraid to look at the children, so I relied on my peripheral vision to inform me. The black kids were civil (not friendly) enough to the white kids and vice versa; however, neither race appeared happy with my mixed presence. A thick hatred tactilely filled the air. What I exuded toward Clifton back at the ranch seemed like love compared to this.


Unnerved, I decided it was best to concentrate on the little red and white carton of milk in front of me. That posed a great challenge. I couldn't figure out how to put the straw into the carton. No way was I going to ask anyone for help, and if I couldn't do it myself, they would all think I was dumb. So, I took the straw out of the plastic wrap with shaky hands and tried to inconspicuously stick it in the milk carton. I opened one flap then the other very conscious of the fact that my carton was all messed up while everyone else's flaps were sealed in nice, neat little triangles. I jabbed the straw at the carton harder and harder till it partially punctured the waxed cardboard. With one final, mighty jab, the carton crumpled. Milk sprayed all over the table. The classroom broke into one huge roar of laughter.


"Stupid, little nigger! Albino nigger! Yellow dummy!"


The teacher shushed everyone, walked over to me and actually gave me a little smack as she told me to go stand in the corner for making such a mess. I was crestfallen but determined not to cry. My level of concentration was so high that I could not think or hear until more laughter and snickers cut through.


"How many times do I have to tell you to go back to your seat?!"


I suddenly forgot how to walk and stood there afraid to look up. The teacher wasn't shouting. She sounded annoyed and loudly nonchalant. The teacher's aid gently pushed me to my chair. All I could do was stare at the table and pray the bell would ring soon. It did.


As soon as we were in the hall, the name-calling resumed. I saw my sister down the hail experiencing the same thing. I ran to her. We held on to each other and walked down the stairs.


"Don't look up, Hedy. Just keep walking."


We held each other tight and walked toward the school bus.


"We don't want no yeller niggers here! Don't come back or we'll beat your ass!"


"Yah, we'll kill you!"


"Yah! Yah! Yah!"


I felt a rock hit the back of my head. A clot of dirt broke on my sister's forehead. We broke into a run. So did everyone else. I thought we would be safe on the school bus. Not so. Yelling, laughing, pushing, threats. My head was pounding.


This is the first time I remember my sister clearly. We held onto each other, heads together so no one could see us cry. Luckily, we didn't have far to ride. The bus door opened and we were pushed, poked, and spit out onto the sidewalk.


"I don't want to see you on my bus again!"


That was the bus drivers parting sentiment as she slammed the door and drove off.


My first taste of racism. Even the bus driver had told us not to come back. I didn't get it. I thought something was terribly wrong with my sister and I. I truly did not understand that we were a different color. I just figured we must be really weird or deformed, and that all this time, no one had let us know. I felt naked, foolish, alienated, clumsy, weak... ashamed of myself and how stupid I was not to know how gross I appeared to others. All this time I had held my head high when people must've been laughing behind my back. I was completely mortified.


The argument lead-up that night: "You have to explain race to these children. They are black and have to know the pressure, responsibility, and burden of this in the white man's world."


My mother refused to accept this.


"No. I want them to feel like people, not like a burden."


She took an extra hard beating that night.


Now that we didn't have to go to school, we got to hear Clifton's constant onslaught continuously. It was a strange way to go through the days. It got to the point where I couldn't even hear the words, just a highly charged monotone pervading the air at all times--static stupidity. I really thought they both were dumb and felt a deep sense of disappointment in my mother. She was not the person I thought. I accepted it readily enough. I wasn't down or sad; indifferent and arrogantly tolerant is a better description.


One day, Clifton got mad at me while my mother was out. It was very nasty having all his criticism coming my way. He grabbed a spatula and said, "You know I have to punish you."


He bent me over his knees, pulled my pants down, and started spanking my bare ass. Mom came home in the middle of all this.


"These are 'not' your kids to punish!"


He got distracted, I crawled off, and he started beating on her. This was the first time I actually witnessed it. What a bizarre exchange. A possessive, righteous, disgusted vibe exuded from his every pore. Each blow was delivered as punishment. Ma did not ward him off, fight back, or make any noise. She took it as if she deserved it. If he hit her to the floor, she merely lay exactly where she fell until he hit or kicked her into a new position.


I was furious, not with him, but with her. Why did she accept this? What was wrong with her? He finished and stood in smug silence for a moment, then left, slamming the door to punctuate his grand exit.


"Hedy," that was my nickname, "go put your cloths in a bag, and you and your sister pick out some toys. We're going on a trip tonight."


This scene is etched in my mind: My mother looking like a broken rag doll leaned up against the wall, talking to me in a voice more suitable for inquiring about the weather, and me feeling absolutely no pity for her, thinking her a complete idiot. Why did she let Clifton treat her this way without protest? She didn't make sense.


I started feeling the unconscious beginnings of self-preservation taking root. The first bricks of the wall soon to be between us had been laid. At least we were going on a trip. I liked trips.


Clifton came back around eight that night, drunk. That was the first time I'd seen him intoxicated. He never drank. He looked so watery, weak and bitter in this state. It inspired violent thoughts. I wanted to push him down and kick him repeatedly in the head in all my contemptuous rage and loathing. He stumbled off to bed.


My mother quietly packed a suitcase and told us to go to sleep, that she would wake us when it was time to leave. I couldn't sleep. My subconscious agitation mingled with my gleeful anticipation of the trip juxtaposed on my childish curiosity and excitement created the perfect cocktail for sleeplessness. My eyes would not shut. Hours later, I heard a car drive up and a soft tap on the door.


A few moments passed, and Ma came in whispering, "Hey, kids, come on. We're going on a trip."


We got up, I wide awake, leading my groggy sister down the stairs. We got in the back seat of a big, black car. I could hear Ma putting things in the trunk. She kept shoving stuff in our laps: more clothes, two rabbits in a cage, blankets...


A man's voice said, "All set, Mary Jane? Is that everything?"


"All set."


She opened the back door one more time and dumped Leroy and Chickybits on me and Sis.


"Okay. We're off."


The man got in the driver's seat and started the car. That marked the end of our two weeks of ranch life.]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#8 Mon, 28 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book http://jademaze.com/news.html#6


"I don't want anyone to think something is wrong with me. I must keep my clothes clean and smile so no one will know that I am on the streets..."

Chapter 2 - The American Dream


Though I was born in Minneapolis, I consider myself to be from California. We moved there when I was five and my sister six. It was just the three of us: Mom, Sis, and I.


Up until that point, we’d had a lot of money. Our early days were spent living in Robbinsdale, Minnesota as an upper-middle-class suburban family with two Chihuahuas, a parakeet, three cars, and a white picket fence. Time and money flowed in excess enough for us to raise Himalayan show cats and host weekly barbecues (steak, not hamburger). The man of the house was Ralph Jacobs, a retired police detective turned restaurateur/chef. Sounds pretty good, eh? There were, however, a couple of glitches that left this picture wanting.


First of all, it just didn’t make sense. My mother, born Mary Jane Kearney, was a twenty-five-year-old, voluptuous, Marilyn Monroe type with auburn hair and perfectly classical features topping her sensual body. An almost ideal specimen of her Irish-German lineage, at five-foot-nine, her only flaw was the fact that she was tall for the beauty of that time. One of seven children born to Hester and Tracy Kearney (a railroad Kearney no less), she had a winning smile and a colorful yet sweet personality—an upstanding Catholic housewife blessed with beauty and grace.


She was married to Ralph, a sixty-year-old Jewish man with a balding head and a weight problem. His harsh demeanor helped him carry his size with distinction, and he always wore a suit. He was not attractive. He wasn’t nice. All I ever heard him talk about was food, money, and how he was going to blow my mom’s head off one day.


He’d take the gun out of the nightstand drawer while Sis and I sat on his lap. With each of us propped gingerly on either knee, the gun swinging precariously in his right hand, and his already serious face erupting into violence, he’d say, “See this, kids? I’m going to use it to blow your mother’s head off someday. She’s going to drive me to it.”


He’d laugh. We’d cry.


My sister and I looked a lot alike. She was slightly lighter in complexion than I. Her soft curls had hints of blonde and honey-brown. My coarse tight curls were a solid, seal brown. I mention the skin tone and hair texture because it was noticeably different than either my mother’s or Ralph’s. We were definitely black. I didn’t understand that at the time or even realize we were a different color for that matter. Nobody said anything about it, and it didn’t occur to me to wonder.


So there you have it: our American Pie.


Every now and then, Ma felt compelled to sit us girls down at the round, wrought-iron, glass-topped table to tell us the story of how she and Ralph got together. She’d explain how she didn’t love Ralph at all. With a coy little smile playing across her lips, she would boastfully tell of how he had asked her to marry him everyday for a year until she finally said, “yes,” how he’d been fascinated by her beauty, and how she was going to “work” that fact to the max.


“You’ll understand when you get older, girls. Women have to be smart, not in love.”


They had a business deal. He had the money. She was the arm piece. This justified their not sleeping together after the first few months of marriage. Yes, they argued a lot, but she didn’t care. Mom had lots of secrets dancing in here eyes. I liked seeing her sparkle so. I just wish it was more wholesome things that made her shine.


So, we did all the normal things that little ones do. We played cops and robbers, had best friends and worst enemies. I was afraid of Danny Lang, the neighborhood bully, until I showed up on his front doorstep at my mother’s order, shaking and tearful, with shovel in hand, threatening to beat his ass if he didn’t stop scaring me. I’ll never forget how good my reward hot-fudge sundae tasted when I did actually beat his ass instead of running and crying; forever gone was my fear of him and his jarred “killer bees”; he couldn’t make me pull up anymore flowers or split anymore pumpkins. We loved Kimi, the white, fluffy dog down the alley to the right, and hated Bruno, the guard dog down the alley to the left that almost jumped the fence in his ferocity every time we walked by. I got my mouth washed out for saying Goddamn, and Sis and I had stare-downs on a regular basis. She could talk me into cleaning her room for a glass of water any day of the week, and, as all girls do, we played dress-up. I wanted to be pretty like Nancy down the street. I always cried when the older kids ditched me. Yes, everything was normal if you could just ignore the constant yelling, the slamming doors, the dramatic exits, the silent, tense dinners, and the waving gun.


Ralph stopped coming home. I don’t remember it as an event; I merely noticed that he wasn’t around anymore. What a relief! The tension I felt from my guilt for being so happy that he was gone was not nearly as bad as the anxiety I had experienced when he was actually there. We soon learned that he had taken a hotel suite in town. Mom, Sis, and I packed up and moved to Colfax Avenue in Minneapolis.


4114 Colfax Avenue was in a family neighborhood our house being one of the few split up into rental units. This was a very happy time for me. I embraced the new environment wholeheartedly. Apparently, I was not even remotely attached to our recent past. I experienced no sentimental woe and felt no need to reminisce. Good riddance! The change of scenery and the people that went with it were refreshing and sparked my curiosity.


Mr. Alexander lived two houses down. It became part of my daily routine to walk over to his house and eat breakfast with him. He was army all the way with the blue tattoo on his shoulder, buzz haircut, and white T-shirt. I loved having this burly man show me how to dip my toast in the soft yolk of an over-easy egg. I didn’t mind his cigarette smoke or his gruff voice. He kept his loaded shotgun by the table and would occasionally get up shooting skyward out the back door to scare off stray dogs from his yard.


Maria was the lady that would come and take care of us. She wasn’t a Spanish Maria as you may assume. All I see when I think of her is a horsy face surrounded by graying chestnut curls, glasses covering dark bright eyes, and always the same brown dress with a little white flower print.


If not Maria, than Mrs. Kovle would appear in all her Jewish “Grandmotherdom.” She was bent with age, but that didn’t stop her from marching Sis and I through the neighborhood picking wild mushrooms. She knew how to differentiate between the poisonous ones and the ones you could eat. I loved her very much until bath time; then, she would scrub us raw, “Can’t get too clean. Have to be thorough,” she’d say as she pushed the little wooden brush back and forth across our bodies over and over again with tireless resolve.


I loved and hated nine-year-old Kelly Green next door and always tried to find an excuse to go visit the middle-aged couple across the alley. Their house had stacks of old newspapers in it heaped higher than my head. It was creepy and fun to walk through the piles of press. Why did they save all those papers? All of us neighborhood kids would dare each other to knock and see if they would let us in.


The only frighteningly bad memories I have from this part of childhood are when Ma renounced her religion (Sis and I were so relieved when she didn’t spontaneously combust on her first churchless Sunday—she actually had sat us down and said her good-byes), and one of the few nights Elaine babysat.


Elaine was the Alexanders’ oldest daughter. She had long black hair like Cher hanging in her white freckly sixteen-year-old face. She only babysat now and then, and most of her time with us was spent on the phone. We got to eat lots of popsicles as long as we didn’t interrupt her.


I was quite content with this arrangement until the particular evening I am recalling occurred. On that night, Elaine let a boy in the house as soon as Ma left. They sat in the living room drinking, smoking pot and making out. “Don’t come in here, guys, and don’t make any noise,” said a sleepy sounding Elaine, her voice intermingling with the pulsating rock music.


The situation seemed very grown-up and interesting to me. I was much too curious to stay away. I’d keep peeking around the corner. Afraid of getting caught, I was only able to perceive blurry images of their private party in my hurry to hide, which gave the reality around the corner a dreamy quality much more intoxicating to my imagination than if I had allowed myself a longer glimpse. Chuckling, they’d shoo me away with a little less verve each time until, pretty soon, they ceased shooing me altogether.


“Come here.”


I went in and sat on the afghan-draped couch with them. They asked me questions and giggled at my every answer.


“Have you ever been high? Do you know what high is?”


I had no idea. I didn’t even know I was answering so distracted was I by my elation at the fact that they were paying attention to me.


“Here. Drink this.”


Whatever it was tasted just like Kool-aid. They watched in eager anticipation as I gulped down the bright red beverage. They watched. Nothing happened. They stared. Nothing happened. After another five minutes passed, they sent me off to watch T.V. with Sis unable to wait for me to walk around the corner before they resumed groping and doping.


Everything was fine until it wasn’t. Without warning, tics by the thousands started crawling up over the back of the T.V. until the screen was completely obliterated by them. Yes, tics. My fear was paralyzing. They began to blacken Sis’ body, nestling down into her hair. Only then could I take action. I tried to scrape them off her, screaming as my hands came in contact with their hard, vibrating bodies. I clawed to no avail. Now they were digging in her eyes and up her nose. Amazingly, she didn’t seem bothered by them. She kept pushing me away as I tried to help her.


A door slammed somewhere in the distance. My sister was afraid and ran into the bathroom locking herself in. I looked down. The tics had covered my legs. My heart seemed to stop. I couldn’t move. I fell to the floor and became a scream. I couldn’t tell how long I lay there. Forever describes what it seemed if not reality. Blinded by this horrific trip, I felt rather than saw hands on me and heard Ma’s voice asking, “What’s wrong!? Where’s Elaine?”


Panic suffocated my voice, and I could barely wheeze out, “Tics! Help!”


I was scratching myself, my ears ringing unnaturally loud. I could hear myself panting as I gouged at my arms and face. Ma carried me to the bathroom.


“Open the door!”


Into the tub she set me. She and Sis poured big cups of water on me continuously.


“Everything’s okay. See? I’m washing off the tics. We’re washing off the tics.”


I wasn’t convinced they were all gone till seven-thirty the next morning. We were all so tired and traumatized. I couldn’t focus enough to get the story out, and Ma didn’t have the energy to press me.


We didn’t have to go to school that day. I lay on the couch “cozying” and breathing my way back to safety and calm. Ma stormed out of the house around nine after a short rest. I was pleased to be protected but felt very sorry for Elaine.


Ma’s wrath was no joking matter. It hadn’t come my way full force yet, but I’d seen her in action. She was the kind of woman that could instill fear with one withering glare. Mix that with motherly protection, righteousness and unleashed rage: it was all over. She truly saw red and snapped. Ma was capable of anything from scathingly filthy language to a solid right to the jaw, or a full force kick in the groin. I don’t know what she did to Elaine that day, but we never talked to her again and my morning breakfasts with Mr. Alexander were forever over.


Life went on. I actually enjoyed going to visit Ralph at the hotel. Dinners were always sumptuous. I relished the smell of some kind of candied vegetable or other mixed in with that aromatic cigar smoke of his. The low lighting and clinking glasses made each visit a special event. All the fancy people dressed in black and silver, the hushed tones of talk and laughter”¦I loved it! Ma and Ralph were ironing out the details of their divorce. I didn’t mind at all because they were so very pleasant to each other—lots of smiles and lots of drinks clinking at our very own table.


Ma was becoming more beautiful with each passing day. She wore colorful clothing and fussed about her hair and make-up. I was in love with her at this point. She was so pretty and had such a big, big smile.


She started leaving us for one, two, even three weeks at a time. Maria explained that she was a performer and had to go far away for her work. I didn’t understand. All I knew was that my pretty, fun Ma was gone. I would cry and cry, and then forget all about it when she came back with stuffed toy in hand.


Life was taking on a certain albeit strange rhythm at last (fancy dinners with Ralph, exciting reunions with Ma, stupid kid stuff). Then it all changed almost over night.


Ralph died of a heart attack. I really didn’t felt emotional regarding this fact. It seemed to affect me about as much as a light bulb burning out—perhaps less if the light bulb was in a hard to reach spot.


I watched Ma closely looking for some kind of cue as to how to act. Her behavior was guarded. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling. I don’t know what was going on with Sis either. No one seemed sad. Of that much I was certain. Ma sat us down at the glass-topped dining room table once again. Time to talk.


“Girls, I need to explain something to you. It’s okay if you don’t feel any great loss because Ralph is gone. He’s not your father. Your father is a black man named Jesse—Jesse Hayes. He was a friend of Ralph’s, a good man. He’s dead now, but I just wanted you to know about him. That’s all.”


I wanted to jump for joy. Again, what a relief! Ralph was not my father. Now I could admit to myself that I despised him and I was so glad I wasn’t related to him in any way, shape, or form. I had never liked him or felt love for him and was so glad to know I didn’t have to.


“Your father was a black man”¦” The black thing escaped me. I didn’t know what she meant by that. Who cared? I was happy. Ralph was not my father. My father was a man named Jesse Hayes. He was a good man. I liked that idea a whole lot.]]> http://jademaze.com/news.html#6 Sun, 06 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700 Jade Maze.com - Jade Maze - Book