Is what my younger brother would announce whenever I did something that was wrong
or I laughed at something that was highly inappropriate. Case in point people being
hurt. old people in particular was fucking hilarious to me. When Richard Widmark
tied up a older woman in a wheelchair and pushed her down a flight of stairs as
she cried and pleaded how she was sick and old was one of the funniest fucking things
I had seen at the time. When my uncle James was struck in the head with a piece of
wood my uncle Larry was using to hold up dry wall on a ceiling in my grandmother’s
house I nearly pissed my pants. My best friend Chris Wright got a bee stuck in his
afro and while he screamed and jumped around like a bitch trying to get it out I
jumped and screamed as well but not from pain and fear. Two of the funniest events
of my childhood revolved around my little brother and his pain. I’m not sure how it
happened but Raymond managed to get a popcorn kernel stuck in his ear. My brother’s
more sensitive scalp couldn’t take the chemicals of an S curl and he began to turn
visibly red. These two incidents seem to make his lower body dance like an indian
chief trying to make rain. I was in tears. Regular events make me chuckle as well.
Every time my my grandmother would straighten my aunt Jeanette’s hair she would
usually burn her on the knap of the neck and as my aunt protested my grandmother
would proceed to smack the hell out of her hand for getting upset about being
burned. HOW FUCKING FUUNY IS THAT! I have only recently be able to stifle my laughter
at others pain due in part to my children. When my then two year old son Owen slid
down a flight of stairs I told him not to go up I almost laughed. I knew he wasn’t hurt by
the wide eyed look of fear on his face. It took me a monumental effort on my part
to not cry out laughing and I think I actually had to grit my teeth to do so. See
I am getting better.
From the moment that a stranger knocked on my door that early afternoon in March of 2011 the
lives of my family would never be the same. The nervous look on the face of this stranger and
the camera in his hand put a lump in my stomach the moment our eyes connected. I moved out
into the entirely too cold that for shirts I had on but I didn’t want be told what I knew was
coming in front of my family. “I represent the company that has taken over your mortgage. This
is a hard time for all and we would like to make things go a little smoother.” He was the typical
middle aged white guy in gym shoes, a pair of jeans and a light coat that protected him against
the not so cold of weather of March. I honestly expected the guy who was going to throw my
family out of the house that we had lived in for the past eight years to have look like some cold
callous state trooper type with a cheap windbreaker drab olive pants and shiny shoes and the
most severe hair cut in the world to throw/hand me a fold piece of paper telling me I had forty
eight hours to leave the premises. Having never seen people get removed from hearth and home I
assumed it would be like a bad lifetime movie. “ Why hasn’t ASC sent me anything in the mail
or returned my numerous calls. I have been talking with those guys for the past six months trying
to refinance with those assholes and now a company who has taken over my mortgage has come
to ask me nicely to move.” The man shifted in his shoes. Clearly he was still nervous but the
lump in my stomach began to heat up. “Mr. Sibley people are doing a lot damage to their former
homes and we want to make this easy on you and ourselves by offering an monetary incentive
for you to leave the house exactly the way it is.” He handed me a manila envelope. Over the past
year and a half I had seen reports of people who on finding out they were losing their abodes
destroyed the place they raised a family in. Dry wall torn, pipes ripped from the wall, flooring
smashed, windows broken for some measure of payback over losing a place they loved. I opened
the envelope and glanced at the words that seemed blurry on the paper. After refocusing I saw
that the now owners of my house were not only offering me money to leave the house the way
without kicking the walls in but they wanted me to clean up the place including the garage on
their time frame. The sooner we left the more money my wife and I would receive. That was
when the lump flamed into a white hot coal and I entertained the idea of kicking the messenger
into a coma. He had begun to take pictures of my house as he talk to me. I began to get the
feeling that his nervousness had been a bs ruse and that he had done dozens of times before. I
could hear my wife call to my oldest son for something and the lump that was burning like a
miniature sun disentigrated. This was going to be another blow to my already fragile marriage.
Almost two years to the month I lost my house I was laid off along with 500 hundred union
members and supervisors. My unemployment checks had stopped coming a month prior. I was
amazed at how instantly people change when you are no longer working and on unemployment.
Being evicted from a house would only make this marriage weaker and a couple could only
become so weak before they were no longer a couple. The fake nice man was stilling talking to
me about something but I had ignored him for the last thirty seconds. Instead of beating him like
a dog who bite me I wipe him from my mind and walked back into my house to face my wife.
She sat on the couch and looked at me. She had to know it was bad news. “ASC sold our
mortgage to a company that propbably is going to flip our house. They are going to pay us not to
destroy this place but we have to be out in three weeks.” Her mouth literally fell open as she
slowly rose from her feet and walked over to. I wasn’t sure if she was going to try and slap me
(because clearly this was all my fault) so I moved the envelope that was at my side to the space
between us. She took the papers from me and scrutinized them much more then I had. Instead of
asking me questions like how did this happen? Or what are we going to do? The only question
she asked was “Do you think we can move out in three weeks? I told her what I thought “There
is no way in hell we can pull that off. Besides not having enough money we haven’t even started
looking for a house. Six weeks maybe.” She never looked up at me while she talked to me. “You
can tell the kids.” She said as she walked away from. The only reply I could muster was “of
Our children didn’t take this as badly as we had expected. Children were more resilant and easy
to change then their adult counterparts. We would borrowed money from relatives. Family and
friends would help us move. We would rent a house in the same city to make the transitions
easier for our kids. I would eventually look upon losing a house as an learning experience but
realized that my wife would see me in a different light and nothing would be the same.
I used to believe that women were actually better than men. A few bad relationships
cured me of that.
When I was a kid I thought humans were like plants and if you give them water and
sunshine their limbs would grow back. odd right.
Before I became what you call an atheist I believed reincarnation and I had
dreams of past lives and I assumed that I would be born an indian boy in the next life.
A part of me still thinks that are dreams are glimpses into alternate realities.
I thought that if a gay couple adopted a “normal” child that they would make him
White people use to weird me out when I was young. I thought they smelled like wet
(I married one so clearly I got over it).
I used to wonder what was behind the sun.
I used to think that a girl’s vagina was a lot closer to her belly button.
I thought that getting molested would make me gay. I got the distinct feeling
that my family thought the same.
I used to think that my parents would get back together.
I USE TO THINK THAT IF I CONCENTRATED REALLY HARD THAT I WOULD MAKE MYSELF FLY.
I use to think I was special.
I knew for a fact that I would never cheat on my wife.
I use to think no women would ever love me.
I use to think that there would never be a “black” president.
I use to believe that mankind could prevail over its own nature.
I use to think someone was watching over us.
I use to try and tell myself life could be fair.
I use to think a lot of things that turned out to be false
or an half truth. The only thing that I know for sure is
that this man loves this wife and kids and hopes the world
can pull it’s head out of it’s ass.
These are two of the few accidents I had as a child. My mother told me several times
that she didn’t think I was going to live to be an adult. Asthma or injury
was going to kill me. This the same woman who told me that I was going to have
retarded kids if I made fun of retarded people. I beat her on that one.
I may already mentioned that I got hit by a light blue caddie on my sixth birthday
while I was in an foster home. If you haven’t read that blog yet GO FUCKING DO IT
That was the first accident that could have killed me but not the last.
Years after the car incident I had an adventure in an alley that fucked me up but
good. Like every red bloodied inner city boy I enjoyed my time in the various junk
yards and alleys (It wasn’t like Fat Albert but it wasn’t that far off) My brother
Raymon,d my friends and yours truly were playing behind a bar in an back alley in
a dumpster. We were actually taking turns swinging on the handle of the dumpster,
you know good old fashion fun. When my turn came this little fucking sociopath
named Eric decided it would be a good idea to push the oversized garbage can on
my head. I can still remember that head over heel feeling and seeing my feet
in the air. Next thing I know the dumpster is on top of me and my little brother
is trying to pull it off me. I can remember thinking I’m going to die and Raymond
is going to be very sad. Ironically enough Eric’s big sister did get the dumpster
off and carry me home. I recall seeing my self being carried to my house,
my mother losing it as she sees her bloodied child, a stranger who happened to be
working in his car in front of our house race me to the hospital three blocks
away. The strangest thing to me was the entire time every thing was in blue. My
mother, the car, the doctor, my own body all in blue. I had a dislocated shoulder
and a wicked fucking scar on my right temple that is very sensitive to this day.
I was out in my yard playing with my brother and my best friend from next door and
his cousin who I kinda like ( but not really.I hate him and his grandmother). we
were dicking around in our back yard because my mother wasn’t there and we couldn’t
play outside but the back yard was ok. For reasons that are not clear to me now I was
pissed about something and I stumped my left foot directly a board filled with a bunch
of ten penny nails. The minute I put my foot down I knew I had made a big fucking
mistake. Your natural reaction is to pull your body part away from the pain which hurt
as much as putting foot on the damn thing. As I crawled for the back porch I started
shaking just a little so I started calling for an adult. Uncle crack head (who was
years away from being a crack head) graciously picked my stupid ass up and brought me
inside. When he put me down it hurt like a motherfucker and I remember trying not
cry. We I looked at the bottom of my left shoe and saw the hole and tried not to
cry. When my uncle took my shoe off and I saw blood pump out my foot I cried like
a bitch. The nail had stuck the middle of my arch and it bleed rather profusely.
I can remember aunts and uncle trying to batch me up but the wound just kept
bleeding. Time for another trip to the local hospital. The Indian doctor told
me in his broken English that I may have scrapped the artery in my left foot. My
mother almost grounded me put she felt too sorry for her limping little boy
I’m sure if I told you this yet but I came from a poor family. Not dirt floors wood burning stove West
Virginia shoeless but poor nevertheless. I went to Catholic school but momma must
have gotten some kind of discount for being poor Christians or something because I can tell any journey
I made back in the day started with my family and I getting on a bus or “L” and by an early age I knew
the transit system like the back of my hand not only to get my younger brother and myself but to go to
places I deemed fun. Unfortunately when you use these forms of transportation you are at the whim of
the individuals who are moving you along the sitting and a captured audience for any asshole who
wishes to have fun with you. If a bus driver wanted to grab something to eat at his favorite restaurant
was on this particular route you’re just going to have wait for the driver to put in an order and get their
food. I can think of several occasions of this happening. On my way home from ST. Malachi on the
Western ave bus a crazy bum got on. I call him crazy because he was talking incoherently and he pissed
his pants while seated on the bus so crazy old fuck is an apt term. He did this in one of the front seats so
the bus driver noticed this and proceeded to curse him out for pissing on her bus in that seat. So as a
courtesy he wipe the seat of piss with one strong swipe of his hand. The lady sitting directly across from
him seemed a little upset by that. The two times my mother had her purse snatched was while she was
waiting on a bus or getting on a bus. The kid of took her purse while she was waiting on the bus actually
had a conversation with her and as she got on the bus he grabbed it from her and run. Another time she
was with a “friend” (That is code for black women which means “I am fucking this guy right now until he
gets serious or something else better comes along”) with some other useless bastard ran off with her
purse. The funny part of this story is that the purse got no money. From time immemorial my mother
has keep her money in her left tit. If you take her purse the only parting gifts you will receive is lip stick,
gum, some coins and pictures of her boys. Queer shit always seem to happen on the bus or train I was
on. My mother was taking little brother and myself to a movie when cops jumped on a bus with their
guns pointed at some older Mexican guy inside and outside the bus. I never found out what he did but it
must have been something big time to endanger a bus full innocent passengers then again they were
only mostly blacks and a few brown people. There have been times were I have actually been ashamed to
be black on a bus. Snatching gold chains was an events I had seen my share of. As a person was getting
off a bus he would grab the chain of his victim. On this one occasion a Mexican woman was on the
Pulaski ave bus going southbound and the bus was letting off passengers at the stop to board the blue
line train when some big nigga grabbed her chain. Unfortunately, the gold didn’t come off very easily
and he had to yank it really hard again so it would come off. The sad part is other niggas on the bus
(mostly women) said “She should know better than to get on a bus with gold on her neck. she should
have tucked that shit in” and some just laughed at her.