In this blog, i will discuss the common themes that have appeared throughout the courses in this cluster. Many themes have appeared in the coursework and the most important theme to me would have to be human rights, which is a broad statement in itself. I'm still a little confused on how language is connected with what i'm learning in my other two classes, but i'm sure i'll get it eventually. However, there is a link between Law and Human rights as well as English 101. I believe this because of the books and discussions that we have in each course.
I will be using passages from the books "When I was A Slave" by Norman Yetman as well as "Southern Horrors" By Ida B. Wells and the UDHR (Universal Declaraton of Human Rights)to support my beliefs.
Human rights is a big part of human development. It expands the choices that people have to lead and live the lives that they value; such as shelter and food, health care, protection, privacy, a decent standard of living as well as education. It would be arbitrary if we didn't have any rights at all. Everyday it is a challenge to make human rights a reality, but it seems that we are getting better with the help of the UDHR. No slavery, no toture, we're equal before the law, the right to trial, we're always innocent til proven guilty and the right to a fair and free world are all apart of the UDHR, just to name a few; however, back in the 1800's and as early as th 1900's these rights were irrelevant. To own someone was like the "in thing." In the text "When I Was a Slave," Andrew Goodman (one of the slaves) states "I was born in slavery and i think them days was better for the niggers than the days we see now. One thing was, I never was cold and hungry when my old master lived, and i has been plenty hungry and cold a lot of times since he is gone"(Yetman p52). Even though Goodman wanted for nothing, he was still a slave-someone's property. The only reason why he really wanted for nothing was because he,as well as many other slaves, worked extremley hard on the plantations makeing their own clothes and growing their own organic foods. Robert Glenn (another slave) states "...and freedom was the happiestperiod of my entire life, because those who were torn apart in bondage and sorrow several years previous were now united in freedom and happiness"(Yetman p51).Freedom is what most of the slaves lived for even though fear of being alone without the "help" of their Masters was an important emotion that most of the slaves felt because they were use to the degrating lifestyle; freedom is what we all live for. Most of the slaves were totured and didn't know of a fair and free world.
After the Civil War, when freedom was now the "in thing,"Afro Americanas still suffored. "The government which had made the Negro a citizen found itself unable to protect him. It gave him the right to vote, but denied him the protection, which should have maintained that right" (Yetman p77)Many Afo Americans were lynched for small crimes or crimes that they didn't even commit. They weren't always or never found innocent til proven guilty because the government lost all control."Brutality still continued; Negros were whipped,scourgen,exiled shot and hung whenever it pleased the white man so to treat tham, and as the civilized world with increasing persistency held the white people of the South to account for its outlawry, the murderers invented the third excuse-that Negros had to be killed to avenge their assaults upon woman"(Yetman p77). They were never equal before the law. Out of the thousands of lynchings that took place, there were only two white men that were lynched. Afro-Americans never had a right to a trial. If a crime was committed, someone had to pay even if he or she was innocent.
The UDHR was founded December 10,1948 by the United Nations representatives from all regions of the world.Even women had the right to vote in 1920. If the UN would have adopted the UDHR sooner, the world would have been a better place and slavery might not have been a big part of our history.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
BIO
Harlem Girl Found!!!
Introduction
December 6, 1977 was the day I became apart of this energy called life. The weather could not have been so bad, even if it was the beginning of winter. Daytona rarely had any snowstorms, considering. It was just not something most people looked forward to in the sunshine state. Even if they wanted the snow…they didn’t really want it. Everything “freezes” after an inch. Stores close, roads shut down, businesses stop operating; as though, a state of emergency is being issued….like snow is apart of some type of terrorist attack- Now that I think about it, approximately twenty-four years into my story- there was a big snow storm on 9-11; or at least that’s what it appeared to have been, with the tons of falling debris and all. [It started out a clear sunny day like in Daytona]…go figure!
Even so, to this day, I enjoy watching the snow fall so elegantly, feeling like Christmas every time; no smell of pine cones, no red, blue, and green lights sparkling the streets of NY adding a blissfulness tone to the homes of Harlem, no caroling or inspiring Christmas music to be heard, no gifts to be unwrapped, and no talk of ‘ol jolly St. Nick… just snow… a winter wonderland with the entire world at peace, that is, for a moments time. All good things must cease. The slush, the dirt, the cold, and the brutal disrespect of mother nature, takes control of the once peaceful situation and quickly turns it into war; reality hitting harder than Jeter for a ‘home run”- People running home or fighting to find shelter- those that have are often greeted by a non heated apartment with the oven patiently waiting to be abused; kids sleeping with there hats and gloves because housing management hadn’t been by to fix the boiler. Rats, roaches and other unwelcome guests make it too crowded to get good nights sleep all while Jack Frost gets comfortable. Even so, in my adult life, I still feel like a kid when it snows. It makes the worries of that day go away. I’d pick a snowstorm over a hot day at the beach any time. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my mother left my dad down in Florida when I was just six months; so technically, I don’t recollect anything about it. Or perhaps it has to do with the fact that my soul is cold and just not use to the heat.
She [ma] moved us to The Big Apple, in hopes for a better life for me. Maybe she should have stayed and just moved to a different county. This is the beginning of my story.
Chapter One
First Born
Michael Hannans. That would have been my name if I were a boy. I used to wish that I had been born a boy. Then again, fate may not have allowed me to experience life in the way that I have. I wouldn’t be able to share my trials and tribulations with other woman or men for that matter. I would be telling a very different story, better or worse, or I may not be telling one at all. I could be a famous NBA baller or I could be dead, in jail, or both (death row) by now, considering the statistics on young black men in NY now a days. I could have a record that would prevent me from getting a decent job or I could have passed the bar. Either way you look at it…no regrets, not that I had a choice in the matter. Every thing that we go through in life is all about lessons and whether or not we learn from them. Do they make us stronger or weaker, do we let the mishaps make us or break us…trickle up or trickle down, as someone once told me.
I was the first born to Saundra Crawley and Albert Hannans. They were married before I was conceived, but it spiraled down hill soon after I arrived According to the testimony that my mom gave me, [he] never really gave a dame about life itself- a very nonchalant, lay-back type of individual, who never let the worries of the world get to him… lived day to day worry free. I have been through enough and seen enough to know that there are three sides to every story---her side, his side, and the truth. Everyone has some type of bone in there closet they don’t want falling out. To bad, the only side that I was able to get was my mother’s. Albert died before I could get a chance to ask the questions that every child would want to know if he or she grew up with only one biological parent.
My mom remarried the only man that I know as dad. I was about three when this took place. I know him to be the only father figure in my life... Even if he, to this day, forgets to wish me happy birthday…he’s still my father…extended the family with two other daughters (not that much older than me-each had different mothers). The Second oldest, (Tish), stayed with us most of the time. I guess that is what made it difficult for him to remember my birthday. He had two other kids that he was responsible for and I was not his; about eight years in, another would be on the way. It would later seem as though I was just in the way…existing for no apparent reason…taking up space that someone more worthy than me deserved to be in.
My child hood, as far as I can remember was decent. I can say that my mom did the best that she could in helping to enhance my education and tried to send me to the best schools in NY. I give her that much. I had taken up two years of tap, three years of ballet and three years of body percussion. This was all before I hit double digits. Everything seemed to be ok- Except for the incident in pre-k when I stabbed a boy with a freshly sharpened number two pencil. He just kept picking on me… picking and picking. I got up from my chair, calmly walked to the sharpener- making sure the pencil was far from dull- strolled back to where I was sitting and preceded with my schoolwork. One last chance is what I was giving him. Everyone deserves another chance, even at five; I was smart enough to understand that. To be provoked and misunderstood, to me, are by far the two worse feelings in the world. When someone provokes you, chances are the outcome can turn tragic. For example- I was provoked and a little boy was stabbed…right through the web of his hand-between his ring and middle fingers. Because of being misunderstood, I got in trouble-even though the teacher knew it had not been the first time. He picked on me regularly.
At five, a child’s personality begins to become known, so… the worse thing you can do…is nothing. How we are treated as kids, shape and define our characteristics as we move on into adult hood. It starts at home.
The two eye surgeries I had before the age of nine were horrific, especially for a child to endure. The first was much more dramatic-only because I did not know what to expect after the operation. I was ignorant in thinking everything would be normal right after. I was not expecting to be blinded in both eyes for weeks. What seven or eight year old can fully comprehend the aftermath of surgery? The muscles had to be tightened in order for my eyes to stop moving all around. I would be talking to somebody; my right pupil would be in the right corner of my eye, and my left pupil would be in the left corner of my eye. Imagine one day being able to see and the next having your sight striped away from you for weeks…as a child. Your mental strength is put to the test. I remember telling my uncle how sorry I felt for those who were permanently blind and would never be able to see what was left of the worlds beauty; flowers, birds, the ocean, the sun set and rise, the moon and stars on a warm clear summer’s night…nothing. Then again, they would not be able to see the evil and dark side of the world either…catch 22, I guess; besides… having the surgeries made the ratio of me being a freak of nature decrease by two percent.
My mother’s only sister had three kids-Lisa (youngest), Bobby (middle), and Judy (oldest). Lisa was fifteen when she died-my first experience with death. I was about ten…she was my cousin who was like a big sister to me. I confided in her. It took a minute to register what had happened and it wasn’t until the funeral, I knew that I was not going to see her again. To see her lying in a box, cold and stiff, and not responding when I asked her to wake up, took a toll on me. She was only a kid and so was I. I needed her, but apparently, God needed her more.
She woke up one day not feeling too well, so my aunt took her to the hospital, like any good parent. (Any good doctor should have spotted the problem.) Triage took vitals, blood pressure, etc…. doctors diagnosed her with the common cold and discharged her with Tylenol. At home, her symptoms had gotten worse. Back to the hospital she went. Waiting in the ER for hours felt like days. Triage called to take her vitals and then sent her back to the waiting area to listen out for her name. Finally…not knowing it would be the last time she would hear someone call it. On the way to the examination room, Lisa’s heart stopped. A misdiagnoses had become apart of my family’s realty and caused the life of a young fifteen year old to unfairly be taking away. Autopsy results showed water in her lungs…pneumonia. CRAZY!!! It was New Years Eve!
I can recall driving to the George Washington burial site in NJ. My mom and I were on our way to place balloons and flowers on her grave, the Christmas following her death. ”How could you be so stupid”…was screamed as the balloons slipped out of my hand and flew out of the car window- driving down the high way. I always found a way to mess things up. From that point, she would say “no” whenever I’d ask to accompany her to the grave-site. (Even now)
My little sister was born eleven years after me-One of the happiest moments of my life. A little sister… Finally, I had someone to play with, to confide in, and be there for…I missed Lisa. This would also be the happiest moment in my mother’s life. My sister made and continues to make her world.
Stepsisters can become a problem, especially if they are older. There were issues with comparison like; “Why can’t you be more like your sisters, why can’t you wash dishes like them or get better grades like them or dress like them or be more motivated like them?” Listening to that through the course of my adolescence years definitely had an affect on me. I was called stupid, so I felt stupid. Having sisters (step or not) who look better than you, dress better than you, talk better than you, who’s smarter or at least appear to be, and will not hesitate to let you and everyone else know that you are not there “real sister anyway” doesn’t ease the blow.
Somehow I forgot that me and lil sis had different fathers. It was as though everything was normal. My parents were having a baby.
I can still remember the day ma told me she was pregnant. It was cold- no snow-just the type of cold that allows you to see your breath in what looks like a stream of fog pouring out of your mouth. I was on my way to the ice-skating ring, with some friends from the building, when she broke the news. My first time on the ice… had a bunch of blisters and my feet where killing me time I got back home…but still… one of the best days of my life.
Up until she was born, I called him [my father] by his first name and had kept my last name [Hannans].Never crossed my mind much to get it changed, that is, not until my mother approached me about it. Out of courtesy for her, the transition was made and I began to call him dad so that my sis wouldn’t know we had different fathers. Didn’t make much difference…She told her anyway- during a doctor’s appointment my sister had when she was about seventeen. Just sprung it on her like it was yesterday’s news.
My mother said my sister is the daughter she always wanted, anyway. “You are a shining example of what every parent wishes their daughter were…”to be exact. {Who cares who my father was}?
I was in Catholic school from first grade to tenth; held back in the third.-besides that my grades in school were fair. I wasn’t an honor roll student or anything like that; class clown would probably be a better description. Telling jokes can sometimes be a defense mechanism.
Catholic school has different effects on different people-different strokes for different folks:
My third grade teacher (Sister Josealena) had a wooden paddle called “Heat for the Seat.” It had a picture of a little boy bent over with his pants down; the words “ahhh” were written in blood red above the area he just been spanked. She definitely used it. This was during the era when it was ok to spank your kids. The teachers got first dibs. You had to worry more about going home; Scared to death to take a bath- might not get a chance to dry off before the snap of a leather belt is heard and its sting felt against wet skin - returning to school the next day with whelps, in places no one can see. The school uniform did its job in covering them. There was no such thing as child abuse growing up, unless the child died. Sister Josealena was hit by a van and died the year I graduated eighth grade. Karma is a bitch!
The first time my mother kicked me out the house (wouldn’t be the last), I was four-teen and in my freshman year of school-an all girls Catholic school. It was bad enough trying to fit in at home; I had to deal with it three times worse at school. I was the ugly girl with the big bubba lips, big pink glasses that took up half my face. My shoe size was an eleven and while the in crowd wore their skirts above there knees with cute shoes and stockings…my skirt was down to my ankles-‘old maid style. I tried rolling it up thinking it would bring “sexy back,” (like it was ever there)… it just caused the skirt to constantly go up in the back making room for even more humiliation.
Ashamed of myself- unable to tell her I failed my biology test had been the worse thing I could have done (at the time). I lied and told her that I had passed when she asked, not knowing the school would send the grades home. As soon as she found out I had lied, I had to “get the fuck out,” as she so bluntly put it... I already felt stupid, now I had to figure out my next move. I had not been in the street long, but she wasn’t too worried about where I was or going. I went to a friend’s house for the time being and my father later picked me up…more upset about the fact that he had to waste his time getting me.
My mother, soon after was diagnosed with breast cancer and my lil sis (about three at the time) had surgery to remove a growth from her side that could have turned into cancer.
Maybe I was a little selfish, but teenagers really don't understand adult issues when they need emotional support. I didn’t know how to deal with it. At home, I wasn’t shit, in school I wasn’t shit. Where do I go from here!
Freshman year…I remember being approached by the senior class over a misunderstanding. Trying to fit in, I called myself giving one of them some friendly advice. She happened to be pregnant and I knew that her boyfriend was seeing someone in my building. I told her all about it, even who the other girl was. Boy, was that the wrong thing to do. Apparently, she told her crew- made it seem as though I was jealous and wanted her man. Why would I want to be with somebody with a baby on the way, cheating on her with some girl in my building? Besides, I’m ugly remember…so I didn’t understand what the misunderstanding was all about. I didn’t have the confidence talk to a boy and I most certainly did not believe that one wanted to talk to me; I wasn’t at the “pretty in pink” peak in my life yet and lacked the confidence to work with what I had…whatever that was.
I nearly pissed my pants. The two “friends,” I were walking with, strolled across the street when they saw the mob approaching. The situation was so traumatizing, I had an anxiety attack and was taking to the hospital. My mom was bitter and angry with me over it so, as a result, I was punished. The next day, I was forced to tell the vice principle what happened. As if things couldn’t get any worse, her plan of action was threatening all the seniors (even the few that weren’t there) with their senior trip, and graduation ceremony, to be taking away, if they gave me any more problems. Problem was, some of theses girls lived in my neighborhood. Needless to say, evil grins, the pushing in the stairs and the shoulder bumps in the halls made it all the reason to not care anymore. Nobody at home understood and I was stupid enough to be in that situation, so it was up to me to get myself out…right?
With the chemotherapy…thinning hair…mood swings, lose of appetite and all that anger and emotion being taking out on me…what was I suppose to do. I needed someone…something. The diary that ma gave me a few years back had been thrown into the incinerator. My private thoughts were violated the day she whipped me for writing down my feelings; so I couldn’t even talk to a book. Who was I to confide in when my body was violated? I was stupid enough to put myself in that situation, too…. I guess. Who’d believe a family friend could be responsible for such a despicable act-especially when I was the accuser. Stupid me!
My grandma had gotten sick a little later that year and was in the hospital for a few days. My mother asked me to wash some of her clothes out by hand. Apparently, I didn’t do a good enough job. “How could you be so stupid” or “how stupid can you be” where often heard by my ears…followed by a slap or punch as well as a “get the fuck out of my house” I couldn’t do anything right.
Nana was the coolest -I thought so. She would have these card games that would last for days at a time. These people would literally be up three days in a row playing card, eating, drinking, smoking cigars and making money. I was in the mist of all that…making money. Somehow I always found a hustle; no matter how big or small. I’d make them there plates of food, get there drinks, even go to the store…whatever they wanted; always got a nice tip. I knew all about getting money at seven.
One day she let me have a friend over during one of her games. She and I were getting bored and had nothing else to do, so a game of hide and seek began. The apartment was big enough to be able to find some cool hiding places. What made me go into the bathroom and jump behind the shower curtain with the lights turned off, made the consequence the more funny.
I could hear her calling my name for what seemed to be an eternity, thinking to myself-“HURRY up and find me, I have to pee!”… I must have been in that bathroom for at least fifteen minutes before the light came on and the door quickly shut and locked. The sound and smell, coming from an unidentified woman on the toilet, was inhuman. I wanted to laugh and puke at the same time. Let’s not forget, I… still had to pee. Ha ha moment!
Nana was also Mel Brooks’s housekeeper. She took me to work with her on a few occasions-let me run around in there son Alex’s room which seemed to be as big as the apartment I lived in. (Little over exaggeration, but it was big). I use to brag about it until I got older and my mentality changed. My grandmother…somebody’s maid! She did what she had to do, I guess.
Into my sophomore year, though the seniors from the previous year graduated, their junior friends were now up to bat. It was like groundhogs day and I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped paying attention in class, failed tests, only did homework if I was bored and was put on academic probation.
I was fifteen years old. This was my second summer working with summer youth. Curtis… a six foot one, husky, sixteen years old ball player; my first crush. From what I had observed, he was a sweetheart-but, wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend, yet. It didn’t seem as though he paid me attention anyway until..., by chance, his best friend began dating another sophomore in my school. Curt had accompanied him in picking her up one day and happened to spot me. Wow, my first encounter with a boy. He was interested. I was surprised he couldn't see my heart pounding through my shirt, nervous to not get chocked up as he spoke...in disbelief he was even speaking to me. He gave me his number, understanding my situation at home with my mom and it took off from there. Every chance I got I called him, snuck out to see him play ball, even his house. We never did anything besides play video games, hold each other and talk. My first crush became somewhat my first boyfriend. First kiss was even crazy…to think that a boy wanted to kiss me. He was more my best friend than anything. The only one who listened and understood and tried to make me feel special. No sex, which was the coolest part. He asked once and never asked again; just kept his cool and understood that I wasn’t ready.
The relationship changed the night he went to the skate key. He wasn’t the type to get mad and argue with anyone; which is what made it so crazy. I called his house, like normal, to talk about what happened in school that day (the next day) and his sister told me he’d been murdered; shot in the head as he looked into the eyes of his killer. His eyes were opened, as he bleeds to death on the pavement waiting to take his last breath. I’m sure he tried to resolve the problem.That was just the type of person he was; would have grown up to be a well respected man one day. Shit happens?
Everything seemed to have been going down hill. I didn’t want to be in that school any more for obvious reasons and my mother was not trying to hear it. Deal with it…that's her favorite saying, because she doesn't have time to. Then I got kicked out---failed everything but gym. At least I got to sing the Star Spangle Banner for the last game…my gym teacher was cool. She knew what was going on. I guess she felt bad.
Talent Unlimited for musical theater was the best two years of my life. I finally was somewhere that accepted me. No bullying. I was in a school doing what I really enjoyed doing…singing. I had participated in Grease, South Pacific, some skits from Phantom of the Opera, Mis Saigon, Les Miserables, Guys and Dolls, and I was opened to new experiences. I’ve never been to a Broadway show before. It’s an extraordinary experience that should be on everyone’s bucket list. One of the best memories I have with my grandfather is when he took me to see “Mama I Wanna Sing” (Off Broadway); I wish he would have been able to accompany me on class trips.
Two days before Thanksgiving, (’95), I spent the night at my grandparents house to help out a little… he died in my arms. For a long time I blamed myself. I heard him moaning, sounded like an animal in distress. When I went to check on him, he asked me to open the window. Knowing how cold it was, already, I only cracked it…asked if he needed anything else, kissed his forehead and watched him take his last breath. In denial, I held him for a moment….said good-night, and went back to bed- didn’t go to sleep; I knew what had happened. It was four o’clock in the morning and I laid there until the strength to get up and call my mother came to me. She asked me to check his pulse-there was none-“Hang up and call EMS.” Then I had to wake up my grandmother; telling her what happened had to have been one of the worse things I had to do. I had to be strong for her and I’m glad I was there; don’t know what would have happened if she’d been there alone. Shit happens!
Two weeks later is when I wanted to know more about my biological father. My mother was very blunt in how she told me he died; I asked “Ma, how can I get in contact with Albert?” Her response was,” Why, he‘s dead any way –about a year now- Didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you.” Can you believe that shit…she picked the perfect time to care about my feelings. He died alone. Nobody cared about him, so he didn’t care himself; a diabetic who gave up on life. For a week, his body lay in his apartment like an abandoned dog. The only time somebody gave a dame, was when the pungent order coming from his apartment became an inconvenience. I don’t want to go out like that; No one caring if I’m dead or alive. He was my dad- fifty percent of the reason why I’m here. I should have been there. Maybe, if I would have had the courage to ask about him sooner, the out come might have been different. He might not have died by himself… eats at me everyday!!!
I was able to graduate early because I had enough credits on my previous high school’s transcripts that allowed me to…I just didn’t want to. School was my home away from reality. The only classes I had to take were gym and my major. I chose to take creative writing because I was into poetry, at the time. I was able to sing up and down the halls as loud as I wanted. That’s what I was there for; can’t begin to express how good it feels to be wanted. I was finally cool…even had a boyfriend.
Chapter 2
My first…
Senior year, I was able to hold down two jobs. I did telemarketing during the days I didn’t have class and worked in a pizza shop, across the street from my building, after school. It was cool. I was able to interact with many different personalities, as with any job.
I guess my mother wanted me to be with somebody because she started suggesting that I date this guy that worked with me in the Pizza shop….Curt…go figure.
It was about time I had a boyfriend. I was eighteen about to graduate High School. My step sister (Tish) had been living with us for a minute and I despised her. She was not only the reason I’m the black sheep. Nothing she did was wrong…an angle who happened to be in a relationship with two boys named Cory--- one of them being my best friend’s man. She later caused our friendship to end by having his baby. That’s just an example of the kind of woman she is. My friend felt I had something to do with it. I always felt family came first…even if you hate them.
The thing about him [Curt] was, even though his name was Curt, He was the complete opposite of my “first love”… and I knew it. We had already been working together about a year. I knew what he was about and I knew the type of man he was. We were friends, but that was it. Hung out many times, but he knew I wasn’t interested. He disrespected every other female, besides me - treated me like a little sister. He was even a shoulder to cry on when my mom was on her BS; even so-because my mother suggested it- I gave him a chance.
Graduation was a sad day for me. Not because I was going to miss it, but because I felt like it was the end of a beautiful fantasy. I was going home to feeling unwanted again and the one who wanted me, I didn’t want or need for that matter.
I had been put in the program to sing “Wind beneath My Wings.” I chose that song because it’s my mom’s favorite and it happened to be my father’s birthday…
I remembered….never remembers mine though…even if my mother has it written on there calendar in the bathroom.
Walking to the bus stop after the ceremony, Curt proposed. HA. Keeping in mind we had not had sex yet. I needed to say NO…just didn’t know how. The moment was not at all like I pictured it in my dreams as a little girl. I knew it wasn’t right, but…he wanted me, so F it.
Not that long after graduation the telemarketing company I worked for was moving to Denver and let the employees who weren’t moving “go.” I still had the job at the pizza shop but my mother still had the ultimatum ready and waiting. If she knew what type of person my man was, would she still have given it? “Go away to school, Join the Army, or get out and be with Curt.” These were my choices. Didn’t really have too many good experiences with school-wasn’t ready for that again…yet. I wasn’t joining the army… I’m accident prone. What was left? So I packed my things and got going.
The first night I moved in with him, he didn’t come home for three days…our first fight. No hands…yet.
My uncle died of stomach cancer a week after Thanksgiving. Now my aunt has to endure the pain of burying her husband not that long after loosing a child. He was the only one that called me by my middle name; that made me feel special for some strange reason. He was the only one that would try to keep my mother on the phone talking her out of beating me. She use to talk about it like she was about to cook dinner. “Ok. Let me go now…I’m bout to put my foot up her ass”...
One year later, a week before Thanksgiving (’98), my cousin died...Now it’s two kids and a husband. He hadn’t told anybody about his HIV status until it was too late. He use to always have these strange talks with me that I never understood until the day he died at twenty-nine.
My aunt has one child left. The one that would be there only to take advantage of the money she got from the law suit. - stressed her out until she had a stroke two days after Thanksgiving in ’07.
It wasn’t like her to not answer the phone. If she was going out, she would call someone and tell them –didn’t want any one worrying. My mother had the key, so she cooked her dinner and drove to her apartment… found her body in bed non responsive. I had just spoken to her the night before. Even though my aunt’s last surviving child was money hungry, she still had to endure the pain of burying a mother, father, sister, and brother…before her fortieth birthday.
One positive thing that I learned from my cousin’s death was to get checked out. I still hadn’t been having sex, at this point, and the moving “Kids” my mother made me watch as a kid made it all the reason for me to not want to. It was about a group of teens thinking they were having sex with virgins until they discover they have AIDS. I was scared. I told Curt that even when I was ready I wasn’t going to be until he was tested. He didn’t have a problem with it at all – I even went with him. Negative. He got tested a few more times before I even considered it. I get tested twice a year.
The first time we did “it” I was nine-teen, wasn’t living at home and it wasn’t at all what I had expected…so over-rated. It feels better when you’re in love, I guess.
The first time I got pregnant was an experience. I was twenty and still wasn’t living at my mother’s-Curt and I had a room at his cousin’s and split the bills. The pizza shop’s owner had sold the place so we had to look for another job. Burger King helped me eat and pay bills or at least my portion-Curt hadn’t found another job, yet.
Even so, I was still happy. I always wanted my own child to love-even if we didn’t have the room; I knew that God would make a way.
The first time I told my mother I was pregnant…why did I tell my mother that I was pregnant? I understand what she was saying, but it’s the way you go about things that make all the difference. We got into a really bad altercation that led to a miscarried later that evening. She apologized, but…whatever. This was the start of a domino affect in my new reality.
Curt and I fought more and more after that. I thought that maybe if I got pregnant again, it would make it all better. I was still working at Burger King and decided to get another part time job to save up for the baby. It was another telemarketing company; (NYPERG) happened to be right around the corner from BK.
Everything was ok until I had another miscarriage while at work. EMS came and took me to St. Vincent’s hospital. Curt met them there. If looks could kill… I would have dropped dead. This was my fault. When the doctors said they couldn’t find a heartbeat, he got up and walked out…leaving me in the hospital…by myself.
I was in denial and wanted a second opinion, so I discharged myself against the doctors order (according to them, I needed a DNC). I got dressed and took the train home, by myself…in pain. He wasn’t home yet, so I lay in bed and cried myself to sleep.
Three o’clock in the morning, he had not yet returned home and the pain had become to excruciating to even move. His cousin had to call EMS who came and took me to Mt Sinai. There, they proceeded to do the DNC that I needed and discharged me with codeine.
When Curt asked me to move down south with him, of course I was hesitant, but decided to anyway. There was nothing up here for me and I needed a new start. It was my first time out of state…on my own. What’s the worse that can happen?
North Carolina was a deep and interesting experience. Not that long after we moved, I found a job at KFC that was paying more than minimum wage and he found a job working as a taxi driver. That was cool; he was able to take the car home, so we always had transportation. We stayed with his brother for a few months until they got into a fight and we got kicked out…or at least Curt did; his brother and wife said that I didn’t have to leave. They knew we didn’t have anywhere else to go and was concerned about me, a woman, being out in the street. Curt wasn’t going for that. As a result, we slept in the car and I washed up at worked. We ate out a lot and drove everywhere. Gas and food were a major expense. We were paying his brother rent and hadn’t had a chance to save up for a place of our own. The car became just that, for at least a month, until we found a landlord renting out rooms. It was about time. The car was cold at night…in order to save money, we couldn’t keep it running.
We moved in and everything was ok for a bit. The house we lived in had other couples there renting out rooms. Kansas and Jason became our best friends. She was mine and Jason was his. When I got beat she jumped in and vice verse. When the two ass-holes stayed out for days at a time, we were there to keep each heads above water.
Eventually, we saved up enough money and went half on a car. Auctions are the best way to go, even if it wasn’t the smartest thing to do. We took a trip to NY shortly after that. His uncle had passed and we were attending the service. My mother didn’t know I was coming-wanted it to be a surprise. I would soon find out that the surprise was on me. Her breast cancer had returned and she didn’t think I was important enough to know. I only found out because I came home to attend a funeral. What if she would have died?
We got to the city about eleven at night, so everyone was sleep. My sister heard the doorbell and opened it. My mother was asleep on the couch. I bent over to kiss her forehead and noticed that her hair had fallen out. She had also lost a lot of weight, too. The next morning, she greeted me and left for work. I needed something from her bathroom and saw the boxes of chemo in her cabinet. When she came home from work I asked her about it and she laughed-Said that it was none of my concern and I had no business in her bathroom, considering there are two. I cried, which is something I try not to do too much in front of her; and she just laughed and shrugged it off. Now I can’t wait to get back to NC.
Back in NC, he taught me how to drive on the highway, after midnight, when there weren’t that many cars. I’m a fast learner-at least I think so.
One day, driving home from work [Curt was in the passenger seat and Kansas was in the back] somehow what started out as an argument (about me not being able to drive) ended up with me laying in the middle of the street with Kansas on top of me screaming “leave her alone…stop…you’re going to kill her.” …My first quick greet with death.
We made up. From that point on, I dealt with him cheating and having a baby with his ex while the fights got more intense. I took a second job to keep my mind at ease; the grave-yard shift at IHOP. I had been working there for a year when shit hit the fan. Friday nights are always busy. The difference between this night and any other Friday night was that we were short staff three servers and a cook. The show must go on, so my manager took over in the kitchen while I took her place at the register as well as take out orders, helping other servers bring there food to there tables and dealing with my own customers. There was a point during that evening when I was at the register-just finished bringing Tia’s (another server) food to her table. Apparently, I forgot the jelly. She said I better not had messed her tip up, and it caused an argument. This argument led to her mushing me, which led to me loosing my job. One punch to her nose was all it took. Why did she have to put her hands on me? My mentality is to protect and defend myself. If I wanted to hurt her I wouldn’t have stopped after the first hit. This is what I was thinking to myself as I calmly walked up stairs and clocked out. I was cool with everyone, so a few ran upstairs behind me to tell me she called the cops. There goes being provoked again. What’s with this shit? I should have just whipped her ass; then again, the lesson she learned will be remembered for the rest of her life. A bloody nose is rare.
I still had the job at KFC but that wasn’t enough for me. On my spare time I’d go to this local bar {BREAKERS}. Karaoke was the shit. I went there often to sing and try to win some extra money. When the time came, I wasn’t eligible to enter anymore contest-because I had won so many--- I decided to wash the cars of the customers. Soap, water, wax, and a rag were all I needed. I washed everything from Harley Davidson'S, to pick up trucks, Cadillac trucks, and some taxi cars that dropped the customers off; always got paid well. {A woman from NY washing your car while you have a drink; what more could a guy ask for?}
One night… Me and Curt’s last fight in NC----after being pulled out of the car by my hair, he drove off and left me stranded. He had gotten fired from the taxi company because the girl he cheated and had a baby on me with constantly called dispatch and harassed him at work. That’s not what the fight was about---it’s just the reason we only had one means of transportation.
This was the last straw. I couldn’t take it any more. Breakers was about a three mile walk from where we lived. I wanted to die. I don’t know how many pills I popped before I left the house. I do know that my main objective was to walk there…order the strongest drink in hopes of getting hit by a car on the walk back home. That was the plan; however, I passed out half way through my drink and was taken to the hospital. The only thing I remember is being forced to talk to a shrink before being discharged. I was there about two days. My glasses were no where to be found and to this day I can’t remember how I got back home. I can’t see much of anything without them.
Not that long after that, I knew I needed to be back in NY. Two years and some change was enough for me. I was tired…My soul was tired. It took everything I had in me to call my mother. Curt and I had joint accounts and he took everything. My mom was the last person I wanted to call. She sent me a ticket and picked me up from Amtrak.
Later that year Kansas got the strength to leave Jason- not to long after that, she was killed…ran off the road by a drunk driver. She was only twenty-two.
I had not been back in NY that long [maybe a week] before Curt decided he refused to be without me and drove back to be with me. Now… from the time I found out the girl was pregnant he denied the baby and I never had any real proof that the baby was his. He always denied her. As a result, when he drove back to NY, in my head, I couldn’t believe a man would leave his child behind, in another state, just to be with someone. That just means he does love's me…right…or the baby isn’t his.
Eventually my mother got on her BS again and kicked me out once again. Where else do I go!? It’s like ground hogs day. He promised to never put his hands on me again and he always denied he ever cheated. What ever- I moved back in with him and another family member.
Chapter 3
Drugs, Guns, and…being dumb
I needed a job and so did Curt. It’s not good to go job hunting with your significant other. We both had interviews at Starbucks. I got the job and he didn’t. I think that was the beginning of another snowball. It was more difficult for him to get and hold down a job because he’s a felon; let alone his temper and the fact he has a problem with authority. Easy money came quick. He got tired or being broke and turned to the streets…bringing me along with him.
Whenever I have a job, I try to do it to the best of my ability. It took me all but three months to be promoted to a supervisor. I had the keys to the store, safe, and all registers. This was during the time when a lot of Starbuck stores where being robbed. Employees were held at gun point and put in the freezer in some cases. Of course- a man raised in the streets of NY, who knows nothing but the streets, will turn back to the streets, when all else fails. I wasn’t going for the robbery shit, but somehow he was able to manipulate me into selling drugs.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I didn’t need the money that bad. I guess it was a mixture of me not knowing where he is all hours of the night and not wanting him to cheat as well as me wanting to ‘be down.’ Rain, sleet, snow…I was on the corner, in the hood, selling drugs; As soon as my shift at Starbucks ended- my shift “on the block’ began. Curt wasn’t always there with me, so the voice in my head was constantly talking: “What if I get shot or robbed,” “What if I get jumped,” “What if the cops are watching.” “What if the other dealers take advantage of the fact that I’m the only female?” Anything can happen. Fortunately the night I had to run from the cops was an eye opener. Jail is not the place for me. I can survive anything, but why would any one want to adapt to that environment?
I don’t know how I could think that it was over; Just because I decided to not sell on the block, some how ended up with me at a “connects” house “bagging up”- As long as I’m inside… everything should be ok, right. Maybe I didn’t learn my lesson. I thought that even though I wasn’t in the street, everything would be good; until one day, there was a raid in the apartment next door to where we were “bagging up.” A rush of panic filled the air. There were about eleven of us in the apartment. While the “work” was being flushed down the toilet, the rest of us were trying to figure out if we were to jump out the window to the roof of the next building, would we make it—seven stories high! There was enough evidence to put us away for long time…first offense or not. Fortunately, it wasn’t my time---just another wake up call.
Any one with a bit of common sense knows that where there are drugs, expect guns. When the shotgun went off, the impact almost knocked my shoulder out of place. I was warned, but even that didn’t prepare me for the blast. This was my initiation. Now, I was down. There aren’t too many females that just didn’t care about any thing and would do anything to survive. That’s how the “crew” looked at it. Was it really that…or was I really scared on the inside, yet wanted to fit in somewhere. Either way, eventually it didn’t matter. The fights began with random people in the street. If you looked at me wrong… it’s a fight. If you were rude to me, we’re fighting- Keeping in mind, I never threw the first hit unless I was touched. That would give me a reason to kick someone ass. I’d be the one to provoke. I was so used to my man beating me, I wasn’t going to let a female do it…..so as soon as the first punch was thrown, I’d black out. Not knowing what the damage was until the next day threw word of mouth. Eventually, I became the “go to” girl. I turned into a monster; the type of person that would knock on your door and kick your ass outside your apartment. The one to get when you needed someone’s ass kicked. Nobody argued with me. I guess you could say I got the respect I always wanted. This behavior came with a price. I got use to that life style. It had its advantages and disadvantages. I learned not to trust anyone. If I can’t trust my mother and the man that I’m with, who can I trust. The street mentality changes you in ways you can’t imagine. It’s me against the world.
Eventually, I got the balls to leave him again and experienced a lot more damage that is significant to the way I live and think today. I was a victim of date rape March 22nd of 2002 and had another boyfriend tried to kill me by pouring a bottle of bleach all over me; not knowing that I was pregnant at the time until the doctors at the hospital told me. I almost lost my eyesight. My son later died during delivery six months later. Eventually, I left that boyfriend alone when I got the courage to in 2007. He still harasses me to this day. They all do. That’s the main reason why I don’t have a Facebook account. It’s too easy to track unwanted people. Anyway, I met someone else and had a son February 10th of 2009. I decided to name him Chance because God finally gave me a chance to start a new life; So here I am today, at LAGCC starting over.
I USED POETRY AS A FORM OF LANGUAGE TO EXPRESS THE DIFFERENT WAYS MY HUMAN RIGHTS WERE TAKEN AWAY FROM ME DURING THE COURSE OF MY LIFE...HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!!!
Introduction
December 6, 1977 was the day I became apart of this energy called life. The weather could not have been so bad, even if it was the beginning of winter. Daytona rarely had any snowstorms, considering. It was just not something most people looked forward to in the sunshine state. Even if they wanted the snow…they didn’t really want it. Everything “freezes” after an inch. Stores close, roads shut down, businesses stop operating; as though, a state of emergency is being issued….like snow is apart of some type of terrorist attack- Now that I think about it, approximately twenty-four years into my story- there was a big snow storm on 9-11; or at least that’s what it appeared to have been, with the tons of falling debris and all. [It started out a clear sunny day like in Daytona]…go figure!
Even so, to this day, I enjoy watching the snow fall so elegantly, feeling like Christmas every time; no smell of pine cones, no red, blue, and green lights sparkling the streets of NY adding a blissfulness tone to the homes of Harlem, no caroling or inspiring Christmas music to be heard, no gifts to be unwrapped, and no talk of ‘ol jolly St. Nick… just snow… a winter wonderland with the entire world at peace, that is, for a moments time. All good things must cease. The slush, the dirt, the cold, and the brutal disrespect of mother nature, takes control of the once peaceful situation and quickly turns it into war; reality hitting harder than Jeter for a ‘home run”- People running home or fighting to find shelter- those that have are often greeted by a non heated apartment with the oven patiently waiting to be abused; kids sleeping with there hats and gloves because housing management hadn’t been by to fix the boiler. Rats, roaches and other unwelcome guests make it too crowded to get good nights sleep all while Jack Frost gets comfortable. Even so, in my adult life, I still feel like a kid when it snows. It makes the worries of that day go away. I’d pick a snowstorm over a hot day at the beach any time. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my mother left my dad down in Florida when I was just six months; so technically, I don’t recollect anything about it. Or perhaps it has to do with the fact that my soul is cold and just not use to the heat.
She [ma] moved us to The Big Apple, in hopes for a better life for me. Maybe she should have stayed and just moved to a different county. This is the beginning of my story.
Chapter One
First Born
Michael Hannans. That would have been my name if I were a boy. I used to wish that I had been born a boy. Then again, fate may not have allowed me to experience life in the way that I have. I wouldn’t be able to share my trials and tribulations with other woman or men for that matter. I would be telling a very different story, better or worse, or I may not be telling one at all. I could be a famous NBA baller or I could be dead, in jail, or both (death row) by now, considering the statistics on young black men in NY now a days. I could have a record that would prevent me from getting a decent job or I could have passed the bar. Either way you look at it…no regrets, not that I had a choice in the matter. Every thing that we go through in life is all about lessons and whether or not we learn from them. Do they make us stronger or weaker, do we let the mishaps make us or break us…trickle up or trickle down, as someone once told me.
I was the first born to Saundra Crawley and Albert Hannans. They were married before I was conceived, but it spiraled down hill soon after I arrived According to the testimony that my mom gave me, [he] never really gave a dame about life itself- a very nonchalant, lay-back type of individual, who never let the worries of the world get to him… lived day to day worry free. I have been through enough and seen enough to know that there are three sides to every story---her side, his side, and the truth. Everyone has some type of bone in there closet they don’t want falling out. To bad, the only side that I was able to get was my mother’s. Albert died before I could get a chance to ask the questions that every child would want to know if he or she grew up with only one biological parent.
My mom remarried the only man that I know as dad. I was about three when this took place. I know him to be the only father figure in my life... Even if he, to this day, forgets to wish me happy birthday…he’s still my father…extended the family with two other daughters (not that much older than me-each had different mothers). The Second oldest, (Tish), stayed with us most of the time. I guess that is what made it difficult for him to remember my birthday. He had two other kids that he was responsible for and I was not his; about eight years in, another would be on the way. It would later seem as though I was just in the way…existing for no apparent reason…taking up space that someone more worthy than me deserved to be in.
My child hood, as far as I can remember was decent. I can say that my mom did the best that she could in helping to enhance my education and tried to send me to the best schools in NY. I give her that much. I had taken up two years of tap, three years of ballet and three years of body percussion. This was all before I hit double digits. Everything seemed to be ok- Except for the incident in pre-k when I stabbed a boy with a freshly sharpened number two pencil. He just kept picking on me… picking and picking. I got up from my chair, calmly walked to the sharpener- making sure the pencil was far from dull- strolled back to where I was sitting and preceded with my schoolwork. One last chance is what I was giving him. Everyone deserves another chance, even at five; I was smart enough to understand that. To be provoked and misunderstood, to me, are by far the two worse feelings in the world. When someone provokes you, chances are the outcome can turn tragic. For example- I was provoked and a little boy was stabbed…right through the web of his hand-between his ring and middle fingers. Because of being misunderstood, I got in trouble-even though the teacher knew it had not been the first time. He picked on me regularly.
At five, a child’s personality begins to become known, so… the worse thing you can do…is nothing. How we are treated as kids, shape and define our characteristics as we move on into adult hood. It starts at home.
The two eye surgeries I had before the age of nine were horrific, especially for a child to endure. The first was much more dramatic-only because I did not know what to expect after the operation. I was ignorant in thinking everything would be normal right after. I was not expecting to be blinded in both eyes for weeks. What seven or eight year old can fully comprehend the aftermath of surgery? The muscles had to be tightened in order for my eyes to stop moving all around. I would be talking to somebody; my right pupil would be in the right corner of my eye, and my left pupil would be in the left corner of my eye. Imagine one day being able to see and the next having your sight striped away from you for weeks…as a child. Your mental strength is put to the test. I remember telling my uncle how sorry I felt for those who were permanently blind and would never be able to see what was left of the worlds beauty; flowers, birds, the ocean, the sun set and rise, the moon and stars on a warm clear summer’s night…nothing. Then again, they would not be able to see the evil and dark side of the world either…catch 22, I guess; besides… having the surgeries made the ratio of me being a freak of nature decrease by two percent.
My mother’s only sister had three kids-Lisa (youngest), Bobby (middle), and Judy (oldest). Lisa was fifteen when she died-my first experience with death. I was about ten…she was my cousin who was like a big sister to me. I confided in her. It took a minute to register what had happened and it wasn’t until the funeral, I knew that I was not going to see her again. To see her lying in a box, cold and stiff, and not responding when I asked her to wake up, took a toll on me. She was only a kid and so was I. I needed her, but apparently, God needed her more.
She woke up one day not feeling too well, so my aunt took her to the hospital, like any good parent. (Any good doctor should have spotted the problem.) Triage took vitals, blood pressure, etc…. doctors diagnosed her with the common cold and discharged her with Tylenol. At home, her symptoms had gotten worse. Back to the hospital she went. Waiting in the ER for hours felt like days. Triage called to take her vitals and then sent her back to the waiting area to listen out for her name. Finally…not knowing it would be the last time she would hear someone call it. On the way to the examination room, Lisa’s heart stopped. A misdiagnoses had become apart of my family’s realty and caused the life of a young fifteen year old to unfairly be taking away. Autopsy results showed water in her lungs…pneumonia. CRAZY!!! It was New Years Eve!
I can recall driving to the George Washington burial site in NJ. My mom and I were on our way to place balloons and flowers on her grave, the Christmas following her death. ”How could you be so stupid”…was screamed as the balloons slipped out of my hand and flew out of the car window- driving down the high way. I always found a way to mess things up. From that point, she would say “no” whenever I’d ask to accompany her to the grave-site. (Even now)
My little sister was born eleven years after me-One of the happiest moments of my life. A little sister… Finally, I had someone to play with, to confide in, and be there for…I missed Lisa. This would also be the happiest moment in my mother’s life. My sister made and continues to make her world.
Stepsisters can become a problem, especially if they are older. There were issues with comparison like; “Why can’t you be more like your sisters, why can’t you wash dishes like them or get better grades like them or dress like them or be more motivated like them?” Listening to that through the course of my adolescence years definitely had an affect on me. I was called stupid, so I felt stupid. Having sisters (step or not) who look better than you, dress better than you, talk better than you, who’s smarter or at least appear to be, and will not hesitate to let you and everyone else know that you are not there “real sister anyway” doesn’t ease the blow.
Somehow I forgot that me and lil sis had different fathers. It was as though everything was normal. My parents were having a baby.
I can still remember the day ma told me she was pregnant. It was cold- no snow-just the type of cold that allows you to see your breath in what looks like a stream of fog pouring out of your mouth. I was on my way to the ice-skating ring, with some friends from the building, when she broke the news. My first time on the ice… had a bunch of blisters and my feet where killing me time I got back home…but still… one of the best days of my life.
Up until she was born, I called him [my father] by his first name and had kept my last name [Hannans].Never crossed my mind much to get it changed, that is, not until my mother approached me about it. Out of courtesy for her, the transition was made and I began to call him dad so that my sis wouldn’t know we had different fathers. Didn’t make much difference…She told her anyway- during a doctor’s appointment my sister had when she was about seventeen. Just sprung it on her like it was yesterday’s news.
My mother said my sister is the daughter she always wanted, anyway. “You are a shining example of what every parent wishes their daughter were…”to be exact. {Who cares who my father was}?
I was in Catholic school from first grade to tenth; held back in the third.-besides that my grades in school were fair. I wasn’t an honor roll student or anything like that; class clown would probably be a better description. Telling jokes can sometimes be a defense mechanism.
Catholic school has different effects on different people-different strokes for different folks:
My third grade teacher (Sister Josealena) had a wooden paddle called “Heat for the Seat.” It had a picture of a little boy bent over with his pants down; the words “ahhh” were written in blood red above the area he just been spanked. She definitely used it. This was during the era when it was ok to spank your kids. The teachers got first dibs. You had to worry more about going home; Scared to death to take a bath- might not get a chance to dry off before the snap of a leather belt is heard and its sting felt against wet skin - returning to school the next day with whelps, in places no one can see. The school uniform did its job in covering them. There was no such thing as child abuse growing up, unless the child died. Sister Josealena was hit by a van and died the year I graduated eighth grade. Karma is a bitch!
The first time my mother kicked me out the house (wouldn’t be the last), I was four-teen and in my freshman year of school-an all girls Catholic school. It was bad enough trying to fit in at home; I had to deal with it three times worse at school. I was the ugly girl with the big bubba lips, big pink glasses that took up half my face. My shoe size was an eleven and while the in crowd wore their skirts above there knees with cute shoes and stockings…my skirt was down to my ankles-‘old maid style. I tried rolling it up thinking it would bring “sexy back,” (like it was ever there)… it just caused the skirt to constantly go up in the back making room for even more humiliation.
Ashamed of myself- unable to tell her I failed my biology test had been the worse thing I could have done (at the time). I lied and told her that I had passed when she asked, not knowing the school would send the grades home. As soon as she found out I had lied, I had to “get the fuck out,” as she so bluntly put it... I already felt stupid, now I had to figure out my next move. I had not been in the street long, but she wasn’t too worried about where I was or going. I went to a friend’s house for the time being and my father later picked me up…more upset about the fact that he had to waste his time getting me.
My mother, soon after was diagnosed with breast cancer and my lil sis (about three at the time) had surgery to remove a growth from her side that could have turned into cancer.
Maybe I was a little selfish, but teenagers really don't understand adult issues when they need emotional support. I didn’t know how to deal with it. At home, I wasn’t shit, in school I wasn’t shit. Where do I go from here!
Freshman year…I remember being approached by the senior class over a misunderstanding. Trying to fit in, I called myself giving one of them some friendly advice. She happened to be pregnant and I knew that her boyfriend was seeing someone in my building. I told her all about it, even who the other girl was. Boy, was that the wrong thing to do. Apparently, she told her crew- made it seem as though I was jealous and wanted her man. Why would I want to be with somebody with a baby on the way, cheating on her with some girl in my building? Besides, I’m ugly remember…so I didn’t understand what the misunderstanding was all about. I didn’t have the confidence talk to a boy and I most certainly did not believe that one wanted to talk to me; I wasn’t at the “pretty in pink” peak in my life yet and lacked the confidence to work with what I had…whatever that was.
I nearly pissed my pants. The two “friends,” I were walking with, strolled across the street when they saw the mob approaching. The situation was so traumatizing, I had an anxiety attack and was taking to the hospital. My mom was bitter and angry with me over it so, as a result, I was punished. The next day, I was forced to tell the vice principle what happened. As if things couldn’t get any worse, her plan of action was threatening all the seniors (even the few that weren’t there) with their senior trip, and graduation ceremony, to be taking away, if they gave me any more problems. Problem was, some of theses girls lived in my neighborhood. Needless to say, evil grins, the pushing in the stairs and the shoulder bumps in the halls made it all the reason to not care anymore. Nobody at home understood and I was stupid enough to be in that situation, so it was up to me to get myself out…right?
With the chemotherapy…thinning hair…mood swings, lose of appetite and all that anger and emotion being taking out on me…what was I suppose to do. I needed someone…something. The diary that ma gave me a few years back had been thrown into the incinerator. My private thoughts were violated the day she whipped me for writing down my feelings; so I couldn’t even talk to a book. Who was I to confide in when my body was violated? I was stupid enough to put myself in that situation, too…. I guess. Who’d believe a family friend could be responsible for such a despicable act-especially when I was the accuser. Stupid me!
My grandma had gotten sick a little later that year and was in the hospital for a few days. My mother asked me to wash some of her clothes out by hand. Apparently, I didn’t do a good enough job. “How could you be so stupid” or “how stupid can you be” where often heard by my ears…followed by a slap or punch as well as a “get the fuck out of my house” I couldn’t do anything right.
Nana was the coolest -I thought so. She would have these card games that would last for days at a time. These people would literally be up three days in a row playing card, eating, drinking, smoking cigars and making money. I was in the mist of all that…making money. Somehow I always found a hustle; no matter how big or small. I’d make them there plates of food, get there drinks, even go to the store…whatever they wanted; always got a nice tip. I knew all about getting money at seven.
One day she let me have a friend over during one of her games. She and I were getting bored and had nothing else to do, so a game of hide and seek began. The apartment was big enough to be able to find some cool hiding places. What made me go into the bathroom and jump behind the shower curtain with the lights turned off, made the consequence the more funny.
I could hear her calling my name for what seemed to be an eternity, thinking to myself-“HURRY up and find me, I have to pee!”… I must have been in that bathroom for at least fifteen minutes before the light came on and the door quickly shut and locked. The sound and smell, coming from an unidentified woman on the toilet, was inhuman. I wanted to laugh and puke at the same time. Let’s not forget, I… still had to pee. Ha ha moment!
Nana was also Mel Brooks’s housekeeper. She took me to work with her on a few occasions-let me run around in there son Alex’s room which seemed to be as big as the apartment I lived in. (Little over exaggeration, but it was big). I use to brag about it until I got older and my mentality changed. My grandmother…somebody’s maid! She did what she had to do, I guess.
Into my sophomore year, though the seniors from the previous year graduated, their junior friends were now up to bat. It was like groundhogs day and I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped paying attention in class, failed tests, only did homework if I was bored and was put on academic probation.
I was fifteen years old. This was my second summer working with summer youth. Curtis… a six foot one, husky, sixteen years old ball player; my first crush. From what I had observed, he was a sweetheart-but, wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend, yet. It didn’t seem as though he paid me attention anyway until..., by chance, his best friend began dating another sophomore in my school. Curt had accompanied him in picking her up one day and happened to spot me. Wow, my first encounter with a boy. He was interested. I was surprised he couldn't see my heart pounding through my shirt, nervous to not get chocked up as he spoke...in disbelief he was even speaking to me. He gave me his number, understanding my situation at home with my mom and it took off from there. Every chance I got I called him, snuck out to see him play ball, even his house. We never did anything besides play video games, hold each other and talk. My first crush became somewhat my first boyfriend. First kiss was even crazy…to think that a boy wanted to kiss me. He was more my best friend than anything. The only one who listened and understood and tried to make me feel special. No sex, which was the coolest part. He asked once and never asked again; just kept his cool and understood that I wasn’t ready.
The relationship changed the night he went to the skate key. He wasn’t the type to get mad and argue with anyone; which is what made it so crazy. I called his house, like normal, to talk about what happened in school that day (the next day) and his sister told me he’d been murdered; shot in the head as he looked into the eyes of his killer. His eyes were opened, as he bleeds to death on the pavement waiting to take his last breath. I’m sure he tried to resolve the problem.That was just the type of person he was; would have grown up to be a well respected man one day. Shit happens?
Everything seemed to have been going down hill. I didn’t want to be in that school any more for obvious reasons and my mother was not trying to hear it. Deal with it…that's her favorite saying, because she doesn't have time to. Then I got kicked out---failed everything but gym. At least I got to sing the Star Spangle Banner for the last game…my gym teacher was cool. She knew what was going on. I guess she felt bad.
Talent Unlimited for musical theater was the best two years of my life. I finally was somewhere that accepted me. No bullying. I was in a school doing what I really enjoyed doing…singing. I had participated in Grease, South Pacific, some skits from Phantom of the Opera, Mis Saigon, Les Miserables, Guys and Dolls, and I was opened to new experiences. I’ve never been to a Broadway show before. It’s an extraordinary experience that should be on everyone’s bucket list. One of the best memories I have with my grandfather is when he took me to see “Mama I Wanna Sing” (Off Broadway); I wish he would have been able to accompany me on class trips.
Two days before Thanksgiving, (’95), I spent the night at my grandparents house to help out a little… he died in my arms. For a long time I blamed myself. I heard him moaning, sounded like an animal in distress. When I went to check on him, he asked me to open the window. Knowing how cold it was, already, I only cracked it…asked if he needed anything else, kissed his forehead and watched him take his last breath. In denial, I held him for a moment….said good-night, and went back to bed- didn’t go to sleep; I knew what had happened. It was four o’clock in the morning and I laid there until the strength to get up and call my mother came to me. She asked me to check his pulse-there was none-“Hang up and call EMS.” Then I had to wake up my grandmother; telling her what happened had to have been one of the worse things I had to do. I had to be strong for her and I’m glad I was there; don’t know what would have happened if she’d been there alone. Shit happens!
Two weeks later is when I wanted to know more about my biological father. My mother was very blunt in how she told me he died; I asked “Ma, how can I get in contact with Albert?” Her response was,” Why, he‘s dead any way –about a year now- Didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you.” Can you believe that shit…she picked the perfect time to care about my feelings. He died alone. Nobody cared about him, so he didn’t care himself; a diabetic who gave up on life. For a week, his body lay in his apartment like an abandoned dog. The only time somebody gave a dame, was when the pungent order coming from his apartment became an inconvenience. I don’t want to go out like that; No one caring if I’m dead or alive. He was my dad- fifty percent of the reason why I’m here. I should have been there. Maybe, if I would have had the courage to ask about him sooner, the out come might have been different. He might not have died by himself… eats at me everyday!!!
I was able to graduate early because I had enough credits on my previous high school’s transcripts that allowed me to…I just didn’t want to. School was my home away from reality. The only classes I had to take were gym and my major. I chose to take creative writing because I was into poetry, at the time. I was able to sing up and down the halls as loud as I wanted. That’s what I was there for; can’t begin to express how good it feels to be wanted. I was finally cool…even had a boyfriend.
Chapter 2
My first…
Senior year, I was able to hold down two jobs. I did telemarketing during the days I didn’t have class and worked in a pizza shop, across the street from my building, after school. It was cool. I was able to interact with many different personalities, as with any job.
I guess my mother wanted me to be with somebody because she started suggesting that I date this guy that worked with me in the Pizza shop….Curt…go figure.
It was about time I had a boyfriend. I was eighteen about to graduate High School. My step sister (Tish) had been living with us for a minute and I despised her. She was not only the reason I’m the black sheep. Nothing she did was wrong…an angle who happened to be in a relationship with two boys named Cory--- one of them being my best friend’s man. She later caused our friendship to end by having his baby. That’s just an example of the kind of woman she is. My friend felt I had something to do with it. I always felt family came first…even if you hate them.
The thing about him [Curt] was, even though his name was Curt, He was the complete opposite of my “first love”… and I knew it. We had already been working together about a year. I knew what he was about and I knew the type of man he was. We were friends, but that was it. Hung out many times, but he knew I wasn’t interested. He disrespected every other female, besides me - treated me like a little sister. He was even a shoulder to cry on when my mom was on her BS; even so-because my mother suggested it- I gave him a chance.
Graduation was a sad day for me. Not because I was going to miss it, but because I felt like it was the end of a beautiful fantasy. I was going home to feeling unwanted again and the one who wanted me, I didn’t want or need for that matter.
I had been put in the program to sing “Wind beneath My Wings.” I chose that song because it’s my mom’s favorite and it happened to be my father’s birthday…
I remembered….never remembers mine though…even if my mother has it written on there calendar in the bathroom.
Walking to the bus stop after the ceremony, Curt proposed. HA. Keeping in mind we had not had sex yet. I needed to say NO…just didn’t know how. The moment was not at all like I pictured it in my dreams as a little girl. I knew it wasn’t right, but…he wanted me, so F it.
Not that long after graduation the telemarketing company I worked for was moving to Denver and let the employees who weren’t moving “go.” I still had the job at the pizza shop but my mother still had the ultimatum ready and waiting. If she knew what type of person my man was, would she still have given it? “Go away to school, Join the Army, or get out and be with Curt.” These were my choices. Didn’t really have too many good experiences with school-wasn’t ready for that again…yet. I wasn’t joining the army… I’m accident prone. What was left? So I packed my things and got going.
The first night I moved in with him, he didn’t come home for three days…our first fight. No hands…yet.
My uncle died of stomach cancer a week after Thanksgiving. Now my aunt has to endure the pain of burying her husband not that long after loosing a child. He was the only one that called me by my middle name; that made me feel special for some strange reason. He was the only one that would try to keep my mother on the phone talking her out of beating me. She use to talk about it like she was about to cook dinner. “Ok. Let me go now…I’m bout to put my foot up her ass”...
One year later, a week before Thanksgiving (’98), my cousin died...Now it’s two kids and a husband. He hadn’t told anybody about his HIV status until it was too late. He use to always have these strange talks with me that I never understood until the day he died at twenty-nine.
My aunt has one child left. The one that would be there only to take advantage of the money she got from the law suit. - stressed her out until she had a stroke two days after Thanksgiving in ’07.
It wasn’t like her to not answer the phone. If she was going out, she would call someone and tell them –didn’t want any one worrying. My mother had the key, so she cooked her dinner and drove to her apartment… found her body in bed non responsive. I had just spoken to her the night before. Even though my aunt’s last surviving child was money hungry, she still had to endure the pain of burying a mother, father, sister, and brother…before her fortieth birthday.
One positive thing that I learned from my cousin’s death was to get checked out. I still hadn’t been having sex, at this point, and the moving “Kids” my mother made me watch as a kid made it all the reason for me to not want to. It was about a group of teens thinking they were having sex with virgins until they discover they have AIDS. I was scared. I told Curt that even when I was ready I wasn’t going to be until he was tested. He didn’t have a problem with it at all – I even went with him. Negative. He got tested a few more times before I even considered it. I get tested twice a year.
The first time we did “it” I was nine-teen, wasn’t living at home and it wasn’t at all what I had expected…so over-rated. It feels better when you’re in love, I guess.
The first time I got pregnant was an experience. I was twenty and still wasn’t living at my mother’s-Curt and I had a room at his cousin’s and split the bills. The pizza shop’s owner had sold the place so we had to look for another job. Burger King helped me eat and pay bills or at least my portion-Curt hadn’t found another job, yet.
Even so, I was still happy. I always wanted my own child to love-even if we didn’t have the room; I knew that God would make a way.
The first time I told my mother I was pregnant…why did I tell my mother that I was pregnant? I understand what she was saying, but it’s the way you go about things that make all the difference. We got into a really bad altercation that led to a miscarried later that evening. She apologized, but…whatever. This was the start of a domino affect in my new reality.
Curt and I fought more and more after that. I thought that maybe if I got pregnant again, it would make it all better. I was still working at Burger King and decided to get another part time job to save up for the baby. It was another telemarketing company; (NYPERG) happened to be right around the corner from BK.
Everything was ok until I had another miscarriage while at work. EMS came and took me to St. Vincent’s hospital. Curt met them there. If looks could kill… I would have dropped dead. This was my fault. When the doctors said they couldn’t find a heartbeat, he got up and walked out…leaving me in the hospital…by myself.
I was in denial and wanted a second opinion, so I discharged myself against the doctors order (according to them, I needed a DNC). I got dressed and took the train home, by myself…in pain. He wasn’t home yet, so I lay in bed and cried myself to sleep.
Three o’clock in the morning, he had not yet returned home and the pain had become to excruciating to even move. His cousin had to call EMS who came and took me to Mt Sinai. There, they proceeded to do the DNC that I needed and discharged me with codeine.
When Curt asked me to move down south with him, of course I was hesitant, but decided to anyway. There was nothing up here for me and I needed a new start. It was my first time out of state…on my own. What’s the worse that can happen?
North Carolina was a deep and interesting experience. Not that long after we moved, I found a job at KFC that was paying more than minimum wage and he found a job working as a taxi driver. That was cool; he was able to take the car home, so we always had transportation. We stayed with his brother for a few months until they got into a fight and we got kicked out…or at least Curt did; his brother and wife said that I didn’t have to leave. They knew we didn’t have anywhere else to go and was concerned about me, a woman, being out in the street. Curt wasn’t going for that. As a result, we slept in the car and I washed up at worked. We ate out a lot and drove everywhere. Gas and food were a major expense. We were paying his brother rent and hadn’t had a chance to save up for a place of our own. The car became just that, for at least a month, until we found a landlord renting out rooms. It was about time. The car was cold at night…in order to save money, we couldn’t keep it running.
We moved in and everything was ok for a bit. The house we lived in had other couples there renting out rooms. Kansas and Jason became our best friends. She was mine and Jason was his. When I got beat she jumped in and vice verse. When the two ass-holes stayed out for days at a time, we were there to keep each heads above water.
Eventually, we saved up enough money and went half on a car. Auctions are the best way to go, even if it wasn’t the smartest thing to do. We took a trip to NY shortly after that. His uncle had passed and we were attending the service. My mother didn’t know I was coming-wanted it to be a surprise. I would soon find out that the surprise was on me. Her breast cancer had returned and she didn’t think I was important enough to know. I only found out because I came home to attend a funeral. What if she would have died?
We got to the city about eleven at night, so everyone was sleep. My sister heard the doorbell and opened it. My mother was asleep on the couch. I bent over to kiss her forehead and noticed that her hair had fallen out. She had also lost a lot of weight, too. The next morning, she greeted me and left for work. I needed something from her bathroom and saw the boxes of chemo in her cabinet. When she came home from work I asked her about it and she laughed-Said that it was none of my concern and I had no business in her bathroom, considering there are two. I cried, which is something I try not to do too much in front of her; and she just laughed and shrugged it off. Now I can’t wait to get back to NC.
Back in NC, he taught me how to drive on the highway, after midnight, when there weren’t that many cars. I’m a fast learner-at least I think so.
One day, driving home from work [Curt was in the passenger seat and Kansas was in the back] somehow what started out as an argument (about me not being able to drive) ended up with me laying in the middle of the street with Kansas on top of me screaming “leave her alone…stop…you’re going to kill her.” …My first quick greet with death.
We made up. From that point on, I dealt with him cheating and having a baby with his ex while the fights got more intense. I took a second job to keep my mind at ease; the grave-yard shift at IHOP. I had been working there for a year when shit hit the fan. Friday nights are always busy. The difference between this night and any other Friday night was that we were short staff three servers and a cook. The show must go on, so my manager took over in the kitchen while I took her place at the register as well as take out orders, helping other servers bring there food to there tables and dealing with my own customers. There was a point during that evening when I was at the register-just finished bringing Tia’s (another server) food to her table. Apparently, I forgot the jelly. She said I better not had messed her tip up, and it caused an argument. This argument led to her mushing me, which led to me loosing my job. One punch to her nose was all it took. Why did she have to put her hands on me? My mentality is to protect and defend myself. If I wanted to hurt her I wouldn’t have stopped after the first hit. This is what I was thinking to myself as I calmly walked up stairs and clocked out. I was cool with everyone, so a few ran upstairs behind me to tell me she called the cops. There goes being provoked again. What’s with this shit? I should have just whipped her ass; then again, the lesson she learned will be remembered for the rest of her life. A bloody nose is rare.
I still had the job at KFC but that wasn’t enough for me. On my spare time I’d go to this local bar {BREAKERS}. Karaoke was the shit. I went there often to sing and try to win some extra money. When the time came, I wasn’t eligible to enter anymore contest-because I had won so many--- I decided to wash the cars of the customers. Soap, water, wax, and a rag were all I needed. I washed everything from Harley Davidson'S, to pick up trucks, Cadillac trucks, and some taxi cars that dropped the customers off; always got paid well. {A woman from NY washing your car while you have a drink; what more could a guy ask for?}
One night… Me and Curt’s last fight in NC----after being pulled out of the car by my hair, he drove off and left me stranded. He had gotten fired from the taxi company because the girl he cheated and had a baby on me with constantly called dispatch and harassed him at work. That’s not what the fight was about---it’s just the reason we only had one means of transportation.
This was the last straw. I couldn’t take it any more. Breakers was about a three mile walk from where we lived. I wanted to die. I don’t know how many pills I popped before I left the house. I do know that my main objective was to walk there…order the strongest drink in hopes of getting hit by a car on the walk back home. That was the plan; however, I passed out half way through my drink and was taken to the hospital. The only thing I remember is being forced to talk to a shrink before being discharged. I was there about two days. My glasses were no where to be found and to this day I can’t remember how I got back home. I can’t see much of anything without them.
Not that long after that, I knew I needed to be back in NY. Two years and some change was enough for me. I was tired…My soul was tired. It took everything I had in me to call my mother. Curt and I had joint accounts and he took everything. My mom was the last person I wanted to call. She sent me a ticket and picked me up from Amtrak.
Later that year Kansas got the strength to leave Jason- not to long after that, she was killed…ran off the road by a drunk driver. She was only twenty-two.
I had not been back in NY that long [maybe a week] before Curt decided he refused to be without me and drove back to be with me. Now… from the time I found out the girl was pregnant he denied the baby and I never had any real proof that the baby was his. He always denied her. As a result, when he drove back to NY, in my head, I couldn’t believe a man would leave his child behind, in another state, just to be with someone. That just means he does love's me…right…or the baby isn’t his.
Eventually my mother got on her BS again and kicked me out once again. Where else do I go!? It’s like ground hogs day. He promised to never put his hands on me again and he always denied he ever cheated. What ever- I moved back in with him and another family member.
Chapter 3
Drugs, Guns, and…being dumb
I needed a job and so did Curt. It’s not good to go job hunting with your significant other. We both had interviews at Starbucks. I got the job and he didn’t. I think that was the beginning of another snowball. It was more difficult for him to get and hold down a job because he’s a felon; let alone his temper and the fact he has a problem with authority. Easy money came quick. He got tired or being broke and turned to the streets…bringing me along with him.
Whenever I have a job, I try to do it to the best of my ability. It took me all but three months to be promoted to a supervisor. I had the keys to the store, safe, and all registers. This was during the time when a lot of Starbuck stores where being robbed. Employees were held at gun point and put in the freezer in some cases. Of course- a man raised in the streets of NY, who knows nothing but the streets, will turn back to the streets, when all else fails. I wasn’t going for the robbery shit, but somehow he was able to manipulate me into selling drugs.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I didn’t need the money that bad. I guess it was a mixture of me not knowing where he is all hours of the night and not wanting him to cheat as well as me wanting to ‘be down.’ Rain, sleet, snow…I was on the corner, in the hood, selling drugs; As soon as my shift at Starbucks ended- my shift “on the block’ began. Curt wasn’t always there with me, so the voice in my head was constantly talking: “What if I get shot or robbed,” “What if I get jumped,” “What if the cops are watching.” “What if the other dealers take advantage of the fact that I’m the only female?” Anything can happen. Fortunately the night I had to run from the cops was an eye opener. Jail is not the place for me. I can survive anything, but why would any one want to adapt to that environment?
I don’t know how I could think that it was over; Just because I decided to not sell on the block, some how ended up with me at a “connects” house “bagging up”- As long as I’m inside… everything should be ok, right. Maybe I didn’t learn my lesson. I thought that even though I wasn’t in the street, everything would be good; until one day, there was a raid in the apartment next door to where we were “bagging up.” A rush of panic filled the air. There were about eleven of us in the apartment. While the “work” was being flushed down the toilet, the rest of us were trying to figure out if we were to jump out the window to the roof of the next building, would we make it—seven stories high! There was enough evidence to put us away for long time…first offense or not. Fortunately, it wasn’t my time---just another wake up call.
Any one with a bit of common sense knows that where there are drugs, expect guns. When the shotgun went off, the impact almost knocked my shoulder out of place. I was warned, but even that didn’t prepare me for the blast. This was my initiation. Now, I was down. There aren’t too many females that just didn’t care about any thing and would do anything to survive. That’s how the “crew” looked at it. Was it really that…or was I really scared on the inside, yet wanted to fit in somewhere. Either way, eventually it didn’t matter. The fights began with random people in the street. If you looked at me wrong… it’s a fight. If you were rude to me, we’re fighting- Keeping in mind, I never threw the first hit unless I was touched. That would give me a reason to kick someone ass. I’d be the one to provoke. I was so used to my man beating me, I wasn’t going to let a female do it…..so as soon as the first punch was thrown, I’d black out. Not knowing what the damage was until the next day threw word of mouth. Eventually, I became the “go to” girl. I turned into a monster; the type of person that would knock on your door and kick your ass outside your apartment. The one to get when you needed someone’s ass kicked. Nobody argued with me. I guess you could say I got the respect I always wanted. This behavior came with a price. I got use to that life style. It had its advantages and disadvantages. I learned not to trust anyone. If I can’t trust my mother and the man that I’m with, who can I trust. The street mentality changes you in ways you can’t imagine. It’s me against the world.
Eventually, I got the balls to leave him again and experienced a lot more damage that is significant to the way I live and think today. I was a victim of date rape March 22nd of 2002 and had another boyfriend tried to kill me by pouring a bottle of bleach all over me; not knowing that I was pregnant at the time until the doctors at the hospital told me. I almost lost my eyesight. My son later died during delivery six months later. Eventually, I left that boyfriend alone when I got the courage to in 2007. He still harasses me to this day. They all do. That’s the main reason why I don’t have a Facebook account. It’s too easy to track unwanted people. Anyway, I met someone else and had a son February 10th of 2009. I decided to name him Chance because God finally gave me a chance to start a new life; So here I am today, at LAGCC starting over.
I USED POETRY AS A FORM OF LANGUAGE TO EXPRESS THE DIFFERENT WAYS MY HUMAN RIGHTS WERE TAKEN AWAY FROM ME DURING THE COURSE OF MY LIFE...HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!!!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
December 6th of 1977 a little girl was born. If she were born a boy her name would have been Michael, but instead she was named Michelle. Michelle Nicole Hannans. Datona, Florida was her birthday place and English was the language that she was born into. Her mother's name was Saundra Crawley and her father's was Albert Hannans. She didn't stay in Florida too long; Just long enough for her mother to get tired of dealing with the BS with her dad; Six months to be exact...then off to NYC they went to stay with her grandmother, who helped raised her while Saundra was working. Boy did she(Michelle) love to dance and sing. Still to this day, she would get a natural high just singing in the shower. Still thirty three years before today, She would have never guessed that the world would be such a horrible and mean place to be. Who could ever imagine that a little bit on innocence could experience the traumatic chain of events that she would go through during the course of her life; forgotten innocence, yet we live and we learn.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
LYNCH LAW
In this blog I will discuss lynch law and the effects that it had on the Afro-American community by Ida Wells.
Lynching was a form of cruel and unusual punishment which was directly effected by the Afro-American community for either crimes they didn't commit or for small crimes that didn't seem to fit the punishment: such as defending their property. We can see an example of this from Wells when she states "By law the wounding of a white person,as compared with the killing of a white person,was not punishable by death. Nontheless, on March 9th, lynch law prevailed, and between two and three o'clock in the morning the three men, who were not yet convicted by law, were removed from their jail cells, put in a railroad car, carried north of the city and shot to death" (Ida Wells p3). In this passage,Wells explains how three of her best friends were killed. They just so happened to own a store that was in competition with another store that was operated by white men. An altercation had broke out which led to a shoot out between the men. The Afro-American men were just defending their property.
Wells tried to except the fact that lynching was just a punishment for horrible rape crimes, but soon came to the realization that it was an act to maintain power and control by the white man. She states "Lynching was not simply a spontaneous punishment for crimes but an act of terror perpetrated against a race of people in order to maintain power and control. She began to see that these ritualized murders were acts of violence and intimidation designed to retard the progress of African Americans in their efforts to participate more fully in social, political, and economic life" (Ida Wells p3)
Lynching was a form of cruel and unusual punishment which was directly effected by the Afro-American community for either crimes they didn't commit or for small crimes that didn't seem to fit the punishment: such as defending their property. We can see an example of this from Wells when she states "By law the wounding of a white person,as compared with the killing of a white person,was not punishable by death. Nontheless, on March 9th, lynch law prevailed, and between two and three o'clock in the morning the three men, who were not yet convicted by law, were removed from their jail cells, put in a railroad car, carried north of the city and shot to death" (Ida Wells p3). In this passage,Wells explains how three of her best friends were killed. They just so happened to own a store that was in competition with another store that was operated by white men. An altercation had broke out which led to a shoot out between the men. The Afro-American men were just defending their property.
Wells tried to except the fact that lynching was just a punishment for horrible rape crimes, but soon came to the realization that it was an act to maintain power and control by the white man. She states "Lynching was not simply a spontaneous punishment for crimes but an act of terror perpetrated against a race of people in order to maintain power and control. She began to see that these ritualized murders were acts of violence and intimidation designed to retard the progress of African Americans in their efforts to participate more fully in social, political, and economic life" (Ida Wells p3)
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
HARLEM GIRL LOST
There once was a girl
who wanted to sing
until the world said
she wouldn't 'mount to a thing
There once was a girl
who thought she was pretty
'til her first crush crush
said that was silly
There once was a girl
who was full of trust
until it was destroyed
by a man full of lust
There once was a girl
who thought she was smart
but she couldn't finish
a thing she would start
There once was a girl
who wanted to be free
like a bird in the sky
but death is easy
There once was a girl
who wanted to survive
but it was too hard
staying alive!
who wanted to sing
until the world said
she wouldn't 'mount to a thing
There once was a girl
who thought she was pretty
'til her first crush crush
said that was silly
There once was a girl
who was full of trust
until it was destroyed
by a man full of lust
There once was a girl
who thought she was smart
but she couldn't finish
a thing she would start
There once was a girl
who wanted to be free
like a bird in the sky
but death is easy
There once was a girl
who wanted to survive
but it was too hard
staying alive!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Michelle revised
The IPA transcription for Michelle is...The first syllable of Michelle has the onset of voiced, bilabia nasal, with a rhyme of a mid,central vowel, "ma." The next syllable's onset is a voiceless palatal fricatives with the rhythm of a mid front vowel "ch." The last syllable has an onset of voiced alveolar nasal "l" with a mid-central vowel. In order to pronounce Michelle...start by making a nasal "hmmm"...put your lips together and let out an "uh" sound followed quickly by a sh using your dentals (teeth) and then an (l) using your nasal breathing out.
The area of contradiction that I chose in "When I was a Slave" is..."It was really worse on dem dan it was with dem what wan't free. De slaveowners, dey just despise dem "free niggers" and make it just as hard on dem as they can. Dey couldn't get no work from no body..."
This states that basically even though the slaves were Free, they really weren't.The area of contradiction that I chose in "When I was a Slave" is..."It was really worse on dem dan it was with dem what wan't free. De slaveowners, dey just despise dem "free niggers" and make it just as hard on dem as they can. Dey couldn't get no work from no body..."
This states that basically even though the slaves were Free, they really weren't.
This states that basically even though the slaves were Free, they really weren't.The area of contradiction that I chose in "When I was a Slave" is..."It was really worse on dem dan it was with dem what wan't free. De slaveowners, dey just despise dem "free niggers" and make it just as hard on dem as they can. Dey couldn't get no work from no body..."
This states that basically even though the slaves were Free, they really weren't.
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