http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/Oprah-Talks-to-Child-Molesters-Part-1-Video
"Life is like a book, each day is a new page."
Monday, February 8, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER TWO, TITLED, "WHEN EVERGREEN WAS NEVER GREEN."
As soon as I walked in and turned on the hallway lights, roaches would scatter everywhere. The first room I passed was the kitchen, which was to my left. Because its shape was long and narrow, Mommy could only fit a rectangular table. The table had black plastic legs and a white top, with two black chairs to match. There weren’t any pictures on the walls, just dirt and grease stains. I dared not go in there because if I did, I'd itch all night long. I’d keep the feeling of roaches dropping off the ceiling, all over my skin and hair. Going in the kitchen at night was a big NO! NO! Besides, there was never anything in there to eat.
After walking past the kitchen, using the distant dimmed light from the hallway to see, I would tiptoe on the squeaky hardwood floors until I reached the cluttered boxes filled with second-hand clothing and all sorts of junk mail. When I reached those boxes, I knew I was at the living room. I would stand at the door of the living room, which had been transformed into Mommy’s bedroom, and strain in the dark to see if she was home. My eyes always landed on her dresser first. She had enough medicine bottles on her dresser to supply a pediatric clinic. She had albuterol, nebulizers, pain reliever and fever reducer, amoxicillin, penicillin, calamine lotion, ringworm solution, chicken pox medicine, corn starch, diaper-rash ointment, A&D ointment, and empty methadone bottles that she had obtained from her drug rehab at the Lee Building in Harlem, with a little bit of orange juice mixed with methadone at the bottom. I have to admit I was often tempted to drink it, after being outside all day and having only water.
Her vanity display consisted of an eye-pencil, and a lipstick tube that was always half empty because it served as her lipstick, blush, and eye shadow. She used her pinky finger to dig it out. Next I would look at her many pocketbooks, filled with old food-stamp book backs and empty pill bottles. These hung down from the edge of the mirror that was located in the middle of the dresser. Then I would notice that, as usual, she wasn’t home.
Many nights I longed to take a bath after being outside all day, but most of the time the tub was overflowing with dirty clothes. Mommy would begin to wash the clothes by hand but would never finish. The laundry would sit there for days, creating a stench that filled the whole house, smelling like mildew and rotten fish mixed together. The clothes appeared to be floating on top of a dirty swamp with worms forming from the dampness.
The only lights that we had in our apartment were placed in the hallway, kitchen, and bathroom. We usually kept the bathroom door closed, because of the regular funk we were seeking to avoid. The apartment was always dark and depressing. My eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark. So I would just go straight to me and my sisters' bedroom, climb in bed, and sleep – on sheets that were changed maybe six times a year.
The four walls in our room contained dirty footprints and magazine posters. The windows were decorated with sheets instead of curtains. I could look out our window and see the whole block. The dawning of a new day on the streets provided an escape from a dark and hopeless situation.
After walking past the kitchen, using the distant dimmed light from the hallway to see, I would tiptoe on the squeaky hardwood floors until I reached the cluttered boxes filled with second-hand clothing and all sorts of junk mail. When I reached those boxes, I knew I was at the living room. I would stand at the door of the living room, which had been transformed into Mommy’s bedroom, and strain in the dark to see if she was home. My eyes always landed on her dresser first. She had enough medicine bottles on her dresser to supply a pediatric clinic. She had albuterol, nebulizers, pain reliever and fever reducer, amoxicillin, penicillin, calamine lotion, ringworm solution, chicken pox medicine, corn starch, diaper-rash ointment, A&D ointment, and empty methadone bottles that she had obtained from her drug rehab at the Lee Building in Harlem, with a little bit of orange juice mixed with methadone at the bottom. I have to admit I was often tempted to drink it, after being outside all day and having only water.
Her vanity display consisted of an eye-pencil, and a lipstick tube that was always half empty because it served as her lipstick, blush, and eye shadow. She used her pinky finger to dig it out. Next I would look at her many pocketbooks, filled with old food-stamp book backs and empty pill bottles. These hung down from the edge of the mirror that was located in the middle of the dresser. Then I would notice that, as usual, she wasn’t home.
Many nights I longed to take a bath after being outside all day, but most of the time the tub was overflowing with dirty clothes. Mommy would begin to wash the clothes by hand but would never finish. The laundry would sit there for days, creating a stench that filled the whole house, smelling like mildew and rotten fish mixed together. The clothes appeared to be floating on top of a dirty swamp with worms forming from the dampness.
The only lights that we had in our apartment were placed in the hallway, kitchen, and bathroom. We usually kept the bathroom door closed, because of the regular funk we were seeking to avoid. The apartment was always dark and depressing. My eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark. So I would just go straight to me and my sisters' bedroom, climb in bed, and sleep – on sheets that were changed maybe six times a year.
The four walls in our room contained dirty footprints and magazine posters. The windows were decorated with sheets instead of curtains. I could look out our window and see the whole block. The dawning of a new day on the streets provided an escape from a dark and hopeless situation.
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER ONE, TITLED, "THE STAIRWELL"
I stood there looking at what had appeared to be Mommy, but now seemed like a totally different person. She took a long pull and then she stared at me. It didn’t seem like she was looking at me, instead she gazed straight through me. It was as if something or someone was in the hallway behind me. I looked around and saw no one. It was just Mommy and I. Her whole personality changed in a matter of seconds. She turned into a zombie right before my eyes. Her eyes were wide open and her pupils dilated. She became anxious and seemed focused on something nonexistent. The woman whom I loved as Mommy was deviant. She became a stranger to me. She didn’t even look like Mommy anymore. I was a skinny kid, but she appeared to be just as skinny as me. She weighed around eighty-five pounds. Her skin was dry and discolored. Her face was so sunken that her eyes looked as though they were going to jump right out of her skull. As the long seconds passed by, I began to feel alone and afraid. After about a minute or two of staring at me, she offered me a hit.
“No thank you,” I said, shocked that my own mother was asking me, at nine years old, to smoke crack. I knew at that moment that her mind was really gone.
She tried again. "Come on, take a hit, smoke it.”
I looked her straight in the eyes. "No, Mommy, I don't want to.”
She looked into my eyes and moved the homemade pipe towards me. “Are you sure? It’s good.”
I looked down at the steps and whispered, “No, thank you.”
Suddenly, I realized our roles had reversed. I no longer could make excuses for Mommy or depend on her to protect me. I had to become an adult. I had to discover a means to guard my life, and to protect Mommy from herself. I turned to the streets, and the neighborhood was my dwelling.
“No thank you,” I said, shocked that my own mother was asking me, at nine years old, to smoke crack. I knew at that moment that her mind was really gone.
She tried again. "Come on, take a hit, smoke it.”
I looked her straight in the eyes. "No, Mommy, I don't want to.”
She looked into my eyes and moved the homemade pipe towards me. “Are you sure? It’s good.”
I looked down at the steps and whispered, “No, thank you.”
Suddenly, I realized our roles had reversed. I no longer could make excuses for Mommy or depend on her to protect me. I had to become an adult. I had to discover a means to guard my life, and to protect Mommy from herself. I turned to the streets, and the neighborhood was my dwelling.
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