Abashedly, I stood before him, my nude form exposed all too figuratively and quite literally. Here I stood feeling as large as a whale and his eyes pierced into my flesh as though awestruck by something beyond beautiful- something magnificent. Eight months ago he never looked at me with eyes like this. My reflection seemed average in his eyes. And today that look has garnered me perfect. I feel proud to be this... This magnificence.
The irony of it all is that it has come a little too late.
9.29.2010
9.28.2010
Lana
The bass in my father's voice verberates throughout the walls of my mind. His anger took on new facades each time: from a slow haunting anger, as if mobilized by a demon to levels of rage brought on by his sporadic delirium tremens. I remember one night in particular that the two of them had come home from a night of dancing.
With eyes shaded in anger he spewed, "whore!"
My mother retorted, "Jonathan, let's not start this shit tonight"
"I start whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want... Whore."
"What did I do now? I just want to go to bed."
"I saw the way that woman was looking at you tonight."
"Wh-what woman?", my mother responded in genuine bewilderment.
"Bitch, don't play dumb. That woman was looking at you. And you liked it. You liked it didn't you? Didn't you?! Answer me when I talk to you", he bellowed.
At this point my mother had taken off the red, suede stilettos she had been wearing. They haphazardly lay strewn on the floor, not knowing the weapon they would soon become. My father stumbled over to her and in one simultaneous swoop; he grabbed the hair of my mother’s head and the right shoe, rigidly holding its heel to her neck. As she grappled with him, he swiftly controlled the movements of her body via the clenched grasp he had on her hair. She fought, but it was futile. She cried out in pain and attempted to cower from the shear pain from an item she regarded as her favorite. The heel of her shoe was now pressed at her left temple.
My father spit on her in disgust. "I could tear your pretty little face up. You thought these shoes could only make you look good, huh. I'll show you how bad these shoes can really make you look."
My father took the heel of her shoe and attacked my mother's ribcage as if he were responding to her as a result of defense. My mother cried out, as her blood melded with the crimson shoe my father continued to pummel her with. I stood there shaking, yet frozen in stance. I understood my father most in that moment. I've never told anyone, because I know I'm supposed to relate to my mother. I understood that he loved her. I understood she was weak. I understood that he didn't want to lose her. I understood that my father was drunk and my mother stood for it. I understood that she dressed too sexy for a woman who had a husband.
I understood my father.
© CafeUzuri
With eyes shaded in anger he spewed, "whore!"
My mother retorted, "Jonathan, let's not start this shit tonight"
"I start whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want... Whore."
"What did I do now? I just want to go to bed."
"I saw the way that woman was looking at you tonight."
"Wh-what woman?", my mother responded in genuine bewilderment.
"Bitch, don't play dumb. That woman was looking at you. And you liked it. You liked it didn't you? Didn't you?! Answer me when I talk to you", he bellowed.
At this point my mother had taken off the red, suede stilettos she had been wearing. They haphazardly lay strewn on the floor, not knowing the weapon they would soon become. My father stumbled over to her and in one simultaneous swoop; he grabbed the hair of my mother’s head and the right shoe, rigidly holding its heel to her neck. As she grappled with him, he swiftly controlled the movements of her body via the clenched grasp he had on her hair. She fought, but it was futile. She cried out in pain and attempted to cower from the shear pain from an item she regarded as her favorite. The heel of her shoe was now pressed at her left temple.
My father spit on her in disgust. "I could tear your pretty little face up. You thought these shoes could only make you look good, huh. I'll show you how bad these shoes can really make you look."
My father took the heel of her shoe and attacked my mother's ribcage as if he were responding to her as a result of defense. My mother cried out, as her blood melded with the crimson shoe my father continued to pummel her with. I stood there shaking, yet frozen in stance. I understood my father most in that moment. I've never told anyone, because I know I'm supposed to relate to my mother. I understood that he loved her. I understood she was weak. I understood that he didn't want to lose her. I understood that my father was drunk and my mother stood for it. I understood that she dressed too sexy for a woman who had a husband.
I understood my father.
© CafeUzuri
9.23.2010
Elise
There are days which I rise solemnly to a morning that feels like the rhythmic rifts of Weldon Irvine’s Morning Sunrise, and there are others where I wake up to my brother bellowing, “Elise! Mom said to wake up. Wake up, now she said!”
Each morning I arise and peer at the walls of this, now, pastel pink room. There is a rugged patch on my wall, invisible to anyone else upon entering my room; yet, it is a daily reminder of what happens when my mother’s boyfriend thinks I'm sassing him in the midst of one of his many drunken stupors. My younger brother plastered it over the day he encountered the gaping hole in my wall. My excuse: I was in the middle of practicing my flag routine and had a minor misstep into the wall. One would think he'd ask why I was practicing my routine in the house. If you’ve seen an HBCU band routine, you understand what that means. My flag, standing rather melancholy in the back corner of my room is perhaps the most notable thing that separates my room decor from that of your average girly girl.
I sleep with a blindfold over my eyes to ward off the recurring nightmares I'm becoming all too fond of. But each morning, as my eyes connect with the sunlight peering through my sheer curtains, the sun beckons me over to the solitary window in the expanse that is my room. I fell into perfect adoration with this room when we first moved here, solely because of this window. They say windows are the opening to possibility. Actually, that's what I say.
Unfailingly, in my spell bounded walk to bask in the warm rays and observe the picturesque forest view that is presently my backyard, I hit my right knee on my vintage sidetable, which my brilliant brother ruined by bolting it to the ground for Lord knows what reason. The permanent bruise on my knee is the only bruise on my body that I played a hand in creating. Often, I forget that just a few years ago I shared a room with my brother. Those were the days I despised. The days where everything was cramped and we were two bodies, stifled in a space meant for one. Now, I seemingly have the good life.
A walk-in closet bustling with clothes whose tags remain attached - this is now my life..
CafeUzuri
Each morning I arise and peer at the walls of this, now, pastel pink room. There is a rugged patch on my wall, invisible to anyone else upon entering my room; yet, it is a daily reminder of what happens when my mother’s boyfriend thinks I'm sassing him in the midst of one of his many drunken stupors. My younger brother plastered it over the day he encountered the gaping hole in my wall. My excuse: I was in the middle of practicing my flag routine and had a minor misstep into the wall. One would think he'd ask why I was practicing my routine in the house. If you’ve seen an HBCU band routine, you understand what that means. My flag, standing rather melancholy in the back corner of my room is perhaps the most notable thing that separates my room decor from that of your average girly girl.
I sleep with a blindfold over my eyes to ward off the recurring nightmares I'm becoming all too fond of. But each morning, as my eyes connect with the sunlight peering through my sheer curtains, the sun beckons me over to the solitary window in the expanse that is my room. I fell into perfect adoration with this room when we first moved here, solely because of this window. They say windows are the opening to possibility. Actually, that's what I say.
Unfailingly, in my spell bounded walk to bask in the warm rays and observe the picturesque forest view that is presently my backyard, I hit my right knee on my vintage sidetable, which my brilliant brother ruined by bolting it to the ground for Lord knows what reason. The permanent bruise on my knee is the only bruise on my body that I played a hand in creating. Often, I forget that just a few years ago I shared a room with my brother. Those were the days I despised. The days where everything was cramped and we were two bodies, stifled in a space meant for one. Now, I seemingly have the good life.
A walk-in closet bustling with clothes whose tags remain attached - this is now my life..
CafeUzuri
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