Me and Alice Walker

On Tuesday Shannan Palma invited me to Emory University to see Alice Walker, the author of the Color Purple. If you know me at all, then you know that the Color Purple is one of my favorite books of all-time. I think it’s brilliantly written—and despite all the controversy, I also think the movie was well done and beautiful.

Ms. Walker herself is a thing of beauty. She is charming and speaks well in front of a crowd. We are the ones we have been waiting for she said to the crowd. And by this she means, there is no one else coming to save the world. That we can only expect ourselves to change things and make them better.

I can subscribe to that.

For those who don’t know, I pitched my novel, Sylvia’s Sun, as a cross between The Color Purple and Beloved. Which shows you how much this book influenced me. Of course my agent says it’s more like a cross between To Kill A Mockingbird and Beloved, but I’ll take that too.

After the reading and signing, she signed my book, wished me luck with my writing career and we took this picture.

I dedicate this photo to Maurice Broaddus, for whom my writing rivalry would not be possible. Thanks, darlin’.

But seriously, I had a wonderful time, and simply listening to her made me think all things are possible. I admire her.

10 Things NOT to do When Submitting

In the past, I’ve used this blog and my Myspace blog simultaneously. From now on, I will post about my writing and editing related things here and my family and personal drama here. Of course, I hope that most readers will continue to read both. But there are those who only care about the writing and editing side of things and those who love to laugh at all those dysfunctional people who seem hook themselves to me as if I had the only working life jacket on the Titanic.

Previously, I wrote about The Ten Things NOT to do at a Funeral. It was a little funny, a little pathetic and down right comical for those of us who were there. (Guess I should have mentioned that it’s a bad idea to sit on the front row and laugh at the idiots around you.)

With that in mind, I think a similar post about the “10 Things NOT to do When Submitting” will be a fitting start for my new blog direction. (yes, I know there are more than 10, but most of it had to be said.)

First a little bit about myself. I’ve been writing for several years, and I’ve been published many times. Now, I’m editing the anthology, The Red Light District. I’ve had a few emails with questions and I’ve gotten some, shall we say, interesting submissions so far. So, I think that this is a good time to address several things:

No bees coming from dead bodies for NO apparent reason. This includes flies, ants, roaches or any other insects. And if the suspect screams his guilt due to the sight (or attack) of these bugs, it is NOT a bonus point.

Please no more stories of transplant recipients where the dead donors come back for their missing body parts.

Serial killers—and, no, we will not be surprised if after setting up the story for the hooker to buy it in the end the “tables are suddenly turned” and she becomes the killer—vampire—werewolf—or any other monster.

I can’t tell you how many times Satan has made an actual appearance in stories. This is funny, but NOT in the way you meant.

Do not send us cover letters over 1000 words (especially if your story is only 2000 words), or 500 words or 200 words.

When we said “do not give us a synopsis of the story” we actually meant it.

Bad hooker/john/cop dialogue.

“quotation marks” are your friend.

So are commas.

Bad speech tags are NOT.

Yes, hookers are mandatory. Hookers. Street walkers. Call girls. Prostitutes.

And, despite recent post otherwise, you should probably NOT refer to me as your “chocolate muse.” That will be an instant rejection, as it will be for this particular writer. And, yes, I’m being mostly facetious.

If anyone has any questions, I’ll be more than happy to answer them. Send them to chesya@comcast.net. And if you’d like to know about my night at the Dirty Awards, go here.

10 things NOT to do at a funeral

Well I attended my sister’s funeral a few weeks ago. And in classic Chesya style, I found enough humor in it to write about. (But let me say, that this is not anything my family would ever do. No siree—not MY family.) So, with no further ado, I have for you the 10 things NOT to do at a funeral.

10. Don’t weight three hundred and fifty pounds, wear a five foot wide, three feet tall hat and push your way to the front of the line so that you can sit on the front row and be seen.

9. You haven’t been to a proper funeral until someone falls out—especially when cameras are around. So don't dive out of your seats and roll around just for the fun of it.

8. Don’t sit around talking about who will be the next to die—or better yet, who SHOULD be the next to die.

7. Don’t tell one of the four remaining sibling “you shole is a pretty nigga”—especially if it’s simply because she’s three shades lighter than the others.

6. When someone has been selected to do a solo, it’s NOT your queue for your American Idol audition.

5. During the wake, when people are allowed to speak, and they say, “I wish it was me.” The proper response is not, “We do too.”

4. Don’t write a speech for the news cameras, on a napkin, in the limo, on the way to the funeral.

3. Don’t fall asleep—especially if you’re sitting on the front row wearing a wide rim, five foot tall, three foot wide, hat.

2. Don’t bring your brand new girlfriend who keep staring at the monitors just to see herself on the big screen. And don’t let her point and say, “Look, Star, we on TV.”

And the number one thing NOT to do at a funeral:

When the minister ask all the young people to stand if they want to follow in the foot steps of the dead person, because they are mighty big shoes to fill, DON’T look at the dead girl’s twin and say, “See how many people aren’t going to hell because of your sister.”

I’m just sayin’.

How will I fill shoes like that?

As many of you know, I’ve been away dealing with the death of my sixteen year old sister. It was pretty hard; and being the oldest, I was supposed to be the strong one. And I think I did a pretty good job at it.

We’ve had the wake and funeral. They were really nice—I guess. At the wake, I spoke about Shadvina, and asked anyone else who had anything to say about my sister, to feel free to speak too. Man, did that open the flood gates.

She was a unique person, my sister. She was the kind of person who changed lives. One girl said how my sister would run behind her during track practice yelling “Pick up the pace. Come on you can do it.” She said everyday, Shadvina would do this, until the girl got her time down by a full minute, which was good enough to get the girl a scholarship.

Another kid said that she would talk to my sister often about faith. But the girl said she didn’t have time for that, and she didn’t want to think about it. The day my sister died, she said she went home, dropped to her knees and prayed. I think that girl cried more than we did.

Teacher after teacher talked about the kind of person Shadvina was—the person that we, as her family, didn’t know.

And to think, she looked up to me. She once told me that it would be hard to fill my shoes. She was a writer, a poet and an inspiration.

How will I fill shoes like that?

SHE WAS DESTINED TO BE GREAT

She was my sister:

Shadvina Leavell

No witty antidotes or insightful views on life. I simply want to say she was a special girl who touched many, many people. She planned to attend Emory University and become a neuropathologist. She wanted to help people; I’ll make sure she keeps that wish.

Chesya

How Screwed Up Is Your Family: V

This guest blog is from Jon. He’s a fellow Kentuckian.


My family is fairly normal, at least the part that came north from Kentucky. The Kentucky half though can look and act like they just appeared on the trailer park edition of "Cops". From meth labs to moonshine we got a piece of all that hillbilly lowlife action. Trailers, mullets, and corn squeezings, oh my. My mom was the youngest of nine, she was the only one not to marry a cousin. No first cousins mind you, but some seconds. I have seen an uncle catch a snake and hold it with his boot while teasing it to try and bite his hand, just for entertainment at the family reunion, which always starts with an area wide visit to the graveyard. Honestly though, we aren't that unusual. My dad's side is the strange one. Lots of serial killer candidates. Strange quiet types who seem to be nice right up until they snap. The lasting memory of them is my ex-wife meeting them at a Christmas event for the first time and getting toilet paper in the gift exchange. It wasn't intended as a joke, I had a cousin who thought it a good and practical gift.


Gotta love a man from Kentucky—the heart of…some place.

And toilet paper, huh?

I would reply to this one, but it seems that our very own Harlequin from Cheshire UK has done it already: “soft toilet paper [is the best]... not that stuff like baking parchment that has a high gloss one side, a fine abrasive texture on the other and edges that you could slice parma ham with... you don't know pain until you've had a paper cut where the sun don't shine....”

Ha! ‘Nough said.

***

As always, if you have a "How Screwed Up Is Your Family" story, feel free to sent it to me. I will credit you, or if you're wiser than me, you can go anonymous.

The Life of a Con

Prison, per se, seems to be many things for many people. I’m sure there are scores of people out there that have gone to prison, served the time allotted to them and gotten out to become productive, responsible people. I just haven’t met them. In fact, I’ve never even known one of them.

More so, I’ve known people who have searched for God, found him, just to loose him again once they were out. I’ve known the ones who have “learned how to do good” and can’t wait to get out to just “show everyone the truth” as they have learned it in jail. And I have known the ones who would “rather kill” themselves, than to “go back to that place.”

Of course, within months of being out, they’re all back in again.

You see, Cons have learned one fundamental thing while engaging in their life of crime. And that is how to con people. They con people and the system and anything else that comes to mind.

I’ve learned some stuff over the years dealing with them. Forgive me while I ponder a few things.

1) No one in jail is guilty. No one; ever. It doesn’t matter if they were caught in the act of committing the crime or if their finger prints and DNA were found at the scene. You see the government has it out for the little man, and has plans to get rid of everyone of them. And fingerprints can be planted and DNA, well, that’s just bullshit. There just ain’t no such thang. Oh, this also works for paternity.
2) They WILL pay you back. Every single penny that you give them, either from accepting phone calls or sending packages. You see, there must be some kind of government work system when you’re behind bars that pays them ungodly amounts of money just to pay back the loans that they owe on the outside. This covers the collect calls, putting money on their books—you know, a con has to have funds—and paying off bills.
3) Pictures. They need them, and they need you to send them tons and tons of them. This is to keep a link with the outside world. Being behind bars is madding—of course they knew this from the first few times they were in jail; they just forgot—and they need something to keep them sane. So you must be the one to supply it to them.
4) God speaks to jailbirds. Period.
5) It’s not their fault—now this one goes back to number one, but it deserves it’s own acknowledgement because, well, people just don’t understand. They have had hard lives and IF—and I mean if—they killed someone, it was because they were misunderstood. Jesus, can’t you give a con a break? Yes He can.



You can’t blame the Con really. They’re just doing what comes naturally. Lying. We’re the ones who believe them. They know that most people WANT to believe that people can change, they want to believe that there is something good and worthy inside everyone, even the most egregious person.

Of course before the second or third time someone goes to jail, you can’t tell whether you’re dealing with a simple con or the other one—the one you’ve eliminated from the family tree.

So if you ever go to someone’s home, and you notice there are holes in many of the pictures, where they have cut out whole people, don’t assume they’re a serial killer. They may simply have a lying, penny stealing, picture hog of a con in the family.

The Story of Fool and Hopeless

To find out how all this started, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

You know, I have learned that no matter how much you think it isn’t true, or how much someone tells you that it isn’t so, you never want to know what’s going on in someone else’s house. Not only is it none of your business, but it may just drive you insane.

Such is the story of Hopeless and Fool.

I’m going to take you on a journey that will cover time and space, and over a dozen children. A trip that I had to take, so bare with me, I’ll bring you along.

It’s around 1990 the best I can figure, and we’re in a project on the Southside of Atlanta. It’s a small housing project, with somewhere around 150 or 200 apartments. The grass is dying and brown, what little there is of it. Mostly there’s dirt for as far as the eyes can see. In the summer, when the wind picks up, the air is gritty, dusty and full of hatred and contempt.

This is where Hopeless and Fool meet. He was a maintenance man there, reported to be stealing stuff out of people’s apartments to support his drug habit. I guess she took one look at him and realized her Prince Charming had arrived.

Her mother, Mrs. Debra, said she warned her to “stay away from that man.” Fool was a short, “light-skinned” man, with three children of his own, who lived with his mother (yep, for those of you keeping count at home, that’s 14 children between the two of them). Of course, Hopeless herself had two children at this point, by two different men, who also stayed with her mother. Guess they were a match made…somewhere.

Fool wooed her, taking her into peoples homes, when they weren’t there, showing her the neighbor’s most private things. In fact, that was considered a night out for them. They would sit in his car and wait for someone to leave their apartment and the two would sneak into it, and watch movies and do other things—personal things—in their beds.

That’s when the fighting started. Fool has been known throw Hopeless down the stairs and kick her in the stomach. He’s pulled her down the road by her hair and punched her. Oh, don’t fret, it was never “that hard,” just ask him. But don’t you worry about Hopeless, she can hold her own. She has cut Fool’s face so hard, he’s needed stitches—with a spoon. And once she stabbed him in the back with a stake knife, and left it there for him to pull out.

Ah, a couple in love.

Sometime after this, Hopeless got pregnant—and she didn’t stop for another fifteen years. In fact, we aren’t sure that she’s stopped now. It’s rumored that she’s two months along.

Fool can’t read (M-O-O-N spells Fool). He can’t fill out a job application without having someone go with him, and he can’t even read his children a bed time story. He’s told them that real men don’t need to know how to read. That real men can get what they want.

Fool’s three older children haven’t faired well along the way with that advice. His daughter is the better of the three; she’s only been arrested once. However, she’s been known to shoot up with her father, and prostitutes herself for drug money. One son simply disappeared. No one has seen or heard from him in more than five years. I would congratulate him, but it’s rumored that he owed some drug dealers money when he went on the run. It’s said that they found him, and well, lets just say that…he’s paid in full.

His oldest son is in prison for murder. He shot a man during a robbery with a sawed-off shot gun, and walked away with a whopping fifty-five dollars. Afterward, he said that the man took too long to give him “his” money from the register.

What can you say about family? Can’t live with ‘em; can’t kill ‘em. Well, maybe you can. I wouldn’t put anything pass this family.

How Screwed Up Is Your Family: IV

I’m beginning to think that families are all the same, everywhere. Nuts. They screw you up and then let you loose on the world. It’s inevitable; families love you…to death.

This one’s from Crystal:


I have sister-cousins. Does that count as screwed up?

I can never answer the question "How many brothers and sisters do you have" without feeling like I'm dumping baggage. "Well, I have three older half-brothers whom I didn't grow up with because they were a product of my father's first marriage. I have one older sister who is autistic, one younger half-brother from my mother's second marriage, two ex-step-sister-cousins because when my father left my mother he ran off with his dead brother's widow and her two daughters, which was his third marriage, and then I have two step-sisters which are from his fourth marriage. ...beyond that, we're not really sure."

But we don't really have any terribly good stories, aside from the ones from my brother Wil's wedding, which included his crazy mother flirting with my father (who divorced her almost thirty years ago) in front of my current step-mother. And then there was of course the story that SHE (my brothers' mother) told me when I was fourteen about finding my Dad and Mom in bed together while he was still married to HER (which, oddly, I don't actually believe... I mean, the woman IS crazy. And I don't think my Mom would pull something like that. She's better than that. No words for my Dad though...), and then pulling out pictures of a man she thinks might have been my oldest brother's father.

She's not really sure, but since she couldn't find the other guy she settled for a shot-gun wedding (literally--her father actually brought a shotgun to the wedding) to my father. Sometimes my 80 year old grandma tells us stories about the effect of gravity on her boobs. That's a big hit at family reunions. And she pretends to forget people's names so that she doesn't have to talk to them. She always remembers mine though! =) I like my grandma.

And that's all just on my Dad's side. There's more redneck fun on my Mom's side.

And we can't wait to hear it, Crystal.

SUPERSTAR

As always, if you're just joining us, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

I have used this blog to talk about my life. As of late that just happens to be my husband and his family drama. But I just realized recently that this wasn’t fair. Hey, I have plenty of whack-jobs and religious zealots in my family too. Why haven’t I talked about them?

Ok, it may be because I never see them. All of them live in other states, and lets be honest, they aren’t nearly as entertaining as my husband’s. But I thought I’d give it a whirl.

I have many, many people I could talk about here, and I may do so later, but right now, I will confine it to one person: Star.

Star is my uncle. Have you ever heard the term ghetto-fabulous? Well Star made up the term. He’s a man who thinks every highly of himself, and isn’t afraid to tell the word. SUPERSTAR!

The first time I met my uncle, I was about ten years old. Everyone was at my grandmothers house waiting his return from (wanna guess…that’s right) prison. It seems that he had been in there for my entire life, and that’s why I had never met him.

He arrives there in grand style: loud and flamboyant. If you know my family, you know this is not strange. Hell, if you’ve ever met me, I think you can imagine. He started his act. I say it’s an act, but it’s really just Star being Star. He enjoys talking and likes when people are listening—though he doesn’t always wait for the latter.

Then he started telling his story, he doesn’t bother sitting down. No, he stands, using his arms and his obnoxious voice to spin the tell.

Here goes:

It seems Star was in Detroit (don’t all crooks go to Detroit?) and he and one of his buddies decided to rob a house. Well, they get the gear and stuff they need: guns and sky mask, and head into the house—forgetting to put on the mask.

All the lights are off, and Star gets a bad vibe (Ok, at this point I wish I could have named him Fool, but even after this, I think we have the right man in the role), but they go on in anyway. When they get into the house everything is going fine. They’re getting lots of expensive stuff, and even found some stashed cash. Everything is good.

Then something happens (doesn’t always?) and his partner either falls or drops something, and makes a loud ruckus. To Star everything seems to happen at once: his partner screams, several simultaneous light in the house come on—in several different rooms, and the owner comes out shooting. Star dives behind the couch while his partner gets shot in the gut. Star, in way over his head, shot back, misses and then runs out the door. He trips and falls, twice, but makes it out of the house and down the block before anyone can catch him.

He slows down only when he’s a good distance away and then he hears the police and ambulance sirens. For some reason, Fool, oh, sorry, Star decides to go back. By this time there is a whole slew of people outside in the street watching. He stands in the crowd as if this idiot (shit, this name is taken too) didn’t know what the hell was happening. Of course someone notices him and points him out to the cops and they arrest him right there. He’s charged with the murder of his own partner, because as it turns out, if someone dies during the commission of a crime, then that person is charged—even if they weren’t the shooter.

He laughed and made jokes about it then, in that humbly small living room in my grandmother’s house. My mother just stared at him. My grandmother, never one to suffer fools, told him to shut up and get on in the kitchen and eat some real food for a change.

Me and my sisters stared at each other wondering if this person could really be related to us. Little did we know…

…Oh, the tales I could tell you…

Just How Screwed Up Is Your Family: Part III

Ever been sued by family?

Then you have one up on this guy. Though I wouldn’t worry about him too much, I have it under good authority that he’s a Republican. Sheesh.

My mother is like the godfather. She'll do you a favor, make you a loan, but you have to pay her back (with the vig) or else it's a trip to court. You can't borrow a quarter from her without having to sign a promissary note.

Money is how she controls the people around her. Even if you aren't interested in going to her for a favor, she'll come to you if she thinks she can get her hooks into you. She has sued me more than a couple of times, my sister, my brother–one time me and her brother had the same court date:"I see here that the defendant and the plaintiff have the same lastname. Are you related?" the judge asked.

"She's my mother."

"Your own mother is suing you?"

"Yes, and if you look behind me, you'll see her brother. He's next on your docket."

"She's suing her son and then her brother? Ma'am, I'm scared of you."And the best part is that after court, she'll fix us dinner. Why? Because "business is business, but family is family."


Ah, see, a nice family dinner after a public suing. All you need to round off your evening is for the government to bring back public executions, and you could have your desert and entertainment too.

The World Is Full Of Fools

For those new folk, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

For you to understand Fool, I’ll have to remind you about a little conversation that I had with him. Hopeless had just gone to jail, and he called my house wanting to speak with his daughter, Pray-To God–She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless. This is what happened:

After a week, Fool called the oldest girl (lets call her Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless). He told her that he had gone home to his mother, and that he was damn mad that he couldn’t get to work, and asked if she knew where the “God-damn van was because he was just gonna do something really, really bad if he didn’t find it.” Aren’t ya just trembling in your boots now? Yeah, I was too.

Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless handed me the phone. “I ain’t been to work in days, and I want that damn van right now.”

“I thought you’d quit that job.” I took a gamble. The boys had told me this and I wasn’t quite sure it was true, but then too, I wasn’t dealing with the sharpest knife in the drawer either. In fact, if he had been a knife, he probably would have been equipped to cut cottage cheese. Maybe.

“Oh…I got another one two days ago, I told that damn Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless that already, shit. I need that damn van. Jerome gets to work; see that’s what I need to be doing right there. You know what I mean? I take care of my kids. Don’t no body take care of them kids but me, and I got to GET TO WORK TO DO IT.”

Talking to this man was like getting kicked in the head with a steal-bunny-slipper, if ya know what I mean. “Well, since you take care of them. The baby needs some more milk and diapers.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I take care of my kids. I gotta wait for the next bus. It comes in like 20 minutes and I’ll bring some, ‘cause I take care of them kids. Ya know? Them kids don’t want for nothing. What size diapers does she wear? Ok, ok, yeah, like a medium or something?” I told him no, a size 4. “Yeah, yeah, a 4, I remember. I get them all the time. I’ll be right there.”

Yeah, the world is full of Fools. Of course he didn’t come that day. But he did “do something really, really bad” because he couldn’t get the van.

We had gotten the kids together and brought them to my house to give them baths. It was almost all of them. The only ones that didn’t come was Don and Jon. They probably needed it the worst, but hell, who was I to say. OK, they stank.

Even doubling and tripling them up, it took a good long time to finish up. My brother-in-law gave them all hair cuts, and Pray-to-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless did the girls hair. It took us about three or four hours or so.

When we finished, we loaded them back up and took them home. They don’t live far, (yes, I want to kick myself in the ass for that one everyday. My husband and I moved away from Atlanta almost eight years ago, one reason was his family. Within a couple of years, they all had followed. But, alas, that is another tale for another day.) a few blocks, so the drive wasn’t long. Thank god…again. By the time this is over, I think I’m gonna own Him big.

As soon as we pull up into the driveway, I know there something wrong. But I can’t quite put my finger on it. Then one of the kids shout, “What happened to the door?”

That’s when I see it. There’s a big hole in the garage door—one of the panels is completely missing. My first thought is that the boys got to fighting again, and have broken it.

Beside me, Miss Debra, says, “Oh, shit.” Guess she was thinking the same thing. We all rush into the house, and up the stairs. The master bedroom was completely empty. There had been a bed, dresser, and a floor model TV in there, but all of it was gone. Again, I thought of the boys. I didn’t know what they had done with it, but to be honest I had completely forgotten about Fool.

While I’m standing there, not really able to say or do anything, Don comes up to me and Miss Debra. Don says that while he and Jon were gone, Fool broke the panel in garage door, opened it, snuck into the house and took the furniture. Let me also remind you, that the house is empty except for the bedroom furniture. Miss Debra kept the baby on that bed, changed her and everything.

Don and Jon said that one of the neighbors told them that “that man’s just broke the door to your house.” By the time they got there, Fool was pulling off in a truck with everything. Jon said he ran after the truck, and when he couldn’t catch it, he threw a big rock, and it cracked the window. Yeah, guess I can imagine him doing that, with his illness and all.

Fool threw all of his daughter’s clothes on the floor, leaving the room in a mess. But hey, he left the comforter. So they spread that out, for the baby.

Parenthood, it’s hard knowing the right things to do for your children. Of course it gets easer when you don’t break down doors to steal from them and their mother.

When Hopeless called, I told her what happened. She told me not to worry about it, that she would put out a warrant for him…FROM JAIL.

Can someone even do that? Shit, why am I asking, I’m just getting the hang of this, I might as well sit back and enjoy the ride.

#

Last time I had a contest. The person who guessed correctly what Fool stole out of that house, gets a copy of Dark Dreams, with features stories by yours truly, Zane, Tananarive Due, and L.A. Banks.

So, with no further ado, the winner is Sally Broaddus. Mrs. Broaddus, please send me your address, so that I can mail your signed (by me at least) copy.

NOT KIDDING!

So, the electric bill is almost a thousand dollars too. I’ve decided to forgo any more drama, and just shoot myself in the head. Then I think, no, this is my husband’s fault for letting me marry into this family, and I decide, “Hey, I’ve got a .22 and a shovel, why not?” What do you think? Should I?

Hopeless was let out of jail, and everyone was awaiting her call so that we could pick her up. The girls were at my home for the weekend, and we all waited patiently by the phone hoping for the call from her. Every time the phone rang, they’d jump and run to it. I’d answer and it wouldn’t be her. Then finally she called. I nodded to the girls that it was their mother (calling collect—but I didn’t even care—she was getting out), then I noticed that the operator said Atlanta.

What?

As it turns out, Hopeless was released from our county jail, but was immediately transferred to Atlanta, where she had a warrant for her arrest for stabbing Fool in the back. Not kidding!

I had to tell the kids that their mother would not be coming home to them. That didn’t go over so well. I would have rather stabbed myself in the eye with a spoon, than tell them that their mother was not only still in jail, but she was now further away then she had been an hour ago.

Not funny.

#

So, Mrs. Debra decided to pay the electric bill. I suppose the kids can go without food, or water, but the lights, uh uh, no way. That’s an abomination.

Where does she get the money, you ask?

Well, let me tell you about another little scam.

It seems that if your child is deemed crazy, then you can get all kinds of money for it. Not kidding. Schizophrenia, ADD, breaking bottles over your siblings heads…that all counts.

So, Hopeless keeps having these children, and then has them declared mentally ill, and racks up the dough. Just like the food stamps, they give you this neat, little debt card with all kinds of money on it. Guess, they don’t want people to be embarrassed by cashing a check or having food stamps. And the card is welcome in thousands of locations around the world. Un huh.

So, just as we get that problem solved—the lights will remain on—another one comes up... Isn’t that always how it happens?

Fool decides all of a sudden that he’s been wronged—has he ever been right?—and breaks into the house while we’re giving HIS kids a bath. Never guess what he wants. Come on. Guess.

Okay, we’re gonna make this a game—someone might as well get something out of it. The person who guesses correctly what Fool steals out of that house, gets a copy of Dark Dreams, with features stories by yours truly, Zane , Tananarive Due , L.A. Banks and many more. Send your entries to me at chesyaburke@chesyaburke.com

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Remember everyone, keep sending in those “How Screwed Up Is Your Family” stories. I’ll post them. If you like, you can remain anonymous, while still getting things off your chest. Let me know that I’m not alone.

I Had Just Missed the Paramedics and a Rush of Cops...

If you’re just joining me, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

My mother in law tires of Hopeless’ children real fast. It seems that they have some serous problems. Who knew? So she sends them back to their house, with their oldest brother, Don. A few days later, she realizes that children probably shouldn’t be there alone—neighbors are complaining—and goes to the house to watch over them.

I also need a break, so I take them back home, with Miss Debra, too. I feel really bad about this at first. But then, that night, I got decent sleep, for the first time in over a month, and I got over it. Real quick.

The next day she calls me and asked if I could come over, ASAP. When I get there, the guy from the water company is there, bent down doing something to the meter. I ask him, “Are you shutting it off.”

He stares at me with this expression that says, ‘are you kidding?’ but he said, “I removing it.”

Removing it? Removing what? I find out later that there’s a meter in there that they remove only in extreme cases (this, I think, was an extreme case). I walk back up to the house, looking back every couple of feet, making sure that I wasn’t what the guy was hoping to remove. Seriously, I felt like I had been caught doing something wrong, by just being there…but it got a hell of a lot worse when I went in the house.

Don is standing there, a big, white bandage wrapped around his head, over and over again, blood was seeping through the cloth. His eye was completely covered with the dressing, which binded half the boy’s head.

“What in the world happened to you?” He just kind of stands there looking stupid.

Mrs. Debra runs—I mean runs; you have never seen a large, old woman run like this—down the stairs, toward me. “It was Jon. He’s crazy.”

Well, as it turns out, Don and Jon had gotten into a fight, and when Jon started loosing—as all creeps are wont to do—he got mad and broke a glass bottle over his brother’s head. Evidently, I had just missed the paramedics and a rush of cops asking all kinds of questions. Jon had left the house and no one knew where he was.

Just what you’d do in that situation, right? I mean think about it; your mom’s in jail, your grandmother’s sick, there’s no water in the house, and the police has, only a few weeks before, threatened to take you away. And what do you do? You break a bottle across you brother’s face, because you don’t like what he said. Yeah.

I don’t know how they managed to get out of that one. If you could package luck in the bottle, they would own the paten. I swear…

So, Miss Debra asked me to take her to the water company—as if I’d say no—and so Don got the bill. I took one look and almost passed out. $1049.62.

“What?” I could have had a baby right there on that floor, and not only wouldn’t they have noticed there was one more child, but I wouldn’t have been more surprised.

The water company refused to take anything less than what they were owed. It seems that ol’ Hopeless and Fool had been in that house for six months and hadn’t paid a single water bill. Not only that, but they hadn’t paid a bill from their previous house, and somehow it all caught up with them. Right now; while I have to try and figure out what in the hell to do.

So, what did we do? We started carting water, from my house to theirs. We brought lots of water, too; in gallons, bottles, jugs. All kinds of water. But water’s one of those things that you just don’t realize how much you use it, until it’s gone. Doing dishes, the clothes, brushing your teeth, washing your ass, flushing the toilets!

Also, just so you get the idea: there were 11 children and one adult in that house.

So, then we started carting children over to my house for baths.

But no worries, it gets better, because, just as I think it can’t get any worse, the electric bill arrives.

Just How Screwed Up Is Your Family: Part II

Now I have a little something from our friend Harlequin from Cheshire UK:

My dad could build and use nunchuku. He was a scary individual when it came to MacGuyvering stuff, and being exceptionally good at using it. Spent a little to long 'up country' in what became Yugoslavia to be classed as 'normal' and too long escorting prisoners at Nuremberg not to be a little stir crazy. But I love him anyway.When his mind started going, it did make him a dangerous man to know. He took apart three policemen with a disassembled radiator in the evaluation home I put him in. I did warn the owners. They didn't listen. 76 year old man, quietly spoken who smiled a lot and looked frail... nothing to worry about. WRONG!!! They were lucky there wasn't a death, and Dad wouldn't have been the fatality. That was why I signed on off on them drugging him most of the time, which aggravated his condition. Then signed off on 'By any means necessary' when he started refusing the meds. Otherwise, they could have been liable for assault. Before they REALLY kicked in it was taking four 'non lethal restraint' trained nurses to administer an injection.
Most of his family seemed to die that way... earliest onset is 50. I'm 41. I watch my brother (who's 49) and he watches me. Our mother watches us both. My continuing depressive illness has been a real cause for concern to them for some time, but they cope. The reason neither my brother or I have had kids is because we wouldn't gamble with another person's life. If it was normal odds, then yes, but those who don't learn the lessons of history WILL be doomed to relive them. Statistically, looking at the metabolic oddities that characterized my dad, neither Lance nor I will have a 'good' death (if there is such a thing) And I have to try and avoid morbid fear every time I have a minor lapse of short term memory...

I think we were written by Poe...



Well, Harlequin from Cheshire UK, let me tell you, don’t take your eyes off that brother of yours. And tell your mother…to MOVE, quickly. But on the bright side, it could be worse than being written by Poe. You could have been written by me. Then no one would have ever read about you.

So, what about you? Join the fray, it can be quite therapeutic. Send your stories to me here.

Just How Screwed Up Is Your Family: Maurice Broaddus

As always, go here if you’re just joining us, and scroll down to The Beginning of A Nightmare. Then, read and enjoy.

I’m just getting over another bout with Strep Throat. It was a boozy and did its best to knock me out for several days. Luckily the doc shot me up with penicillin and I’m feeling much better. So, with no further ado, I have my first guess post.

This one is from Maurice Broaddus. You may remember him from his thoughtful post about me. And of course, I returned the favor with this bit about him. Well, it seems that great minds…originate from screw balls. His family is delightful…and this is just a taste. This is what he had to say:

me, jon, and another friend are watching tv downstairs. we think my brother is upstairs watching tv. turns out, a girl dumped him and he was drowning his sorrows in alcohol. it also turns out that he underestimated how much he was drinking. he was fresh out the marines and apparently the three empty fifths on the floor were just casualties of war.

anyway, he picks then to have an alcohol fueled flash back to his time in desert storm. me, jon, and our friend run upstairs to see what's wrong. he's raging like mad, tossing furniture around yelling "hector!" (a buddy of his from desert storm).

we vainly try to restrain him.did i mention that he slept nude?picture three guys dangling from one marine trained, naked, black guy.

and then the paramedics show up. we were so proud.


Ah, family. Gotta love ‘em. Even when they’re sad, drunk, naked, and on top of you.

Put Your Hands Together With Me and Pray to God She Won't Be Hopeless

If you're just joining us, start here at the beginning.

The baby cries all the time. Her oldest sister, who’s 13, is constantly holding her, consoling her, mothering her. I had thought I would be taking care of the 5 month old—you know, late night bottle feedings, diaper changes and the like, and in a way I am, but not like I had figured.

Pray-To-Go-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless is her mother. I mean, she has been mothering this child since day one. She says she sleeps with the baby when they’re at home because the child doesn’t like Fool and would cry anytime she was near him. So she sleeps with the baby every night, even on school nights. I even caught Pray-To-Go-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless sending the 5 year old up stairs, carrying the baby—hell, the baby was as big as she was. I asked the girl what she was doing with the baby. She looked at me with these eyes that were older than her years and said, “Pray-To-Go-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless told me to put her to sleep.”

Huh? What in the hell does a 5 year old know about putting a baby to sleep. Hell, a 5 year old IS a baby. I took her from the girl and did it myself.

I tried to take over responsibility of the baby but Pray-To-Go-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless would not hear of it. When I had fed the child, changed her, and make sure she was ok, I put her down in the kitchen while I cooked. As soon as I sat her down, she started crying. This was nothing new for her, this child cries anytime she’s not being held.

Well, I wasn’t gonna pick her back up. Things had to be done, the other children had to be fed, and the house had to be cleaned. All sorts of things needed to be finished, not to mention I hadn’t written a single word in over a week. So I gave her a toy, and let her cry.

This happens. Sometimes children cry; they need it. And we, as the adults, need the break. Sure it’s annoying sometimes, but you can’t drop everything, including feeding other children, because they’re having a moment.

Well before long Pray-To-Go-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless rushed to pick up the baby. I tell her not to, that she shouldn’t pick her up every time she makes a noise. She tells my daughter that I’m mean and that I didn’t know how to take care of a baby.

O.K.

At least her mother’s teaching her something.

#

I was with Mrs. Debra the other day, taking her to pay some bills and we were talking. Of course the subject turned to Hopeless, as it always does of late, and her children. It seems that a couple of years back Hopeless and a few of her children were in a car accident. She was paid monies, and they put the rest in an account for the children’s college funds. It was somewhere around five thousand dollars per child—I’m not sure which of the children it was, but I know it was the oldest who was about sixteen at the time, and a few of the others.

Hopeless was not happy with this. I asked my mother in law why she wouldn’t be happy. I mean, I would kill to have money put away for college for my girls. Hell, I’m looking forward to when they are all out of the house and on their own.

Hopeless had said simply, “Those kids ain’t goin’ to college.”

This, I think scares me the most. I’m worried because I think she may be right. But I’m more worried because I think she may be raising another baby making machine in Pray-To-Go-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless.

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I have been told that I am not the only person with family drama. Of course I know this, but it's hard to imagine that while I sit here in this house full of children trying to write something that doesn't resemble child abuse. So, help me out here.

Send me your tales of woe. I'll even keep them confidential, if you like. Or you can just post them in the response area of this blog.

Tell me, just how screwed up is YOUR family?

Collect Calling from Prison

Again, if you're just joining us, please go here.

My husband has a nephew in Telfair State Prison. He’s nineteen years old, and is convicted of armed robbery, kidnapping, possession of a fire arm, and other lesser crimes.

He’s been in and out of jail for several years, and every time he’s in there, he calls me collect, and I accept. I can’t help it. I know better, but he’s still just a kid and I thought I could help him.

He had a rocky life—haven’t we all? His mother is a mini celebrity. The state took her baby away and then lost it. I won’t say anymore, but she was on talk shows making the rounds until they paid her a nice lump of money to shut her up.

None of this helped Sorry. Nothing could have, I don’t think.

When Sorry calls, he talks about all kinds of things. Mostly it’s that he shouldn’t be there. Let him tell it, he didn’t do anything—surprise, surprise—and that those “cops, man, set me up.” He claims that even the judge knew it, and so he only sentenced him to seven years instead of twenty. Lucky man.

He calls here about twice a month or so. He tells me about the fights he’s gotten into in there (it seems that there pretty bad people in those prisons), and most recently started taking classes and he will have his GED soon, and start working on a vocation.

I told him that was good, and that I hoped he stuck to it. He said he would.

Frequently he asks me to call his sister three-way so that he can tell her to send him money. Now anyone who has ever received a collect call from jail knows that the first thing the recorded message tells you is that “if you attempt to make a three-way call, or call forwarding it will automatically hang up and you will still be billed for this call.”

Have you heard that message? Oh, come on, I can’t be the only person with family behind bars. OK, I thought so.

But don’t you fret. There is a way around this. As I told you once; if there’s a will, a con will find a way.
It’s strange, but seems that the prison and jailhouse phone listen out for a dial tone, or something making them aware that you have just clicked over. I’m not sure how this works, but I can tell you that I have done it several times.

Once he gives me the number to call, he begins either hitting the receiver rapidly on the wall, or more often (believe it or not) “blowing” into the phone. Hard, as if he’s putting his mouth right up to the holes and trying to blow my ear out right through the phone. Then I click over, and make the call.

It always works. I don’t know why. I don’t know how, but it does. We can continue the phone conversation with the other person, or I can hang up if they’re not at home, and finish talking to him.

The operator, if I remember correctly, also tells you that the “call may be monitored.” I don’t know if this is true, but if it is, then why do they allow it to continue going on. I assume that there is a reason that the phone companies and the state have set it up this way, so I can’t figure out why they don’t do something about it. I mean, word spreads fast in jail: it spreads faster than…shit, I don’t know what, but it spreads pretty fast, I’d guess. So every con in the world must know about this by now. And if the guards have monitored one call where it’s happened, then they must know it too.

I don’t know, maybe they figure that there are other things bigger and more important in a prison than a couple of cons calling their mothers and their girlfriends at the same time. I guess I would too.

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By the way, I received a call the other night. It was from Idiot, calling collect—from JAIL. I didn’t accept.

Cottage Cheese and Small Countries

Takes a LOT to feed 4 extra mouths. Food, milk and diapers…food, milk and diapers and bottles…food, milk and diapers and bottles and money. Oh, and did I mention milk. And diapers. And MONEY. The baby drinks formula that cost almost 4 bucks a can. One can last for ONE day, maybe. So, she drinks at least 30 cans a month. Just in case there are some math rejects out there, that’s 120 dollars a month.

The first night the children came home with us, I went shopping. I got bottles, nipples, diapers, several changes of clothes for the baby (we left everything at the house with Fool), and food. They would be staying with me during the days (while other children were in school—I didn’t know then how normal it was for them to miss school), so I had to buy breakfast, lunch and snacks for them as well.

I spent over a 100 dollars.

The children eat. A lot. The police officer had told me the oldest girl had said that sometimes they get hungry during the days, but I never considered it was because they were capable of devouring the equivalent of a small country’s rations per day. Now I know.

After a week, Fool called the oldest girl (lets call her Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless). He told her that he had gone home to his mother, and that he was damn mad that he couldn’t get to work, and asked if she knew where the “God-damn van was because he was just gonna do something really, really bad if he didn’t find it.” Aren’t ya just trembling in your boots now? Yeah, I was too.

Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless handed me the phone.

“I ain’t been to work in days, and I want that damn van right now.”

“I thought you’d quit that job.” I took a gamble. The boys had told me this and I wasn’t quite sure it was true, but then too, I wasn’t dealing with the sharpest knife in the drawer either. In fact, if he had been a knife, he probably would have been equipped to cut cottage cheese. Maybe.

“Oh…I got another one two days ago, I told that damn Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless that already, shit. I need that damn van. Jerome gets to work; see that’s what I need to be doing right there. You know what I mean? I take care of my kids. Don’t no body take care of them kids but me, and I got to GET TO WORK TO DO IT.”

Talking to this man was like getting kicked in the head with a steal-bunny-slipper, if ya know what I mean. “Well, since you take care of them. The baby needs some more milk and diapers.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I take care of my kids. I gotta wait for the next bus. It comes in like 20 minutes and I’ll bring some, ‘cause I take care of them kids. Ya know? Them kids don’t want for nothing. What size diapers does she wear? Ok, ok, yeah, like a medium or something?” I told him no, a size 4. “Yeah, yeah, a 4, I remember. I get them all the time. I’ll be right there.”

Yeah, right. I didn’t hold my breath. I also didn’t care that if he actually managed to show up, he would have seen the van in the driveway.

We’re still waiting.

I went shopping again. I got milk and diapers and food, and more food.

Enough to feed a small country.

Travel Well, Octavia Butler

Octavia Butler, the author of such novels as The Xenogenesis series, The Parable series and many others, died on February 24th.

This is very sad news, indeed. Octavia Butler was a brilliant writer, with a very dark view of the future which showed throughout her works. I can honestly say that Octavia Butler was and is my all time favorite writer. She wrote prose that was simple and elegant. She wrote stories that would make you reexamine your whole outlook on the world. She was everything I hope to one day be.

God’s speed, Ms Butler. You will be missed.

Standing at the Heels of Greatness and Staring up the Dress of the Statue of Liberty

My husband and I needed to get out of the house. We were tired and needed a break, and this month is our anniversary. So we called up my sister in law to take Hopeless’ kids, dropped my girls off at my mother’s and headed off to New York City.

We had a great time. We stayed right off Broadway in a quaint little hotel, with an equally quaint LITTLE room. Jerome and I stood in the middle of the room, holding hands, side by side, and each touched an opposite wall. I think he could have stretched out on the floor (if the room were big enough), and from toe to fingertip, he may have actually been longer than the room itself. The people in the next room sneezed once, and we thought that we were actually witnessing the first earthquake in New York in a hundred years.

Of course we did all the touristy things. We saw the Statue of Liberty, where my husband proceeded to take a picture staring straight up her dress. I asked him why he’d taken it, and he said “bet not many people can say they have a picture of that.” OK.

On Saturday night we attended Nick Kaufman’s birthday party. It took us somewhere around three hours to get there, but a fun time was had by all. We left about midnight, I think, which was a good thing because we ended up catching the very last train to NJ (where we stayed the 1st night).

We went to Harlem, shopped and saw the famous Apollo Theater. Inside I snapped pictures with some of the best talent the world has ever seen. I stood at the heels of greatness, staring at the camera smiling like and idiot, touching the glass wall which held the pictures and felt humbled. These people chased dreams that most of time seemed impossible and daunting, during a time when they were allowed to perform ON the stage, but couldn’t actually patronize the establishments.

I want to get my book published.

I looked at the pictures of Aretha Franklin, Richard Pryor, Flip Wilson, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and all the others and thought, “Yeah, I can do this.”

I came home Wednesday to an acceptance letter to Dark Dreams III. On Thursday I received a phone call from an agent offering to represent me; comparing my writing to, “It’s like if Toni Morrison were to write Waiting to Exhale...”

Yeah…I can do this.

A Deflated Ego

If you're just joining us, please go here to read "The Beginning of a Nightmare."

Loaded in my truck: me, my husband, and John and Don. We pull up to the house, and right away I know something isn’t right. I hear crying, followed by loud slaps, from skin on skin contact. I turn to look at my husband and he gives me this look like, “I’m gonna kill him.”

The next thing we hear, standing out side that house, looking for all the world like a bunch of would be thieves, is Fool. He’s screaming like a mad man. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but he’s angry and he’s hitting one of the kids.

Don rushes up before we can stop him and throws the door open. Fool’s standing there with the little girl (naked from the waist up) in one hand, his other arm out stretched behind him, getting ready to hit her again. Don screams at him that he better not even think about it— at least I think that’s what he says, because when he speaks, it’s like a mongrel dog has gotten a hold of his tongue and I can’t understand a thing he says.

Fool stands there holding the girl’s arm, looking as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. In a split second, he controls himself, walks over to my husband and sticks his hand out, “What’s up, Jerome, man?”

My husband looks at him, and then down at his offered hand and tells him that we were just there to get the kids. Fool kinda stands there with his hand midair; feeling no doubt embarrassed, and turns his attention to Don and John.

“Where in the hell have you been. Where’s that damn van?”

Don responds, “It ain’t none of your business where that van is, you dumb, stupid motherfucker.” Recap: the van is sitting patiently in my driveway, with stolen tags. Don goes on to say that if he had to, he’d kick Fool’s ass right then and there.

Ok, so right now I’m not in the best of circumstances, with the two boys standing there looking like they could take on a bull, and all 9 of this man’s children watching us, but I had to admit, I could go for seeing Fool get his ass kicked. How ‘bout you?

They are going back and forth talking about everything under the sun, and then the old man runs over to the phone and threatens to call the police. It was like the whole house stood still. Then all of a sudden, Don and John burst out laughing. It seems they knew what I didn’t—Fool has warrants out for HIS arrest.

Instead of Fool acting like the adult he was supposed to be, he continues with his obvious lie, and begins mock dialing the phone, “Hello, yes, I need the police. These boys (guess the police were supposed to already know WHICH boys) stole this van (again, guess they knew about the van too). Come and get them.”

My husband and I just stood there. It was funny and sad and pathetic all at the same time. Then I say, “Come on kids. Get your stuff, let’s go.”

Fool looks at me, “You ain’t taking those kids.” Guess he didn’t hear my husband say it.

“But there’s no food here and Hopeless told us to take them to her mothers. Let’s go, ya’ll.” Suddenly he takes out running for me. I mean you have never seen a grown man, twenty pounds too heavy, run the way this man did.

I honestly can’t say I was scared. I mean, my husband could take him. Also, Don and John were just itching to get their hands on him, so any excuse would do. Before he even reached me, John tripped him. He went down fast and hard, tumbling down the stairs. You could just see his over-inflated balloon of an ego, deflate as he bounced down the stairs one by one, unable to stop himself.

One of the kids laughed in the background. My husband stepped out of the way as he landed at his feet, bent down and whispered to the man. “Look, we’re taking the kids with us. Now don’t make a scene and embarrass yourself in front of your own children.”

He sat there, right on the stairs, while we loaded his children in the car. They grabbed as many clothes as they could and we got the hell out of there. As we drove off, Fool, ran to the door screaming, “You better bring that van back, or so help me God...” I didn’t hear the rest. I now wish I had.

On the way, I had borrowed my mother’s car so that we would have enough room—of course there’s never enough room when you have 11 children and 2 adults in two vehicles. So I loaded up all of the little ones with me. There was the 5 month old baby, a 2 year old, 5 year old, 6 year old, and the 13 year old daughter.

I followed my husband to his mother’s house. No one spoke in the car. I somehow got the impression that this had simply been the norm in that house and none of them thought the wiser of it. That itself saddened me.

When we got there, the 2 year old boy, who was still in diapers, had fallen asleep. My husband and I decided to keep him, too. When Mrs. Debra got out of the hospital, she would not need to be dealing with changing diapers too.

So there would be eight children in my house. We have three bed rooms.

Don, John and the Van

Don, John and the Van.

All of those things were in play way before my husband and I became involved. In fact we didn’t even know anything about it. We had heard, from Mrs. Debra that Hopeless was in jail. The reason, she said, was because she and Fool, in all his splendid-ness, had gotten tickets while driving his wife’s (?) van and never paid them. After a while, they owed so much money, that they couldn’t have paid without taking out a small loan from the bank of Chesya and Jerome.

Side Note: Hopeless and Fool NEVER pay tickets. In fact it has been proven over and over again that neither of them even have licenses. Over the many, many years I have known them, they both have been in and out of jail for such offences. Jail, itself, seems not to be the issue. No, the issue, is The Man who is trying desperately to restrain them by forcing them (and them alone) to bear the responsibly of being licensed drivers. The government is just picking on them. Everyone should understand. They own a van and seem to be fighting over it, because well, it’s their right, damn-it. End Note.

So this is what happened (and remember, I can’t make this shit up):

Hopeless goes to jail. Just her luck she happened to do it during a time when her own brother, Idiot, is actually out. We will forever know this man as Idiot, on and off this blog—forever.

The first thing my husband and I hear about it is from a late night visit. It was Idiot. Now we don’t talk to Idiot. Ever. I first met him when my husband and I were in high school. Idiot has been in and out of jail ever since. Literally. He used to call and I’d accept the phone calls, but I soon stopped that. He’s always getting out and trying to do the right thing. Oh, and lest we forget, he found God about thirty times. And yet he keeps losing him again. The last time, before this, we had heard from him, his parole officer called and asked how long Idiot would be allowed to stay with us.

“What?” My husband asked the man.

“Idiot said he had permission to stay with you, right? Your address is…”

“No, no, no. He will not be staying with us. Ever.”

So, I guess sometime later Idiot heard what we’d said because he called, three-way, using somebody else’s phone (and don’t say, Chesya, he can’t do that, because if there’s a will, a Con will find a way). “Hey, I don’t really want to stay with you guys,” Idiot said, “I just want to TELL them I’m staying with you guys. You don’t even have to know where I’m staying.”

Yeah, right. So, that’s my good ‘ol brother in law.

So, Idiot, Don, John and the Van were at the door. What did they want? Money. Hopeless was in jail and they were trying to get her out. So if we had any money that we could put in the pot to help get her out, then that would be great. My husband told him no, we were broke. Well, as it turns out that was fine, because if we just had five bucks, so that he could get gas, and get over to another sister in law’s house, then that would be OK too. They are good sports, aren’t they? My husband said no.

Well, the next thing I hear about the van, is that it’s MIA, along with Don and John, and that they were supposed to be getting some food because they had their mother’s food stamp card. Oh, and that food stamp card? Well, turned out, it’s worth more than its weight in gold. There was a small fortune on it; somewhere around 1,000 dollars. And guess what.

Yep, you guess it. They have been going around and selling the food stamps for money. So when we finally get the card from Don and John, there’s (wait…wait for this) a whopping $10 left.

Also, it’s rumored that the three, Idiot, Don, and John, have been using the van to transfer drugs back and forth to North Carolina. They were also said to have gotten rid of the old plates (just in case someone reported it stolen) and put “new” plates on the car. OK, anyone want to guess where the new plate came from?

Did anyone guess, STOLEN? Bingo!

This van is now sitting patiently in my driveway waiting for Hopeless to get out and reclaim it. Also, with it, the food stamp card, with the whopping $10.

Idiot has successfully disappeared with whatever money he has gotten from his sister’s children’s backs, and has sneaked into the background yet again, to not be seen or heard from…until next time.

Is There Another Way To Call From Jail?

Well, I left them there with their father and all the food that my other sister in law, Meg, brought over. She had come sometime after I showed up, and right before the police left. Officer Williams said to me that he didn’t know her from Adam (as if he knew me from Adam), but that he trusted me. Oh, thanks, I thought. Then the man hands me over the nine children as if they were my life’s inheritance.

So I call my husband. He’s not happy. Actually he’s never happy when dealing with his family. Ok, so he’s rarely ever happy. What can ya do? Move away, you scream? Well, so do I. Instead I went to my mother’s house. I had called her earlier that morning telling her to come over and get my girls. I have four daughters, no boys—I’m glad for that now.

“You just left 9 children there with that man?” My mother asked; she is not known for her subtlety.

“What should I have done?” I’m mad now because I know she’s right.

“I don’t know, something.”

“Well, I did something. I went there and took care of them until their father got back.”

“OK, Chesya.” That’s what she says when she’s through discuss something. After that point you’re not allowed to talk about it any further. She is finished with the issue and you will be talking to a stone wall.

I didn’t care, “I did what I was supposed to do. Period.”

So, I get the girls and take them to breakfast, and then we head back home. I’m tired and I want to take a nap; I’d been up since five that morning. I lie down and try to get some sleep, and just as I doze off, the phone rings. I answer it.

“This you, Chesya?” People say my daughters and I all sound alike.

“Yeah.” It’s Hopeless; calling collect of course. Is there any other way to call from JAIL?

“Where you at?”

Where did you call me at? “Home.”

“Oh, OK. OK. Have you seen Don and John and the Van?” Now this is such a whole new story that I can’t even begin to tell you now—and is, in fact, something that I learned through phone calls from everyone under the sun while I was at the house with “the kids.” But don’t worry; I’ll get to it next time.

“Oh, no.”

“Well, they’re on the way to your house. Keep that van there for me, and don’t let ANYONE drive it. And get my food stamp card too.”

“Oh, OK. They’re coming here? Your what?”

“Food stamp card. Yeah.”

“OK. Guess you don't know your mother got sick, and the ambulance took her to the hospital, and the police called me to take care of the kids. They said they’d take them away if somebody didn’t take care of them.”

“My kids? Oh, lord they was gonna take my kids?”

“Yeah. Fool is there with them now.”

“Call him for me.”

I did.

He answered. I listened.

“Fool what the hell is going on?”

“What the hell you mean?”

“DFCS was gonna take the kids?”

“They wasn’t gonna take them kids.”

“Fool, they was gonna take the kids.”

“Where in the hell is Don and John with that damn van. They took that van and riding around in it and they ain’t got no business in that damn van. I done told you about giving them those keys. I told you didn’t I, didn’t I?

“Fool I don’t care about that van. My priority is my kids. Why in the hell wasn’t you there? You should have been there.”

“Your goddamn momma was here. That bitch is getting on my last nerves. Who does she think she is? I swear if I have to…”

By this time my husband had gotten off work, and walked into the house. He was not happy when I told him who I was talking to. Then I handed him the phone and told him this Fool had just threatened his momma. He snapped it up and listened. I grabbed the other one.

“Fool,” Hopeless yelled, “my momma shouldn’t even have been there. You should have been there. Hell you should be here.”

Then he starts screaming something and she told him she ain’t got time for this shit and hung up.

My husband and I stand there for a full minute and stare at each other. To be honest, our lives are blissfully drama-less. He works his butt off, and I stay at home and take care of the girls—working my butt off. We don’t really speak much (can you blame us?) with his family and are probably the better for it.

Finally we sit down and I told him about that morning and leaving the kids there. Before we could even get a breath the door bell rang.

Don and John, Hopeless’ two oldest sons. The two with the van and the food stamp card. The two, the children had old me the night before, that had left the grandmother the night she had gotten sick, along with an uncle, Hopeless’ brother, promising to bring food for their siblings, but never returned.

My husband threw opened the door, “Where in the hell have you been?” My husband is a quiet man, and he rarely even gets angry, but when he does, people listen.

“We’ve been trying to get money to get Hopeless out.” Yep, they call her by her first name. All of her children do. In fact, all of my mother in law’s children do too. I suppose many families do this—it’s just not what I’m used to.

“Give me the keys to the van. And get in here and sit down.”

Then Hopeless called again and the fateful words sprang from my dry lips. Hell, I didn’t even know I was going to say it until it was all over. I said: “I was thinking, maybe we could take the girls for a while, if someone else can take the boys.”

“Really? Just take the boys to Debra’s.” (her mother’s—the one in the hospital) My other brother in law, Richard, and his wife lives with Mrs. Debra (that’s what I call her).

Of the 9 kids, I would be taking only three. They were 13, 5 and 5 months old. Of course things never really work out the way you plan them.

Did I ever tell you how expensive it is to care for three extra children, let alone a 5 month old infant? Remind me to tell you soon—if I survive.

Writing Friends

When I was a child I’d sometimes have a tiff with a schoolmate and run home to tell my mother that so and so was “picking on me” or “talking about me” It never failed that my mother would say, “If he’s talking about you, then he really likes you.”

Well, Maurice Broaddus must love me. He’s been talking about me.

I can’t really get angry about the things he said, because, well, they’re mostly true. We do hate each other’s writing styles. We also bounce ideas off each other. Like his failed attempt to run for HWA president. He only decided against it when I reminded him he wasn’t actually an Active member.

For those who don’t know, Maurice and I have been friends for quite a while. Maurice is a really smart guy. I know because he keeps telling me. He’s a scientist and writes about things like “Ontological Blackness” and “The Philosophy of his Underpants”. Maurice is also a minister—ordained by God. Which means he doesn’t need to be ordained by man or the church—who needs that pesky, piece of paper.

We go back and forth with each other this way all the time. This is good I think because it keeps us both on our toes and makes for a great friendly rival. I don’t think he was joking when he said he measures his success by “top Chesya moments.” He has a lot of catching up to do.

Need I even say who coined the term “Literary Diva” first? Oh, and did I tell you that he said I better not make this blog pink…so naturally I had no choice.

And, for the record, I haven’t completely gotten over the being only “Chesya” thing. I could be like the supernatural Zane. Chesya—there can be only one.

But check him out—you’re bound to learn something—I always do.

All In The Family

Let me tell you what I have learned so far about my extended family. My brother in law (and you have no idea how much it takes for me to call him that) doesn’t live with his wife or his children. He lives with his mother (who he is said to also beat, but I don’t know) more than twenty miles away. When the police called him, the morning they rushed my mother in law to the hospital, he said he had to walk to the bank to get money to take the bus, so it would be a while before he could get there. Guess that’s why they called me.

He said he lives with his mother because it’s closer to (1) his job. He said he has to go to work to (2) take care of his family. He said he had to be the one to (3) support them and (4)no one else is gonna do it. He said he (5) pays the bills in that house and no one is gonna (6) take his kids no matter what they think, those are HIS kids—all nine of them.

Let’s look at this, shall we?

But first, I guess we should give this guy a name. I’m tired of calling him my brother in law for more reasons than one, and so we shall call him Fool. Yep, that’s right, Fool. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that movie “People Under the Stairs.” Though that Fool has discernable differences than our Fool (about fifty years), the term still applies.

1) So Fool says he lives with his mother because it’s closer to his job and that he can take the bus from there. But we find out, through his older step sons (yep my sister in law—from hence forth known as Hopeless—has 2 older children, so that makes 11 kids in that house,) who he really doesn’t get along with, and that he hasn’t worked in over a month—the exact time, in fact, that his wife has been in jail. Let him tell it, he has been working tirelessly trying to get Hopeless out. Hopeless still sits in jail, though other efforts have been tried, with really bad outcomes. But not only is Fool not working, but he doesn’t seem to have a Marta card. For those who don’t know, Marta is Atlanta’s transit system. It’s easy and simple and fairly cheap—if you use it regularly AND have a card you can save a bundle. But our Fool was headed to the bank so that he could get money ($1.75) for bus fair. Poor Fool.
2) Fool said that he takes care of his family. Well his family is receiving government assistance and housing (which he says they most definitely are NOT). It takes a lot to feed 11 children and most people couldn’t do it alone, but not only does he manage this, but he manages it WITHOUT a job.
3-4) We know Fool doesn’t support them, but he said no one else will. Well, right now, my husband, and my mother and brother in law are all doing just that. Not to mention that government whom he is quite certain is not helping him.
5) The bills—the water was just shut off. The lights are next.
6) Now this one is funny and really needs no comment from me, so I’ll just say one thing. How in the hell does Fool think he can keep the government out of his house when there is no adult or food, and now no water in that house? Poor Fool.

Recently my brother-in-law called my home and told me he was on his way to bring food and milk for his children. Of course he was a no show. Just didn’t bother coming.

I hate that. More to the point, I hate people who do that. What kind of person lies and says they’re on the way and have no plans of showing up? Do they think you won’t notice? They know they’re not coming, they just don’t bother telling you. Not only are they lying about what they will do, but they’re lying about what they are actively (on the way) doing that moment. “I’m on the way.” Mean while, you go to the front door thinking they should pull up any minuet. And you get a call:

“I’m in my car now. Yes. Yes, I’m passing the Citco on the right, and the Blockbuster’s on the left. I could stop, do you want movies. Oh, yeah, I see Kroger, I could pick up a pizza. Did you want me to stop? No probably not a good idea since—well, I’m NOT ACTUALLY ON THE WAY.

Yep and he takes care of his kids, right?
I say “poor fool.” I should have said, poor children.

The Beginning of a Nightmare

My husband and I have inherited three more daughters. It wasn’t anything that we did special, and don’t even bother congratulating us, because, trust me we didn’t earn it. Let me explain:

At 5am one morning, my phone rings. I don’t answer, because well, anyone who calls my house that early in the morning is just asking for it. Then when it rings again and again, I think this may be something important. I answered. “Hello.”

“Is Jerome (my husband) there.”

“No.”

“This is officer (lets call him…) Williams.” My husband does security and they just love calling themselves officer this and that. My husband gets a kick out of hearing them do it. And then I think, OK, so why in the hell are you calling my house. Officer Williams goes on, “I’m an officer for the Clayton county police department.”

“OK.” It’s 5 in the morning; I’m not at my best.

“Your mother in law has just gone to the hospital and I’m here with these kids (that’s what he said, these kids) and I need someone to come and get them, or I’ll call DFCS.”

The long and short of it is my sister in law, has gotten herself into trouble, and has been in jail for several weeks, my mother in law (god bless her soul—which is a good thing, because at times it’s like the devil controls her, and those are not times that you want to know the woman.) has gotten sick and gone to the hospital by ambulance.

Their father, the wonderful waste of space that he turns out to be, is no where to be found. And trust me, I don’t use that term lightly. This man has been known to beat my sister in law to a bloody pulp, no doubt in front of his children (9—yep, that’s right 9 of them), hit my mother in law and push her down the stairs while she’s trying to stop him from hitting her daughter, and lastly but not even close to lease, getting stopped by the police and giving them my husband’s name (it wasn’t until my husband got a summons in the mail that we even knew what was going on and then he had to take a day off work and go to court and take a letter from his job saying he was working at the time of the ticket (thank GOD) all the way across town).

My sister in law is no better as she used her own sisters name when she was arrested, and she conspires with her husband (my husband and I can’t figure out if they’re married) to defraud the government for all the money and food and housing that they can, and they have been having children since I was a child—literally.

When I get there, the police are waiting. As soon as I step into the house, my heart sinks. There’s no furniture, and there are bags and bags of wet clothes everywhere. I mean there had to be fifty of them laying all over the house. Children are running and screaming around and one of the officer’s head looks like its gonna explode from the noise.

They take me to the side and asked me what the hell is going on in this house. I tell him, truthfully, that I didn’t know and that my husband and I didn’t come over there. He says, “I don’t blame you.” He goes on to say that he didn’t want to have to call DFCS (Department of Family and Children Services), because they could screw up the kids more and that there is NO food in the house except one carton of eggs with 2 eggs inside and that he would have to file a complaint. That people would be coming. He got on his shoulder mike and then told someone I was a “very good citizen” and that I agreed to look after the kids. Then he left me there with them.

So eventually my brother in law (I guess) does show up, and oh my God. He comes in complaining that he can’t be taking time out to come there for HIS OWN CHILDREN. And that they get on his nerves. He’s screaming at them, right up in their faces—like a military man, which I know for a fact he is NOT. And he’s talking about my mother in law, you know the one in the hospital, you know, the one that just went to the hospital due to trying to take care of HIS 9 children. He’s saying that she has some nerve coming into his house trying to run things, and moving things, and that, oh, if he ever gets his hands on her…

OK, right now, it’s time for me to go. Go, you say? But really, what choice did I have. I mean, I thought about calling the police back and telling them to take the kids from him, but the officer had already told me he didn’t think that would be a good idea. He said that most of the foster parents were just after the $200 a month pay check and it would screw the kids up even more.

So, I leave. I left them there with a man that I know beats his wife and his sick mother in law. But he’s their father, right?

What else should I have done?

But this is just the beginning. And, oh, do I have stories to tell you.

Hello

Decided to start this blog not because I really have anything important to say, but more because I need to vent. Things have really been crazy around these parts, and the only way I think I can deal with them is to write them down. The stories may sound crazy and unbelievable, but they are true.