So, I helped my mother move yesterday. She was at work and couldn’t get off, so the only people there were myself, and my two sisters. My mom moves a lot. A lot. She doesn’t like to stay in one place too long, so about every two years she gets the itch, and I know I’ll be getting a call telling me she’s found the most amazing place. And they always are.
The only bad thing is that I have to help her move. I hate this. I think this is why I tend to stay in one place; because I’ve moved some many times in my life as a child.
My mother didn’t have any boys, so it has long been left up to my sisters and I to move her. Why not hire someone? Well, why do that when you have several young, capable women to do it for you—for free?
Anyhoo, my sisters and I had four hours to load and unload the truck and get it back. We packed everything we could on the truck. Several very heavy sofas, beds, mattresses, massive bookshelves, washer and dryer, deep freezer and lots and lots of other things. And did I mention that my mother lived up two flights of stairs?
We are formidable women, I tell ya.
So we drive the truck (a large U-Haul type thing) to the new house. The problem is my mom decided to move into the house from hell. Well the house itself is fine. It’s just getting there from the road that makes it hell. The driveway leading to the house is barely wide enough for a Buick mush less the tank we were driving. It’s shared with a neighbor whose house sits directly in front of my mother’s. The driveway itself is at a sharp incline and drops off on both sides into deep ditches. If you can’t imagine it, just think of a big U-Haul tumbling into a ravine and you pretty much got it. The imagery worked for me.
When we got there, the wonderful neighbors, who inhabit the house in front of my mother’s, had placed a garbage can, riding toy and a huge basketball goal in the driveway. He walked out of the house, shirtless, checked his mail and went back inside. My sister was driving and after pulling in, we decided she would have to come out, back the truck in, while dodging the uneven, hilly driveway and ditches.
I called to the shirtless fellow through his open screen-less window to please move his basketball goal while I moved his trashcan and child toy myself. He quickly agreed and we continued on.
My youngest sister and I directed my other sister into the drive, telling her which way to turn the wheel and if she needed to straighten out and start again. As she was backing in, the shirtless neighbor walked out, put his hand on my back, began laughing and said something inaudible.
I looked at him and smiled until I realized what he’d said.
“I wondered what the problem was,” he said, “until I realized it was a woman driving.”
I stared at him for a moment and then at my sister who looked like she could have killed him. I have no doubt she could have taken him.
He continued staring at me earnestly, as I replied. “I know, but it could be worse. We could have a man driving.”
The smile quickly faded from his face and he looked as if I had said the rudest thing in the world to him. He walked back into his house, staring back at us every couple of feet. I think he was really upset that I’d dare say that to him.
My sister said from the truck, “I can’t believe that asshole.”
Personally, I found it amusing. On the one hand he thought we were nothing but pitiful girls who couldn’t do anything. But he didn’t bother to offer any assistance. Not that we would have accepted, but if he’s such a fabulous man—better than any woman—isn’t that the manly thing to do when you see a women you think needs assisting? So what kind of man does that make him? Also, in what world does he live in that it’s completely acceptable to walk up to someone, insult them and expect them to giggle like silly little children.
(side note: seeing him there laughing like an idiot, I could just imagine the slurs that would have come out of his mouth fifty years ago—hell, twenty years ago.)
Also the fact that he thought it was fine to touch me was just strange. Infringing on my space was rude and creepy.
My sister got the truck into the narrow driveway with little effort and we girls unloaded the truck. Sofas, beds, mattresses, massive bookshelves, washer and dryer, deep freezer and lots and lots of other things.
The creepy, shirtless neighbor watched from his screen-less window.
When we left, we waved goodbye to him. He didn’t wave back. I’m sure my mom will be glad we’re making new friends for her already.
I’m aching like hell right now. But, damn, do I feel good.
? My daughters actually go to one of the best schools in the county (for all it’s worth). The school has continuously scored high on national testing, and had the highest test scores in the county on the writing assessment test for the last few years.
My daughter took her SATs on Saturday. I got up at six in the morning (on a Saturday!) to get her there by 7:45. However, all of that will be useless if we lose accreditation. This is also affects my 15 year old, and if it doesn’t now, will affect my 7 and 9 year old.
My home will be worthless. My children won’t be able to get scholarships. Other counties are not willing to take the children of this county in (and really, I can’t blame them).
The problems are due to the school board.
SACS found: “ Today’s announcement that Clayton County Schools are run so badly that they became the first system to ever lose their accreditation is a disaster. With the loss of accreditation, their students cannot receive HOPE scholarships, they may not be able to transfer their credits, and their college future is threatened. Those responsible for educating our children failed.”
The board members, who are accused of misappropriating funds, abuse of power, bid tampering and much more, refuse to step down. Obviously they care more about their egos than the children and families of this county.
If something doesn't happen soon, this will be me.
The AANB is now up on Amazon. I don’t expect any of you to order it, as it’s a whopping eight hundred bucks. I would love to own a set myself, but I just can’t afford it with that price tag.
I have seven entries in the collection. Many of the African Americans I wrote about were important in the movement, but the one who sticks out to me the most is Mary Turner. Turner was lynched in Georgia in the early 1900s because she threatened to go to the federal authorities if her husband’s killers were not brought to justice. He had been mistakenly (as much as these things were mistakes) murdered by a mob.
Turner was eight months pregnant when she was led out to a field, tied to a tree, upside down, set on fire and had her baby cut from her. When the child fell to the ground crying, one of the on lookers crushed its head with his boot. This woman’s story really affected me a lot.
I had to go to the Georgia archives and read through months and months of old news papers, where blacks were talked about as if they were less intelligent and nothing more than thieves and murderers (ironic isn’t it?). It was interesting to read advertisements about ointments and herbs that were said to calm the black man. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution article about Mary Turner actually said that she had caused her own death because she’d “made unwise comments."
I enjoyed writing all the articles, and if you get a chance, check them out in your local library. I will.
