The Rantings of a Literary Diva

Where I Announce Super Good News...

2010-11-30T23:16:00.002-05:00

Contracts have been signed.

It’s official. I’m happy to announce that my short story collection, Let’s Play White, has just sold to APEX Publications. The collection will include new work as well as several previously published stories, including my 2004 novelette, Chocolate Park, which sold out from the publisher just after publication.

Let’s Play White will debut at the World Horror Convention in April 2011.

I’m very excited about this collection and to be working with APEX. As some of you know, they’ve published some notable titles such as Dark Faith edited by Maurice Broaddus and Jerry Gorgon (which contains my short story The Unremembered) and The Apex Book of World SF edited by Lavie Tidhar. Their fiction magazine, which is edited by Catherynne M. Valente, is also impressive.

So, as you can see, I’m in good company. And just a little excited...

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For future post and to keep up to date on publications, please visit: http://chesyaburke.livejournal.com/

Facebook Friend Fail

2010-06-17T12:40:00.002-04:00

The question: “One would think that since we’ve come so far as to have a black president we wouldn’t need award programs where the winners have to be of a particular ethnicity. Imagine the hate and protest that would come if there was a White Entertainment Television channel and awards ceremony, or a White Miss America Pageant. Are these ethnic-centered events still needed? Are they racist? What are your thoughts?”

My first thought is why do some white people feel the need to make themselves arbitrators of what is and isn’t racist. They almost seem to believe that if they don’t see racism it must mot exist, and furthermore, they only see it when it involves something they aren’t included in. Never mind (and willfully overlooking) that this exclusion is something that their ancestors began and that still goes on every day in all facets of life (but then, if they don’t see or experience it, it must not happen, right?). Never mind that this first black president who has magically eliminated all racism in the minds and hearts of all people has gotten more death threats than our last few presidents combined.

Maurcie Broaddus discusses this at great length.

I’m not going to say, as he did, that certain people aren’t racist. Personally, I don’t know. But I do know that it takes a special kind of person to blame those that have been oppressed instead of...oh, I don't know the oppressors. Guess it's easier than looking in a mirror.

Since Maurice discussed it, I’m not gonna tread there—it’s been said to death and if these people really cared to know, they could have easily researched. No, instead I’m sure they saw an easy in to expound on some pure racist shit that they may not have felt comfortable saying elsewhere. Or who knows, they may say it all the time and haven’t been called on it, or they just don’t care. Either way, I’m not anyone’s Negro Tudor and it’s not my job to teach them they’re full of shit.

Instead I’ll quote some of my favorite lines of the post:

“What would we have on wet (White Entertainment Television)? The brady bunch? there is not really any “white” tv shows.” In other words, shows with mostly black characters are black shows, but shows with mostly white characters are not white shows.

“I don’t see how self-segregating equalizes anything. Don’t whine to me about wanting equality and then set yourself completely apart.” Whine to HER about wanting equality? Really… So, PoC don’t automatically deserve “equality” we have to beg individual white people for it. There are no words…

And my personal favorite: “Dude… You are so not the first person to make this observation… Try being a high school senior and you don’t qualify for a certain scholarship because you’re white… Been there…” This person qualified for other scholarships but this ONE and now all of a sudden they’re oppressed. Please.

Yeah, no time for silliness. My Facebook response.

And just in case you haven’t gotten the memo, it’s NOT okay to touch my hair.

2010-05-18T11:50:00.001-04:00

I have people coming up to me all the time to tell me how much they like my hair. Seriously. At one point a women walked pass me, stared at me the whole time while she passed, then walked all the way back just to say, “Your hair is awesome.” I enjoy this. My new hair IS awesome and I love to get compliments on it. I love compliments from my friends and from strangers.

The problem is when those friends and strangers just feel the need to touch my hair and not accept no for an answer. Not only do I not understand why you’d want to touch someone else’s hair (“Oh, is it soft?”—Opposed to what? A brick?), but it seems to be only white people who do this—at least to me. Black women seem to be capable of admiring it without wanting to finger it. In fact, most white women do too (the previous mentioned person who walked pass me, just to come back was white).

But the ones who are not content to admire my hair are always white. This is not happenstance, of course, white people generally feel more entitled to infringe on other people’s spaces. But, I won’t get into the historical and political aspects of why blacks hate this. There have been post, after post, after post on the matter, and even a guide here. They aren’t hard to find.

The main issue I have is that in this day and age, people should know better. Any information you wish is just a click away. Don’t believe me? Check google: “why not to touch a black person’s hair” or “touching black people’s hair.” See all those links? They are real. They are written by real people with real feelings. (In fact it has been written about so much I almost didn’t bother to post this. But it’s obvious some people just haven’t gotten the memo.)

There are so many reasons not to touch or ask to touch people of color’s hair. Some of them include: offensive, dehumanizing, rude.

But let’s get to the meat of it, show of hands. How often have you gotten you hair done just right, in that up-do, or curled just so for that special occasion and someone then come along and ran their fingers through it? How annoying is it? Very? Really? Well imagine being on display like this all the time, 24-7.

The most recent incident came when I was with a group of friends, sitting at a table and a woman walked over and said, “Oh, your hair is so pretty.” Then she stretched out her hands as if she was just going to touch it (without permission) and when I moved out of her way, she looked shocked. “Oh, I just wanted to feel it,” she said.

“No,” I shook my head.

She looked puzzled. “No?”

I smiled, and said nicer than she deserved, “I’m having dinner with friends, do you mind.”

“Well, EXCUSE me.” She said, as if I had offended her and not the other way around—as if I had the nerve to refuse her natural born right to touch me. I stared for a moment and watched her walk away. My group of friends were mixed company, but they are pretty awesome women.

“Bitch.” Someone said—I refuse to say who would say such a thing (besides my friends are like the mafia, snitch and you’ll wake up swimming with the fishes).

Listen, I’ve heard all kinds of excuses about why this is not a race issue. They seem to mainly be: “I am a white female with blonde hair, and on more than one occasion, someone has touched my hair.” But, I’ve learned along the years that I can't decide when someone else should be offended or why they get offended. Neither can you.

In the end, The Stuff White People Do blog put it best. You’re not allowed to touch my hair:

“Because I'm not an animal in the zoo."

"Because this is my body and I don't have to let anybody touch any part of it, EVER, if I don't want to."

"Because my black ancestors may have been your ancestors' property, and had to smile while they got touched in ways they didn't want to, but I am not YOUR property and never will be so you'd best move your hand away from me.”

And I’ll add one of my own: Because you live in a different world from your mothers and fathers and you have the opportunity, no, dare I say the responsibility, to research and find out the views of other people before you make an ass of yourself, and before you offend someone with your ignorance.

‘Nough said. Got it?

Horrorfail09

2009-03-30T18:52:00.002-04:00

I’ve been taking a break from the genre. I think everyone should do this every few years just to clear their heads and find new perspectives. At least this is what’s happened to me. I’m well rested and energized.

While I was away, an interesting discussion on cultural appropriation and the concept of white privilege, among many other things exploded in the SF&F genres. It has been dubbed Racefail09. If you haven’t heard of it you can catch up here. But let me warn you, it is very long and involving. As these things tend to go, it has gotten very heated and crazy things have been said. Stupid things. Harsh, insensitive things.

But, I don’t want to talk about that right now.

Well, thank God, I guess you say. Who wants to talk about that? It’s a mess.

Well, I say that is the problem.

You see, there has been this deafening silence in horror. One that is so loud that it’s become the giant elephant in the room. This is so out of the norm that it struck a chord with me. After all, how often does SF&F spill over into horror and vise versa? All it takes is for you to think back to the Harlan Ellison and Connie Willis fiasco of ‘06. Everyone had an opinion about that. It invaded blogs and message boards across fandom. This is to be expected. We’re writers. We write. We form opinions and then write about them. So, what about this Racefail thing? Why all of a sudden did we big mouth, opinionated writers have nothing to say? Nothing to write about?

I’ll tell you why. Because it’s hard. It’s damn hard. We don’t want to get involved. We want to pretend that either this doesn’t effect us, or that if we just keep quiet it’ll go away.

Of course there are those who think that because we aren’t talking about it, then maybe it’s not a problem for “us” like it is for “them.” And by we, trust me, I don’t just mean you white folks. No, I mean us PoC too. Because you see, there are a whole lot less of us PoC in this field than there are in the SF&F field. So, we also pretend and hope no one mentions it and turn our heads. Even worse, we hope that by staying out of it we won’t hurt our already slim chance of getting published.

But I must ask myself, is it worth it?

Let’s be honest, no one wants to hear a person they respect say something so unbelievable that it’ll affect their view of them forever? No one wants to get called ugly names and made to feel as if their view is not valid. I don’t want this. So instead, I—like you—ignore it for a few weeks and hope no one notices me. Or better yet, I hope to God they don’t ask me how I feel because I’m black.

But, come on people, at some point we have to admit the truth to ourselves. If we aren’t talking about it, then we are simply avoiding it. And to be honest, this is a topic we have avoided for far too long.

There has been much heated discussion in fandom over this. The term Racefail says it all. But overall the horror community has buried its head in the sand. The problem with the current discussion is that people were so angry that they began yelling past each other (which is not easy to do on the internet, so it’s kinda comical). However, I think we, as a genre, can do better than that. I think we can discuss this much more rationally and intelligently than they did. In fact, let's be honest, we can’t do any worse.

But ignoring this issue and hoping it just goes away isn't going to help matters. This is so huge and so potentially damaging to the genre that we can’t continue to ignore it. Think about it, do you want people to feel so isolated from your work that they can’t even comment about it? Or worse, just stop reading you all together? It’s a serious issue, especially as the genre itself seems to be disappearing. Beyond the big names, it seems to have become an underground genre. Horror, I think, is seen as something for solely fourteen year old white males. And if young white boys are your perceived audience, how can you hope to expand and broaden that audience to other people?

Yes, people will get their feelings hurt. People may even threaten to blackball others. But, hopefully, when all the smoke clears, we will be a better, more diverse genre because of it.

I hate waxing philosophical right now, but—they say, that all it takes is for good men to do nothing...

So, kick me out. Threaten not to publish my books (idle threat, at this point), call me a troll. But, for Gods sake, let’s begin to discuss this. Let’s put it out there, let people listen, and understand. Or don’t, we can continue to pretend these things do not affect us or our characters. But do not make the mistake of thinking that if we aren’t talking about it, it’s not a problem. Even yelling at one another would be better than...silence.

So writers, go write.

School Board Holds County Hostage

2008-08-28T16:38:00.000-04:00

Clayton County Schools Lose Accreditation

I posted about this issue already.

I moved from the county several months ago, as I could not put my children's future on the line. But what about those who can not move. They aren't sure what will happen to seniors this year. Imagine having gone to school for twelve years and finding out that your diploma is worthless. Those poor kids!

Well, on my way to Dragoncon. If you'll be there, look me up.

Formidable women, half retarded men

2008-08-12T15:39:00.001-04:00

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.

Clayton County Risk Losing Accreditation

2008-03-02T20:35:00.000-05:00

So, have I mentioned that I live here?

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.

African American National Biography

2008-01-29T16:45:00.000-05:00

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.

People of Color in Genre Fiction

2007-12-13T12:18:00.000-05:00

Most of you have figured out by now that I’m black, if for no other reason than my picture off to the side of this blog. I also happen to write genre fiction. You probably have figured this out too.

There are a lot of issues people of color (PoC) face when writing genre fiction. Should you write about black characters? Will it hinder you if you do so? Do you have to sneak PoC characters on white readers? Believe it or not, all of these things are issues within the community. I think too often the default color for writers and readers is white.

I also think that it’s too simple for writers to revert back to what they’ve been taught or they’ve seen and read all their lives. Dark skin and hair is bad and ugly. Pale white skin is beautiful and good.

It’s a shame how many writers, even today, simply fall back on this formula, instead of trying to create more complex, multi dimensional characters of all shapes and colors and worlds. Sure it’s harder but in the end it will be more engaging, thought provoking.

I attended a Fantasy Roundtable about people of color working in the field. There were a lot of interesting people from many different backgrounds. We talked about many of the problems facing PoC in the genre. It was very enlightening. Check out the first part here.

After that, go over to read Catherine Valente’s interview with Tempest. She discusses race and diversity in fiction. Then go out and buy her book. Buy two.

WFC

2007-11-07T14:50:00.000-05:00

So, I just got back from the World Fantasy Convention on Monday and I’m tired and sore (don’t ask) and excited. I had a wonderful time, and got to meet lots of cool people. Also caught up with loads of friends. Too many to name here, but you know who you are.

For those who don’t know, my sister is a flight attendant, and although that means I get all my flights cheap (OK, VERY cheap), it also means I have to fly on stand by. I didn’t particularly mind, as I had Robert McCammon’s Queen of Bedlam with me in the airport and only had about a hundred pages to go and couldn’t wait to find out what would happen. (I’ve since finished it, btw, and although it’s not quite as good as Speaks the Nightbird, it’s well worth picking up.)

As it turned out, I made my scheduled flight and arrived in Saratoga Springs on time. At the airport I met Christopher Barzak, an unbelievably talented writer who later read from is new book, One For Sorrow. We had over an hour wait for the bus, which just flew by while we talked about business, religion, class, sex and any and everything else possible. Man, did we cram a lot into that hour.

On the bus Diana Paxson sat in front of us, while the driver recounted all the times he had to strike his children (ages 2 and 4) to keep them in line. It seems as if his son, who is two-years-old, has taken to saying “no” over and over again. No worries, the driver insist, his teeth will grow back. But seriously, it was disturbing. Diana, however, is a fabulous lady, and we had a long, involved talk about Octavia Butler. She knew her.

The town was absolutely beautiful. It was picturesque with cute, little store front shops, and old Victorian buildings. Everything was within walking distance, and so I’m sure I walked off at least as much food as I ate. I can hope. Ok, probably not...

My friend Jenny Orosel, who brings me cookies every single convention, had not had time to make them this time, so she brought me some fantastic toffee. Oh. My. God. Ok, I guess I didn’t work it all off.

The convention was a rush of mad meetings and private parties. I met some wonderful people including Carol M. S. Burrell, Holly Black, K. Tempest Bradford, Alaya Dawn Johnson and many, many more. I am really looking forward to next year in Canada.

If I owe you an email, I will be getting to it shortly. I miss you all already.

See ya next year.

BIG DICKS: NOT WHAT THEY USED TO BE

2007-09-10T10:21:00.001-04:00

Warning: This is a rant. For the sake of preserving some friendships, I'm not naming names. That’s really not important anyway. I want to open conversation.

Recently I picked up a book, and within the first 80 pages we had seen a 10 year old girl get raped by her uncle, and a father rape his daughter with a group of armed friends, while he insist he’s simply seducing her.

In another book, a large naked creature’s dick points toward a “helpless” woman like a “magnet.”

Yet in a third, a modern day ogre breaks into a women’s house, kills her boyfriend, and she offers herself to the thing. He literally tears her open while having sex with her, and afterward she falls in love with him. IN. LOVE. WITH. HIM. HER RAPIST! IN LOVE!

WTF? Why is it that women and young girls are so often described as the sexual play things for men, usually with penises bigger than a humanly possible?

What is it about horror that many writers think this is somehow scary or entertaining?

Have these writers ever met real women? Or are they simply living out some kind of sicko fantasy? Later making sure the men/creatures get their comeuppance as the writer purges his demons through his writing?

The women usually have no personalities in these stories, and exist only to be fodder for men to handle in whatever way they see fit. They have no life outside of the men, and seem to be defined by them, and whether they have them—which only speaks for the writing because most of the characters are one dimensional and have one propose. Many times, as I said before, they seduce and crave the creatures, sometimes even after being raped. Because you know, there’s nothing like falling in love with your large penis rapist. Happens everyday. Women don’t have real minds, you know.

Of course the female characters survive torture that no real person could endure, just to die horrible deaths. Many times even children—boys and girls—are subject to this abuse.

I don’t understand it.

But when a writer comes up with a cork-screwed penis-having juggernaut character roaming the countryside raping and pillaging the women for seemingly NO REAL REASON AT ALL, and he is cheered on by his peers, it makes me wonder. Of course, where else can you be accepted (and, dare I say, expected) to enjoy the brutalization of women, and children, even in literature?

The bad guys themselves are usually dull, unentertaining characters, filled with unrequited rage. They hate for no better reason than they can, and exist for much less.

This is not a rhetorical question. I really would like to know what it is that appeals to writers and readers who enjoy this? Of course something other than, “It’s fun” or “because I can” would be nice, too. But I can’t expect too much.

Big dicks and all.

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Disclaimer: Any resemblance to true and actual stories both living and dead is probably a warning sign and you should in all probability check yourself or seek a writing coach immediately.

IT'S HARD DECIDING A MAN'S LIFE

2007-08-24T09:38:00.000-04:00

If you haven’t already, go read ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE, TWELVE ANGRY PEOPLE and THE VERDICT.

It is indeed hard deciding a man's life.

Tony stood up, and addressed the court. He said that he’d always maintained his innocence and that he would never hurt a child. He said he had three daughters of his own and he loved children.

Yeah, a little too much, I thought to myself. We had already come to a verdict at this point, and I had formed my opinion.

The judge said two things had stuck out to her during the trial. One was STUPID, she said she had never seen anything like that, and it was sad. She said the other thing was when the defendant said he had three daughters of his own. She said he had three daughters and he had done this.

She sentenced him to TWENTY years.

I have to admit, my heart sank just a bit. I did believe that Tony had done everything that Grace had said he’d done. One of the things that we had wanted to ask the judge was if Tony could get some counseling while he was in prison. We guessed that he had urges that he had problems dealing with and that maybe these two girls were the first time he had acted on them.

We were wrong.

After the court, the two lawyers spoke with us, asking us questions about the case.

The prosecutor said there was SO much that we didn’t know. He said that there were SIX children in Tony and STUPID’s house and there had been charges against him with two older daughters as well, but Kelly had been the only one he had plead guilty on. He said that Tony had been accused of raping STUPID’s sister before they had met, and she STILL went out with him.

The defense said that to be fair, the sister was a drug addict, so wouldn’t have made a creditable witness. He said, however, there was a “VERY POWERFUL” videotape of Grace at twelve, where she described what had happened to her in great detail. He asked the prosecution why he didn’t use it, and the man just shrugged.

In the end, I feel that the system did work for this man. We did everything we could to remain unbiased and fair. We looked at the evidence, and made judgments only on what was given us.

I walked out of the courthouse with two of the courtroom assistants. “It was hard, wasn’t it?” the man said to me, “deciding a man’s life.”

“It was,” I agreed.

“People think it’s easy. You go in there and just sit down and make a judgment. But you have twelve people with twelve different opinions. “ I nodded.

The women who had been there outside the jury door, helping us with anything we needed, the whole time, said: “Don’t feel bad. He would have gotten twenty years for one count or twenty for all three anyway. You did good.”

THE VERDICT

2007-08-07T14:23:00.000-04:00

If you haven’t already, please read On Trial for his Life and Twelve Angry People.

And now for the verdict:

One person argued that maybe he was just angry with the mother and decided to talk to the girl about it. At 4 A.M. No one agreed with this.

So we decided to vote. Anonymously.

My vote was:

1) Guilty (breast)

2) Guilty (vagina)

3) Not Guilty (taking to the basement)

The reason I voted not guilty for the third, even though I believed it did happen, was because I didn’t think they had proven it. The police had barely even mentioned it in their reports. He wasn’t asked about it on the polygraph and he wasn’t asked about it on the stand. Therefore, to me, he didn’t have a chance to defend himself against the charges.

It wasn’t easy, but I don’t think judgments should be decided on people’s gut FEELINGS. The prosecution said, in his closing statement, “If I didn’t do my job, or if the police didn’t do theirs, then take it up with my boss, or take it up with the police department. But don’t let this man go free.” I don’t think this is fair. Our justice system was founded on the premise that someone must be found guilty on the evidence.

Then he went on to say, “Many jurors walk out saying I know he’s guilty, but they just didn’t prove it. We’ll that’s not right. If you know he did it, then find him GUILTY.”

I wouldn’t want someone walking into court, taking one look at me, and deciding whether I had committed a crime without hearing any evidence. What if everyone did this? Is everyone’s judgment so infallible that they have the ability to look at someone and guess right away as to their guilt? This is why you have to PROVE it with a preponderance of the evidence.

One juror said, “I know this guy is guilty. He’s just a slimy person. This is a guy who fathers three children, doesn’t marry the mother, doesn’t take care of them, cheats all over the place, and I don’t think he’s a productive member of society. I don’t care if they lock him up forever." Many people agreed.

Of course, he wasn’t being charged with “not being a productive member of society.”

One guy said he didn’t understand why the guy was being charged with TWO counts of child molestation. He walked into the girl’s room, and he molested her. He argued that when you fight with someone, and you hit them, and then kick them, you are not charged with battery for both the kick and the punch. No, you’re charged with ONE count of battery. Why is this guy being charged with touching her breast and vagina?

Hum? A very good point, I thought.

Besides, the man said, he wasn’t even asked it he’d touched her breast on the polygraph. There fore, they hadn’t proven it.

This was beginning to piss some people off. Why were we trying to let a child molester off?

Some wanted to just tell the judge that we were deadlocked, and let twelve other shmucks decide this mess out. I was against this. Hell, the guy was getting about as fair a jury as he was gonna get, as far as I was concerned.

There was a lot of down time. People sat in their chairs thinking about things.

One woman said, “Look, I can let him go on the enticement, but I KNOW they proved the other two.”

One man, who had been trying to decipher the polygraph results, said he worked with computers and he didn’t see how the expert had said the man had failed. People argued that the guy was considered an expert by the court, and that it wasn’t up to us read the results. Just accept that he had failed the test.

Finally, after a day and a half we reached our verdict.

We all piled back into the courtroom. I sat down, and handed the paper to the bailiff, who handed it to the judge.

She handed it back and I stood up and read it out to the courtroom:

“On count one of the indictment, we find the defendant NOT GUILTY, on the charge of Child Molestation.”

I looked at Tony. He sighed.

“On count two of the indictment, we find the defendant GUILTY, on the charge of Child Molestation.”

Tony deflated. I’ve never seen a shrink man so visibly—as if he was half the man he had been only moments before.

“ On count three of the indictment, we find the defendant NOT GUILTY, on the charge of Enticing a Minor for indecent purposes.”

The judge thanked us and told us that we could stick around for the sentencing, if we liked. A few of us did...

TWELVE ANGRY PEOPLE

2007-07-24T16:33:00.000-04:00

Last week I told you about my experience as a juror on a Felony child molestation case. Well, it didn’t get any easier when we were handed the case.

We had twelve people from all walks of life in that room. There was a professor, an oil rig worker and, as you know, a writer and everything in between. I was selected as the foreperson.

There were three charges.

Count I Child Molestation (when he touched her breast)

Count II Child Molestation (when he touched her… elsewhere)

Count III Enticing a minor (when he asked her down stairs)

We were allowed to use the evidence of him pleading guilty to Kelly, Grace’s friend, only if we thought it showed a pattern of behavior.

STUPID, Kelly’s mother, had been angry. It was VERY hard to tell who she was angry at. I think she was mad at the WORLD. Tony had fathered three daughters with her (Kelly was NOT one of them). The defense attorney said that she was mad because Tony had been cheating on her and therefore this was why she had lied and said he had told her he wanted to see her daughter’s breast. Of course, this doesn’t really work because she had given him an alibi for the night in question with Grace. When Tony testified, he said that he had cheated, but so had she. He said they were off again and on again.

Also, with the polygraph, the ONLY important question he had been asked was if he had touched Grace’s vagina. Remember this is the question he had failed with over 99% certainty as far as the examiner was concerned. He had been deemed an expert by the court, with no objection from the defense.

Now, I’ll tell you a bit about how I felt along with some of the arguments.

Personally, I hate those machines. I think they have some merit, but for the most part I think it’s junk science. The examiner went through great pains to tell how the machine worked, however, it was long and arduous and complicated. And I don’t think a man’s life should be decided on the bases on whether a machine said he was lying.

The testimony was more important to me. Even though she was the defenses’ witness, STUPID, was very telling. First off, she all but admitted she would be with the man if he was out of jail—after all, she had three daughters by him. So, I figured she would lie to get him out. In fact, she only admitted that Tony had told her he wanted to see her daughter’s breast after being read her statement. “Yeah, he said it, OK?” she had said.

Personally, I think she was angry because she knew no matter how this turned out, SHE looked bad. I wonder why in the HELL her children had not been taken away from her. I still wonder.

One of the important things to me was that Grace’s story had remained consistent for the whole five years.

Another important thing was that now Grace is 18 and lives in another state. So the defense would have us believe that she had held on to a lie for five years, through many states, and now she traveled back (I assume on her own dime) to lie to the court. Also her testimony was powerful.

Another powerful testimony was her mother’s. The woman was holding back tears as she remembered what her daughter had told her. This had her hurt. It was obvious. And that, to me, meant she believed what her daughter had said, therefore she wasn’t lying or having her daughter lie. Which had been another argument.

But, to me, the most telling was the guilty plea. And it was very similar to the incident with Grace. He took Kelly down stairs. Asked for a hug/sit on lap. And rubbed her shoulders.

When Tony testified, he said he only got Kelly out of bed because he wanted to discuss his relationship with her mother. This to me is ridiculous. Nobody gets a child out of bed (or should) to talk about adult matters. This makes NO sense.

And if it doesn’t make sense, its not true.

OK, so what do you think? Have you changed your mind?

On Trial for His Life

2007-07-09T14:04:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, twelve of us sat down to decide the fate of a man accused of two counts of child molestation and one count of enticing a minor.

We had limited evidence in this case, as there is wont to be in cases like this. The girl, who we’ll call Grace, had been twelve when she spent the night at her best friend’s house (we’ll call Kelly)and said that Kelly mother’s (we’ll call STUPID) boyfriend told her to come down stairs so that he could talk to her. While down there, he asked her to hung him and kiss him, and he tried to rub her shoulders. She said she tried to run away, but he grabbed her arm, pulled her back down stairs, and begged her not to tell anyone, and that he would never do it again.

She said she believed him.

The following weekend, Grace spent the night again (she did so EVERY weekend). She said that about two o’clock in the morning (she guessed) that the boyfriend (we’ll call Tony) came into the room where she slept on the top bunk of a bunk bed with Kelly (no one slept on the bottom). Tony woke her up with a condom in his hand, placed his hand on her breast and…in (literally) other places. (Sorry, guys, just don’t want to talk about this too much.)

Grace said that she started to cry, and begged him to stop. She said then Tony began crying and left the room. She said she then went back to sleep.

Her mother then testified that a week later that she told Grace that it was time to go back to Kelly’s house, but the girl didn’t want to go. This was VERY unusual. She asked the girl why, and finally Grace told her.

Then she told the mother’s best friend.

Then she told the cop who took the report.

Then she told the detective.

Then she told the doctor who examined her three weeks later. There was no evidence.

This all happened in 2001.

Four years later in 2005, Tony pleads guilty to enticing a minor.

The minor is Kelly, Grace’s best friend, who is now twelve years old also. She said he woke her up, told her to come down stairs. She said he told her to sit by him, he pulled her to his lap, and then began rubbing her shoulders. She ran upstairs and told her mother.

Tony takes the stand and says, he had been in jail for eight months, and he said he didn’t understand what he had signed. But he is arrested again, for violating his probation, when he goes to see his probation officer WITH Kelly’s mother, because they are still together. It clearly says in his plea that he is not able to see her or the children. A plea he signed.

STUPID, Kelly’s mom, testified and reluctantly admitted that he had told her that he wanted to see her daughter’s breast that night. But she said that he couldn’t have molested Grace because he had been at a friend’s job’s Christmas party and had come home late. That night, she said—and Tony also testified—that his friend had dropped him off and then fell into a ditch and Tony had spent all night helping him out.

No friend testified. No party was verified.

After getting arrested for validating his parole, the police asked him to take a polygraph in Grace’s case.

He failed. Badly.

Now, five years later, he is going to trial for molesting Grace.

So this is the case. It’s a little complicated; I did my best. What do you think? Argue for or against him.

So What Did I Learn From the Call?

2007-06-15T12:36:00.000-04:00

I just served as the foreman on a felony trial. The man was accused of child molestation. I think it may be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’ll write about it next week.

But now, more about that strange caller who phoned me up asking for writing advice.

So, as I posted previously, I got a strange call from an even stranger man wanting me to pitch my UNPUBLISHED novel to him, simply because he hoped to be a writer one day himself. And just for those who don’t know, this is completely out of line. There are so many reasons for not doing this, but let me pose a question for you. What happens if I get BIG FAMOUS WRITER’s home number and I call, ya know, just to shoot the breeze? Or some CRAZED FANGIRL gets her favorite writer’s home number and calls at midnight because she didn’t like ending to her last novel. Of better yet, to give her ideas for a new one.

The biggest problem with this, however, is that this “writer” had not done his own work. He hadn’t studied the markets, took his time honing his craft or learning how thing are done. No, instead he wanted to pick up the phone and get all of this information from someone who had. He figured that since I had been “published” that I would have secrets for him, and that I could get him in with very little effort on his part. After all, I had done the hard part for him.

But, I digress.

The man went on to explain to me that he’d read my chapbook collection, Chocolate Park, and he thought it’d make a great movie, and he wondered what I was doing wrong. He actually said, “what have you done to make it a movie?” He even offered to contact Spike Lee for me to see if he’d take it on. Of course this may have matter if he had actually KNOWN Spike Lee AT ALL. No, he just thought that calling the guy up (well, kinda like he’d done me) and just telling him would be enough to get Chocolate Park going. I wish.

So, what did I do?

I listen to him. I talked with him, and tried my best to explain to him that this wasn’t the way things work. Of course he had a hundred examples of why it did. He even told me that I should have self-published by now, because, you know, that’s the path to sure success.

I gave him my website address and told him to EMAIL if he had any questions. He said he would if he ever got around to writing his Great American Novel.

In the end, the guy was very nice, but completely uninformed.

Which of course leads to the argument of how most people think they can write a book and that it won’t take any knowledge other than what they already know. Why do they always think this?

So, what did I learn from this?

I learned not to put my phone number on my damn business cards.

So, I Got A Call The Other Day...and who do you think it was?

2007-06-05T13:59:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I received a phone call about noon. The caller ID read it as unlisted. Now, let me tell you, my phone doesn’t normally ring in the day time, unless it’s my mother, who has an this weird obsession to vent about my siblings, or my husband, who swears he just wants to make sure I’m alright. I also talk to Maurice a couple of times a week, but by noon he always home, napping. I kid you not.

All of their names show up on caller ID.

I work from home, writing and editing. I’ve worked with wonderful writers, such as Associate Professor Gwen Bolton, Deatri King-Bey and Essence contributor Pamela McBride. But most of these authors have day jobs, and I knew none of them would be calling me either.

But I answered, against my better judgment.

“Chesya?” the guy asked me. Most people don’t know how to say my name correctly, and this guy was no different. But he butchered it so badly that I felt sorry for him. This usually means some kind of solicitor, which I avoid like the plague, but for some reason, I knew this guy was different.

“This is Chesya,” I said.

Then out of the blue: “Can you tell me ‘bout you writing?”

I was floored. This was the LAST thing I expected to hear. I wish I could tell you that I thought this guy was someone important—like a movie person—and he just wanted me to pitch my book to him. But if you’ve been reading my blog at all, then you know quite well that I don’t have that kind of luck. Besides, this guy didn’t come off that way. It was probably his broken English.

“My writing? Who are you?”

“Oh…huh?” he honestly sounded surprised that I’d be asking him this. It wasn’t like, oh, I don’t know, calling someone up unexpectedly and asking them strange questions. “Oh, I’m gonna write, myself. My brother got your business card and book and gave ‘em to me. He know I wanna write.” He went on to tell me that he planned to write the Great American Novel one day, and he KNEW that it would be BIG. You see, he hadn’t started writing this work of genius yet, he had never even written a single thing in his life, but he KNEW it would be a great writer.

Then he said, “I hope it’s OK to call.”

Well, hell no, it’s most certainly not OK to call someone this way. Just in case you didn’t know. But at that moment, I had a choice: I could lay into him for having the gall to call my home when my email address is on the card and he could have used that instead, or I could calmly tell him about my writing, as he’d asked.

Well, what do you think I did? What would you have done?

Publishers Weekly and Me

2007-05-10T23:16:00.000-04:00

Things move slowly in the publishing business. I’ve said many times that writers should sit back and relax because “this writing thing may take a while” and I meant it. Sure, I could have decided my writing was not worth putting the time and effort into, and I could have gone another route—a quicker less rewarding (at least to me) route.

But I wouldn’t.

My words are too important to me. My time is too valuable.

And, yes, I want to be paid.

Well, it paid off—at least a bit.

Whispers In the Night, the third series in the Dark Dreams collection, which has featured a story from me in every book, has received a STARRED review from Publishers Weekly. Here’s the review:

Whispers in the Night
Edited by Brandon Massey. Dafina, $14 paper (320p) ISBN 978-0-7582-1741-7

African-American horror writer and editor Massey has another slam dunk with his third Dark Dreams anthology (after 2006's Voices from the Other Side). Outstanding stories by returning contributors include Tananarive Due's "Summer," exploring a toddler's eerie possession; Robert Fleming's "The Wasp," a heartbreaking portrait of an abused wife; Chesya Burke's "My Sister's Keeper," examining a sister's terrifying choice; and the best of the bunch, Terence Taylor's brilliant discussion of racism, friendship and Hurricane Katrina in "WET PAIN." Bright newcomers' tales include Lexi Davis's hilarious cautionary tale about bad brothas, "Are You My Daddy?"; Randy Walker's obsessive-compulsive "To Get Bread and Butter"; and Tenea Johnson's provocative meditation on revenge, "The Taken." In Massey's introduction, he hopes someday "any black writer can pen a tale of horror and suspense... without being likened to being merely a black version of a white author, without being viewed with suspicion or even fear." In the meantime, this excellent series continues to fill a now shrinking void. (July)

And some other great writers who are in the anthology are Maurice Broaddus and Lawana Holland-Moore.

Too cool for words. I’m just sayin’.

Chesya in Toronto

2007-04-03T13:59:00.000-04:00

I had applied for a passport to attend WHC in Toronto this year, about two months before the convention. But it didn’t arrive. Now, the state assures you that you can get through, as long as you also have your birth certificate. However, what they don’t tell you is that they send that along with your passport. So, here I was with only a driver’s license and my wit and overly abundant charm to get me through. I drove to Detroit where Maurice Broaddus, Debbie Kuhn, Lauren David, and Carrie Rapp picked me up.

On the way, Maurice assured me that he would leave me at the border, and pick me up on the way out if I couldn’t get through. I then assure him, that I would find the only gun shop in Canada, purchase a riffle and shoot out his tires, just so that I would not be stuck alone on the border. You see, I’m self absorbed that way.

However, when we got to the border, we sailed through without any hassle. She didn’t even ask for the passports. Of course, I was happy, I didn’t have one.

At the convention, I had a blast. I had dinner with my agent, and we talked a bit about things. I also got to meet up with Jenny Rappaport, who I will be working with on another project. She has a good grasp of where I’d like to go with this, so I’m looking forward to working with her on it.

Got to see many many friends, including Cullen and Cindy Bunn, John and Becca Hay, Jenny Orsel, Simon Wood, Eunice Magill, Wrath White and Michelle Mellon. And all those folks who make a convention worth attending.

The entire weekend, I was reminded that I not only didn’t I have a passport, but that it is much harder getting back into the country than it had been to get out of it. My dear friends relished in the idea that I would be stuck a whole country away from them. Some friends they are, eh.

On the way back, I took over before we reached the boarder. By the time we arrived, I had about forty five minutes until my plane flew. We sat in the long line watching the boarder guard stopping all the other cars, and searching them. He even stopped and nearly strip-searched a man on a motorcycle, who they were convinced had hidden something somewhere, obviously in plain sight.

I pulled up to the guard and he asked where we all were from. I answered a few questions, then he asked for our paper work. I handed him all of the passports and my ID. He scanned them all and then looked at mine. “Do you have you birth certificate?” he asked.

“No, I had to send it in to apply for my passport,” I said. “But it came in the day after I left, so I had my husband fax a copy.” Now, the picture on the copy looked like the silhouette of something that once may have been a person, but it could just have likely been a very hairy dog. He looked at the picture and back at me, and I smile the most innocent smile I can muster. Yeah, I know, imagine that.

“Well, this doesn’t look much like you, does it?”

I shook my head, “No, it doesn’t.”

He smiled, “But I trust you.”

Thus, I got back into the country on my wit and overly abundant charm. Just as I said I would. Maurice, sorry darlin’. He really wanted to be able to title his blog, “why we left Chesya at the border.”

The guard wished us a nice day, and assured me that I wouldn’t make my flight. However, he underestimated me. I drove that big bus of a van, dodging in and out of traffic, while behind me the others moaned, fearing, no doubt for their lives. As the van reached ninety five miles per hour, it rocked back and forth in the Detroit winds.

I got to the airport, jumped out, wished everyone well and ran inside. At the counter I realized I had left my wallet with my ID in the van. I called Maurice, and he had to circle back around and bring it back to me. By the time he had brought the license, I had two minutes to get on the plane.

Ok, I can do this, right?

No.

The line to get through the check through was wrapped around the corner. I walked pass everyone, went up to one of the agents and told him my flight left in two minutes. He said, there was nothing he could do.

“Fine.” I said. I turned to the crowd and scream. “LOOK! MY FIGHT LEAVES IN TWO MINTUES, WHO WILL LET ME IN FRONT OF THEM? TWO MINTUES. MY FLIGHT LEAVES…”

People stared at me as if I had lost my mind. But I didn’t care. I had a plane to catch… in two minutes as I kept reminding them. Then, one by one, they urged me onward until I got to the front. After passing the check through, I didn’t bother putting back on my shoes. I ran through the corridor without them, my stocking feet sliding on the linoleum. By the time I got to the gate everyone in the airport was watching this big, black woman run—fast—and even the cashier behind one of the food counters was cheering me on.

I caught the flight, and as I got on the plane, the passengers and crew clapped for me, probably just happy to be able to leave.

But, I had a wonderful time, and I look forward to seeing all again soon.

Special thanks to the following people:

Lucien Soulban, for the beer. My husband loved it.

Brian Keene. Thanks for the long talk and helping me make a decision that I had been putting off.

Jenny Rappaport, for the shopping adventure. I had a blast.

Don't Think Small

2007-03-06T11:40:00.000-05:00

There’s nothing wrong with dreaming big. In fact I think it’s a must for writers. I know you’ve heard differently. I’ve heard it too. Writers shouldn’t want money. Nobody who’s a writer really wants money anyway. It’s about the art. No one who really cares about being an artist should want money.

Much of that is true.

You probably won’t make much money as a writer. Most people don’t. That doesn’t mean you should sell yourself short, which is simply the excuse that many writers use for not giving themselves the best opportunity.

I plan to be in this for the long haul.

I believe in my writing enough that I won’t give it away. I also expect someone to pay me to do it. Why? Because I think it’s good. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t be doing it. Right? So why do many people think that they should “start at the bottom” or “just get their name out there?”

Don’t think small. Don’t give your hard work away for nothing. Don’t pay someone to publish work that you believe has merit—don’t put work out there that you know doesn’t.

These things don’t prove you’re a writer, just that you’re desperate. I’ve said before that writers should sit back, relax, because this may take a while, and it’s true. It takes a long time, many years for most people. Sure, some writers get lucky and get a deal right away. It can happen. But it hasn’t happened to me or anyone else I know. And I know a LOT of writers—good ones.

I suppose it could happen to you, or someone you know.

But more than likely, it won’t. Not simply because you’re not good enough, but because there are thousands of writers out there just like us. Those writers may be luckier. They may even be better.

If you take your time, write, hone your craft, read, and write some more, you’ll wait a long time. But in the end, it’ll be more satisfying than simply starting at the bottom.

Once you get that first check it’s all worth it—mine was a whopping $34.12, but it was pro rate (3 cent a word at the time) and it brought me dinner at Red Lobster to celebrate.

Boy, was it worth it.

Even Before I Have A Book…

2007-02-05T14:54:00.000-05:00

Recently my agent started a blog. She has been talking about marketing and promoting and the things that writers should do even before they get that first book deal. Lori is damn good and this is a must read for any would-be writer.

But it’s started me to thinking about promoting and my writing career. The truth is, I’ve been thinking about it for a LONG time.

I edit for a publishing company and recently had dinner with a client whose manuscript I edited. While we were talking I asked him what he planned to do for promotion. He said, “Well, I haven’t thought about that yet. The book doesn’t come out until 2008.”

I think I may have scared him a bit as I looked at him as if he’d just jumped the 723 feet to his death from the Sundial, where we had dinner. I said simply, “You should promote yourself first. There will be other books, perhaps even other genres, but you will be the one thing that remains the same.”

I think that may be an important thing to remember for all us writers. We spend lots of time and many years thinking about one book. Working on it, honing it until it’s just right, and this is good, but the one thing we forget is that the book will not be on the shelves forever. There will be other books, hopefully better, more important books, but we will be the one constant thing throughout our career.

I may be strange, but I have several different documents in my computer reminding me about things that I’ll need to do for myself, much of it even before my book’s published.

One of them is called ‘Tour for Sylvia’s Sun.’ It’s thirty six pages long, and talks about all the cities I plan to tour promoting my NAME (100--all of which I will be staking out friends and families couches, and many which plan to have a book release party for me. More than one? you say. Hell, yes!), the names of all the books clubs who have asked ME to speak even before I have a book, the type of book trailer I want, complete with black and white pictures of a young girl giving birth to a dead baby and ending with something more sinister. I have a list of the colleges and schools who have shone interested in Sylvia’s Sun (before Lori even talked about it, so this made me feel good), and things that other writers say have worked for them. The list goes on and on.

You could say that I’m just anxious about my turn, but the truth is, I want to get it right. I never want to say that I didn’t do the best I could. I want to be able to do this for a long time. I’m not just promoting my book, Sylvia’s Sun, but myself as a writer for a long time to come.

Really, I want to be the best …but this, my friends, is a post for another day.

No Means No

2007-01-23T15:22:00.000-05:00

This also means you, writer. You know, the one who thinks he’s the exception.

It is never acceptable to send a story to an anthology market, get rejected and then send the SAME story back, to a different editor. We’re both going to read the stories, and even if one of us likes it, the one who rejected you before will call foul and your shame will be known.

Learn how to read the submission guidelines, learn how to be a professional writer, and then read the guidelines again, because you probably didn’t get them right the first time.

This is immature and reeks of unprofessionalism. It also says things about you that aren’t flattering. Such as, you can’t accept rejection and you think that you’re slicker than you are. It also says that you have no respect for either of us and you think we’re idiots.

You’re wasting our time.

There’s no playing editor against editor here. We are trying to get the best stories, and if we think yours isn’t it, then it ISN’T it. Accept it and move on. There are other markets; find one.

Writers: You are NOT the exception

2007-01-03T12:42:00.000-05:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Last year is finally a thing of the past...let's just hope things go smoother for all this year.

***

I don’t know what it is about writers that make them think that the rules—whatever they are—don’t apply to them.

Recently, a seemingly nice and decent writer, wrote me and asked me what we actually meant by “reprints.” Maybe he thought we were vague about it. We weren’t. But he wondered if his reprints would be acceptable because he had published them in an online zine. He maintained that since they weren’t “printed” in a magazine, and since it had been way back in “2005” (you know, that yesteryear of our distant memory) then it should be acceptable.

Of course he never mentioned anything about the hordes of other writers who had published in online zines. Should we accept all of those too? Maybe he thought that he was the only writer to publish a story online in all of 2005. Maybe he was just the only person to publish a “hooker” story online.

I also get several emails a week saying something like this: “I’m sending you this story, it’s not about a hooker per se, but…”

But what? But the writer thought I didn’t have anything better to do than to read his 5000 word story that won’t even fit our anthology? But…if I just read it, I’ll fall so hopelessly in love with it that I won’t even care that it DOESN’T EVEN FIT OUR ANTHOLOGY.

I spend a lot of time reading various blogs and online writers’ sites. Many newbies come to these sites asking questions about their manuscripts or their query letters. It never fails that when the newbies don’t get the answers they want—meaning praise—they tell the writers, they have just asked for help, how wrong they are. They scream and yell about how unfair the writing business is, and how editors and agents don’t really want “good” writing. Because, you see, if they wanted good writing then they would publish the newbie’s stuff. They don’t seem to understand, or they choose not to see, that learning how to write takes a long time. And getting published can take even longer.

I’ve heard every excuse.

If they have too many misspelling in their manuscript then they say, “well, I read mistakes in published books all the time.”

If they have grammar problems, then it’s, “well, the editor should fix that. I’m a writer, I can’t be expected to know all the rules.”

If they’ve had a rejection from an agent or publisher: “but she didn’t read past page 2 or 3. She didn’t get to the really good part.”

Writers, we don’t get to make excuses for our writing. Tess Garrison has a really good post about writer’s expectations. And this one is a must read.

Read it.

And then sit down, take off your shoes…this writing thing may take a while.

Me and Alice Walker

2006-11-16T14:08:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-23T13:06:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-03T15:20:00.001-04:00

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?

2006-09-13T11:33:00.000-04:00

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?

Red Light District Guidelines

2006-09-11T09:53:00.000-04:00

Guidelines for submissions for "The Red Light District" (final title TBD) edited by Tracy West (Cat) and Chesya Burke, published by Bloodletting Press.

What are you looking for?
Anything. The only thing you HAVE to have is one character that is a prostitute, lady of the night, call girl, or whatever you want to call it, someone who sells himself or herself for money. That's the ONLY thing that HAS to be in the story. If you want to throw a cat in the story, that's a point or two more, but not required. (Yeah, I know, narcissistic, but I get to do those kinds of things.) The story can be set in the past, present or future. The prostitute doesn't even have to be the main character, but needs to be one of the top characters.

So if I write a story about a bunch of hookers that get killed will that be OK?
Chances are…that's pretty normal and is not OK. We're not looking for normal. And besides, that's been done. There are many layers that can portray what goes on in the seamy end of the world. We're looking for those layers. That doesn't mean the story has to be about the world of prostitution. If every story is about that, it's gonna make a boring book. We want ORIGINAL stories, something that hasn't seen the light of day anywhere else.

Can I make it gross and gory?
You can, but be careful of too much gross and gore. We're looking more for what's in the character's heads and hearts rather than the characters actual head and heart. Also, we don't want any erotica or pornography.

Word length? And how do I submit?
2,000-5,000. Any more or less and we will reject it without reading it. You can send your stories as an attachment to chesya@comcast.net or to catwest1@charter.net, please don't send it to BOTH. Do not send your stories IN the body e-mail. Do not give us a synopsis of the story. No reprints. Stories should be in proper manuscript format with a short letter introducing yourself. If you don't know what proper manuscript format is, don't bother submitting.

Am I getting paid?
Yes, if accepted, we will pay .05 per word upon publication and a contributors copy.

What is the time frame?
All submissions must be sent by March 7th at midnight. Any later and they won't even be considered. Publication will be early 2008.

Are you going to tell me if I'm accepted?
Obviously we won't be able to tell everyone that is accepted until we've received all entries and have made the final decision. But if you send an e-mail, you will get a response within a week that we've received it. If we know right off the bat your story isn't going to make it, we'll let you know to free up the story. So the longer you don't hear…the better your chances.

I have a really cool story I submitted elsewhere; can I submit that to you?
No. We want stories that aren't simultaneously submitted, so while we have your story in our hot little hands, we would appreciate you not submitting it elsewhere until you hear back from us. No multiple submissions; send us your best story.

Am I going to get rich and famous like that King guy if I get in the book?
If you think that, then bless you. But in all likelihood you will not get rich and famous. There will be 400 copies printed. So with that amount of books, rich and famous probably isn't going to happen.

Are there any other requirements?
Yup. If you are accepted you will be required to sign signature sheets. You will also be required to give us a short bio on yourself. It won't make you rich and famous but it will be cool to have YOUR signature and YOUR bio in the book.

What if I have any other questions?
You can e-mail us at chesya@comcast.net or to catwest1@charter.net. We will answer your questions, to the best of our ability.
For an update and to see what we're NOT looking for, go here.

SHE WAS DESTINED TO BE GREAT

2006-08-20T20:46:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-26T11:24:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-13T12:45:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-28T11:27:00.001-04:00

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

2006-06-14T15:30:00.002-04:00

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

2006-06-02T17:04:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-18T21:14:00.001-04:00

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

2006-05-02T13:31:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-04-20T13:50:00.000-04:00

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

#

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...

2006-04-11T09:59:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-04T12:32:00.000-04:00

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

2006-03-28T10:19:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-22T12:09:00.000-05:00

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.

#

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

2006-03-14T12:21:00.000-05:00

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.

#

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

2006-03-06T13:50:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-27T19:52:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-25T13:50:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-10T07:42:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-31T13:30:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-01-23T15:17:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-19T21:37:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-16T09:59:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-14T16:19:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-14T12:47:00.000-05:00

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.