Just How Screwed Up Is Your Family: Maurice Broaddus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O.K.

At least her mother’s teaching her something.

#

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

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

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

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

#

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

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

Tell me, just how screwed up is YOUR family?

Collect Calling from Prison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

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

Cottage Cheese and Small Countries

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

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

I spent over a 100 dollars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’re still waiting.

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

Enough to feed a small country.

Travel Well, Octavia Butler

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to get my book published.

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

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

Yeah…I can do this.

A Deflated Ego

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don, John and the Van

Don, John and the Van.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” My husband asked the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did anyone guess, STOLEN? Bingo!

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

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

Is There Another Way To Call From Jail?

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know, something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where you at?”

Where did you call me at? “Home.”

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

“Oh, no.”

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

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

“Food stamp card. Yeah.”

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

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

“Yeah. Fool is there with them now.”

“Call him for me.”

I did.

He answered. I listened.

“Fool what the hell is going on?”

“What the hell you mean?”

“DFCS was gonna take the kids?”

“They wasn’t gonna take them kids.”

“Fool, they was gonna take the kids.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All In The Family

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

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

Let’s look at this, shall we?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Beginning of a Nightmare

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

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

“Is Jerome (my husband) there.”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What else should I have done?

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

Hello

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