Family Tree, the Novel Family Tree
ANDREA N. CARR
Copyright Š 2012 Andrea Carr All rights reserved. Title ID: 4548788 ISBN-13: 978-1494322847
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This book is dedicated to all readers of this book. THANK YOU.
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CHAPTER 1 I was sent to Mental Health, thinking this must be some sort of evaluation. I had no previous jail experience. I was unaware there had been an emergency in my family. “Hi, I’m Dr. Meredith Stein. I’m the clinical psychologist here at Orange County Jail. You are Angel Harper?” “Yes.” She reached to check my wristband anyway. “There has been an emergency in your family. I’m going to let you call home and talk to your mother, so she can tell you what has happened.” “This is not part of the process?” “No.” “Do you know what the emergency is about? Does it concern my son, Malcolm?” “I don’t know the emergency. I know it concerns Lady Penman.” “That’s my sister; is she dead?” “I don’t know. I’m going to let your mother tell you the emergency.” I told her the number; she had it written down already. She made the connecting call. “Yes, this is Meredith Stein, at the Orange County Jail. I have your daughter sitting here with me. I will let you talk to her now.” Dr. Stein handed me the telephone. “Angel, Lady hung herself.” I could hear my mother sobbing. “Where?” “In the backyard.” “From a tree? Is she dead?” “Yes” “Did she read the letter I sent to you all?” “No,” my mother answered. I was weak with disappointment: not showing Lady the letter, on top of my sadness from the news I had just heard. I wanted to ask Mom why not, but I didn’t. I didn’t want a
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confrontation with her now anyway. I mentioned Lady specifically in that letter. I was thanking my sister for helping with ‘Cousin,’ that’s what she called my son. She was taking him places while I was in jail, spending time with him, when I couldn’t. The last time I talked to her, I called my mother’s house to speak to my son and Lady had answered. She told me she was keeping them busy, ‘Cousin’ (Malcolm) and Abraham. Abraham was her son. They had been many places together. Most of the time I couldn’t catch up with them. “How are you paying for all of this?” I had asked her. Lady had lost her new job, for not calling or showing up to work. “I’ll give you the money back.” I told her. “My friend is paying for it, don’t worry about it,” she’d said. We’d laughed. Back to her old tricks, I thought. She was always getting some man to pay for what she wanted. I think I thanked her, but I couldn’t remember the details. At the time, Mom was complaining in the background, “Hurry up and get off the phone!” while we were talking. I hurried because it was a collect call. I wanted so desperately to remember now what we had said. I was angry with myself for not having picked up on it; something, in her voice, to warn me about what was going to happen. I always believed my relationship with Lady was meaningful, so I should have noticed something wrong. I had been close with her. One thing I do remember, I didn’t tell her I loved her. It was in the letter she never read. “Mom, who found her body?” “Your son, he needs you.” I felt caged from help. “Mom, I’m in jail.” “I know,” she said. Then why are you telling me now, I thought. I hated her, right then. “How is Malcolm?” “I think he should talk to someone. I’m going to take him to St. Joseph’s Hospital.” “Let me speak to Malcolm.” I wanted to see for myself if he was okay. “Take him to Dr. Jerry, he’s a friend of mine. Malcolm saw him before, he’s listed in the directory,” I said. Maybe the good Doctor could help find the answers my son may need for himself. I trusted him. I had spent countless hours in his office pouring my life on his lap, trying to make sense of it. Trying to figure out what a normal life was. “Malcolm isn’t here.”
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“Where is he, is he in the hospital?” I was confused, and at my mother’s mercy. “No,” she said. “Philip took them to his house.” “Them?” “Abraham was with Malcolm when he found her. Abraham’s father is on his way.” “Did anything happen? Do you know what would have made her do this?” “No.” I knew this wasn’t the whole story, coming from Mom. She kept secrets. Things had never been as they appeared. I hung up the phone, and looked at the staff psychologist. “My sister hung herself. My son and hers found her body.” I said. “I’d like to go back to my cell now.” The doctor looked shocked; I should have been. Her forehead wrinkled. However, I had the feeling she already knew the emergency. “Why did you ask if she was dead, when I told you the emergency was about your sister?” She asked as she straightened her face, patronizing me. “My sister had some problems, it made sense.” It might have even been expected. How much had gone unnoticed? “How old is your son?” “We were pregnant at the same time, my sister and I had our children five months apart.” “How old are they?” she asked. “Thirteen.” I answered. “How old was she?” She paused, waiting for my answer. “Forty.” I spoke like a robot. I was numb. I took the news and got rid of it someplace hidden. I’ll look for it when, I’m ready, I thought. I knew this was not time or place to be dealing with it. I was not ready to grieve. Why didn’t she wait for me, like I used to wait for her after school when we were children, so she could walk me home? I loved her. Did Lady know how important she had been to me? It was important to me now, that she know. I had problems in the past telling people that I loved them, even if I truly did love them. I’ve since taught myself to tell the ones I love, for times like this. I hadn’t told her lately. It was in the letter. I was angry. I hadn’t talked to Lady for about a year before she came home. Lady couldn’t fool me with her manipulations, I knew what she was going through, and when she was ready for help she knew I would be
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there. She had been living with Mother for about a month before killing herself. I had dealt with what she was going through; I wanted to show Lady how to overcome her turmoil. She was so out of control, I didn’t want to see her self-destruct. There had been times she’d come to my house at 3:00 in the morning, drunk and high, asking for money. Going from door to door checking to see if I had left one unlocked. As I tried to ignore her by hiding in the darkness, I was bruised and scarred by what was she was doing. Lady wouldn’t listen to me. My mother often looked the other way, denying the truth and keeping secrets. The moment I heard of Lady’s suicide, God became my only friend. I had no one I wanted. I felt the distance between my mother and myself. I didn’t want my mother trying to shield me from the truth. It has never worked. Whenever the truth is revealed, whatever her motive, whether it be to spare my feelings or not, what I remember is she wasn’t truthful. Secrets outlined my life with my mother, not knowing whatever new drama I was dealing with. In addition, not knowing what secrets would come out later, having to rearrange my grief as the truth surfaced. Through Dr. Jerry I had learned happiness existed but it took work. Lady seemed to have given up on happiness. She didn’t do things I suggested; or know how. It was like she kept fumbling with the wrong combination to a lock. I thought about when we were children, when we walked from school. I would wait in the schoolyard on a bench until she got out of class. Then we walked home together. I depended on her, and realized her importance to me then. She would open the door with her key, and we would wait together – for someone to come home. Tears streamed down my face as I recalled: Lady made straight A’s in school, and could draw anything just by looking at it. She would do my homework for me before my mother came home. It was so easy for her. I had often wished I was as smart as she was. Why couldn’t she wait? I was some place different from this jail’s Mental Health office, in our childhood’s floating images. I asked the psychologist, “May I go back to my cell now?” She paused for a long time. I sat there. I wasn’t going to talk to her anymore than I needed to. I did not need her or her words. What I wanted were the answers I was never going to have – to know what Lady was thinking
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before she died. Did she think of me? I felt I understood her most, out of anyone who knew her. I was like her. Why couldn’t she wait? Did she want to be dead that bad? I kept thinking. “If you’d like to talk, you can ask to come back to Mental Health, and I’ll see you right away.” I could see the doctor’s lips moving, nothing really was registering. I was still someplace else. I was being interrupted. Memories were stronger than her words to me. “Thank you,” I said, because I thought I should when her lips stopped moving – like smoke clearing from the air. Then she asked, “Do you feel like running?” “What?” I frowned. “Do you feel like running,” she repeated. That question brought me back and angered me even more. “I’m sorry, I have to ask.” Dr. Stein said, and I got the feeling she was genuine. “I would never have thought of it,” I said. I don’t run from my problems. But that couldn’t have been farther from the truth right now. “I wouldn’t add to my family’s burden,” I said. And that was true. “Please, I would like to go back now.” “Okay, I’ll walk you.”
CHAPTER 2 Back at the cell, I was sick to my stomach. I wanted to vomit for relief and couldn’t. I wasn’t quite sure of what to do. I walked around in circles. I called to talk to my best friend Mary, but she wasn’t there. I wanted to talk to her; she seemed to know the right thing to say when I needed her to. Mary’s my best friend because she is always the same, like Sister. Mary treats me the way she would like to be treated. She spoils me like one of her children, and I like that. She has three daughters. Mary and I played with them sometimes like they were dolls. Mary and I would laugh over stuff like me giving their baby daughter Sandra, a candy corn-shaped candle. Not thinking, I told her to burn it on Halloween. Daughter had burned their house down a few years before, when she was three. Mary told the little fire starter to just let the candle sit there for decoration. Mary and I had laughed while she asked me, “What were you thinking?” I wasn’t. No one ever really knew why we were laughing. I liked our silly private jokes. All I’ve ever really wanted from a friend, she is. I’m lucky to have her, I thought. I spoke to Jesus, her husband. I cried and told him what had happened. I knew Jesus before I ever met Mary. We used to work together on the same unit and talk. Jesus and I both love nightclubs and dancing, and our birthdays are two days apart. Jesus never hit on me once. I was so used to feeling mislead by men. I guess this was the reason I respected him most. He gave me back my faith in men. Jesus didn’t lure me in with a nice guy act, pretending to be my friend, or having some sort of business with me just to try and have sex with me. Eventually I transferred to another unit and met Mary. At the time, she told me, “You know my husband.” I moved my head back a little with a frown on my face wondering. “He worked with you on unit 14, his name is Jesus.”
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“Oh,” I said, “that’s your husband.” Still wondering whom she meant. I would never have pictured the two of them together. They seemed so different, not an apparent match. I knew immediately Mary had something I wanted, and it wasn’t Jesus. We all worked at a state mental hospital. Mary and I got along immediately. I never thought of Jesus to be there to comfort me. I looked to Mary for that, but he did when I spoke to him. I looked to him to talk with my son about male points of view. Malcolm’s father was weak. It’s hard for him to say no and he doesn’t stand up for himself or believe in anything. I don’t like that. I can’t tolerate weakness in men. I don’t trust Malcolm’s father is able to teach him what he needs to learn to be a strong man. I like Jesus sharing his male-type facts with my son, especially about women. Jesus seemed like a normal man to me, except he did not hide his feelings. I wanted my son to learn that. Jesus would debate with Mary and I about the differences between men and women. Once, we watched a news story about a teacher who had been having sex with one of her students. The boy was about thirteen, and had fathered a child with this teacher. The teacher was jailed for breaking a restraining order forbidding her to see the boy. “I know that kid is upset,” Jesus commented. “That poor kid,” I said as I thought about the boy having to deal with being a father at thirteen, and being taken advantage of. “Poor kid,” Jesus laughed like I wasn’t getting something and said, interrupting my thought, “That kid should be loving it.” Mary and I thought Jesus sounded crazy, and we told him so by with the looks on our faces. “Loving what?” Mary said with a hostile attitude. “It’s different when you’re a man.” Jesus said. We argued the student was not a man. He was a boy. Jesus said, “I would have loved to have sex with an older woman at thirteen, especially if she was a freak..” He laughed. I thought to myself, you sound like a freak. “What if it was your thirteen year old daughter?” I asked, challenging his logic. “That’s different,” he said. “Because of the way we’re built?” Mary asked. “Women are penetrated, and not men? Is that it?” she said quickly and harshly. Jesus could see to back out of this one. He sat back in his chair looking as if he had given up,
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while he sipped his beer. I wasn’t sure if his credibility was warped in my eyes or not. I was hoping this was the difference in our points of view I was depending on him for. “You are women, you don’t think like men,” he started again. Who would want to, I thought. If men think that differently from women, there were things I couldn’t begin to teach my son, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to learn when Jesus spoke this way. “Although, Angel, you come pretty close to thinking like a man.” He laughed. “Thanks.” “I mean that as a compliment,” he said raising his beer from the table. “I know you do, thanks,” I said. He laughed again. I thought, it’s because you’re not emotional like a woman, you just ask for what you want, no mind reading. I repeated a past quote from Jesus in my head – It’s not that I think like a man, It’s that I don’t like games, or mind reading and unnecessary drama. I ask for what I need from men. If that’s what men do with women then, I’m guilty. I think, Jesus enjoyed talking to Malcolm, and the opportunity to express his manhood in a way with him he wasn’t able to with his daughters. In the same way, I came to be able to share my femininity with the three of them. I didn’t always agree with Jesus point of view. I guess that was the point. When my son and I would visit their house, sometimes Jesus would have us watch war documentaries on TV, insisting we would learn something interesting. I wasn’t interested in war documentaries. Jesus would manage sometimes to come up with some facts I found interesting while he tried to persuade me to watch. “Angel, during World War II our US Intelligence used Navajo Indian codes to transmit our war communications, because there were no such codes in Japan, and Germany. Also, in the twenties, American Indians helped build New York City’s skyscrapers; walking on girders, risking their lives on buildings’ high stories, served as a rite of passage.” I don’t know if they were accurate facts, or confused by the effect of beer, but they were interesting nonetheless. I liked the fact that Mary would allow Jesus to watch what he wanted on TV when no one else wanted to, making him feel like a man who runs his house. He didn’t. Mary would hand Jesus money to pay the bill under the table when they dined out. It helped maintain their balance of things. Mary knows you have to give to get, and so does Jesus.
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Mary and Jesus’ daughters are my surrogate children. They are representatives of the family that I wanted. They have problems, but they stick together and endure them. I have asked Mary for her insight into people. Mary seems to be able to zero in on my confusion with why people are the way they are. I was like her, but I struggled with what seemed natural to her: being the same no matter what anyone else did. I wanted her ease. Mary was different from me, yet the same. She told me once when I asked her, “How did you get to be this way?” “I’ve always been the same,” she answered. I liked that. Mary was more confident than I thought I was. I had to learn my strength, Mary seemed to know hers. Jesus’ presence seemed to be the difference between us. Mary and I had similar upbringings, but I believe that if I had had someone outside my family who loved me for myself and who was consistent in that fact, things would be different. If someone had validated me as a person growing up, it would have allowed me to believe I was okay a long time ago, helping ease my struggle. I felt my siblings loved me anyway because we grew up together and were comrades. As children, we shared thoughts and feelings freely. Especially true of Lady and I because we shared the most time together and most of our thoughts. Somehow we all lost the closeness we shared growing up. Mary seemed to be close with her mother and her sister. I wanted closeness. I had wondered how they managed to keep it. I got closeness from Mary. All of my sisters and brothers, including myself, went our own way. We talked but we never really said anything. Pam and Sister kept their true feelings to themselves. I don’t think they shared their insides with me, or if they even knew themselves anyway. Sister did share on occasion, about her needing a man to make her whole. However, she never said it in those words; after she got a man our conversations would stop. Pam complained about everything and everyone. Nothing was ever enough for her, always needed more. She never made an effort to change herself, insisting things always be done her way. I ignored her, talking to her seemed pointless. Pam reminded me too much of my mother, with double standards. Maya, on the other hand, gives only to get the approval that will never come. I know my mother dislikes her, it’s obvious by the way she treats
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her. Maya reminds her of the fact she made a mistake in having her. Maya seems depressed most of the time and complains about her mistreatment by our mother. Maya is heavy; food is Maya’s drug. Maya is compulsive about everything though, not just food: constantly checking and rechecking everything. It’s a waste of time, to do and watch. I can’t be bothered either way. Being around them keeps me analyzing them constantly. I only want to enjoy their company. There is a problem. I think it’s me. I once sat in an employee meeting when a fat woman squeezed in to sit down next to us. I was surprised; I liked the way she felt. I told her so and everyone around us laughed. She was clearly embarrassed having to squeeze in. Though I was comforted by her warm feeling and size which felt like being squished by a cloud of warm dough. I wonder if Maya made anyone feel comforted because they were both overweight? I would love to be one of Maya’s children for that warm contented feeling in a hug. I slept with a fat guy once, and it was not the same. Samantha is like me, staying in the struggle to be content. I am proud of her for that. I am so much older than she is. I wasn’t around her much growing up. Besides, she was a tattletale. Samantha loves being in a married state. – ‘Joined at the hip’ is a more accurate description. I am unlike her in that way; I do not need marriage. I am married to myself. Brother and Philip do not show their feelings, perhaps because they are male? I don’t know. I know I don’t know their favorite color, or what they value most. I feel like I’m different from them all. I talk about how I feel, except with them. If I do, I’m smothered in a cellophane resistance I can see through but cannot breathe in. Philip hated school because he didn’t do well; he found his own way without it. He educated himself with what he needed to know to survive. I admire him for that. Philip equates his self-esteem with material things. Well, on the other hand, he could be a serial killer. Brother is still as mysterious as he’s always been. He never shows his emotions. No one is always, ‘all right’ every time you ask. He keeps his life his. If I pry, he talks, sometimes a little about women. He has always had a bunch of women making a big deal over him; he is very handsome and dresses well. Brother appears to make himself feel better by having negative attention from women. He seems to like that chaos he creates through his dishonesty with them
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about how he really feels. I believe it is a subconscious effort to sabotage his relationships with women he really does not want. I have never respected the behavior of women who act like that with him, and I don’t see how he can. ‘If you are not going to be something positive in my life, then you won’t be in my life,’ that’s my motto. His relationships manifest from needs, I am not certain of what they are, I suspect to distract him from the truth – whatever his truth is. I just hope he has a confidant. He needs one, and I know he keeps secrets. I think Brother is secretly gay. He reminds me of a typical closet-case homosexual. They are sometimes womanizers, the way he is, and he is definitely in denial over something about himself – with an obvious need to be distracted from himself constantly.
CHAPTER 3 The grief my mother causes is too much for me; she is toxic. I’m more tolerant of my siblings. I blame Mom for the reasons we have so much to do to get better. I can forget the past. She did the best she could. It’s up to us to change ourselves as adults. It is the present that hurts. My mother’s continued deceit, rejection, and the acceptance of her behavior from my siblings. I only end up with more issues when I’m around them. I feel like I’m the only one of us who has genuinely tried to become better – search for a sense of happiness from within; I don’t know if Mamma understands this. My mother does not want to be burdened with sorting out whatever bothers her, instead she complains constantly: about her children and illness with no effort to be different. Some shrink told me once, you’ll be the same age if you do and the same age if you don’t. I did. I was too unhappy not to try a change. I feel ganged up on when I’m around my family because I stir things up and challenge their warped logic. I hope that I suggest a positive response, instead they are only provoked. The effort of inspiring change among them is worth the risk of losing them. If they ever change because of something I showed them, it would give me the feeling of God’s presence within me. I needed that for some reason, to feel divine. My mother makes things seem worse than the truth a lot of times. She finds supporters of her misrepresentation of facts, causing conflicts among her children – losing the focus while I gain another issue with her. If mom creates conflicts, she takes the focus off her unhappy life. Like Brother does with his women. It’s just easier and less painful to deal with me instead of backing up and crashing into a brick wall. I used to imagine I would write a soap opera called, ‘Drama: The Negro Chronicles.’ Everyone in my family would star in each episode. I love them, but don’t like them as people sometimes. Mary and Jesus showed me
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differently. I get from them something I am missing from my family; speaking freely about everything and knowing it’s okay. Not guarding the facts is okay, too. I had to find my family someplace else. Yet, I miss my real family always.
CHAPTER 4 I called my Brother Philip’s house and got acceptance for my collect phone call from the jail. Philip answered and I asked to speak to my son. Philip assured me Malcolm was fine. He told me Malcolm handled what had happened to him like a champion. “Malcolm is so smart. He calls it the way it is, he misses nothing,” said Philip. Who do you think raised him? I thought, taking credit for his attitude. I am proud of Malcolm, he isn’t like them either. Philip handed my son the phone, “Hello Mom.” “How are you?” “I am fine.” “Don’t just tell me that because I’m in jail.” “I wouldn’t,” he said in a tone as if I should know that. “What a terrible thing to happen, huh?” “Yeah,” he said sadly. “I’m so sorry you had to find her, she would never have done that if she had known you kids would find her.” I took a breath. “She couldn’t have been in her right mind,” I told him, hoping he could feel my love for him and somehow be comforted in my absence. “Did she seem different to you?” I asked, prying. “She was her same old drunk self. She seemed fine to me,” he said. Her being drunk everyday was normal. “She was going jogging like she did every day. She kissed us on the cheek.” Malcolm told me. “I told her I was cold and she covered me with a blanket.” He explained. What he had said made me remember the time she gave me her coat when I was cold on the way home from school when we were children. “When did this happen?” I asked, “Yesterday, in the morning.” “Where was your Grandma?”
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“She said she had to go to the doctor.” Just then, I realized my mother and stepfather had been in court with me at the time of her suicide. I had asked Mom not to come; why hadn’t she listened to me? She might have stopped Lady, and why did she lie to Malcolm about where she was going? This doubled the pain in my stomach. Malcolm said, “Mom her lips were blue. I remember what you told me, if anyone’s lips are blue you call 911, then try to help them.” “That’s right,” I assured him. “I knew she was dead because ants were crawling all over her face,” he explained. “Abraham wanted to wipe them off of her but I wouldn’t let him touch her.” “Why not?” I asked. “I don’t know. We couldn’t help her.” My son started crying. “If she was still alive she would have wiped them off herself, or been trying to.” “That’s right,” I said trying to hold back my tears. I was trying to be strong for my son, breaking the rule I had taught him. If you feel like crying, cry. It makes you human not weak. What had happened to my theory? I guess I was afraid of completely falling apart and I didn’t want my son to feel worse because I was crying and in jail, where he couldn’t help me either. I held it in, literally choking myself. A deputy on duty was trying to arrange a special visit so my family could bring Malcolm to see me. I told Malcolm this. He said, “Okay.” “Can I speak to Philip again?” I asked, I needed details I didn’t want to ask Malcolm about. Philip told me, “Lady had a vodka bottle and a bible in front of her. Also, a pack of cigarettes and lighter all lined up neatly.” This meant to me that her death was planned; nothing was in disarray or broken. Lady decided to kill herself. I wondered what the passage was in the bible she had read. I wanted a clue to her final thoughts. “As much as she drank, her liver would have killed her,” I told Philip, we laughed then cried. Philip said, “She changed her mind was the coroner’s suspicion. She had a cut on her leg from a branch, she tried to stand during the hanging.” Rigor mortis had left Lady stiff in a struggling position. I hoped it was true. I wanted to believe she thought of us and changed her mind. I would
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have helped her, she knew that. I had been trying to since she came home. I didn’t want her in eternal turmoil for committing suicide, not being forgiven by God. I believe God doesn’t give us more than we can bare, and from it we get stronger. I was living proof of that fact. I thought she knew this because she prayed constantly. What had happened to her faith in God? All these things wreak havoc in my head, like the poignant smell that lingers in the air after boiled eggs are burned. I needed to open a window, to let out the burning stench. I choked on it. Just then, the deputy came in and told me the visit had been arranged that would allow me to see Malcolm. I cried a swollen cry, that crashed like a wave, and thanked her. I told Philip the news getting a hold of myself. The deputy gave me a number to give Philip to call so the finals could be arranged, like who was coming and was their car insured before coming in the compound. I hung up and waited while pacing. It would be a few more hours before the visit. * * * An hour passed and I was called back to Mental Health. I didn’t know what was up now. Maybe they changed their mind, or my son had lost his. A flood of possibilities drowned me. My nerves were shot as I walked back to Mental Health. Is anyone else dead? Did my son snap, from everyone bugging him? I couldn’t take any more bad news. The psychologist asked me if I felt like talking now; I was both relieved and irritated. I said, “No.” I felt like slapping her for the added aggravation she caused me. I was content for the moment, knowing my son was being allowed to visit. Why wasn’t she getting it? What I needed wasn’t going to come from her. I wanted to see for myself that Malcolm was okay. Then the psychologist asked, “Do you think you might need Mental Health in on the visit?” I wanted to say, “Hell no,” but I didn’t. I needed to start remembering what I was taught in the past, and use it, before they drive me crazy. I knew what my son was talking about now. “If we need you,” I said, “I will certainly ask that you be brought in.” I
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smirked at her with an expression that resembled a smile, thinking, I would like you to stop bothering me. I started to explain to her what calling me to Mental Health was doing to me, but I couldn’t hurt her feelings. She was doing her job. She didn’t know me. I asked instead if she might spare some paper for me to write with. “I only just got here and have not ordered commissary yet.” “I find solace in writing and that gives comfort to me, besides I want to write my son a letter. Can you spare a few sheets?” She was more than happy to give them to me, to know she was helping me in some way, was the only way to get her to stop. I had been a licensed counselor, but didn’t have the energy to explain that to her either. I studied diligently in college, and through my counseling courses I learned about myself. I knew she would encourage writing. It is a counseling technique; one of its uses is to open up patients who don’t want to talk. If I had not suggested this; she may have never stopped summoning me to Mental Health. I surprised myself; how could I think? I did. I didn’t like the burden of having to think for everyone else now, just to get what I need. *
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The visit took place around 1:30 pm. It was a contact visit; I was surprised. I thought all jail visits were behind glass, as they are on TV. I hugged my son, I knew immediately he was okay. I could tell by the expression on his face. ‘My Baby’ brought him. That’s what I have called her since she was born. She and I hugged for a long time. I couldn’t wait for her to let go of me. It was too emotional. I worried that I might have to do something for her; I was barely there. Thinking, for everyone around here, still being judged like a caged animal, I couldn’t take much more. I wanted this visit over with the second it started. They asked what I was doing in work boots and jeans. “Prison strips,” I said and laughed. “I was assigned to horticulture.” “In jail?” Maya asked. “This is the branch of the jail where if you haven’t done any real crime, you come here. This is not Orange County Jail, this is just a branch of it. There are no bars, and there is a pool table in our cell. It’s like a big
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summer camp.” I said these things purposely for my son to hear, so he wouldn’t worry about me – and it was true. I started off at Orange County Jail in Santa Ana where it’s like the slumber party from hell. You check in, but who knows when you check out. We laughed, when I told them this. I was glad to hear them laugh. I felt it meant they would be all right eventually because they hadn’t lost the ability to laugh. I asked if they knew anything – anything else they wanted to tell me about what had happened. My son said, “I’m fine.” He is like me, I thought. He had talked to everyone about his feelings the way I taught him, and he was fine. “Please ask them to stop trying to make me see a doctor,” he said. I thought, yeah, he’s fine - he’s complaining. “I will.” I assured him. You know your Grandma means well, I thought. She over reacts, that’s all, but couldn’t be bothered explaining that. I thought it was obvious; anyway. I was happy to know what I had taught him had kicked in when I wasn’t around. I feel like someone important listens to me. Maya told me Lady had been listening to a cassette on her Walkman while she was hanging there. How odd, I thought, then asked, “What was it?” “That group she loved,” Maya told me. I’m glad she had the comfort of music but it wasn’t enough. I love music and have used it to make me feel better. She needed more than a good song-induced drunken cry I was guessing. ‘Peace girl at war’ was the screen name she asked me to set up for her, when I could show her how to surf the net. However, Lady never went online; I had told her she was computer challenged. She threw a few cuss words at me. I laughed at her. There were still so many things she hadn’t done that might have given her joy. “Their lead singer is dead too you know,” I said. “He committed suicide, maybe she felt like he understood her,” Maya speculated. I didn’t give a damn. I was ready to leave. I needed to be alone, and think. I thought I understood Lady. If she could only have gotten over her feelings of inadequacy. She was not inadequate. What burdened her so? “I’m not familiar with their lyrics, are you?”
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“No,” I said, starting to sound impatient. “What scripture was she reading?” I asked. “We don’t know.” “The wind could have blown the pages,” I said. “I guess” Maya replied. “I didn’t think of that.” “I wrote a poem; I would like it to be put on her eulogy. “Take it to Mom, Malcolm,” I said. “I wrote it at a time when I felt no one could help me.” Here I am naked, exposed and complete, angered and hurt by what scars me so deep. I am mad at the path my life chose to seek; wishing hindsight had already met me. Emotions run through me like sap in the trees, my branches extended with brown falling leaves. Here I am pathetic, planted but free; my eyes weeping the sap of my deep-rooted seeds. But the power of God, will not forsake me; the sun and the rain will heal all my leaves. “The message is appropriate,” I said. “I remember that poem,” Malcolm said. “Okay, you’re all right, I better go back now. This is an official visit.” I don’t like special treatment, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Deputies had certain looks on their faces, as if waiting for me to do something drastic. “I’m really happy they allowed this visit.” We hugged again, and they left. I went back to the cell and thanked the deputy who had set it up. I would be grateful to her and My Baby, for as long as I would remember the day.
CHAPTER 5 When I returned to the holding area, a black lady approached me and said, “If you feel you need to talk, you can ask for me. I’m the coach here.” I remembered her face from when I was on my way back to the cell walking with the psychologist. That whole scene was mostly a blur; I noticed her because she was the only black face. I thanked her and said, “I might just take you up on that offer.” I knew I might need to talk as time went on. Her offer seemed genuine – out of concern the way black people feel deep and show emotion, like really good actors. I was sentenced to 45 days in jail. I would miss the funeral. Back in the cell, I was tired of everyone else asking what had happened, why was I upset, and was I okay? The swing shift deputy kept asking me if I felt like running; I wasn’t about to continue to put up with her. I didn’t understand why she was asking me that over and over. She went out of her way to fuck with people. I was not in the mood to be fucked with. This deputy was like a booger you can’t flick off your finger. I finally snapped. I yelled at her to leave me alone and get out of my face. At the main jail this wouldn’t be happening, I thought. So I asked to see a sergeant, so I could return to Orange County Main Jail. There are bars and cells with no concern for running, no privileges like going outside or looking out of the window, and definitely no clock on the wall or pool table. The deputy called the sergeant on the phone with a different voice from the one she used while speaking with me; asking him to come over to talk with me. Her changed attitude remained; the sergeant arrived; the deputy avoided looking at me. The sergeant assured me the deputy was only doing her job, after he heard her doctored version of what had happened before he arrived.
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“It didn’t feel that way to me.” He listened to me tell my version. Then he asked me if I had asked to see a chaplain. “Yes, I have already asked to see one, but there is no chaplain available.” He looked as if he were bothered by this news. After we talked, the sergeant agreed to administratively transfer me back to the Main. I had overheard Booger talking with her male deputy coworker while I waited to be transferred back. He was asking her why she was so negative. I wasn’t wrong about her. He seemed to be validating my accusation to the sergeant about her, by allowing me to over hear him speak this way to her. I liked the fact the sergeant defended his subordinate’s position. I was an outsider and jail inmate that he couldn’t show any signs of weakness in front of. Although, I did feel comforted by his genuine concern for my situation at the same time. If he were the level-headed yet sensitive type, she would be exposed to him for what she truly was, eventually. I couldn’t waste anymore time trying to make him aware of her insensitive and unprovoked intrusions on my psyche. I didn’t have any more energy to try and convince him differently. *
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It was around 6:00 pm when I left the Musick Branch. I made it upstairs around 2:00 am at the Main Jail. I went to cell H7 bed 10. I felt better but I was tired from the whole process. I talked to a woman who had been here a month already. Her name is Cookie. She offers me the use of her deodorant, and baby powder if I needed them later on. This gesture is either an act of kindness or the start of a jail house romance, or both, I thought, kidding with myself. How would we break up? I felt like I needed a laugh. I’m not even gay; I laughed inside my head. I rather wished I was, maybe someone I liked could comfort me now. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt and not look for other motives, when my judgment has been influenced by what I’ve heard previously elsewhere though it hadn’t been my own personal experience. I tried to make myself aware of what I was doing when this happened, so I could stop doing it. I thanked her, explained that I was at ‘The Farm’ but was administratively transferred back. The Farm is the name the Musick Facility is called because they grow their own food there.
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She asked, “Why?” “I asked to come back.” “Did you refuse to work? You can’t stay at the Farm and not work.” She continued folding magazine paper, sitting on her top bunk, never looking up from what she was doing. “No. I had a death in my family and needed to get away from Camp Snoopy.” Everyone was too happy, and cliquish there anyway. “The feeling, I had was that the women there thought they were better, because they were getting more privileges than the women over here, equating themselves that way.” “You’re kind of smart huh?” she said. I ignored her comment and kept talking. How could she know that already? “We’re in jail, and in jail we are all the same, locked up. I didn’t want the guards worrying me either, asking if I was thinking of running.” “I hear you.” Then she asked, “What are you in for?” “Driving on a suspended license.” “Are they putting people in jail for that these days” she asked, and laughed. “I guess so. I was sentenced to 60 days. What did you do?” I asked. “I’m about to go to prison for three years.” We left it at that. “What are you doing?” Whatever it was, she was diligent. “Making birds,” she said. “Jailbirds.” I commented. We laughed. She was folding origami birds, out of magazine paper. *
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That morning later on sometime after lunch, which is at 11:00 am, I woke up. I telephoned home to my mother’s house. She told, me she was arranging my release for the funeral. “How are you doing that?” I was stunned. “I went to court and asked a judge.” They are considering it? I thought. Mom was excellent when given the chance to litigate. She has a brilliant, sharp mind. If she had been educated, she could have been an attorney or politician easily. It was times like this when I was really proud of her, even though I worried if I would ever see daylight again after her intervention. She has the spirit of a mother bird, whose eggs you don’t take from the nest. I just hope she hasn’t pecked the hell out of anybody during her quest
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for my release. She asked, “You do want to go, don’t you?” I felt pressured to agree. I was guessing she could hear in my voice my reluctance to leave jail. In spite of our estranged relationship, she still knew me. I resented her, because she knew. Knowing my boundaries meant she knew. I required her honesty and she wasn’t honest with me. I dishonestly said, “Yes.” I felt my presence was required; not that I really had a chance to think about it. I was proud of the way she sorted it out and I didn’t want to rain on her parade. I knew the funeral would be a pseudo-funeral of what the real one should be. Leaving jail, in the middle of my sentence, will be difficult enough. I wanted to get my sentence over with. This funeral would be for them: everyone who had lost interest in Lady, everyone who tried to change her instead of help accept her deal with who she was. I didn’t think I met that criteria, nor did I want to take part in the production – that would mean I was in agreement of it and that was another lie. I knew it wasn’t going to be anything like what I would have planned for her or us.
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CHAPTER 6 It happened in West Hollywood around 3:00 am. I turned on the windshield wipers. Harry is my friend, I didn’t know Sean. I had just met him; Harry introduced us as they got in my car. They’d been walking down Santa Monica Blvd. On my way, I saw them and pulled over. I gave them a ride up the street where I was going. I pulled onto Spaulding, a residential side street. We started to get out of my car; we were going to a bar that stayed open all night – in fact never closed. I let Harry and Sean out of the back seat. Harry asked, “Is it okay if I leave this in here?” “Yeah,” I said. I was going to meet Larry. He was at the door of the club, leaving as we entered. They greeted each other. Larry was jealous I was with them. I’m sure he was thinking they were the reason I was late. “I’m glad I caught up with you. I started not to come.” “Why,” he asked. “A feeling or first thought.” I didn’t like to ignore my intuition, consequences have always been severe and long whenever I’ve done that in the past. But I had been so careless with time as of late, “I thought I had probably missed you. I’m sorry; getting a late start. I was writing.” “I sure hope you are famous one day, as much as you write,” he said. We laughed, he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. He knew I was sorry he had to wait so long for my arrival. This wasn’t the first time. I did feel bad about it. He always waited for me. Whenever I arrived he would still be there. He turned and walked out the door of the club with his arm resting on my shoulder, and my arm around his waist. “I’m leaving you,” he announced. “I’m getting tired of waiting for you,” he said, walking me toward my car. In a lower tone I said, “Don’t go, I’m here now; this place is open all night.” I turned him around. “So? I’ve been here all night waiting for your ass,” he turned me back around. We walked to my car and I got inside. He leaned in the passenger window once I let it down. He looked as if he wasn’t certain about what he was going to do. “Are you getting in or not?” I asked. “I’ll take you to your truck.” “I don’t know. I hate you; I wish you loved me as much as you do writing. I miss you.” “You won’t harass me when I’m famous, make a decision. Get in,” I commanded. “I love you too, Honey,” he said. We laughed. “Let’s go, I’ll tell you all about my new book.” “Go where?”
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“To your house,” I suggested. “I gave Harry and his new beau a ride. I saw them walking down the street, on their way here. I’ll have to come back for them, they’re tweaking anyway.” “They’ll be up the rest of the night, they’re just getting warm,” he said. “They went straight to the dance floor.” “They’re going to wonder what happened to me.” “So.” Larry said. “Get in.” I repeated. “What are you looking at?” “Do you see that cop pulling up by you?” “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.” “You always claim you’re psychic.” We laughed. “It doesn’t work like that.” Who cares I thought. I’m sober as a judge, I’m not even driving yet. So, what. “Hey, Harry left some Speed in here so they would let him in the club after they searched him at the door.” Larry opened his eyes wide. “What should I do?” I asked. “I don’t know.” “Walk away.” “No.” I started to think about karma, vibes, and God. “I’m sure they need probable cause to search us, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. They’ll probably just keep going.” We aren’t doing anything wrong. I rationalized to help with my nervousness. I was desensitized to drugs because I was comfortable with them; I had used them. It never occurred to me to tell Harry no. “Put your hands on the hood of the car.” The officer told Larry. “Get out, and put your hands on the hood of your car.” “Are you talking to me officer?” I said in disbelief. They searched Larry first. I got out. Larry had Cocaine, Valium’s, Tylenol three’s and four’s in his wallet. This couldn’t be good. Even I was shocked by what he had on him. I’m sure the cops thought I was making a purchase. Then the Speed was found in my car, which they were already searching. I had been guilty in the past; why was I in trouble now? I had a traffic warrant. I would be in custody for at least that much. I didn’t have the money to pay a ticket I had received. I did community service instead, but was never credited. I resented having to deal with it again, so I didn’t. My driver’s license was now suspended. I hoped it would sort itself out somehow when they realized their mistake. It didn’t. I had no idea how long I would be dealing with it this time, or the events that were about to plague me. I started to play ‘imagine,’ a game I used to play with Lady. Larry and I weren’t going to have to worry about bailing out of jail, or finding time to meet each other ever again. We are rich and hang out all the time, because I’m a famous writer. I can afford to stay out of jail. Larry needs me, and he loves me, just like Lady. Larry was the male version of Lady. He’s a God as far as looks go. He’s about six-four or five, medium build. With a face of a goddess he is pretty enough to be a woman, but masculine. It is difficult to find him unattractive, no matter who you are, when he’s naked. He’ll dress a cross between Liberace and Elton John, often times gluing rhinestones to his forehead. I hate the way he dresses.
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He appears effeminate, but isn’t. He’s confusing to look at. I cried as the cop car drove me away. I thought about all the times Larry had been there for me in spite of his burdened life; living as a celibate gay man and hating himself or his sexual preference. He would not walk away. If he had just got in the car, we would’ve left already. Instead, he continued being difficult. That was his usual self. When he was sober, he gave me such insight into who he really was. I really liked him, though I couldn’t trust him. He was a lot of fun. I loved him. I was one of the few who were allowed to see him as himself. Just like Lady, I loved him. Also, like Lady, he did not listen to me. I had thought about introducing the two of them, but they would probably rob and kill someone over drugs. He was as handsome and as talented as she was – and lacked the self-control she lacked.