Never Forgot You

Never Forgot You

Denise Woods

Never Forgot You

Denise Woods

Never Forgot You, Denise Woods The Literary Arts Department Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet

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Reproduction in any form by any means without specific written permission from the individual is prohibited.

For copies or inquiries: Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 Literary Arts Department Mara Cregan 111 Ninth Street Pittsburgh, PA 15222 mcregan1@pghschools.org

Ms. Melissa A. Pearlman, Principal 

1. Just Like Old Times 2. Do Not Forget Your Father 3. 25 Reasons To Stay You 4. It’s All Right, It's Over 5. You’re Never Truly Alone 6. Control Yourself 7. Improper Dialect 8. Dear Mother Of Mine 9. Dulled Voices, Vivid Memories

Just Like Old Times After Marsha Ambrosius, “Old Times”

“Daddy, we know him,” I said. My father was silent. His name was DeAndre. Him and my father were childhood friends. They cheated on tests together, kept each other out of serious trouble, and motivated each other to finish high school. They did everything together. People considered them brothers.

His face, brown, bloody, and bruised, was plastered on the tv screen. He was being arrested for multiple offenses but my father knew he had gotten caught up with drugs.

I watched my father pace around the room. Curse words filled the air until my father choked up and could no longer speak. He fell to his knees and buried his face deep into his palms, shaking his head.

We didn’t speak much that night. I’d never seen my father so upset before. He kept calling off work for over a month. Every day I'd cook breakfast and dinner for him to make sure he never starved.

It's been 10 years since then. Yesterday, my father and I were eating spaghetti and laughing the night away.

“You’re always up to something,” He said.

There was a bang on the door. My father grabbed a small pocket knife and approached the door slowly. He looked through the peephole.

“Why are you here?” He asked. There was hostility in his voice.

“I have no where else to go. I lost everything Jerome.”

I got up from the table and creeped over to the door. There was a brown skin man with scars on his face and tattoos running up and down his arms. His hair was short and picked out into an afro. I stood firmly behind my father and looked DeAndre in his eyes.

“Let him in,” I said. I could sense his indecisiveness. I beckoned for him to come in. My father never forgave himself for letting their friendship fade. He didn’t have to say a word, I knew he still blamed himself for DeAndre’s arrest. He was DeAndre’s closest friend, his only at that, and my father wasn’t there when he needed him the most.

My father has a habit of forgetting and not forgiving so when he seen DeAndre, all those emotions came rushing back to him and once again, he choked up on his words.

“There’s spaghetti on the table if you’re hungry. I’ll bring you some blankets. The couch is pretty comfortable,” I said.

“Anything is better than a prison bed. I appreciate it,” he said to me.

The dining room was silent and awkward tension filled the air.

“How’d you let yourself get so low?” My father asked. DeAndre looked up at him, stunned. He told us everything. He told us how he got caught up in fines and he needed fast money to dig himself out the financial hole he was in. It had gotten to the point he couldn’t feed his kids. He continued telling us the story of what my father missed and how he got caught.

I went into the kitchen to grab another plate for him and I heard laughter coming from the other room. A smile spread across my face.

“Just like old times. Right father?” I said.

Do Not Forget Your Father After Kyle Gets, “Do Not Let A Boy In After The First Date”

Do not forget how your father kissed your mother’s lips before her illness overcame her. He'd be at her bedside from 5pm to 6am when which he'd have to leave for work. On the days when her legs weren’t strong he’d help bathe her. He’d remind her that she didn’t look a day over 21 even though her skin had become pale and parts of her hair had fallen out. If you forgot this, you’d forget how a man is supposed to always see the beauty in you.

Do not forget when your father took you on your first date. He’d come home from work everyday full of stories to tell you. He’d kiss you on your forehead and remind you he got paid next week. That was his way of telling you to figure out where you wanted to go eat. The first time he took you out to dinner, you were only 11 years old. He told you to order what your heart desired. If you forget this night, you’d forget how a man is supposed to treat you.

When you get older you’ll meet a boy who’ll love your curls but not your ‘fro.

When you get out of the shower and you’ve finished washing your hair he’ll come into the bathroom and wrap his arms around you. In this moment your hair will still be wet.

Your curls would hang down to your shoulders and bounce freely. He’d run his calloused hands smoothly through your hair and kiss your lips but once you blow dry it he’ll turn

into Caspar. Your hair will stand on its own and he will no longer love it. He won’t hug you from behind while you pick out the kinks. He won’t always see the beauty in you.

When you get older you’ll meet a boy who’ll love your body but not your soul.

You’ll go to parties and he’ll gawk at the rhythm in your bones and how your hips swing and rock. When your body is tired he’ll swoop you into his arms and whisper in your ear to keep moving. He’ll spend his own money to make sure the bathroom would be filled high with makeup, skin, and hair products. He’ll buy you tons of razor to shave your legs. He’ll tell you to shave your legs even when your body is tired. He won’t always treat you the way a man is supposed to.

And whatever you do, do not forget how your father kissed your mother and took you on your first date. Even if you do, and you meet a boy who treats you improperly, do not let him break your heart. You’ll meet another man who’ll be more like your father. You'll walk down the aisle with him in one hand and your father in the other. Together, in unison they will tell you how beautiful you look.

24 Reasons To Stay You After Mathew Burnside, “Oblivion’s Fugue” 1. Having a college education looks good on resumes but that’s not why your father went back to school. He wanted to be able to support you and be the best father he could be for you.

2. The stranger that came up to you the other day wasn’t homeless despite his raggedy attire. He spends majority of his money on his kids and saves little for himself. He gave the chicken sandwich you bought him to his kids, and saved a bite or so for him.

3. Your father would rather tell you he’s out with his boys than tell you he’s working overtime. In the past, every time he told you that he wanted to work late shifts you’d throw a hissy fit and complain about the lack of time you two spend together.

4. Your friends are all jealous of you. They seen how far you’ve gotten and they’re afraid they’ll never catch up. That’s the real reason why they didn’t want to hang out with you as much anymore.

5. When your father was younger, he got pulled over by a cop for speeding. He went to jail for not knowing his rights. That summer, he put you in a civil rights class.

6. Your principal sees how persistent you are. She seen the fire in your eyes and had too much respect for you to allow you to argue with a teacher over whether or not you should have detention for sitting during the pledge of allegiance.

7. Before your brother went to college, he started a fire in the back yard and the two of you made s’mores. You were so happy and kept telling him how much you loved him. It broke his heart to tell you that he was leaving to join the military.

8. Your first kiss was in the back yard in front of the fire with Keshawn. His lips were smooth and warm. Even though he never touched you and it was only a peck, he felt a connection.

9. He had a girlfriend when he kissed you.

10. Your father told you to stay away from cheaters but what he really meant to tell you was that he knew Keshawn had a girl. He couldn’t handle breaking your heart.

11. The doctors won’t tell you that your father is sick. Your father won’t tell you that he is sick. No one wants to tell you that your father is sick.

12. Your father told your teachers not to tell you what your grades are.

13. Your grandmother has trip money saved in the bank but your father doesn’t associate with her. He just always told you that she didn’t have the money to see ya'll whenever you asked.

14. Your aunts and uncles love you dearly but your father never let them come near you.

They were all drug dealers and prison was their second homes. Your father said they were always too busy.

15. On your way to school, you seen an older man selling weed to a younger boy. That boy was his son, Keshawn’s best friend. He had resorted to smoking and drinking to cope with Keshawn’s death.

16. Your father almost fell into the same trap.

17. Your father never forgave himself for not giving you your mother’s family photo album when you turned 13.

18. Your father finally gave you the photo album full of your mother’s side of the family when you turned 18. He felt you weren’t ready yet when in reality, he was the one who’s heart was still damaged.

19. Your teacher forgot to grade your test and accidentally threw it away. You got a good grade out of pure luck, not hard work. You would’ve had a failing grade.

20. The manager position he applied for at the local grocery store gave him a common knowledge test and he failed. They hired him because they seen the fire in his eyes.

21. One of your classmates was getting bullied for having a pair of shoes that looked identical to a pair of Jordans that just came out. You stood up for her, calling the whole class out. That night she told her mom and they’re planning on helping your father get you another phone for Christmas.

22. Even thought Christmas was never your favorite holiday, you always volunteered for the toy drive. Every child you’ve talked to wants to help others just like you.

23. Your father never told you that your brother isn’t your full blood brother.

24. The night you were born, your father stayed and slept in his car in the parking lot.

That was back when he had his busted up car with no heat. He was sick as a dog for the next couple of days.

“It’s All Right, It’s Over” After Molly Giles, “It’s Over” I was 14 when I seen my friend Keshawn laying in a casket.

We’d been best friends since we were just learning how to use our legs.

Keshawn was my first kiss, first crush, and first heartbreak. I opened the church doors and was greeted by overfilled pews with black hats and brown hands clasped together.

The air felt thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe. A hand grazed my shoulder and I reached to grab it. I glanced back, my father was standing behind me with a grim look on his face. A fair skinned woman came over to me and placed her hand on top of my father and I’s.

“Oh My’Asia, I’m so sorry. If you need anything, come talk to me,” she said. It was Keshawn’s older sister, Keona. I gripped her hand up, I could feel her pulse. She was shorter than me with darkened hazed over hazel eyes. Grief had gotten the best of her. I nodded my head, keeping my words and thoughts tucked away under my tongue.

I walked towards the coffin sitting in the middle of the room. Displayed behind it was a beautiful picture of Keshawn. I remembered when he took that picture. We were celebrating his 15th birthday, just a couple of months before he died. He had bright lively hazel eyes and dreads that just barely reached his shoulder. His face was sculpted with a dimple on his right cheek but not his left. My shoes echoed off the floor, with every step I took I was getting closer and closer to him. His coffin was left open, allowing people—me—to see his face for one last time.

I peered inside. He looked happy and content. For a second I thought I seen a smile just starting to bloom on his face. Part of me wanted to reach in and hold his hand

one last time but there wasn’t nothing to hold but a corpse. It wasn’t Keshawn no more, it was a lifeless body who lost their voice in the wind. My eyes began to water up. I wouldn’t ever hear him make fun of my voice no more or be able to go over his house to eat his mother’s mac n cheese. My father pulled me away from the coffin and into the side aisle. He hugged me tight and everything within me wanted to burst. I felt myself gasping for air and calling out for a name that no longer belonged to a living person.

“He’s not hurting no more baby. It’s all right, it’s over,” he said.

You’re Never Truly Alone After Svetlana Beggs, “The Photo”

“You’ve been acting different,” Kay, the assistant principle said. She is light skin on the verge of brown. Her curls with blonde highlights grazes her shoulders and her eyes are a fresh cup of coffee, straight black. No one seemed to like her that much, and that was because she was the “hawk in the hall” and pulled aside any students who seem to be struggling.

For the past couple of days I’d been skipping classes. Some days I’d wake up feeling better than others and I’d decide to give it a second shot but I wasn’t able to focus. I’d be in the back of the classroom with my hood up, earbuds in, and my head resting on my book bag.

I wanted to tell her that I was fine and I was no one she needed to worry about. I wanted to tell her that I woke up ecstatic in the morning despite the increasing number of dead bodies found on various blocks and gun shots becoming my new morning alarm clock.

“I can assure you that I’m okay,” I said. She handed me a stack of papers with “late" written in bold red letters. I shrugged my shoulders.

“Just haven’t been in my groove lately. I lost my rhythm.”

She leaned forward on the desk and took her brown cracked leather wallet out. She pulled out a photo and laid it on the table, blank side up.

“Who is Leroy to you?" she asked me. Her voice turned brittle and fragile. My ears grasped and held onto “Leroy” like a little girl who wouldn’t let go of the lollipop her mom said she couldn’t have.

Leroy was the man who saved my father’s life years ago. He’s the owner of the corner store that I, as a young child, would go skipping into and come back out with pockets full of candy. Leroy was like everyone’s uncle, everyone’s father, and my role model.

“Who is Leroy to you?” I asked. She flipped the photo over. There was a little girl whose curls with blonde highlights grazed the top of her ears. She was sitting in the lap of a brown skin man with a thick black mustache and a box cut on his head. She was sitting in the lap of a young Leroy. I wanted to grab the photo and see his mesmerizing smile again. I wanted to hear him playfully call for my father when I’d keep forgetting I owed him a soda.

A tear rolled down her cheek as she tucked the picture back into her wallet.

“You might think you’re the only one who struggles with death here, but you’re not. You’re not an outcast and this city is smaller than you may think,” she said. “I understand your pain. You might not want to get out of bed. I know your heart hurts but your lungs still need to breathe. I didn’t want to go outside and hear his whispers in the wind. All we can do is make him proud.”

I fiddled with my fingers.

“I promise I will,” I said.

“Don't promise me, promise Leroy.”

Control Yourself After M. J. Ryan, “Annalise (Avoids Her Problems And) Is Perfectly Fine” “Bye honey bunches of oats,” my father cried out to me. I rolled my eyes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before getting out his grey Sedan. My future high school was huge and had about 5 floors.

“Welcome students to one of the best rated private high schools in America!” was plastered onto the front door. As I was walked in, I was greeted by a hall filled with chattering, friendships that would later be broken, and old cliques mixing with new.

“My’Asia, is that you?” said a familiar voice. It was this girl named Lilly, the daughter of the father’s coworker/beer drinking buddy. Whenever our father’s hung out we’d stay at one of our houses and play in makeup or go ransacking our parent’s closets. It’s been years since I’ve seen her. She came skipping down the hall towards me.

“Yes ma’am, it’s me, in the flesh,” I said giving her a hug. She smelled like thousand dollar perfume and the slightest hint of beer. She’s changed. I could see it in her acne riddled pale skin and dull blue eyes.

“You look so good girl. How’s everything been? The hood treating you good?” she asked. (Pause. What did she just say?) I glanced around to see if anyone happened to be eavesdropping. My eyes returned to her chapped coral lips.

“Can you say that one more time. It’s so loud in here, I don’t think I heard you,” I said. She laughed. (I don’t understand what’s so funny.) I chuckled and flashed her an uncomfortable smile.

“I wouldn’t necessarily consider it a hood, (matter a fact, I would never consider it a hood) but it’s been all right,” I said. She rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that whenever I came over, I’d see people half dressed on corners and drugs being passed around like a hot potato,” she said. I took a deep breathe in, hoping this’ll calm me down. I hid my balled fists behind my back and slowly began to count back from 10.

“Look, stuff like that happens everywhere so don’t associate it with the place that I live because you might not see it happening right in front of your eyes,” I said, “I have to go get my new schedule so I'll see you later.” I let my fists relax and kept my hands at my sides. I took a small step forward and leaned into her ear.

“By the way, there’s just certain things you don’t say to certain people despite who you know and where you’ve been,” I said. I walked down the hall without even glancing back at her.

Improper Dialect After Jamaica Kincaid, “Girl” Look at this paper you handed me flipped over; look at the burnt holes from the other kids’ scalding stares; don’t tell me my vocabulary is wrong when I was raised with ebonics being shoved down my throat; don’t scold my parents because they believed in a school that failed to educate me; don’t degrade someone because you believe “ain’t” isn’t proper; don’t tell me the way I speak ain't right; you don’t fail a student because of their language, you fail a student because of their lack of effort and my father always said “go big or go home”; look at the dictionary and remind yourself that no book can carry the vast variety of words we use to communicate; don’t tell me you have a Ph.D when I got an RTT, right to talk; regrade those papers you collected the other day; call on the students who don’t roll their R’s when pronouncing “regulate”; call on the students who’s accents doesn’t show as much as yours; call on the students who might not speed race through the text they're reading; learn from your students just as much as they learn from you; accept your students and their different vernaculars; accept your mistakes; open your mind, not just your eyes; look past the way the words slip off the tips of their tongues and listen to the message; don’t spoon feed them ideas of how they should be nor how they should articulate; pick up the phone and apologize to my mother for making her feel at fault; apologize to my father for demeaning our family's dialect; apologize to me for telling me my terminology isn’t good enough for you; change your mindset; change your whole prejudiced grade book; remind yourself that speech isn’t set in stone; remind yourself that language is like gelatin; remind yourself that your job as a teacher is to help us prosper the way we are; ask the class a question; call on the

dude with the durag or the girl with the cornrows in her head; tell her to not be afraid to speak up, that you’re not grading through words but through the message and effort; remind her that her slight accent and use of slang doesn’t make her less than; watch the smile spread across her face and give her a hug; now look at me and tell me that there’s nothing with how I am; admit you gave me a failing biased grade; remember when you told me that my punctuation was on point but it’s my choice of words that bothered you; remember when you emphasized bothered and rolled the R; remember that everything you do, affects the rest of us.

Dear Mother Of Mine If my mother seen me today, would she recognize me?

I sat on my bed looking at a photo of my mother and I from when I was a little girl with beads and barrettes in my hair. My father told me she was a woman of her time.

“Relationships are supposed to be 50/50 but some days your mother would contribute 80 when all I could give was 20,” he told me.

My mother was a stunning wise woman. She seen the strength in other people; she seen the strength in my father. He always told me that he was a pile of clay when they first met but she had molded him into the man she knew he could be.

I wonder if I was making her proud or if she was turning, moaning and groaning inside her casket because I wasn’t reaching my full potential.

Sometimes—not very often—the words she told me when I was little would replay in my head like a broken record.

You are smart. You are kind. You are beautiful. I glanced down at the photo and for a second thought I seen my mother smile. I wonder if she seen the way I kissed Keshawn on our first date. Would she approve of the way I wore my curls? I wonder if she could hear my thoughts at night when I laid alone.

I walked over to my desk and picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. I’ll write her a note and place it on her grave. I’ll write to her about my life and the poor choices I’d made. I’ll tell her that my first time kissing Keshawn was weird and I’ll apologize for not loving myself fully. I’d remind her that my love for her would never die—maybe I won’t say that—but I’d tell her I love her.

She must be lonely. I looked down at the photo once again and began to fill up the blank spaces until I had no more room.

It’s been awhile since I’ve seen her. It’s been awhile since I’ve visited her.

I walked towards her headstone and placed a bouquet of flowers down.

“Good morning Mom,” I said, taking a seat on the ground. I envisioned her next to me as I read my note out loud to her.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

Dear Mother Of Mine If my mother seen me today, would she recognize me?

I sat on my bed looking at a photo of my mother and I from when I was a little girl.

My father told me she was a woman of her time.

“Relationships are supposed to be 50/50 but some days your mother would contribute 80 when all I could give was 20,” he told me.

My mother was a stunning wise woman. She seen the strength in my father. He always told me that he was a pile of clay when they first met but she had molded him into the man she knew he could be.

I wonder if I was making her proud or if she was turning, moaning and groaning inside her casket because I wasn’t reaching my full potential.

Sometimes the words she told me when I was little would replay in my head.

You are smart. You are kind. You are beautiful. I glanced down at the photo and for a second thought I seen my mother smile. I wonder if she seen the way I kissed Keshawn on our first date. I wonder if she could hear my thoughts at night when I laid alone.

I walked over to my desk and picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. I’ll write her a note and place it on her grave. I’ll tell her that my first time kissing Keshawn was weird. I’d remind her that my love for her would never die.

She must be lonely. I began to fill up the blank spaces.

It’s been awhile since I’ve visited her.

I walked towards her headstone and placed a bouquet of flowers down.

“Good morning Mom,” I said, taking a seat on the ground. I envisioned her next to me as I read my note out loud to her.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

Dear Mother Of Mine If my mother seen me today, would she recognize me?

I sat on my bed looking at a photo of my mother and I from when I was a little girl.

My mother was a stunning wise woman.

I wonder if I was making her proud or if she was groaning inside her casket.

Sometimes the words she told me when I was little would replay in my head.

You are smart. You are kind. You are beautiful. I glanced down at the photo and thought I seen my mother smile. I wonder if she seen the way I kissed Keshawn on our first date. I wonder if she could hear my thoughts when I laid alone.

I walked over to my desk and picked up paper and a pencil. I’ll write her a note.

I’ll tell her that my first time kissing Keshawn was weird. I’d remind her that my love for her would never die.

I began to fill up the blank spaces.

It’s been awhile since I’ve visited her.

I walked towards her headstone and placed a bouquet of flowers down.

“Good morning Mom,” I said, taking a seat on the ground. I envisioned her next to me as I read my note out loud to her.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

Dulled Voices, Vivid Memories I faintly remember the sound of her voice.

She raised me to be physically and mentally strong. She scolded me whenever I pouted around the house and no one knew what was wrong with me. Her main lesson was to never let anyone silence me, not even myself. She taught me how to love others in many ways because you never know who may be having a rough day. She showed me loopholes in the system, how to safely handle police confrontation, and how to avoid reinforcing black stereotypes. She told me to never become the angry black woman.

I was 7 years old when my mother and father sat me down at the dinner table to have a talk. My mother had filled the table with a big pot of greens, chitterlings, mac n cheese, chicken, and ham. I didn’t know what to expect, she only ever cooked on holidays.

“When you're finished with your plate, come back to the table,” my father said. I nodded my head and finished up the bit of food on my plate.

“I know you’re old enough to understand that nothing is permanent,” he said. I looked up at my mother who was staring at me. She recalled what happened a couple weeks ago when my father had lost his brother and almost himself in the process of grieving. She had taken off multiple days of work to stay home and take care of him. I remembered those days. I remembered the screaming matches, my father’s constant urge for a drink, and the nights where my mother laid in bed blaming herself for my father’s lack of healing.

I promised my mother I’d stay strong, for her. She once again scolded me, telling me that everything I do, I should do for me. She leaned over and whispered in my ear to always look out for my father. He may have been the guy of her dreams, but he's not perfect. I nodded and gave her a quick hug.

“Your mother is getting sick. The doctors don’t know if she’ll be able to bounce back and be how she was before,” My father said. My mother told me stand on my own two feet, to never allow other people to feel as though I depend on them.

I felt something break inside me. I could feel the pieces of my heart landing in my stomach. Anger rushed through my body and I wanted to prove those doctors wrong. I wanted to show them how strong my mother was but I knew she was slowly approaching second childhood. Her brown eyes lacked pigment, her skin was turning pale and her hair was thinning out. Her lips were consistently dry and her eyes were sucked in. She didn’t look like my mother anymore.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to live in a world without you," I said.

She told me to always remember her.

“Remember what she taught you,” my father said. He put his arm around me and she grabbed my hand. She told me that I’d be fine, she’d always be there in spirit, in my heart, and in my blood. She kissed me on my forehead. I wasn’t ready for her to go, not before I could make her proud.

I graduated from middle school but only her ghost came to see me. At my first choir concert, she listened to me sing from heaven. When I joined the high school basketball team and we had our first game, I felt her cheering me on through my pulsing veins.

Her advice had stuck with me for years while her voice faded into oblivion, just like Keshawn’s. I promised her that night that I’d never forget her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be a real mother to you,” she said.