Tryin To Figure It Out
by Crazy Mama
SMASHWORDS EDITITION
PUBLISHED BY: Donna Maysack on Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 by Donna Maysack
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DEFINITION OF GHETTO DIRECTLY QUOTED FROM URBAN DICTIONARY: (adj.) jury-rigged, improvised, or home-made (usually with extremely cheap or sub-standard components), yet still deserving of an odd sense of respect from ghetto dwellers and non-ghetto dwellers alike
January 10, 2010
FREE ME FROM THE GHETTO WITHIN
For those who may be blissfully unaware, I want to preface this by acknowledging the word ghetto like many words, has evolved and changed from its original definition. These days the term is used to describe people, attitudes, culture, clothing, even diction. Yes, the ghetto has expanded and now is so much more. When I was young many who lived in the ghetto were African American, but for my purposes, I want to make it clear all the people in my ghetto are white. White as toilet paper.
We don't live in the ghetto, yet somehow it lives in my children. I awoke one day to find it in my home. How did I get children from the ghetto? I don't know, but believe it may’ve been lying dormant since birth like a virus or parasite and triggered by a rap song they listened to in junior high. Regardless of where it came from, I need to get rid of it. I wonder if there's something I can spray or some kind of ghetto repellent. If there isn't, there ought to be.
My beautiful daughter Mya isn't ghetto, yet is oddly attracted to it. She just rented her first apartment there and promptly informed me her boyfriend Tre Ghetto will be her new roommate. My heart was set on a handsome, young resident from the hospital where she works, but now I must come to terms with the fact he'd probably have been quite put off when Mr.-I-Can't-Wait-Til-I'm-Off-Papers answered the door. So I have to settle for the car-stealing, condom-challenged arsonist who, according to Mya, I misunderstand and have much too harshly judged.
Mya's had her share of ghetto boys. First was Jonny Ghetto, a nice felon who never lived in the ghetto either. He grew up in a gated community. I know he makes his dad so proud. Her next boyfriend, Andre Ghetto is actually from the ghetto. He broke up with her to have sex with a neighborhood prostitute who gave him herpes.
Her latest, Tre, comes with the extra bonus of Baby Ghettos and Baby Mama Ghettos. He hasn't told us yet exactly how many of those he has. Who'd have guessed he has honesty issues? Certainly not the other inmates! So hurry honey, run out and get him a key made! While your at it, stop by the landlords and upgrade to the 5 bedroom so you'll have enough room for the kids. A step-mom-girlfriend at 20 years old! Congrats! Before you leave, tho, could you take that lighter away from your boyfriend...just kidding...but has anyone seen my car?
In spite of his secrets, Tre's not without aspirations and goals. Recently he was overheard discussing them with coworkers at the Dairy Queen. He explained he plans to complete parole, settle all his paternity suits and get fucked up. What's a white boi without a dream?
You may be thinking what a blessed mom I am, how my cup runneth over, how can one girl be so lucky? Well, I'm here to say I'm doubly blessed with my son Willy.
Ill-Willz’ how he's known in da hood. Illz holds the record amongst all his friends for the most sales of dope to undercover officers. By now you'd think he'd realize he's just not cut out to be a dope dealer, but not my Illz. I didn't raise no quitter. He's dat tall white boi yal met up at da Speedway. Yal said you was good on dem thangs today. Yal should hit him up. I know I'd like to...right upside his head.
Not only is he an entrepreneur, but also highly educated having almost passed sixth grade three times. It's not only academics in which he excels. No! He's street wise and savvy. Recently he explained the guy he met at the Speedway can't be an undercover cop cuz, “He black.” But Illz...what about the guy with the dreads driving the Lincoln who arrested you six months ago?
Illz has an interesting swagger. It's necessary because he wears his pants around his knees. To prevent them from falling to his ankles he has to keep his feet spread about two feet apart and walk with straightened legs. Since his pants are around his knees, he keeps his butt covered by his size 25x Coogi shirt. For a long time I didn't understand his aversion to public transportation, but finally figured, with the way he wears his pants, it's impossible to board the bus. Illz is a stiff legged walking dichotomy. He has a pocket full of money, but no job, a car, but no license, standards, but no morals, a head but no brain.
You've heard of highly decorated soldiers in the armed forces? Well, my son is highly decorated as well...with home made tattoos. I remember years ago sitting behind the defendants table. There were what appeared to be gang symbols tattooed on his wrist. I was horrified. Before they escorted him from the court room I asked, "Are those gang symbols Illz?" He held up his arm so I could see it actually spelled 'WILL' upside down. He'd done it himself and couldn't get the angle quite right.
Since that special day he's added more body art. Special slogans like: C.R.E.A.M. (cash rules everything around me) on his neck, Mad Man written on his wrists, OUTLAW on his left arm and M.O.B. scrawled across his right. I was a little concerned with that last one. "Organized crime, Illz?" I feared. No...better...'Money Over Bitches,' is what it stands for. He's sure to woo the ladies with that one.
I figure if you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well profit off ‘em. All this has inspired me to create my own line of baby clothes and gear. You've heard of Baby Gap and Baby Phat? Well, my line will be called Baby Ghetto. Not sold in stores, but out of the trunks of strategically parked Chevy Caprices throughout the hood.
We'll offer T-shirts with catchy phrases like: ‘Waitin' on the DNA’, ‘White Boi!’, ‘Free Ill-Wills’, ‘My Crib's In Da Hood’, ‘Kickin' It In Da Womb’, and my son-in-laws personal favorite ‘P.I.M.P.’ (poo in my pants).
We'll also sell baby equipment like strollers with spinning rims, shag carpet covered handles, big fuzzy dice stroller toys, extra large cup holders for your 40 ounce and secret compartments to stash your crack when the cops unexpectedly roll up.
Our diaper bags will have plenty of storage for all the items you find in unlocked cars in the parking lot and our baby carriers will double as holsters. Our slogan? “Functionality has never looked so hood.” With every $50 you spend we’ll throw in a certificate for free paternity testing.
January 11, 2010
LET HIM EAT CAKE
The first time Illz spent his birthday in jail, he was a young teen. I felt so bad for him being there, I called the head of the jail and asked if I could bring him a cake. First he had to check who Illz was and if he'd been behaving. "Looks like your son's been doing very well," he relayed when he returned to the line. "It says here he's been cooperative and polite. You can bring the cake, but you'll have to bring enough for everybody."
I was momentarily filled with relief and a strange sense of pride. He hadn't gotten into any trouble since being arrested. I didn't raise a rude convict! Maybe I'd never have a bumper sticker proclaiming he was on the honor roll, but could have one that said, "My son's the best behaved inmate in juvenile detention (and could kick your honor roll student's ass)!" I'd always brought treats to school for his birthdays, so this wasn't much different, right? Actually it was painfully different, but I baked 100 cupcakes and drove downtown.
It's likely he'll spend the next several birthdays behind bars. I stopped bringing cupcakes a while ago. As much as it sucks visiting him in jail, there's one thing I love about it. It's the only time I get to see him sober. So I have to be at least a little thankful he spends so much time there. It's a sad, sad place, the jail. I don't fit in at all. Even after all these years, more than a decade, I still feel feel so outta place. I stick out like a soccer mom in an Ablanche faux chinchilla.
Standing in line with the other moms, girlfriends, sisters, many with little children, waiting for my token to lock up my cell phone and keys. Waiting for the guard to buzz us in the first door,. I still jump every time it slams and locks before we’re buzzed through the second heavy steel door.
There’s assigned seating so we take our places opposite our inmate. Separated by glass, we speak on a telephone. Every word recorded, every movement too. Such an uncomfortable, dirty, undesirable way to spend 45 minutes.
I wonder who fits in there? Not the guards. They all look like they can't wait to get out. It's certainly not the children. My heart breaks seeing how many of them are seeing family members in jail. Children shouldn't have to see their dads like that. It's not even the inmates, dressed in the same jail blue shirt and pants, sittin' behind the glass, fidgeting in their chairs, hoping someone will visit. Nobody's comfortable there. Maybe because no one really belongs there.
It's certainly not where God wants us to be. Well, the fact is I don't want to, but I do belong there, as much as the others. My sons an offender, soon to be felon (he's recently graduated). So in Illz' crazy, mixed up world, I'm right where I belong.
January 12, 2010
I AM ANGRY ANYMORE
I decided I needed to go to the doctor and get some pills so I wouldn't want to punch people in the face anymore. People in general, and quite often, annoy me. I try to be pleasant, but it's an effort and I suck at it. I don't want to talk to anyone and don't want you in my way... Not a cheery disposition, certainly not peppy and perky.
What surprised me is how many people want these pills too. Every single person I told I was going to get the pills to make me not want to punch people in the face anymore wanted them too. Kinda comforting in a uncomfortable way. I'm not alone, but on the other hand, everyones as angry and annoyed as me.
So I went to the doctor and got some. They worked great for a few weeks, but now I'm back to wanting to at least pinch people in the face real hard. It’s not a charmed life, my existence, but I’m truly blessed with 6 out of 7 beautiful children, all my basic needs being met and surpassed, and some great friends I love. So why do I want to punch people in the face? Simply put, because many people are fucking morons, a lot of them are just plain rude, some are stupid and many are mean.
Now I consider myself Christian. Yes, I'm a Christian who says fuck, but Christian nonetheless. I try to serve others, help those in need, go to church, donate my time and money, read bible verses, pray many times a day, even bring communion to peoples homes, I'm fairly Christian. I'm just a pissed off one.
As a pissed off Christian I feel I experience extra pressures I imagine aren't felt by regular pissed off atheists. I'm supposed to look at others as Jesus would. I'm sure Jesus didn't think people were moronic, overlooked their rudeness, merely giggled at their stupidity and ignored them for being mean. Let's face it, we can be pretty certain he ignored them being mean with that whole crucifixion thing, ya know? Oh, and I doubt he ever said fuck either.
So it's a veritable quandary. How to reconcile I really want to hurt you, but I know God doesn't want me to feel this way. Well, it's a struggle I call life. Everyday I get up and try not to punch people in the face, bite my tongue when they're mean and smile when I want to kick them because truth be told as much as I'd like to punch them in the face, don't want my children to see that, I really don't want to share a cell with Illz and I'm trying to do as Jesus would want.
It’d be nice if God could cooperate by putting a few less morons in my path, but I guess he must be trying to teach me something about patience, kindness, love and compassion. Unfortunately, it isn't working. So I'm heading back to the doctor to get