Praise Be to the Plus-Sized Sister: Stories of Redemption for Full-Figured Women with Modern-Day Issues ...

By Kamané Malvo Marshall

Book Summary





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Praise
Be to the Plus-Sized Sister
is a semi-autobiographical tale of seven women from the San Francisco
Bay Area who are connected to each other by
six-degrees-of-separation. Seeking redemption from heartbreak,
infidelity, poor choices, rejection, self-sabotage, low self-esteem,
and emotional and physical abuse, Natasha, Zinnia, Israel, Addison,
Celeste, Lila, and Liberty endure the social and psychological
pressures of being full-figured black women in a thin obsessed
society. With wit, intelligence, glamour and style, and a twofold
portion of sass, these soulful sisters possess faith in the midst of
the storm, hope when tomorrow is not promised, and strength of
character when giving up seems easier than doing the right thing.
Praise Be to
the Plus-Sized Sister
is made up of six stories of redemption: Out of the Mind of Israel
Ming, Daddys Girls, The Vibrator Virgin, Count it all joy, Saving
Sister Jared, and Forgiving Liberty. Beautifully
flawed, audaciously determined, and at times downright hilarious,
Praise Be to
the Plus-Sized Sister represents
a new voice, an underrepresented story about the struggle of a unique
minority group that has been misunderstood for a long time. Written
in the rich and colorful language of the African American experience,
by no means is this book tame. It deals with real issues women
endure in modern day society, paying special attention to plus-sized
African American females who confront prejudice and discrimination on
three fronts: race, gender, and size. With
messages of hope, self-acceptance, and second chances, Kamane
Malvo Marshall
encourages her readers to keep the faith no matter what.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781465322463

Book preview

Part One

Out of the Mind of Israel Ming

On the other side of Mount Self-sabotage, redemption and deliverance abound; second chances are possible; and victory is inevitable. I am thankful for every wrong decision, every emotional breakdown, and every single moment of self-destruction. If I had not experienced any of these things, I would not be the woman I am today. When I am challenged by prejudice, misunderstood by racism, and marginalized by sexism, I don’t internalize it. I rejoice because unyielding faith is my muse. The world tried to take me out, but God built me up, refashioning me as he originally intended.

 – Israel Ming

Rock Bottom

A long silver cold tube was inserted deep into my cervix. The doctor turned on a machine that sounded like an old vacuum in need of repair. Clump by bloody clump, my unborn child ripped from my body. I felt empty like an egg with no yoke.

I was too woozy from the anesthesia to say anything about the seeping blood. The drug flowing inside of my veins pulled me in and out of sleep until a sharp pain in my lower abdomen jolted me into a sitting position.

I had just about shit on myself before a nurse responded to my call. When she walked into the hospital room, she gasped and muttered oh my God.

A pool of blood lay about me, staining the white cotton sheets.

It was not my fault. When the procedure was completed, the nurses failed to place a pad beneath me to catch the blood.

Oh darling, I’m so sorry, the nurse said in a whisper.

I smacked dismissively. I don’t care. I just need to shit, okay?

She helped me to the bathroom where I had the best bowel movement I had ever had in my entire life. When I was finished, she helped me wipe down, apologizing profusely.

I leaned into her weeping. Suddenly, she transformed into my mother. I wished she were my mother. She was a short round almond-eyed black lady. She could have been my momma, but her nametag read Rose. My mother’s name was Sharon.

You can get dressed now. She instructed in a soft whisper. Did you need to call anybody?

I shook my head, no.

She looked concerned.

A taxi, I told her that I would call a taxi.

She said okay and left the room.

In that silent moment, I desired three things: I wanted God to forgive me. I wanted my baby to be put back inside my womb. I wanted to be anybody but Israel Ming.

Forbidden Fruit

I fell in love with a Rasta-talking, ganja-smoking, well-endowed island boy whose loving tasted sweet like honey. Incredible, mind-blowing sex was our love expression. We communicated by orgasm, spoke the language of cum.

The chemistry between us was sinful to say the least. On our first date, we tried to consummate the relationship, but we had a little mishap. His penis would not fit. He thought I was a virgin, but I wasn’t. I was an ex-church girl, and at the age of twenty-four, I had only had one other sexual partner. And he had a starter penis. It was all of maybe six inches. Rasta man looked like he had donkey parts.

After I assured him that I was indeed previously deflowered, he mellowed out and lit a joint. I got out of the bed and let him see me completely naked. He was amazed at how comfortable I was in the nude. I slept in the nude, cleaned house in the nude, watched television in the nude, played video games in the nude; and sometimes, I even cooked in the nude. I knew my body was imperfect. So what? If a man was to love me, he had to make peace with every single inch. Flab, cellulite, and stretch marks had to be loved too. I found beauty in the curves of my full hips and round belly, my thick thighs and large calves, my round full ass, and even in my small breasts that looked like they should be on a much smaller body. In all of my naked imperfection, I was still beautiful.

The sweet smell of marijuana lingered inside my apartment. Island Boy watched me closely, gazing lovingly at my body. I returned the look and confessed to him how much I admired his beauty. He told me that he was in love. I came back to bed and wrapped myself around his body.

As he stroked my back, he began to talk about the night that we’d met. I closed my eyes and listened to the colorful cadence of his voice, picturing his words in my mind. He saw me first, acting like a mad fool on the dance floor. As I moved about the club, checking out the available and the horny, Island Boy couldn’t keep his eyes off me. I was chilling that night with my favorite club-hopping homies, Anastasia and Cameron. The three of us were all curvy and brown-skinned, with big hips, and ass galore. In a club full of foreign black men, we were the shit.

Gazing around the club for a dance partner, we all agreed that it was slim pickings that night. And therefore, burning calories on the dance floor became priority. Immediately, I was caught up in the downbeat of reggae. The layered, up-tempo rhythm enticed me into hip gyrations that put the seven deadly sins to shame. My girls encircled me and screamed, Go, Israel! Go, Israel! And I spun around and hit a full split. The crowd grew larger and larger around me as complete strangers chanted my name. A handsome dark-skinned brother moved toward me and grabbed me up into his arms. We moved in the same pelvic-thrusting rhythm. My girls were squealing and giving me you-go-girl props. The crowd was clapping and hooting at us.

Once the crowd died down, he pulled me away to the lounge area. He bought me a drink. His name was Erwin. He was from New York, and he wanted to know if Anastasia was single. I nodded a yes, but I really wanted to tell him to fuck off. I wanted to call him a desperate asshole with no balls, but instead, I told him her name. He kissed my cheek and disappeared into the crowd. I felt a burning sensation of tears welling up at the base of my throat. My drink was green and sweet but not potent enough to put out the fire. The pity party came to a screeching halt when Island Boy sat down next to me at the bar. He was simply too fine for words. The perfection of his skin, his smile, and his body categorized him as a divine creature of physical flawlessness. He was angelic.

Sweetie, I’m so glad u dance wid me that night, Island Boy said, bringing my mind back into the room. My body purred, responding to the sound of his voice. I adored the way his mouth formed words and how the pitch and the pronunciation spoke to his mind-set and intention. I was enchanted with the way he made words beautiful, which made me feel beautiful, and this made the moment perfectly dreamy like a scene out of soap opera for plus-sized black women.

I like the way you talk, I said with a giggle. It’s very sexy.

Our eyes met, and we smiled at each other. I was drunk with passion for him, or maybe it was the onset of a serious contact high? Whatever it was, the feeling was strong enough for me to let my guard down and belly flop into the deep end. I opened myself up to this man, and our mutual infatuation developed into a relationship. We spent every evening together. We even started commuting to work together. And at night, no matter what, we would always meet up at my place for dinner and lovemaking. On those days that I was out of the house for most of the day, he always prepared my dinner so that I had something good to eat before our evening round of sex. His sex drive was amazing. Menstruation was my only excuse not to indulge.

So when I got pregnant, I was not shocked. We were usually very careful and had become even more careful when my gynecologist took me off the pill. One of the side effects of taking birth control pills was high blood pressure. My blood pressure shot through the roof. My doctor even prescribed the lowest estrogen levels, but my body just rejected the hormone. Unfortunately, we could only use condoms and vaginal spermicidal inserts. We had both been tested for STDs and HIV. I figured we would be safe on a few nights sprinkled here and there when we got drunk, high, and careless. I trusted him completely, and I knew that if I was to get pregnant, we would just get married sooner than what we’d planned.

How dumb and naive was I? Did I really have to lose all perspective simply because I was finally receiving regular rounds of good sex? I relinquished those very things that attracted the guy to me in the first place.

Before I experienced the magic of Rasta between my legs, I swore to myself that I would never allow good sex to override common sense. Common sense would have told me that if I could not take the pill, then I must always use a condom. In other words, conception was inevitable. It was simply a matter of time. And the timing could not have been worse.

I remembered my period of conception. It was a particular stressful time for me. It was a few weeks before finals, and I had to pass everything. If I did not pass, there would be no college graduation. In other words, I was stressed the hell out. And I used Island Boy’s body, booze, and drugs to anesthetize my feelings. After a particularly sinful marathon of wanton, heathen sex, I woke up alone in the bed. I called out to my man, but there was no answer. I shrugged it off and assumed that he went out to pick up breakfast. I checked the voice mail on my cell phone to see if he had left any messages.

No messages.

I shrugged off my concern again and went into the bathroom to take a shower. The warm water washed away the residue from the night before. As I began to wash, I noticed that my vagina was tender. The sex had been rougher than usual. While he moved inside of me, he screamed and moaned, which was what I usually did. The lovemaking was kind of strange. It was very intense like it usually was, but there was a different tone so to speak. It was like he was trying to confess something to me.

As I showered, I began to sober up. I realized that my menstrual cycle was due in a couple of weeks, which made our unprotected lovemaking extremely high risk. I got dressed in a hurry. My outfit of red boot-cut jeans and a camouflage-hooded sweatshirt was a bit out of sorts and not really matching but still fashionable enough to wear to Planned Parenthood. After lying to the nurse with the condom broke scenario, I was prescribed the morning-after pill that made me sick as hell. Island boy reappeared later on that evening with a bucket of fried chicken. I made macaroni and cheese from the box and a green salad to make a complete meal. We ate in awkward silence.

Baby, what’s going on? I asked, interrupting the mood. I tried to make eye contact, but he refused to look at me. I released the chicken leg from my lips, swallowed, and sipped three gulps of coke.

Island boy just sat there looking stupid in the face. His behavior was foreign to me. He seemed like a stranger.

Galena

The night before the abortion, I stayed at the Holiday Inn with my closest friend, Galena. Her house had burned down to the ground exactly one day after she insisted on taking me to the hospital. She could take me to the hospital in the morning, but she could not pick me up because she had to work. I would not allow Island Boy to be there with me.

Galena rented out the master suite in an old Victorian home and shared the five-bedroom house with four other single women. The fire department determined that the hot tub in the back yard shorted out and sparked an electrical fire. Luckily, the fire started during the day while everyone was at work. Red Cross gave each one of them food stipends and a two-week stay at the Holiday Inn. Her other roommates went back to their parents and did not need to use the charity. Galena only had herself. She never knew her father, and her mother had committed suicide right after she graduated from high school.

Galena was everything that I was not. She was thin, a semisuccessful bay area model and commercial actress, responsible, and truly independent. Her Peruvian ethnicity made her an exotic collection of curves, long wavy hair, hazel eyes, full breasts, and shapely legs. I admired her because she was resourceful. She handled her business. And no matter what, she always had a plan B.

When we were downsized from the firm after two of the partners walked out, she had a nest egg saved up from previous modeling and acting gigs. I had unemployment, Daddy’s monthly checks, and Momma’s emergency-only credit card.

Do you think God burned your house down because you are helping me out? I asked all of a sudden and out of nowhere.

We were watching an old Cosby Show episode. It was the one where Vanessa hooked up with Robert at her Halloween party. Boy, if she only knew what she was getting herself into.

Israel, I was thinking the same thing but just too scared to say it? Galena admitted. The rise and fall of her Latin accent launched her words into the air like a poetic rocket. The singsong rhythm of her speech always put me in a good mood.

Galena was raised Christian too. She fell away from the church because her husband broke her heart. She saved herself for him even before she knew him because that’s what her mother and the church told her to do. Save yourself for your husband. They encouraged. Give him a gift, and it will make your marriage strong. Six months into the marriage, she developed a terrible rash on her vagina and a slight discharge. The gynecologist diagnosed her with an STD. Her husband was sleeping with prostitutes.

Galena and I met at work. She was a part-time office clerk, and I was the law firm’s full-time legal secretary. I was hired at the law firm about a year before she came.

The first time we met, we hit it off. When she walked into the office from the foyer, I knew the bosses would hire her because she was so damn hot. They only employed good-looking women as support staff. I was a fluke, but from the neck up, I was kicking. And my ass was amazing, so I could see my overall appeal.

At first, she tried to pretend that she was shy, but I sensed an inner diva. And sure enough, once she passed that ninety-day probationary period, she loosened up a bit and started coming to my desk on her breaks. She was feeling me out, and I could tell she liked me.

Although we had different body types, we had similar style. She changed her hair often because she was an actress, and I changed mine just as frequently because I was a neurotic. We believed in coordinating our outfits, incorporating jewelry, shoes, and makeup to enhance our fashionable effect. We both had a passion for bargain shopping, iced mochas, and Denzel Washington. At first, I’d declined her multiple invitations to lunch, movies, and clubbing because during that time, I was in the honeymoon phase with Island Boy. I did not have time for any new girlfriends. One night, Island Boy and I had a really bad argument. I had just finished cussing him out when she called me out of the blue. I’d forgotten that I gave her my cell phone number. I accepted her invitation to go to a club, which turned out to be an eventful distraction of gay boys, booze, and marijuana cookies.

Before meeting Galena, I had never been to a gay club. All of her friends were gay because she networked within artistic circles, and most guys in artistic circles were gorgeous and gay. These gorgeously gay males embraced me like I was a big black penis. I wasn’t fat; I was a diva. I wasn’t imperfect. I was accepted. They loved my big curly weaved-in tresses; my savvy, fashionable, nonfat-girl attire; my fake nails; and my flawless makeup. The fact that I danced like I weighed 150 pounds instead of 250 pounds magnified my gay magnet to the power of infinity. I danced every record surrounded in a sea of some of the finest men I had ever seen in my life! I possessed nothing that would satisfy them sexually, and yet I felt like the sexiest bitch in the club. Hot, sexy boys gyrating all around me, rubbing themselves against my body, holding me by the waist, sandwiching me into their groins, kissing my neck, squeezing me, touching me intimately. It was a living and breathing wet dream.

Are you going to tell your parents? Galena asked.

Her question lingered in the air as Vanessa and Robert just agreed to go steady. I gushed at the innocence of it all, and in the same breath, I answered her with an emphatic no.

The Other Woman

I sensed her existence before I found out about her. She moved about us ghostlike until she stood before me tangible.

Her name was Adrienne.

Who the fuck is this? I asked in a loud voice.

Island Boy stood there dumbfounded. He had no idea that I would be chilling inside of his apartment waiting for his trifling ass.

I’m Adrienne, his girlfriend. May I ask who you are? she said so politely, I looked around to see if I was being punked by Ashton Kutcher. Why did she have to be so pale, and furthermore why did she have to be so damn skinny? She looked like Peter Pan with auburn hair extensions. I couldn’t believe it!

Well, I’m his woman, at least that’s who I was last night when I was sitting on his face. I answered with the same amount of sweetness and innocence she seemed to possess.

She scoffed and slapped him across his face, completely shocked at my proclamation of girlfriend status. You said you were at Bible study!

He grabbed her arm and flung her across the room.

Don’t hit her! I screamed. You deserved that shit.

Adrienne just sat there on the floor looking wide-eyed and dumbfounded. I walked over to her, and she flinched.

I’m not going to hurt you, I said, helping her to her feet.

Adrienne lowered her head. I’m sorry. I didn’t know he had somebody. She started crying an ugly, pitiful cry. I wanted to console her, but fuck, she was the other woman, so I just let her cry.

Is your name Israel? She asked in between sobs.

Yes, it is. I answered, wondering how she knew me.

She raised her head and looked me up and down. He told me that you were his sister.

"He said what?"

She nodded. And well, now that I know otherwise, I should tell you. I just found out that I’m pregnant.

I heard a flash that sounded like thunder rolling inside of my head. My pulse quickened, and my breathing became hard and rough like a warrior in pursuit of his prey. I cold cocked her. She fell down to one knee and held her face.

I thought you said that you wouldn’t hurt me? She asked, wailing like a banshee.

Island Boy was next. I picked up anything I could find to use as a weapon.

The television remote landed against his eye that blinded him long enough for me to pick up a sneaker and tack him on the head. I looked around the room again and found a magazine to roll up. With the rolled-up magazine, I repeatedly beat him upside his head. I was a raging warrior woman. I was little Nikita. I had the ability to take a motherfucker out with anything.

When the magazine ripped and split down the middle, I decided to use my fist. In a wild series of blows, I punched, socked, and slapped him until I was completely breathless. His nose began to bleed, and his eye was swelling. I hoped it turned an ugly, bluish black.

Why did you have to do this? I questioned at the top of my lungs. "What energy did you conjure up to fuck her too?"

I drove home recklessly. I was so upset; I did not care about getting a ticket. I did not care about anything. Island Boy kept calling my cell phone, but I just let it ring. I knew he was concerned, and I knew that he would show up at my apartment later on when he presumed that the coast was clear.

I took a long soothing shower, tied my hair up, and put on my bedclothes. He didn’t show up until later in the evening. It was about ten o’clock when I heard his key in the lock. He called out to me, but I did not answer. I heard his footsteps come closer and closer. As I heard his belt buckle unlatch, I pretended to be asleep. His pants slipped down his leg. His underwear was the last to go. The anticipation of his touch was enough to make me wet. The bed sunk down, and he crawled in next to me. He slipped my nightgown off my body with expertise. The warmth of his hands moving against my skin made me shiver.

Turn over, he whispered.

I rolled into his embrace and into his kisses. He sucked my nipples, my stomach, and my inner thighs; and finally he arrived at my clitoris. I gasped reluctantly in orgasm. As much as my body ached for him is as much as I hated him, and as much as I hated him is as much as I loved him. He closed my legs and cupped my body with his. He stroked and kissed my back.

I told him I never wanted to see him again.

He kissed my back one last time, rubbed his hand over my ass and thighs one last time, and put his clothes back on.

Israel, I am sorry, he said, indifferently. My intention was never to hurt you,

What exactly were your intentions? I asked him.

He was silent. He did not have an answer.

I rose out of the bed and covered my naked body with the nightgown he had thrown on to the floor. I opened up the nightstand and took out the keys to his