Black Cream: A Handful of Sky & a Pocketful of Confetti Novel

By Kenny Attaway

Black Cream is a straightforward, honest, and relentless memoir chronicling the life and times of Kareem Parker, a.k.a. Black Cream. For all his childhood and early adulthood, Cream battled self-esteem issues, bouts with anxiety, mother-son battles with his mother and her various boyfriends, skin complexion complexities, and ongoing battles with wanting/needing a true father figure; this battle coexists with his mothers battle to find true love from a man.

Throughout his early years of two years old up until sixteen to seventeen, he not only battled his problems and shortcomings but became a battering ram and sometimes an unwanted distraction to his mothers various boyfriends/paramours that misled and abused him and his mother. Later in his midteens, he finally found peace and love within but only for it to be shattered again by an ugly truth held by his mother, which leaves his newfound peace not only broken but spiraling out of control.

Its never easy when the most precious thing you are attempting to help/protect is hurting you. Black Cream stirs the pots of humanity and injustices many young black boys cope with without a father or without a positive father figure in their lives. Black Cream stirs the pot of hopelessness and abandonment and pain when they are left alone and must fend for themselves, being given the awkward task of defending themselves even when their mom is present. And Black Cream stirs the pot of molestation, systematic dependency, ongoing broken relationships, drug dependency, and self-hate.

Black Cream explores how cycles of the broken-boy syndrome begin and how it can continue to plague into manhood due to failed ingredients. Written with a poetic pen, conscience mind, and honest heart, Black Cream in various ways tells the story of many other creams that experience the same pain and torment without ever having light or confetti thrown over their stories. It is penned with an honest flair with bright drips of imagination and honest art.

Then without further ado, I present to you Black Cream. May peace, happiness, and LUV reign on you, confetti style. This is your moment, but share it with those that need it most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546217565

Kenny Attaway

Kenny Attaway (G.E.R) is an American writer. Raised in West Philadelphia, began authoring novels, plays and mini movies in the pre-teens of his life. His works of art has touched the hearts and minds of countless fan/supporters. Since 2005, he has published a total of twelve-thirteen works of art. His subject matters/genres continue to give light on array of topics. He loves writing and ushering in new projects. Currently, he is penning three complete novels to be published soon.

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© 2017 Kenny Attaway. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/21/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1757-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1755-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1756-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017917613

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

black Cream….

many parts of me are missing.

many parts of me are undefined

maybe I got lost in the book of life

stuck between a few lost pages

My heart was damaged too many times

To give you a whole me

all I could do is but share what’s left

a bit broken, a bit unbounded,

severely unglued and jagged

but never stingy or dishonest-

I will share whatever is left

maybe we could figure this mess out together-

some of mi confetti

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 black orchids from december’s memory

Chapter 2 a rabbit in a rum tuxedo

Chapter 3 a rhinestone from one’s backyard

Chapter 4 the ugly… among the black & beautiful JU

Chapter 5 sweet lions live on my tongue

Chapter 6 to be young, gifted & blue

Chapter 7 teaching medusa how to give birth

Chapter 8 Rewriting his curses in cursive

Chapter 9 bark, but not the wings of a birddog

Chapter 10 all I need is a GOLD medallion

Chapter 11 an anonymous nobody (darker shades of black)

Chapter 12 like confetti for ….black CREAM

Chapter 13 the KING’s peacock throne.

Chapter 14 Heavy is the head of who wears the CROWN

Chapter 15 a minute from the GOD hour

Chapter 16 life’s a beautiful MONSTER (black orchids)

black Cream heart.jpg

… All praises due. (the confetti)

As always, the bigger chucks & most confetti go to GOD. From time to time, it feels likes the ink is drying up and the thoughts are scrambling for a suitable home, but with GOD things always find their place & rightful space of comfort. Thanks again for allowing me express feelings of not only myself, but the million others that may not have a voice, but have so much to say. Thank you keeping me and allowing me to do/complete another brilliant masterpiece. Thank you to the RZA, Ghost and Deck from WU-. RZA you have always been a motivation to how you approach the world with your beautiful crafty mind. You take everything you every known or do through every new door. That’s motivation-to come from a grimy door of life and reach the top. To NAS; still chasing your work. To my framly (that family & friends). What would I be without you (Ja Rule voice). Thank you for all you do in keeping me glued and motivated. Sometimes everything is difficult. Everything. To supporters-thank you for following, reading, feedback and everything else. I never forget what you meant to me. I write for those without a voice and to let everyone know with a mind and heart comes a choice. Whenever and wherever I touch a pen, pencil or laptop-I want to always feel and know I am giving you the very best of me and the story. If I can’t-I got to QUIT and do something else. What’s the purpose? To all the little boys and men that have been victimized by the system of bad step fathers and biological ones too … this one’s for you

Note to the reader

the line through with some words is only a style of writing (inspired by the late great artist Basquiat. Please don’t panic/ and enjoy.

this for you.

For & to

heart.jpg

Any and every one that has been oppressed by the monster. The monster of life, LUV & all the above. These pages filled with love, integrity and comfort are for you. Let me honor and show love to/for you through these sheet.

KA & G.E.K

Black Cream

FOREWORD I

Unlike the various other pieces of work that was released under Kenny Attaway that was preplanned-this baby/work of art became an oh shit (my mind is pregnant) and I got to have this baby. Writing on, speaking on, touching and being inspired on relationship issues is nothing new to me. In 2007, I touched on the dynamics of a broken family with Slum Beautiful, in 2009 I penned Nuthouse Love exploring the domestic abuse many women encounter and in 2011 I tackled many of the not so inspiring issues men feel/deal with in Bitches Brew. I love all three novels immensely for different reasons, but none touched directly on step father on/step daughter relations; which plays a huge part in various families across the world-primarily the US. Not all blended families can do well as Mike and Carol Brady (the Brady Bunch). In fact, many young children suffer just as much and even more than their parent; which surprisingly is not discussed and exposed more. Honestly-I was penning a few novels and had no plans of exposing or touching on family relationship issues for now. I figured the bases were already covered, but sometimes in in the spring of 2015 I was inspired by a young man Ischemia (not real name) and a portrait he created; which became the cover art (see cover). Although he shunned the work of art of as just something for class I knew from the look in his eyes it was so much more than something for class, but more likely something from his heart He and I talked briefly of his selling price and a few unrelated things -and I assumed that was that. But a few weeks later he and I crossed paths again inside a school auditorium. He wanted to know did I need/want any more of his artwork, shared new painting and why of all the painting I chose his and what was I planning to do with it. Nothing really, but hang it around my house I answered. And that time I was preoccupied with some zillion racing thoughts, but took notice of his eyes again. They were hanging with a busted blue rainbow that followed me around until we met up again weeks later. Hey young soldier…why your eyes always glassy and teary like as if you were crying in the sun. It’s my dumb*ss step-pops. He gets on my nerves. He beats my mother, yells at me, but she does nothing about it. I gave the best advice I could offer at the time and prayed he’d find his way. Sometimes giving advice and/or meddling can backfire. Ironically at that moment every story of hurt, rejection and despair that I heard of or was spoken directly to me relating to a young boy’s hurt regarding his step father’s neglect or abuse followed me. It haunted me. My mind nor heart couldn’t sleep until I committed to giving all the many boys a voice.

Young men you may now take the stage.

black Cream

FOREWORD II

Is a straight forward honest relentless memoir chronicling the life and times Kareem

Parker aka Black Cream. For all his childhood and early adulthood Cream battled self-esteem issues, bouts with anxiety, mother-son battles with his mother and her various boyfriends, skin complexion complexities and on-going battles with wanting/needing a true father figure; which the battle of co-exist with his mother’s battle to find true love from a man. Throughout is early years of two years old up until 16-17 he not only battles his problems and shortcoming, but becomes a battering ram and sometimes an unwanted distraction to his mother’s various boyfriends/paramours that mislead and abuse he and his mother. Later in his mid-teens he finally finds peace and love within, but only for it to be shattered again by an ugly truth held by his mother-which leaves his newly found peace not only broken, but spiraling out of control. It’s never easy when the most precious thing you are attempting to help/protect his hurting you/ Black Cream– stirs the pots of humanity and injustices many young black boys cope with without a father or positive father figure in their lives. Black Cream– stirs the pots of hopelessness and abonnement they pain when they are left alone and must fend for themselves when giving the awkward task of defending for themselves; even when mom is present. And Black Cream – stirs the pots of molestation, systematic dependency, on-going broken relationships drug dependency, self-hate, Black cream explores how cycles of the broken boy syndrome begin, and how it can continue to plague into manhood-due to failed ingredients. Penned with a poetic pen, conscience mind, and honest heart, Black Cream in various ways tells the story of many other Cream’s that experience the same pain and torment without ever having light or confetti thrown over their stories. Penned with an honest flair with bright drips of imagination and honest art…the without further ado I present to you Black Cream … May peace, happiness & LUV reign on you confetti style. This is your moment, but share it with those that needed most.

a handful of sky & a pocketful of confetti

1

black orchids from december’s memory

M y first few years living in Houston was sheltered. Although Houston is almost seven hundred miles away; Arnold was afraid for his life and wasn’t taking chances on getting caught by the malicious men with powerful guns that wanted him dead. The three of us moved into his sister’s backroom; which was about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long completely. Arnold’s sister, Rene and mama didn’t hit it off early on. She was jealous mama and believed we were a burden. But, she loved Arnold too much to kick him out but at any given moment she was willing to pack a bag for two. Mama would cry a lot, but the tears empowered her to make changes quickly. She began working as cook for a nearby school and later at an old folk’s home.

a handful of sky & a pocketful of confetti

What the fuck-and that’s with a question mark and an exclamation mark-I’d ask myself that a trillion times with the same lips, same mind, but of a divided heart and totally fractured soul. How did life become so unglued, unbounded- when there was a story two share? How was I to share with you anything about my book of life with that many pages are balled-up, scratched up or missing? How can a heart speak or tell you of anything when it’s a buried ruby-that’s shine go unnoticed? What’s my soul to tell you when it’s that segregated? There always a war between the two. It was always a sick race or creed war with me darken heart being jealous of a lighter shaded soul. In many ways, I feel like a failure. The stench of it’s scent in smothered, cologne and hemmed into my soul. All of me in hanging on from a few threads of humility. Thought of jumping out a window and landing on death a few times. Thought of emptying a gun into my head and blowing out all the things that bothered me, all the things that left me so broke, desolate, fed-up, and fucked up. But I’d always remember my heart has a mind of its own and nothing really dies. My pain will live on. My life will live on. Nothing really dies. What the EFF would make a man place a little child into a cage because his cry was too loud or pick fun of him for having a dark shade of black -a jokingly tell him to soak in a tub of bleach to make ink. What would make a man open his filthy mouth a urinate on a child in his sleep- laughing "it was a golden shower and you shouldn’t mind. How could anyone order a grieving soul to throw away the food you saved for your deceased (a coping mechanism) and scream fuck that dead motherfucker-he can’t be eating up all the food. He full anyway. He’s eating low calorie earth worms; dirt pies and God keep dead fuckers on a diet. He will only eat dirt and remain skinny forever"-. At one point in a bored and lonely life I added up over a half million why’s (502,000 to be exact) and then began adding up the how’s. How could the world be so cruel and cold to the point you’d have to wear lip balm and Chap stick in 97-degree weather from the coldness of spirits and ways of life. With how’s and why’s stockpiling on me and breaking down and into what little happiness I owed- I began building a brick house of when.

Brick one-When was things going to change, Brick two-when was my life of pitch black and two-dimension blue lighten up like shades of that beautiful blue sky. Most of my days were buried in indigo blue. Brick three-when will my smile not scream or be afraid to fight the frowns and defeat them forever. And no matter how many times I’d build a mental haven; they’d never have windows attached to them or doors to escape through (including the early Black Box) So-I’d find myself again in the cave or ghettos of the mind. Often, I’d build windows with pretty glass panes, but they’d become dense with mystical fog, smog, and debris. I couldn’t make out the difference between the wall and window. And the doors seemed to always have a revolving track outside; I’d waste time and tire myself out. Anyways. What would make a man execute his woman’s face and blow her Bolivia for eating pork and kick her child into the corner with steel toe boots for jumping between them and trying to protect his mother’s feelings, face, and peace of mind. Not many people, places or things owned the answer to the what, when’s and why’s early on. The present’s mouth always seemed to be filled with blueberries and black licorice- so when it opened people just ran screaming EWWW. Mouth’s future of decayed teeth seemed to be gagged and muffled with dark abyss biscuits; so, when spoke-if not of something good and delighted; no one would listen. Leaving me to look up to the crying clouds, sun of confusion and dysfunctional stars -on many stormy nights the past would blow echoes and tie us down with its loud noises, but most things that came with noises early on-I’d be afraid of it- and lock the doors of the who, what and why’s in being afraid of those scary ass noises. Fuck a brick, a window and I’d run. But when the past is that determine to have a sit down and long talk with the present and future; after a while you’d be forced to listen. For many nights, I’d refer those noises of the past those of a ghost, big-foot, Godzilla, a goon, goblin, ghoul, zombie, and a few other names; but in short- the monster.

For many nights and long days, the sounds of a snort, grunt, snarl, growl, hissed, snarl, spat, whistle, warbled and the scariest roar-RRRRRRRRRR would have me place those noises in a cement box and place a ball and chain around the box and run for cover. But again-there’s no box strong enough to keep the past from talking when it has that much shit to say. And no matter how fast you run or in the deepest of the dark you hide-the echoes of the roar-RRRRRRRRRR will find you, tie you up and eat your ass alive without a bun, bread, ketchup or any other of those infamous condiments. Life loves raw flesh. The safest way to handle the monster and tame its roars is to embrace it with a hug and warm welcome. Later in life I’d learn never be afraid of the monster-it has something important to offer. A long time ago I lived through a woman’s nightmare and her date with one of the many monsters she’d have an affair or moment with. Of all the people in the world; I asked myself why’d I had to take part in her nightmares with the monster-it was scary as my mind remembered it. But my soul never forgot how it felt. Would she mistake me for a monster I thought, would she become that confused that she wouldn’t have the know how to determine friend from foe. But as I looked on not being able to do anything as she was beaten, abused and held against her will- part of me cried as the other part of me died. In 1954 the city of St. Louis opened one of the first housing projects in America. There is a dispute of Atlanta verses New Orleans for what city opened the first. New Orleans …. was opened to the public in 1941- and Atlanta’s…. was opened in 1921, but it remains some huge discrepancies despite the years being light years apart. But the Pruitt-Igoe Housing Projects opened in 1954 to assist in the booming lifeline of St. Louis, Missouri. In the early stages of the project aka ghetto high-rise aka supplicated ghetto condos things were sweet and peachy. Pruitt housing projects lifted the poor (white and black) from their slums and gave them an opportunity to live like middle class (think The Jefferson’s) "Movin on up to the east side. We finally got a piece of the pie". Photos from the early days of sophisticated living looked identical to a hotel resort with the exact same features; pure and peachy -until the rotten apples damaged the trees forever.

The early Pruitt residents/tenant’s trash was picked up weekly, the elevators were cleaned twice a day, each floor had its very own maintenance worker, people worked together and lived in harmony. Sketches of St. Louis outlined in pretty pascals circled and traced their windows with the marker and pencils of the sun. Not to mention the rent was less than $25.00 per month for most tenants (rent was based on income). But soon the Jefferson’s way of life was transferred into bushels of Good Times. With the whites and upper-class blacks leaving St. Louis for the now booming suburban life -white flight- a chunk of taxable Jefferson’s Lincolns exited with the resident. Less taxable dollars meant less money and wealth pumped into the city and into Pruitt-which meant the start of the ending for George, Louise, Florence, Mr. Bentley way of life was all but over. By the mid 1960’s Pruitt was a death trap. Many of the empty buildings and apartments were taken over by squatters, junkies, pimps and drug lords. The pimps and prostitutes used the empty rooms as inner-city brothels and the drug lords and druggies used the other spaces as get high spots, sleeping headquarters and a place to stash the dope at. Every other window was broken, many of the units’ copper and plumbing was removed as was the electricity, but with the warmth of the sun and fluffy pockets from steady cash flow-the derelicts didn’t mind. After all-it was a rent-free place that the cops refused to discipline. By the early 1970’s Pruitt was of total anarchy. Dozens died every day from drug overdoses, being shot, strangled, stabbed to death; leaving hundreds of families in mourning. One of the more popularized incidents left a man having his brains shot out and his mother later arriving on the scene crying hysterically packing his brains back in his flesh of smithereens. Life in Cabrini Greens Projects (where James, Florida, and J.J lived) had its issues; but aside from JJ being stabbed once and a few minor break ins and issues with crime-Good times was good times.

They made the best of their situation and welcomed the monster with open arms and an understanding heart. But for the residents of Pruitt life was anything but of good times/Good Times. And by 1972 the city and the powers that be decided on demolishing the Pruitt Housing Projects. From 1972 through late 1976 explosives demolished the building one by the one; leaving nothing by flying debris through St. Louis ghettos. From 1972 through 1976 the true residents were of course living in the belly of the beast and being ripped apart by crime and the monster’s teeth. Their apartment units were robbed, they were victimized by crime and became enmeshed with the non-desirables-pimps, prostitutes, druggies, dope-heads, and drug lords. But with nowhere to go and not if money to take a white flight train many caring and trying hard tenants were forced to duke it out with the druggies, pimps, players, everyday life, and roar of the beastly ugly monster. As everyday citizens and people of the world that fall and rise through tribulations and trails-I’d never really was a fan of scaling pains-meaning believing one’s kind of pain is bigger or stronger than the others. For we all have strengths, weakness and breaking points that are different than our neighbours. A paper cut for some is just as bad as being stabbed. Shit hurts. But people rapped and held against your will for days at time must be the top three or worst experiences of any one’s life. As luck would have it- just before the last building of Pruitt was to be demolished in 1976-a beautiful young lady was kidnapped and held against her will in one of the broken down desolated left to rot isolated buildings. She was only a teenager at the time and on her way to meet with a family member to get a glimpse of a rare flower. The family cheered and raved for days that there really was a such thing as a black orchid; although rare and that she had one living and breathing in her home. The family only lived a skip and hip from Pruitt. With crime continually bubbling through the roof-the young lady would do almost anything or go anywhere that was different from her suffocating/intoxicating environment that was choking the life of the human black orchids. She didn’t uproot completely, but changes patches in/of the garden.

As the young girl dashed through the wilderness a monster stopped her she perceived as a friend -in asking her to smoke a joint with him and his friends. Smoking a joint in the 70’s was synonymous with saying hello at Pruitt at time. The last remaining residents would do almost anything to escape the blackened waters that were drowning them and their families. Many of the residents didn’t have working heat, water, electric, food and the elevators and staircase was reeked in urine and walls of graffiti with names of every vandal that walked through Pruitt. The walls had to wear that kind of badge of honor and salute while demising the killings and wrong doing as a way of life. It was cold gloomy evening and turning down a joint and a ride to Aunt B’s house was seemingly the wrong thing to do. Ok I will smoke with you. The I will smoke with you turned into a three day stay in hell. She was tied to an old bed in a dirt ran old room and raped repeatedly by two men. One being the stranger and the other being the stranger-in that they supposed to be friends. What hurt more was that she was planning to give him one of the black orchids-for she believed like black orchids friends were rare. She was the youngest of three siblings and didn’t get along with the other two at all-for various reasons. Some known and others forbidden to talk about or of. Some downright silly and other reasons understandable -like how Karma took her very first boyfriend and went on to marry him. Ouch. Following the two-day rendezvous and denying any and all-life became hell for the young lady. Aside from the physical pains and stains of bleeding, difficulty walking, soreness, broken wrist and busted lip-she began a life-long battle spirit, emotional and psychological warfare. She hated life, she hated her auntie, she hated Pruitt, she hated being poor, she hated being alone, she hated December and sometimes GOD too. She vowed never to give a fuck about a black orchid again. The sound of orchids ignites a fire for to vomit and shit with violent emotions. She believed that her family, December, God (at times), the joint, loving, having a crush, Pruitt and everything attached to that cold bizarre weekend in December was at fault-including black orchids. Like the coldest December and the hardships that would follow the young lady -all remained somewhat of an enigma like a black orchid- the flower. She went on to live life, but became a monster somewhat in between. Like many of us; she was dealt a bad hand. But FIFI- I must share a few hundred pages from my book of life.

My Name is Kareem Reid aka Black Cream sometimes Kream (spelled with a K)- and here’s my life summoned up in a few hundred pages; when it really needs two bibles to sum it all up truthfully. But again- many parts of me are missing. Many parts of me are undefined. Maybe I got lost in the book of life- stuck between a few lost pages My heart was damaged too many times. To give you a whole Me-All I could do is but share what’s left. a bit broken, a bit unbounded, severely unglued, and jagged but never stingy or dishonest-I will share whatever is left maybe we could figure this mess out together- But before I share or invite you for a stay inside of me heart. You must understand, respect, and follow a few basic concepts (not rules or quite morals), but just things. The first few years of my life and childhood are of a blur and bits and pieces of information shared is a result of second hand information, but second clothes are just as good as new ones (most times) and yes second-hand smoke can kill you-and never forget that the second-hand hands of the clock is just as important as the first. -

Before my mama fell in love with the world and in hate with her insecurities, hang-ups and uncomfortable times with the monster it was just us-Camay & Kareem. My grandpa nicknamed me Cream when I was only two years old. The story has many versions, but grandma said I fell a lot when I was one and two, but I’d always get up running. Grandpa was so amazed and inspired that he began saying Cream will always rise to the top again. Aunt B’s story goes a little different in that the darkness of my complexion (like a root bear soda) and grandpa liking how some much light (cream) came from the dark. Mama story was even more simply "grandpa couldn’t pronounce Kareem and began saying Cream. Regardless to how the name came about it stuck. Moving on. From the second-hand accounts, the first six to seven months of my mother having me were a traumatic and uncomfortable time. What the family believed was postpartum depression (When a woman gets really depressed after she gives birth to a baby). Many believed she was just depressed because my father (supposedly) left her to be with another woman and didn’t want to bothered. And for the first six-seven months she distanced herself from me as much possible. When I’d cry; she cried. She never changed my diapers and breastfeeding was out of the question. She believed that her breast milk was sour and would kill you-Aunt B. Half of the family believed that this weird behavior or PPD wouldn’t affect me at all he’s too young to understand or know the difference, but of course it’s a bag of horseshit. I’d learn that later that PPD children later struggle badly with social engagement during interactions with their mothers, were unable to self-regulate and later show higher levels of stress. Some studies went on to show that some mothers continue to have a secret distain for that child. The very first stages of a child’s life are important. In watching the animal channel or Gorilla TV as grandpa would call it – Most animals of the wild are super protective during the early stages to help guide them, show them the way of life, protect them from danger and give them survival skills to hunter and provide for themselves. The bond between an orangutan mother and her young is one of the strongest in nature.

Child development for any human child or animal. The young need their parents to protect them from wildlife; including the jungle, forest, and street life. Although many wild animals learn life through hardship and trial; all infant and toddler children need their parent(s) or a guardian to assist with guiding them through life. But for animals; many of them must be taught by their mother on how to hunt, store food, battle predators and the way of life. But as for the orangutans; their mothers stick around up to ten years of their babies life in teaching them how to further gather, prepare for adulthood, and building a safe sleep haven. But the female orangutans repay the favor; they continue to check in/swing by on their mothers until they are at least sixteen years old. But not animals think alike or see it the same. For example; the most unfit mother of all in the animal kingdom goes to the cuckoo. The cuckoo bird prefers to live life free as bird literally. She lays her eggs in the nest of another bird and flies the coop when they are hatched. What’s more sad and pathetic is that the other bird’s youth are sometimes kicked out the nest from over crowdedness and later dies. In a strange way, I can recall my grandpa calling mama a strange chick and the reality that for a long time (most of my childhood). He knew her early feelings. I believed she chicked me and allowed the men in her life to raise me, mis-educate me and mistreat, but unlike grandpa-a huge percentage of these men didn’t give a fuck about a bird as black boy-beginning with Arnold, but moving on. My mama always appeared to a damsel in distress, hitch hiker on The Highway to Love or Freeway Forget. Since I could remember I always associated each of my mama’s friends with benefits, lovers, paramours, boyfriend’s, and husband with a vehicle of and for her rescue. She dated a few kite and hot air balloons, but the most memorable were the car, train, pony, boat, walk-up, cab, and bus. The walk-up was with an almost minor that didn’t know his dick from a stick, but moving on. Mama struggled with taking me places as an infant and toddler. She couldn’t drive and was too scared to be taught how to. Her damsel in distress getup and sad gloomy eyes caught the attention of Arnold and his fast car (way of living). He was a defiant 1970 something ghetto style Caddy, but would break down to a lemon in little time.

Arnold and I met in the spring of 1977. Most of the good memories of Arnold is of a big giant blur, but, it’s nothing that great to remember. Arnold was another bright yellow man that looked identical to Ned the wino from Good times, but a few shades lighter with less bumpy skin. But really, who wants to be reminded of pain; which is why I am confused by why people of faith wear crosses around their necks. Isn’t that kind of making mockery of Jesus’s death? FIFI. Arnold was a much older man; like twenty years older than mama. He was a broken down ex-pimp that was chased from Chicago to St. Louis, but then chased out of St. Louis by dope dealer-Kat Daddy. From the photographs embedded in my head- he was at least 6’7 feet, with a few gold teeth, loved tailored fitted clothing and every other word to describe a female was this chick, wild bimbo bitch and foxy mama if he dug you. The early spring romance; where and when chicks hatch new eggs was the second-phase of my start of my ending. Arnold thought of pimping out my mother early on, but grandpa stepped in with his riffle, machete and strong will; which dead-it my mother placing a home sweet home sign on our street corner-and besides Kat Daddy was looking for Arnold’s head to shove it up his ass after he was stiffed for a few thousand dead presidents. Arnold tried to barrow the money, sell jewelry and extortion of a few new young dealers, but it all was a big giant fail. Finally, after he was stabbed twenty-three times in the chest and stomach (due to the gun getting jammed) he, mama and I moved from St. Louis to Houston Texas-fifth ward. Mama was a fool for Captain A. In no time at she became his Genie in the bottle (ya wish is my command). Aunt B, grandma and grandpa hated that mama just up and left, but they understood that she needed a fresh start at life and hitting the rewind button-was needed. But rewind is synonymous with moving backwards.

My first few years living in Houston was sheltered. Although Houston is almost seven hundred miles away; Arnold was afraid for his life and wasn’t taking chances on getting caught by the malicious men with powerful guns that wanted him dead. The three of us moved into his sister’s backroom; which was about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long completely. Arnold’s sister, Rene and mama didn’t hit it off early on. She was jealous mama and believed we were a burden. But, she loved Arnold too much to kick him out but at any given moment she was willing to pack a bag for two. Mama would cry a lot, but the tears empowered her to make changes quickly. She began working as cook for a nearby school and later at an old folk’s home. The plan was to raise enough money for us to move out. But Arnold’s drug habit/hospital bills, Rene needing extra money for food and everyday living always ate up the money away faster than a New York minute. Rene and Arnold both lived shabby confusing lives. At times, the two would fight like to lions and cheetahs for the king or queen of the apartment; which led to my mother and I being nothing more than the feeding. To escape his at the time life his bullet holes’ body and ridiculed soul and to smother the demons of his past he’d drink a lot of wild English Rose and/or Jack Daniel and sniff a few lines or more of cocaine. While mama was at work; supplying the money for food, utilities and coke with English Rose-I was cared for by Rene and Arnold. In the early stages of us getting to know each other he treated me fairly ok. He and I would play football together; at least until he was tired. He didn’t tackle or throw the ball hard, but it was more than enough for a two-three-year-old that wanted the attention of anyone that would give it to him. Grandpa was a sports and news junkie. He and I began playing football when I was only three to four months old. When he and I wasn’t playing football; he’d read the newspaper; sometimes he’d read old articles dating years back. It’s my way of remembering things and to see who was lying son. These actors, sports guys and politicians always make up some crap. And years later I’d found out how much they lied in comparing stories. My DNA was created from confusion, chaos, dysfunction, conflict, PPD, dark berries and sports. All sports became an escape, coping device, and helped me with early conflicting bouts with depression, anxiety ADHD, ODD, PTSD and poor self-esteem. Having Rene and Arnold as babysitters became worse by the minute. When the two soon to be full time junkies didn’t have money for drugs and prostitutes-I went from a bundle of joy to the little black bag of shit-diarrhea style. Rene and Arnold were both high yellow red bone complexion blacks that was infatuated with that skin color and what it meant for the world around them. The only things that was dark about them was there hair color and their past-and they hated that too. Rene was a pretty woman with sour eyes and sugarless lips.

She reminded me of Wonder Woman (Linda Carter) but a few shades darker with bold lips, super lashes and gashing eyes. The times of throwing a football went from five days a week to about a half hour a week quickly. ‘Get the fuck away from me little chocolate nigga. You one jive ass little nigga. And if I cried or yelled back he’d throw me into the wall or have Rene pinch me until my dark flesh turned purple. No marks will show up on his black ass". Strangely, I still didn’t hate them. I wanted them to love me.

Mama took notice that something was wrong and began questioning the two rat face fucks of what did I have to eat, did we play football today and what time was my bath. What’s a chocolate nigga mama. is that a candy bar? Of course, everything was denied and when they made egg sandwiches; I have most of the shells, when they’d have bread I’d eat the ends. Things only worsened. Arnold and Rene would talk with their past through pictures almost every night. The two never talked of their childhood, but would laugh and cry while getting high reminiscing through photos. Their mother, Mother Love, was a short white woman with red curly hair and their dad was a 7’0 tall African American man that they’d referred to as Daddy Cool. He was already deceased by the time we arrived, but Mother Love would drop by at least twice a month. She treated me true grandson. She would give me a bath, lotion me and then play football with me in the backyard. We never played in the front of the house. Houston, fifth ward, was a melting pot for drugs, poverty, and crime. We would hear gunshots almost every hour and an overdose every other minute. Just a few doors down lived handy man Dan and his wife that fought and chase each other with weapons almost every night. When the two wasn’t fighting and trying to extort each other for money; they’d allow their son, Michael (Mike-Mike) and I to play together. Aside from phone calls and send gifts from Aunt B, grandma and grandpa, a few drop-ins by Mother Love and playdates with Mike-Mike. But still, life was becoming a burden at the age three. I remembered it all too well. Mama fell deeply in love, I meant like with Arnold and began okaying his drugs, alcoholism, and his mistreatment of us. He’s spoiled Foxy Mama. All that football and gifts from his grandparents is fucking this boy up. He needs things to harden up for him. He needs to know life isn’t a bowl of goddamn cherries. It’s not sweet. I got stabbed thirty times (twenty-one minus the exaggerations). He throws tantrums when he can’t have his way. He’s going to grow up to be a faggot ass dick lover if we don’t come down on him. We got to raise him to be a man.

The "he got to grow up to be a man" spills followed and haunted me for the rest of my childhood. Unfortunately, not man kept steady with their definition of what a man is suppose be, look like or sound like. He became a convenient word that many male species used when their mouth ran out of words to beat, chastise and train. The definition of man should be listed as the 10th wonder of the world; following why so many people mistreat the young; when they are the future. Following the he’s spoiled spill-life in fifth ward became ten times worse than before. My Aunt Beatrice pleaded with mama to allow me to stay with her for a while back in St. Louis, but my mama allays believed that Aunt B or Bitch-tress was trying to upstage her. Aunt B was older, wiser, more loving and more goal orientated; which caused tensions between the two; along with some dark family issues. Most of us would need a lifetime of shovels to dig up and threw our family’s dirty soiled history to give comfort and shelter to the roaming what, where, who’s whys. That’s why most of us keep quiet and keep the past buried. But life is sometimes rude and unkind to those that give it the cold shoulder. What happens when your past has something to say, but you don’t want to hear it? FIFI. The I am going to show him how to be a man teachings went from a settle punch in the stomach to full fledge slap and punch fest; which began we I walked in on Rene having sexual relations; which I thought was a man, but was a lesbian lady name Chrissy. Chrissy came by whenever it was picking daisies time The three would pick a few daisies, eat/drink and do drugs of various kinds. I must have caught Rene in a bad mood or she was that mad that the mushrooms were out, the coke was sniffed up or that her hookers didn’t make any money that night. Regardless of what; she didn’t have to throw me down the flight of steps. Seeing two-woman kissing wasn’t that amazing-I didn’t know what they were doing anyways. I was only looking for a football to play catch with Troy. With Mike- Mike being on punishment forever, Mother Love becoming sickly, Aunt B and grandparents seven hundred plus miles away and constantly being punched in the stomach by Arnold; I formulated a bond with Troy. Like myself Troy was always left alone, feeling uncared for, unloved, confused and in the early stages of feeling ugly. The feeling of ugly was harassing me mentally, emotionally, psychological, financially, and socially always. The nobody wants to be play with fits was interpreted to he’s acting like a pussy. I am hungry mama-registered as he’s a pussy. Wanting my mother to hold me, talk to me, play football with or color me with spewed he’s a pussy. For a short while. I didn’t mind being a pussy-if being a pussy meant being given the love and attention I needed. Aunt B and grandpa to the rescue.

What the doctors believed was a little pass minor arm and leg fracture-later was found that I had spinal cord damage-which effected my speech for almost two years. I began stuttering out of nowhere. This little black buckwheat bastard is acting like a faggot. Although I stuttered a lot due to the spinal cord damage-I wasn’t stuttering when I was trying to explain I was SMAD at him. Smad at him was a term I made up with Mike-Mike and Troy that meant I am sad and mad at you at the same time. Mike-Mike was a few months to a year older, but was light years ahead of me when it came to things like that. I would have loved to be around him a lot more, but punishment always got in the way. He was usually punished for silly things and his parents hiding his abuse marks, but what could I do. There was no one to protect us. We were beaten on, punished and mistreated due to our parents and loved one’s shortcomings. When Aunt B and I talked over the phone she was broken hearted and in a state of hysteria that I was thrown down the flight of steps and had spinal damage. Mama rearranged the story to protect Rene, Arnold, and her parenting skills report card marks; along with trying to keep Aunt B and the rest from running seven hundred miles, but Aunt B knee better. She and grandpa sent a care package through the mail; which was composed of a new football, new coloring books/markers, clothes, sneakers, candy and two cabbage patch dolls. Mama allowed me to keep everything, but the cabbage patch dolls. Arnold gave the Cabbage Patch dolls to his niece, Natalie-as a late Christmas gift. What’s with your dumbass sister sending this boy a bunch of dolls to play with. She must know he’s going to be a jive ass faggot- ". Mama didn’t put up a fight; she agreed. The agreement led to an argument and she and Aunt B not speaking for a few months (which felt like a year). Whenever I’d ask to speak to Aunt B she would always say she don’t want to talk to you or she’s busy. IN dragging back, the hands of time; how would I know or understand what was happening, how it was happening or why. Nevertheless- while the other around me including mama secluded in their own being and space-if I began a period with struggling with the only child syndrome-selfishness, inability to have friends, poor communication skills to others outside your immediate circle and too much time with Troy.

On most days and nights, I stayed away from Rene and Arnold aka rat & mousy. I didn’t quite understand what a pussy was or is, but I did know whenever he said it a frown was attached, a kick or shove into a corner. He hated me and everyone knew it, but mama. Mama seemed to try to care a little more since the spinal cord injury, but the connection I wanted or at least tried to stitch together; always broken from the seams. The stuttering and not knowing what to say or how to say it to mama made life that more difficult. She was now working double shifts and her time was more scarcely. Whenever she had a day off or a few hours between she and Arnold would go out, sleep in the bed all day or she’d drink and smoke with Rene. She still didn’t quite have enough to move out and did whatever should could to keep the peace. Whenever she had whatever little time left to share with Troy and I; I had to be quick, fast and to the point. Are you hungry Creamy, what do you want. You have to speak up. I want cerrry-cerr-o. My begging mug with a bum’s eye was annoying, my wanting was annoying, and stuttering was overbearing. The more irked my momma looked when I asked her for nothing, the more I began to hold back asking, telling or sharing anything. My needs and wants became a burden and every inch of me felt it. At that point, I began shutting down and shutting out. Although I’d battle with what god was, is and how the whole god thing works-I remember early on feeling and knowing there was a higher power/bigger eternity during that phase. I couldn’t play with it, eat it, understand it, color it or trace it, but it was there and something quite amazing to figure out. With football being placed in the FIFI box and time with mom and Arnold (never could I call him dad/pops); my high was found in hard sugar, decorated sweets like donuts and sponge cakes. Candy was always my favorite, but beggars can’t be choosy.

When Aunt B fish scaled kiddie crack in the form of a few packs of now & later candy, lemon heads and my favorite of that time tootsie rolls – I found a new high and fell in love head first. Mama would give me candy anytime in place of a hug, kiss or any kind of affection. She believed that hugs and kisses would make me soft, but little did she know the lack of hugs is what makes pussies hard like horny dicks. Later in life I’d learn and study the theory of a pussy (not the virginal of a woman). The more mama pushed me away; the more the binges with kiddie crack would take place- the sweets fueled my dopamine and placed me in comfort zone. Cotton candy aided my baby depression, now & later helped me with anxiety, lemon heads aided with understanding life (starts sweet and becomes bitter) and Tootsie Rolls aided with the bouts with poor self-esteem. The little dark bastard candy (Arnold’s words) helped me see the good in being that dark and delicious. Whenever I’d piss Arnold off -he’d refer to me as the little black roach or nigga bitch-. I didn’t quite understand the color scheme battles within the black race, but Arnold tried his hardest at giving me a crash course. In less than two years he graduated from cigarettes, weed and snorting coke to a few nights with Smack, Tar, Dope aka Heroin. The heroin binges were better for me (he’d leave me alone), but worse for mom. I’d hear the two argue through the paper-thin walls "You can’t get it up; you a fuck n junkie. The heroin left him slouched over on the couch always and dazed as it did Rene. I’d learn years later that they were trying to escape that talk with their past too; but ultimately one’s past could never be denied. EVER.

Before Mother Love died she came over for dinner and what be her final goodbye. She apologized to Rene and Arnold for allowing their father to beat and corrupt the two. My memory is a lot jaded, but I do recall the brother and sister crying a lot through the pictures and scrambling at making peace with the dead past. Rene died a few months after her mother and before long Arnold was a full fledge junky. He began donating blood-just to get money and before long mama fell out of love. She began spending a lot more time with me, but it was too confusing to embrace. Mama began seeing a man that she worked with name Marcus at the tail end of her relationship with Arnold-she never could be alone. If mama broke up with a man on Tuesday, no later than Saturday a new one would be in her arms. If Monday was over mama was planning for Wednesday; for Tuesday, already in place. The final straw/goodbye came when he sold all my toys and mom’s jewelry to get high and when I ratted him out he locked me in the bathroom and forced me to play with feces for hours. He was furious that ratted on him. But more upset that mama was leaving him and moving on. He somehow knew. When mom finally left Arnold for good (so I thought)- I assumed like how polar bears, cheetahs, elephants, and penguins are cared for by their mothers-my mama would care for me, but thought is a big word for everyone-young and old. Polar bear babies are cared and loved strongly through the winter month of December and January (the month they give birth). Polar mother and fathers usually have twins (which is a handful), but continue to monitor and stay around for two to three years nurturing the bears into adult life. Aside from assuring they are fed and eat properly; the mothers dig deep snow drifts to protect them from predators and harsh nature elements.

The cubs leave the den in March and April to get used to outside temperatures before learning to hunt. When it comes to African elephants, a new mom is not alone in guiding her young. Elephants live in a matriarchal society, so other females in the social group help a calf to its feet after birth and show the baby how to nurse. The older elephants adjust the pace of the herd, so the calf can keep stride. By watching the adults, the babies’ studies which foods to eat and what not to eat. The mother cares for the baby daily through affectionate hugs & kisses with babies. Cheetah mothers raise their young in solitude and away from everting else. They move their litter twice a week to prevent a build-up of smell that predators can’t trail. After almost two years of training as hunters, the cheetah cubs are ready for the world and to be their own hunters. The cubs then form a sibling group that will stay together for another six months. After laying an egg, the mother emperor penguin leaves it with a male who protects the fragile hard shell from harsh nature. Woody wood peckers & swallows are cuddled and kept in the nest until they are fully capable of flying and defending themselves. Animals; especially birds are have always amazed me in how their parents care, protect and look after them (for the most part), but what happened to us humans and how we care for our youth. Can we take time to learn from the creatures around us?

2

a rabbit in a rum tuxedo

M ama finally intervened after the twelfth time that’s how you got here-ya mama had a dick in her-it set something off in her. She dropped to her knees and began to cry, shout and punch the floor until her knuckles resembled a brillo pad. I tried to comfort her, but she pushed me away. A few days later she was suspended from work for thirty days. I placed Charles in the FIFI box and began to spend more time with Troy and Marcus. Arnold hurt my feelings really bad; -the association with calling grandpa a faggot, causing mama to bloody her hands, shouting that’s how you got here-ya mama had a dick in her" He pushed and shoved me into a corner and smacking me several times like if I was one of street sluts broke my heart. I was given two big quarters (dollar pieces), Now & Laters, a new football and a promised trip to the park (just she and I) if I didn’t tell grandpa or Marcus what happened

a handful of sky & a pocketful of confetti

Mama, Troy, and I packed up a few hours from the crack of dawn and moved into a one-bedroom apartment a few miles from Fifth Ward and into the Sixth Ward. Regardless of the getting high times with Arnold and giving Rene more than enough in paying the slumlord for room and shelter she saved enough money and moved from a dog’s pile of shit to horse manure. Arnold was a horrible foul mouth pimp and father figure, but Marcus became a travesty before I learnt to peddle my bike without training wheels. I was only three or four at the time, but in more ways than I was turning into a man-child (a child with adult responsibilities). I will never really know how mama moved on from Arnold- how did she fix the broken heart. How was she able pull herself together when she was spreading herself so thin? What remedies felt right, what felt wrong. Did she use Marcus to fall in love and how was she able to just walk away? Did she bury