Looking Back
Driving through my old neighborhood, I see that both apartments we used to live in are boarded up. It's as if they're waiting for something. Solid brick buildings, with their 1880's interiors; standing silent and strong... waiting. I want to pull over and park, walk around the overgrown back yards, touch the spot where I buried my parakeet and climb the silver leaf maple just one more time.
The sense of danger is all around me. My mind screams, "Get out! Get out now!"
Memories chase after me as I drive on, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach Grand Avenue. Safe now. No neighborhood memories here.
The boarded up houses still stand. When I drove past them, I heard children's laughter; and for just a moment, I was a kid again. I felt again the love that had filled our home. I remembered all the good things.
I wonder if there's still modeling clay jammed in the cracks of the wooden floor? Does the plaster still bleed out the scents of countless meals and cigarette smoke? I wonder about the claw foot tub. If I went inside and looked, would it still be as big as a swimming pool? Would there be any remnant of the child I was?
I could buy one of those places. I could put it on my credit card. The city sells them cheap. I could own the only safe haven of my youth. But what would I do with it?
Monday, February 23, 2004
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Last one
I'm out of the running for Blogmadness. Voting is on hiatus, due to something completely unrelated to the competition between myself and Ipse Dixit. I think we both played fair. I really enjoyed the competition, and I will continue voting for the survivors when Blogmadness continues. Thank you to everyone who participated. I encourage you to continue.
Welcome to anyone who found this blog through Blogmadness. I hope you stay a while and enjoy yourself. If you've added me to your blogroll, please let me know, so I can reciprocally link you.
And now... on with my past!
I'm out of the running for Blogmadness. Voting is on hiatus, due to something completely unrelated to the competition between myself and Ipse Dixit. I think we both played fair. I really enjoyed the competition, and I will continue voting for the survivors when Blogmadness continues. Thank you to everyone who participated. I encourage you to continue.
Welcome to anyone who found this blog through Blogmadness. I hope you stay a while and enjoy yourself. If you've added me to your blogroll, please let me know, so I can reciprocally link you.
And now... on with my past!
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Blogmadness Update
I'm in round 6, and I'm up against the very fine entry "I Am A Sexist Pig: I Open Doors For Women" by Ipse Dixit. I know it's a fine entry because I've voted for it in every round. This time, of course, I'll be voting for myself.
If you click the link above, you'll see two pink boxes. Each box holds 2 entries, beneath which it says Vote!. If you click Vote! You'll see both entries in the left hand side, and the rules in a frame. From there you click the title of each entry. The rules will be replaced with the story. Read the story, then click the other entry and read that story. From there you just click the little dot for the story you liked better, and click the Vote! box. That's all there is to it. No registering, no nosy requests for info about you. So please, go and read. Pick one or the other, I don't care which. Participating is fun!
Links to the other regions are here:
Work Region round 6
Sports Region round 6
Bills Region round 6
Thanks
I'm in round 6, and I'm up against the very fine entry "I Am A Sexist Pig: I Open Doors For Women" by Ipse Dixit. I know it's a fine entry because I've voted for it in every round. This time, of course, I'll be voting for myself.
If you click the link above, you'll see two pink boxes. Each box holds 2 entries, beneath which it says Vote!. If you click Vote! You'll see both entries in the left hand side, and the rules in a frame. From there you click the title of each entry. The rules will be replaced with the story. Read the story, then click the other entry and read that story. From there you just click the little dot for the story you liked better, and click the Vote! box. That's all there is to it. No registering, no nosy requests for info about you. So please, go and read. Pick one or the other, I don't care which. Participating is fun!
Links to the other regions are here:
Work Region round 6
Sports Region round 6
Bills Region round 6
Thanks
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Tru-Buy
Big nods to Vanessa's Blog for the inspiration to write about the "grocery store" we used to shop at. I would never have thought of it, if she had not entered "Lidl" in BlogMadness. Thank you, Vanessa!
Tru-Buy was the biggest grocery store in the neighborhood. There were others. There was the confectionary 3 blocks west of my home, and there was the place a half-mile away where you could cash your paycheck for a 12% fee. But Tru-Buy had the best prices. There were shelves lining the walls, a freezer and two coolers; the kind that hold meat in modern grocery stores. The rest of the aisles were marked out with masking tape on the floor; an assortment of boxes and tables sat within the designated lines. The coolers never worked right. Everything was either frozen, or just barely cool. I actually thought raw beef was supposed to be brown, because that was the color of the frozen/thawed/frozen again hamburger we always bought.
We visited Tru-Buy on Saturdays and Wednesdays. We always bought the same things: a head of lettuce, a stalk of celery, a pound of hamburger, a pound of chicken, a loaf of bread, 2 packages of garlic bologna, a dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a can of tuna, margarine, ramen noodles or tomato soup, Rice-A-Roni, Hamburger Helper Chili-Mac, and a box of macaroni and cheese. When we weren't buying condiments, toilitries or dish soap; we had money for "extras".
I always loved the weeks we could buy extras. Bonus money bought whatever fruit was in season, banannas, cheese, and sometimes even cookies. The total price tag was around $20.
On rare occasions, we took a bus to Soulard Market, instead of shopping at Tru-Buy. Those were the best trips, ever.
Soulard was always crowded. The prices were hand printed on an assortment of cardboard, paper bags and poster board. It was wonderfully chaotic; with vendors calling out, "Hey pretty lady! Buy my plums! Best in the market!" or "Grapes! You need my grapes!" Several of the neighborhood families had stalls at Soulard Market. We always bought from them before shopping elsewhere. Mom would buy 5 lbs of apples; tossing them up to the vendor, who would catch and weigh them. My sister and I would be jumping up and down, asking, "Can we eat them now? Can we?" The vendor would bag the apples, then wink at us and toss in 3 more. He was either really nice, or really smart; because we would tear into those apples right there at his stall. People would see us and say to the vendor, "And I'll take some of those apples too."
There is nothing like shopping at Soulard.
Big nods to Vanessa's Blog for the inspiration to write about the "grocery store" we used to shop at. I would never have thought of it, if she had not entered "Lidl" in BlogMadness. Thank you, Vanessa!
Tru-Buy was the biggest grocery store in the neighborhood. There were others. There was the confectionary 3 blocks west of my home, and there was the place a half-mile away where you could cash your paycheck for a 12% fee. But Tru-Buy had the best prices. There were shelves lining the walls, a freezer and two coolers; the kind that hold meat in modern grocery stores. The rest of the aisles were marked out with masking tape on the floor; an assortment of boxes and tables sat within the designated lines. The coolers never worked right. Everything was either frozen, or just barely cool. I actually thought raw beef was supposed to be brown, because that was the color of the frozen/thawed/frozen again hamburger we always bought.
We visited Tru-Buy on Saturdays and Wednesdays. We always bought the same things: a head of lettuce, a stalk of celery, a pound of hamburger, a pound of chicken, a loaf of bread, 2 packages of garlic bologna, a dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, a can of tuna, margarine, ramen noodles or tomato soup, Rice-A-Roni, Hamburger Helper Chili-Mac, and a box of macaroni and cheese. When we weren't buying condiments, toilitries or dish soap; we had money for "extras".
I always loved the weeks we could buy extras. Bonus money bought whatever fruit was in season, banannas, cheese, and sometimes even cookies. The total price tag was around $20.
On rare occasions, we took a bus to Soulard Market, instead of shopping at Tru-Buy. Those were the best trips, ever.
Soulard was always crowded. The prices were hand printed on an assortment of cardboard, paper bags and poster board. It was wonderfully chaotic; with vendors calling out, "Hey pretty lady! Buy my plums! Best in the market!" or "Grapes! You need my grapes!" Several of the neighborhood families had stalls at Soulard Market. We always bought from them before shopping elsewhere. Mom would buy 5 lbs of apples; tossing them up to the vendor, who would catch and weigh them. My sister and I would be jumping up and down, asking, "Can we eat them now? Can we?" The vendor would bag the apples, then wink at us and toss in 3 more. He was either really nice, or really smart; because we would tear into those apples right there at his stall. People would see us and say to the vendor, "And I'll take some of those apples too."
There is nothing like shopping at Soulard.
Elimination Round, Here I Come!
You Don't Know Jackson won his competition against me, so I've been bumped to the Elimination rounds. I never hoped to get as far as I have. I mean, I think my writing is good. You think my writing is good. (Thank you!) The question was -do average people think my writing is good? Because, of course; you all are way above average. :)
In answer to that question, I've made it to the top 25%. I think that's saying something.
You Don't Know Jackson won his competition against me, so I've been bumped to the Elimination rounds. I never hoped to get as far as I have. I mean, I think my writing is good. You think my writing is good. (Thank you!) The question was -do average people think my writing is good? Because, of course; you all are way above average. :)
In answer to that question, I've made it to the top 25%. I think that's saying something.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Blogmadness Semifinals are underway
This time around, it's "The Race War That Wasn't" vs. "Scenes From The Other Side Of The Tracks" Both entries are great, read 'em and choose! Remember: There's no registration requirements, voting is anonymous, and there's only one vote per family.
Don't forget to read the other fine entries in the Winner's round 4 and the Elimination Round 5. All 32 are pretty darn good.
This time around, it's "The Race War That Wasn't" vs. "Scenes From The Other Side Of The Tracks" Both entries are great, read 'em and choose! Remember: There's no registration requirements, voting is anonymous, and there's only one vote per family.
Don't forget to read the other fine entries in the Winner's round 4 and the Elimination Round 5. All 32 are pretty darn good.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Pregnancy
"If you don't want your baby, we'll try to find a home for it." Said the woman on the phone.
That was the point where I lost control. Looking for adoption agencies in the phone was hard. Actually talking to the agencies was even harder. For days, the phone book had sat open on the kitchen table, right underneath the avocado colored phone we had picked up at a thrift store. Every time mom went into the kitchen she said, "Just call Catholic Charities. They'll give him a good Catholic home."
After a week or so, it became an incessant nagging from her. "Did you call yet?" "Just call!" "Pick up the phone and dial, it's not hard!"
She had no idea. This wasn't like going to the St. Vincent De Paul Society for a little extra food. This was asking for the biggest handout in the world. This was asking someone to love my child for the rest of their lives, to provide for him, teach him right from wrong, and give him a better life. Mom had no idea how hard it was for me to just pick up the phone.
I had gotten pregnant on the 4th of July, having sex on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes. We were moving from the old neighborhood to a new one. I was looking toward a new direction in my life. I had a job, a car, and a guy I was going to marry someday. I was just waiting on the engagement ring. And while I was waiting, we had a lot of sex.
When August rolled around, and I hadn't gotten my period, I began to worry that something was wrong. I thought I might have cancer or something. My friends all said, "You're pregnant." but I thought, "No, it's cancer. I can't be pregnant. I'd know if I were pregnant."
When I realized my boyfriend was an overcontrolling jerk who belittled everything I said, and dumped him; I thought, "See. It's cancer. I'm removing the dead weight from my life before I get treatment."
When my belly started to swell, I thought, "The cancer is growing, I should really go to the doctor."
When 3 months had passed without a period, I decided to visit Planned Parenthood. Just to rule out pregnancy, before I paid a real doctor to treat the cancer I was so sure I had.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room, that I allowed myself to see that I was pregnant. When the test came back positive, I was overjoyed. I was having a baby! I had wanted to be a mom for as long as I could remember, and now it was happening! Sure, I'd only get one semester of college before his birth. Ok, I'd have to go on welfare for a little while, until I could work again. Yeah, it might be 5 or more years before I could go back to school; and I wouldn't be moving out of mom's house for a while yet. But all of that was bearable, because I was going to be a mom!
For the next two months, I planned every little bit of my child's life. I put money away for the birth. I priced toys and clothes, and figured out exactly how much I would need to earn to care for my son. The impending welfare stint sucked, but it was the only way to truly provide for him and still get my college education. And then I had a dream.
For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain. I've always had prophetic dreams. Not very often, but frequently enough that I've learned to pay attention. That night I dreamed I was searching for my son's real parents. When I woke up in the morning, I told my mom, "I'm giving him up for adoption."
I was happy. I was at peace, and I was so full of love that morning. I knew his parents were out there, and it was my job to find them. Mom was incredibly supportive. She was looking forward to having a grandson, and she understood that it was my choice. So she did what any loving mom would do. She stood by me, and supported me, and never said a word about the loss she would feel. She was there when I awoke, crying in the middle of the night, because I missed my baby. She was there when my friends didn't know how to look at me anymore. And she was there when the telemarketers would call with their offers of free baby pictures and coupons for formula.
I stopped answering the phone when mom was home. She would pick up for me, and I'd hear her side of the conversation. "Hello?"..."No, this is her mother"..."The baby died. Please don't call here again."
I always wanted to cry out, "He's not dead! I gave him up for adoption and I'M PROUD OF IT!" Yet I knew mom was right. That little white lie was easier than dealing with their curiosity. Before I quit answering the phone, one telemarketer had actually tried to enroll me in a conversation about it. "Really?" she said, "Was it hard?"
I'm not a fragile person, but those first few months, I broke down all the time. I cried on my family, I cried when strangers looked at my recovering belly and asked, "Oh! Are you pregnant?" and I cried when I was alone. Hell, I'm crying right now, just writing about it. Sometimes it still hurts, but it's a strange kind of hurt. When I think of my son, I feel complete; whole. I had 6 months to love him as he grew in my womb. I had 2 days to hold him in the hospital. I have the rest of my life to know he is loved by the best people in the world. The people who are his real family.
How can I be sad about that?
I can't.
"If you don't want your baby, we'll try to find a home for it." Said the woman on the phone.
That was the point where I lost control. Looking for adoption agencies in the phone was hard. Actually talking to the agencies was even harder. For days, the phone book had sat open on the kitchen table, right underneath the avocado colored phone we had picked up at a thrift store. Every time mom went into the kitchen she said, "Just call Catholic Charities. They'll give him a good Catholic home."
After a week or so, it became an incessant nagging from her. "Did you call yet?" "Just call!" "Pick up the phone and dial, it's not hard!"
She had no idea. This wasn't like going to the St. Vincent De Paul Society for a little extra food. This was asking for the biggest handout in the world. This was asking someone to love my child for the rest of their lives, to provide for him, teach him right from wrong, and give him a better life. Mom had no idea how hard it was for me to just pick up the phone.
I had gotten pregnant on the 4th of July, having sex on the floor, surrounded by moving boxes. We were moving from the old neighborhood to a new one. I was looking toward a new direction in my life. I had a job, a car, and a guy I was going to marry someday. I was just waiting on the engagement ring. And while I was waiting, we had a lot of sex.
When August rolled around, and I hadn't gotten my period, I began to worry that something was wrong. I thought I might have cancer or something. My friends all said, "You're pregnant." but I thought, "No, it's cancer. I can't be pregnant. I'd know if I were pregnant."
When I realized my boyfriend was an overcontrolling jerk who belittled everything I said, and dumped him; I thought, "See. It's cancer. I'm removing the dead weight from my life before I get treatment."
When my belly started to swell, I thought, "The cancer is growing, I should really go to the doctor."
When 3 months had passed without a period, I decided to visit Planned Parenthood. Just to rule out pregnancy, before I paid a real doctor to treat the cancer I was so sure I had.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room, that I allowed myself to see that I was pregnant. When the test came back positive, I was overjoyed. I was having a baby! I had wanted to be a mom for as long as I could remember, and now it was happening! Sure, I'd only get one semester of college before his birth. Ok, I'd have to go on welfare for a little while, until I could work again. Yeah, it might be 5 or more years before I could go back to school; and I wouldn't be moving out of mom's house for a while yet. But all of that was bearable, because I was going to be a mom!
For the next two months, I planned every little bit of my child's life. I put money away for the birth. I priced toys and clothes, and figured out exactly how much I would need to earn to care for my son. The impending welfare stint sucked, but it was the only way to truly provide for him and still get my college education. And then I had a dream.
For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain. I've always had prophetic dreams. Not very often, but frequently enough that I've learned to pay attention. That night I dreamed I was searching for my son's real parents. When I woke up in the morning, I told my mom, "I'm giving him up for adoption."
I was happy. I was at peace, and I was so full of love that morning. I knew his parents were out there, and it was my job to find them. Mom was incredibly supportive. She was looking forward to having a grandson, and she understood that it was my choice. So she did what any loving mom would do. She stood by me, and supported me, and never said a word about the loss she would feel. She was there when I awoke, crying in the middle of the night, because I missed my baby. She was there when my friends didn't know how to look at me anymore. And she was there when the telemarketers would call with their offers of free baby pictures and coupons for formula.
I stopped answering the phone when mom was home. She would pick up for me, and I'd hear her side of the conversation. "Hello?"..."No, this is her mother"..."The baby died. Please don't call here again."
I always wanted to cry out, "He's not dead! I gave him up for adoption and I'M PROUD OF IT!" Yet I knew mom was right. That little white lie was easier than dealing with their curiosity. Before I quit answering the phone, one telemarketer had actually tried to enroll me in a conversation about it. "Really?" she said, "Was it hard?"
I'm not a fragile person, but those first few months, I broke down all the time. I cried on my family, I cried when strangers looked at my recovering belly and asked, "Oh! Are you pregnant?" and I cried when I was alone. Hell, I'm crying right now, just writing about it. Sometimes it still hurts, but it's a strange kind of hurt. When I think of my son, I feel complete; whole. I had 6 months to love him as he grew in my womb. I had 2 days to hold him in the hospital. I have the rest of my life to know he is loved by the best people in the world. The people who are his real family.
How can I be sad about that?
I can't.
The other half of the story
Catholic Charities was extremely rude. They treated me like I was garbage. I am not garbage, and I've never had a problem pointing that out to people. So when the woman on the phone spoke to me like I was less than the dirt beneath her fingernails, I let her know a few things.
I am white.
I am intelligent.
I am drug-free.
I do want my child. I also want my child to have a better life.
And they will never get their hands on my son.
I wasn't done yet, either. I kept her on the phone, letting her know my opinion of her assumptions about me. I asked if she understood how hard it was for me to even make an inquiry. I expressed disbelief in them ever handling an adoption, if this was the way they treated birth parents. I pointed out that my son was a gift, not a burden. And when she grudgingly apoligized, I stated the obvious. I said, "You are the sorriest representative of a company I've ever had to deal with." Then I hung up on her.
That's what happens when a redhead loses her temper.
Catholic Charities was extremely rude. They treated me like I was garbage. I am not garbage, and I've never had a problem pointing that out to people. So when the woman on the phone spoke to me like I was less than the dirt beneath her fingernails, I let her know a few things.
I am white.
I am intelligent.
I am drug-free.
I do want my child. I also want my child to have a better life.
And they will never get their hands on my son.
I wasn't done yet, either. I kept her on the phone, letting her know my opinion of her assumptions about me. I asked if she understood how hard it was for me to even make an inquiry. I expressed disbelief in them ever handling an adoption, if this was the way they treated birth parents. I pointed out that my son was a gift, not a burden. And when she grudgingly apoligized, I stated the obvious. I said, "You are the sorriest representative of a company I've ever had to deal with." Then I hung up on her.
That's what happens when a redhead loses her temper.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Comments are down. (sigh)
In reference to the previous post:
Oops, my bad. Pete and Manny created BlogMadness as a non-popularity based contest, where you take your best post from 2003 and pit it against the best post from other blogs. They got 116 entries. Mine is in the "Love" region. At the moment, it's in the "Winners Round 3" part. Go read them! I've found some really good blogs to add to my side bar, you might too. Sorry you can't comment right now. If you'd like to say something you can reach me at randomred (that symbol over the number 2) bitparts (dot) org.
In reference to the previous post:
Oops, my bad. Pete and Manny created BlogMadness as a non-popularity based contest, where you take your best post from 2003 and pit it against the best post from other blogs. They got 116 entries. Mine is in the "Love" region. At the moment, it's in the "Winners Round 3" part. Go read them! I've found some really good blogs to add to my side bar, you might too. Sorry you can't comment right now. If you'd like to say something you can reach me at randomred (that symbol over the number 2) bitparts (dot) org.
It's been a while
First off, THANK YOU to everyone who has and/or will vote for "The Race War That Wasn't" in BlogMadness. It's gone up against some pretty well known authors, and it's still in the running! Thank you for voting in the spirit of the competition, for voting for the entry you deem best; whether it's mine or someone else's.
Secondly, I apologize for not writing anything recently. I've written all the easy stories; the ones that I've relived often enough in my dreams. Now I'm working on the harder stuff. The tale of the 9 year old prostitute, the times the pervs grabbed me or someone else, the drug dealers, and the ever present violence. Sometimes I wonder why I began this project. Then I remember my friend A, laughing over "And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!" and saying in all seriousness, "You should write a book."
Yeah, that's why. To tell the stories that never get told.
First off, THANK YOU to everyone who has and/or will vote for "The Race War That Wasn't" in BlogMadness. It's gone up against some pretty well known authors, and it's still in the running! Thank you for voting in the spirit of the competition, for voting for the entry you deem best; whether it's mine or someone else's.
Secondly, I apologize for not writing anything recently. I've written all the easy stories; the ones that I've relived often enough in my dreams. Now I'm working on the harder stuff. The tale of the 9 year old prostitute, the times the pervs grabbed me or someone else, the drug dealers, and the ever present violence. Sometimes I wonder why I began this project. Then I remember my friend A, laughing over "And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!" and saying in all seriousness, "You should write a book."
Yeah, that's why. To tell the stories that never get told.
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