One big dirty joke, 4th Installment. Age 14-15.

 I can feel my mother staring down at me, she will not be ignored. "Miranda, get out of bed! It's 3 in the after noon and you haven't gotten up once today." She bellows in my face while pulling at my cocoon of blankets.  

"Leave me alone woman!" I yell back with out opening my eyes. I sling my arm over my eyes and yawn. My whole body feels as if it's asleep. I can't feel my toes or finger tips but I don't care. She keeps tugging at my blankets, unrolling me like a grape leaf. Soon I'm just going to fall apart, and then she'll be sorry. "Please go away, just leave me alone!" I whimper. beg.

Her meaty fist comes down on my already black and blue ribs, "Wake up!" 

I grunt once, roll up into the fetal position and fall back into my death like slumber.

After a while she gives up. She knows I've been stealing her meds again, and that I will be zonked out for hours. So she plops herself down in front of the computer and taps away why I drift in my endless black pool. We sit like this all day, until I come out of my medicated stupor and take her place in front of the humming monitor. It's 12 pm, 9 hours later, when I am finally able to open my eyes and stretch. My mom is right where I left her, tap tap tapping away at the keys of our desk top. I kick off my blankets and teeter my way to the bath room, wearing the same t shirt I've had on for the last 3 weeks.

I examine my face in the mirror. Dark circles puff out from under my blood shot eyes. I peel the shirt off of my flesh to count my ribs. They're all there, poking out slightly from under my snow white skin. I step naked onto the scale and frown at what I see. "How can I still be at one forty seven?" I mumble out loud. Once again I turn to the mirror and look over my body. I cup my small breasts in my hands and suck in my stomach. My ribs stick out even further, the bruises on my flesh stretch to cover them up. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. "Fatty, fatty, fatty!" I whisper to the broad shouldered girl in the mirror. I ball up my fist and punch myself in the ribs as hard as I can. Hot tears spring from my eyes but I don't stop. I bring my knuckles down across my ribs until fresh bruises bloom and my knuckles are as red as roses. Maybe if I punch hard enough I can mold my form to resemble the petite, pretty girls at school. I'm willing to try. 

        When I can't bring myself to fire off another round against my ribs I move to my thighs. All the while biting down on the inside of my mouth to keep myself from screaming the words that are booming in my head, "Fatty! Cow! Dyke! Thunder thighs! No bodies gonna love you if you're a fat ass!" 

Big sloppy tears roll down my face and splash against the moldy tile floor. When no one is looking I allow myself to cry. My thighs turn red and jiggle under my attack. Finally I'm so exhausted all I can do is slump against the counter and stare at myself in the mirror while my body burns and twitches.

Urgent knocking at the door calls me away from my tormented reflection. "Miranda," my brother whines, "I need to take a dump, can you stop shaving your mu stash?"

I quickly yank my t shirt back on and rip open the door. "Fuck you!" I sneer, and push him out of my way. 

He slips into the bath room and locks the door before I can get any more violent with him. the bath room is our sanctuary. It's the only room in the house with a lock on it. Sometimes when I can't escape into sleep I go in there and just lay in the empty tub with my blanket. I've never had my own room before, so that tiny, rusted tub is the closest thing I have to privacy. Unfortunately I have to share it and the rest of my grandmothers 2 bed room trailer with five other people.

I slip into the kitchen and open the fridge. Dinner has long been made and devoured. I know it's against the rules to eat outside of family meals but nothing was saved for me except the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. My grandmother holds no sympathy for slackers. "You get to the table when dinner is served or you don't eat," she warns me every night. 

I grab an apple from some where deep inside our fridge and scurry back to bed with it like a roach. Peeking over my mothers shoulder, I quickly scan the messages she's sending to some foreign man in India while I bite into my first meal of the day. She's so desperate for adult conversation that she doesn't mind if said adult is living over seas and types in broken English about his religion and erect penis. I eat my apple in silence, waiting for her to relinquish the computer for the night. 

Finally she turns to face me, the computer screen sitting idle behind her. "You need to stop taking my Trazodone," she says in a matter of fact way.

At this point I don't even care if she knows or not. I know she isn't stupid, and her meds are the only thing she does pay attention to in real life. I shrug my shoulders at her, "I don't know what you're talking about."

I can feel her eyes glaring into me. "Miranda, I need those. That's why the doctors gave them to me. So please, stop taking them." 

"Well what about all the medication you needed but the doctors wouldn't give you?" I asked, going right for her jugular. 

"What about all the times you sent me in to see the shrink with stories of how depressed I was, when really you just needed a fix?" My voice shook a little at the end despite the acid I felt in my throat.

"Huh mommy? Well now I need some too, so you can shut the fuck up." there, now the acid was out, spit all across her face.

Her dimpled hands are white against the arms of her chair. I meet her with just as much hate and resentment. I feel as if I could spit on her, but instead I go for the kill. "Maybe if you have a few less to take you can get a fucking job and get us out of your mothers house! Huh mommy? did that thought ever occur to you? That maybe we're sick of living here, cramped up in the tin can?! We're waiting for you to take care of us and you're just sitting there!" 

I've swallowed every tear and now I am boiling with anger. I dare her to disagree, to lash back at me, to raise her hand and hit me. Fight! Wake up! 

She doesn't. "You stupid, fat, bitch" she spits at me, "Move so I can go to bed."

I step aside and allow her to fall into the bed I just got out of. I sit in her spot in front of the screen and prop my cold feet up on the tower. It's humming warmth comforts me a little. I look over my shoulder at her big form laying in bed, curled up in the fetal position I know so well. I look back at the screen and open a new page. everything is blurry for a moment until I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Even if she's not looking, I refuse to cry in front of my mother. I refuse to cry in front of any one. Crying is for infants, and obviously I could not afford to be anything but an adult right now.

3rd installment of "One big dirty joke." Age 18.

This is another installment of my Autobiography, "One big dirty joke." I've been flip flopping around from different parts in my life, with the intention of going back later and putting it all together. So right now I am 18 years old, and it's about two weeks before I have even heard about Gratitude training. 

My head feels as if it’s stuffed with cotton balls. The windows are open wide but no breeze is coming in and the smell of dog piss and body odor clings to everything. We shoved two single mattresses together in the living room and now the five of us are huddled together. On the porch and in the kitchen more traveling kids are hiding in the shadows. Every now and then you can hear them cough on the smoke from the pipe being passed around the house. Of course no one enters the back room, not even to use the bathroom tacked onto it. Sarah has locked herself in there with her record player and loneliness.

         For the last hour though I’ve been aware of nothing but the guy lying next to me. I’m not aware of the three sets of eyes staring or the headlights from the passing cars washing over me, bleaching me white. His hands explore my breasts, thighs and stomach and I match him touch for touch.

I compare his rough, cracked skin to Matthews, even though it hurts to think about Matty while I’m in bed with someone else. It’s been two months since Matty left and I still wake up in the wee hours of the morning reaching out for him. When I don’t find him beside me the knot in my stomach tightens more and my heart aches so much that I cry out.

This barefoot traveling boy is nothing like Matty, and it makes me feel a little better. His legs and calves ripple with muscle from walking, while Matty was nothing but soft flesh. His skin is the color of black coffee, while Matty was pure cream, sprinkled with brown sugar.

I run my tongue across his thick lips and taste salt. His hands are cupping my ass now and I bite down on his tender bottom lip until I taste blood. Something I would not have dared to do to Matty.

Annie rolls over so she isn’t facing us any more, but the other people are still looking on, transfixed. They watch as my tongue flicks his nipples and makes them bloom like morning glories. I’m not put off by his offensive odor, which is so strong it coats the back of my throat like smoke. Instead I embrace it. It is yet another thing that is nothing like my Matty, who always smelled of freshly picked figs.

He kisses me all over but I’m no longer there to notice. My body responds while my mind wonders off, taking me back to Matty’s warm embrace.

I am no longer being rubbed by the rough, steel wool beard of a man who hasn’t bathed in months and am instead being cradled against Matty, my fingers are wrapped up in his auburn locks and he’s smiling. We’re lying in the field at Treaty Park again, it’s spring and the sun is cascading down through freshly opened leaves.

I’m telling him about how much I love the children I take care of at the daycare I’m volunteering at. “Every day I help make lunch and the kids call me Andy instead of Miranda,” I tell him with pride and warmth.

 He snuggles the top of my head and whispers, “One day you’re going to have a whole house full of children, who are going to love you so much. Like I love you.”

I look up at him smiling, but his eyes are closed, envisioning our house full of children. Gently I uncurl his long hair from one of my hands and run the tip of my finger from his eyebrows, down his nose and across his lips. I pause for half a second and his lips part and kiss the supple pad of my index finger. I travel on, trailing his kisses down his chin and across his collarbones like a ribbon. I memorize the way his skin feels under my touch, and the way his bleach blonde eye lashes lay flush against his cheeks. I memorized it so well, it’s like it happened yesterday instead of more than a year ago.

It doesn’t feel like years or months ago though. I have grown so accustomed to being loved by him that the absence of it is unreal. Sometimes when I am laying in the unconscious state between being awake and asleep I can still feel his breath against my scalp, tickling my hair with kisses. I can feel his presence the same way amputees can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs.

I’m brought back to the present moment by a sharp pain. The traveling boy is on top of me and has made his way inside. I cry out in shock, not realizing it had gone this far. He takes the sound as encouragement and thrusts faster. My right leg is slung over his shoulder and he plants warm, sloppy kisses all over it. Like a drunk driver his mouth swerves across my flesh. I look up at him with wide eyes, and then turn my head to see three sets of eyes looking at me, even Annie is watching again. The pipe glows red in her hand as she tokes on it and passes it to the next person. She coughs and pot smoke billows out of her small mouth and floats over to me. I can feel her glazed eyes judging me. 

I turn my head away and stare at the tiny Buddha statue sitting in the corner of the room until the boy above me is through grunting. He rolls off of me and smacks a kiss on my dry lips.

I feel as if I’m about to vomit, but there is nothing in my stomach to come up so I just dry heave. I sit up and start hacking harder until my throat is raw. The traveling boy pats my back but I wave him away. I don’t want him touching me any more. Annie doesn’t move from her spot slumped against the wall to help me. She just sits and stares with bleary, red eyes. I don’t want her help anyway. I want Sarah. 

I pull myself up from the muddle of bodies and sheets and make my way to the back of the house. Someone whistles at my bare ass but I ignore them. I can hear snickers behind me but I don’t bother to look and see who it is. My whole body is shaking; I can barely feel my legs and arms. I knock on Sarah’s bed room door loudly, “Sarah, it’s me, let me in.”

There is a rotting old couch in the kitchen instead of a table and someone is laying on it strumming a guitar. I don’t feel the need to cover my naked body; I just stand there rubbing my throbbing head. After a couple minutes I hear the chorus of locks being turned and the door creaks open. Sarah’s dread locked head peeks out and stares at me. “What’s up? I’m sleeping,” she croaks.

“Can I sleep with you?” I ask in a tiny voice.

She turns and disappears into the dark room that’s filled with her smell and Jimmie Hendrix’s voice.  I follow and snap all the locks back into place. She flops down on her bare mattress and I curl up next to her. Our backs are pressed together and soon our breathing becomes synchronized. I can feel her heart beating fast in her birdcage like chest. We lay like that for a long time and I think she’s asleep until she asks, “What’s the matter?”

She knows how much I miss Matty, she knows how I dream of him so vividly that in the morning I cry when I find that it was all indeed a dream. She was there for the whole two and a half years we were together, and now she’s the only one left to pick up the pieces now that it is all over. She is also the only one who knows how much I miss my mother. I tell her, and her alone about how I can still smell her sometimes and how it makes me want to bring my knees up to my chest and sob forever. Sarah knows how much I hate my job at Wal mart and how much I long to work with children instead. And how I keep telling myself I can’t, because who is going to let trailer park trash take care of babies?

She knows it all, and when I talk to her it’s like applying a soothing balm to my wounds. “I had sex with him… It was the first time since Matty,” I whisper into the darkness in front of me.

I know if I look into her eyes right now they will be sober, and only unfocused from sleep. Her clear blue eyes never hold judgment either. We both know that drugs will never dull our pain, so there is no point in trying.

I gulp up a mouth full of air, trying to settle my stomach. The A/C unit in the window hums a rumbling lullaby, while gushing out ice-cold air over my naked body.

She doesn’t respond for a while and once again I assume she’s asleep. “I miss him so much Sarah.” I whimper.

She rolls over and faces me and I turn so we’re lying face-to-face and embracing. Her face is damp and I realize mine is as well, I’ve been crying the whole time. Her dread locks fall across my shoulders, and the feeling of her surrounding me makes me feel better. As if her ropes of hair alone can keep me safe from the poison that is eating me alive from the inside.

She pets my damp hair, pushing it back off of my face. Soon my face is slack and for once my mind isn’t racing. The knot in my stomach loosens a little, letting my heartbeat normally, with out aching. It begins to turn gray outside, and Sarah has finally fallen back to sleep. Slowly I rise and pick my way back into the front of the house. I leave Sarah curled up on the bare mattress to dream. The bottoms of her feet are black and her bare legs are covered in bug bites, much like my own.

 We have not showered in I don’t know how long because the water in the house has been turned off. If I want to wash I’ll have to walk downtown later and lock myself in the handicap stall while I rinse off in the sink. Before I go do another 9-hour shift at Wal mart I’ll run across the lawn and wash my hair with the neighbors garden house and a bottle of dish soap. Wal mart is the last thing on my mind now though.

I step over puddles of dog piss, broken dishes and vomit until I find my traveling boy amongst the pile of other bodies. I stand in the doorway staring at him until his eyes open. He smiles and lifts the filthy sheet that is covering him, beckoning me to him. The palms of his hands are as white as clouds and they put me at ease, they are like white flags waving in a battlefield, telling me the battle is over for now. I’ve made it through another night.

 I step over Annie’s slim body and slip into bed next to him, laying my head on his chest. “I missed you last night,” he whispers into my matted hair.

I don’t respond though, I’m already asleep. 

I jerk my head up off of the bare mattress, a line of drool slipping down my chin. Next to me my phone is going off like a swarm of angry hornets. "BUZZ, Buzz, Buzz!!!"

I look around but no one is here, they must be out flying signs. Light filters in from the bare window and I guess it's any where from noon to 3 o'clock.

 I snatch up the phone and stare at it for a second, letting my eyes focus on the small text before I answer it. Oh, it's James! I flip the phone open, "Hey, what's up?"

James has been gone lately, off doing some kind of personal growth crap. I personally think it's a waste of money, but at the same time I can see the change in him and that makes me happy. He's not nearly as angry any more. "Hey.. were you sleeping?" I can hear the disappointment in his voice.

"No," I lie, "just allergies." 

I don't like telling lies to him, but I don't like him judging my lifestyle even more. Yeah, I party a lot and stay up late, but my bills are paid, aren't they? 

"Well, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a little bit, if you aren't busy."

I sit up in bed and stretch my legs out in front of me, "Nah, I'm not busy. What's up?" I can feel Gratitude training coming. 

He's gonna suggest I go, I know it. But I can't go, I have to work. Not to mention it's a 5 hour drive from here and I know nobody in West Palm Beach, where the center is located. I sigh to myself, I really don't want to talk about it at all, I'm just going to let him down. 

"Well I was wondering if you'd tell me about what you want to do... I mean, I know you want to work with kids, but that's really all I know." he asks.

I'm kinda put off by this. Not by the question itself, but by James asking me something. Normally James does all the talking in conversations. Which really isn't so bad, I enjoy listening to him talk because he always has something interesting to say, and I really learn from him. 

In the 3 years I've lived with my Sister Kerri, and her boyfriend James, I've learned a lot just from sitting and listening to James talk. 

"Well.." I falter for a second, what do I want?

I know what I want, but it's so outlandish, so unobtainable, that I kinda feel silly even bringing it up. "One day I want to own my a daycare," I say in a small voice. 

There, it's out. Now he's going to pick it apart and tell me all the reasons why I'm not on the right track to reach my goal. I close my eyes and wait. 

"What does that look like?" he asks.

What the fuck? "I don't know..." What does he mean by that anyway? 

"Close your eyes," he instructs, "and tell me what it looks like."

My eyes are already closed.. but I try to do as he says and imagine the day care. I see colorful walls, covered in butterflies that the kids cut out themselves and glued glitter on. I see origami birds we folded hanging from the ceiling and 5 little people sitting in a circle with me in the center, reading a book. I smell pine sol and their little bodies, powdered and innocent. 

I smile at the scene, it's so vivid in front of me, but I can't bring myself to tell James. I can't ever have that, so there's no point in day dreaming about it. "I don't know.." I repeat. 

He sighs on the other end, but remains patient with me. "Well I see building blocks, and lots of kids running around playing," he says, "It's your day care, what colors are the walls? How old are the kids?" 

I close my eyes even tighter, "James, I don't know.." I say again, starting to get frustrated. 

I don't want to do this! I don't want to talk about things I can't have, no bodies going to let me, trailer park trash, take care of kids. I'm getting my hopes up for nothing!

He senses me getting aggravated but keeps it up anyway, "There are no limitations Miranda, nothing to stop you, so just imagine it. What would it sound like? How would you set it up?"

Tears start spilling down my face as I try to hold back my sobs. No limitations? Ha! The picture in my head is bright and bubbly, with children playing duck, duck, goose and Mozart tinkling softly in the background. Life is filled with limitations! Me being fat is a limitation, and the most obvious one. Add on the fact I was raised in the projects, put in foster care and poor. James wasn't fooling anyone, I was limited from the start. 

I collect myself long enough to reply, "James, I really don't know.." the tears make my voice come out thick. 

"Miranda.. You do know." 

I sob a little into the phone, why can't he just let it go? It's stupid anyway. 

"I want you to do GT," he says after a second, "Just consider it, okay?"

I knew it! I knew he would bring it up! I wipe away my tears with an angry fist. "I don't know." I repeat my go to phrase when I'm upset. 

"I have a scholar ship for the first part for you, you can go to part one for free, and Kerri is going with you. Will you at least consider it?" He isn't pleading with me,instead his voice sounds as if he's offering a gift. Something I should be honored to receive. 

I'm quite for a second, not really thinking, just trying to collect myself. "Okay," I whisper, "Let me see if I can get the days off for it first."

I jot down the dates he gives me and hang up the phone. Sarah walks in just as I flop back on the bed, I can tell by the look on her face she's been listening for a while. 

"Is he trying to make you go to that cult again?" She asks, only half sarcastic. 

I shrug my shoulders and stare up at the ceiling. The bed sighs and slumps a little as she sits down next to me. She picks up the lists of dates and scans them."This is about the time we'll be leaving," she reminds me, as if I don't know.

"Yeah," I say softly to the brown spot crawling across the ceiling. 

"Are you going to do this instead of going with us?" she demands. 

For the last few weeks Sarah, Annie and I have been talking about leaving St.Aug and hitch hiking. We were thinking North Carolina, or maybe just joining up with the rainbow, a group of traveling hippies that bartered and traded for everything. Really any where would do. We just needed to go. I felt trapped by my job, by my obligations, my responsibilities. Why bother with it, when I can just stick out my thumb and be gone?

I roll my head to the side and stare at her. She isn't looking at me, but at the slip of paper in her hands. Her dreads have fallen around her face, so I can't make out her profile. "I don't know" I groan. 

That phrase, I say it so much it's like a chant. "I don't know!" I repeat, more to myself this time.

"Well if you ditch me, that would be lame." she snaps, as she pulls herself off of the bed and makes her way to the bathroom. The water has been off for a while, but some dumb ass took a shit in the toilet anyway. She slams the door shut, trying to block out the smell from her room. It's pretty pointless, since right next to the bed a giant pile of dog shit sits, sneering at me. I don't bother to clean it up though, another pile will just replace it later. "It's free, the first part. so maybe I can just do it for James and Kerri and then leave with you," I try to reason. 

I want to make everyone happy, it's like it doesn't even matter what I want. The picture of the daycare swirls in my mind again. What do I want?

Adultery.

Sometimes I can smell myself burning in hell.

The ashes of my sins pile up around me, cocooning me.

Like the ashes of the books they burnt in the name of God.

My skin curls up at the edges, blistering in the sun

Their side ways glances and up turned noses add fuel to the fire.

There are those who do not know me who wish to burn me at the stake,

they damn me to hell with out a single thought of their own chard lips.

They fear I am a cinder, a smoldering coal of lust, they cannot contain.

They say I am a spark that will soon engulf their home and children.

~Myranda N

"One big Dirty joke" 2nd Installment. Age 12-13

His breath smelled of alcohol and rot. One hand is covering my mouth while the other flashes a knife in front of my eyes. I can taste the sweat from his palms against my lips and it makes me want to vomit. I choke a little and try to scream. I instantly regret making any noise, now the children are awake too, and he sees them.  He glares down at the floor where they lay on their pallets and they gaze back up at him with confused, blank faces. Oh, my poor babies.

            The knife is pressed against my throat now, his face is just inches from mine and I can see the red veins darting across the whites of his eyes. “If you make another noise I’ll cut you, and your bastards too.”

            I nod my head once. I strain my eyes to see past him to my children, but he’s blocking them from my sight. He laughs in my face and takes his hand from my mouth to unbutton his pants. The knife is still pressed to my throat; it’s one of the steak knives from the kitchen. I begin to cry. “Mommy, who is here?”

            Miranda’s little voice is filled with so much malice, she sounds like a grown woman instead of a nine-year-old child. My stomach is in knots, please Miranda, shut up. Don’t draw him to you.

That’s the first night I learned to shut my mouth and curl up into the smallest ball possible. The tall black man towered over my mother that early morning in July with a knife to her throat and raped her over and over again. We both survived by sealing our lips and eyes and letting what ever was going to happen, happen.

Now, a couple months later I’m sitting in my grandmother’s front yard under an orange tree. Scattered around me are over ripened oranges with big, gushing wounds stabbed into them so they look like they are grinning in the sun. I haven’t seen my mother since she left in the white van with the tinted windows. My brothers and I have been living with my grandma, my mothers mom, for over a month and every time I ask about my mom my grandma tells me I have to be patient.

So I pass the time by replaying that morning over and over in my head. But in my head I am my mother, and the big coffee colored man is laying on top of me, breathing into my face. I’m ready for him though, in my minds eye. I have my pocketknife in my left front pocket and I pull it out and hold it in my hand until he is close to my face and I can see his pores like craters and smell his rotting teeth.

Instead of lying on my pile of blankets on the floor listening to my mother cry I send my one-inch long knife into his throat, into the soft, fleshy space right under his chin.  I slam it into him and pin his wet tongue to the roof of his mouth and watch his blood shot eyes bug out in surprise.

I practice the fluid, up ward motion I would use on the oranges. Over and over again I send my knife sinking through the flesh of the fruit, imagining arteries severing instead of pulp. The sound I imagine it would make is soothing to me, as comforting as a lullaby. The gasp of his breath catching in his wind pipe, the gurgling of his blood flooding out of him and over me.

I’m so caught up in this dream that I don’t even notice my Aunt Beverly pulling up in the driveway in her little white car. She taps her way towards me in her shiny red pumps and stares at me killing the fruit with disgust plainly written across her face. Her plump, lipstick lined lips are set in a frown and one drawn on eyebrow is arched at me. I look up in surprise when she snaps at me, “Girl, where did you get that weapon?”

My head snaps up as I instinctively hide the knife behind my back. “My dad gave it to me Aunt Bev.”

My aunt Beverly looks and acts nothing like my mother, it’s almost hard to believe that they are sisters. Her eyes are the same dark, muddy shade of brown as her hair, and she always keeps it hanging loose around her round, moon face. She has 3 chins, and she keeps a bottle of hair spray in her bag at all times. Her eyes narrow at my reply, and I regret mentioning my father. There is nothing that will piss her off quicker than talking about my dad. “It figures that piece of shit would give a child a knife to play with. Stupid fucker.”  She’s seething now.

I dip my head low until my chin is touching my chest, as if it were I she was cursing at instead of my father. I wish with all my might she would just go inside her trailer and leave me be. But no such luck, she had just come home from shopping. I peek at her shopping bags from under my eyelashes and see some from Macys, Ross, and Payless. Dread begins to bubble up in my guts and my head starts swimming.

            “I bought you some stuff today, come inside with me and try it on” She rakes my body with her eyes quickly and takes in my crumpled cargo shorts and over sized T-shirt and adds, “After you wash that mess from your face and hands, of course.”

            She has this ability to make me feel like the most disgusting thing on the planet, all she has to do is look at me and I feel the need to bathe and brush my teeth. Bathing isn’t enough though. My aunt Beverly has this idea that I need to dress up, wear make up and have tea parties, like other little girls. She is constantly buying me clothes, perfume and dolls that I loath.

            “No thank you, I’m not ready to go inside yet,” I tell her politely, hoping that good manners will win this battle for me.

            Once again, no such luck. She had starting walking away after she instructed me to come in side, not even waiting to hear my response. Now she is standing stalk still in the pathway, her bags swinging gently in her chubby fists.

            “That was not a request Miranda. Get your ass out of the dirt, come inside and wash your hands. Then you are going to put these clothes on and help me cook dinner for your brothers and uncles. Now.”

            I stare the 3 big fat rolls that make up her back and think about telling her to go fuck her self, but stop short. The last time I cursed at my Aunt I was beat with the razor belt and made to stand in the corner for an hour in parade rest. I did not want a repeat of that so instead I stand and thrust my knife in my front left pocket. “Okay” I reply softly.

            She begins tapping her way to the front door again with out looking behind her and I imagine the thin heels of her red pumps snapping under her weight and sending her flailing on her back like a big beetle. I snicker at the thought of this as I follow her into my grandmother’s 2-bedroom trailer.

            My grandmother has two acres of land, and two trailers sit on it like big fat toads. They are ugly and do nothing but croak out nasty smells and people all day. My grandma and Uncle Bill lived in the first trailer until my two younger brothers and I came along, now we all share it. My aunt Beverly and her son live in the second trailer.  We zip between the two toads all day like flies, trying not to be swallowed up for too long. When I can I sit in the yard, a safe distance from the hungry hole I live in, and think about my mother. I worry about if she’ll ever come back, or if she’ll ever forgive me for letting that man hurt her and then get away scotch free. Sometimes I sit for hours worrying, until the mosquitoes have left dozens of angry little hills across my arms and legs and it feels as if I’ve cried all of the water out of my body.

I allow my aunt Beverly to dress me in the pink tank top and shorts she bought me at Target. She runs a brush through my thick, long hair until my eyes water and there are no more knots or tangles. “You have your mothers hair, you should take better care of it,” she scolds me.

         I know she doesn’t expect me to respond so I just sit there in front of her big mirror and allow her to apply gloss and eye shadow to my face with her plump sausage like fingers. I hate my hair; it’s so thick that if I don’t wash and brush it everyday it mats up at the nap of my neck. Usually I just allow it to form into one big dread at the base of my neck. That is until my aunt Bev gets her hands on it. 

         She stops smudging blush on my cheeks long enough to take a drag off of her Marlboro. I watch her fire engine red nails bring the cigarette to her lips and marvel at how she can puff on it with out messing up her lipstick. It’s the most talented thing I’ve ever seen my aunt do.

         I breathe in the smell of the smoke and her perfume with out flinching. I’ve been breathing second hand smoke for as long as I can remember, it doesn’t faze me at all now. What tickles my nose is the smell of pot leaking in from the living room. My cousin is hitting his pipe again in the other room. The smoke makes my head tingle and my eyes water.

         Aunt Bev catches me staring and glances at herself in the mirror as if she’s checking to make sure her eyebrows are still drawn on evenly. After a couple seconds of pruning she compliments me in her matter of fact way. “You look very pretty with your hair brushed. And Pink suits your complexion.”

         “Thank you Aunt Beverly,” I mumble at her.

She faces me and purses her midnight wine lips, anger flicking across her face. Oh fuck, I messed up again. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, but I don’t dare wipe it off for fear of smudging my foundation.

         “You look really nice too!” I add, hoping that will fix whatever error I made.

         She doesn’t say any thing; instead she’s looking past me to my cousin standing in the doorway. He’s drooping the doorframe and the sight of him makes me nervous. His eyes are red and angry looking, as if he’s possessed with something evil. “Yo ma, Barbie is here,” He croaks. 

         Barbie is my aunt Bev’s best friend. She is a big woman like my aunt, and she wears too much make up. Her fat folds burst out of her clothing in provocative ways. I squirm in my seat and Aunt Bev glares at me as if she wants to slap me so I sit still.

         Barbie has a daughter, a little girl about 2 years younger then me. Her name is Maria, and I don’t like her because she’s mixed. I was always told I shouldn’t talk to people who weren’t white or Christian. But I’d rather sit in the bedroom with Maria then out in the living room with my aunt.

         I take a deep breath and blurt out my question before I become too afraid to, “May I stay in here and play with Maria tonight please?”

         Ryan looks at me as if he’s just noticing I’m in the room. “I don’t give a fuck.” He replies.

          

         Maria has Carmel skin and huge hazel eyes. When I asked my grandma why Maria was so much darker than me, she told me Barbie was nigger lover. The little girl sitting across from me on the bare mattress didn’t seem as evil as the man who raped my mother. Her skin wasn’t as dark and her hair was soft and fluffy. I wanted to reach out and pet her, but I knew I couldn’t touch a black person, even a half black person.

         In her hands she clutches a gold crucifix. I stared at it in disbelief, my mouth hanging open. “Don’t you know you aren’t suppose to have graven images of Jesus?” I blurt out.

         She clutches the gaudy thing closer to her and stares at me as if I just slapped her. Her thick, full lips begin to quiver and I feel bad for saying anything. “My Daddy gave it to me…”

         I instantly understand her pain. I wish I had something of my mothers to hold onto. I reach deep into my left pocket and pull out my pocketknife to show her. She flinches a little when I snap it open. I smile at her reassuringly and whisper; “My daddy gave this to me before he went to jail.”

          I trace my fingers over the pack of wolves on the handle of the knife and a tear runs down my cheek. “I don’t have anything from my mom though.”

         She smiles at me and I can see a big gap between her front two teeth. Maybe I can be this girl’s friend, if I don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t my grandma to think of me as a nigger lover, but I am so lonely.

         She reads my mind and scoots closer to me on the mattress, our feet dangle over the edge and I admire her tiny, coffee stained toes. “Did your dad go to jail too?” I ask in a small voice.

         “No… he died a year ago.” Her voice is as smooth as honey and doesn’t seem to match her frail frame.

         I don’t respond to this so she continues, “It’s okay though, I’m going to see him in heaven some day.”

         I almost tell her Niggers don’t go to heaven, but I stop. I want this girl to be my friend, so I just keep what my grandma taught me to myself.

         She meets my eyes full on, something I’m not use to people doing, and asks me in a serious tone, “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your lord and savior?”

         “No, but I do love Jesus and I know him” I reply defensively.

         “Well you have to be saved and baptized in the blood of the lamb if you want to go to heaven when you die” she says with a bit of an attitude.

“I know, my grandma taught me all about that, we are Southern Baptists.” I look at her skeptically, “Are YOU saved and baptized?”

         She kept gazing into my eyes the whole time and it made me feel weird. I’m not use to people keeping eye contact with me for so long.

         “Yes, I love God more than anything in the world. He lives in my heart and soul.” She tells me in one breath; as if it’s the best thing she could possibly tell anyone.

         “I love my mom more than anything in the world,” I tell her, and quickly add, “but I love God a close second.”

         Maria shakes her head and frowns at me. I’m starting to get angry now. I don’t like people telling me I’m wrong. “Don’t you love your mom more than God too?” I ask.

         “No, I love God more than any one or thing in the world. He is my lord and savoir.” She explains.

         We sit quietly for a little bit thinking about God and parents. I’ve forgotten by this point that I’m talking to a seven year old mixed girl. Now she is just Maria, who doesn’t have a parent just like me.

“Why do you love God so much if you can’t see him?” I ask her. I’m afraid she might think I’m dumb for asking, but I’m curious and want to know.

         To my surprise her attitude from earlier has vanished and she is crying again. In a quivering voice she whispers, “I can feel God holding me when my mom doesn’t hold me, he’s the only person who loves me and who will never die and leave me all alone. I can’t see him but I can feel him in here,” she taps her boney chest.

         I put my arm around her shaking shoulders and pull her towards me. She’s crying hard now and I can feel her whole body sobbing. We lie down on the stained mattress together and cry. My fat, white flesh pillows her skinny dark head, her cotton candy hair sticks to my damp cheeks but I don’t bother to push it away. I don’t care any more what color she is.

         I don’t know what to say to make it okay for her so I just pet the halo of dark curls around her face until her tears subside and she finally sleeps. I lay awake and stare at the wall, trying very hard to feel God the way Maria described.

         I couldn’t. I just couldn’t feel his presence the way she said she could. All I felt was the empty spot in my chest where my mothers love once was. Tears pool in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks, mingling with Maria’s tears. 

One Big Dirty Joke. A novel.

This is the very beginning of my book, I've 

started it and have been messing with it for a 

while now and would love feed back.

Cup your hands before you and imagine that resting safely in your palms is a lovely white dove. Its head bobbing softly as it coos, feathers perfectly smooth and in place. Can you feel its heart beating steadily against your hand? This dove seems fragile, almost as if it is made out of porcelain, but it is a special dove. A dove that is strong and able. A dove that can take all the malice and poison from your heart and mind and fly away with it on its wings. Fill that dove up with everything that is holding you down and trust that it will have the strength to soar, just like you have the strength to soar. You do have that strength you know, if you just let everything else go. Take a moment and fill the dove up....

Chapter one

There are cop cars outside of our house again. I use the term house sparingly, what I really mean is the sagging double wide trailer that's slowly decomposing on its four and a half acres of land. My brother is laying on our pallet of blankets and sheets on the floor with the covers up to his ears. I know he isn't asleep. Who could sleep with all the screaming? He just doesn't want to be caught spying.

The window is ice cold under my hands, but my body is damp and shaking. Why do they have to fight so much? I want to know what is goin' on, like always, but I don't dare leave the bed room. Instead I peek out of the window and count the number of cop cars out side, lined up like they are waiting to march single file into our house and arrest us all. Cop cars scare me.

***

I was born on October 6^th, 1992. My aunt Kathleen, or Bubbie as I have called her all of my life, was the first person I ever saw. I am one of nine children, My mother has two girls and three boys and my father has three girls and three boys. I am some where in the middle. I grew up in Saint Augustine, Florida and was raised by my parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and grandparents. I've learned a lot, and it started from a young age. Lets start at age 6, in kindergarten.

***

Hours after the cops left the head lights from my mothers Cadillac roll across the walls of our room. I've been waiting for her to come home so I can tell her about my day. About how my only friend in kindergarten spit on my shoes and when I slapped him the teacher made me sit in the corner for what seemed like hours. I wanted to be the first to tell her about the cop cars, and which of my aunts left in one this time.

Slowly I got up from my pallet and tip toed to the door, I did not want to wake the sleeping form in the queen sized bed. He would be very mad if I woke him. With my breath held I opened the door and shut it behind me with out a sound. As soon as I was half way down the hall way, past my grandmas closed door, I knew I was safe. My mothers arms where only a few minutes away! I waited for her in the kitchen, wondering if she would be too tired to talk to me tonight. I glanced at the numbers on the microwave but they danced before me, impossible to read.

When she came in she looked tired. Her long, thick hair is pulled back into a pony tail but some of the wispy curls escaped and framed her face. She smiled when she saw me, “Why are you not in bed, it's late.”

I loved that she never said “Ain't” like everyone else in my family. She is so smart, I wanted to be just like her. Ignoring her question I began telling her about the cop cars. “They were yelling too loud again and hitting each other. The cops came and took them away again!”

“Figures” is all she said, she isn't not even looking at me any more.

Instead she is opening the micro wave, peering in. Nothing. She went to the oven and opened it, and then slammed it shut again. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, pulling the hem of my over sized t shirt over my knees. I did not want to tell her Bubbie, my most beloved aunt, fed her dinner to the dogs again. She stomped over to the fridge, knowing it would be empty but looking anyway. She stared into it, the light illuminating her face and making the dark, puffy circles under her eyes stand out. Her shoulders and face began to tremble, and suddenly I am wishing I had stayed in the room with my brother and dad. I did not want to watch her cry again. “Mommy, I saved you some food..”

She looked over at me as if she is just realizing I am in the room. One single tear clung to her chin. “You should not have to horde food, it isn't right.”

Instantly I felt guilty, of course she didn't want my stupid cereal from school. I had just thought that maybe I could save it for her. When my teacher had asked why I put my breakfast in my backpack I had lied, telling her I was feeling sick and wanted to eat it later. I am a good liar.

I hopped down from my grandmothers wooden dining room chair and opened the freezer door. Way in the back, behind a bag of freezer burnt pees is a plastic cup of lucky charms and a frozen half pint of chocolate milk. I stuck the milk in the microwave and hit the button that said one. I liked the number one the best because it could not scramble itself up to look like something else, and I did not have to worry about writing it backwards. A one is just a little line, nothing else. I grabbed my mom a spoon and put the warm milk and cereal on the table for her. When she sat down I wiped the tears from her eyes, and kissed her cheek, just the way I see dad do it when he is in a good mood.

Instead of smiling at me like I hoped she would she begins to cry more. There are too many tears for me to wipe away now, so I cry too. I cry because I should have known better, I should have known she did not want my stupid lucky charms, or my stupid chocolate milk. “I'm sorry.” I whisper into her thick hair. It smells like shampoo and Chanel number 5.

She puts her arms around me and hugs me tight to her, so tight I almost can't breath. I don't even give a care. I squeeze her back and cry on her shoulder as she cries on mine.

***

I don't remember her eating, or putting me back under the covers next to my brother. In the morning I wake up on the floor again, so tired I can barely open my eyes. I can hear her snoring above me though, and I remember that I forgot to tell her about slapping my friend at school.

I hate school. I hate getting on the bus, and having to find a spot to sit. No one wants me to sit next to them, they say I smell bad and have fleas. I wish I were a wolf. Then I really would have fleas and I would not need to go to school. My family fighting all the time would make more sense too, I watched a show on animal planet that said wolf packs fight so they know who is boss. If I were a wolf I would be boss, and I'd bite everyone's muzzle to prove it!

I've gotta pee very badly, but if I get up I might wake up my dad and then he'll make me go to school. Maybe if I lay here until its too late I can stay home today with mom. I twist around on my pallet and try to make out the numbers on the digital clock. Is that a five or a two? I sigh in frustration, if I were a wolf I would not need to know my numbers. I would be too busy hunting moose to tell time. Thinking about hunting makes my tummy growl. If I don't go to school today I might not eat until dinner time. This makes me jump up and run to the bath room, I don't want to miss the bus after all. The only good thing about school is that I get to eat.

Sometimes, if I'm really hungry or if I want extra to bring home with me, I'll take other kids food. It's easy and I'm even kinda proud of myself for thinking of it. I just leave the cafeteria for a minute, and when I come back I tell the person next to me the teacher wants to see them. I point to a teacher that is far enough away. When they leave to see what the teacher wants, I grab what I can off their tray and put it in my backpack, then I toss their trays in the trash. Sometimes they accuse me of taking their stuff, but I've gotta a lie for that too. It surprises me how good I'm at telling lies. “The cafeteria lady thought you were done, she threw your tray away.”

Normally they don't want to talk to me long enough to argue, they think I'm weird. The only time any of the other kids talk to me is when they are accusing me of stealing their food. Even my best friend in kindergarten wont talk to me any more. He says he can't be friends with a girl, even if I do smell like a boy. I cried in the bathroom a long time after he told me, even though my teacher is knocking on the stall door asking me to come out. She isn't my mom, so I don't have to listen to her. That is what my aunt told me. I like to cry by myself, or with my mom. My mom doesn't call me a baby or ask what is wrong over and over again. My mom knows what is wrong, that is why she cries too.

When I came out of the stall finally, my teacher asked me the question only my mother knows the answer to, “What's wrong honey?”

I did not want her to call me a baby, or worse try and make the other kids play with me. “Nothing is wrong, bitch!” I yell at her.

I know saying that word is wrong, but it is better to have the teacher gasp and have me sit in the corner then tell her that no one likes me. If I tell her no one likes me she will lie and say they do, and make them play with me to prove me wrong. My aunt Peggy Sue says if someone doesn't like me I should give them the three mothers. Mother had em, mother loved em, mother fuck em. This doesn't make a lot of sense to me, so I don't give them the three mothers when they put soap in my hair or call me fatty. Instead I ignore them. Sometimes it gets pretty lonely when you ignore the whole class.

***

When I get off the bus at the end of the day my dog, Heidie, is waiting for me at the end of the drive way. She is my best friend, even though I'm a smelly girl who can't write numbers and letters the right way. I run to her and hug her every day after school. My bus driver thinks Heidie is a person. When she asks where my mom is to pick me up I tell her Heidie is watching from the drive way. “Well, sugar, maybe ms. Heidie should come meet you at the actual bus stop tomorrow, so you ain't crossin' this road alone. Ya hear me?”

I do hear her, but I act like I don't as I run down the steps of the bus. Sometimes, when I feel her eyes on my back, I cut through the ditch instead of walking all the way down to our drive way. Nanny says it is tacky when I do that, maybe that's why the kids laugh and point at me from the bus windows. I don't give a care though, it feels good to run across the couple of acres of front lawn we have. It feels good to know I don't have to see their dumb faces again until in the morning.

Heidie is a German Shepard/Chow mix. I know she has chow in her because she has purple spots all over her tongue and her fur is really thick. My dad was very surprised when I told him that, he wanted to know how I knew. I didn't tell him I found out watching animal planet, he might think that is dumb. Instead I shrugged and said, “I thought I heard you say it, sir.”

My dad loves Heidie almost as much as I do. I think anyone who meets her loves her to death. She makes me feel so good inside. My dad has other dogs too, but they are only meant for hunting. There is a pack of em' and that makes me happy because wolves hunt in packs too! When dad isn't looking I feed them hand fulls of dog food through the chicken wire. They are kept penned up in the back yard so they don't kill the cats or chickens. Sometimes I feel bad for them, because they can't run around free like Heidie does.

The picture above is of my two youngest brothers, Heidi and myself. (Buddy to the far left, David in the middle and me on the right.)

My dad did not name the dogs because he says they are not pets, but I gave them names in my head. I do a lot of things in my head, like learn how to read and hunt moose with my pack. The brindle one is Demi, and the the one with spots that look like coffee stains is Sassy, and the biggest, meanest one with the ripped up face I named Boo.

***

One day My dad was sleeping and I was really bored, stuck in the room. My mom was at work and my grandmother was grocery shopping. My brother would not play with me because he did not wanna wake dad up so I slipped outside instead. Heidie and I ventured into the woods that made up the last acre and a half of my grandmothers property and “Hunted”clad in my dads red flannel shirt and armed with a stick. This day I was getting tired of the game, having done it a million times before. What I really wanted to do was hunt for real, with a pack.

***

The pen was easy enough to open, I just lifted the latch and it swung open. I was not expecting how ever, the dogs to be so crazed as they came barreling out. They always seemed to like me, I fed them and talked to them everyday behind my fathers back. So when I began running, encouraging them to follow me into the woods, I was quite surprised when Boo latched onto the leg of my pants. I was even more surprised when the other two followed suit, nipping at my fingers and growling. “Hey, cut it out!” I hollered at them.

Raising my hand, I slapped Boo across the face, hoping to cow him into letting go of my pants leg. He snarled and pulled harder, ripping the clothe. I fell back and the dogs circled in. I was getting scared, when Heidie, despite being a bitch, ran into the fight. Instantly the three dogs jumped on her, and started tearing at her. I screamed bloody hell, picking up the nearest stick and whacking them with it. “You little mother fuckers! Stop!” I screamed in my six year old voice.

They wouldn't be stopped though, the hounds had her out numbered and had drawn blood by now. I plowed my self into the middle of the fight, kicking and punching with every once of strength I had and screaming obscenities the whole time. I was bit quite a few times, but Heidie was not holding her own too well at all. Tears streamed down my face and I was bleeding just as much as the dogs, when suddenly a shot rang out.

I turned fast, my heart in my throat, to see my father running towards me with anger in his eyes. He grabbed me by my bloody collar and threw me, literally, out of the fight. Then he pressed the barrel of his gun to Boos head point blank and pulled the trigger. The big dog yet out one, short yelp. The other dogs broke up, with tails between their legs and noses touching the ground.

With out a word he grabbed the brindle dog, lead her a few feet away and shot her. He did the same to the other one. Heidie was laying in a bloody mound, whimpering but still alive. I was too shocked to cry, blood was all over me. My father came up to me in a few long strides and took my face in his hands. His eyes, identical to my own, burned through me with hate. “Did she bite you?” is all he asked.

I opened my mouth but no words could be formed. I was scared shit less, as my aunt Margret would say. I did not know if Heidie her self had bitten me or not, but I knew it was entirely possible. He knew it too. “Answer me girl!” he bellowed in my face.

“No sir.” I whispered.

It was the first time I had ever blatantly lied to my fathers face. His eyes searched mine, making me want to piss my pants. He knew I was telling a lie, he knew there was no way on gods green earth I had been in the middle of a dog fight like that and had not been bitten. I looked up into his face and lied again, “No sir, she did not bite me, I promise.”

He let go of my face, leaving red marks on my cheeks. “Take your ass in the house and get Nanny to clean you up. I gotta bury my dogs. When I'm done I'll come get you” he snarled at me as nastily as Boo did.

“Yes sir” is the only thing I knew I could say.

I didn't dare ask him if he was gonna to shoot Heidie too, or if he would ever forgive me. I knew deep down he hated me even more now, hated me for more than just being born. I knew that as soon as he was done burying his dogs that I was gonna to get the living hell beat out of me.

***

I went inside to my grandmother, who everyone lovingly referred to as Nanny, and put my bloody, drool crusted head in her lap. My aunt Mary, Peggy Sue, Margret, and Kathleen all clucked and shook their heads at me as they all suddenly took their places around the dining room table. Where had they been just a few hours before? Why did they choose now, in my hour of shame, to gather in the kitchen for gossip and coffee? “Girl, you ain't no hill billy, where are your shoes?” My aunt Mary asked.

I didn't bother responding, they knew I hated shoes, they were just trying to get a rise out of me. Instead I buried my face in my Nannies lap and cried as she patted my back. I could hear my aunts whispering around me, “That girl ain't got no sense at all, runnin' around here like she crazed. She act like she was done raised up by a pack of wolves.”

Suddenly my aunt Kathleen, Bubbie is what I call her, chimes in, “You stop bad mouthing my girl, don't make me take the broom handle to you Peggy Sue!”

I squeezed my eyes shut, please, not another fight. Isn't it bad enough aunt Jennifer is in jail? Nanny felt me tense up, she petted my hair some more, smoothing it away from my neck. “Why don't you go get in the bath tub Randa? I'll bring in some band aids and medicine for your cuts in a minute.”

I silently obeyed, thankful I could escape the room. Sometimes I hate being at home more than I hate being at school. I passed by My brother, Buddy, and smiled at him ruefully. He looked at my bloody condition in horror. People often said I should have been born the boy and he the girl.

***

It is a Saturday morning, because Saturdays are the days mom doesn't leave first thing in the morning for work. But she isn't in bed either. Soft gray light filters in to the room, illuminating my fathers sleeping form, and the empty space beside him. The red numbers on the clock say it is 6. Maybe she just went to the bathroom.

I tip toe to the door, breath held as always. I'm very good at making myself small and unnoticeable. Even if my dad is awake I doubt he would see me slipping out the door. Before I let the door click into place behind me I peeked into the room once more to see if my dad had woken. He hadn't, but my brothers eyes were on me, as always. He watched me like a hawk, as if I would fly away any moment. I waved my hand at him to follow me and placed finger over my lips.

Together we slip past my Nannies door and down the hall way. Sitting in the wing backed chair in front of the window in the living room is my mother. She doesn't see Buddy and I huddled together at the end of the hallway, she is looking out of the window, a Steven King Novel loosely held in her lap.

She looks so odd, I stop and stare, trying to figure it out. She is wearing the same night gown she wears every night. Long, white cotton with lace trim around the hem. Her hair is down, which is different since she normally pull it back in a bun. That isn't what's off though... it's more than her long, wavy hair tumbling around her shoulders. The look in her face, It's peaceful. There are no lines across her forehead or around her mouth and eyes. Her back isn't rigid and she doesn't have her fake smile plastered onto her face. “Mommy?” I hear my brothers voice call out.

I hold my breath, hoping she doesn't hear him. Hoping I can keep looking at her like this for just a moment longer. Her head turns towards and a warm smile breaks across her face. She lifts her arms towards us and we come running, colliding into her lap in a fit of giggles. Her Novel tumbles to the floor, I know she doesn't care about losing her spot though, she's read that book at least 3 times. We climb into her lap and she cuddles us close to her, I press my nose to her shoulder and inhale the smell of her perfume and shampoo. “We're leaving” she whispers to us, as if the house itself is ease dropping and will try and stop us.

I look up into her eyes and nod my head, this is the first I've heard of this. “We are leaving right now, the car is packed. Don't take anything, just go get in the car, quietly.”

She says this in a hushed tone, but it rings loudly in my ears. Leaving? Right now? I open my mouth to ask her but she places me on my feet before her and stands up before I can say anything. “Don't worry about changing your clothes, just go get in the car.” she says and then walks down the hall way towards my Nannies room.

She knows that is where She'll find my youngest brother, David. David is small and tan and has my mothers face. When he was brought home from the hospital he reminded me of the baby orangutans I would see on Animal Planet. His hair is thick and pitch black. He doesn't eat much, or do much of anything. He is my grandmothers pet, her beloved. She coddles him like no other.

In my mothers old Cadillac, I sit in the front seat, eyes peeled to see where we are headed. A trash bag filled with cloths sits between my legs and all my mothers paper backed books are resting in my lap. My brothers are in the back, on top of all our bedding. I try to ask mom where we are going, but all she says is that we are leaving. So I sit back and watch, and I think about how mad my dad is going to be when he wakes up and finds us gone. Or maybe he wont notice at all... I think about my aunts too, and what they will say about my mother leaving. What nasty rumors they'll make up and how many hours they will spend gossiping about the scandal of it.

I start crying quietly, thinking about my Bubbie and Nanny. What if we don't come back? What if they don't know how to find us?

We've been driving for a while now and have left Saint Augustine. Outside my window I see nothing but fields with potatoes and crows. A house occasionally comes into view and I wonder if that's where we are going. We don't stop at any white washed farm houses though.

We drive past pastures with cows and I try and remember what everything looks like so I know if I'm going the right way when I walk back home.

I miss Heidie. Mom said we couldn't bring her with us. She chased our car for blocks, all the way out to the highway. I cried and watched her in the side mirror, asking my mother over and over again why we couldn't just stay home.

Finally we came to a town. It was small and had a lot of churches. We drove through it, my brothers pointing out the McDonalds and Dairy Queens along the way. My mom still would not tell us where we were going, or if we were staying or just visiting. She just stared ahead and drove, taking us into this neighborhood lined with old, two story houses with screened in verandas. The live oak trees were just like the ones in Nannies yard. They grew all twisted and had moss dripping from their limbs like lace sleeves on a dancer.

I was starting to get excited now, what if we lived in a house like these? You could see the river behind the houses, right in the back yards almost! And these houses were so big, Nanny and everyone could come live with us! I had my face smashed against the window, thinking a million miles a minute about all the pretty rooms and the big yard. None as big as my Nannies yard, but still big, and fenced in!

At the end of the block my mother pulled into a drive way and turned off the car. Us kids were completely silent as we looked at what was going to be our new home. Before us stood a trailer, green fungus covering the sides of it so you couldn't really tell what color it truly was. There was a built on porch that looked silly tacked on to the ancient tin can. Right next to the steps of the porch is a huge hibiscus bush. The flowers were bright red and the size of saucers. The yard was fenced in with one oak tree growing close to the road. Acorns littered most of the yard and spilled out into the ditch. In the back yard there was a squat little fig tree that we would later climb and eat out of all the time. I looked from the trailer to my mother in disgust. It was the ugliest fucking house on the block, and it was ours.