With His Song
By MamaChellie EMichelle Clark
Copyrighted June 2011
Smashwords Edition
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Warranty
Edith Michelle Clark is the Author and Creator of MamaChellie Books. This book does not include any scrape or compilations of any other source or person. This book does not violate privacy rights or have plagiarized material included. This book does not include any hateful, discriminating, or racial contents. Please do not print or sell this book. If you would like to share a copy please purchase additional copies at Smashword.com.
Contents:
What’s His Problem?
Young World
Teen Pregnancy
Adult Life
My Hero
A Change Gotta Come
What’s His Problem?
The coffee maker re-filled to the top an hour ago, but I can’t move from this chair to pour another cup. I feel totally numb and stupid. My night gown is funky, my hair aint been combed in two days, and my eyes are almost swollen shut from crying-all night.
Ever since I received that goodbye email from Marlon, I have not had the urge to wash, eat, comb my hair or perform any routines of the norm. Seventeen years with the same man and he had the audacity to end our relationship via email. No excuse, no reason, just goodbye!
If it wasn’t against the law I would whip his ass until the white meat hung from his dome, but it’s against the law to kill a man, and plain stupid if the man is the father of your child. Speaking of child, I’m growing impatient with Marlon junior.
This is his second time walking over to my damn desk complaining. I refuse to respond to his annoying ass complaints. I told him just a second ago, it hasn’t had the first spin yet and no you cannot take the jeans out before the wash is complete. Teenagers!
I will just sit here patiently with my loyal three best friends, my computer, my coffee, and my Newport-100’s until I hear from Marlon. I emailed him an hour ago, requesting an excuse. Normally, he would respond to my emails in seconds but I have yet to get a reply.
I sent junior to the store so he wouldn’t be able to witness the thousand tears chasing one another down my face. In the last couple of days, I have been very emotional. I cry for the dumbest reasons. Last night I cried when I found piss all over the toilet. It seems that my son has an issue with lifting and aiming.
He hasn’t even asked why his father moved out. Junior never complains unless the matter involves him only. As long as he has his video games, his laptop, clean jeans, and his Samsung Focus, he’s fine! But I should stop complaining, Marlon Junior is an awesome teenager. He cooks, he gets straight A’s in school, and he thinks I’m cool! It’s his dad that’s driving me crazy.
I just can’t accept another failed relationship.
I am not a bug-a-boo or a desperate kind of sista but when a person breaks up a long term relationship without a reason, you can’t imagine the horrible thoughts that enter a mind. I keep blaming myself and that sucks.
Was I not freaky enough, was I not pretty enough, or was he just a confused fifty something year old man going through man-o-pause? Bitch! I love him but hate him at the very same time. I used to be strong, bold and real bitchy.
People didn’t hurt or walk over me without repercussions. Now I’m just a sap of honey. I hate this shit with a passion.
Marlon found a softer side of me and encouraged me to be sweeter-regardless of what I’d been through. He wasn’t abusive, he wasn’t a whore, and he didn’t have issues with women having their own voice. He was simply a soft spoken loving man who enjoyed making me happy.
Believe it or not when I first slept with Marlon he was the first man able to give me an orgasm. I thought he had given me a special cum- a- lot drug! I had never felt such feelings of satisfaction, pleasure, or dick-gratification in my entire life.
Shit not only did I exhale; I inhaled. Marlon confirmed that I was beautiful. It’s so easy to love someone when they think you’re beautiful.
I think loving Marlon was so easy because he was an accomplished doctor with his own property, and he walked with such pride. It was a bonus that he was light skinned, built, big dicked, and bowlegged. Most importantly, he listened and gave follow up responses.
Young World
My life made sense when I met Marlon. Well, my actual life started in nineteen fifty-nine, on the day of my birth. My father looked at me and said to my mother, “She looks like a cute little monkey.” He was a married man with the best of both worlds. After my mother had me she met another man a few months later.
This new man was single. So my mother hurried and married him. Back then, single mothers didn’t get a certain title, like Ms. or Single mom-they were just labeled whores with bastard babies. The man she married adopted me and changed my name from Macy Crawford to Macy Crawford-Cook.
The check box for paternal parent was left blank.
We moved out of Harlem to a small town in Philadelphia. A few years later, my mother sent for my older sister. I was unaware that I even had a sister. She was staying with my grandmother. My mother married her father but he was killed in a tavern in New York.
From the time me and my sister met we spent most of our time fighting for our mother’s fondness. In most cases, she’d win. My mother hated my loud mouth and my many over emotional tantrums.
But my step-father adored me. He pretended that I was the son that my mother was not able to give him. He taught me how to fight like a dude, play baseball and drink wine. He was always a heavy drinker. I have some really fond memories of him and some not so fond memories.
One day while teaching me how to skate, he slid down into a sewage hole. He screamed for help as only his upper body was visible. He was drunk. Oh my God, the entire neighborhood laughed at him. Not me! I helped him up and whipped several kids’ asses that day for laughing.
I didn’t find out or realize that my step-father was not my real father until I was twelve. My mother was forced by my grandmother to tell me on my birthday. I was so disturbed by it that I killed my sisters little yellow chick.
That would teach her how to not tease me. That day she kept saying, “You were adopted, you aint momma’s child.”
Couldn’t she see that I was hurting, did she even care? Hell No! So I made a vow to myself to get revenge!
When September came, school started and my premeditated crime would transpire. I played sick and waited for my mother to go down to the cellar to do laundry. I can still smell the aroma of Tide, as I popped the red belt from my red dress.
I closed my eyes and carried out my plans to strangle my sister’s yellow chick. Within a second the soft innocent chickadee was history. My mother whipped my ass every time my sister Patricia would cry about the death of her soft and furry friend.
Had I done this little homicide today, I would have been labeled mentally ill and placed on some heavy meds. My mother later explained to me that I was her daughter-just not my dad’s.
My mother later decided that she wasn’t happy with her marriage so we moved south when I was thirteen.
I will never forget how she forced me to believe that we couldn’t take my cat Katy over the bridge. “We have to leave the cat. Macy; it’s against the law to travel with a cat and besides mommy really don’t think cats like water.”
I cried from state to state for my Katy. She was my only friend. Who would have thought that the rest of my entire life would be filled with episodes of losing, crying, and settling for shit?
When we settled into our little one floor shack, I had to settle not being able to slide up and down the steps. Or not being able to stump up the steps when my mother sent me to my room.
No more wine for me, I thought. My step-father use to let me take a sip of his wine-every Friday. My mother simply thought Friday’s made me act stupid. My tattletale sister didn’t have a clue because if she did she would have definitely had me and daddy in the dog house.
She bought this wooden dog house to hang on the kitchen wall, for my mother when we were young. I was always the one in the doghouse-thanks to my sister. Her job around the house was to monitor my every move, and my job was to kick her ass every time, she’d get me in trouble. So I got my ass whipped on the regular.
So much that I stopped crying. My mother hated that shit. Well I made it clear to my mother that I hated just about everything about the south. I hated the big ass mosquitos, the southern pronunciation of words, and the southern rule of law that entitled me to call every woman-Mam!
I also noticed that southern kids were way more mature than city kids. I couldn’t believe how twelve and thirteen year old kids were dating, marrying and running a household. I was still trying to find out why Ken didn’t have a dick and why Barbie was always sitting under the Christmas tree-light skinned.
The bitch looked nothing like me! Thank God for my uncle Eboe, he found me a Barbie with the same Black completion of mine and the same big tits. Yes, I was wearing a thirty-six cup bra at the age of thirteen. I immediately fell for my cousin who was only my cousin by fifth generation.
My mother gave me a huge party in our backyard one summer and cousin Marlon was my guest of honor. By the way, his name was Marlon also.
While we danced-doing the Funky Four corners, he leaned forward and kissed me. My sister was standing by detecting different ways to ruin my day when she yelled, “Ill-now you got cooties.”
Not knowing whether she was right, I bit the shit out of Marlon. I had enough problems trying to get rid of the nasty mosquito bites and now cooties?
As he bled on his white psychedelic shirt, I commenced to whipping his ass. He kept yelling, “She bit me, she bit me!” By the time, my mother pulled me off of cousin Marlon it was too late to apologize.
He had already confirmed that we were no longer-going together. Since that day, I have never French kissed another man in my life-not even Marlon. But I have bit several!
My sister teased me all night. How was I to know that it was a French kiss? I thought people kissed with only their lips closed. Who and the hell ever thought of putting their nasty tongue into another person’s mouth and giving it a name?
That winter we moved back to Philadelphia. I collected every stray cat in the neighborhood but not one looked like or could replace my Katy. It wasn’t until the doctor’s diagnose of Asthma, that my mother refuse to let me bring another cat into her house.
“Girl you can’t have any more cats sleeping in your bed, you can barely gasp for air-as it is. And if you don’t stop that crying, I’m gonna give you something to cry about.”
I hated that damn expression. Parents would always say the dumbest things.
I use to hear some real doozies almost every day, “I brought you in here and I will take you out, or my favorite dumbest parent quotes, “This is gonna hurt me way more than it will hurt you.”
Well anyway, since I couldn’t have my cats, I settled for writing in my diary under the tall tree in our backyard.
It felt really good to be back in the city. We didn’t have the luxuries we had when my step-father was paying all of the bills but at least it was a two-story house. I would always find comfort in writing.
I would mostly write about ways to send my big sister to the moon, my mother to another country, and my missing daddy back into my life.
It’s funny; my step-father would shout out to the world how I was his daughter. I couldn’t understand why my real father wasn’t doing any shouting for me. I admired and loved my mother’s brothers. My uncles were my best friends. They loved me unconditionally. And they spoiled me too.
Most of them are dead and gone.
Each time the heavens would send for one of my uncles they would replace me with a child. Family members would warn me, “If you don’t stop having babies, we aint gonna have any more family left.”
I believed in my slightly retarded brain that I was the cause of all of my family members dying.
I later learned that when one family member dies another member is born. I guess this is the cycle or circle of life. The heavens had given me this gift to dream things before they would happen. My grandmother called it being “born with a veil over my head.”
I would always warn my mother prior to a relative or friend’s death, and she would always talk about dreaming of fish. The fish dream meant somebody was pregnant.