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11.29.2009

When I Was A Child, Part II...

When I was a child I loved video games. I mean they boggled my little mind. I can still remember the first time I played Pong, Donkey Kong (before he was named), Pacman, Double Dribble... man so many great Atari games. I used to sit silently at my best friend's side as we snuck behind her two older brothers' backs and played their Atari. I sucked at all the boy games like Double Dribble, although I vividly recall putting together an awesome team with my fav players, Dr. J and Larry Byrd among others and I kicked Kim's ass that one time. I kicked ass in Pacman too and for the longest time my dearest wish was to be tall enough to play the arcade version. The plight of the vertically challanged. To tide me over until I was tall enough, Santa brought me the arcade tabletop version of Pacman. Later Santa brought my daughter the tabletop version of Frogger... but my Pacman was better.

The wonderment of video games never ceased to amaze me. I wanted to know how that tiny machine could come up with so many variations that it seemed no sequence ever repeated. I never had an Atari of my own but when I got my very first Nintendo system I was ecstatic. I'd played one earlier that summer at a youth center my parents sent me to during the daytime so my dad could sleep uninterrupted (he worked at night). We were only permitted to play about 3 minutes at a time because there were so many kids but those three minutes were magical. When I got my very own for Christmas you'd have thought I died and went to heaven. I played for hours throughout Christmas vacation, often calling my friends on the phone and we'd play together and share secrets. I remember playing so often I'd dream about the game at night.

Those dreams were magical. I'd wake and the game that I'd played a million times before would always seem new again. I'd imagine what it was like to travel those weird, distant lands and how it would be if the game were ever made into a movie (and oh my hell didn't that Super Mario Bros. movie suck ass when it did come out?!). I never tired of the adventures even after I received a multitude of other games I still came back to my favorite Mario games. Although I wanted other systems, my parents never bought me another except for a gameboy for which I begged and pleaded. I used to borrow my boyfriend's Super Nintendos, Sega Genesis, etc. I'd actually prolong the breaking up process just so I could hold onto the games for a little longer.

One thing that few people know about me is that I STILL love video games, probably for the same childish reasons. I hate that what I grew up with is now considered "vintage". I still have my original Nintendo 8 bit that I received for Christmas all those years ago. Still have to blow into the cartridges and wiggle them a bit to get them to work, just like I did back then. I still don't have an Atari although I'm always on the lookout for an original; I refuse to buy the new/vintage model. I still want a Super Nintendo. I have a Sega Genesis, Nintendo 64, and Playstation 1 and 2. I have no interest for some reason in the Wii, nor the Xbox 360. Well, I've seen and heard nightmare stories about the Xbox and that was a turn-off. I also still have my original Gameboy somewhere, a gameboy color, and several Nintendo DS along with my favorite game: Super Mario Bros. DS. Quelle surprise!

And I still have my tabletop Pacman. I lost the back for the battery compartment decades ago but it still works with 4 C batteries and some duct tape.

Now, I'm rediscovering the playstation 2 games I used to love with a passion like the Tomb Raider and Mortal Kombat series. The father of my daughter's best friend gave me about 25 "adult" games that I've become enamored with of late. Currently, Jaalyn and I are playing Bully. I shouldn't have let her see me playing it but it's such a wickedly fun game.

Games are my refuge these days. My stress level is so high that I feel like not just giving up, but running away and never returning. There's nothing like a good ole violent video game to make you forget about your own troubles. And I find myself doing the same thing I did as a kid; dreaming about the games, wondering what it would be like if the game were reality. Some things never die I guess.

11.21.2009

When I Was A Child...

When I was a child I was extremely shy and nervous. I could cry at the drop of a hat and shut it off just as quickly. I was so shy that I felt embarassed calling my father "dad" or "daddy" and always referenced him as "my father". Mom's coworkers used to openly tease me about this and frequently made fun of my speech. To them, it was unnatural for a black girl to speak like white people. They guessed that it came from the white private school. I hated to be the center of attention of mom's friends and the teasing had a profound effect on me that sticks to this very day. I still feel uncomfortable in the presence of blacks when my speech is like the whites.

When I was a child I used to cower in a dark closet in my room, eyes tightly shut, praying to God, Buddah, the spiders in the corner to please let my parents stop fighting. Please stop my father from hitting and beating my mother. Please stop my mother's screams and antagonizing. Sometimes it seemed like she wanted him to hit her. She'd goad him on with ridiculous taunts and smart remarks. When things became quiet I'd come out of my closet and lay on my bed feigning sleep so that neither of them would come close to me. I'd open my eyes when they left my room and stare up at my Rainbow Brite canopy and dream of running away. For years I kept a suitcase packed and ready along with a hand drawn map of where I'd run to. I figured I'd run to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts or maybe to my school which seemed just as big as the museum to me. I got the idea from reading the book From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I loved that book but hated the ending where Claudia and her brother went home. But like Claudia I began to save my money so that I could at least afford cab fare or bus fare to the museum. Once, I slipped out of the house and walked down the darkened street as my parents fought in the house. Amazing that nothing happened to me. I vaguely remember being worried about dangerous murdering men, the Briley brothers, because they frequented the house directly behind ours. But even then I knew that they didn't mess with little girls. I remember meeting one of the Briley brothers once; he was nice to me, said I was a pretty little girl. Funny, I hadn't thought about that in years. Anyway, that night I'd made it a good distance down the street before my conscious kicked in regarding my mother. What would happen to her if I weren't there to step in and stop my father? Would he blame her if I went missing? Probably. And then he'd take more anger out on her. I remember looking one way down the street into the darkness and looking back at my house... and I turned and went home. They never knew I was gone. And they were still fighting.

When I was a child I wanted to be a nun. The only thing that stopped me from taking up the vocation was that I knew my desire to be a mother was stronger than the desire to retreat into a cloister. But the idea of being a nun seemed safe. You were protected, fed, clothed and life was orderly. You knew exactly what you had to do, when to do it, and no matter what you were guaranteed that slot in heaven when you died. I craved the order, the quiet, the peace. I wanted to be taken care of and I didn't want to worry about bills being paid, being successful in life, dealing with boys/men. I wanted a life where it was expected for me to be subservient. Where my belongings would be so few that I would never have to worry about a mess again. Where it was impossible to fail at your mission in life. Pray, live, die. Perfect. The problem with becoming a nun? To my knowledge there were no black nuns. It wasn't talked of back then when the nuns tried recruiting and they ignored my queries. So, I kept that desire in my heart and swallowed my disappointment.

When I was a child and I learned about the Civil War and slavery I wondered what the former slaves thought just before they were freed and how they felt about freedom afterwards. Back then our history books didn't give us that information or any indication that there were slaves that actually prefered to remain captive. That there were some blacks that felt that slavery was right and natural and that there were some blacks that were too fearful of failure and indeed felt that freedom meant that they would in fact fail. As a child I sat and thought that perhaps slavery wasn't so bad if you got one of the good guys to be your master you know? To me it seemed to be not quite so bad because at least you knew what you had to do in order to survive. You worked, hard, but you were taken care of. You never had to worry about money or lack thereof; food; other vagaries of life. None of that mattered because you were kept too busy to be concerned with anything else. Happiness wasn't expected. You did what you had to do and then you died.

When I was a child I wished I could go back in time and live in any century other than now. Centuries ago lines were drawn, men were men, women were women and that was that. Men had roles and responsibilities and they did them. Women had their separate roles and responsibilities and they performed. They were subservient and allowed themselves to be cared for by the men. Despite my growing feelings for women's lib, this appealed to me. No worries. Worries fell on the man's head, not the woman's. God knows in my young world I had enough to worry about.

When I was a child I enjoyed nature so much. I loved playing with my best friend Kim next door but equally magical was those few afternoons that I had alone. It amazes me how quickly I'd forgotten those magical times. I had a ton of toys always. My father would buy me practically anything I wanted. I guess out of guilt but who knows. But on those days when I played alone, I didn't need the toys. I'd be happy with a stick and leaves, water and mud, and whatever else I could find outside. I'd been feeding stray cat, Kitty, and she stayed pregnant so there was always a litter of kittens around. There were spiders, crickets, and grasshoppers to catch; ants to watch as they marched on the sidewalk and up and down the tree trunks (later I'd find my magnifying glass and test that whole sun-frying-them-on-the-pavement theory.). Or I'd chew some gum and leave it's sugary goodness on the pavement and watch as they'd first converge and then stick in the middle of it. I'd study them and note how the first few fools got stuck and the others would come, look, and simply take a hunk of gum from the outer edge and retreat back to the anthill. They didn't care about fallen comrades, only survival. I'd make mud pies, or "fish" in the swollen clogged up gutters in the backyard, hunt for birds eggs, or my favorite springtime activity: sitting on the ground beneath the big japanese maple tree in the front yard and gazing up into the sky watching the squirrels, the clouds, airplanes, etc. I'd lie there and dream. I'd dream of flying, of my future, or escaping my life entirely. I'd think on how wonderful it would be to live in nature, in the wild, answering to no one, failing no one, dependant on no one... except yourself.

As an adult, I wish for that simplistic joy I had in nature. It's all but evaporated. The fear of failure still lingers... no, lingers isn't the right word... it's not strong enough to reflect the way I truly feel about it.

I fear failure. Not personal failure, just failing my kids. Which I suppose means that if I have a personal failure I do fail them as well.

I hate that.

11.03.2009

It's That Time Again...

Time for colds and illnesses and viruses of every sort to filter into our lives and bring us crashing to our knees. Last week it was Jaalyn and she was only mildly hit with a sinus infection, a terrible bout of coughing and brief low-grade fever.




Two nights ago it was Trinity. 101 degree fever, coughing, diarrhea, sore throat. My heart aches to see her unwell. Times like this make me angry at her father, who hasn't called to even see how she's faring. There are times when he throws it in my face that I have the luxury of having the children all the time. As if it's all sunny and rosy and happy days. Well, there are those days, but then there are times like now when she's moaning in her sleep because the fever and virus are coursing through her body and giving her no peace. Times like now when I feel her forehead, temples and soles of her feet praying to God that her fever has broken. I try not to disturb her as I check her, disguising my probing with kisses, backrubs and stolen moments. In the night I wake constantly, nearly every hour, to check her, feel her, medicate her and beat her.




I don't mean beat her as in abuse. I have to beat her back as she takes her breathing treatments to break up the congestion in her lungs. To somehow force her to take bigger gulps of medicated air in hopes that this gunk in the lower left lumbar will dissipate.




You see, Trinity has pneumonia... again.




My mom thinks, well at least she's hinted that this is my fault. That somehow I've neglected to bundle the child up against the cold and wind and rain... that somehow I've failed both my kids. That's just my mom being her usual toxic self. I suppose in a way she's right though; I mean in the late night hours I wonder the same thing myself.