A different kind of chaos.

A different kind of chaos.

A Story by Imara
"

A girl stays home from school 'sick' and thinks about her skin color.

"

One day I tricked my mom into thinking that I was sick and that I needed to stay home. My simple house was empty, void of any left. This was a different kind of chaos that I wasn’t used to, I had become acquainted with the daily screams and yells of  5 sisters scrambling about to get one one place to another. The steamy morning breakfasts and warm dinners. The dangerous walks through rooms attempting to avoid toys with deadly edges.

This silence was another world to me. Carefully I stepped over the toys that had been alive only a few hours before and made my way into the kitchen where only hours before my father was lecturing my about racism. “You are not mixed, you are not some can of vegetables. You are a proud african american.” he said in his deep, booming voice. I wasn’t sure why he was so loud during these rants of his. I didn’t understand why he was telling me this either, I never called myself mixed, I always said black and white. It didn’t make sense to me then.

I grabbed a bag of mixed vegies and began to eat them right out of the bag. I felt cool, no one would ever know.  I made my way to the bathroom but stopped short at my parents bedroom. A few days ago my older sister had been crying in there. My white mother and my black father, barely visible in the dim light, I wasn’t sure why she was crying but I remember my mother saying “Be proud of who you are. In 10 years they’ll be nothing but trash and you’ll be a businesswoman rich and you’ll look back on this and think about how silly it was.” My dad shut the door on me before I could hear anything else.


I munched on my carrots and cauliflower wondering who this trash was and why they were being so mean to my sister. My older sister was kind and motherly, she woke up when mom had to leave early and made sure everyone younger than her got on the bus at the right time. I kept walking after a moments thought to the bathroom. It was filled with dirty clothes, chaos I was used to seeing but these clothes didn’t sing of after school life with friends. They were quiet rot, it frightened me this new chaos.  Sitting on the toilet, my food on the sink counter, and remember my first spanking. I used a word that I hadn’t heard before. I was young and didn’t know any better. Negro. I remember calling my dad that name, that’s what his friends said to him and he used it. It seemed like a good way to express my growing vocabulary and how smart I was at the time. I was younger. My butt stung with the memory.

I stared hard at my little brown hands, their shade didn’t even match my sisters. We each were a shade or two lighter or darker than one another, and were never close in color to the kids at school who were midnight, perfect spanish brown, or white. I never noticed the other kids at school much, I kept to my books, I doubted that they noticed that I had even take a personal day. I snatched my bag up hands still dripping and sat down on the living room couch.

This couch knew more late night lectures than it deserved. All about race. All the time. All from my father. I grew angry as I looked for the remote and thought about all the mostly drunken rants he would go on. Racism was mostly gone. Sure it was still here, it always going to be here but there’s nothing that we could do to change that. He made it sound like it was still a big problem. Like we still needed to go on freedom marches.

I heard a car pull up, I ran to put the veggies away and dashed back into bed. But after five minutes nothing happened. Slowly and carefully I stepped out of bed and went back into the living room. I peeked out of the window blinds to see my father.

He was talking to one of his friends, I hadn’t seen that man in a while. He used to come around all the time but he stopped for some reason I didn’t know. He always brought me candy, I hoped he would come inside and give me some more. Even if I was sick I could save it for when I was healthy. After a few minutes they appeared to be waving goodbye with laughs, but then my father turned around and punched him in the face.

I turned like I hadn’t seen anything. I didn’t know what to do. Why did my dad do that? It couldn’t be that his friend has said negro, he was a black man too. It didn’t make sense. I heard the door open. My dad looked at me weird, clearly wondering what I was doing here when no one was supposed to be home. He stumbled a little and waited for me to say something. “What happened?”

My dad looked out the door, “He told me to say hi to that white b***h of mine and our blender babies.”



© 2013 Imara



Author's Note

Imara
I did this very quick so it's a little rough. Grammar and flow errors would be great. Did the flashbacks get confusing? Overall thoughts?

My Review

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Featured Review

Very emotional Imara. My kids are of mixed cultures or race. My kids are young and have not yet have to answer the question, "What race are you?" I've raised my oldest to simply state "American". I've experienced racism directed at me, though it's not called racism. The racism argument starts with us. I hate the double standard that is cast in pop culture. Diversity is one thing that makes this country beautiful. Good write Imara. Go over your piece one more time to make those changes that will make it that much stronger.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Imara

4 Years Ago

I was replying to Maries comment that she did not understand the point of the story. I completly und.. read more
Marie

4 Years Ago

Marie is not the brightest bulb in the bos.
Imara

4 Years Ago

Haha it's Ok ^^



Reviews

I liked the story, although personally I would add a solid ending, perhaps the girl's response to her father's actions of her thoughts anyway.
2nd line "any" needs a "one" or "thing"
I loved the way you described the clothes on the floor.
Great story overall

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Imara

4 Years Ago

Thank you for the grammar edit. :) and I think it does have a solid ending but I'll think about it :.. read more
Very emotional Imara. My kids are of mixed cultures or race. My kids are young and have not yet have to answer the question, "What race are you?" I've raised my oldest to simply state "American". I've experienced racism directed at me, though it's not called racism. The racism argument starts with us. I hate the double standard that is cast in pop culture. Diversity is one thing that makes this country beautiful. Good write Imara. Go over your piece one more time to make those changes that will make it that much stronger.

Posted 4 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Imara

4 Years Ago

I was replying to Maries comment that she did not understand the point of the story. I completly und.. read more
Marie

4 Years Ago

Marie is not the brightest bulb in the bos.
Imara

4 Years Ago

Haha it's Ok ^^

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Added on June 24, 2013
Last Updated on June 24, 2013
Tags: race, racism, skin, skin color, sick, at home, girl, short story, Imara

Author

Imara
Imara

Cranston, RI



About
My Name is Imara, if you couldn't already tell, I'm currently in High school and completly unsure what to do with my life. I've been to a few places in America, which I try to incorporate into my writ.. more..

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