Ghetto girl - sneak preview

Introduction for the book, ghetto girl, to be released in the summer of 2014.

This second book I write focuses on my later years the teenage years.

These were the years in which I was exposed to a Black Side versus a White Side. They were the years I learned that I had curves and that men would want to touch. They were the years in which I became highly resentful of “circumstance”. They were the years in which I stepped blindly and unarmed into a world to beg for a beating. (I speak metaphorically of course because in due time you will see the numerous occasions I was ill-prepared for a toe-to-toe meeting with life.)

And so I’ve thought, if I’m going to write a story, I had better write it truthfully. I don’t like superficial, flowery, or disguised prose; but rather, hard, dirty, ugly. The type of language that is encouraged when no one is listening, when no one is learning…

            Do not think of me as being foolish enough to wear my discomforts with earned triumphant pride; to run the mill as a praised martyr preaching which veiled pitfalls to avoid. As the reader, you’ll soon come to know some of life’s moments were raw, bleak, and profusely unwelcomed. My life came from nothing and swam in nothing. I had come to embrace misery as a hungry babe welcomes a swollen teat. But it is what I know.

I felt the loss of innocence by witnessing too much in my youth and adolescence. Most of life’s experiences came in the shape of sex and sexual activities. I learned before I was ten that men will be eager to act because their penises enjoy the taste of my desert. But, this way of thinking, of being continually guarded can be draining and exhausting. It weakens me; because, ideally, I want a man to spend my life with. And I want a family. And I know that not all men are this way. But, this particular man, the one that doesn’t use, that doesn’t abuse, that is interested in consideration is difficult to find…

 

You call me a feminist. But you don’t know me.

            I don’t hate men. But I want to. You anger me, men. You exhaust me, men. I’m done because of you, men.

            Why?

            Stop acting like a kid, you say to me. You’re such a tease, I hear from your lips. Trust me, spoken from atop as you slid in further. Unwelcomed.

            Why?

 

            I was twenty-seven and sitting in an Animal Welfare course taught at my Alma Matter. A video was shown of researchers, PhDs from accredited universities, from the 70’s with a Rhesus Macaques with arms and legs bound to a horizontal steel operation table covered with a white cloth. Immediately the blurred camera focuses in on this helpless animal. Less than 2 seconds had lapsed before I ran from the room crying unable to soak in more of the visual. I wasn’t the only one in tears but I was the only one to leave the room. I couldn’t watch further. This image has been burned into my retinas for five years now.

Another day, another course, and I watched “Meet your meat,” a PETA production during an Animal Ethics course. My tears came, but I didn’t turn away when I watched a man heave a 250lb sow, by her hind legs, over his shoulder and slam the defenseless animal to a crushing death against the cemented floor. What was the difference?

I didn’t paint a full picture of the first animal. Here’s a two second glimpse of what I saw. The Rhesus Macaques was a female. She was held by the wrists and ankles. Attached to her were probes and electrodes. Her chest was wired perhaps to monitor heart palpitations and other electrical impulses emitted from the body. Her head, likewise, had similar wires, again possibly monitoring electrical exchanges. The disturbing image came when I noticed two cords leading their way into her body; one into her anus, and the other into her vagina. I had to run because I knew how scared she must have felt. I’ve been there. I know that violation, and there’s more to tell.

 

 

Whose catch am I?

 

 

My salacious curves wind like the meandering stream, smooth and soft on the surface but often surging with a strong current from beneath. I belong to no man yet most men want to possess me. Or some hidden portion of me. I am a prize.

The ghetto ruined dating for me. It showed me men of low character, men that desired with their phalluses. It showed me men capable of building cities balanced on their members. I saw men with bodies led by four inch extensions. Sadly, the moment I stepped outside of that ghetto it showed me the same damn men but with tongues that spoke the perversity with more eloquence.

See me clearly please. See my mind. See my words, my humor, and my intelligence. Why do I stand invisible before you, hidden by salient curves?

            Why do I remain chaste in a room full of men? Why do I guard my prize with a lock and key? Why do I write these words? Because it is a problem we have trained our women to watch out for and damn if I ain’t been paying attention to the lesson. Men want to sample your delights and forget the women underneath it all.

            Do I sound jaded? Am I ruined woman for my mistrust? Yes, maybe no. I’ve just seen too much. But I want my daughter(s) to learn to love and trust without hindrance. I want their hearts on a string dancing and skipping about, because that is what I want for myself.

            When I date a problem comes about. Do I give in, or do I wait it out? To be blunt and clarify, I’m speaking of sex. Oftentimes I have stood proud and said no. But… Is it my fault that I give in? Sure, okay, place the blame on my shoulders and wag your finger in disapproval toward me. But give that man a scold and a stare too. For it was him saying “trust me” while he pressures and pressures until his pressure is released; sneaky, sneaky man.

            I’m in my thirties as I write this. I’m dating a fair amount since I’m not married and have an interest to begin a family soon. But I rush through the men. I remove those that I am suspicious of before giving them the credit to explain.

            For example, I had been talking with a gentleman I worked with. He was kind, well-mannered, decent on the eyes, intelligent and a delight to speak with; humble. He stood out as a prime individual to inspect. After three odd weeks of flirtatious behavior I happened to see a ring on his leftmost ring-finger. I was speechless and found myself fumbling for a lie to get out of his office. I knew he had BEEN married, but I thought that was past tense, i.e. no longer in the act of. I felt duped and immediately jumped to the conclusion that his intentions were amoral. I made up my mind to cut off all social contact with the man sans question. Turns out the ring came from a gumball machine his daughter had given him…

            I continually look for the catch-22, the wrong among the right. I have a small problem giving the benefit of the doubt, and typically jump to conclusions. I know from sound reason and serious research that a relationship evolves best over time and taking things on a day-to-day basis. But I’m antsy. I expect. I have my pen poised, ready to draw a conclusion.

            I believe the years are aggravating this issue, turning it into something that at one point in my life was small and insignificant. Now it looms before me and I study it as a specimen beneath the microscope. I am the Mad Scientist of Love with criteria necessary to fit a husbandly profile. I am in my point of studies that now I look for blame, I have my results, let’s process them. Conclusions.

            And it’s like that. Don’t you see? My past is riddled with potholes and gaps. These misshapen voids are filled with muck and grime sloppily filled by random people and inappropriate experiences. They cause me to be mistrusting of men, or force me to eat humility because of my impoverished background of the extreme conditions my mother was forced to raise us in. They give rise to suspicion of ill deeds and deception, to suspect hidden intentions in the hearts/minds of others (i.e. did that Black girl just straighten her hair because she feels she needs “good hair” to get by? How dare the world make her feel that way… Conclusion and decision made as is.).

            I want those reading this book to know that when I explain these things as I have that these thoughts immediately rush to my mind because of my past experiences. But, because time has forced upon me by unfortunate events and misguided mistakes lessons to learn, I respond very differently. I don’t immediately assume and act on these assumptions; any longer. Because the Ghetto taught me to think this way: jump, rush, immediate connection to conclusion. I allow the thoughts and uncomfortable past to wash away and then choose to think of a clear more opportunistic alternative.

            It’s like this: I love my sister dearly. She means the world to me, and I believe (although she won’t verbalize it) that I mean the same to her. We watched my mother starve herself for us, she was beaten for us, she was raped for us, and she was pummeled for us in spirit, body, heart, and mind. She sacrificed herself for us, her children. And I love my sister. I repeat this because my sister and I began with the same notion: never allow men to conquer you. Never take money from a man because then he owns you. You are indebted to him. A piece of your essence is stripped away and you are exposed. You are bare. Naked and alone. You are no longer you, you're his.

 

CONTINUE TO LOOK FOR MORE IN THE RELEASE OF GHETTO GIRL, SUMMER OF 2014

Author's Note

I love you - I love me. I learned.

Ghetto girl - 2014

Reviews

[carrotcruncher]

stories are like food to me, If I don't enjoy the first bite the meal's going in the bin. I have a shelf littered with books that I haven't read past the first couple of pages, I read all of your stories. Sometimes I felt I was slowing to watch a car crash and some of the subject matter left me feeling very uncomfortable (it's heart wrenching when you realise they are someone's memories) but they were so well written, so easy to read, I felt like I was there in every story, every passage, every sentence. I couldn't stop reading, I read them one after another.

[Jack V.]

Thanks so much for the honesty. It's a real treat to receive such praise from a talented writer such as yourself. Please continue to write a bit more. I looked for more of your work and was disappointed to see your page end so quickly.