aaduna Volume 11: Issue 1 ~ Princess Anne Byrd-Treston

Po’ Boy Blues

When I was home de

Sunshine seemed like gold.

When I was home de

Sunshine seemed like gold.

Since I come up North

Whole damn world’s turned cold.

I was a good boy,

Never done no wrong.

Yes, I was a good boy,

Never done no wrong.

But this world is weary

An’ de road is hard an’ long.

I fell in love with

A gal I thought was kind,

Fell in love with

A gal I thought was kind.

She made me lose ma money

An’ almost lose my mind.

Weary, weary,

Weary early in de morn.

Weary, weary,

Early, early in de morn.

I’s so weary

I wish I’d never been born.

Langston Hughes

MIDDAY RUSH

-ling-ling.

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling. 

The wispiness of chatter, the clackety clangs, the clickety clings of things, and the 

continuous rings from the door chime soak the air. 

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. 

"Okay, here's another small coffee and more homemade French Vanilla. And one small 

café mocha with a double shot of chocolate. Can I get you anything else?"

No, I'm good. Thank you." Charles's folded hands are in front of him on a small round

cod grain table. He twirls his thumbs back four times and forwards four times. Again. Forward

four times and back four times. Again. Slow. Repetitively. And with precision. He only looks up

from his coffee cup and out the windows whenever tires roll over the wet parking lot pavement

outside. 

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling. 

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling. 

The café hustles and bustles with an uppity air of I'm in a hurry foot traffic. As one

customer leaves, another enters. The seating is privately distant. Most seated customers have the

Please-Do-Not-Disturb-Me or the Can-You-Not-See-I'm-Busy-At-Work-Here type of vibe. And

a few are plugged into a computer, an iPhone, or some other device. But not Charles. Instead, he

slumps over in a comfortable, brown, high-back leather chair in the fourth row furthest from the

main entrance facing the four large, dark wood casement pane windows. With only his feelings

to occupy his heavy thoughts, he takes cautious sips from his coffee cup. 

Out the windows, the rain moves into third gear as the minutes tick away. What was

once a faint mist is now a swift drizzle. 

After a fifteen-minute wait of doing nothing but looking out and twirling, sipping,

and looking out and twirling. Again. He eyes a slow-approaching silver sedan claiming a

newly open parking spot while other drivers Kentucky Derby it out the parking lot as if they are

driving on dry land and free of hightailing pedestrians seeking refuge from spit shooting bullets.

            Slow yet steady, Annabelle exits the sedan.

At first, Charles does not recognize her. Then suddenly his mind dims. It's like the

Sahara Desert here. He yanks at the neckline of his T-shirt several times, but the makeshift air

vent fails to cool him down enough to make a significant impact. He looks around again to see

if anyone else feels the sudden heat wave. But no one seems to be in distress. He then removes a

napkin that now finds itself hugging his coffee cup like a café advertisement logo sticker and

wipes the beads of sweat above his thick, dark, naturally tapered brows—the kind that most

women would die for. And now he tugs at his snugged red Superman T-shirt. Annabelle's

favorite. But as he deepens his breath intake, the iconic S rises off his chest as if a gust of wind

swooshes it back to life.

            At last, she walks through the café lobby door. Annabelle is slow, yet steady on her feet.

At first clear sight of her, Charles is in between the states of amiss and bliss. Everything

he prepared to say to her had suddenly become a bad case of Alzheimer's. The only sign of life

that remains of him now are the rises and falls of the S on his chest. And although his vision

blurs, he never once loses sight of her as she mazes her way through the crowd. Still, slow yet

steady. Come on, man—you’ve practiced this in your head a million times already. Just stay

calm. And don’t mess this up!

Then a young mother struggles to maneuver her child's stroller and bumps into his table. 

The French Vanilla creamer jar topples over and some even splash onto his forearm. As luck

would have it, the incident shifts his mind back into focus. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir! Please forgive me!” Her nerves are in plight mode and leap from

one chaotic emotion to the next. Nonstop. She reminds him of himself. She snatches several

napkins off his table. “Oh my gosh! Here! Please! Let me help you with that!”

“No. No worries.”

           “I swear, the stupid wheels on this thing! How clumsy of me to have—"

           “It’s quite alright. Really. There’s more French Vanilla where this came from. Trust me.

They won’t mind.”     

            "Oh no stop," she says to her toddler as she pulls his finger from his snotty nose and

wipes it as he choo-choos a small red toy train in her face! “And give me that, you rascal you.

It’s all wet and gooey.”

Charles adjusts his glasses. “Looks like you have your hands quite full there?”

“Oh, yes, I do to say the least. But he’s my little man.” Then she immediately attends to

his fingers and nose. Again. “You are mommy’s little man, right?”

She hands him back the train, and he picks up exactly where he left off before and choo-

choos it like he’s piloting a plane instead of driving on tracks. He choo-choos! CHOO-CHOO!

And choo-choos! CHOO-CHOO! And choo-choos! CHOO-CHOO! Nonstop! As if that’s the

only word he can articulate. That’s when Charles realizes that her little man is autistic. He smiles

at him. And her little man smiles the biggest sloppiest smile back and then offers him his toy

train as an invitation to join in on the fun. Charles playfully declines, but his heart melts like a

malted milkshake on the warmest May day.

“Looks like he really likes you.” Ask this nice man to be your daddy. Say, Dada! Dada!

“I’m so sorry about this mess again.”

What a great kid. “No, don’t think about it. See, already clean.” I’d do anything to have

one just like him. My own little man.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling. 

Ting-a-ling. 

After a swift cleanup, he immediately brings both of his hands to his face, blows his

breath into them, hurries a Listerine Cool Peppermint strip into his mouth and restores the small

pocketpak back in his coin pocket. Then to his surprise he notices Annabelle’s ankles more than

anything else about her. They look more like cankles that are about to burst any day now.

A large rustic magnetic A-frame chalkboard stands near the register. Fresh Hot Coffee 

Always Available Here! is in large, red, and white, double-cursive letters, and beneath it is a 

glossy internet replica of a cup of piping hot coffee. Annabelle's eyes dance with delight because

she loves the way the classic pungent and bitter smells of coffee beans, the sweet, melt in your

mouth pastries, the faintest scent of breakfast burritos from this morning’s mob, and the

unexpected, unmistakably scent of Fahrenheit by Christian Dior hit her nostrils. Delightful.

Always fresh. She feels like all the clashing aromas are washing her troubles away. She slowly

works her way through the crowd. A few people step aside or give her just enough space to slide

pass them with ease. Then now, she spots Charles. Trouble. Her smile fades.

He struggles to hide his nerves. He jumps to his feet and quickly waves her his way.

“Hey! Well, this pour-down is quite unexpected. So, I really do appreciate you coming out in all

this chaos.”

She gives him that Everything-About-You-Is-Just-Wrong look. He hesitates but reaches

out to kiss her, but she immediately pulls away. He overlooks it and makes another attempt to no

avail. 

Within a matter of seconds, the rain pounds on the rooftop now, slapping everything in its

sight. Nothing is spared. The tree limbs grapple about while the leaves flurry into people's faces

as they struggle towards their destination or take refuge in boutiques, chain stores, or privately

owned specialty stores. Other shoppers flee into the safety of their vehicles. There is even a wild

runaway umbrella doing somersaults in the middle of traffic.

"Wow, this rain isn't so nice,” he continues.

"I didn't come to talk about the weather.” 

"Well, you still look good anyway." 

She flashes him an I-Do-Not-Give-A-Middle-Finger smile and looks him over from the 

top of his clammy forehead to his dusty black and white checkered, high-top tennis shoes. 

"Well, I wish I could say the same."

"Thank you," he smiles, bulges his chest, tugs at the bottom of his Superman T-shirt, and 

sucks in his post-college, pre-fatherhood belly all at once. 

The floral presence of her natural scent overtakes the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, 

which provides him with the alert boost that he still so desperately needs because he shies at 

making eye-to-eye contact with her. Instead, he looks over her shoulders and out the windows. 

A loud bang magnifies several large white cracks in the sky.

The café lights flicker. Once. Twice. Three times.

Everyone, except for Charles, acts unfazed. That is when he realizes her dig. He just

stands there. Speechless. Defenseless. Accused. Guilty as charged and not knowing what to

do with his hands—but one jerks—his left and tugs at the bottom of his T-shirt. Everything

about him seems to melt into kryptonite. Nothing about him has a superhero appeal, not even the

iconic S on his chest. Then he smooths down his nape hair and appears awkward as a man

thinking that he’s standing next to his wife but accidentally kisses a strange woman on the lips.

Every other second, his heart constricts and craves nothing more than jumping out of his chest. 

Annabelle just looks at him. Then waits. Oh my gosh, he is so very pitiful. She then

glances at the large coffee mug wall clock that is above the wall menu board. It is 12:33 p.m.

"Ahem." She clears her throat.

"Oh, my bad!" He then pulls out her chair.

She removes her gray, lightweight long-knit sweater and drapes it over the backrest. For a

moment, they sit facing one another, making superficial eye contact with everyone and

everything, including each other. He fears that his eyes will reveal that he is not ready to accept

her truth—since they never tend to agree on anything anymore anyway—while now, her eyes are

affixed and pierced straight through him like glass.

A barista shouts, "Gregory! Ticket number 228 for Gregory! 2-2-8!"

The clackety clangs and the clickety cling of things still filter in and out of his eardrums, 

but the sound of his heartbeats breaks through the wispiness. However, the musical collaboration

soon retires its melancholy pace to beat furiously like a hot African drum in the sweltering heat.

And the once hustle and bustle foot traffic suddenly intensify and devitalizes in and out of thick

air out of anticipation for her, but anxiety for him.

Charles shifts about in his seat. The palms of his hands sweat like a boiler. So, he sneaks

them underneath the table and uses his pants as a dinner napkin. His personal space spins around.

Slow. At first. Then fast like a tornado. The time it takes for his heart to pump blood throughout

his body, everything dulls, except for Annabelle's natural sun-kissed glow. And his eyes fixate

on the rolling taps of her hypnotic mid-length dark purple fingernails striking the table like baby

grand piano keys. For a few seconds, he scans the café and does the same out the windows. But

he cannot resist. The rolling taps of her done-up nails never escaped his attention. 

The taps! 

The Taps!

The TAps! 

The TAPs!

THe TAPS!

THE TAPS!

THE TAPS!

His mind drifts. 

Everything fades to black.

He retreats and has an out-of-body experience. 

From a distance, he sees himself. Seven. Safe. Alone but without a care in the world. A 

little dirty but happy. Playing in his grandmother's front yard. Tossing up an old blue and yellow

Saint Louis Rams football in the air. Catching it. Every time. Then he sees his grandmother 

standing on the porch with two nice cold glasses of lemonade. She smiles at him. She calls him 

over. He smiles back at her, jukes, and scrambles in her direction, imitating his favorite running

back Marshall Faulk. Now he and she are drinking lemonade. He feels a sense of love and

protection wrapped up like a gift in her arms. 

Ting-a-ling.

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. 

Charles’s childhood memory slowly reverts to him sitting in the café. He cannot help but

think of the love and protection he once felt are a far cry from his present situation. Annabelle

sighs and rechecks the time. But still, Charles’s mind minds only the mesmerizing showgirl

performance of her nails. Tiny pools of sweat gather at his armpits and descend into his

waistband.

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling-ling. 

Finally, the chime snatches him completely back from black. The haze lifts. He casually

looks at his wrist. His watch shows 12:38. It is only then he notices that Annabelle is not wearing

her ring. His body temperature jumps up two more degrees. But he decides against showing his

dismay. Instead, he remembers his therapist advice. He sucks in as much air as his lungs can take

in, holds his breath, and counts: One Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . . three Mississippi . . .

four Mississippi . . . five Mississippi . . . six Mississippi . . . seven Mississippi . . . eight

Mississippi . . . nine Mississippi . . . and ten . . . seconds. Then he clears his throat and steals

another sip. 

An arm's length away, Annabelle sits reserved. Composed. Her legs are crossed. The

top one swings ever so lightly. "So . . . you finally got me here. You want to talk. I'm here. So,

talk."

"Oh yes. Well, I've already taken the liberty and ordered you a mocha. I did remember 

the double shot of chocolate too."

"I didn't come here for a mocha either." 

"You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

"Easy? Oh, so I see. You got me here for easy? Thanks, but no thanks. That's my

cue." She rises out of her chair the best she can. He reaches over to help her balance, but she

quickly shushes his hand away and gives him a Do-Not-Even-Think-About-Touching-Me look.

“So, you know what, since you want to play games—boy, I'm out of here." 

He darts out in front to block her path and accidentally knees the table hard. "Ouch! Got 

darn it already."

The Today's Special: Homemade French Vanilla double-sided table tent

advertisement falls on its side, and the small sugar packages topple out of the white canister and

slingshot across the table too.

A few rows over, a loud, earthy-dressed middle-aged lady wearing a metallic silver

umbrella hat, a pair of oversized tan shades, and an outdated Android pressed against her ear

laughs hysterically. Charles envisions her as a Hindenburg hovering right over his left shoulder,

spying on him and all of humanity. Sensing his embarrassment, Annabelle tries not to but shakes

her head and proceeds to laugh too. "Oh my gosh! You're so clumsy. Are you okay?"

"No, of course not. Now, you see what you've made me do?" 

For a moment, they both laugh as if they lived once upon a time in their near past. 

But then she abruptly straight faces him. "Oh no you don't!" She retrieves her sweater,

but it slips from her grip and falls on the floor. 

"What? Wait! Now, what did I do wrong this time?!        

“Nothing at all. You’re just acting like your charming self—like always.” And I am not 

about to fall for it this time around. Not even for a moment. 

“But we were just laughing, though." 

"Please move out my way." Laughing at your clumsiness is what got me knocked-up in 

the first place. 

"Okay, I surrender. I'm sorry." 

An expression of disbelief crosses her face as if it’s rare for him to speak those words. 

"No, really. I'm sorry. I am. I just started with those bad nerves of mine again. You

know how they can get me."

Tapping her foot, Annabelle looks up at him, but this time with a little less disbelief.

“Okay, but I'm not kidding around. Like I told you over the phone, I'm only giving you

ten minutes, and time does not wait for anyone, so tick-tock."         

"Yeah, I know. Let's just sit back down. And do some real talking this time. I promise, 

okay? He picks up her sweater. “Please?" He waits for her to sit before doing the same. 

"Where’s the waitress?"

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

Annabelle brings her cup to her lips. "Well, I'm listening," she says after the first sip. 

He clears his throat. "Yeah … okay, I guess I will be the first to start."

"Perfect, especially since you're the one that called me like the world is ending and 

begged for me to be here, out in all this—and might I add, in my condition." 

"Right. Well, first I just want to know when you're coming back home?"

Mocha jets out her mouth, across the table, all over his face, and slides down the S on his 

chest. "Cold. Mocha's cold." She casually snatches a few napkins out of its dispenser. "My bad, 

sweetie. Here. Do yourself a favor. Dry yourself off."

"Seriously?! Are you effing kidding me right now?"

"Well, are you? Is that the first thing you have to say to me is, ‘When are you coming 

back home,’ after all this time apart? And you pick here of all places. And you're purposely 

wearing that stupid T-shirt too. I know exactly what you're trying to do, Charles. As if any of its 

going to work. Well, think again." He attempts to get in another say to no avail. “And by the

way, let me give you some advice. I’ll charge you for it later, you idiot! If I were a man, in your

predicament, walking in your shoes right now and speaking to a woman like me—that would be

the last thing to ask me is, ‘When are you coming back home?’ You got that Einstein? So, try

again."

"God damnit, Belle," he says underneath his breath and pats himself dry with the napkin! 

"Can't you see I'm trying-dying here?" The only time he calls her Belle is when she puts up a

fight, which she rarely does. "Sit down." She crosses her arms over her belly and pouts her

lip. "Sit down and shut your big mouth, I said!" He grabs her by the arm and forces her to her

seat. "Now, you listen up. I did not ask you here to argue. We've done quite a bit of that already,

don't you think? That's the last thing I want for us. Besides, you're in no condition to be getting

upset over anything anyway." 

Annabelle straight faces him. Again. But soon cracks under pressure. A single drop 

struggles down her cheek. Then she burst into tears. Something rushes over her. Blame it on 

hormones, missing him, being at their favorite café, thoughts of not winding up like her 

miserable mother, or whatever. "I never wanted to leave. But you wouldn't listen. You never

do anymore. And you had already agreed to this a long time ago. But now, look at me. I'm a big

fat pig." He tries not to laugh. "Well, I am," she sniffles. 

"Now, don't be ridiculous, Annabelle baby. You're as cute as the day I met you in Forest 

 Park."

            She grabs a napkin and blows her nose. Again. “No, I'm not." 

 "Oh, yes you are." He smiles and squeezes her arm like a stress reliever balloon. "I 

            wouldn't too much worry about this. It's just mostly water weight anyway. You’ll lose it and be back in your sexy clothes and heels in no time." 

She swats at him like he's a West Nile mosquito. "Oh my gosh, 'Water weight'? I just 

can't with you! I swear you're not much of a prize yourself right now either, you know." 

RATTLE-RATTLE-RATTLE! BANG! SMASH! 

Charles and Annabelle look in the direction of all the commotion. Hidden behind a wall, 

in the kitchen, the dishwasher attendant and dishes fight for position and reposition in the 

dishwasher. 

Then Annabelle snaps her head back towards him. "Is that your way of calling me fat?”

"No! No, of course not, baby! My bad. That's not what I meant. Sometimes I need to just 

put my frigging foot in my frigging mouth. 

Wow! That’s a vision. 

“I never say the right words to you anymore. Everything just comes out completely

wrong." 

"You think?"  

"Yeah. But you know I'm not good at this talking stuff. What I'm trying to say is that

what we're going through, it's just a bump in the road."

She places her hands on her belly. "Oh, really? Just a bump?" 

"Yeah, you know how hard our first year was. Come to find out, most couples' first year 

is a doozy too—who knew? I also learned that we might have put too much pressure on one 

another, like setting unrealistic expectations. Stockpiling negative emotions. Not listening." He 

looks deeply into her eyes. "And like taking each other for granted. Failed promises. Not setting 

aside quality time. The list is longer than my arm."

"Yeah, like no happy wife, no happy life, huh?"

"Exactly, but they’re all common mistakes. So, what it all really boils down to is that 

we're just as normal as the next couple." 

“Really? You don’t say.”

"They say all couples experience this from time to time throughout their relationship." 

"Oh yeah? Well, who's they?"

"It's from these marriage counseling magazines I've been reading online for the three out 

of five weeks you've been away. And I’ve read plenty about taking care of a baby too."

Their barista politely interrupts, "Can I get you anything else?" 

Charles motions at Annabelle's cup, but she waves him off. "No. It looks like we're all 

good here. Thanks."

She smiles at him and then at Annabelle. 

"Wait, I'll have some ice, please," Annabelle says.

"Sure. Ice water"?

"No, just the ice. And in a large Styrofoam cup, please."

"Okay, no problem."

They wait until there is an adequate distance between them and her before they continue. 

"I don't need some wannabe cyberspace marriage counselors giving me any advice about 

you or our baby. I'm sane and mature to make that decision all on my own thank-you-very-

much.” Obviously, I cannot say the same for you.

"You haven't answered any of my calls, texts, emails. I had to see you. I was just going 

mad. Completely mad. And your mom, you don’t have to make any excuses for her. I know she

hasn’t told you about my calls. It's a wonder why she doesn't have a husband and has been single

all her frigging life. She’s just a miserable thorn in my side. Is that her waiting for you in the

car?"

"You think it's been any easier on me? She acts like a pesty baby. No pun intended.”

“Well, I hope not because—

            “Hey, look! I'm the one who’s living back with my mother, with no job, with no money, 

no transportation, just a high school education­—and might I add, you disconnected my cell

phone. So, yes, no calls either. I warned you this would happen to me."

"I didn't want this for us either. You know that, but things change. Life does have a say,

you know. And you also know how I feel about everything now.”        

“But what about how I feel, Mr. All About Yourself?”

“We're just not that kind of people, though."

"What kind?"

"The kind that goes around giving up their baby to complete strangers. The kind that has 

a baby running around on this Earth and just go on with their lives like nothing ever happened." 

"Look, you knew this about me already. I'm just not maternal. I’m cursed, like mother, 

like daughter.” 

"Well, for our baby I'll be enough for both of us."

"But you even agreed—

"You're nothing like your mom, though. The witch! It's just all in your head. It's like she

has her broom hooked around your neck. A spell. And I’ll bet anything that she hasn’t given you

any of the things I brought to the house for you. Did she even tell you that I came many times

wanting to see you? Practically begging. No, of course not. You know, she’s partially to blame

for you walking out on me."

"No, you're mostly wrong about her.” 

Charles picks up his spoon and taps the brim of his cup with it.

Annabelle places her hand on top of his to stop him. "Look, there's still time. It will

be our choice. Yours and mine. Together. We'll do this together. We can, you know, like

everything else before now. I've already got it narrowed down to two couples. They are really

good people, Charles. And I’m pretty sure you’ll like them too."

He abruptly snatches his hand from hers. “You will never get my approval on this, Belle!

You hear me? Never!”

Their barista approaches, carrying a tray with an array of beverages. She places a tall 

glass of ice in front of Annabelle. "Alrighty, here we are. Just ice for you.” Then she puts a jar 

of French Vanilla in front of Charles, “And I noticed that you’re out, so here’s more.” Annabelle 

looks annoyed but decided not to say anything about the glass or the French Vanilla. “Is there 

anything else I can get for you? Our grilled paninis are delicious."

Annabelle immediately tosses a cube into her mouth. "No, no, thank you."

"Okay, I'll be back in a bit to check on you."

"Thank you so much." Then she stares back at Charles. 

"Have you not been listening, Belle? I am not handing over my child as if I’m signing 

over the title to some beat-up jalopy—like the one waiting for you outside. And you're not

either. So, you might as well get that thought out of that pea-brain head of yours." He reaches

into his back pocket, pulls out a pamphlet, and slides it across the table. Without moving an inch,

she glances down at it. At the top, A Father's Right in Missouri is printed in bold black letters,

and underneath it is a black and white picture of a man smiling and holding a newborn in his

arms. "Besides, I am the child's biological father. I've been reading a lot on this parental stuff

online too. So, I know my rights."

            Annabelle chomps down hard on the ice. With squinted eyes, she looks at him with pure 

spite. His mere presence causes a cramping sensation in the pit of her stomach. However, she 

fights through the sharp-bladed shocks without flinching an inch. The last thing she wants is for 

him to raise any concern for her or the baby. Not even her obstetrician is aware of how persistent

they have become over the past few weeks. She then removes another napkin from the dispenser

and slowly wipes her tears. It quickly smears with makeup and dark mascara. So, she snatches

out another one and continues to wipe away. Her makeup blankets most of that napkin too. After

she gathers herself; she smiles at him as if nothing ever transpired. Then she clears her throat,

presses the used napkins inside of her half-filled cup of mocha until they are fully submerged,

straightens her posture and sits at the edge of her chair. CLAP- CLAP- CLAP! "Bravo, Einstein.

Aren't you quite the intellect now?"        

"I'm just claiming what's rightfully mine too."

            "Really? I don't think so."

He slides the pamphlet closer to her and retrieves his empty cup, and shields his mouth 

with it. "Yes, I think so. Or else, Belle."          

Her shoulders hunch. The pupils of her eyes flash an array of cold, dark winter colors.

"Or else what, Einstein?" 

Einstein? Yeah, cute. You’ll learn to call me Master Einstein someday.

Just as quickly as it had disappeared, the hustle and bustle uppity air returns, and like in a 

movie, every one of his sensory responses intensifies, and everything else magnifies. First, in 

slow motion, a flea lands on his hand. Charles vividly sees every tiny movement and detail of its 

body. Its big red eyes and an even bigger head. Its long fiber-like jointed legs. Its paper-thin, 

transparent rainbow-colored wings. For the chit-chatting lady on her cell phone, seated on his 

far-right, he lip-reads her every word. The clinks and clanks of spoons against coffee cups 

pulsate his eardrums as they dance to the music. The fresh aroma of coffee beans roasting in the 

back of the café hit his nostrils hard. Superman's shield clings to his chest like a child gripping 

onto his mother's leg for dear life. And dark roasted coffee and a splash of French Vanilla, and a 

hint of peppermint coats his tongue.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling

“Ticket numbers 245, 246, and 247 for Marsha, Stephani, and Sam! 2-4-5, 2-4-6 and

2-4-7!”

Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. 

A burst of laughter rushes into the lobby and quickly spills over into the café. Students.

Each one carries a cell phone and, dangling on their shoulder or across their chest, a backpack.

But it is the foot traffic and the constant ting-a-linging from the door chime that triggers

Charles mostly. 

Annabelle glances at the mug clock. Again. She looks straight into his wild eyes.

Unshaken. "Well, it looks like we're all done here. What a waste of precious time."

"Don't you dare move from that seat, Belle; I mean it. You have no idea of what I am 

capable of doing to you." 

BEEP! BEEP!

She looks out the windows. 

BEEPPP-BEEP! BEEP!

“The witch calls,” he says to her.

She tosses more ice cubes into her mouth. CHOMP, CHOMP, CHOMP! “Wow. Can you

believe it? The rain has cleared." She rises from her chair. Still in need of assistance, even more

now than before, but he gives her none. She takes up her sweater and says, "Now here comes the

sun. Good riddance, Charles."

"Don't count on it, Belle. Trust me. I'm not finished with you yet."

Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling.

Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling.

Ting-a-ling.

With only his feelings to occupy his heavy thoughts, Charles sits there. Alone. Again. 

At their favorite table. In their favorite café. His mind storms. God damnit! She's just like the

Mother Witch! So, he contemplates his next move while Annabelle shuffles through the crowd.

Slow, yet unsteady now. Charles’s mind minds only himself and no one notices her either. Then

he looks over his shoulders. Left. Right. And then left. Again. When his barista finally looks in

his direction, he motions his cup for another refill. She holds up two fingers. He signals back

one.

The hustle and bustle are busier than ever before now. 

Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling.

The midday sun rushes into the cafe. It reflects from one end of the table, across Charles's

forearms, to the other end of the table, and then it filters more light across the café. Another ray 

reflects from his watch and blends in with the daylight elsewhere too. He looks down at his 

wrist. It is now 12:45 p.m. Like clockwork, his hands are folded, resting in front of him on the 

table. He twirls his thumbs back four times and forwards four times. Again. Forward four times 

and back four times. Again. Fast. Repetitively. And with precision. He only looks up from his 

coffee cup whenever another sudden outburst of laughter rings out from the tipsificators sitting in

a booth at the back of the café.

He then does his best to recoup any ounce of sanity left but with no avail. So, he does the

one thing he should have done prior to meeting with Annabelle. He pops a Xanax. Then another.

What the hell, one more for good measure. He pays no mind to those who pay mind to him while

doing so too. Slowly, he starts counting, but just as before, the Mississippies had no immediate

effect. And because of that he externally sides against his internal chit-chatter, and it shows in

real time, ranging from lukewarm to fiery syndicate colors. He boils.

Finally, he sees an envelope that is tucked between the fold of a napkin. For just a split

second, a sensational sense of hope washes over him. As he opens it, Annabelle’s ring falls out

into his palm. And just as quickly as it came, the sensation poofs into thin air. He’s pissed. He

then removes the letter. It reads:

Dear Charles,

Life takes many twists and turns, and some of them, if not 

most are unexpected. I am sorry for what we have become. I am 

not to blame, and neither are you. It just isn’t in the cards for 

us anymore. And it would be unfair for anyone to bring children 

into a world where their parents, especially us, are at odds with  

one another. However, I will always cherish the good times we’ve 

shared, but I can no longer be in a marriage like the one we have.

So instead, let’s both agree to do the right thing by giving our

unborn the kind of love that we could not provide one another.

We have no other choice but to go through with it. It is the only

way to make things right for everyone involved.

Sorry, 

Annabelle

P.S. We’re having twins. Oh, craps! (But you would already know

that if you had come to “our” doctor’s appointment like you had

promised! But I’m sure it was your craps game that got in the way,

again. Right?)

                                                                                                                         May 2019

His eye swell. Because there is much truth in the words. But he knows that she did not

type the letter herself. That’s not the way she talks. I damn all mothers-in-law. A single tear

bleeds right through the word win in twins. Then he fists her ring, letter, and springs to his feet,

sailing the glass of ice and the jar of French Vanilla clear across the table and floor. He is in a

fury, but his high-tops feel as if they are glued to the floorboards.

At that moment, there’s a crash outside.

Everyone in the café stops dead in their tracks. Just for a split second, the silence is thick.

Foggy. Then some rushes to the window to see all the commotion. The entanglement.

            Next, the double doors fling open. TING-A-LING-LING-LING!

“Quick. It’s a woman with child! Call 911!” 

            Little by little, Charles’s checkered shoes begin to slowly slack from the floorboards.

Still, he stands there stoic, but the S on his chest is statuesque. Out of respect for the woman with

child, his initial thought about the crash cannot be repeated. He quietly recites Po’ Boy’s Blues,

“‘The whole damn world’s turned cold …’” It’s his final thought about the whole ordeal before

putting it to rest.

Finally, Mr. Einstein—what he now calls himself—calmly takes his seat. As the world

dies or miscarriage all around him just right outside of their favorite café he twirls his thumbs

and waits ever so patiently for another fresh, piping hot refill as if nothing ever transpired

on what turns out to be a sunny May day mayday during the midday rush.

---

About the Author

Princess Anne Byrd-Treston

Princess Anne Byrd-Treston, an ambitious beloved mother of sixteen-year-old, Scholar Sincere Treston, describes herself as a jack of all trades, a master of none. However, she is passionate about writing fiction, and as an undergraduate student at Lindenwood University in Saint Charles, Missouri, Ms. Byrd-Treston received the 2011-2012 Linda L. Ross Creative Writing award for her stage play “Birdie and Willie.” Her literary interests include poetry, screenplays, stage plays, science fiction, and horror with African American and ambiguous characters. When she is not writing, Princess enjoys drinking too much coffee, quiet times at home, yoga, watching YouTube videos, pitching a jewelry line, chatting with her higher self, and people-watching. A natural-born ambivert that lives by the motto: Don’t get ready. Be ready. “Midday Rush” is her first publication, and she has an “arsenal of short stories and other works …[and] is equipped to jump into the pond of published authors.” Glimpsing her future, she sees herself as a full-time professional writer. Princess Anne Byrd-Treston currently resides in Saint Louis, Missouri, where the weather often displays all four seasons on any given day of the year.

---

aaduna Volume 11: Issue 1 ~ Miriam Comfort Gyimah, Ph.D.

Rosemary

Let’s say a prayer for Rosemary,  

our daughter, our little sister, 

a prayer of faith that her journey will go well. 

Let’s say a prayer for Rosemary.

Let’s speak words of peace, hope and love.

Our prayer for you, young one, 

is to reach your rightful destination,   

never be lonely, never hurt again.

We say a prayer for Rosemary,

our daughter, our sister.

Smile, jubilate and somehow, we will know

you arrived safely.

It seemed as if Osei Kwame was always smiling, or was it just me?  He was always pleasant, almost going out of his way to be nice to me.  

            “Hello Ama, my wife. How are you today?” 

            I would always shyly smile and with my head a little bowed say, “I am fine, thank you.”   He teased me by calling me his wife. Osei Kwame was a grown man with a wife and two children, Rosemary and Gabriel. We lived in the DC Metro area.

        I liked Osei Kwame and his family.  His name was actually Kwame Osei, but he preferred to be called Osei Kwame, putting the last name ahead of the first, as in a class register. One of his grade-school teachers had called students by their last names first.  Osei Kwame liked the sound of that and kept it all his life.  But I called him uncle, just that, not Uncle Kwame, but uncle. 

            Osei Kwame’s perfect family was a pleasant sight to behold.  As a child, I liked this smiling man who played the accordion.  We went to the same church and every Sunday, Osei Kwame would have his accordion slung around his neck and stretched across his chest. He would also bring it to our homes when we had holidays or birthday celebrations.  He was often called upon to play this instrument at funerals and other important events such as baby naming celebrations in our Ghanaian community.   I remember how passionately he moved his fingers on the keys as he played the accordion.  It was written all over his face how much he loved playing his beloved instrument. 

            At church, he sat in a corner reserved for the instrumentalists. For a couple of years, he was the only instrumentalist in our small church until we later gained a guitarist and a pianist.  I remember the song he taught the congregation of about eighty-five people. 

            “Jesus is my everything,

             Jesus is my everything,

             Jesus is my everything,

             He’s all I need.”

It was such a simple song, but so catchy and upbeat that we enjoyed singing it, especially when it was accompanied by Osei Kwame’s accordion music.  I was a child but I remember it very well, even thirty years later.  The more we sang it, the more I enjoyed the song, particularly when we sang it to take the offering as we danced towards the front of the sanctuary waving our white handkerchiefs and deposited our monies into the collection bowls. Well, at least it was the adults who danced, and waved their handkerchiefs.  We children just observed them, sometimes giggling conspiratorially.  Away from them, we sometimes played church, and mockingly imitated them.  

            Osei Kwame was tall, about a good six feet and two inches.  He was big, but not fat.    His two children, Rosemary and Gabriel were cute kids, both a little on the quiet side.  When they first joined our church, Rosemary was eight and Gabriel five.  Rosemary was slender and of average height.  She was withdrawn but I noticed her hair was always braided well.  Gabriel’s hair was also always nicely cut and neat.  I don’t know if Osei Kwame cut it himself or took him to the barber, but if he cut it himself, it sure looked better than most of the other little kids who regularly got haircuts at home.

            I never knew that Auntie Virginia was not Rosemary’s mom and that she was Osei Kwame’s second wife.  I learned this by overhearing the adults discussing it and other old news and secrets some of them knew after the tragedy. Later, I heard that Osei Kwame’s first wife lived in Ghana.  She had been with Osei Kwame in DC, but they separated upon her mother’s death. Although she knew it was a risk to return home and attend the funeral, since it was likely that she wouldn’t be able to return to the U.S., she still didn’t see how she could stay and not go back home to help bury her mother and rightly send her off to the other world. 

            Many others who didn’t have proper papers too often didn’t go to help bury their deceased parents, knowing that they would not be able to return. They did their best and sent money for the funeral to help, explaining why they couldn’t return home, but Rosemary’s mother wouldn’t stay behind.

            Osei Kwame and his wife argued about it. 

            “How do you expect me to stay here when my mother is lying in a cold fridge somewhere, heh? You are a man.  You don’t understand.”

            “Eh, I am a man.  Is it now that you are finding out I am a man?  If I am a man, then you too are a mother.  How can you risk your chances of not returning when you have a daughter who needs you? What about Rosemary, eh? Doesn’t she need her mother? Mame Yaa, look at what you are saying.  You can’t go.  You have to stay!”

            “Kwame, I will go.  Are you the one to tell me what to do about my mother?  Can’t you see my mother is dead and it’s killing me? Your mother is still alive, so you don’t even feel anything.  Am I a tree, heh? Am I a tree?  I have feelings. I know it’s a risk, but I have to go.  I am trusting God to take me safely and work things out for me, for all of us.  Is immigration bigger than God?”

            “Heh? Mame Yaa, are you sick? Are you sick in your head? Do you hear yourself? You are comparing immigration and God? This is paperwork, not spiritual warfare! I am telling you, if you dare go and not return, it will be your fault!”

            “O ho, Kwame! Stop that! Stop telling me what to do.  Aden? Have a little faith.”

            “Yo-oo ok! Have faith.  You are telling me to have faith.  Yo-oo!  You are the only Christian here. Yo-oo.  I have heard!” 

             Rosemary’s mother went and was unable to return.  Out of anger, exasperation and feeling disrespected, Osei Kwame didn’t feel any motivation or obligation to help his wife in any scheme she proposed about returning. Aside from her taking care of Rosemary, he didn’t need her.  He completed the cultural divorce procedures through family members representing him back home and that was that.  Within a year, he married Auntie Virginia and Rosemary gained a new mother.  In another year, she had a brother, Gabriel.  By all accounts, they were a perfectly happy family.

            Auntie Virginia was tall but fat.  As a child of pubescent age, I always wondered how tall people could also be fat.  I could see how short people could be fat because they didn’t have the length to stretch out the weight from the food they ate, but tall people?  I didn’t understand, so I only concluded that tall people who were fat ate much more than they should and that was why the food filled up their tall frame. I also observed that many tall people who were fat looked shorter than they actually were.  I learned that after some people lost weight.  But Auntie Virginia’s fatness did not make her look shorter.  She was a big full woman about two hundred pounds.  She wore her hair natural and often cornrowed it.  She was also cross-eyed.  The first time I met her, because I was a little startled and intrigued about her imperfect eye, I stared at her, mostly looking at the eye, and when she caught me staring, out of shame, I quickly averted my eyes.   

            Auntie Virginia was almost always sitting down.  She was not as outgoing and jovial as her husband.  As a child, I couldn’t understand why Osei Kwame married her and how Rosemary was so pretty while she wasn’t.  She wasn’t ugly, but besides her nicely rounded face, she wasn’t exactly a beautiful woman.  But many things didn’t make sense to me when I was a child.

            Although Rosemary was a pretty girl, one of her hands was badly burnt from the back of her fingers towards the tip of her wrist.  I remember when I first saw she had burned her hand. We were in my family’s kitchen and my mother had asked me to give all the kids popsicles.  When it was her turn, I saw her hand.  A little horrified, I asked, “Rosemary, what happened to your hand?  How did you burn it?” But she looked at me and didn’t respond.  She just took her red popsicle from me and went away. 

            I thought she was a little weird anyway. Besides, I didn’t have a lot of tolerance for the younger kids. I thought they were noisy and annoying, especially when I was made to give up my TV shows in favor of theirs.  And my mother didn’t help things as she always put me in charge of them as if I were the baby-sitter even when their parents were there. 

            After giving the kids their popsicles, I told my mother about Rosemary’s hand when she came to the kitchen to get a glass of water for one of the visiting adults. Returning to the living room with the water, I heard my mother, as usual, expressing profuse concern, asking Rosemary’s father about her hand.

            “Osei Kwame, Ama just told me that Rosemary burned her hand.  What happened?” My mother asked in her naturally high-pitched voice, adding more urgency.

            “Hem, sister, you know these kids.  She went playing on the stove and burned herself. I don’t know how many times we have told them to stay away from the stove and matches. But Rosemary is hard-headed.  Virginia had boiling water on the stove, preparing to make banku, and the next thing we knew, Rosemary had burned herself reaching for the water.  For what, I don’t know.”

            “Eii these kids will kill us with worry oo!” My mother said.

            “When did this happen?” My father joined the conversation. 

            “Just two weeks ago,” replied Osei Kwame.

            “Hmmph.  That girl doesn’t listen,” added Auntie Virginia.

            “Ama, call me Rosemary,” my father instructed me, with a voice that reached the kitchen without him having to get up.   I went to the door leading to the basement and going down a few steps, shouted “Rosemary, Rosemary, come here!”  She didn’t hear me with all the noise they were making, and I became even more annoyed that I was forced to go down to retrieve her.

            “My father wants to talk with you.” I said interrupting her fun.  I led her to the living room where my father and the rest sat. 

            “Rosemary, come here.  Let me see your hand,” my father said as he reached out his hand to hold Rosemary’s scarred limb when she offered it.  I looked on as my father observed her hand. “I hear you had an accident on the stove, hm?  Please stay away from the stove and listen to your mother and father, okay?  We don’t want you to get hurt.”

            “Yes, Uncle.” Rosemary said with her head bowed, embarrassed as two other adults also asked to see her hand.  My father took her hand again and told her he would pray for her so her hand would heal fast.

            “Remember to be good so my prayers would be answered. Okay?”

            “Yes, uncle.” 

            Since then, I always felt bad for her and a little sad each time I saw her scarred hand.  I guess I felt more this way because I was always afraid of getting injured, especially getting burned by fire.  As a child, by the age of eight, I had already broken a leg and worn a cast.  I had even stayed at the hospital for some time and my leg was in the cast for months.  Although it itched and was sometimes unbearable and made me unable to walk for a long while, it had healed, and my current doctor said there was no trace of my broken limb.  But being burned was another thing all together. 

            At that time in my short life, I had seen a couple of burn victims.  Their injuries were either on a part of their face or on a limb and it always left me nauseated and even more afraid of fire.  I remember a man I once saw whose face had been disfigured by burn marks.  I was simultaneously afraid and repulsed by him.  Still, I felt sorry for him that he would have to go through life like that and I wondered if someone could look beyond his facial deformity and marry him.  Or was he bound to live a lonely life because of his disfigurement?  Because Rosemary was a little girl, I wasn’t so repulsed by her hand, but rather sympathetic and worried how she would go through life with these burns and if people would not want to befriend her because of the deformed skin on her hand.

            I knew the Oseis for three years before Osei Kwame’s flight.  Well, actually, I knew them for six years, but during the last three years, they had ceased attending our church.  But in the years that we went to the same church, our families were connected, and we celebrated holidays and some birthdays together.  During summer, we sometimes had barbecues in our backyard and at times, we would visit their two-bedroom apartment in DC.  Because Rosemary and I were separated by 3yrs, she was not my playmate.  Her mates were my younger brother and sister.  But like family, we all interacted. 

            The last time her family came to our annual picnic, as we did always, we invited some of the families in the church to a barbecue and games.  Sometimes, afterwards, we would drive about ten minutes away to a middle school in Takoma Park, Maryland and watch fireworks.  At the barbecue as usual, the adults chatted and laughed about their own stories, life’s happenings, and Ghanaian politics while we children played dodgeball, softball, and board games. 

            When the Oseis arrived, one of Rosemary’s hands was in a cast.  The cast covered the entire arm.  Rosemary had apparently sustained a bad fall from her bike.  My mom asked me to fix her a plate.  I did and set it in front of her on the picnic table.  Fortunately for Rosemary, it was her left hand that was broken so she didn’t have a lot of difficulties feeding herself; otherwise, I am sure my mother would have instructed me to feed her as well, which would have annoyed me.  It seemed to me that my African parents, especially my mother, was always asking too much of us, especially me since I was the oldest.  

            That day, feeling under the weather with this broken arm, Rosemary didn’t play much but watched the other children play all the games.  But a highlight for her was when everyone decided to sign her cast.

            “Let’s sign Rosemary’s cast,” Kofi Appiah said to Daniel Okyere. Turning to her he asked, “Rosemary, do you want us to sign your cast?”

            “Okay;” she responded, shyly smiling.

            Years later, I wish I were the one who had suggested signing the cast.  It didn’t occur to me.  Kofi Appiah was a better person than I. 

            Kofi signed it saying what he wrote aloud, “feel better, Rosemary, Kofi.” Daniel followed, also uttering what he wrote, “get well soon, Rosemary, Daniel.”  After these two, other kids joined in.  Even those playing cards and ball stopped and came to sign her cast and I signed it as well, “hope you heal soon - Ama.” I drew a smiley face. Other additions of “get well soon and feel better Rosemary” with X’s and O’s and more drawn smiley faces were added.  Even the adults got involved in this act while her parents looked on.  Rosemary was happy to see this display of affection and attention.      

             Not long after,  the Oseis stopped attending church with us.  My parents kept in touch with them and, once or twice, we got together, but after a while, we didn’t see each other anymore. 

            About two years after they stopped attending our church, I overheard my mother on the phone talking to Auntie Virginia. 

            It was a Saturday, and I was doing my chores of cleaning out and polishing our wooden cabinets with lemon Pledge and reorganizing the can goods and other food supplies. I can still smell the scent of the lemon Pledge when I remember this day. My mom answered the hanging yellow telephone in the kitchen when it rang.  By her questions and responses through a heightened voice, I sensed something bad had happened.  It seemed it had happened to one of the children. 

            “Where is he?  Where is she? What?  Call the ambulance now! But you have to call the ambulance, Virginia.  I am going to hang up now so you can call 911.  Do it, Virginia!”  My mom hung up the phone. 

            By this time, I had stopped my work and was staring at her.

            “What’s wrong, mommy?  Is someone hurt?”  My mom wouldn’t answer.  She picked up the receiver then hung up without calling. She repeated the gesture and then stood there thoughtfully for a few seconds.  My father had gone to visit a sick church member, so she just had to wait until he came home. This was in the 1980’s before beepers and cell phones. She went upstairs and I went back to my work, but then I was too distracted and worried so I couldn’t continue. 

            I followed her, but by the time I stood quietly at the pathway to her room, the door was shut, and she was praying as I have heard her many times before when something was wrong.  The words of her prayer were loud yet, at times, too fast to understand.  I wanted to make sense of them but couldn’t. All that was clearly distinguishable to me was her repetition of the words, “Lord, let it be well.  Lord, let it be well.”  Then in a few minutes, when I sensed that she was done, I tiptoed away and returned downstairs.  This time, she returned to the living room to use the phone there. From the kitchen, I moved to the adjacent dining room, peeking at her sitting on the blue corduroy sofa, talking. 

            “Osei Kwame, what’s going on?  Did Virginia call the ambulance?  Oh? Oh?  Is she okay?  Where is she? Okay.  Thank God. Thank God.  Ata is not here, but I will tell him to call you when he comes home.  Okay.  Bye.”  She hung up and returned upstairs singing a solemn worship song.  The next day after church and Sunday dinner, instead of taking us to  evening service, our parents left us at home and went to visit the Oseis.  That was the last time I heard my parents mention the Oseis, until well over a year later.

            I was seventeen, a junior in high school when the Ghanaian community and all the DC Metro area were abuzz about a news incident.   As a high school student, I had a part time job at a national fast-food chain.   I worked about three times a week, so when I was working, I would rush home from the school bus stop, quickly grab something to eat from the fridge, change into my work uniform and walk the fifteen minutes to my job.  I worked from five in the evening until nine or nine-thirty and my mother or father would pick me up. 

            I wasn’t at home when the local news first reported the story.  If I hadn’t been at work, I would have heard the most talked about and perplexing breaking news of the week.

            The local news programs and the papers followed a top story of a Jane Doe whose body was found frozen on a fence at a dump site.  The news continued to run the story and showed an image of her face hoping someone watching would identify her.  Someone did.  It was one of the girl’s teachers, who, watching the news was shocked and terribly saddened to learn that a student she hadn’t seen for about a week was dead and in the news.  Her name was Rosemary Osei.  Afterwards, that name accompanied the picture flashed on the screen when the story was reported.  By the time the police raided the Osei home, Osei Kwame, Auntie Virginia and Gabriel had taken off and allegedly escaped to Ghana.  Although the medical examiners concluded that Rosemary Osei died of hyperthermia, the case was ruled a homicide.

            There were live and in-depth print interviews.  Left lingering were many unanswered questions.  For starters, what happened?  Why was she there?  Who had she come there with?   Why hadn’t her parents made a missing person’s report?  Authorities and investigators hoped that if the Oseis had fled to their home country, the Ghanaian authorities would take them into custody and extradite them. It never happened.  Either the Oseis never returned to Ghana or the Ghanaian authorities never got involved with the case.  They had successfully escaped, leaving their daughter’s body to be handled by the DC and United States government.                 

            The mystery surrounding the last days and hours of Rosemary’s life could not be entirely pieced together by the authorities. Osei Kwame and those who knew the details were gone. But some of us overheard conversations between our parents and other church members, and came to learn about the darkness which pervaded the Osei home.  Our accordion-playing brother, friend and uncle had a heart that could not be tamed by all the teachings, preaching and Christian fellowship he received.  Perhaps it was because of his troubled heart that he sought the fellowship of the church.  Or maybe he sought it for selfish gains, to make a name for himself as a respectable member of the Ghanaian community. 

            To add to his internal struggle, Osei Kwame’s second wife could not love and accept Rosemary as her own. To keep his wife happy and his marriage intact, Osei Kwame enforced violent discipline on his daughter.  Any displeasure affected Virginia by Rosemary was met with swift punishment.  Shouting, slapping, and beating the girl were not enough. 

            It turned out that the burn on Rosemary’s hand was not from her playing with hot water on a stove but from a deliberate attempt to discipline the girl.  Osei Kwame had deliberately prepared the scalding water and held down a seven-year-old girl, forcing her hand in the burning water, turning a deaf ear to her shouts and cries of agony for the punishment’s duration.  She had to behave.  She had to respect and honor her stepmother.  She had to fear and honor him.   Beatings included kicking the child even when she was curled in the fetal position on the floor, crying and pleading for her father to stop.  He did when his anger was spent. 

            A year before her death, when they had called our home, Osei Kwame had beaten his daughter so badly that the girl lay bleeding and swollen.  A kick to her head with his dress shoes had resulted in a collapse and the swelling of the head and face.  He shouted at her to get up, but she wouldn’t, so he left her on the floor of the hallway where he had grabbed and beaten her. He went out of the house to get some fresh air.  Minutes later, when Auntie Virginia saw that the girl was still not moving, she became afraid and panicked.  She called our home for help; my mom told Auntie Virginia to call 911. I don’t know whether she did or not, but later, a disoriented Rosemary woke up and the Oseis were spared something worse.

            But the last time around, after Osei Kwame brutally beat and stomped on her, Rosemary didn’t wake up.  Although they repeatedly tried to wake her up, she never responded.  Terrified of what they had done and what could happen to them, Osei Kwame carried his daughter on that terribly cold January night and putting her in his car, drove to a dump site, discarded the body of his fourteen-year-old daughter and fearfully took off in the dark. 

            Sometime after, the girl slowly came to consciousness and felt the bitter cold of that winter’s night.  She wasn’t sure where she was, but sensed it was in or near a place with a lot of refuse.  There was an overwhelming and debilitating stench everywhere.  A weak and disoriented Rosemary somehow crawled her way through the refuse and felt what she made out to be a fence, separating her from the rest of the world.  She began to climb over the fence but felt the sharp points at the top of the fence pierce her palm.  She managed to reach the other side with frozen and numb fingers and the freezing wind blowing in her face, the upper portion of the gym jacket she was wearing tangled itself to the tip of a wire. She resisted, in her weak and diminished state, trying to separate herself from the wire, but it was to no avail.  The dying girl, whose heart was already failing, was not successful.  She died hanging over the fence.

            Rosemary was dead. She had survived hell for fourteen long years, but could not hold on longer.

            Throughout my life, I occasionally recalled Rosemary’s story, especially when I saw news reports of an abused child.  When I was a child, I thought my parents were strict and demanding, that they wanted too much of us, always instructing us to do this and that.  Now that I am a parent, I understand their strictness, their wanting us to be responsible, but I still can’t understand their silence.  After all these years, I don’t know why those who knew would keep quiet and allow Osei Kwame to continue to rule his home with anger and assault, and even keep quiet after the final criminal act.  A small conservative immigrant community in the 80’s, many of them undocumented, they opted to protect him and themselves from the U.S. police and immigration.  As a mother, I hurt when a child is injured and can’t imagine that I would have kept silent. I still don’t understand how Auntie Virginia allowed this to happen to a child in her care.

            Recently, I travelled to Ghana with my mother.  We went to her hometown, Winneba, to visit relatives and some childhood acquaintances.  That weekend, her high school was the venue for a performative arts festival. Her best friend, Auntie Deborah, from that high school, was the current head mistress and had invited us to the festival. It was a hot but breezy Saturday, and the program was held outside on the vast high school’s grounds. The show was just how Auntie Deborah described: a wonderful concert with singing and drama by children to adults in native languages and English. There was cultural dancing and even a comedy of errors which was in our Fante language. We laughed and clapped as we were entertained by the different performances. 

            Towards the end of the program, there was a musical group performance, a fusion of Ghanaian Gospel and High Life.  The accordion player caught my eye with how he handled his instrument. We were in the first row, and I studied the way he perspired from his temples down and yet was lost in the playing of his instrument. I felt myself tapping my mother’s thigh as she sat on my right side. I wanted to know if she could confirm what I was seeing.

            She had also noticed the likeness to Osei Kwame. He had aged over the decades, but we knew it was him.  My mother and I looked at each other with our mouths almost open as if we were seeing a ghost, this uncle, friend, Christian brother who had vanished decades before.  As we locked eyes on Osei Kwame, his gaze finally located ours. He didn’t recognize me as I was now an adult woman in my forties, but it was clear he recognized my mother. He dropped his eyes and his playing faltered. When the group finished, they disappeared into the school building.

            After the program, my mother told Auntie Deborah that we had seen a friend we wanted to greet.  Auntie Deborah led us into the building, but Osei Kwame could not be found. We asked the members of the group where their accordion player was.  No one knew.  Osei Kwame had taken off again.

            When my mother told Auntie Deborah the story, and how Rosemary died and Osei Kwame fled to Ghana, I learned two new devastating details. Osei Kwame called my father for help when the police were after him.  My father wasn’t able to help him in the way he wanted, but he didn’t report him to the police either.  I was deeply disappointed by this. My father could have helped bring justice to Rosemary but didn’t.  He didn’t stand in Osei Kwame’s way from fleeing.  No one did.  I also learned that Rosemary’s mother had died three years after. 

            Maybe Rosemary’s mother couldn’t bear the final separation and had to join her daughter in death. One could only hope that they would be reunited. As for Osei Kwame, Virginia and Gabriel, my family never heard from them again, at least until we set eyes on him in Ghana.

            All these years, when I think about Rosemary, I pray that our children won’t be harmed, and that others would not be silent about such cruelty. I also regret I wasn’t kinder to her.      

            Go in peace, Rosemary.  Go in peace.  We pray you will fare well in your next world.  

* * * * *

 The Haunting

He used to come to her dressed in a blueish-green two-piece pajama set with animal prints. He always came to her bedside, as a handsome four-year-old boy with a dark complexion and black woolly hair. She always woke up trembling. He seemed so real. So alive. But when she shook herself from sleep and opened her eyes, no one was there. She always struggled to fall asleep again.  No one had to tell her he was her child. 

            There were long stretches of time when Julia wouldn’t see him and she thought she would never see him again, that the nightmares had ceased. But then it would happen again. Again, in the same pajamas, he appeared by her side of the bed calling for his mommy. He looked so innocent. So handsome. But she didn’t want him to return  She couldn’t bear the load his memory brought.

            She kept these experiences to herself, never telling her husband or her best friends since college. One day, as she sat outside her pastor’s office waiting her turn to go over a program she was heading, she heard the pastor advising another member on a familiar issue. The door was closed but their voices were audible enough for her inquisitive ears. Julia couldn’t see the woman clearly even if she peeked through the frosty upper half of the door. Although she wanted to, she knew it wouldn’t be right. She wouldn’t want someone to do it to her. When she heard the woman’s problem, she listened intently.

            “Pastor, I need to talk with you confidently. I don’t want my husband to know.”

“What is it, sister?”

“Pastor, I keep having a dream where I see children coming to me. At first, I thought I was dreaming about my future children, but realized I didn’t want them.

            “What do you mean you didn’t want them? Do you want to have children?”

“Yes, I do.  My husband and I are trying. But when I dream about these children, I get a feeling that I don’t want them. Does that mean I really don’t want children?”

Pastor Tawia was a sixty-five-year-old man who had been in ministry for forty years in Ghana and later in America. He had not only studied religion and philosophy, but he had also studied spiritism, and had experienced it himself. He immediately knew what his parishioner was talking about. He knew it was not a matter of just bad dreams, but of spiritual matters.

“Sister, I have to ask you some personal questions and I need you to be honest.”

“Yes, Pastor.”

“Have you been pregnant before?”

“Hmmm, Pastor. As for this question, hmmm.”

“Sister don’t be shy or embarrassed. I am not here to judge you.”

“Yes, Pastor. I have been pregnant before.”

“How many times and what happened with the pregnancies?”

“ Pastor, I was young, a secondary school student back home. I aborted them.”

“You are not the first to have this experience.” The children you see coming to you are images of the ones that went by the wayside. But they are not the real children. Your children have returned to God. These are familiar spirits who take the shape of the children to haunt their mothers.”

“Heh? Pastor, how?  How can spirits come as aborted children?”

“Sister, these are spiritual matters. There are many things in the spirit realm people don’t know or understand. The only way you can stop them from returning is to ban them.  You have to vocalize a prayer and forcefully instruct them never to return; otherwise, they will always continue to haunt you.  I will pray with you before you leave. The next time they come, ban them from returning.”

When the child came to Julia again, she remembered the pastor’s words.  She prayed and banished him.  She instructed the child never to return and to stop haunting her. She repeated the words firmly. Her husband, who was deeply asleep began to move on the bed as if disturbed but didn’t wake up.  She lowered her voice, repeating the prayer. She hoped that the child had heard.  She hoped that the pastor knew what he was talking about.

*         

It had been sixteen years since he last came to her and yet she remembered him as if it were just yesterday.  She wondered what he would have been, what they could have been as a family.  She wondered if he would ever come again. She missed him and wanted to see him again, even if it were just in a dream. Her would-be first born child.

            He would have been twenty-four years old had he lived, had she allowed him to continue forming in her body. But she couldn’t. She had her entire life ahead of her. It was 1996 and she was in the midst of her undergraduate study. 

If she had chosen differently, would she have been able to graduate with honors and continue to graduate school? Would she have married his father, her then boyfriend? She tossed the questions back and forth in her mind. She always resolved she couldn’t have risked her future simply because she was careless and allowed that carelessness to determine her fate.  She would bring shame to her religious family and be the talk of the church and community.

            She remembered how her cousin’s case had influenced her decision. Two years before her own dilemma, her closest cousin, Afia, had dropped out of college. The family was devastated and angry with her. Afia’s father was the head usher and her mother the women’s fellowship president. They threw her a big graduation party for finishing  with honors, and choosing to study computer science. When she was away in college, they publicly emoted pride about how she was doing in her prestigious college in Pennsylvania, on partial scholarship. This abruptly ended when she returned home after her second semester, obviously pregnant.

When her parents saw her protruding stomach, both their mouths dropped for what seemed an eternity until her mother found the words.

“Afia, what is this?” Walking to her and pointing at Afia’s stomach and then poking it repeatedly with her index finger, “what is that stomach? What does this mean? Are you pregnant? Heh? You got pregnant?  Afia, who put this thing there? What foolish boy, heh Afia? So, you went to school to get pregnant instead of studying? Eiiii!” Her mother shouted and dropped both her hands-on top of her head as if to wail, as if to give up living because a loved one had suddenly died.  Afia stood there in the living room, her suitcase still by her side.

“So, with this stomach, you are what, four months, five months pregnant, hmmm?” Afia stood there quietly while her father was also standing still in disbelief. Her mother raised her voice even further, as if it weren’t loud enough already. Tilting her face to look at Afia whose head was bowed, her mother shouted, “don’t you hear me talking to you? Answer me!”  “I am five months, Maa,” Afia finally spoke. Turning to her husband, she announced as if he hadn’t heard, “Eii! Kwasi, do you hear that? She says she is five months! Your daughter is five months pregnant!” And returning to Afia, she continued, “So you mean when you came home for Christmas you were pregnant and hid it, heh? Eii Afia! Who gave birth to you? I! I gave birth to you. Am I a liar? Am I a deceiver that my daughter should become a liar and deceiver? To spend an entire month with us in this house during the holidays and not tell us? To return to school and be carrying a baby and not tell us? Eii boy!” She turns to her husband and says, “Kwasi, say something. Hmm. I don’t even know what to say anymore!” She stood with her arms folded looking at her daughter with a mixture of anger, incredulity, and disappointment.

Her father was unable to say anything though the look on his face said it all.  It was as if he had been gutted, as if the rug he was standing on had been maliciously pulled from under him compelling him to land on his bottom with great force. It took him several days before he found his voice; when he did, he told her to leave the house and that she was a bad example to her siblings.  She went to her best friend Vera’s home for a few days. It was Vera’s father, Deacon Ferguson, who pled with her parents for their forgiveness, imploring them to accept her even as the rich man forgave and accepted his prodigal son in the bible. They allowed her back home but let her know that she and she alone was responsible for the child and that if she could lie down with a man, then she could very well take care of the repercussions.

Instead of pursuing a college degree, instead of staying on campus and attending classes, Afia had to work tirelessly at a minimum wage job to finance the care of a child.   

Julia had been home that summer when Afia was pregnant.  She saw and heard how her cousin was badly treated and shamed at church. They cut their eyes and twisted their faces in her direction. “Hmmph! And she brings this stomach here unashamed, giving our children bad ideas!”  The women complained naturally and intentionally so that Afia was certain they were not pleased. After two weeks, she stopped going to church until months after she delivered the baby. 

When Julia first sat down with her, Afia dryly narrated her mother’s entire dramatic response and how her father refused to talk to her for days, passing her by when he saw her in any part of the house.

“What are you going to do, Afia?” 

“Mama, what can I do?” Afia always called Julia Mama, her home name since she was named after her father’s mother.

“I will work and go to college part time near here. It’s all my fault. I knew better. I should have protected myself even if Marcus hadn’t. Mama, be careful oo. Don’t let this happen to you.” 

*

Julia reflected on Afia’s experience and how it had changed the course of her life.  She couldn’t bear what Afia endured by the eyes and mouths of their family and church.  Also, she couldn’t push aside her future and work at a minimum wage job for years scraping to take care of a child as her cousin was doing.  Afia would have been a graduating senior in the year that Julia got pregnant.  Julia started college after Afia and yet she was ahead of her.  She couldn’t repeat Afia’s error, so she never considered keeping the baby even as she noticed how it was changing her body in those early weeks, how her appetite had increased, her breasts becoming fuller and tender to the touch and how she was easily tired and hit the bed and slept so deeply that she almost missed her eight o’clock morning classes. Only her abrasive alarm sound saved her.  See how this pregnancy is already interfering with my life? she thought.  She knew she wouldn’t keep it. 

A student leader in a number of organizations and a double major in criminal justice and English, Julia was well known and liked.  Students, teachers, and administrators alike listened to her because she was smart yet respectful of her professors and the staff, always addressing them as professor, ma’am or sir. She regarded the feelings of her college mates. Her friendly yet confident personality were part of the reason she had served as freshman, sophomore, and the current junior class president.  She was a Dean’s List student and already a member of Who is Who Among American Colleges and Universities.  She was the pride of her two departments.  Professors and students expected great things from her. By her sophomore year, the student body had elected her most likely to succeed.

As a student, Julia comported her five-foot-four-inch one hundred-and-fifteen pounds frame confidently. Her look was business casual and casual elegant, always wearing a two-inch pump as she made her way across campus, carrying a briefcase, never a backpack. She thought backpacks were unattractive and wished her little sister in middle school would stop carrying them on her back as she warned they would ruin her posture. She had style and embraced it, but she couldn’t embrace this new development in her life. It threatened to change her life’s course where she couldn’t clearly see her academic plans and her future as she had before.    

            She began to suspect something was wrong when she got all her usual pre-menstrual symptoms, the bloating, the tender breasts, the two to three pounds weight gain, even the cramps in her middle and lower back, but then it continued three days past her expected date, five days, seven days, and ten days. She became worried but tried to calm herself. She had been careless before and all had been well. Surely, she couldn’t be pregnant. All would be well.

I am not pregnant, she thought and forced herself to believe it hadn’t happened to her, but two weeks after she was late, she decided to buy a pregnancy test. A friend gave her a ride to the Family General, where most of the college students go in that sleepy highly conservative town to purchase just about everything they needed with the exception of clothes and food, things from ceramic plates and mugs, bathroom cleansers, cheap bathroom carpets, to incense, aspirin and pregnancy tests.  She tried to be discreet about it, picking up several items that she didn’t need at the moment, like toothpaste, dental floss, cotton balls, toilet tissue, and the pregnancy kits. She looked at the very limited options they offered.  There was a test with only one kit and then another with two.  She stood there for a minute trying to determine which one she should get. On the one hand, all she needed was one test; on the other, she was safer buying two just in case something went wrong with the first or if she needed confirmation. The one with two pregnancy tests was more expensive than the one kit, but cheaper compared to buying two of the single kits. She decided to buy the one with two kits since she wanted to be certain.  Still in the back of her mind, she was hoping and expecting her period to come any minute. It didn’t.

            It didn’t matter how much she was embarrassed to have the pregnancy kits rung up.  It didn’t matter how much she wasted her time and money on all those other distracting items she had put in the shopping basket.  When she went to the cashier, the older woman picked everything one by one to ring their price on the cash register and she couldn’t help but feel ashamed and guilty that at barely twenty years old, a student, unmarried, she was purchasing a pregnancy test. The older woman looked at her and just rang the test as if to say, “it is not my business.”

            When she went home, she dumped all the contents of the plastic bag on the carpeted floor of her off campus apartment and retrieved the pregnancy test kit. She read it and then read it again more carefully to be sure she did not make an error and waste it.  It’s not as if she hadn’t seen the television commercials on the kit; she had, repeatedly, but she certainly did not think it would concern her as other feminine merchandise did every month. Now the pregnancy tests were in her room, brought there by her because she had been foolish. She hadn’t listened to the advice of her youth mentors; she hadn’t honored her upbringing as a Christian girl, and she hadn’t learned from Afia’s experience.

            She took one of the kits and went to the bathroom. There, she sat down and placed the stick strategically between her thighs to catch the flowing urine.  At first, when she attempted to urinate, she couldn’t.  Then she sat there waiting, shaking her right foot impatiently, and after a minute or more of trying to will herself, the urine began to flow, droplets falling on her fingers. When she had finished, she placed the stick on the top of the commode tank, washed her hands and left for five minutes as the instructions required.  She went to her bedroom and turned on the television for distraction, though she really couldn’t pay attention. She was still not in the right mind to put away the things she had purchased in their appropriate places, especially since most of them belonged in the bathroom.  She would know if she were pregnant by a plus on the reader or one line if she were not. Positive plus line, negative one line. 

            She waited.  She prayed and hoped it was negative though as hopeful as she had been, she knew she was likely in denial, that she was indeed pregnant.  She looked at the watch on her left wrist and noticed that five minutes had expired, but she held herself for another thirty seconds and as difficult as it was, another thirty seconds again, just to be sure. She went to the bathroom and looked at the kit, picking it up and looking at it even closer as if she hadn’t seen it well before. Plus sign.  Positive.  

            It was real now.  She called her boyfriend, Roger, and confirmed to him that it was positive. A senior, a year ahead of her, he had been less stressed about it, because he didn’t doubt that his driven girlfriend wouldn’t keep it. They both agreed she would take care of it, and he would provide the bulk of the money, considering he earned more than she did.  She was a tutor on campus while he worked as a paid intern at a local television station. She told her two closest friends, Tamara, and Anna, and they helped her find a clinic for the abortion.

            On the phone with the clinic, the nurse asked,

“How far are you?”

“I am not sure.”

“When was your last period?”

“Six weeks ago. I am two weeks late.” 

“You might be four weeks pregnant, but it might be further.” Her heart leapt in fear at this information. She thought how strange it was to be walking around pregnant and not know. She was stressed during those two weeks she waited for the procedure. The child, unaware of its fate, was still growing, still impacting her body, independent from her decision. She was experiencing morning sickness as well as waking up in the mornings with a bitter spicey taste lodged in her throat, as if she suffered from the worst heartburn ever. She forced herself to focus on her schoolwork and hoped the time would go quickly. Rodger managed to scrape up most of the four hundred dollars the procedure would cost and gave it to her.  

            When the time came, she followed the instructions the clinic had given her in preparation for the procedure. She and Anna traveled a little over an hour to the small clinic in a bordering state. It was a one-level building with white sidings and many green shutters. There was a small parking lot, which would hold about twenty cars, the dividing white lines fading on the black tar. Julia and Anna used the concrete sidewalk although it was apparent by the challenged lawn that not everyone made use of the sidewalk.

 After signing in, she sat next to Anna and waited until she was called. Her palms were sweating and her body shaking though it wasn’t visible to others not carefully studying her. She had read up on the procedure. She knew she would feel pain, but how much, she wasn’t sure. She prayed all would go well and that it wouldn’t be so bad.

A nurse in teal scrubs came from the heavy wooden brown door to the main area summoning patients. When her name was called, her heart skipped a beat.

“Julia?”

She quickly raised her hand, stood up and went to the nurse. Anna followed.

“Can my friend come with me?” The nurse’s eyes fell on Anna and then Julia.

“I am afraid she can’t. There will be a nurse and doctor with you.”  Julia looked at Anna, who hugged her and told her she would be alright. She walked in with the nurse, who obviously knew to be sympathetic and kind to patients.

            She was led into a small room where the procedure was explained to her. The nurse informed her that in some cases, after the procedure, the fetus might still be moving. She was horrified for a moment to hear that, and she involuntarily imagined the gruesome suggestion. She mentally held herself together, believing there was no returning from her decision. She hoped that this would not be the case with her, that she would not see anything at all. She then had to sign papers saying that she had been counseled, that she understood what was going to happen and that it was her choice to undergo the procedure. If not, she could decline and leave. 

She held the document in her hand.  She felt guilty that she was doing this. She believed she had already sinned by engaging in a pre-marital sexual relationship with Roger, which she had learned even before she was a teen in Sunday school and always understood as wrong, and here she was about to have an abortion. In that moment, she remembered King David, how he had seduced Uriah’s wife, Bathsheba, and, when she became pregnant, killed Uriah, and quickly married Bathsheba to hide his offense. She thought she was doing what he did, to cover up a sin. She knew God would be angry with her as He was with the king, but she still believed she had no choice.  She couldn’t have this major game-changing interruption in life.  She signed the papers. 

            The nurse led her to another room where the procedure would take place. It was much like a typical doctor’s examining room, the kind she always entered when visiting a doctor’s office. There was nothing really special or different in the room. Before the nurse left, she was directed to disrobe fully and put on the clinic gown provided and then to wait until the doctor came in. She did. She heard crying from the next room.  A teenage girl was crying loud enough that she and others in the clinic could hear her. At first, she couldn’t tell if the girl was going through the procedure at the moment or if she was about to.

“You are going to have to calm down. You are upsetting people.” She heard a nurse calmly but firmly counsel the girl to stop crying.

“Ok. I’m sorry,” the girl managed to say between tears, but she couldn’t stop crying.

“You know, if this continues, we wouldn’t be able to perform the procedure.”

“Nooo, I want to stay,” the girl cried even more as if to plead with the nurse not to give up on her.

“But I don’t think you are ready.  I think you need to think about it a little more,” the nurse advised.

Julia was sad for the girl, but simultaneously irritated. She was making it worse for her. The girl managed to calm down her cries to whimpers that could still be heard through the shallow walls. They didn’t operate on her that day.

            A few minutes later, a pudgy white male doctor in his mid-fifties and another white nurse, a tall one with long dirty blond hair came in.  The nurse looked like Lindsay Wagner from “The Bionic Woman,” one of Julia’s favorite shows. She was struck by the nurse’s presence and kept looking at her, not minding the doctor.  Both the nurse and doctor greeted her. The doctor asked her if she had done the preparations ordered before the day’s appointment. She said yes. Time was not wasted. He gave her instructions to sit up on the cushioned examining table and to place her feet in the stirrups as she was familiar with when she did her annual pelvic exams.  He then instructed her to scoot her bottom down. She always found this awkward and a bit tricky, but she did it and the nurse helped her adjust.  She was so tense. They told her to relax; she tried but was not very successful. The doctor asked her not to move. There was a steel basin beneath her. 

            Before he began, he told her what he would be doing, using instruments to separate the fetus, and then using a suction machine to retrieve the fetus, and the placenta, telling her that it would only take a few minutes.

She asked if the baby would feel anything. He told her no and she felt better.  She wanted it to be over quickly. And upon adjusting herself once more as the doctor and nurse required, the doctor entered her with his fingers and pulling them out of her, paused and told her she was three months pregnant. He asked her if she wanted to continue given that she was farther along. She froze. She hadn’t expected that. She wondered how she could be three months pregnant and only miss one period. She realized she must have been pregnant and still had her period the month before. She hesitated. The doctor and the nurse looked on, expecting a response. She said yes, she still wanted to go through with the procedure.

            The procedure began. She held on, trying to survive the moment. She heard snapping and breaking, which surprised her. She hadn’t expected to hear anything. She felt sorry for the little being inside her and what was happening to it. After he was done with the instruments, the suction began.  She felt the pain, major cramps that she had never felt before. She started crying but tried to mute herself. She didn’t want to be like the girl and upset other patients who might hear her. She wished Roger were there. She wished her mother were by her side. She looked at the nurse and then she looked at the ceiling. Tears continued to stream down her face and into her ears. The bionic woman look-alike was comforting her, assuring her she would be alright. A sharp pain made her jerk not once but twice although she was supposed to stay still. She couldn’t help it.

The doctor told her sternly not to move otherwise she could acquire an internal injury. She was sorry and immediately thought she didn’t want to do anything to complicate her future pregnancies when she was ready for a family. She fought to stay still in spite of the pain.  She cried. The nurse asked her to squeeze her hand hard when she felt pain. She kept thinking to herself, “why am I here? How did I get here? Why?”  She asked herself repeatedly, squeezing the nurse’s hand. When it was over, she was relieved and inexplicably exhausted.

            Julia was given a sanitary napkin and pain medication; she was led to a different room where she could rest for some time until she felt ready to get up and go.  She was informed as to how to take care of herself, to only use pads and not tampons, no tub baths to avoid infection, not to engage in any sexual activity in the next six weeks and to use a contraceptive when she finally does.  She was to see a doctor after six weeks for a pelvic exam check-up to ensure all was well. She was given pamphlets which repeated the information, and more. When she returned to the waiting room, Anna stood up and hugged her. “Are you okay?” she asked.

She said “yes,” and they stepped outside to return to the university.

Outside, Julia and Anna were surprised to be confronted by angry protestors. They stood across the street from the clinic, holding anti-abortion signs. They had apparently arrived after the two had gone in earlier. They yelled, “abortion is murder,” “baby killer” “save the babies” and other chants that were written on their placards.

Julia was immediately angry, yet she felt embarrassed for her exposure.

“Just ignore them,” Anna told her. They made their way to Anna’s car in the parking lot and drove off.

            A year later, she and Roger were through. She graduated with honors as planned and went on to law school.

When she looks back, she remembers how Afia struggled to finish school and raise her daughter, Krystin, at the same time. Now twenty-six years old, her goddaughter was graduating from medical school, the pride of her mother and her grandparents. She was proud of Afia’s accomplishments and of Krystin’s.

            It has been many years since the child stopped coming to her. While he no longer haunts her dreams, the memory of him and that experience do not leave her. She has thought of him occasionally over the years, but lately, she has thinks about him more. She misses him. By this time, he would have completed college and might be wrapping up graduate school. She wonders what he would look like as a young man. Would he favor his father or her? Perhaps he would have been an accountant, a journalist or a teacher, a lawyer like herself.             

            Sometimes, she wishes she had her son in her life. But had she kept the child, she would have been tied to Roger forever. She is grateful that she is married to her husband of seventeen years, a more loving and caring man. And for that alone, she has no regrets about the procedure. Her only regret is putting herself in the position to make that painful decision which has haunted her for many years.

Today, when she looks at her fourteen-year-old son and twelve-year-old daughter and hugs them close to her, she daydreams of the big brother they will never know.  Before they were born, he was already there calling her mommy.

---

About the Author

Miriam Comfort Gyimah, Ph.D.

Miriam C. Gyimah was born in Ghana, West Africa, but completed her primary and secondary schooling in Maryland. She attended the University of Maryland Eastern Shore (UMES;) subsequently received her master’s degree in English from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale (SIUC) and followed it with a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature at Binghamton University (SUNY) in upstate New York. After earning her doctorate, she taught at her undergraduate alma mater as an assistant professor of English and African Studies for five years and then worked as a contractor for the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) as a senior policy analyst. Dr. Gyimah returned to teaching in 2017 and entered the George Mason University MFA program in 2019. She is currently a full-time lecturer at Howard University and an adjunct at Mason in both institutions’ English department. Dr. Gyimah currently resides in Woodbridge, VA.

---

aaduna Volume 11: Issue 1 ~ Miriam Edelson, ED.D

The Herring Broker

“Why are you leaving again so soon?” asked Howard. He was nine years old and given half a chance, he’d gladly have tossed his father’s suitcase out the window. 

“I have to go on business. You’re old enough now to understand,” Abe snapped. He could be a hard man. 

“I know,” said Howard, “but I don’t want to stay here with Aunt Anna.” 

It was an early spring day in Brooklyn, 1928. The family was gathered at the kitchen table, having just finished a delicious Sunday lunch of Anna’s homemade cheese blintzes with sweet fruit toppings and sour cream. She’d even stopped at Kossar’s to pick up some crusty fresh bialys with indented softer centres that she warmed in the oven and topped with smoked herring.  

Anna, a sturdy woman of about seventy, had heard her nephew’s complaint. She looked at Howard and sighed. She blew her nose, stuffing the used Kleenex into her bosom under the top of her light green nylon housedress. The sun was shining down through the window onto the scratched white enamel icebox, replenished by the ice man the previous day. 

Howard lived with his aunt as his mother had died when he was just six years old. Aunt Anna took good care of him, he figured. She cooked and cleaned and was always ready to tell him a story. But living with such an old woman felt stifling. He hated the smell of moth balls that permeated every inch of the apartment. He yearned to move to Seattle and live with his older sister, Mary. She worked as a legal secretary and was married to a nice man in the stationery business. Howard had surmised during Mary’s occasional visits home that life would be lighter, more joyful, in Seattle. 

His father wasn’t interested in entertaining the thought of such a momentous change. 

“Aunt Anna loves you Howard,” he said in his gravelly, heavily-accented voice. “You must make the most of it.” 

Howard held back his tears, not wanting to appear weak before his father. The boy resented him for disappearing for periods of time, leaving him alone with his elderly aunt. The truth was Howard felt adrift without at least one parent on the home front. He still missed his mother terribly.  

Howard sighed. At least Aunt Anna knew how to cook and bake really well. She made mouth-watering coffee cakes with poppy seed filling and delicious mandel broit cookies with almonds. In fact, he was becoming a bit chubby, as his aunt plied him with great amounts of her homemade delicacies. “Food is love,” she’d say, something he would not find problematic until later in life. For the moment, he ate heartily. 

Howard remembered that his father had been heartbroken when his wife Rose died. It had been a sudden, short illness. Pneumonia.  In shock after her death, Abe was hardly prepared for the task of raising the children on his own. Anna had opened her home and heart to the family and Abe had accepted. This arrangement allowed him to continue to travel for business, to earn a living, as he’d always done. 

Abe told Howard that he didn’t mind his business trips, but working as a herring broker was never his dream job. As a youth in Belarus, he had studied Torah with his father and hoped to go to medical school one day. Since coming to the United States, however, he’d had to find a niche that would let him earn enough to care for his growing family. America was not an easy place. The herring business provided, so he stuck with it. But he hoped his children would have the privilege of a better life, an educated life, and he always emphasized this with them. 

The next day, his father packed his small brown leather suitcase and left on his trip. He was heading to Newfoundland to meet the fishermen with whom he did business. The North Atlantic, with its shallow, temperate waters, was a perfect place to find large schools of herring. The fishermen harvested literally tons of the dark, fleshy fish in their gill nets. 

His father told him that his job was to buy fish of the best quality and have them transported by ship to New York in large barrels filled with brine. Herring, pickled and smoked, was a specialty in the New York market where so many immigrants from Eastern Europe lived. It was considered poor people’s food. The Lower East Side, with its bustling markets and delicatessens, not to mention herring peddlers going door to door, would have been a prominent place to find herring, along with other traditional Jewish foods. 

The role of a herring broker was to facilitate the buying and selling of herring within the market. They were an intermediary and had to have a deep understanding of the industry, including the quality, availability and pricing of different herring products. Herring brokers worked closely with both the suppliers, such as fishermen or processors, as well as the buyers, which could include wholesalers, retailers or even individual consumers. They helped negotiate contracts, ensure timely delivery of the fish, and handle the necessary paperwork and logistics involved in the transaction. My grandfather played this vital role, including providing market analysis and advice to his clients. He was a respected man in the business. 

The wiles of the fish market were not always easy to navigate. In 1916, Jewish herring purveyors in Lower Manhattan were excluded from a trade agreement between non-Jewish herring merchants and the Canadian government. The New York Jewish daily Der Tog called it “Herring Antisemitism”. It had definitely been an uncertain, challenging time for Jewish herring brokers, Abe included. 

Abe travelled from New York City to St. John’s Newfoundland by train and then ferry. It was a long trip, lasting six days. He didn’t usually spend a lot on accommodation but did get a sleeping cabin on the train so he wouldn’t be too exhausted to conduct negotiations with the shrewd Newfoundland fisherfolk. 

A good-looking man of medium height, Abe was almost fifty years old, his face chiselled, setting off his dark, wavy hair and olive complexion. The hair at his temples was just beginning to turn a silvery gray colour, giving him a distinguished look.  He did not like leaving his family, but felt he had no choice. In fact, he found the journey itself enjoyable. He read his newspaper, the Morgen Freiheit, the Yiddish communist press, and made sure his paperwork was in order.  

The Jewish papers were filled with information about the ups and downs of the herring business as it affected several different trades: net-menders, barrel-makers, shippers, and salt merchants like his Howard’s uncle, Abe’s brother Saul. Abe explained to Howard that his goal was crystal clear -- he wanted nothing more than to build a healthy clientele among Newfoundland fishermen. 

Abe had one major competitor in selling to the New York market. Max Braverman bought herring in Nova Scotia and he always tried to undercut Abe’s prices.  He was a short, round fellow, rather unpleasant to look at. The men harbored a dislike for one another that went beyond the price of fish – each thought the other little better than a crook.  

Abe was irritated that Braverman could still get under his skin after all these years. He and Max came from neighbouring villages in Belarus, and there was a healthy competition between the two communities that pre-dated their own rivalry. Sitting on the train looking out the window, Abe sighed. He resolved Max would not get the best of him. 

Once he arrived in St. John’s, Abe took his suitcase and checked in at the Newfoundland Hotel. It was a modern imposing structure, just built in 1926. He felt comfortable there. It had a small café where he could get coffee and toast for breakfast for under fifty cents, not including the tip. He liked to converse with the waitress while he ate, it helped him feel more at home.  

 “Tell me,” said Abe, as the young woman poured his coffee, “where can a man get a smoked meat sandwich here in St. John’s?” 

“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be too easy to find,” she said. “Smoked fish, sure.” 

“Hmm,” said Abe, biting into his toast and cloudberry jam.  “I’ll have to try some of that.” 

He enjoyed their conversation. People were people, he thought, even though St. John’s was a far cry from his mainly Jewish enclave in Brooklyn. 

Abe was astute, always up for a deal. Not cheap, just choosy and careful with his hard-earned shekels. He liked the Newfoundlanders that he met on his trips. The men, full of stories of the sea, seemed to like him too. Occasionally on these trips he was invited into a fisherman’s home and shared a meal with the family. Abe adored the local fare prepared skillfully by the wives and daughters. He had never tasted cod tongues before traveling to Newfoundland and delighted in the way they melted in his mouth. 

On one such pleasurable evening, it may have been that he met Mae. She was the daughter of his main local business partner, a fisherman named Joseph. Mae was a slim woman with light brown hair that she wore up. In conversation around the dinner table, Abe found her to be a bright young woman.  

After they finished eating, he invited her out for a stroll by the harbour. Although St. John’s was not a large port, it was lit up at night and was very charming. For a time, the fog lifted revealing an almost full moon. He took Mae’s hand as they passed by the boats docked in the bay. She did not pull away, and they continued their amicable walk in the moonlight. 

“What do you do for fun here in St. John’s?” Abe asked. 

“Oh, the usual. Kitchen parties, mostly, with music,” Mae replied. She felt shy at first, but gradually opened up to the older man. 

“Did my dad tell you I play the fiddle?” she asked. 

“No, he didn’t. What a wonderful instrument! At home I listen to the great classics, and the violin is right in the middle of it all. I’d love to hear you play.” 

“You might be surprised, the fiddle I play is pretty lively – jig dancing music, Newfoundland classics.” 

“Okay,” said Abe “Now I’m curious!” 

And so began an affectionate friendship that would last a couple of years. Abe felt lonely after his wife Rose’s death and though in New York he did not meet or go out with women, he enjoyed visiting Mae. She had a good sense of humour and did not ask much of him. He knew he should not lead her on, that their friendship could not pass certain boundaries, but they enjoyed one another’s company. On his trips to Newfoundland, he would visit her and bring treats from New York, such as silk stockings, that she could not obtain in St. John’s. From time to time, she’d play him a jig or a reel in the family kitchen and he was enchanted by her evident talent. 

Mae enjoyed Abe’s companionship. They usually went for walks about town when he visited St. John’s. He was a distinguished man, an educated man, and he treated her well. Mae’s father was not thrilled with this arrangement, but he put up with it as Abe seemed to be a gentleman. He knew that Abe was a Jew, but he didn’t mind. At least he wasn’t Protestant.  

“How’s your young lad Howard doing?” asked Joseph one morning. He was a tall man, red-knuckled, his face lined with wrinkles from the North Atlantic winds. 

They were sitting at the oak kitchen table in the fisherman’s modest house, sipping tea. Joseph had gone out of his way to find a lemon for Abe. He would be off later that day on the ferry and train back to the States. 

“Well, you know, he doesn’t like me travelling so much,” said Abe, “but I think he’s getting used to it. He wants to move out to Seattle to live with his older sister.” 

“What do you think about that?” 

“I’m not sure. Feels like a long way away, and he only lost his mother three years ago.” 

“Hmm,” said Joseph. “Not an easy decision.” 

“No, it’s not,” he said. “And I suppose I’d be losing him if he goes.” 

“Might give you some time to find a new wife,” said Joseph. “You know, Mae wouldn’t mind if you met someone special and it got serious.” 

“No, not me,” said Abe. “Rose was my everything.”   

There was a slight pause. 

“You’ll come around eventually,” said Joseph, as he leaned over to the cabinet where he kept his business records. 

“Here,” he said and handed an envelope stuffed with receipts for Abe.

“Take these. Next month I promise I’ll have a bigger catch for you to haul back to New York.” 

Abe smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

When Abe arrived home after his trip, tired but satisfied with his dealings, everything seemed to go smoothly for a while. Howard was busy with school activities and Aunt Anna took care of the household. Abe thought of Joseph’s remarks about trying to find a new wife, but he didn’t feel ready. He’d rather pay strict attention to the business and build it while he could. 

Meanwhile, he pushed Howard to make something of himself, to become educated. 

“You must study for that math test on Friday,” said his father. 

“Yes, Pa, I am.” 

“You want to do well in life, not end up hawking fish like your old man,” he said. 

“No, Pa, I’m going to be a doctor.” 

“That’s my boy!” said Abe. “Keep getting good grades and you’ll make me proud.” 

Howard loved it on the rare occasions when his father paid him such attention. His father demanded high achievement in all things and could be harsh, but Howard knew if he tried hard enough, he could make his Pa proud. The boy applied himself to his studies and succeeded. At the end of that school year, he again expressed his desire to move to Seattle and live with his older sister Mary.  

“I’ll be ten in November, Pa,” he said. “I’m old enough to leave you.” 

Abe was taken aback by his son’s strength of conviction. Could he really be that independent already? He gave his son a piercing look and said, “Maybe so. I’ll think about it.” 

And so, it came to be that late in August Abe put Howard on a train to Seattle, where Mary would pick him up. He had a small suitcase to carry. It was to be a long journey and Abe handed him some spending money, and a canvas bag packed with sandwiches and snacks wrapped lovingly by Aunt Anna in brown, crinkly paper. 

“Be good,” Abe told his son, and hugged him briefly. He wasn’t usually a very demonstrative parent, but this was a special moment.  

In the first few weeks of September, Abe felt Howard’s absence deeply. Howard was the baby of the family, after all, the older children grown with lives of their own. He wondered what Rose would think about this new state of affairs. She had always kept Howard, her baby, very close. Abe continued to live with Anna and she took care of his laundry and the cooking.  

Then at a political meeting in early October, Abe met an interesting woman. Dinah was originally from Lithuania and she understood the challenges of coming to a new country as an immigrant. Just a few years younger than Abe, she was working as a clerk for an insurance company in Manhattan. She was a plain-looking, no-nonsense woman in sensible shoes. 

Dinah had no children of her own. She and her sisters had immigrated to New York seven years earlier. On the Lower East Side where she lived, she’d seen a poster for a political meeting at the Cooper Union building and decided to attend. She knew that they offered tuition-free classes to people of all backgrounds. Soon she was busy with the local political organization, helping out with copious amounts of filing and typing of documents. She was familiar with socialist politics from her previous life in Europe. The organizers appreciated her obvious commitment to the cause and she felt comfortable with the many men and women she met at Cooper Union.  

Countless immigrants worked in the garment trades, a fertile ground for organizing by the Communist Party which was growing in strength during the 1930’s. Dinah met labour leaders and sympathizers during her time at the Cooper Union. When she and Abe crossed paths in weekly meetings, she was impressed by the point of view he brought to the heated discussions. Here was a bright, captivating -- even elegant – man, she found herself thinking. They started to frequent a nearby coffee shop for tea and a sweet piece of rugelach after their meetings. They always asked for a slice of lemon with their tea and gradually, a friendship kindled.  

Abe enjoyed Dinah’s wit. In addition to their shared political views, he loved her intellect and warmth. On his next trip to St. John’s, he told Mae that he’d met someone in New York and that the relationship was serious. Mae was upset initially, but had always known Abe would find true love elsewhere one day. It did hurt, certainly, but her father had never hesitated to remind her that Abe would one day fall for someone of his own background and want to re-marry.  

When Howard came back to New York at Christmas time, Abe had news for him.  

“Son, Dinah and I are going to be married next Spring, and I want you to treat her right,” he said. “She will be your step-mother from now on.” 

Howard ran to his bedroom and slammed the door. He’d only just been introduced to Dinah and wasn’t sure how to regard a careerwoman with very modern ways. She was different from the mother he remembered, and certainly cut from a different cloth than Aunt Anna. 

In the refuge of his room, Howard tried to reason with himself. At least I don’t have to live with her, he thought. He wasn’t interested in making friends with a new mother, not while his heart still ached. His mother had been a gentle soul and he missed the quiet times they shared. He knew better than to show his true feelings to his father. 

In early January, Howard travelled back to Seattle. The trip took days and he had a lot of time to reflect on his situation. His father could erupt for no apparent reason and more than once Howard had borne the brunt of his father’s harsh criticism. At his sister’s house, he got along quite well with both her and her husband. The household had a very different feel than the tumult that tended to accompany his father’s presence. The three settled into a pleasant routine, playing board games and eating pizza together on Friday nights. 

Seattle was a quiet town, dappled with hills and pretty views of the sea. Howard liked the Pike Market area near where they lived, there was always something interesting to look at in the kiosks at the farmers’ market. There were also artisanal products and furniture. In 1922, a branch of the Seattle Public Library had opened there. At least once a week, Abe would strap on his book bag and ride his bicycle to the library where he could do his homework on the sprawling oak tables. 

He made a couple of good friends at school, studied hard and still hoped to become a doctor one day. He was surprised to find that his favourite subject was theatre not the sciences. In addition to chemistry and biology, he read plays and performed in school productions to high praise. Unfortunately, this became a source of conflict with his father, who wanted a secure economic future for his son, not the vagaries of life in the theatre. 

The summer Howard turned eighteen, Abe snagged him a job at a fish plant in Alaska, even though the country was plumb in the middle of the Great Depression. Howard was overwhelmed by the appalling fish smell that hit him once he set foot in the building. Although he’d been excited to travel north from Seattle where he usually lived, now Howard could barely breathe. Dressed in a red-and-black checked flannel shirt and fishermen’s rubber pants held up by black suspenders, he found himself up to his waist in fish.  

His job was to move large amounts of the catch from one end of the plant where it was delivered by trawler, to the other side where the processing equipment was located. He swung a large broom-like tool and it was all he could do to control his nausea at the stench. After work, once back at the bunkhouse, he would scrub himself down in a long, hot shower to try and purge his pores of the fish stink. He never entirely succeeded. 

Howard had taken the job at his father’s behest and, even though it wasn’t his first choice, he didn’t want to disappoint or disrespect him. Not surprisingly, his father didn’t want to hear about it when Howard complained.  

“Be a man, Howard,” he said. “It’s the best summer job you’re going to get. 

Howard wasn’t pleased, but thought it best to keep his feelings to himself. His father’s response was so typical. He never truly listened to his son.  

Although Howard hated working at the fish plant, what bothered him more was the constant power struggle he was locked in with his father, a struggle he couldn’t win.  

He continued toiling at the plant until the end of the summer and earned good money.  He found some camaraderie with the men he worked with. Once in the shower stalls, he was approached by one of the guys on his shift. Dan flicked Howard’s butt with his towel, smirked and walked away.  

Howard wasn’t sure what to make of Dan’s overture and wondered about it later when he was tucked into bed. It was the first time he’d been in such close quarters with so many men. He found it confusing at times and didn’t know if there was more to Dan’s towel flick than a simple ‘hello’. He kind of hoped it meant something more than that but he didn’t feel he could ask Dan, so he held his tongue. 

Time passed sluggishly during July and August. By the fall, Howard had earned enough to pay for his own tuition and living expenses at University of Washington where he was going to study pre-med. Once at the university, he settled in nicely. He joined the drama club and performed that year in two Shakespeare productions to some acclaim. Notwithstanding the gag reflex he now felt around any kind of fish – even canned tuna -- he’d earned a touch of independence from his overbearing father. 

Several years passed, with Howard visiting New York for a month every summer. He became accustomed to Dinah, and even began to like her a little. It turned out she was a good match for his domineering father. Abe wasn’t so hard on him when she was around. His father also came out to Seattle a couple of times on his way to Alaska, where he was exploring new sources for herring. His bitter nemesis, Max, was nipping at his heels and Abe needed to establish another steady supply of fish for his New York customers.  

His father found sources of herring in Alaska and expanded his commerce to include that territory. The herring trade was good to him and he became a successful businessman, in spite of his competitors. Never a rich man, but able to provide for his family. He even bought a small modern electric refrigerator to replace Aunt Anna’s ancient icebox.  

* 

My grandfather Abraham and his mother emigrated to New York in 1891 from Belarus, a small landlocked country bordered on two sides by Russia. He was born in 1877 when tens of thousands of Jews were leaving Eastern Europe due to antisemitism and vicious pogroms. He married his love, Rose, and they had six children together. My father, Howard, was the baby of the family. Abraham lived until 1959, when he died at home in Brooklyn. Years after leaving his homeland, he always spoke English with a heavy Russian accent. I was three years old when he died, and I have a vivid memory of my father lifting me up over the side of the big metal hospital bed so that I could give Pa a kiss…………

About the Author

Miriam Edelson is a neurodivergent social activist, settler, writer, and mother living in Toronto, Canada. Her literary non-fiction, personal essays and commentaries have appeared in The Globe and Mail, Toronto Star, various literary journals including Dreamers Magazine, Collective Unrest, Writing Disorder, Palabras, Wilderness House Literary Review and on CBC Radio. Her short stories have been published by Narrative Northeast and The Wascana Review. Her work has also appeared in aaduna.

Her first book, “My Journey with Jake: A Memoir of Parenting and Disability” was published in April 2000. “Battle Cries: Justice for Kids with Special Needs” appeared in late 2005. She completed a doctorate (Ed.D.) in 2016 at University of Toronto focused upon Mental Health in the Workplace. The Swirl in my Burl, her collection of essays, came out in October 2022. Deep Roots, New Threats: Confronting the Rising Right ed. M. Edelson, is forthcoming in 2024.

---

aaduna Volume 11: Issue 1 ~ Ámate Cecilia Pérez

Kiss and Don’t Tell

I almost vomited after my first kiss. The boy was three years older than me and in high school, but came to my junior high school dance in 1982. Cool Latino boys were either Cholos or rockabillies in that era. The Stray Cats were popular then and when their song “Rock this Town” came on over the speakers, everyone jumped to the dance floor.

That night the Virgil Junior High School gym was transformed. The usual bright white fluorescent lights were turned off and the school’s theater lights were placed throughout the gym, casting large circles of red, green, and blue light. A spinning mirror ball hung from the center of the gym, shooting rainbow shapes everywhere, creating walls and students that sparkled. I felt excited. Teachers lurked around but there were no parents chaperoning. Because our school was over 90 percent immigrants, mostly from Latin America but some from Asia too, our parents did not understand the practice or cultural expectation to be a part of the school life. To my Salvadoran mom, the school was a place of learning and she could not understand why the teachers would support a school dance.

My mom had no choice but to let me go. My rage scared her. I had stored up five years of resentments inside my petite body and took any opportunity offered to let it spew out.

“You are not ironing that shirt well,” she said to me one morning a few weeks after my arrival to the US. I shot her a hard, cold stare.

“And who’s fault is that?” I replied in a drawn out staccato, letting the space between each word land on her with the weight of the many long nights I cried after she left me in El Salvador when I was seven.

She had walked into the bathroom, the only place where anyone could have privacy in the single room apartment we shared at the time. I heard her cry and I felt pleased with myself, but also a little guilty. After that, she was careful with her words and even how she looked at me. When I found out about the dance, I just told my mom I was going. The forced separation from her leaving to work in the US had ruptured our parent/child relationship beyond repair. Going to school and learning English had acculturated me to mainstream US society–my mother and her old ways had no chance.

I came to the dance with Carmen and Regina, two Salvadoran sisters who lived a few apartment buildings away from mine. We met because Carmen, the eldest and prettiest of the two, was dating Eulises, a young man on the 5th floor of my building. The sisters would come to our building and hang out. Carmen had been in the US two years, just like me, but Regina had just arrived. My mom liked these girls much more than my previous neighbors–two Chicana girls my mom called “fast.” Regina and Carmen still had “polvo detras de las orejas/dust behind the ears,” a common saying in El Salvador to describe people who came from the countryside. Carmen and Eulises were already dancing while Regina and I stood huddled together against a wall.

We saw each other from across the dance floor. He wore skinny jeans, a short sleeve button down shirt, and platform wingtip shoes. His hair was rolled at the front into a pompadour. I stood in a striped black and white tube top, baggy beige pants with a well ironed crease in the front, and black Chinese slippers. My hair was parted in the middle, with each side blow dried and sprayed into perfect arches. The kids I was hanging with liked to slow dance to oldies, holding each other tight and heads up high, mugging anyone who happened to glance at them. When fast paced rock songs came on, my crew would clear the dance floor. I, on the other hand, have always loved to dance to any music, but I preferred upbeat songs. That night, we danced a few songs together–the rockabilly and the wannabe chola.

Even then I unconsciously knew that gangbanging was not for me. What attracted me to this boy was that he was unlike any other I had contact with. He also welcomed fast paced music and was not shy about moving his body in bigger and more exaggerated ways. At a time when the goal was to fit in and be accepted, his style and way of being seemed to scream–be free. I liked that.

The following week he picked me up from school, waiting for me outside the junior high school. He stood next to the fence many kids would climb to ditch school. As our eyes met, he beamed. I felt nervously elated. Here was a boy who liked me. A boy that offered me the possibility to not conform to the rest of the kids I knew. We walked together, talking fast to work out our nerves. He told me stories about what it was like to be in high school and about the bands he liked. When we were a few blocks away from my family’s apartment, I told him I had to go to the gas station’s bathroom to change my clothes.

“If my mother sees me wearing this, she will kill me,” I said, pointing to my baggy pants.

He nodded agreement and waited for me outside. As I changed into tight-fitting jeans, I worried that he would notice how skinny and flat chested I was. I wondered if my slight frame would be a turn off. None of the other Cholo boys liked me as a girlfriend, seeing me as their little sister. They preferred my friends who were rellenitas, plump as in chile rellenos. Girls who, even at age thirteen, were already wearing C cup bras while I was an A cup; at times I still wore training bras. When I walked out, he looked me up and down and he smiled approvingly. For the first time in my life, I was not embarrassed by my flat chest and skinny legs.

We kissed between a wall and a 1970s AMC Gremlin in my apartment’s garage. It was a dark place that smelled of gasoline and grease. Each resident had a parking spot and they would line up piles of used oil cans and vehicle repair tools next to their cars. I guided him to a parking spot around the corner from where my stepdad Rodrigo parked. Even though he was still at work, I did not want to run the risk of him finding us. I was standing against the wall and he came in for the kiss. As he turned his head to the side to not upset his perfectly shaped pompadour, I could smell his strong cologne and it reminded me of the cheap Paco Roban cologne my stepfather wore. Then his shy kiss gained force and speed as he pushed his wet tongue into my mouth. I was shocked and horrified by the intensity of having another person’s body part in me. As his tongue dug into my mouth, I felt a strong wave of nausea rise from the pit of my stomach. I pushed him away and ran out without saying a word. I jumped over a pile of oil cans that sat in front of my neighbor’s car and stepped onto the sidewalk. Opening the gate to my building, I felt relieved.

I walked into an empty apartment and threw my backpack on the sofa. Our two-bedroom apartment was on the bottom floor of a building in Pico Union, with a dingy brown carpet and a large brown, black, and maroon flowered sofa bed my mom and Rodrigo would pull out to sleep. All our furniture, house wear, and photo frames came from la Pulga, flea markets where clothes sold for a dollar and you could get even the most expensive furniture piece for under $100. Nothing in the apartment was aesthetically pleasing, but all surfaces were spotless. A floral picture frame sat next to a red and white checker frame on a bookshelf that some child had written a few letters on with a sharpie. Rodrigo’s sisters Maria and Carolina occupied one bedroom. They had arrived from Mexico only a couple of months ago and were undocumented like the rest of us, but because they were gueritas, these “white girls” looked down on my mother, my brother, and me. My brother Rene and I shared the other bedroom. I took a deep breath, looked around and appreciated the quiet. Running into the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and saw a scared little girl trying hard and fast to be a young woman. I brushed my teeth vigorously. When I walked out, I was glad to be alone. I surveyed all the work I had to do in the next two hours, deciding to never do that again with any boy.

My brother was still at school in his afterschool program, where I would pick him up that evening at five. Rodrigo worked at a factory making car parts and did not leave work for a few hours, and my mom never came home before nine. When she finished cleaning houses, she would go directly to the building we cleaned together at night. My job was to cook dinner for everyone, pick up my brother and feed him, and then meet my mother. I got to work.

Almost 20 years later I realized why, instead of feeling pleasure and excitement, that kiss made me sick. That was not my first kiss, which happened when I was eight years old. My aunt’s boyfriend walked into my room in the middle of the night in the Santa Tecla cinder block track housing in El Salvador. The room did not even have a door; instead, a cotton curtain hung at the entrance, separating it from the long and narrow “everything” room. The kitchen consisted of a two-burner stove that sat on a narrow table with a propane tank underneath. A small dining table with four pine chairs was the only furniture, except for a compact TV sitting on a coffee table near the front entrance. This house was so much better than any of the homes my other relatives lived in. Their homes were one room adobe shelters with a round covered porch that held a fire pit and the grinding stones, along with a table for eating. There was no electricity or running water.

I have debated many times if my auntie was aware of what took place. As he knelt beside my bed, he too had smelled of cheap cologne. As he searched for my lips, he put his hand on my vagina. I was half asleep and confused. I could not understand why his mouth was on mine and why it was so wet with saliva. His breath was unlike anyone’s breath I had ever smelled, perhaps because I also smelled his sweat. He too pushed his tongue into my mouth with force and urgency. I held my breath and froze. My body was still but my lips stiffened and tightened. Then I heard my aunt Marina’s voice in the other room, laughing. Marina is one of my mother’s younger sisters who came to live with us to take care of me when I was born. She was my second mother. He heard her as well and abruptly walked out of the room without saying a word.

I laid there thinking, “Did that really just happen?” I never opened my eyes while he was touching me because I was too afraid to face that moment. The next morning, I put it out of my head and never said anything to anyone about it. I knew I was afraid of being physically punished for not being compliant.

There were many memories of what was done to me and others in my childhood that I blocked. I recalled the brutality I witnessed others endure, like my aunt’s beating of my little brother Rene. Rene is developmentally disabled as a result of an infection he survived as a child. He would often make mistakes and she would beat him to force him to change his behavior. I remembered when she tied Rene to the security bars of one of the backyard windows and hit him with a piece of rope. He cried and cried and then got on all fours, crawling under a pila, seeking protection under the cement sink. He stayed there crying until nightfall.

I was not alone in my experience with my aunt's boyfriend. Over the years I learned of six family members who had been sexually molested by their male parent figure or an uncle. One of the sources of greatest tension between my mother and I was my objection to how readily and warmly she has welcomed all the men who have sexually abused children in my family. The latest was Francisco, my cousin who was found guilty and served time for sexually molesting his three disabled children.

“How could little Casandra know how a man smells down there after a day’s work?” my cousin Teresa asked, expressing her own distress. Casandra was the second oldest of the three and the only girl.

Teresa stood four inches shorter than me. And that is short, given that at four feet eleven inches I am taller than all my aunts and most of my female cousins. She was furious at her mother Andrea for letting Francisco live with her after he got out of jail.

Teresa looked me in the face and asked in disbelief: “How can my mom welcome that man back into the house? He abused her grandchildren!” But her eyes told me that she already knew the answer. Twenty years back, Teresa had been molested by her stepdad in the US. Andrea, furious, sent Teresa back to El Salvador to live with her grandmother as punishment for “having seduced her man.”

I could imagine how little Teresa must have felt being plucked from downtown Los Angeles and dropped into an adobe house in a rural hamlet. Her grandmother Victoria and my mother’s eldest sister lived there without electricity or running water. When I too was sent to the countryside as a child, I remembered how a feeling of dread would settle over me when the sun went down and the only lights we had came from two kerosene lamps in my grandmother’s house. One lamp sat on her altar in the room where we all slept and the other on the table where we ate our meals. My grandparents, their youngest child David, and my cousins Maria and Jaime lived in this house full time. I only visited during the holidays and summer vacation. The burning wood from under the fire pit would light up the kitchen enough for my grandmother to serve us food from the clay pots that sat in el fogón. Victoria’s house that welcomed Teresa was just like my grandmother’s and that of most poor Indians like our family lived.

After three years of forced exile in El Salvador, Teresa was allowed to return to Los Angeles. At family gatherings, Teresa made everyone crack up with laughter when she told stories of her life in El Salvador after living in the US for so long. The story that got the biggest laugh was the one of seeing a white man at a market in Santa Tecla, the second largest city in El Salvador.

“After two years of not seeing white people, I could not believe my eyes,” she said, speaking fast. “There in the middle of the market was a towering gringo. He was young and handsome,” she continued.  “I started to push people out of the way and almost tripped to get to him.  All I wanted to say was, ‘Can I come and clean your house? I will do it for free!’”

 Whoever was in the room could not help but let out a loud laugh. Never mind that we all knew the reason she was sent back at age thirteen was because her mother blamed her for the sexual assault. My family used humor to face the harsh moments of life without falling into a pit of despair. We had a talent of sharing the most traumatic moments of our lives in jokes. Instead of sharing the pain of having her mother blame her for being raped and then being forcefully exiled, Teresa made fun of herself by her pointing out she missed her life in the US so much that she would even do what we all hated to do as little girls–clean the homes of rich white people.

I have not inherited my family’s humor as a way to release pain. I tend to hold it in and express it in the tightness of my muscles. My partner and I have a standing joke. Sometimes when she kisses me unexpectedly, my lips are “as tight as a statue’s asshole” she says. For me intimacy does not come easily. I need to be rested, feeling emotionally and spiritually resourced, and be the initiator to be open. What I did not have as a girl.

Years before the field of somatics was developed, I experienced a clear visual of where the sexual assaults lived in my body during a body work session. I saw a red, orange, and yellow golf ball sized circle sitting and pulsating on the front of my sacrum. Thin tentacles extended outwards and dug into my muscles, tendons, and bones like an English ivy vine crawling into small crevices. The roots dug deep into my left hip bone, paralyzing me. But I also saw some movement, like the mesmerizing sway of an algae forest in the sea at night. In my heart, I knew I could uproot this injury.

It is not a coincidence that the left side of my body is much tighter than my right. When I sit on the floor cross-legged, my left knee is a good seven inches off the ground. It is my left hip that often bothers me after a long day’s walk. The pain of trauma is less than before. The muscles and tendons that were trapped by the roots of my trauma are rebuilding themselves. One by one they return to being stronger than before, while never forgetting. Sometimes when I am quiet and relaxed, I visualize my fiery golf ball. I drop into the gentle sway of the flames. I stretch my body and take up as much room as I can, knowing the injury is not my life. As my body sways, I imagine its color shift from red to yellow to white to nothingness.

About the Author

Ámate Cecilia Pérez (pronouns: she-we) is a decolonizing Nahuah from Kuzcatlan (El Salvador) and the founding director of Decolonizing Race and the Latinx Racial Equity Project. She is also a race equity and liberation trainer, an organizational development consultant, a social justice warrior and a writer. She works with movement building organizations, non-profits, unions, government agencies and foundations to increase their impact and organizational effectiveness.  Ms. Perez has directed multiple national and transnational organizations.  Prior to her social justice experience, Ámate worked as a print and radio journalist. Ms. Perez and her family fled the Salvadoran civil war in the early 1980s, grew up in the Central American community in Los Angeles, and benefited from the 1986 immigration reform law. She has a B.A. from UCSD and a master’s in journalism from UCB. Ámate is queer, a martial artist and mother.  She now lives in Inverness, CA on unseeded and occupied Coast Miwok and Tamal Indian territory.

---

aaduna Volume 11: Issue 1 ~Monique Harris

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

About the Poet

Monique Harris

Monique Harris, born in Virginia, is an African American poet raised in various parts of the South. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Indiana University, where she was encouraged to embrace her voice, heritage, and worked with Appalachian writers like Crystal Wilkinson. Immediately after graduate school, she stopped writing for many years; simply lived, intuitively knowing she would return to her writing at another point in her life. During this “hiatus” time, she worked in various teaching positions, including teaching military students on Navy frigates and high school students in Detroit. She currently works at Wake Tech Community College in Raleigh, North Carolina. As a sensitive, quiet soul, Ms. Harris always found comfort in language for expression and healing. Her writing honors her voice, ancestry, spirituality, and mental health. Her poems explore conspiracies, self-love, family, spirituality, and black womanhood. Monique’s work can be found and or is forthcoming in Collateral, Torch Literary Magazine, Press Pause Press, Moria, Talon Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, Wards and other publications. Recently, she has been involved with the Rockvale Writers’ Colony in College Grove, Tennessee. Most days, she can be found hiking, reading, and holding sacred space for herself, family, friends, and ancestors. She is currently working on her first collection of poetry tentatively titled, “Mid-July.”

aaduna Volume 11: Issue 1 ~ John Crowley Ph.D.

Inside and Outside Prison Walls

The small city of Auburn in Central New York was once larger and more prosperous. In the nineteen century, it was known for book publishing and piano manufacture. The founding of the International Harvester Company bolstered the local economy and provided abundant jobs for decades.

Auburn’s most prominent citizen was William S. Seward, governor of New York, aspirant to the Presidency, and Abraham Lincoln’s Secretary of State, best remembered for the purchase of Alaska (“Seward’s Folly”). Gravely wounded in 1865 by a confederate of John Wilkes Booth, he retired to his Auburn home.

Seward has been eclipsed as an Auburn hero by Harriet Tubman, “The Moses of Her People,” as she came to be called. From her cottage about a mile south of Seward’s mansion, Tubman ran a trunk line of the Underground Railroad, which transported many fugitive slaves to points farther north. Tubman herself led many of these dangerous missions. Her house has recently been restored and a center built in her honor next door to Seward’s home. Both are buried, not far apart, in Auburn’s historic Fort Hill Cemetery.

The most enduring Auburn landmark, however, is its prison, one of the first in the United States. Built between 1819 and 1823, it is now officially known (in bureaucratic gobbledygook,) as Auburn Penitentiary Correctional Facility. The street name is simply Auburn Prison.

In 1831, Alexis de Tocqueville (author of Democracy in America) and his friend Gustave de Beaumont were commissioned by the French government to survey American prisons. Their 1839 report, The Penitentiary System, focused on differences between incarceration practices at Auburn and those in Philadelphia.

Auburn was the first prison to use a contract labor system, in which convicts were compelled to do congregate but silent work, some outside the walls, where even strict supervision could not realistically really suppress interchanges. Convict labor was used to defray the costs of the prison. Silence in separate cells was mandated at night.

The Philadelphia system, by contrast, enforced silence and isolation at all times. The objective -- complete domination of the inmates -- was reflected in the prison’s architecture. Whereas Auburn provided limited open space, Philadelphia exerted total domination from a panopticon: a circular bunker at the center, where the tentacle cell blocks converged. Every prisoner was visible from this control center.

Auburn Prison’s other (dubious) distinction was its installation of the Electric Chair. Invented by a Buffalo dentist, it was initially deployed in Auburn, Clinton, and Sing Sing. An electrician, also from Buffalo, devised the complicated wiring. But the final version was built by convicts in Auburn’s furniture shop!

The Electric Chair was not motivated by any desire for “humane” execution.  Rather, it enacted the bitter rivalry between Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse for monopoly over electrical power. Edison advocated Direct Current; Westinghouse challenged with Alternating Current. Westinghouse won out at first, but Edison overtook him by stealing his design and perfecting his own AC devices, including the Electric Chair.

The first to be electrocuted, on August 6, 1890, was William Kemmler, for the murder of an Erie County woman. The second electrocution came two years later. The lever was pulled by the hooded Edwin F. Davis, the anonymous New York State executioner, who, like a nineteenth-century circuit rider, travelled from prison to prison. In all, he performed hundreds of executions, fifty-four at Auburn.

From the start, the apparatus proved to be imperfect, and the consequences were horrific. The heavy oak Chair, later dubbed “Old Sparky,” broiled its occupants alive amid the stench of their sizzling flesh and cindered hair.

Things had improved in time for the electrocution of Chester Gillette, the notorious murderer of his pregnant lover. The crime, a national sensation, became the basis for Theodore Dreiser’s gripping novel, An American Tragedy (1925) and its Oscar-winning film adaptation, A Place in the Sun, (1951).

* * *

As a Professor of English at Syracuse University, I taught American literature in Auburn Prison during the late 1980s. These were my first observations: the entrance surmounted by an imposing statue of “Copper John” in the uniform of a soldier from the Revolutionary War; a weary waiting room like those in shabby railroad stations.

I awaited a call from the reception desk. I was escorted upstairs by one of the Corrections Officers (known as COs) and led through a baffle of locked gates and then downstairs into the rectangular, concrete yard, flanked by cellblocks in a vaguely neo-Gothic style.

Inmates can espy anyone traversing the yard, and they hoot and holler. If it’s a woman crossing, the catcalls get louder and viler. The yard opens into “Muscle Beach,” where workout apparatus is located. Against the western wall, topped with coils of razor wire, lies the school, named for Thomas Mott Osborne (see below). The classrooms are nondescript except for the panic button on the wall near the blackboard. The greatest fear of outsiders, however, is not trouble from the students, but their own incarceration in the event of a sudden lockdown.

My students, screened for suitability, were generally attentive, and they did their “cell work” faithfully – except when papers were “coauthored” by other inmates. As soon as I caught on, I required all writing be done in class.

 A few inmates were among the best students I ever taught. The best of the best overall were, very rarely, allowed to apply for transfer to other maximum  prisons with a path to a graduate degree. I once asked my finest student why he had ended up inside when he was so obviously capable of outside success. He replied that the only career he could ever imagine was to become CEO of a drug operation.

* * *

My greatest moment in Auburn Prison came when, in 1987, I was chosen by the entire student body to deliver their Commencement Address. Such a privilege was exceedingly unlikely for an unfamous English professor, and I expected this to be my only opportunity. 

As the graduates proudly processed up the center aisle, a pianist was playing the traditional music for such occasions: Edward Elgar’s Triumphal March.

Awaiting them was the Dean of Arts and Sciences at Syracuse University. He wore a dark blue robe, with lighter blue velvet slashes on the sleeves, a matching velvet plaquette, and a hood, draped open across his back, which displayed a white satin lining with a chevron in Syracuse orange. His blue beret bore golden tassels.

My own outfit was far less splendiferous. Like the graduates, I was wearing an ordinary black academic robe and a plain mortar board. The only adornment was my own hood: white lining with a red chevron, signifying that my doctoral degree was from Indiana University. Each man received a baccalaureate diploma as well as a handshake from the Dean and took a seat.

This was my cue. There are certain difficulties, I said, attached to the genre of the commencement address, especially under the circumstances. Outside graduates are ordinarily young adults, whereas you are grown men, some with frosted hair. Ordinarily, outside graduates and their families largely come from a homogenous background, which is predominantly white, middleclass, and suburban, whereas you are predominantly men of color with straightened urban backgrounds. Outside graduates, on the threshold of promising possibilities, are filled with hopeful expectations, whereas your futures are inescapably linked to the past. 

Then there’s the rhetoric of the commencement address itself, which is customarily given to vacuous abstractions and pickled quotations from “great minds.” What could I say that would not be just as banal or patronizing? To this point, I quoted a paragraph about speaking before a prison audience – in fact, an audience at Auburn Prison:

Although a sad audience to look upon, it is, as I have found on previous occasions, a most wonderfully sensitive and responsive audience to address. . . The speaker soon finds himself stimulated and carried along, as by a strange and powerful force he has never felt before. It is an exciting and exhilarating experience to talk to a prison audience; but one must take good care not to be a bore, nor to try any cheap oratorical tricks; for it is not only a keen and critical audience, it is a merciless one.

These are the words of Thomas Mott Osborne, aka Tom Brown, number 33,333X, in whose honor the school was named. Osborne was a prominent citizen of Auburn during the early twentieth century. Heir to an industrial fortune, he nevertheless dedicated himself to public service as a multi-termed mayor of Auburn and later as a prominent prison reformer.

As Chair of a State Commission on Prison Reform, Osborne asserted that “it was impossible for those of us on the outside to deal in full sympathy and understanding with the man within the walls until we had come into close personal experience of similar conditions.” To gain such experience, Osborne arranged his own incarceration for a week at Auburn and later wrote a book about it: Within Prison Walls (1914).

Although his real identity was known to all,  Osborne insisted on being treated as an ordinary inmate as far as possible. Tom Brown worked in the basketweaving shop. He marched to meals, slop bucket in hand.  He found the food decent enough on the whole, except for the coffee, which the inmates called “bootleg” – presumably, quipped Osborne, “because old boots are the only conceivable source of its taste and smell.” Osborne even passed a night in a “punishment cell”: a barren box of riveted iron wedged between the boilers and the Electric Chair. During his week inside, Brown witnessed violence, venality, and sullen boredom. Almost against his will, he found himself becoming resistant to arbitrary authority and petty discipline, an attitude he imagined was shared by his fellows.

* * *

 Because outside education is not geared to inside students, its governing assumptions become clear and dubious. To state those assumptions in a general way, let me borrow a distinction from the eccentric writer Albert Jay Nock. In his Memoirs of a Superfluous Man (1943), Nock avers that “education is one thing and training quite another. Education is a process contemplating intelligence and wisdom and employing formative knowledge for its purposes, while training is a process contemplating sagacity and cleverness and employing instrumental knowledge for its purposes.”

Nock assumes that few persons are truly educable and, furthermore, that the goal of schooling at whatever level is the indoctrination of students into social and intellectual norms, thereby rendering them docile and “productive” citizens, Nock concludes that the “system of popular instruction is bound to lean heavily to the side of training.” Behind this system stands, according to Nock, the modern State, which is “distinctly uninterested the cultivation of intelligence and wisdom . . . [having] no uses to which persons of intelligence and wisdom can be put.” 

Inside, the differential between training and education is more pronounced. to be more exaggerated. One frequently adduced goal for educational programs in prisons is that they train inmates to survive outside, where sagacity and cleverness seem a surer means of success than any degree of intelligence and wisdom.

I found, however, that the inside might offer an opportunity for education rather than training precisely because the commencement of insiders is necessarily deferred. In a strange way, this might be an advantage. Rather than a site for imposing training, prison might possibly be a laboratory for activities of mind unchained from merely practical considerations: a place for mind work rather the designated labor at Auburn: stamping out all the license plates for New York State!

What Nock calls “formative knowledge” I take to be the knowledge of formations: the knowledge that is made up literally as we go along in any classroom, even if teachers think they are transmitting things already known, a package of received facts and concepts. Formative knowledge, the stuff of education itself, is not merely passed on, but recreated transactively. The goal of education should be a vigilant reexamination, even in the process of producing knowledge, of its very means of production.

I think that such ideas are more easily asked and perhaps more deeply answered inside, where the students are acutely sensitive, through their encounters with the complex system of authority, to the constitutive nature of rules. Better than many students outside, inside students intuit that authority itself the exercise of power through human agents, including their own teachers. Like Osborne, I have found inmates to be both “keen” and “critical”: unwilling to accept authorized knowledge at face value they know that knowledge is two-faced, simultaneously revealing itself and concealing its origins.

The job of the teacher inside is not to import received knowledge from outside, but to help students explore how and why it came to be received and thus to affirm their inside perspective This approach leads inevitably to questions about the production of knowledge -- how it is can be hidden from scrutiny because taken for granted.

Good teaching should be reciprocal, an intellectual as well as emotional interchange between teacher and students. If both fail to learn anything from the very act of teaching, then no real learning is going on.

A good example was a course I taught on American autobiography. I tailored the reading list so as, I supposed, to make it be more relevant to inmates than my outside version would be. I included more books by Black and Brown authors than I did outside, and I also dropped women writers except for one. I also ordered a couple of autobiographies by former inmates, thinking they might be especially welcome. 

They weren’t. In fact, the students were annoyed by my notion of what they would prefer to read. They suspected that such books, which prison authorities had been known to distribute, were cynical and manipulative means of control by modeling what good “rehabilitation” and “correctional” should be.

Much to my surprise, the most popular autobiography was the one that seemed farthest removed from their experience: Mary McCarthy’s Memories of a Catholic Girlhood. This is among the most sophisticated American autobiographies by virtue of rigorous examination of its accuracy.

The book consists of several episodes centered on the traumatic circumstances of McCarthy’s early life. She was orphaned, along with her siblings when their parents died in 1918, at the height of the Spanish Flu epidemic. The children were sent to be raised by their father’s parents, who proved to be harsh and abusive. 

Each chapter is followed by a test of its own truth, as McCarthy interrogates the validity of her evidence, in part by seeking the recollections of her siblings. McCarthy finds considerable evidence of half-truths and distorted memories. That is, the autobiography is recognized as first cousin to the fiction that McCarthy was famous for writing.

The inmates loved this book because, as I came to understand, because they related to McCarthy’s account of her tormented childhood, which resonated with their own experience. They also understood how a “test of truth” in the criminal justice system was, in their experience, thoroughly corrupt. The best story, spun by the better lawyer, won the day and decided the fate of the defendant. One student, in fact, asked me after class if he might ask McCarthy to act as his attorney. I had to report that she was dead and therefore unavailable. But she surely would have understood his request.

* * *

Pell Grants

When I taught at Auburn Prison, higher education for convicts was funded by Pell Grants, a national network of financial aid. Inmates’ eligibility was suddenly abolished in 1994 by the United States Omnibus Crime Bill, the passage of which was spearheaded by Senator Joe Biden. This crackdown was motivated by “tough-on-crime” posturing during the Clinton administration. Without Pell Grants, 95% of all such prison programs vanished.

The brother of the distinguished writer, John Edgar Wideman, is serving life without parole. Here is Robert Wideman’s powerful reaction to the abolition of Pell Grants, to be found in his brother’s book, Brothers and Keepers. “This was one of the worst days I remember in prison. I had seen men killed and had days of personal tragedy that were more painful. But to see higher education taken away was a travesty.”

It is important to recognize that such programs have been deeply resented by Correction Officers, who complain bitterly that while they can’t afford to send their own children to college, especially expensive ones like Syracuse, incorrigible criminals get a free ride. Surely, Correction Officers have had a point, and I lobbied the Dean to provide scholarships specifically for their children. As I recall, however, only three were created.

The ban stayed in force for seventeen years, but the availability of Pell Grants for inmates was reinstated in 2002, and college programs have flourished again. Doris Buffett, sister of Warren Buffett (probably richest man in America), contributed more than $600,000 to support the revival of the Auburn programs.

During summer, Auburn Prison used to stage an art exhibit of inmate work on the grass between the front wall and the spiked fence along the sidewalk. The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, which estimates that nearly half of all Americans have a relative who’s been imprisoned, has pledged $125 million, $40 million of which has already been disbursed, to arts and humanities organizations focused on mass incarceration. The project is named Imagining Freedom.

* * *

As part of its series on American prisons, The History Channel presented “Big House Auburn,” first showing on May 29, 2003, at 11 PM EST.

About the Author

John W. Crowley, Ph.D.

John W. Crowley is Professor Emeritus, Syracuse University.

aaduna Volume 11: Issue 1 ~ Tiffany N. Haty

 “Nebet” 

Isis wings 

Wadjet's body is threaded in gold in the hall of strange cats 

I am Hetpet

I am Nebet 

He is Ra

I am a Ka

The late-night paparazzi encircles weird butterflies 

A pair of ambrosial Twins are escorted to Mata’s soiree in Lagos and Morocco among the falling

ruins 

I am a mask 

A tall actor playing a Priest points a gun 

He fell through a trap door that led to espionage with a foreign Black man. 

The night valet wasn't really himself, he was being chased by a paid marksman sailing on a

pontoon 

Murder. 

An ambassador flies

Open 24 hours 

Liquor

On air. 

Closed

Driver

I am the night distilled in the Temple 

of the moon’s disk and daughter to the throne 

I am sister to Osiris

I am Nubia

I am Kemet.  

I am Wabet 

I am Queen 

I am Egypt  

I am Isis 

I am the eye of Horus who sees things seen and unseen that sends tingles down the spine

Knows all tells all. 

I am a pyramid

Daughter of Ra

Sing hymns to the cat goddess 

I am Hetpet. 

I am Nebet. 

He is Ra 

I am a Ka

VIP Lounge

Detour 

Happy Hour 

Dancer.

The high sisters walk together in Memphis 

Lady of stars

The lion rises in the East  

My mirror is a stream of lotuses

The king's wife was a stolen consort 

She was a sleek lady of cats 

My black eyes are deep and heavily lined now awaken like a debonair magician’s stage magic

from behind the velvet drape

Step right up boys and girls! Step right up! 

I am the royal wife to the falcon who bathes in red. 

The Black twin shakes the sistrum while the White twin laughs 

I am the winged crown sought from the Nile Reeds who sees watchful eyes on her lissome body as jaws dropped 

Incense wefts through the temple as the Jackal God changed color 

I was exotic flora adorned in faience beads that spread out wide clasped around my neck steeped in the ornaments of Netjer thousands of years old 

Regalia 

Smoke Shop. 

Bar. 

Turn left 

At midnight I was chauffeur driven through the gates of the leisure class

Politics submerged in a cigarette ash

I am Hetpet

I am Nebet

He is Ra 

I am a Ka 

Yield

Cocktails.

Open Late. 

Taproom 

After hours

Egypt

Exit 

* * * * *

“Black Lives Matter Be Still My Chatter”      

The Liberty Bell hath rung her chime  

Leroy Phillips puts on his Sunday best to worship in the House of the Lord  

I was force fed scriptures that were not from Africa left me in a confused daze, and I was later whipped

while I was a scrubbin’ and a cleanin’ working hard for colorism and going nowhere from it but in circles,

and I was never good enough while I was humiliated over a boiling a pot of water

Mira's dark-skinned baby girl is learning to walk on clouds. 

Troy was a curly haired mid tone brown complected Black man and his eyes were the lightest sky blue

color in Lynnwood Washington

Manner of death; police officer open fire on a 24 year old unarmed Black male 

He was murdered by the jingo cops with nationalistic pride.

His life didn't matter. 

His grandmother was 70 crying in a Baptist Church for 400 years. 

Her life didn't matter.

America we're losing our unemployment as we die.    

Death curdles on the sly dressed as a covid pandemic that rages in its sobering horror while our Black

blood is shed in multiple bullet wounds broadcasted in soundbites on the weekend news at eleven

The Executive Branch is a Russian Interchange

He was a President for the well-to-do for the hungry bigot who dons a badge to declare war on a Black

Man's Freedom that bled 

Our Pride is woven in the stripes and stars of the American Flag of a Buffalo Soldier man’s vocal chords that

calleth you out of the wilderness of your sleep under a starry night on the battlefield 

He is Nationalism encapsulated and the attempted rape of our democracy 

United We Stand

Liberty hangs in the balance of our 50 states and our freedom's breath of our nation was founded upon

stolen colonies from the Hopi and the Iroquoi 

Divided We Fall

America stands on the blood of my Black Ancestry that was looted and forced into labor in the torturous

shackles on the plantations of Virginia.

Black Lives Matter Be Still My Chatter.                                                          

Liberation Day meets a bullet.

Injustice hops on milliseconds

Juneteenth was only yesterday and cops are trigger happy so they execute,spill the blood of, and murder

our Black children in the spirit of malice against our oppressed and defamed nationality that dripped the

sweat and blood of our ancestors who toiled day and night under the slavemaster’s whip on our back and

they still hate our skin that is pigmented in Black ebony of our defenseless  people young and old and

singled us out for our unruly grade of hair, our melanated skin, and our Black Ibo Tribe facial features and

used our bodies as target practice for the cops as we were ripped from our homeland and our mothers

were raped while spirituals were sung in the antebellum

Black children's lives don't matter.

Our mother's are shot and killed.

Her life didn't matter. 

I can't breathe. 

His life didn't matter.

Found hanging dead in a jail cell. 

Her life didn't matter

Pigmented in melanin. 

My Black life didn't matter. 

Fatally shot to death by a White police officer.

My Black life didn't matter. 

I was mentally ill. 

My Black life didn't matter. 

Black Lives Matter Be Still My Chatter.            

Buying skittles at the grocery.

His life didn't matter.  

Shot dead several times in Ferguson. 

His life didn't matter.

I was at home asleep in my bed. 

Her life didn't matter. 

I was ruined by the west

My Black life didn’t matter

Racial Equality and the American Dream. 

My Black life didn't matter.

I was an interracial child.

My Black life didn't matter. 

Jim Crow.

My life didn't matter. 

We live in a melting pot.

My life didn't matter

The Diaspora. 

My life didn't matter. 

The Civil war.

My life didn't matter. 

The Black Church. 

My life didn't matter. 

The Civil Rights Movement.

 My life didn't matter.  

 From sea to shining sea.

 My life didn't matter. 

 Sold into slavery. 

 My life didn't matter.

 I was a Black trans woman.

 My life didn't matter.

 I got called a nigger. 

 My Black life didn't matter, never did. 

 Innocent until proven guilty. 

 My Black life didn't matter.

 I fell through the cracks. 

 My Life didn't matter. 

I was a victim of self hate 

My life didn’t matter

 2020. 

 Our lives don't matter. 

 Black lives matter. Be Still my chatter.      

* * * * *                                      

“Match in Nairobi ”

                                                          For Antoinette 

Midnight pours out the scent of painted snapdragons as she played a game of Bao with a foreign  goat

dressed in a tuxedo in Nairobi city Inc.

Her body language was serious, then her hands were motioning a man to follow her into a complex

pipedream in a village of streets that fester in ghettos painted in gray

While the fathomless eyes of a fragmented city are lost under the black skies of the American divide 

My opponent rose in Jacksonville and gathered water along a threadbare delta 

I was loitering in California on a politician’s lawn under a scarlet sun

My brown skin was scintillating in Verona 

You spewed out your mother tongue during a game of Bao

Lies were bought and sold

You bottled your joy waged war on Native soil

I lost my mansions

At sunrise I served you Southern molasses and egg whites

I could barely utter a sound in my frayed apron among the Texan plain

You hated my black skin

I was then a boy you taught to run 

You were nestled in the Scottish foothills my Father

I was then your caliginous daughter born again

Run free hope in the wilderness with quaking rivers and black sparrows 

I took down my altar and I was the oldest of the female sex          

I was marauded at sea

I drifted among lotus flowers lost in the ruins of Arabia                                      

You were my make believe suitor rooted in reality turned rival                                   

You married a modern caricature of a socialite that was your sister-wife in Sacramento, for she was a portly bride 

I tango to a disco beat 

Clouds dance over the mare 

Wanton spinsters banished to a rainforest carrying their wine 

My next opponent was a rainstorm 

He courted winged fairies and played the Clarinet off key with an R&B Jazz ensemble, 

He was friends with the drummer man who was the Emperor of Black Winds carrying his drink with a new woman 

The Queen of Marigolds lost at a televised game of Bao that wasn’t worth a Bride’s dowry in Africa 

She became a dispossessed queen of the mad on a carousel of forbidden flowers that dive for water. 

Midnight poured out the scent of painted snapdragons as she played a game of Bao with a foreign goat dressed in a tuxedo in Nairobi city Inc.

* * * * *

“Hod”

Native Lands

Chokmah and Binah

The Brown and the Red Man

Blackfoot and Cree

Red Smoke

Womb Rhythm

Dance Rhythm Eagle

Dancing Bear Rhythm

Sing Peyote Man

He has many forms

Tiphereth 

Sing Star Woman

Drum

Wounded Deer

Black Smoke

Soaring Heaven Child

Hod 

Our Runaway Black Ancestor is mixed-blood we call him Standing Cloud

Red Smoke

Earth Spirit

Thunder 

Rain Water

Yesod  

Song   

* * * * *

Dancing Rabbits

Puppets wear top hats

Empty nightclubs in Harlem

Dancing rabbits hop. 

---

About the Poet

Tiffany N. Haty

Tiffany N. Haty is an emerging writer, poet, and author of “The Tall Night of the Nyekundu Woman” and the “Depth of Words Spoken” published in aaduna’s spring 2016 issue. Ms. Haty, part Black, was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. Though studious, she could not afford college after graduating from high school in 1989. However, she later attended Seattle Central Community College in 1990. She dabbled in drawing and painting during her high school years and again while at the community college. When she could not continue to pay tuition, she withdrew from classes to work as a customer service representative in telecommunications. However, Tiffany’s life was interrupted by an unforeseen event which resulted in much hardship that changed her forever. After years of being plagued with severe emotional problems, Ms. Haty  decided to take classes at the Seattle Goodwill Job Training and Education Center. Her writing teacher suggested she submit a homework assignment to various publications. Her creative nonfiction piece was later published in aaduna in 2016. Tiffany also received a certificate of Outstanding Achievement for her writing from the Seattle Goodwill.

Tiffany’s writing draws heavily on dreams, images, Mother Nature, and multiethnic themes. She states her “ writing is for people with an open mind…[that] comes from her soul, and she may write about foreign cultures, distant lands or her current reality from a place of love and respect for humanity.” In her spare time, Tiffany enjoys creative writing, reading, yoga, learning about ancient civilizations, listening to music, socializing, fur babies, philanthropy, watching fantasy/adventure movies, as well as comedies. She would like to rediscover electronic games like Ms. Pac Man, Space Invaders, and playing darts. In the future, she aspires to publish her first book,

 a collection of prose poems. She dedicates her writing to the loving memory of her beloved parents, Cosmo and Joyce, and her cat Midnight. Ms. Haty currently resides in Seattle, Washington.

---

aaduna 2023-2024 (Volume 11 Issue 1)

Gallery

“Girl with a Snail Earring,” mural artist, Justin Suarez, aaduna 2023/2024 Volume 11: Issue 1 Cover Art, bill berry, jr., photographer

The NF Murals project is part of Niagara Falls Heritage Arts, the public art initiative of the Niagara Falls National Heritage Area, made possible by a grant from the New York State Health Foundation.

Publisher Statement

William E. Berry, Jr., CEO/Publisher, aaduna Inc.

In March 2022, The Honorable Kathy Hochul, governor of New York State, appointed me as one of fifteen state-wide public members of the NYS Commission on African American History (New York State Commission on African American History (ny.gov).

As a commissioner, I agreed to chair the Commission’s Sites, Localities and Placemaking sub-committee, a small group charged with investigating an African American presence and achievements in rural, agricultural, small regions and communities of NYS that were all too often overlooked in identifying a Black presence. As chair, I had the opportunity to develop new colleagues and visit regions in an in-depth manner that was more than being a casual visitor. While I had been to Niagara Falls several times, those visits were grounded in being a tourist road tripping towards Toronto, and not necessarily a focused historical investigator.

These gallery photos document an aspect of my visit to the Niagara Falls Underground  Railroad Heritage Center and its community-driven mural display sited across the street from the center. (I thank Ally Sponger DeGon, interim director, for her guidance and support, as well as Saladin Allah, director of community engagement for his generosity of spirit, and for their graciousness, welcoming and community tour! They and their staff exposed me to levels of the Black presence in Niagara Falls that enriched my sub-committee work. I also acknowledge Jeff Morrow, current owner of The Book Corner, established in 1927, as well as Pastor Paul Vogel, minister of The Potter’s Field, Children’s Ministry for their time and help. Photographs of what they shared may become a photographic sequel.)

aaduna 2023-2024 (Volume 11 Issue 1)

Publisher’s Message

Noticeably, 2023 drifted in and out far too quickly; jolted by international wars, there were a bountiful amount of domestic (and international) political twists, turns and DEI issues. Often what should have been inclusion was anything but (think challenges to recognizing and teaching Black History in different states, southern border immigration crises, transgender rights, women’s health prerogatives, and ongoing attacks on Black women in significant leadership positions.)

Par for the course, aaduna had a variety of ups and downs. However, with a jolt from our California editor and in-person events, aaduna’s pathway appears strong nestled in its core conviction…providing a publishing pathway for literary and visual arts creatives of color, as well as others whose work explores the myriad and complex issues of a multicultural society. And then there was aaduna’s past honored, with two November 2023 in-person events.  

In 2013, aaduna celebrated the 100th anniversary of the passing of Harriet Tubman with a reading of original poems inspired by Tubman’s legacy. Cyd Charisse Fulton wrote the chapbook prior to this event, and aaduna sought to frame and institutionalize her work as a public reading at the Thompson Memorial AME Zion Church on Franklin Street in Auburn.

On November 8, 2023, ten years later, Fulton re-read her original work in its entirety  returning to Auburn, NY’s Seymour Library. Fulton’s collection is titled, “Feeding Off Of The North Star,’ inspired by the life & legacy of Harriet Tubman. 

On November 9, 2023 at The Carriage House Theater, Cayuga Museum of History and Art, aaduna presented “Fierce! Revisited!,” a homage to its 2018 “Fierce!” reading at the National Women’s Historical Park, Wesleyan Chapel in Seneca Falls, NY. That event presented three women poets (Jackie Warren-Moore (now deceased,) Karen Faris and Cyd Charisse Fulton. The work of these women’s challenged the status quo, racially/gender inspired obstacles, and displayed the muti-generational fierce spirit of womanhood. Five years later, “Fierce! Revisited!” was convened.

            Faris and Fulton were joined in readings by Tamara Madison, a Valenica College professor and award recognized writer/poet who resides in Orlando, FL. These “fierce” women creatives were joined by special guests poets Howard Nelson and Doug Curry. Benny Williford provided live music on vocals and keyboards.

            And then the year drifted toward closure in a bittersweet manner. 

In spring and fall 20­­11, aaduna worked with and then published the work of emerging writer/playwright Michael Rhynes. (We also published his work in subsequent issues.) At that time and for years prior and to follow, Mr. Rhynes was incarcerated at the Auburn, NY maximum security prison, Auburn Correctional Facility (ACF.) for murder. A crime he fervently denied. The founder of the theatrical prison group, The Phoenix Players, Michael was a gentle and giving soul. Unfortunately, the NYS Correctional System transferred him to the infamous Attica Prison further upstate NY. Always maintaining his innocence, Cornell University professors and other community activists continued to try to underpin his creative ventures; sought to gather support and counsel for his eventual release and was met with formidable resistance from state prison administrators. 

So, in the interest of full disclosure, I share edited comments sent to Dr. Crowley, a contributor in this issue, who wrote an essay regarding the ACF. * {PLEASE Note: I also included the bio initially published when his work was presented in the 2011 issues.} 

Be well. 

Stay safe. 

Always be creative and more so, be the change you want to see. 

~bill 

*Michael Rhynes, who spent too many years at the Auburn Correctional Facility was arbitrarily transferred to Attica a few years ago. He has NOW been found NOT GUILTY of murder.  

The system of justice made him spend 37 years in prison. 

His conviction was overturned on December 19, 2023. 

His daughter, who was born 3 months after Michael's arrest, has never seen her father outside the confines of prison.  

Rhynes’ conviction was tossed for a 1986 murder conviction after two key witnesses who previously had been in jail with Michael recanted their testimony. Michael was convicted of killing two people in a failed robbery at Rico's Restaurant in Rochester in 1984. At that time, the prosecutors were ready to drop charges against Michael; the trial judge "urged them to forge ahead."  

I first met Michael through the work of faculty at Cornell. I edited his writing for publication in aaduna and attended the theatrical productions of the Phoenix Players  founded by Michael. 

So, after over three decades, justice has finally happened. And society wonders why some folks see the criminal justice system the way they do that justice is not equal. 

* * * * *

Michael Rhynes has been in…the New York State prison system [where] he has explored and advanced his humanity through the eye of the needle that is art. Prison art is different from worldly art, simply because it’s learned under the strangulation of prison regulations that obscure the space between being human and that of being a beast. Prison art has been the boon of Michael’s existence. Without prison art, he would have choked to death long ago. Despite the enormous bushel of repression, Mr. Rhynes has lived under his creative light that continues to shine forth. Over his decades in prison, Michael has had a poetry chapbook published entitled, “Guerrillas In the Mist.”  He has been nominated for a “Pushcart” prize by aaduna. In 2009, he co-created and co-founded The Phoenix Players Theater Group (PPTG) at the Auburn Correctional Facility (see phoenixplayersatauburn.com) in Auburn, NY  which is still going strong today.  He participated in four performances produced by PPTG. He appears in the documentary “Human Again,” which won several awards from film festivals.  For almost 10 years he helped facilitate Monday night poetry classes at ACF and created a poetry class at the Attica State prison also in New York. At Attica, he created and co-founded “Third Prison From the Sun Theater Group.”  Michael has also performed in the chorus with the world-famous Glimmerglass Festival in its production of “West Side Story” at Attica. Michael’s poems, short stories, and articles have been published by Flying Horse, Climbing the Walls, The Advocate, aaduna, The Buffalo Challenger, Justica, Olive Trees, Spark, Inside/Outside, Scope, Writers Block and phoenixplayers at auburn.com. Michael obtained his associate degree in the Arts, Humanities, and Social Sciences from the prestigious Cornell University Prison Education Program (CPEP). 

aaduna 2022 Volume 10: Issue 1 - Publishers Message

William E. Berry, Jr., Publisher/CEO

This is aaduna.

Never compromised.

Never just a brick in the wall.

Always direct. Honest. Intriguing. With Purpose.

Always creative.

Exploratory.

In time. 

This is aaduna. Even in exile. Planting its new foundation.

Fierce. Bold…towards an end that will never come.

Pushing envelopes.

In your face. Out your ears. Sound words for your brain. The pulse of your everyday life.

The cloak for your torso.

~ bill