Success

We need a new window washer for the cafeteria. Someone hire a new man. Quick. The smudge from my finger on the door Wednesday met me there on Monday.
Reverend Green was right in his sermon.
“If you’re going to do something, be the best,” he said. “If you’re a doctor, be the best doctor. If you’re a teacher, be the best teacher. If you’re a janitor be the best janitor.”
Now, his janitor comment threw me for a second. It’s not a job that this society normally holds in high esteem. People are trifling and throw stuff on the ground as and say, “It’s not my job to pick it up.” Janitors have to clean public facilities including the overused toilets. It’s a discouraging job not even on the career aptitude tests.
Rev. went on. “Best janitor. …sweep the halls the best. Because when you’re gone they’ll miss you.”
I thought about his speech and then imagined my school. The hallways were always spic and span. The tile even shined every other day. I guess if Ms. Washington decided to take a month off and someone less concerned filled in for her, it’ll be noticed. I may see footprints, muck building up in the cracks of the tiles and dust on the mats.
But since she’s there taking care of our hallways, we have one of the cleanest buildings. It smells fresher and nerve calming. I sneeze less. It’s soothing to know you’re going back into a clean facility. A clean place can do a lot for you more than a filthy one. But nothings clean automatically. Somebody’s behind the scenes working. And I guess if it’s not the best, everything else falls apart.
Everyone doesn’t respect your job. Yet, folk gossip about a senile doctor. Keep working at your trade and people will file into your hospital. Pupils run from the bad teacher, yet acquire overrides to make it into the popular professor’s class. Because every young apprentice knows that under his watch they will come out of there as some one great. And well for the janitor, his job is different and if done correctly, could make an impact on everyone. A wise man once said, “Try not to become a man of success but rather try to become a man of value.” So, I know what Rev.s talking about.

Bully

As far back as I can remember I had two bullies. People pick on the hapless. My bullies did the typical bully shit. Trip me. Steal my toys. Call me cruel names. And threatened me with physical violence. I don’t recall how long the bullying lasted, but I do know I hated them.
I wasn’t big stuff. My family was quiet. They were educated, held degrees and therefore lacked street credibility. It was cool to possess Master P’s “I’m Bout It” cassette tape before it hit the radio. It was cool to have a yard full of new cars too. (But the house can fall apart). I also wished my grandmother was ghetto so she could braid my hair on the front porch or put together a great combination of explicits to cuss someone out in a minute for me. Nope. I didn’t get that. She knew how to perfectly conjugate verbs and edit school papers. My mother was also a teacher so my words came out “proper”.
I sat up straight and wore neat little cartoon character clothes. I never had the latest fashions like a pullover Starter jacket or even a pair of Nikes, let alone Jordans. To have a pair of J’s or Filas was my pipe dream. All of this must have made me a target of bullying. To top it all off, I had no protection. The school I went to was an hour’s drive away from my hometown. So I had no big cousins to look after me. Not that I sought back up or even snitched on my tormentors. I wouldn’t have ever wanted to burden anyone else of my problems. It’s just that when anyone else was picked on I’d see cousins teaming up and knock the bully down. It just could have been nice to know you’re not alone.
One day I was with a group of four girls. We were supposed to be working on a class project. Other than that they would have never been seen with me. It just wasn’t popular to be my friend. Cold, yet I knew. The lead girl started a conversation about shoes. She had a pair of brand new Nikes. The paint on the Swoosh was still fresh. Two others wore Reebok. And the last girl, who I swore up and down wouldn’t tease me because she wore a dirty pair of L.A. Gear. Now, during that time, L.A. Gear was tired, played out! Yet, they accepted her on their side! I had a pair of dingy white shoes that my mom bought from Payless. No name, not even a tag on the tongue for decoration. As I looked around my shame could not be concealed.
They attacked in song:

“Bo, Bo’s, they cost a $1.99.”
“Bo, Bo’s, they come in every shape and size.”
“Bo, Bo’s, they cost a $1.99.”
“Bo, Bo’s, they come in every shape and size.”

Now, I wasn’t a cry baby. But they drew tears that day. They found it hilarious, that I cried.

Special Episode

There are the episodes. Talk show TV drama at its peak would consist of two females arguing over one deadbeat boyfriend. Or the classic, four guys dodging the results from the test “Who’s the baby’s daddy”. The kids know Jerry Springer. Yet more than decade ago, old Richard Bay started it all.
I remember it well. After TV stopped turning itself off I’d stay up until 2 in the morning to watch people break out into fistfights. Guests on RB’s show would confess some wild story to their friend and they’d beat each other down until they drew blood. Like they didn’t know the focus of that show when they signed up to appear on it. They’d cuss each other out and look like uneducated hooligans. I really didn’t see why someone would air out their personal business on national television. The entire show accomplished nothing but deteriorate people’s self worth. What goes on in the house should stay in the house. Which is why all the while, I know well that Susan and ‘em better not, ever, ever, ever bring me on a show talking about ‘we need counseling’. Or worse, to confront me about something “Shocking!” I know what the show is about. They’re not going to bring me on there to seek help. Somebody always gets embarrassed during the thick of things.
For my show I’d act right. I’d be civil. Pepper my sentences with yes and no ma’am or sir. Pull out all the guests’ chairs to make them feel comfortable. Offer my bottle of water to break the thirst of whomsoever testifying on me in front of millions. Nod my head in understanding. Grin softly every so often. Even wear nice clothes and smell like the Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. My episode probably wouldn’t even provide for good teaser clips in commercials. No fight, no arguing, nothing.
Those people on RB’s show had a right to be upset. Its just that my aunt used to tell me, there’s a time for everything. And she’s right. So when the camera stops rolling there may be an audience stampede, folk trampled losing shoes and bags, chairs flying and then they can just lock me up, after the show. :o)

Party Planner

This is how its going down! Kell and I are supposed to throw our little annual crawfish boil. It falls sometime during spring break on a perfect day. I’m doing the grocery shopping for:
A large sack of crawfish, sweet corn on the cob, baby potatoes, Cajun spices, celery, onions, neck bones, turkey necks, ice for the liquor chest, my specialty bottled root beer, cookies & cream ice cream cake, chicken drummetts, strips of fish filets (both to be deep fried, lightly in fresh grease), napkins, plates, and utensils.
That’s our list and it’s hot. We’ve throw little parties before. People come from far and wide. The atmosphere is laid back; guests sit out under my uncle’s swing in the cool breeze and reminisce about old times. And catch up on the latest news about so and so. Kids run around the house playing tag. Plus people really show up with the attitude that they’re going to get something great. I guess it’s expected after all the other gatherings we’ve thrown. Just thinking about it, I can’t wait!
Kell is watching HotWire for a plane ticket now.
I just hope she can save enough money to come down in April. We always have fun. She’s my best bud. I’ll swim the seven seas for her. Afraid of heights, but I’ll climb the highest mountain. Give her my liver if she needs one. I do hope Kell can find a plane ticket. Because if she’s not fortunate. I’ll have to call to her tell her how sorry I am that I can’t use her part of the money to get the fish filets, chicken and neck bones. But I’ll make sure Uncle Reggie puts extra spices in the pot, break every head and wash down my crawfish.

The Hired Help

So say. My sister’s on this trip. We’ve been poor. Dirt poor. For a while. So she really shouldn’t get mad when someone asked her if she’s a volunteer at the center.
Oh, she showed out!
“No, I ain’t no volunteer! You see this dingy outfit I got on? These shoes I got crooked over? My hair parted down. …On the nappy side.”
“I don’t volunteer,” she went on with all the attitude in the world and a slight head bob towards the end. “I’m tryna make a dime!”
Ok. Granted. The job is populated with undergrads for student work. And she is in her second go around in grad school. Therefore, she may look older than the other students, and with her coursework she looks disheveled.
That doesn’t mean she can’t hustle. Side jobs are the best. Besides, we’ve known our fair share of scuffling and trying to do better. Hoping for just once, we can be on top.
All we want to do is to go some where other than Payless and buy shoes.
Or get electronic equipment when it first comes out. She just got a DVD player!
The poor child figured my sister is there faithfully, on time, for six hours, every day, at a cold, empty desk for recreation.
Like we got leisure time.

Separate Shops for Big Girls

I’m not a bias “lil” girl. I’m just wouldn’t tell any of my friends that something looks great on them and it really looks a mess. I tag along to Lane Bryant, sans the snobbery with any one of my big boned sistas. I’m just not going to sit there with a lady, who may be a size 20 and tell her a velour cat suit looks good on her, despite the roll or two that may be hanging out.
That’s where I have a problem. It started with Old Navy. Yeah, I got beef with Old Navy. It used to be my favorite stores. Now, I hate to go there, unless on a shopping trip with friends. ... Old Navy is a lie, and they truth ain’t in them. They are lying to some women!
The retailer used to cater to small and average sizes. All that’s great. But they threw me when I walked in there one day and saw a size 20 falling off the one of the hangers, in front a size 4. That’s when I walked OUT!
I have nothing against big girls. My two sisters are both voluptuous ladies and they wear it very beautifully. Yet, at the same time, what looks GREAT on my older and younger sister, like a nice peach tube top, paired with a cute denim skirt to accent her full calves may not flatter me. While I’m president of the “itty, bitty, titty” committee, I don’t have much to hold the tube up. At the same time, I may be able to pull of that halter to expose my tanned back with Capri’s to bring out my boney legs.
It’s not the consumers fault. Women just need to recognize their limitations. There are Big Girl boutiques, Lane Bryant, the Avenue and Lil Girl boutiques, the Limited and Express. They should stay separate. I should not see thick ankles in 5-7-9, when I’m looking for an empty dressing room. And other women tell the truth to your friends, stop saying something looks good and it doesn’t. That will not make you look better out of the group.
The way I look at it is that: If my friend looks great then me too! When I get a fresh outfit, I want her with one too. I’ll keep her looking great because she’s a reflection of my choices.

The Hope Saga...

We fight all the time. She bites. I run and put up my fists like Ali!
She scratches me. I cry.
We cuddle and she purrs.
I like go home with a clean and shiny car. She leaves her tiny paw prints on the streak free windows. I tip over her food bowl.
She stalks my every move for a perrrfect attack. I hide.
She comes to my room looking for me. And I sigh deeply.
She tries to kiss me and I back away. Its not that I don’t love her, its just that she drinks freely out of the toilet.
Through it all, I still have Hope.


…one day I’d like to see someone other a senior citizen win the lottery.

He wears Tussy!

My sister called me last night. She told me to turn the TV to “I Love New York.” I refused. I just didn’t want to indulge myself in such ignorance. The show is full of crazy antics. She knew I wouldn’t so she just asked, “Why is Taygo from the show still using Tussy.”
I fell out laughing. We both laughed. It actually brought up a great question.
With all the different choices of deodorant in stores today, why Tussy?
Not Axe. Not Degree. Not even Speed Stick.
Tussy.
She had to be kidding me!
A deodorant, which back in the day used to be a cream based paste. People used to dab a little on their fingers and rub it under their arms until it was, well pasted. Tussy is unisex and comes in a variety of scents.
After the thought, we laughed some more.
If you’ve ever touched deodorant it leaves a hard to get off residue on your fingers. Now, just imagine people back in the day having to rub it into their underarm. The mess it created for them had to be worse than getting it on your little black dress. And it used to be a wonder why my aunt, who’s 72 walks around today in 2007 telling us to “Take a little bit and Rub it in good, good, good,” and that’s her words to everything.


Thanks Amber for motivating me to write every day.