About Me
Friday, July 17
The Voice of Words - BA 4
The Voice Of Words
Don’t listen to the cries of a flying time bomb passing time as if a human assassin. Direct my mind to the cure of a heart, the healing of cancer. Who are the victims of actions compared to the victims of the mighty pen? Just dial 911 because the end is near, by sin. There, the pathetic whimpers of a convicted criminal’s interrogation. Fight all he will, he is not a man who upholds his fate. The world is cruel. If physical actions are too much, why shall we make the pen cry? For when death comes about, you hear the shout of guilt, not from the convicts but the convictors. Is this some type of war my friends? Let’s sit down and talk. Abruptly, I shout to the wind for I have lost a friend; his time has ran out. Ran far, far away from the hourglass bottle. He is tilting his head to see what was done wrong. But it makes no sense because his voice was as powerful as a four leaf clover luck charm. This harm which is done has stricken me. The blacklash whip pass haunting me, obscuring images cast. Will I give in? No, for the living I am. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword. So write I will; can’t mark time until with vast knowledge still. Feelings of wise men before me making visible their words so a death man can hear them. Beautiful as midday, the words speak with fulfilling knowledge . Don’t stray away from the seemingly doomed fate of God. Use the way the mighty wind speaks a mind of its own. Shown to this day barriers can be overthrown. The feelings of the pen have spoken. Softly, the words shall appear - dangerous though. As a viper searching for its prey, they’re near a better future for all. They shall whisper until you hear their voices. Listen carefully, it’s no sabotage. Worry not, God is guidance and the pen is his sword. The words are his shield, one of God’s gifts. He forces us to think for we have taken that route. Tick. Tick. Don’t let time run out. Act now brothers and sisters. We are blessed; don’t be victimized by society. Let our testimony be the pen. Don’t worry God will touch our hearts; so just write. We all have a purpose in life. So, if we write for the benefit of others not only ourselves our time won’t expire. If I could have explained to my friend, his journey I will carry out, for now I see, his words have spoken.
This I will carry from God to me as his token.
Don’t listen to the cries of a flying time bomb passing time as if a human assassin. Direct my mind to the cure of a heart, the healing of cancer. Who are the victims of actions compared to the victims of the mighty pen? Just dial 911 because the end is near, by sin. There, the pathetic whimpers of a convicted criminal’s interrogation. Fight all he will, he is not a man who upholds his fate. The world is cruel. If physical actions are too much, why shall we make the pen cry? For when death comes about, you hear the shout of guilt, not from the convicts but the convictors. Is this some type of war my friends? Let’s sit down and talk. Abruptly, I shout to the wind for I have lost a friend; his time has ran out. Ran far, far away from the hourglass bottle. He is tilting his head to see what was done wrong. But it makes no sense because his voice was as powerful as a four leaf clover luck charm. This harm which is done has stricken me. The blacklash whip pass haunting me, obscuring images cast. Will I give in? No, for the living I am. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword. So write I will; can’t mark time until with vast knowledge still. Feelings of wise men before me making visible their words so a death man can hear them. Beautiful as midday, the words speak with fulfilling knowledge . Don’t stray away from the seemingly doomed fate of God. Use the way the mighty wind speaks a mind of its own. Shown to this day barriers can be overthrown. The feelings of the pen have spoken. Softly, the words shall appear - dangerous though. As a viper searching for its prey, they’re near a better future for all. They shall whisper until you hear their voices. Listen carefully, it’s no sabotage. Worry not, God is guidance and the pen is his sword. The words are his shield, one of God’s gifts. He forces us to think for we have taken that route. Tick. Tick. Don’t let time run out. Act now brothers and sisters. We are blessed; don’t be victimized by society. Let our testimony be the pen. Don’t worry God will touch our hearts; so just write. We all have a purpose in life. So, if we write for the benefit of others not only ourselves our time won’t expire. If I could have explained to my friend, his journey I will carry out, for now I see, his words have spoken.
This I will carry from God to me as his token.
Thursday, July 16
Psychological Trauma - BA 2
Psychological Trauma
I’m driving home with my friends after partying. I had a couple of drinks with the rest of my friends Diamond, Terrell, Steve, and Robin. We’re all having a good time joking and laughing during our last time together a couple days after graduation and now we all travel down our own road into the world
“Play some music Sean,” says Diamond.
“I’m kinda busy trying to drive,” I reply.
“I got it,” says Terrell who is in the front passenger seat.
He rummages through the glove compartment looking for some CDs to play, bumping my arm innocently a couple of times. He finally finds some and pulls them out but the majority of them fall under my seat, so I quickly reach to grab them but can’t find any. So I lean forward letting go of the wheel a little searching for the CDs, then we hit a bump and the car starts to spin. Robin and Diamond are screaming as the car swerves from lane to lane, then the car seems to be off the ground and we suddenly stop.
I look around and see my friends hurt I suddenly feel very light-headed and can barely keep my eyes open. Every blurry image looks the same like looking into the sun or bright lights for a long time then looking at something.
I fall out of my bed waking up from the awful dream, but I wonder is it really a dream since it has already occurred. I think of this while I lay in bed tossing and turning trying to return back to sleep.
I turn on the TV looking for anything to watch to change the topic on my mind, but it didn’t work. As soon as I turn on the TV I see “You Drink, You Drive, You Lose” commercial and quickly turn the TV off then throw the remote.
Do the people who make these commercials ever think about people who have gone through this? Nobody wants to see a dramatization of painful experiences they have gone threw! Why didn’t the bartender take my keys so no one of us could drive home? Why isn’t any blame placed on him huh? He saw us leave bumping into others in the bar as we could not walk straight or barely keep on our feet, slurring our words as we paid for our drinks, and staggering.
But deep inside I know there is no one to blame but me, as I throw another empty beer can into a pile in the corner already. I drink to get rid of the intolerable memory of my friend’s death that was caused by drinking, but I continue to drink anyway.
I walk over to the fridge and open it looking for another beer to drink but there are no more and I notice the Chicago Sun-Times on the counter. I take a glimpse at the front page and see the car wreckage and the bold headline,
“Four Teens Killed While Drunk Driving”
The words cut each of my four hearts chambers in half and keep repeating this process until there is nothing left. M y body starts to die without any blood pumping throughout.
I start thinking about my friends again and all the adventures-outings and moments they can’t experience because of me. I took all of that away from them and I had, no I have no right to.
Doctors say I am lucky to have survived the accident and still be living, but I do not feel alive. The only difference I can tell between my friends and me is that I am not buried six-feet under. We both have the features on the outside and inside too. Their skin has not deteriorated yet, their organs are gone but mine might as well be gone too.
I pull a gun out of my drawer on the right side of my bed, place it on top and sit on my bed. I have been thinking about killing myself since I woke up in the hospital alone, but I know it will not fix everything.
Will it bring me satisfaction?
It will not bring them back to life but it will end mine.
Their families’ pain will not end but my families’ will start.
I do not feel although I deserve, so I raise the gun to my mouth and close my eyes. I start to cry. My hands start to shake and my body trembles. I can’t pull the trigger or take the gun out of my mouth as I sit on my bed stuck, as if I was tied to this position.
I gather all of the might inside of me just to pull the trigger.
I hear a deep piercing bang and then nothing…………
I’m driving home with my friends after partying. I had a couple of drinks with the rest of my friends Diamond, Terrell, Steve, and Robin. We’re all having a good time joking and laughing during our last time together a couple days after graduation and now we all travel down our own road into the world
“Play some music Sean,” says Diamond.
“I’m kinda busy trying to drive,” I reply.
“I got it,” says Terrell who is in the front passenger seat.
He rummages through the glove compartment looking for some CDs to play, bumping my arm innocently a couple of times. He finally finds some and pulls them out but the majority of them fall under my seat, so I quickly reach to grab them but can’t find any. So I lean forward letting go of the wheel a little searching for the CDs, then we hit a bump and the car starts to spin. Robin and Diamond are screaming as the car swerves from lane to lane, then the car seems to be off the ground and we suddenly stop.
I look around and see my friends hurt I suddenly feel very light-headed and can barely keep my eyes open. Every blurry image looks the same like looking into the sun or bright lights for a long time then looking at something.
I fall out of my bed waking up from the awful dream, but I wonder is it really a dream since it has already occurred. I think of this while I lay in bed tossing and turning trying to return back to sleep.
I turn on the TV looking for anything to watch to change the topic on my mind, but it didn’t work. As soon as I turn on the TV I see “You Drink, You Drive, You Lose” commercial and quickly turn the TV off then throw the remote.
Do the people who make these commercials ever think about people who have gone through this? Nobody wants to see a dramatization of painful experiences they have gone threw! Why didn’t the bartender take my keys so no one of us could drive home? Why isn’t any blame placed on him huh? He saw us leave bumping into others in the bar as we could not walk straight or barely keep on our feet, slurring our words as we paid for our drinks, and staggering.
But deep inside I know there is no one to blame but me, as I throw another empty beer can into a pile in the corner already. I drink to get rid of the intolerable memory of my friend’s death that was caused by drinking, but I continue to drink anyway.
I walk over to the fridge and open it looking for another beer to drink but there are no more and I notice the Chicago Sun-Times on the counter. I take a glimpse at the front page and see the car wreckage and the bold headline,
“Four Teens Killed While Drunk Driving”
The words cut each of my four hearts chambers in half and keep repeating this process until there is nothing left. M y body starts to die without any blood pumping throughout.
I start thinking about my friends again and all the adventures-outings and moments they can’t experience because of me. I took all of that away from them and I had, no I have no right to.
Doctors say I am lucky to have survived the accident and still be living, but I do not feel alive. The only difference I can tell between my friends and me is that I am not buried six-feet under. We both have the features on the outside and inside too. Their skin has not deteriorated yet, their organs are gone but mine might as well be gone too.
I pull a gun out of my drawer on the right side of my bed, place it on top and sit on my bed. I have been thinking about killing myself since I woke up in the hospital alone, but I know it will not fix everything.
Will it bring me satisfaction?
It will not bring them back to life but it will end mine.
Their families’ pain will not end but my families’ will start.
I do not feel although I deserve, so I raise the gun to my mouth and close my eyes. I start to cry. My hands start to shake and my body trembles. I can’t pull the trigger or take the gun out of my mouth as I sit on my bed stuck, as if I was tied to this position.
I gather all of the might inside of me just to pull the trigger.
I hear a deep piercing bang and then nothing…………
Predicted - BA 1
Predicted…
Him and his friend waiting for his mother at 51st and Kedzie. The boredom overwhelms the two black boys in an all hispanic neighborhood. Brandon and his best friend AJ search for something somewhat interesting. They seem bored but inside they’re really desperate, AJ looks over and sees a K-Mart, he feels as if he just won a medal…
“Yo, Brandon!” AJ says.
“What” Brandon says in somewhat irritated voice.
“Look!”
Brandon looks over and sees the glowing K-Mart. He feels as if he was trapped in a desert and someone has come to save him.
As the boys walk towards the store, they feel as if something serious is about to happen, but they don’t bother to really think about it. The boys walk in and employees and customers gaze at them because they were an un-likely figure in the store.
“Yo, why are all these people staring at us?” AJ says.
“Obviously cus’ we’re black” Brandon says…
They play like children in the toy section of the store, which is just another excuse for everyone to once again look at them with an arrogant look, as if they could have “predicted” that these boys would do such a thing. As the boys continue to play throughout the store, costumers try to get as far away from the boys as they can.
AJ finally says…
“Yo, I’m bout’ to steal something”.
Brandon sets his mind to do the same…They finally see what they want, two pairs of official fighting gloves…
“Even if we get caught, we won’t get in trouble…They’re only gloves” AJ says.
“Aight’…” Brandon says in a slightly doubtful voice.
They start to shove the gloves into their bags almost as if adrenaline junkies.
“Wait is that a camera?” AJ asks.
“Naw, its not, trust me” Brandon says in a paranoid like way…
They begin to walk out the store, yet asking employees about what they just stole as if looking to buy it…They finally walk out the store only to feel huge hands grab their bags…Almost as if a sudden death grab, they pull away and run…Brandon looks back to see the security guard of the store pulling out what seems to be a gun…
“FREEZE!!!!!!” the officer shouts.
Brandon stops in his tracks fearing for his life…He’s shocked, but just for a few seconds, only to feel cold medal grind against his wrists…
“Please, please, just let me go…My mother is on her way, please...I’m sorry.
Embarrassed, feels as if he let his race down, he proved the majority right…
Him and his friend waiting for his mother at 51st and Kedzie. The boredom overwhelms the two black boys in an all hispanic neighborhood. Brandon and his best friend AJ search for something somewhat interesting. They seem bored but inside they’re really desperate, AJ looks over and sees a K-Mart, he feels as if he just won a medal…
“Yo, Brandon!” AJ says.
“What” Brandon says in somewhat irritated voice.
“Look!”
Brandon looks over and sees the glowing K-Mart. He feels as if he was trapped in a desert and someone has come to save him.
As the boys walk towards the store, they feel as if something serious is about to happen, but they don’t bother to really think about it. The boys walk in and employees and customers gaze at them because they were an un-likely figure in the store.
“Yo, why are all these people staring at us?” AJ says.
“Obviously cus’ we’re black” Brandon says…
They play like children in the toy section of the store, which is just another excuse for everyone to once again look at them with an arrogant look, as if they could have “predicted” that these boys would do such a thing. As the boys continue to play throughout the store, costumers try to get as far away from the boys as they can.
AJ finally says…
“Yo, I’m bout’ to steal something”.
Brandon sets his mind to do the same…They finally see what they want, two pairs of official fighting gloves…
“Even if we get caught, we won’t get in trouble…They’re only gloves” AJ says.
“Aight’…” Brandon says in a slightly doubtful voice.
They start to shove the gloves into their bags almost as if adrenaline junkies.
“Wait is that a camera?” AJ asks.
“Naw, its not, trust me” Brandon says in a paranoid like way…
They begin to walk out the store, yet asking employees about what they just stole as if looking to buy it…They finally walk out the store only to feel huge hands grab their bags…Almost as if a sudden death grab, they pull away and run…Brandon looks back to see the security guard of the store pulling out what seems to be a gun…
“FREEZE!!!!!!” the officer shouts.
Brandon stops in his tracks fearing for his life…He’s shocked, but just for a few seconds, only to feel cold medal grind against his wrists…
“Please, please, just let me go…My mother is on her way, please...I’m sorry.
Embarrassed, feels as if he let his race down, he proved the majority right…
Black Wall - BA 8
Black Wall
By: Brother Author #8
What can you do if you get caught with drugs? You go to jail or prison, no one wants to go to jail, but a lot people make bad choices and they end up in prison or jail. Aaron Foster ended up in jail for just hanging out with his friend.
One day Aaron was at his house talking to his friends about basketball and his friend Cesar said, “Man, Michael Jordan can’t beat LeBron, real talk.”
“Cesar you don’t know nothing about Mike, so you need to go home,” Aaron said with a cocky attitude.
“Man, I ain’t going nowhere.”
As they continued to talk the police drove by really slow. They came to a complete stop and sounded the siren; the guys looked at the cop car.
“Please step up to the vehicle,” said a police officer getting out the police car.
They didn’t know what to do, so they walk up to the car with their hands up.
“What seem to be the problem officer?”
“This!” The police officer said pull out a pack weed from Cesar’s pocket.
“Ah! That’s not mine, I swear to God that not mine,”
The officer put Cesar and the rest of them in handcuffs and put them in the car. When they got out they were at the county jail. They went through the process they got fingerprinted, patted down for weapons, and put in their cell.
As Aaron walked in his cell the first thing he noticed was the toilet by the door, then when he looked down he saw about ten cockroaches crawling around his feet, when he looked forward all he saw was a black wall. Aaron didn’t know what to expect when he saw his cellmate; he looked like the Incredible Hulk without green skin. What could he do? He can’t fight him; he’ll get crush. The only thing he can do was keep to himself and not say a word to the big scary looking man. The scary came down from his bunk, it felt like an earthquake when he jumped down. The scary man looked at Aaron and said, “Hi, I’m Johnny Jefferson, but everyone calls me J.J. and you are?”
“I’m Aaron” He said with a look like he saw a ghost.
He grabbed Aaron in a headlock and gave him a nuggy. Aaron tried to break free, but J.J.’s arms were too big. J.J. got tired and Aaron let go after about five minutes of nuggies. It was getting late, it was about 10:48 pm and all the light were out, so they got in their bunks. Aaron looked to the left of him all he saw was a black wall, he looked to the right all he was another black wall, and finally he looked straight up and he saw something different he saw a black bunk. He wonders what’ll happen to him tomorrow.
By: Brother Author #8
What can you do if you get caught with drugs? You go to jail or prison, no one wants to go to jail, but a lot people make bad choices and they end up in prison or jail. Aaron Foster ended up in jail for just hanging out with his friend.
One day Aaron was at his house talking to his friends about basketball and his friend Cesar said, “Man, Michael Jordan can’t beat LeBron, real talk.”
“Cesar you don’t know nothing about Mike, so you need to go home,” Aaron said with a cocky attitude.
“Man, I ain’t going nowhere.”
As they continued to talk the police drove by really slow. They came to a complete stop and sounded the siren; the guys looked at the cop car.
“Please step up to the vehicle,” said a police officer getting out the police car.
They didn’t know what to do, so they walk up to the car with their hands up.
“What seem to be the problem officer?”
“This!” The police officer said pull out a pack weed from Cesar’s pocket.
“Ah! That’s not mine, I swear to God that not mine,”
The officer put Cesar and the rest of them in handcuffs and put them in the car. When they got out they were at the county jail. They went through the process they got fingerprinted, patted down for weapons, and put in their cell.
As Aaron walked in his cell the first thing he noticed was the toilet by the door, then when he looked down he saw about ten cockroaches crawling around his feet, when he looked forward all he saw was a black wall. Aaron didn’t know what to expect when he saw his cellmate; he looked like the Incredible Hulk without green skin. What could he do? He can’t fight him; he’ll get crush. The only thing he can do was keep to himself and not say a word to the big scary looking man. The scary came down from his bunk, it felt like an earthquake when he jumped down. The scary man looked at Aaron and said, “Hi, I’m Johnny Jefferson, but everyone calls me J.J. and you are?”
“I’m Aaron” He said with a look like he saw a ghost.
He grabbed Aaron in a headlock and gave him a nuggy. Aaron tried to break free, but J.J.’s arms were too big. J.J. got tired and Aaron let go after about five minutes of nuggies. It was getting late, it was about 10:48 pm and all the light were out, so they got in their bunks. Aaron looked to the left of him all he saw was a black wall, he looked to the right all he was another black wall, and finally he looked straight up and he saw something different he saw a black bunk. He wonders what’ll happen to him tomorrow.
Ethiopia - BA 2
Rebu 'a, Hadde Meskerem
(Wednesday, September 1st)
“Amare, Amare wake up.” My mother weakly says to wake me up.
My mother, Tenagne (gold), looks very sad nowadays ever since my little sister, Aamina (safe), died a couple of weeks ago after being born only three months prior. Daddy, Hakim (wise), told me that the infant mortality rate is 89.6. My dad is a very smart and important doctor that went to visit the United States. One day told me that there is one medical doctor per 100,000 people in Ethiopia.
“Anay degimay. (I am tired)” I reply as I rub my eyes to get the white crust out and notice my brother is not there. “Abey alo Kelile?”
Kelile is my aserte shewate (17) year older brother. His name means my protector and it fits him perfectly, since he is always looking out for me.
“Eating kursee.” My mother replies.
I walk out the room and join my family eating kursee. We live in Addis Ababa, the countries capital, in a nice downtown condo. There is some banee (bread), tesmi (butter), and tsaba (milk) on the table to eat before Kelile and I head off for school.
“Selam Amare.”
“Selam Kelile”
“Are you excited about your first day of secondary education?”
“Hagu siny. (I am happy)”
In Ethiopia the school system is primary and secondary education. Primary education is first grade through eighth grade, but at the end there is a mandatory national examine to determine if students can go to secondary education. If a student fails they must repeat eighth grade and take the examination all over again. After 2001, during secondary education students must take another examine after tenth grade to determine if they can continue their studies to twelfth grade. When a student passes they decide to focus in the Science or Arts stream, but if someone fails they have to either join the work force or go to a private college. At the end of twelfth grade they would take yet another national exam which determines if they could move onto university. With a pass, they get to choose two majors and two campuses and the government then assigns them a major and campus.
My mother always tell me to be grateful that I attend school since only 36% of children attend school, 18% reach grade 5, and 35% of the population can read. I know I am blessed and I am grateful but I want to help my country like my dad.
Kelile and I change into our school uniforms then walk to the autobus tetew tiblelu (bus stop) to head to secondary education at Dagmawi Menelik II Secondary School. Kelile buys a Addis tribune from a little boy off the streets for hadde birr (one dollar) and starts to tell me interesting stats in the articles.
Kelile ask “Do you know the school life expectancy is only 4.3 years?”, but hee’s really just telling me. “There are only 0.03 physicians per 1,000 citizens.” “16% of children are underweight.” “6% of births are attended by a skilled health professional.” “1 in 4 women die during pregnancy or childbirth.”
These stats run through my mind as we reach our stop and walk our separate ways to class. A typical morning school day started with class from 8 am (after the assembly with the raising of the flag) until 12 noon, lunch was from 12 until 2 pm, and then class again from 2 until 4 pm.
After school a lot of kids played futbol, hide and seek, and tag gefore heading home to do their chores.
Kelile and I only have to keep the house clean but most kids have to do more work. Boys have to help their fathers care for their cattle and land. Girls have to help their mothers do house work and fetch water.
My family usually eats dinner around 7:00 pm and talk about each other’s day. After that, we start to shut down for sleep and another day.
Looking back at my childhood I thank God I was blessed but can’t help to think about others who were not. I am esran shemonte (twenty-eight) now and am a doctor just like my father. I live in America now but am now sitting in Midway Airport going back to Addis Ababa for a visit. I don’t know if I will stay or not but I believe I should since many doctors from Africa leave their homelands and never return. I do not want to leave my country out in the rain but what can one man do. My plane is boarding now and I know once I close my laptop my life will change.
(Wednesday, September 1st)
“Amare, Amare wake up.” My mother weakly says to wake me up.
My mother, Tenagne (gold), looks very sad nowadays ever since my little sister, Aamina (safe), died a couple of weeks ago after being born only three months prior. Daddy, Hakim (wise), told me that the infant mortality rate is 89.6. My dad is a very smart and important doctor that went to visit the United States. One day told me that there is one medical doctor per 100,000 people in Ethiopia.
“Anay degimay. (I am tired)” I reply as I rub my eyes to get the white crust out and notice my brother is not there. “Abey alo Kelile?”
Kelile is my aserte shewate (17) year older brother. His name means my protector and it fits him perfectly, since he is always looking out for me.
“Eating kursee.” My mother replies.
I walk out the room and join my family eating kursee. We live in Addis Ababa, the countries capital, in a nice downtown condo. There is some banee (bread), tesmi (butter), and tsaba (milk) on the table to eat before Kelile and I head off for school.
“Selam Amare.”
“Selam Kelile”
“Are you excited about your first day of secondary education?”
“Hagu siny. (I am happy)”
In Ethiopia the school system is primary and secondary education. Primary education is first grade through eighth grade, but at the end there is a mandatory national examine to determine if students can go to secondary education. If a student fails they must repeat eighth grade and take the examination all over again. After 2001, during secondary education students must take another examine after tenth grade to determine if they can continue their studies to twelfth grade. When a student passes they decide to focus in the Science or Arts stream, but if someone fails they have to either join the work force or go to a private college. At the end of twelfth grade they would take yet another national exam which determines if they could move onto university. With a pass, they get to choose two majors and two campuses and the government then assigns them a major and campus.
My mother always tell me to be grateful that I attend school since only 36% of children attend school, 18% reach grade 5, and 35% of the population can read. I know I am blessed and I am grateful but I want to help my country like my dad.
Kelile and I change into our school uniforms then walk to the autobus tetew tiblelu (bus stop) to head to secondary education at Dagmawi Menelik II Secondary School. Kelile buys a Addis tribune from a little boy off the streets for hadde birr (one dollar) and starts to tell me interesting stats in the articles.
Kelile ask “Do you know the school life expectancy is only 4.3 years?”, but hee’s really just telling me. “There are only 0.03 physicians per 1,000 citizens.” “16% of children are underweight.” “6% of births are attended by a skilled health professional.” “1 in 4 women die during pregnancy or childbirth.”
These stats run through my mind as we reach our stop and walk our separate ways to class. A typical morning school day started with class from 8 am (after the assembly with the raising of the flag) until 12 noon, lunch was from 12 until 2 pm, and then class again from 2 until 4 pm.
After school a lot of kids played futbol, hide and seek, and tag gefore heading home to do their chores.
Kelile and I only have to keep the house clean but most kids have to do more work. Boys have to help their fathers care for their cattle and land. Girls have to help their mothers do house work and fetch water.
My family usually eats dinner around 7:00 pm and talk about each other’s day. After that, we start to shut down for sleep and another day.
Looking back at my childhood I thank God I was blessed but can’t help to think about others who were not. I am esran shemonte (twenty-eight) now and am a doctor just like my father. I live in America now but am now sitting in Midway Airport going back to Addis Ababa for a visit. I don’t know if I will stay or not but I believe I should since many doctors from Africa leave their homelands and never return. I do not want to leave my country out in the rain but what can one man do. My plane is boarding now and I know once I close my laptop my life will change.
Fool me once, shame on you... - BA 11
Fool me once, shame on you…
James Wilkins awoke from his 9 hour sleep on a Saturday morning at 7 am with a smile on his face with his whole day planned out. He got out of his king sized bed as he began walking toward his bathroom to take a shower and brushing his teeth with Colgate. He was out the bathroom 20 minutes later and headed down the stairs for breakfast, “ hey mom, how’d ya sleep,” James asked as he kissed her on the forehead while she read the Chicago times newspaper, “good morning sweetheart, I slept pretty well I guess, how about yourself,” she had asked him as he searched for some cereal in the pantry, he replied, “ I’m doin’ just fine mamma, where’s pops?” He asked that with a little concern in his voice, for he hadn’t seen him since he had walked out the door last night claiming he had a late shift at work. He left at 7pm the day before with his brief case in hand as he wore his black khakis with a white button up with a black tie. His leather black shoes fit comfortably on his size 13 feet. “I haven’t seen him all morning James, but I’m sure he’s fine wherever he is,” Mom had said while she kept her face in the newspaper, James looked at his watch and said, “Mom I gotta get up to the court now and play some ball, I don’t wanna disappoint Lil’ Lenny,” James had said as he grabbed his Spalding basketball from near the front door as he walked out the door with a grin on his face. He walked down the street dribbling his basketball between his legs as he walked down 5 houses to Lenny’s place. When he walked up the front steps to Lenny’s door and knocked 3 times then Lil’ Lenny finally came to the door with a white head band around his braided hair and his green Celtics jersey with the number 33 on it that represented Larry Bird. Lenny also wore basketball shorts that came down all the way to his ankles for he was only 11 years old standing only 5’5 , but he was excited to be able to play ball with the big boys for the first time, “James! Hey Big Man how’s it going?”
“I’m doing great Lil’ Man, where’s ya mamma at?”
“She went out to work, but she doin’ fine, my dad is in here though”
“Cool, you ready to go Lenny?”
“Sure am!” Said Lenny as he grabbed his big bull dog by the leash and they walked out the door.
After a good 20 minute walk, they had finally made it to the Chamber land, aka the basketball court, where 2 other boys were waiting, all James’ age (18) and all his friends.
There was Mac “Smooth Cream” Jabbar, who can always drive to the hole with no problem and can always block shots though he is only 6’1. He is known for his signature dread locks.
Moe Jackson was also apart of the crew, known for only his 3 point shooting, that’s all he does.
“Alright y’all let’s bust this game,” Lil’ Lenny said as he shot the basketball from half court, it rolled in and out of the rim. James laughed and turned his head where he found a disturbing sight. His smile quickly faded away as he saw his father with another woman on the park bench hugged up together. In anger, James threw the basketball at the back of his fathers head as it collided with a huge pop noise as the basketball ricocheted off his head and into Lil’ Lenny’s arms. James stormed away in anger back to his place. Lenny never got to play with the big boys liked he wished to. Mac and Moe barely play ball like they used too. And James moved out that night wishing not to see his father again.
James Wilkins awoke from his 9 hour sleep on a Saturday morning at 7 am with a smile on his face with his whole day planned out. He got out of his king sized bed as he began walking toward his bathroom to take a shower and brushing his teeth with Colgate. He was out the bathroom 20 minutes later and headed down the stairs for breakfast, “ hey mom, how’d ya sleep,” James asked as he kissed her on the forehead while she read the Chicago times newspaper, “good morning sweetheart, I slept pretty well I guess, how about yourself,” she had asked him as he searched for some cereal in the pantry, he replied, “ I’m doin’ just fine mamma, where’s pops?” He asked that with a little concern in his voice, for he hadn’t seen him since he had walked out the door last night claiming he had a late shift at work. He left at 7pm the day before with his brief case in hand as he wore his black khakis with a white button up with a black tie. His leather black shoes fit comfortably on his size 13 feet. “I haven’t seen him all morning James, but I’m sure he’s fine wherever he is,” Mom had said while she kept her face in the newspaper, James looked at his watch and said, “Mom I gotta get up to the court now and play some ball, I don’t wanna disappoint Lil’ Lenny,” James had said as he grabbed his Spalding basketball from near the front door as he walked out the door with a grin on his face. He walked down the street dribbling his basketball between his legs as he walked down 5 houses to Lenny’s place. When he walked up the front steps to Lenny’s door and knocked 3 times then Lil’ Lenny finally came to the door with a white head band around his braided hair and his green Celtics jersey with the number 33 on it that represented Larry Bird. Lenny also wore basketball shorts that came down all the way to his ankles for he was only 11 years old standing only 5’5 , but he was excited to be able to play ball with the big boys for the first time, “James! Hey Big Man how’s it going?”
“I’m doing great Lil’ Man, where’s ya mamma at?”
“She went out to work, but she doin’ fine, my dad is in here though”
“Cool, you ready to go Lenny?”
“Sure am!” Said Lenny as he grabbed his big bull dog by the leash and they walked out the door.
After a good 20 minute walk, they had finally made it to the Chamber land, aka the basketball court, where 2 other boys were waiting, all James’ age (18) and all his friends.
There was Mac “Smooth Cream” Jabbar, who can always drive to the hole with no problem and can always block shots though he is only 6’1. He is known for his signature dread locks.
Moe Jackson was also apart of the crew, known for only his 3 point shooting, that’s all he does.
“Alright y’all let’s bust this game,” Lil’ Lenny said as he shot the basketball from half court, it rolled in and out of the rim. James laughed and turned his head where he found a disturbing sight. His smile quickly faded away as he saw his father with another woman on the park bench hugged up together. In anger, James threw the basketball at the back of his fathers head as it collided with a huge pop noise as the basketball ricocheted off his head and into Lil’ Lenny’s arms. James stormed away in anger back to his place. Lenny never got to play with the big boys liked he wished to. Mac and Moe barely play ball like they used too. And James moved out that night wishing not to see his father again.
The Friend of the Nine - BA 1
The friend of the nine...
It’s 1954, a new school year. I’m Rex, Rex Smith. My best friend is Terrence Roberts, but he’s acting real stupid, for some reason. He’s going to that all white school, Little Rock Central High.
But why? It’s perfectly fine here. Well I guess that’s up to him. A couple days go bye, and I hear that Terrence and the rest of the nine got attacked by some whites mobs. I’m in shock. I knew this whole racism thing was bad but now that it’s really happening it’s overwhelming.
As I sit in class, I daze off and think…
“ If I was there, I would push those guards aside and TEACH THOSE WHITE FOLKS A LESSON!!!!!!!!”
Not yet realizing that I just said that out loud, I hear a burst of conversation pouring out in class.
“ Did you hear what happen with those kids who used to go to school here”…
“ I hope she’s ok”…
“ I wish some white man would spit on me, I’d nearly KILL him” random voices shout out.
Later that night I think about it, would I really think if I were there would I really fight back? I think I would, but what if fright took-over, would I still fight back?
I soon fall into a nightmare, battling white mobs with only my books in my hand, fiercely running away, but it seems as if the ground has took hold of my legs and I’m trapped………FLAMES!!!! Is all I see!
The sound of my mother wakes me up, as I get dressed I literally stumble on my thought once again thinking about Little Rock…I then run for the first bus I see. Not knowing that Elizabeth Eckford, one of the nine, was on the sitting in the back of the bus, frightened. She gets off the bus but is confronted by a white mob, when I see this I hop off the bus also. I try to push away the evil eyed white folks. She then ran to the back of the school, probably trying to go in through the back door. There’s nothing I can really do except for cry her name while praying the mobs don’t follow her…
When I really think about this it actually hurts. If I was one of them all I would do is fight back. I heard that Minnijean Brown, one of the nine finally fought back by tossing her lunch on some boy, but she got suspended for six days. Then when she came back she called this one girl “white trash” and got suspended for the rest of the school year. I would of probably done the same thing, no what I mean?
Most people don’t understand why people “fight back”. Well in our case, the black race, we are underestimated, treated like animals, and they think we need to be trained. You see, Terrence was always the “smart one”. But I was the one that wouldn’t take anything from anybody. That’s probably why he enrolled in Little Rock and I didn’t…
As the years progress, I graduate, and Terrence continued his education at California State University in Los Angeles and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree in sociology in 1967. He then received his Master's degree in social welfare from the UCLA School of Social Welfare in 1970, and his Ph.D. in psychology from Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, in 1976.
Terrence Roberts was prominently featured on the day Barack Obama was inaugurated as the forty fourth president of the United States of America. I always knew he would grow to be bigger and better than me, and I have to accept that, after all I’m just a friend of the nine.
It’s 1954, a new school year. I’m Rex, Rex Smith. My best friend is Terrence Roberts, but he’s acting real stupid, for some reason. He’s going to that all white school, Little Rock Central High.
But why? It’s perfectly fine here. Well I guess that’s up to him. A couple days go bye, and I hear that Terrence and the rest of the nine got attacked by some whites mobs. I’m in shock. I knew this whole racism thing was bad but now that it’s really happening it’s overwhelming.
As I sit in class, I daze off and think…
“ If I was there, I would push those guards aside and TEACH THOSE WHITE FOLKS A LESSON!!!!!!!!”
Not yet realizing that I just said that out loud, I hear a burst of conversation pouring out in class.
“ Did you hear what happen with those kids who used to go to school here”…
“ I hope she’s ok”…
“ I wish some white man would spit on me, I’d nearly KILL him” random voices shout out.
Later that night I think about it, would I really think if I were there would I really fight back? I think I would, but what if fright took-over, would I still fight back?
I soon fall into a nightmare, battling white mobs with only my books in my hand, fiercely running away, but it seems as if the ground has took hold of my legs and I’m trapped………FLAMES!!!! Is all I see!
The sound of my mother wakes me up, as I get dressed I literally stumble on my thought once again thinking about Little Rock…I then run for the first bus I see. Not knowing that Elizabeth Eckford, one of the nine, was on the sitting in the back of the bus, frightened. She gets off the bus but is confronted by a white mob, when I see this I hop off the bus also. I try to push away the evil eyed white folks. She then ran to the back of the school, probably trying to go in through the back door. There’s nothing I can really do except for cry her name while praying the mobs don’t follow her…
When I really think about this it actually hurts. If I was one of them all I would do is fight back. I heard that Minnijean Brown, one of the nine finally fought back by tossing her lunch on some boy, but she got suspended for six days. Then when she came back she called this one girl “white trash” and got suspended for the rest of the school year. I would of probably done the same thing, no what I mean?
Most people don’t understand why people “fight back”. Well in our case, the black race, we are underestimated, treated like animals, and they think we need to be trained. You see, Terrence was always the “smart one”. But I was the one that wouldn’t take anything from anybody. That’s probably why he enrolled in Little Rock and I didn’t…
As the years progress, I graduate, and Terrence continued his education at California State University in Los Angeles and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree in sociology in 1967. He then received his Master's degree in social welfare from the UCLA School of Social Welfare in 1970, and his Ph.D. in psychology from Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, in 1976.
Terrence Roberts was prominently featured on the day Barack Obama was inaugurated as the forty fourth president of the United States of America. I always knew he would grow to be bigger and better than me, and I have to accept that, after all I’m just a friend of the nine.
The Lucille Gibson Guitar - BA 5
The Lucille Gibson Guitar
As I sat in the dining room playing my $1200 base, I was lost in the music that surrounded the room. I was playing “I’ll be there” by Michael Jackson, to honor his reputation and legacy. I played with my eyes closed and thought of the sweet memories we had of Michael Jackson. Oh, how I missed him, it’s hard to lose a fellow king in the music business. I sang from my heart as I recalled those memories, blues style.
“You and I should make a pact (Oh make a pact), Oh we should bring sweet salvation back. Where there is love, (oh baby where is love), I’ll be there, (baby I’ll be there).”
As I fed off the sweet aura of the blues, I was interrupted by the chaotic noise of rapid footsteps across the floor. I stopped playing my base, and opened my eyes to see my grandson running with a long object in his hand. He looked as though he was struggling to hold that thing.
“Hey boy,” I called.
My grandson froze and entered the dining room. I swear being 83 years old has it’s trade-offs, my grandson was right in front of me and I still couldn’t see what was in his hand. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my glasses. I looked again, he was holding my Lucille Gibson Guitar.
“Boy bring your jive little butt over here.”
He did as told and walked over to me with a sad face on. I took the guitar away from him, and checked it for scratches fingerprints or coloring pictures.
“I’m sowy granddady, I juice wanted to play wit tit,” he said in baby talk.
“It’s okay, but this is not a toy son, this is very important to me.”
“Why?”
“You want to tell you a little story?”
My grandson’s face nearly turned white as he rushed to the couch to get a pillow. He sat the pillow on the floor in front of me, and sat.
“In 1942 I bought this guitar with the little money I had from my tractor job. Every day I’d go on that field with the tractor and work my butt off like a slave. My boss was always talking like he owned something, he barely owned that farmed I worked on. One day I ran over a rock and broke the tractor, and I knew if the farmer found out about I’d be as good as dead.”
My grandson jumped back in fear.
“How you get out there alive,” he said.
“I packed my stuff and moved to Memphis. There I got an apartment and made money off the change I got from playing on the corner, with this same guitar I’m holding right now.”
My grandson looked at the guitar and got sad again, because he thought what would’ve happened if he broken this guitar, bless his heart.
“But that’s not all. In the mid 1950’s one day I played at this dance in Twist, Arkansas. Oh, how the black culture rose in that mother snapper. But while I wasn’t looking these two grown men got into a fight over this girl named Lucille. One of them knocked over a kerosene stove, and caused a fire in the hall.”
My grandson, being the drama king cuffed his mouth and gasped as he was scared of the story.
“We all scurried our butts on out there, but I didn’t even make it the sidewalk as I remembered that I forgot my guitar inside the building. I rushed and pushed every body out the way in the crowd. I was making my way back into the burning building to retrieve my baby.”
My grandson literally shed a tear as the story went on.
“I went in ducking and dodging the flames of satin I quickly grabbed my guitar and ran back out there. Everyone hugged and kissed as they were worried about me. And because of that fire, I named my guitar Lucille to remind me to never to do something crazy like fight over a girl.”
My grandson’s face lit up.
“Now every time they call my name. (And now I give you B.B. King) I come out with my leather suit and sit on my stool playing my Lucille Gibson guitar.”
My grandson jumped and cheered and laughed. He came over and gave me a kiss on my sagging face.
“Granddady?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you a song pwetty please.”
“Sure.”
I adjusted my hands and played the power chords to my number one hit “Three O’clock Blues.
Well now it’s three o’clock in the morning
And I can’t even close my eyes
Three o’clock in the morning baby
And I can’t even close my eyes
Can’t find my baby
And I can’t be satisfied…
As I sat in the dining room playing my $1200 base, I was lost in the music that surrounded the room. I was playing “I’ll be there” by Michael Jackson, to honor his reputation and legacy. I played with my eyes closed and thought of the sweet memories we had of Michael Jackson. Oh, how I missed him, it’s hard to lose a fellow king in the music business. I sang from my heart as I recalled those memories, blues style.
“You and I should make a pact (Oh make a pact), Oh we should bring sweet salvation back. Where there is love, (oh baby where is love), I’ll be there, (baby I’ll be there).”
As I fed off the sweet aura of the blues, I was interrupted by the chaotic noise of rapid footsteps across the floor. I stopped playing my base, and opened my eyes to see my grandson running with a long object in his hand. He looked as though he was struggling to hold that thing.
“Hey boy,” I called.
My grandson froze and entered the dining room. I swear being 83 years old has it’s trade-offs, my grandson was right in front of me and I still couldn’t see what was in his hand. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my glasses. I looked again, he was holding my Lucille Gibson Guitar.
“Boy bring your jive little butt over here.”
He did as told and walked over to me with a sad face on. I took the guitar away from him, and checked it for scratches fingerprints or coloring pictures.
“I’m sowy granddady, I juice wanted to play wit tit,” he said in baby talk.
“It’s okay, but this is not a toy son, this is very important to me.”
“Why?”
“You want to tell you a little story?”
My grandson’s face nearly turned white as he rushed to the couch to get a pillow. He sat the pillow on the floor in front of me, and sat.
“In 1942 I bought this guitar with the little money I had from my tractor job. Every day I’d go on that field with the tractor and work my butt off like a slave. My boss was always talking like he owned something, he barely owned that farmed I worked on. One day I ran over a rock and broke the tractor, and I knew if the farmer found out about I’d be as good as dead.”
My grandson jumped back in fear.
“How you get out there alive,” he said.
“I packed my stuff and moved to Memphis. There I got an apartment and made money off the change I got from playing on the corner, with this same guitar I’m holding right now.”
My grandson looked at the guitar and got sad again, because he thought what would’ve happened if he broken this guitar, bless his heart.
“But that’s not all. In the mid 1950’s one day I played at this dance in Twist, Arkansas. Oh, how the black culture rose in that mother snapper. But while I wasn’t looking these two grown men got into a fight over this girl named Lucille. One of them knocked over a kerosene stove, and caused a fire in the hall.”
My grandson, being the drama king cuffed his mouth and gasped as he was scared of the story.
“We all scurried our butts on out there, but I didn’t even make it the sidewalk as I remembered that I forgot my guitar inside the building. I rushed and pushed every body out the way in the crowd. I was making my way back into the burning building to retrieve my baby.”
My grandson literally shed a tear as the story went on.
“I went in ducking and dodging the flames of satin I quickly grabbed my guitar and ran back out there. Everyone hugged and kissed as they were worried about me. And because of that fire, I named my guitar Lucille to remind me to never to do something crazy like fight over a girl.”
My grandson’s face lit up.
“Now every time they call my name. (And now I give you B.B. King) I come out with my leather suit and sit on my stool playing my Lucille Gibson guitar.”
My grandson jumped and cheered and laughed. He came over and gave me a kiss on my sagging face.
“Granddady?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you a song pwetty please.”
“Sure.”
I adjusted my hands and played the power chords to my number one hit “Three O’clock Blues.
Well now it’s three o’clock in the morning
And I can’t even close my eyes
Three o’clock in the morning baby
And I can’t even close my eyes
Can’t find my baby
And I can’t be satisfied…
Wednesday, July 15
The Wind You Can Feel - BA 10
The Wind You Can Feel
You can take my life and my mind too. You don't have to take my heart, I'm giving it to you. But the one thing you will never get is my pen because without it I'm nothing. Writing is the only thing I have left. My mom don't like me, my family treat me like I was a person on the street. Most of my family never wants me by their kids. Isn't that something; I cannot go next to my cousins. So kill me, let me rollover and die, but when I go don't let my writing go with me, let it stay with you. I know people are getting tired of reading about my blank life, because I am. I can't take it anymore. Someone kill me and get it over. I'd rather die and be remembered than live and be forgotten. So, when I turn to dust don't let my writing turn to ashes.
You can take my life and my mind too. You don't have to take my heart, I'm giving it to you. But the one thing you will never get is my pen because without it I'm nothing. Writing is the only thing I have left. My mom don't like me, my family treat me like I was a person on the street. Most of my family never wants me by their kids. Isn't that something; I cannot go next to my cousins. So kill me, let me rollover and die, but when I go don't let my writing go with me, let it stay with you. I know people are getting tired of reading about my blank life, because I am. I can't take it anymore. Someone kill me and get it over. I'd rather die and be remembered than live and be forgotten. So, when I turn to dust don't let my writing turn to ashes.
The Torture of Inhuman Souls by Brother Author # 12
The Torture of Inhuman Souls
Hearing about something and seeing it are two completely different things. And hearing and seeing something is completely different from hearing it, in the sense that you weren’t there to hear it when it was actually occurring. Am I making sense? I guess it doesn’t matter since nothing makes sense. So how do you make sense of nothing? I’ve asked myself that question every time I’ve awakened from a night’s sleep, or a days sleep, notice I didn’t say a good nights sleep. And there nights are even worse, I would say it’s beyond my imagination, but I don’t imagine, I witness. Do we have to die so others can live? Excuse me, correction, do THEY have to die, so that others may live.
Not others, we, do they have to die so that WE can live? I think I got it right that time. I stare into the darkness, hoping to find and answer in the crevices in my uniform. The Swastika on the arm represents a belief, my belief. Wait, whose belief? If it’s mine then the folds in the jacket must represent the wavering of the very belief the garment is meant to represent.
OOOooowwhwhHhhhaahahhhhhh!!! That’s what it sounds like.
The wailing doesn’t stop, how can it? The way they’re treated, excuse me, the way WE treat them, I can’t blame them for yelling. Though, I’m surprised they have the strength to. This place is like a graveyard, all I see are people who’ve handed over life, animate, dead bodies, not even dead bodies…but skeletons with skin. Did we do this? Why? Why are they not fit to live and we are. He told me we are the perfect race and that all others need to be eradicated, but…if we rid ourselves of the imperfect, assuming we are perfect, then won’t we be normal? If there is no superiority factor, nothing to be above, then how can we call ourselves perfect if there is no longer a sense of imperfect? I don’t believe it matters anymore, within this camp, its hard to believe that anything could matter. I could say that, and yet I’m well taken care of, from the outside looking in, the mirror reflects whatever stares at it though. I don’t expect anyone to understand, anyone who CAN’T understand, the ones who haven’t witnessed, or have been through the tunnel, can never tell what the inside TRULY looks like.
“Heinrich, you done writing in that journal of yours yet,” asked Reinhard. “We’re on patrol, and for God’s sake put on some clothes man.”
As I sat in my chair I looked around the dark room, at my desk my lamp and journal served as my only escape, my bed unmade, nailed on the wall was a hangar with a nazi uniform hanging from it.
“Those, they are no clothes of mine…give them back to Hitler, they’re his clothes.”
“Now listen here you!” Reinhard rushed me and knocked me out of my chair, then grabbed me by the throat and shoved me against the wall, if it hurt, which it did, I sure as hell didn’t show it. “Not again here with this Jewish shit, I don’t care if you are my nephew you’re gunna get this shit right if I have to beat it into you, you are part of the master race, don’t go having sympathy for those unworthy of life!”
There it was again, ‘master race’ is it because of the slick blonde hair on my head that fell unto my face, or is it because of my piercing blue eyes that glared at my so called uncle with discontent?
“Just because you deem them unworthy of life doesn’t mean I have to be the executioner!” I shouted almost too loud for anyone NOT to hear.
My uncle must have noticed the same thing because he gutted me one.
“Shut up, do you want the whole camp to know of your weakness,” he spat.
“Compassion is not a weakn¬___,”
“Shut up, you’re becoming a worthless wretch just like your mother!”
“Has this life changed you so much that now you’d even insult your own sister, your own blood, isn’t she’s considered an Aryan as well!?”
His face softened, if just a bit, no one else would have noticed it, but I’ve been around long enough to.
“You’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said while dropping me. “Go on and get that uniform on and you don’t have to be the executioner, just don’t be the savior.”
“If I were to stand by and do nothing, I wouldn’t be the savior, but I would be the executioner the same if I had done it with my own two perfect hands…contradiction is the very nature of humans. Be it imperfect or perfect it’s a part of our blood, it flows through us as natural as the flowers bloom in the summer. I’m not wrong to question the ideals of anti-Semitism, you are wrong not to.”
“Be that as it may, we don’t even have a choice anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said as he left the room.
I could have sworn I almost heard a tiny hint of despair in his voice.
Hearing about something and seeing it are two completely different things. And hearing and seeing something is completely different from hearing it, in the sense that you weren’t there to hear it when it was actually occurring. Am I making sense? I guess it doesn’t matter since nothing makes sense. So how do you make sense of nothing? I’ve asked myself that question every time I’ve awakened from a night’s sleep, or a days sleep, notice I didn’t say a good nights sleep. And there nights are even worse, I would say it’s beyond my imagination, but I don’t imagine, I witness. Do we have to die so others can live? Excuse me, correction, do THEY have to die, so that others may live.
Not others, we, do they have to die so that WE can live? I think I got it right that time. I stare into the darkness, hoping to find and answer in the crevices in my uniform. The Swastika on the arm represents a belief, my belief. Wait, whose belief? If it’s mine then the folds in the jacket must represent the wavering of the very belief the garment is meant to represent.
OOOooowwhwhHhhhaahahhhhhh!!! That’s what it sounds like.
The wailing doesn’t stop, how can it? The way they’re treated, excuse me, the way WE treat them, I can’t blame them for yelling. Though, I’m surprised they have the strength to. This place is like a graveyard, all I see are people who’ve handed over life, animate, dead bodies, not even dead bodies…but skeletons with skin. Did we do this? Why? Why are they not fit to live and we are. He told me we are the perfect race and that all others need to be eradicated, but…if we rid ourselves of the imperfect, assuming we are perfect, then won’t we be normal? If there is no superiority factor, nothing to be above, then how can we call ourselves perfect if there is no longer a sense of imperfect? I don’t believe it matters anymore, within this camp, its hard to believe that anything could matter. I could say that, and yet I’m well taken care of, from the outside looking in, the mirror reflects whatever stares at it though. I don’t expect anyone to understand, anyone who CAN’T understand, the ones who haven’t witnessed, or have been through the tunnel, can never tell what the inside TRULY looks like.
“Heinrich, you done writing in that journal of yours yet,” asked Reinhard. “We’re on patrol, and for God’s sake put on some clothes man.”
As I sat in my chair I looked around the dark room, at my desk my lamp and journal served as my only escape, my bed unmade, nailed on the wall was a hangar with a nazi uniform hanging from it.
“Those, they are no clothes of mine…give them back to Hitler, they’re his clothes.”
“Now listen here you!” Reinhard rushed me and knocked me out of my chair, then grabbed me by the throat and shoved me against the wall, if it hurt, which it did, I sure as hell didn’t show it. “Not again here with this Jewish shit, I don’t care if you are my nephew you’re gunna get this shit right if I have to beat it into you, you are part of the master race, don’t go having sympathy for those unworthy of life!”
There it was again, ‘master race’ is it because of the slick blonde hair on my head that fell unto my face, or is it because of my piercing blue eyes that glared at my so called uncle with discontent?
“Just because you deem them unworthy of life doesn’t mean I have to be the executioner!” I shouted almost too loud for anyone NOT to hear.
My uncle must have noticed the same thing because he gutted me one.
“Shut up, do you want the whole camp to know of your weakness,” he spat.
“Compassion is not a weakn¬___,”
“Shut up, you’re becoming a worthless wretch just like your mother!”
“Has this life changed you so much that now you’d even insult your own sister, your own blood, isn’t she’s considered an Aryan as well!?”
His face softened, if just a bit, no one else would have noticed it, but I’ve been around long enough to.
“You’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said while dropping me. “Go on and get that uniform on and you don’t have to be the executioner, just don’t be the savior.”
“If I were to stand by and do nothing, I wouldn’t be the savior, but I would be the executioner the same if I had done it with my own two perfect hands…contradiction is the very nature of humans. Be it imperfect or perfect it’s a part of our blood, it flows through us as natural as the flowers bloom in the summer. I’m not wrong to question the ideals of anti-Semitism, you are wrong not to.”
“Be that as it may, we don’t even have a choice anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve still got a lot left to see boy,” he said as he left the room.
I could have sworn I almost heard a tiny hint of despair in his voice.
Monday, July 13
Black Shorts Informed by Facts/Research
We will focus on conducting research to plan and write your next Black Shorts. I combined my love for baseball and for fatherhood to write the Black Short that pays attention to two of our platforms - nurturing resilience and engaging others.
The Black Short was written to do two things:
➢ Reconnect young males with their fathers
➢ Encourage young males to accept their fathers when they return
I read one book and several articles on the Negro Leagues and went to the Cubs game to:
Strengthen authenticity
Identify names
Capture real moments
Hear the sounds of the game
Record images
My Daddy’s Shrine
by
Alfred W. Tatum
July 13, 2009
9:06pm
My momma always told me that my daddy ain’t nothing, but I still decided to love him. I’m his seed and I carry his name. It’s been three years since I last saw him. It was a perfect day. I remember waking up early on my tenth birthday. The blinds failed to block out the morning’s sunlight that crept into my room. The ray of light stretched like a rope across the tiny bedroom that I shared with my little brother, Fergie. I dressed quickly when mom told me that daddy was on his way over to take me to the game. I heard the horn and I rushed downstairs. Big Gib, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was sitting in his new Chrysler. He looked perfect to me. I was excited to go to the north side to see the Cubs. Kids in my neighborhood lost interest in the game; the parks are now empty. It is rare that I get a chance to wear my jersey with the number 37 on the back, another gift from my father. He’s fourth generation and I am fifth generation.
My great grandfather moved to Chicago from Philadelphia in the 1920s. Philly was the black Mecca of baseball for a long time. As long as I can remember, dad always talked about the famous left-hand catcher, Willie “Gibson” Wells, who played for the Grays. Stealing second base on Willie Wells was like trying to steal a piece of fresh meat from a cage of hungry lions. He went by the name, ‘It just ain’t goin’ happen’. The depression forced great grandpa to move to Chicago. He got a job slaughtering hogs. Although he never played again after slicing off two fingers and a thumb in an accident, he never could get the game out of his head. His stories were passed down to me. I began to love the game like my dad.
Big Gib knew I loved the sound of the train going through the tunnel. He parked the car close the ballpark and we rode the El train the last few miles. It was crowded. He held my hand tightly as we snaked through all the people with Cubs and Brewer jerseys. We were special, the only two fans with jerseys from the Negro Leagues – the Homestead Grays and the Kansas City Monarchs.
“Today, we’re sitting in the left infield box seats right over the dugouts.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s not everyday you turn ten, Gibby.”
My name rolled off his tongue with such affection. The Cubs were up by two runs, and I was glad that I did not have to share my cotton candy with Fergie. We were having our own special day until the bottom of the third inning. This strange lady walked up to Big Gib and kissed him on the lips. A boy who looked my age followed her. I hadn’t noticed the two empty seats until they plopped down next to us. He was wearing a jersey like my dad with the number 37. There were now two Grays vs. one Monarch.
“Introduce yourself Gibby. Robby knows all about you.”
How could he know all about me and I know nothing about him? I was wondering if Big Gib shared all the same stories about the number 37. Big Gib told me, “It carries weight to wear that number on your back. Only 37 Negro Leaguers made it to baseball’s Hall of Fame.” He told me that the 37 hall of famers were not better than the rest, but they were able to breakthrough. He always called me his ‘Breakthrough Kid’. Now, there were two of us. He was sitting on Big Gib’s right side and I was sitting on the left side.
The game became a blur as I stared at the 400ft marker on the wall in centerfield. The innings went by quickly. It was the beginning of the seventh-inning stretch when I heard Big Gib say, “Time to stretch sons.”
“You mean son, right?”
“No, Gibby. Robbie is your brother. I thought it was time for you to meet him.”
“I don’t want to meet him. I wished you would have left me at home with momma.”
“I will next time. You and your mother deserve each other.”
“That’s not nice, Big Gib,” I heard the lady say.
I felt a tear roll down my face at the same time the fans around us started standing. A fly ball was heading in our direction. Big Gib managed to snag it out of the air with his huge hands.
“Can I have it dad?” Robbie asked.
“No, this is Gibby’s. It’s his special day.”
It was hard for me to refuse the baseball. Robbie may have had the same jersey, but I had the ball. The Cubs, up by six runs in the top of the ninth, needed three outs to win the game. The crowd began pouring out of the stadium, but as always, Big Gib refused to leave the game until the final out. He believes leaving early insults the game and the players. I was ready to leave, but I did not want the day with my dad to end.
Cubs win! Cubs win!
“Honey, I will see you and Robbie later,” dad said.
Dad leaned over and gave the lady another kiss before grabbing my hand and leading me through the crowd. He was all mine again just for that moment at least. I had the ball to prove that I was the special son.
That was the last time I saw Big Gib. He called and sent me a card for my eleventh birthday. We talked for a few minutes on my twelfth birthday. I did not hear from him on my thirteenth birthday. Maybe, he forgot how to love me the way he used to, the same way we forgot how to love the game. I will be ready for him when he returns. Until then, the shrine I have in my room – the jersey, the ball, the ticket from the game, the glove, and his photo – will keep us connected.
The Black Short was written to do two things:
➢ Reconnect young males with their fathers
➢ Encourage young males to accept their fathers when they return
I read one book and several articles on the Negro Leagues and went to the Cubs game to:
Strengthen authenticity
Identify names
Capture real moments
Hear the sounds of the game
Record images
My Daddy’s Shrine
by
Alfred W. Tatum
July 13, 2009
9:06pm
My momma always told me that my daddy ain’t nothing, but I still decided to love him. I’m his seed and I carry his name. It’s been three years since I last saw him. It was a perfect day. I remember waking up early on my tenth birthday. The blinds failed to block out the morning’s sunlight that crept into my room. The ray of light stretched like a rope across the tiny bedroom that I shared with my little brother, Fergie. I dressed quickly when mom told me that daddy was on his way over to take me to the game. I heard the horn and I rushed downstairs. Big Gib, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was sitting in his new Chrysler. He looked perfect to me. I was excited to go to the north side to see the Cubs. Kids in my neighborhood lost interest in the game; the parks are now empty. It is rare that I get a chance to wear my jersey with the number 37 on the back, another gift from my father. He’s fourth generation and I am fifth generation.
My great grandfather moved to Chicago from Philadelphia in the 1920s. Philly was the black Mecca of baseball for a long time. As long as I can remember, dad always talked about the famous left-hand catcher, Willie “Gibson” Wells, who played for the Grays. Stealing second base on Willie Wells was like trying to steal a piece of fresh meat from a cage of hungry lions. He went by the name, ‘It just ain’t goin’ happen’. The depression forced great grandpa to move to Chicago. He got a job slaughtering hogs. Although he never played again after slicing off two fingers and a thumb in an accident, he never could get the game out of his head. His stories were passed down to me. I began to love the game like my dad.
Big Gib knew I loved the sound of the train going through the tunnel. He parked the car close the ballpark and we rode the El train the last few miles. It was crowded. He held my hand tightly as we snaked through all the people with Cubs and Brewer jerseys. We were special, the only two fans with jerseys from the Negro Leagues – the Homestead Grays and the Kansas City Monarchs.
“Today, we’re sitting in the left infield box seats right over the dugouts.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s not everyday you turn ten, Gibby.”
My name rolled off his tongue with such affection. The Cubs were up by two runs, and I was glad that I did not have to share my cotton candy with Fergie. We were having our own special day until the bottom of the third inning. This strange lady walked up to Big Gib and kissed him on the lips. A boy who looked my age followed her. I hadn’t noticed the two empty seats until they plopped down next to us. He was wearing a jersey like my dad with the number 37. There were now two Grays vs. one Monarch.
“Introduce yourself Gibby. Robby knows all about you.”
How could he know all about me and I know nothing about him? I was wondering if Big Gib shared all the same stories about the number 37. Big Gib told me, “It carries weight to wear that number on your back. Only 37 Negro Leaguers made it to baseball’s Hall of Fame.” He told me that the 37 hall of famers were not better than the rest, but they were able to breakthrough. He always called me his ‘Breakthrough Kid’. Now, there were two of us. He was sitting on Big Gib’s right side and I was sitting on the left side.
The game became a blur as I stared at the 400ft marker on the wall in centerfield. The innings went by quickly. It was the beginning of the seventh-inning stretch when I heard Big Gib say, “Time to stretch sons.”
“You mean son, right?”
“No, Gibby. Robbie is your brother. I thought it was time for you to meet him.”
“I don’t want to meet him. I wished you would have left me at home with momma.”
“I will next time. You and your mother deserve each other.”
“That’s not nice, Big Gib,” I heard the lady say.
I felt a tear roll down my face at the same time the fans around us started standing. A fly ball was heading in our direction. Big Gib managed to snag it out of the air with his huge hands.
“Can I have it dad?” Robbie asked.
“No, this is Gibby’s. It’s his special day.”
It was hard for me to refuse the baseball. Robbie may have had the same jersey, but I had the ball. The Cubs, up by six runs in the top of the ninth, needed three outs to win the game. The crowd began pouring out of the stadium, but as always, Big Gib refused to leave the game until the final out. He believes leaving early insults the game and the players. I was ready to leave, but I did not want the day with my dad to end.
Cubs win! Cubs win!
“Honey, I will see you and Robbie later,” dad said.
Dad leaned over and gave the lady another kiss before grabbing my hand and leading me through the crowd. He was all mine again just for that moment at least. I had the ball to prove that I was the special son.
That was the last time I saw Big Gib. He called and sent me a card for my eleventh birthday. We talked for a few minutes on my twelfth birthday. I did not hear from him on my thirteenth birthday. Maybe, he forgot how to love me the way he used to, the same way we forgot how to love the game. I will be ready for him when he returns. Until then, the shrine I have in my room – the jersey, the ball, the ticket from the game, the glove, and his photo – will keep us connected.
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