Four months after returning to New York, it was time for me to grow up. I needed to finish high school and get my life in order. I couldn’t be a high school dropout. What reason would I have for ending up as a stock boy at Duane Reade or at the local Key Food? Why lose out on all the opportunities that would be become available to me with an education in my back pocket? Those were just some of the questions I pondered in the months following my departure from Florida to the day I found myself being introduced to the black, baldheaded representative of an unorthodox school catering to older individuals who attended classes during the day and at night, depending on their knowledge and comprehension of the English language.
Author: Errol Lewis
I’m Tired – Moving Back to Florida (Segment 3)
I hated it in New York. There was nothing that made me happier than staying home to watch TV. I even mastered the skill of pretending to go to school while staying in the comfort of my bed with the covers over my head all day, every day. “It’s cold,” I’d say when coming out of the shower during the winter months in a house that didn’t have central air to even out the cold and the heat. “It’s too hot,” I’d say as I’d sweat even as I had nothing on and a fan blasting on my inner parts to keep me cool. Excuse after excuse, after excuse. That’s what I had for much of the time I spent in New York from the moment we moved back in 1997 to my second year at Transit Tech High School, located on the outer edges of Brooklyn and the beginning of the Ozone Park section of Queens. What a terrible decision it was to go to that school.
Continue reading “I’m Tired – Moving Back to Florida (Segment 3)”
I’m Tired – The Early Years (Segment 1)
He lay on top of her. Kissing his way down from her neck to her chest. Imagining two voluptuous globes. Caressing her in ways that a man would touch a wife, girlfriend or lover. Sadly, as romantic as the act may sound the female involved is his 9-year-old daughter. As my sister, Jaime, and I bear witness to our father’s disgusting act – violating a helpless young girl – we ran to our mother, Veronica, who was in the kitchen preparing dinner. We told her what is happening in her daughter’s bedroom. What the man she promised to love, honor, cherish and obey for the rest of her days was doing to her eldest child. Would she believe it? Would she ignore it? Not my mother. Immediately, she acted and ran to the room. Whatever he was doing as we ran away, he had stopped. Did he know he had seen? My mother may not have seen what we saw, but she still did what any mother should. The police came, took him in and unfortunately let him go shortly thereafter. “There’s not enough evidence,” they said. What evidence could there be except the word of her children, ages 9, 7 and 3? Times were different, especially in the south, well as much as Florida could be considered part of the south in the traditional sense. After he was let go, my father returned home and things returned to normal, or as normal as things could be.
Lewis, Errol – Memoir: The Earliest Memory and Divorce
THE EARLIEST MEMORY
He lay on top of her. Kissing his way down from her neck to her chest. Imagining two voluptuous globes. Caressing her in ways that a man would touch a wife, girlfriend or lover. Sadly, as romantic as the act may sound the female involved is his 9-year-old daughter. As my other sister and I bear witness to our father’s disgusting act – violating a helpless young girl – we run to our mother’s leg, telling her of what is happening in her daughter’s bedroom. What the man she promised to love, honor, cherish and obey for the rest of her days was doing to her child. Would she believe it? Would she ignore it? Not my mother. Immediately, she acted and ran to the room. Whatever he was doing, he stopped. She didn’t see what we saw, but she still did what any mother should. The police came, took him in and unfortunately let him go shortly thereafter. “There’s no evidence,” they said. What evidence could there be except the word of her children, ages 9, 7 and 3? Times were different, especially in the south.
The year was 1987, and this is where our story begins.
(a couple of paragraphs that I’m editing)
THE DIVORCE
With three kids and a husband that beats her for no reason, while accusing her of having an affair with his son from another woman, the time has come for them to end their legal connection. After 9 years of marriage, she’s ready to put an end to the torture. She just didn’t realize how hard it would be for a black woman, who has no license to drive nor money in the bank to support herself, much less her precious ones. As divorce proceedings commence, the judge grants her full access to the five-bedroom home with the 4-inch deep pool where the kids have grown up. Her husband is ordered to stay as far away as the court allows for the time being. After some semblance of normalcy, a decision is made and she gets full custody of their kids. She even gets a home out of the deal and child support. Had she known she’d be screwed outside the bedroom she probably would have made better decisions when it came to choosing her lawyer. A lawyer that allowed her to lose out on the five-bedroom home, while accepting a new address and three-bedrooms for a family of four. A lawyer that allows her to accept $160 a month in child support, not for each kid, but for all three. As terrible as the deal sounds, she’s officially untied from a man who has accused her of infidelity and witchcraft. Has abused her physically and mentally. Broken her down to pieces where life wouldn’t be worth living simply because you’ve been made to believe that you aren’t worth life.
Inheriting the bedroom set she shared with her husband, she takes a rest on her comfortable bed. After a timely move, things are settled. The girls are sharing a room once again while her youngest remains in a room of his own. A road long traveled has reached its end. What to do, she ponders. What to do indeed. A few weeks into their new living arrangement, she gets word from her former neighbor that his dog had puppies. “Do you want one?” he asked. Taking him up on his kind gesture, with no financial attachment, she takes in a little brown pup and named her Nellie. The bitch that she was never left our mother’s side, not even when she wasn’t around. Always waiting for her mistress, either in the bedroom or by the door, she took command from mother and growled when you came around.