Childhood

 As I got older people tried to paint this narrative of me. And I a guess since my childhood home was left behind after being riddled with bullet holes, it’s easy to paint a new picture of me. Hollywood is soon becoming Pembroke Pines. And my block, which I am sure I will leave soon as well, is being bought up and renovated, painting that picture of a woman who has had a privileged life is easy. 

But that’s the furthest thing from the truth. I remember one day my mom made this post of spaghetti and hot dogs. It had tomato paste in it. It was all types of yummy. But it was a lot of us. And We grew up poor. Although that fact is being changed everyday. But anywho when my mom made this pasta she served each of us a bowl. And I got my bowl. Got my fork. Tasted the food and went to the back of the house and cried. I wanted more but I knew she couldn’t give me more. And if I asked that would make her only feel bad. So I wiped the tears from my eyes and ate the pasta and then licked the bowl like a cat licks the left over soup in its bowl. 

You see my childhood was filled with sugar on bread and butter and many laughs but many hard times too. There were moments when my mom and my sister would come together and fight me at the same time. Sometimes I’d get so scared I’d call the police. And when they came I’d say oh it’s nothing, imagine that being jumped by your mom and your sister at the same time. 

I cried about it at school and a friend of mine said Marie my dad molests me at home. I was in high school when she told me this. I didn’t know what molests meant so I told my mom, the person who was abusing my ass at home, and she repeated it over and over and over. And I always thought she was a Virgin I didn’t realize when she told he molested her that he actually had sex with her. But that were the types of issues we had at home on our blocks. 

Our homes were far from picketed. There weren’t judges there. There weren’t people with high school diplomas even on our block. But history will, against my will, portray me as a girl from the hills. Rightfully I’m a since, I am from the hills of Israel, you could say. At least I’m my past life I was. 

But nonetheless I am happy that God has not allowed me to forget where I came from as He writes my story. Hood... hmm..hood. Who can say they’re really from the hood. Who can say they’re homes from where moms jumped them along with their sister. Who can say they’re from homes where they were terrorized with the sounds of bullets coming from ak 47s? For those of you who don’t know, one bullet from an all can pierce not only your front door but that bullet will travel through your living room through the back wall to fly though the back yard. 

Now yeah I act a little ditzy. I’ve fucked white men. I’ve discarded my black men. I left the a’s off my niggers and the street off moaning when a nigga hit it from the back, but that’s because reality was often often hard. It was hard to deal with the shit you saw everyday. 

But glory to God, I have traversed the poor lands of numb, which might be rich by the time I finish writing this, but I have sat med school rooms with the rich, and I have come back to myself. I have come back to that ignant loud bitch who doesn’t give a flying shit what you think. Glory to God.