Mothers Day Can Go Straight To Hell

To hell with Mothers Day.

To hell with the idea that we can even begin to give the proper level of gratitude required for a thousand changed diapers or five-thousand sleepless nights.

Fuck this day and all the other Hallmark Holidays.

If you are one of the lucky ones, all these days accomplish is to remind you of how you will never-ever, in a thousand lifetimes, be able to pay back the trillion sacrifices that your saint of a mother made for you.

She literally gave you life!! You were an actual parasite growing inside her. You made her sick. You made her tired. And you selfishly drained the very essence from her body in your insatiable, necessary narcissism.

But it did not end when they cut the umbilical.

You kept taking and taking until the day you had no further use for her and then you casually discarded your mother for some boy or some girl or some job or whatever. And your mother stood there smiling, with her hands over her broken heart, saying how proud she was of you while she died a little more inside.

And this is as it should be.

For we know that being a mother is the most thankless of tasks, so why pretend that we are even capable of honoring those godlike figures that we call mom.

For if one is so fortunate to have a good mother, there is simply no box of chocolates or dozen roses that can ever begin to adequately express the gratitude we should feel. We simply cannot pay it back so we promise to pay it forward.

This is the deal we make with our mothers.

This is the deal we make with humanity.


But this is not why I hate Mothers Day.

I hate Mothers Day for all the people who are made to feel inadequate by this sham of a holiday. I hate it for the gay children who are living under bridges, because their mothers didn’t have the courage to stand up for their babies. I hate it for the children who are improperly touched in their own homes, because they had a mother that made excuses for an abusive man. I hate it because many of us are good at forgetting our mothers 364 days out of the year, but when we see everybody else bragging about how amazing their mothers are, we can’t help but wonder on some level why our moms aren’t like their moms.

And we maybe wonder if it was something we did wrong.

Because that is how we learned to think.

We learned that everything is our fault.

So seriously, Mothers Day can go fuck itself. The last thing some of us need is a reminder that the person that brought us into this world didn’t care enough to protect us from it.

It’d be nice to not have a precious little holiday that reminded those with good moms that they could never adequately repay her, while simultaneously reminding those with bad moms that they started out this life with a severe disadvantage.

Mothers Day, with all due respect (which is none), you can go straight to Hell.

You suck.

I don’t like you very much at all.

I don’t mean to be rude, but even Bastille Day is better and I’m not even sure what that is.

Nobody likes you.

Please go away.

You suck.

Oh did I already say that? Okay then.

Buh-bye now. Buh-bye.


Thank You, Steven Pinker

Dear Steven Pinker,

Thank you for getting me laid last night.

Somehow, as if by magic (I know it wasn’t actually magic), a beautiful woman, with whom I had been kinda, sorta in love for the past few years, showed up at my house to talk. Of course to talk. Always to talk. Not that I mind. I’m the guy that you can say anything to. The no judgment guy. The guy who is more likely to quote, well, in fact I am more likely to quote you than to tell someone that they are falling short of some imaginary ethical quota.

I’m safe.

Women talk to me.

Not to say that I have not been lucky. (I nearly said “with the ladies.”) The world has come round to guys like us over the past few decades. At some point, it became cool to be a nerd. Or perhaps it had less to do with cultural shifts and instead 13.7 billion years of causality blessed us with exceptionally large cerebral cortices, which in turn allowed us to map superior methods of relating to the fairer sex.

I don’t know.

I try not to analyze it.

But there she was, her beautiful pink lips alternately drinking red wine and telling me how her marriage was ending. And with my delight at the possibility of her freedom crashing headlong into my desire to see her safe and stable with a man who can give her many of the things that I cannot, I found seven little nonthreatening words that subtly offered sex while still maintaining the ethical high-ground of my role as makeshift marriage counselor.

“Perhaps an affair could save your marriage.”

Her reply was discouraging and delightful..

“I’ve been with my husband for ten years. The only person who I would even consider sleeping with, at this point, is Steven Pinker.”

As I refilled her wine, I shuffled my shoes gently against the carpet, hoping that the cool dry air entering in through the window might send a static charge through my body, making my graying hair a little poofier.

“Human nature is the problem, but human nature is also the solution,” I said.

She smiled ever so slightly as I resisted the urge to say, “It’s Pinker.” which, of course, would have invalidated what little cachet my line had had to begin with.

“We met over Pinker.” she reminded between sips, while slyly validating the origin of my quote. “You had mentioned him in an article and I emailed you the poem I had written about him.”

“Oh yeah and when we met for the first time I gave you The Language Instinct.” I recalled.

“And I gave you The Blank Slate, but then took it back because you already had it.”

And there she sat, telling me about the foolish man who had refused to touch her for a decade and how it had caused her to wither away into infinitesimal fractions, yet somehow finding a way to say it in a manner that defended him instead of exposing him for the ludicrous scoundrel he clearly was. And while I listened, I parallel processed how a shared love of a cognitive scientist, evolutionary psychologist, linguist, professor and polymath somehow lead these two people to be here in this room, on this pale blue dot, hurtling through space at the exact same time.

Ironically, I couldn’t stop thinking about how mystical it all seemed.

So many seemingly random variables had come together to create this moment and the lack of evolution in my simian brain made me unable and unwilling to chart the googolplex of tiny trajectories that had conspired to create this miracle of sensuality that had been so kind as to grace me with her intense and beautiful presence.

So I stopped thinking.

And I kissed her.

Thank you, Steven Pinker.

Without you I would not even know this amazing person and this incredible night would have not have been possible.

If you are ever in Indianapolis and want to grab a beer, I owe you one.

Your friend,

Michael E Sparks

(Thank you to my good friend George Dunn for providing editing on this piece. George is a writer and editor on the popular Pop Culture and Philosophy series)

My Mother Died Today


“Vicki call 9-1-1.” she said.

“What’s wrong.”

“I can’t feel my arms.”

They came…quickly…they put her in the ambulance…and she was gone.

She died on the way to the hospital.

This is the part where I am supposed to tell you what an amazing mother she was, but she struggled with this role.

She was an abused child and like most abused children the gaping wounds left from childhood oozed all over everything she tried to love.

That is something she and I had in common.

I remember her telling me that she wished I had been a girl.

“When I found out you were a boy, I tried to leave you at the hospital, but they didn’t want you either.”

I was five the first time she told me that.

When I was four, I awoke to a party she was having.

I sleepily stumbled out to the living room where she put a joint up to my lips and told me to “breathe in”.

I did and all the adults laughed.

I don’t remember anything after that.

In her defense, it WAS the 70s.

I have a million stories like this, but I am not angry with her.

I love her.

I used to be angry with her, but years of therapy guided me down those dark corridors and I realize that she never meant to hurt me.

And even though some people would say that she never loved me, I know that she did…the best that she knew how.

The men she brought into my life.

The men who would beat me and beat her…

She didn’t do this because she didn’t love me.

She did it because she wanted to be loved.

These predators could sense her desperation and they would come in, all smiles and kindness and then hit her and make fun of her weight problem.

They sensed that her loyalty to me was weak so they abused me with abandon.

I was an easy target.

A tiny, malnourished child with an abyss where my self-esteem should have been.

I used to lie under my bed, covered in blood from the latest beating, by the latest boyfriend, waiting for her to come and pull me out and hold me and tell me that she loved me and would protect me.

And I waited…and waited…and my heart grew hard and my veins filled with rage.

I became a force.

I would see one of her boyfriend’s hitting her and I would run full speed with whatever I could get my hands on, scale their backs and attack.

I was tiny and it didn’t take long for the men to knock me unconscious, but at least they stopped hitting her.

The men would leave, denouncing us both as crazy and she would tell me that my attack had cost her the man who loved her.

“If I have to choose between him and you, I choose him.” she would always say.

By the time I was a teenager I not only hated her, I hated anything that looked like her or where we came from.

I hated trailer parks and alcohol.

I hated poor people and obesity.

I hated the ignorant, stupid people I ran into everywhere I went, because they reminded me of what I had escaped from.

So why am I crying now?

Why do I wish things would have turned out differently?

Why do I wish I could have been with her to hold her as she passed?

Why do I wish I could have given her the tenderness those other men didn’t have the courage to give?

Because she was a good woman and she was doing her best.

She left me with people who molested me, but I know she wished she hadn’t.

She let me sleep in cars and on park benches and go days at a time without eating, but I know she wished she hadn’t.

I know she would have done better if she wasn’t so broken by her own childhood.

All she ever wanted was a man to love her.

A man who thought she was pretty.

She, like me, wanted someone to pull her bloodied body out from under the bed and take care of her.

And because no one ever did, she spent her life compromising her values, praying that someone would.

I realized all this about her when I was 19 in a therapy session.

It hit me suddenly and with great force.

And gradually the anger started to slip away.

I am not “healed”.

Overcoming abuse is something we never finish.

It is with me every day and I have been told by many therapists that the trauma will always be part of me.

Once my anger subsided I went to visit her, after years of being estranged.

She was suddenly very old and non threatening.

Her health problems all seemed to catch her at once.

She was mellow…and she had found a decent man.

She was happy.

My therapist advised me to get closure by talking with her about the abuse.

She said it never happened.

She said my father and her boyfriend’s had beaten me, but she never had.

She said she would have defended me, had she known they were doing it.

She denied all responsibility.

She denied saying all the horrible things that ripped out my heart and echoed in my mind for years.

As a consequence, I felt disconnected from her.

Like she was some strange old lady who I had just met.

Why wouldn’t she just admit it, so we could talk about it?

A few times as a parent I caught myself saying something jagged to one of my kids and I would stop and say “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that.”

Then a year ago, my son Dravin and I were arguing and I said something really awful to him.

I immediately teared up and said “I’m so sorry.” and he walked away and closed his door.

I followed him into his room.

“What I said had NOTHING to do with you. It’s a shadow of something else.”

The phone rang.

It was my mom.

I usually didn’t answer when she called but I picked up the phone crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is I just treated my son the way you treated me?! I have spent my entire life trying to be better than that!! And I fucking hate myself right now! But I can’t hate myself!! Because if I do it will just lead to more compromises!! I know you didn’t abuse me mom!! I know you don’t believe that you did, but YOU DID and I deal with it everyday and it makes me afraid of people and it makes me not able to sleep at night and it shows up in my most important relationships and wrecks them and now it just caused me to be mean to my son and I can’t let THAT happen!! I won’t..”

“Hey.” she said softly “I’m sorry.”

I paused for a long time.

“Sorry for what?” I asked.

“For how I treated you. And how I let others treat you. Believe it or not, I didn’t know any better.”

“I know you didn’t, Mom. I figured that out a long time ago.”

When we hung up Dravin said “What did she say?”

“She said she was sorry.” I said “And I’m sorry, Dravin.”

And we hugged for a very long time.

How to Break Your Own Heart in 10 Easy Steps or The Metallic Taste of Irony


A few weeks ago I changed my relationship status on Facebook and for some reason it sent an alert out to hundreds of people.

This doesn’t happen.

Facebook doesn’t send updates for changed relationship statuses.

And aren’t we all grateful for that.

We all have that one person on our list whose relationship status changes every other Tuesday or sometimes three times in the same day.

So the fact that Facebook decided to send out an alert to the world about my new relationship showed that this was indeed MOMENTOUS.

Let me first point out that I have been single for three years.

I tend to STAY single.

No one really “gets” me.

I don’t go around looking for love.

I am a very happy person.

I like my friends, my kids and my guitars.

And I won’t settle.

And I won’t lie to girls.

I NEVER lead anyone on.

That’s how I sleep at night.

“Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid.” – Basil King

So why the relationship status change?

Before I answer that I want to talk to you about faith, gratitude and how the universe works (check out the ego on this guy!)

Before I begin, I want to say that I do not think that you have to believe in a god, in any traditional sense in order to use the powerful forces that lie within each and every one of us.

I do not follow any new age religions or burn candles or hold crystals, but I DO pray.

In fact I pray a lot.

In fact I find myself praying pretty much ALL THE TIME. (this is relevant to my story so indulge me, okay?)

I am a man of science and it has been shown that directing thought energy is important to goal attainment.

But there is something more to it.

Every time I set a goal and take steps to achieve it’s attainment, amazing things begin to happen.

You can dismiss this as confirmation bias if you want.

I have no proof on either side.

Nor do I have an agenda.

But what I do know is that there is a magic formula for life that basically consists of

1) Declare what you want

2) Have faith that you will receive it

3) Work like crazy for it’s attainment

4) Watch for the door(s) that will open for you and step through them (shortcuts to attainment)

A lot of new age literature skips steps 3 and 4, and without hard work and paying attention, faith means nothing.


Let’s talk about faith for minute.  (for those of you who have had your attention span destroyed by social media please feel free to skip to the next section)

Faith is one of those words that has been watered down by religion.

Let’s reclaim it as our own, because it is a powerful word and I can’t find a suitable word to replace it.

Faith is powerful.

It is the antithesis of fear.

It means, to have absolute certainty about an outcome.

It is not like hope.

Hope is weak. Hope wants.

Faith knows.

Faith believes.

It is not the same as wishing.

Wishing is wishy washy.

It is weak.

Wishing and hoping are for little kids.

If you want to be big-time then you gotta have faith, a faith, a faith. You gotta have faith.

When one has faith in something, the faith should immediately be joined with gratitude.

Because if you believe 100% that you will attain the goal, then it is only a matter of work multiplied by time until the goal is attained.

Therefore in a sense you already have the outcome you seek.

It is right up there ahead of you, waiting to be claimed.

So declare your goal, start working and be grateful.


Because I met a girl…

I met a girl who rocked my world.

I met her at a party.

She left the party with me and we connected in a huge way.

In a way I have never connected with another human being.

She kept saying that I was “Amazing!!” and that she “Was so glad that she met me.”

I felt the exact same way about her.

Mind blown.

Cats and dogs living together.


Black holes colliding forming super-massive black holes.

Time to reevaluate what I thought I knew.

Two days later I was praying about it.

I always say something like “If it is meant to be, than please help me to do the right things to make it occur.”, but as I was praying this I was struck with an epiphany!

The revelation that came to me was “It IS meant to be if you WILL it to be. You know you are the best person for her. You know you can love her in ways that no other can. You know you can support her goals and dreams and be positive for her. So YOU decide if it is meant to be.”

It was very clear and very powerful.

So I asked her out and as I had 100% faith in my ability to be the best possible man for her, I changed my relationship status, because I knew that I wanted to be focused completely on her.

I had been given this amazing opportunity and I didn’t want anything to distract me.

A girl at my work who I was about to ask out, I decided not to ask out.

The women in my life who I had been “seeing”, I told them about her.

I wanted to burn my bridges, not hedge my bets.

I wanted to act out of faith and I wanted to do something I hate to do.

I wanted to be vulnerable.

She was worth gambling on.

She was worth any pain that I may open myself up to.


There is no way I can convey how magical it was.

It was absolutely the greatest date of my life.

I didn’t stop smiling for six hours.

She said repeatedly that she couldn’t believe how lucky she was to meet me.

I thought how one day I would tell her that I was actually in love with her from the moment we met, but I couldn’t say that now (I may be crazy, but I recognize crazy talk when it tries to escape my mouth)

Six hours later when I dropped her off she invited me up.

I did not want to have sex with her…not yet.

I just wanted to hold her.

So I said “I’m just going to hug you and make sure you get into your apartment okay.”

As the hug ended, she said “I am so glad we’re friends.”

I was confused…

As I drove away, I thought how I never can figure out life.

How I think I know who I am and what I want and how life can just be turned upside down by the miracle that is this one amazing person.

I looked forward to the opportunity of being this ROCK in her life.

I imagined being her safe place.

I imagined being the one person who she could trust and depend on.

I knew I was worthy to earn that place in her life.

I imagined saying to her “You made me want things that I never wanted before, because until I met you, I didn’t know those things were possible. I want to play music with you (she is a musician also) and I want to be your best friend for as long as you will let me be and if you will be my girlfriend, I promise to never introduce you as my girlfriend, because I know you hate that and I totally understand why you hate that and you will always be way, way, way, way more than that.”

I imagined us breaking all the rules about mixing love and work and being on tour together.

My best friend, my girlfriend and my drummer all in one.

I guess I dream big, huh?


So days go by and she is not responding to my texts.

I asked her out again with no reply.

Finally I receive a text from her that says “I do want to see you again. I am just having trouble with my phone.”

The grapevine confirms that she is not playing games.

She really IS having trouble with her phone.

She is sending messages and people aren’t receiving them.

Days pass…

I think of other ways I can communicate with her.

I do something crazy.

I send flowers to her work.

A few hours later a mutual friend is on my porch.

I said “I know why you are here and I know this is hard for you so I’ll just say the words so you don’t have to. She doesn’t like me the way I like her. You are here to tell me to back off.”

I have seen enough eighties movies that I really expected him to say “No. She is crazy about you. But she is also scared and doesn’t know what to do…”

But he didn’t say that…

He said “Yeah. She thinks you are awesome, but she doesn’t like you THAT way.”

Heart shatters into a million tiny pieces.

I was totally cool with the ache in my chest.

I know how life works.

I know that heartache is fuel for art and empathy.

It was refreshing to know that I could feel that way, because honestly I didn’t think I could like anyone THAT way.

So now as I pick up the pieces and fit them into songs here and there, I am overwhelmed with gratitude because my heart shattered from being stretched past it’s breaking point.

And I will piece it back together.

And it will be stronger than ever.

And I am just grateful to know that this amazing person is out there and she is so strong that I don’t have to worry about her, like I worry about so many of my female friends.

My consolation prize is the same as always.

Women who are kind enough to let me stay in their beds until real love comes along for them and I can write a million more songs about rage and heartache.

The metallic taste of irony in my mouth, as I think of all the amazing women, that I couldn’t fall in love with, no matter how much I wished I could and the one who I actually did, who couldn’t feel that way about me.

It’s ironic…dontcha think?

Satan, Aliens and Pizza Delivery


When you are stoned…

Someone knocking on the door is an INTENSE experience.

I am not saying that I have ever smoked pot in the privacy of my own home.

I’m not some kind of crazy outlaw!!

But I did deliver pizza to stoners for many years and I would knock intentionally hard just to freak them out.

There would always be a discussion on the other side of the door…

and sometimes…

if you listened close you would hear..

“Hey! Someone’s at the door…”

Each word descending in volume as the speakers drug addled mind went from being startled to completely mortified, to the point where he thought hiding and being completely silent was the best way to deal with THE THING AT THE DOOR.

Then after a long pause the second voice would whisper-yell

“Did you invite someone over?!”

At which point I would revel in knocking a second time, this one more ominous and harder than before and then innocently step back into the shadows.

On the other side of the door, all parties entertain the most forbidden thoughts.

One person fears it is the police.

Another person fears it is their parents!

And another person fears it is actually a MONSTER!!

And finally…

After some very quiet discussion involving several voices, they all come to the door together, open it cautiously and see nothing…

I step out of the shadows with a huge smile on my face.

There is fear.

Followed by recognition.

Then relief!

The pizza man..

Deliverer of dreams.

Not the cops.

Not your father.

Not a monster!

An angel bringing pizza!!

I would bathe in their adulation and say things like “Your total is twenty-six dollars and twenty-SATAN cents.”

The key was to say everything at the same volume and rhythm, to where the subliminal word you insert sounds completely natural.

This would cause each of them to look at one another wondering if anyone else had heard the word SATAN from the pizza man and then eventually dismiss the thought as insane or to hold onto it tightly, thinking that perhaps Satan was communicating with them and only them.

They would give me $40 and tell me to “Just keep it.”

“It is better to over-tip, just in case the pizza-man actually IS Satan.” they collectively think.

I would say “Thank you. POLICE RAID you fellas have a nice night.”

Occasionally one of them would say “Hey. Did you say POLICE RAID?”

I would say “No. I said BE SAFE. But funny you bring that up. Did you hear about all the police raids going on in this area?”

“No.” the head-stoner would answer.

Then in a tone that became more ominous as I spoke I would say.

“Oh yeah. They come in the middle of the night. They kick in doors. They use concussion and flash grenades. It’s all part of the governors new program to eliminate marijuana usage in our city. And the crazy thing is. They are not taking the people to jail. No one knows where they are taking them. People are just disappearing.”

Then switching to my most festive voice I would say

“Well. ALIENS talkin’ to you. I gotta go! Have a GRAVE night.”

And with that, I would drive away into the night, smiling, knowing that I had made an impact on these young men.

Knowing that they would have amazing conversations about sounds they heard outside and that the tv would be muted and things would be hidden and that when they woke up in the morning, they would appreciate the beautiful fact that they were alive and had not yet disappeared.

When I Was Five I Lived In a Lion’s Mouth


When I was five years old I lived inside a lion’s mouth for a few days.

My mom and dad would stand in front of our house and watch me walk to the opposite end of the block where my school was.

I stood in front of the gigantic school and felt sick and tiny.

The twin stone lions on either side of the door horrified me.

But what was on the other side of the double doors, whatever it was, was far scarier than lions, or even my parents.

So I would walk up and stand behind one of the lions and pretend to tie my shoe (something I didn’t actually know how to do).

And when no one was looking, I would scurry up the lion’s back and climb into the lion’s mouth, where no one could see me, as long as I was lying down.

I would stay there until I heard the kids leaving and then I would climb out and walk back towards my house, where my parents would be standing, waiting for me to come home.

Eventually they caught me.

They wanted me to see a therapist.

They asked me what I was afraid of and I told them honestly.

“Everything” I said.

I have been very lucky.

Throughout my life I have had a series of therapists who have been able to work through the immense damage that came from what I now realize was an abusive childhood.

Usually it was just a school therapist who spoke with me, but I was forced into therapy at the age of 12, a result of my mother getting a court order against me.

I was arrested, taken to a juvenile detention center, forced to see a probation officer monthly and had to attend counseling each week as part of my probation.

The charge against me was something called incorrigibility.

In other words, I was a bad kid.



beyond correction, reform, or alteration
My probation officer, Jody, would not allow my mom into the sessions with me.
The first thing Jody said to me was “I don’t believe you are a bad kid. I have some other theories, having met your mother. I know this may sound strange, but would you be willing to take your shirt off?”
A small part of me wondered if this was another adult using me for some weird sexual pleasure, but when she saw me with my shirt off, her face reflected sadness, concern and fear.
She asked me who did this to me.
I didn’t answer.
She swore she could protect me.
I told her that it was my mother and her boyfriend.
She asked if she could photograph me and told me that she would document the photos.
She told me that she would see me weekly.
She explained that by seeing me weekly that it would ensure that they couldn’t injure me, because the wounds wouldn’t have time to heal.
I was skeptical, but wanted to believe her.
Jody asked my mom to come into her office and asked me to wait outside.
My mother was a master of crying and playing the victim.
Everywhere we went people hugged her and told her how brave she was for being such a good mother to such an awful kid.
I believed them too.
I wondered why I was such an awful kid.
I wished my mom had a good son.
So I was confused as to the yelling coming from Jodi’s office.
Why was my probation officer telling my mother that she would put her in jail if she saw “one more mark” on me?
My mother’s facade came crumbling down and the name-calling I had grown accustomed to was now being directed at this authority figure.
I remember Jody telling my mom that she “has seen a thousand mom’s play this poor me act” and that “she wasn’t fooled.”
And my life began to change.
They stopped hitting me.
As they could no longer hit me, they stopped talking to me pretty much entirely.
I still heard the conversations in the kitchen.
The conversations where my mom commiserated with her friends about how awful I was.
And I continued to believe them.
But, I really looked forward to my weekly visits with Jody.
We would play cards and talk about my home life and my future.
I felt safe in her office.
At the end of a year my probation was up, but she renewed it telling the judge that I still was not reformed.
My mom and her boyfriend still hit me, but they were limited in what they could do.
Most of it was just grabbing me by my “faggot long hair” and dragging me around and smacking me with open hands. (fists often times left bruises and opened wounds, whereas smacking left a mark that was gone within an hour usually).
When I was 15, I was jumped by a bunch of kids at the new school (I switched schools every few months due to our constant evictions and subsequent moving around).
When I came home my mom and her boyfriend were concerned, not about me, but about how the bruises and lacerations would get them into trouble with Jody.
I told them that I would tell her that they had nothing to do with it.
“So what did you do to deserve it?” her boyfriend asked.
“I was just standing there.” I said, escaping into my room.
By morning my face was so swollen that I could barely breathe.
They took me to the hospital, blaming me all the way there for being a “faggot” and “having long hair”, which was what had caused the beating, according to them.
Jaw was broke…wired shut…8 weeks without food…weight loss (I dropped from 130 to 110 lbs).
Assaults at school increased.
Kids called me oil can, after the tin-man on The Wizard of Oz, because I couldn’t open my mouth.
The guidance counselor actually told me that she wanted me to quit school.
“This place is dangerous for you.” she said.
“Isn’t it your job to protect me?” I thought.
And then she said something that blows my mind every time I think about it.
“High-school isn’t for everyone she said.”
So I stopped going.
I would walk that direction in the morning, but there where no lions at this school.
I would just walk around and wait until my house was empty and then I would climb into my second story window and play my guitar.
One day my mother came home early.
I heard her milling around.
I got into my closet and closed the door.
I heard her come into my room.
I heard her looking around.
Then the closet door opened.
She dragged me out by my hair.
I escaped.
I ran down the hall and into the kitchen.
She was right behind me.
She got me trapped against the sink and started hitting me.
She forgot about Jody.
It was just like old times.
My mother was more than twice my size.
Her huge fists rained down on my head and I covered up like a defeated boxer.
My back was against the sink.
The knives from the strainer were digging into my skin.
And I panicked.
And I hit my mother.
She lie on the linoleum, clinching her face.
A look of shock and horror on her face.
I knew I had to get out, fast.
I ran to my room and grabbed my guitar and took off out the door, her screaming behind me about how I was going to jail.
I stole a bike and rode it for hours.
I had a friend, Donald, who lived in a neighboring city who I knew would take me in.
In retrospect, I am amazed that I was able to ride a little kids bike 40 miles.
It had a banana seat and the tires were kind of flat.
If I sat down my knees hit the handlebars, so I had to ride standing up.
It took me about seven hours to get to Donald’s house and it rained hard the last two hours.
When I arrived at Donald’s house, he and his sister took me in, no questions asked.
Donald’s sister was so nurturing.
She told me to take off my wet clothes and she wrapped me in a warm blanket and put me in bed.
I fell asleep, immediately.
I lived with Donald for three months.
We were thugs.
We did all the things you expect bad kids to do and after a few months of this we were arrested.
When my mom and her boyfriend came to pick me up, I refused to go with them.
I was in a regular adult jail cell, as they had not yet processed me.
There was nothing in it except for a toilet and a cot.
The officer came into the cell and said “If you don’t go with them you will have to stay in this cell until your trial. That could be months from now.”
“They will kill me.” I told him. “They will actually kill me.”
He went out and said “I am not going to release him to you.”
They argued.
He said “I have never seen a kid who is more afraid of his parents than he is of a jail cell. Something isn’t right.”
They lost their cool and the name-calling started up again.
He told them that he had other cells that he could put them in.
They left.
He brought me magazines.
He brought me print-outs on emancipation.
He made phone calls for me.
He talked my grandparents into taking me in.
He saved me.
I never went back to that tiny apartment.
And I was too large to fit into the lion’s mouth.
Everything was new.
No one was there to hit me.
Or tell me how much I sucked.
No one was there to break my guitar.
No one was there at all.
And it was perfect.

Wednesday Afternoon at the Laundry and Tan


“Girl, I know I’m fine! I’ve got five different restraining orders against five different guys!”

I continued separating whites from colors, feeling like a laundry racist.

I scanned the place inconspicuously to find the source of the comment.

A girl, perhaps 19, (honestly I can’t tell anymore) along with her friend, approximately the same age (I guess) were folding laundry at the next bank of machines.

Her friend replied “You shouldn’t have gotten that restraining order against Carlos. Girl, he is fine!”

“It don’t matter. He still comes over. He hit me up last night and I was like ‘You better leave me alone of I’ll get you locked up again.”

“Girl, you crazy. I thought you was with Jamal last night.”

With this she bent over to pick up a runaway sock.

Her shirt rode up, revealing her tan lower back and tattoo, made up of indecipherable writing

I weighed the pros and cons of becoming restraining order number six.

“I was with Jamal last night! That’s why I told Carlos to fuck off!”

“Girl, your love life sure is complicated.”

“Duh! That’s why I need so many restraining orders! Without them, I be havin mothuhfuckuhs comin by all day and night. Remember when DeShawn came by and Andre was over? Andre got locked up for three months for that shit. Violated his probation and everything. Then he got out and just came by. I didn’t even know he was out. He and Reggie got into a fight and he went right back to jail. Girl, I miss Andre. Sometimes I think he is the one.”

I dumped detergent into the washer, inserted six quarters and pretended to read.

“Andre is the one for a lot of people.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?!”

“Just that I know a girl, who said her sister is Andre’s baby mama and I know another girl who says the same thing.”

“Of course he got a lot of kids! Haven’t you ever seen any nature shows, girl?!”

“What do nature shows have to do with you and Andre?”

“Girl, people are just like lions. He is the dominant male and I am the dominant female. That’s why he got so many baby mamas and I got so many restraining orders.”

“Oh, I never thought of it that way.”

“Girl, it’s a good thing you pretty, because you sure is dumb. Let’s get outta here. I gotta get ready.”

“For what?”

“Whatchu think?! I got a date!”

“With Malik?”

“Girl, where you been? Malik and I broke up last week. You haven’t met this one yet. His name is Reggie and he is rich!”

“What he do?”

“I don’t know, but I think he might be the one.”

“What about Andre?”

“What about Andre?! Andre gone!”

“Girl, your love life sure is complicated.”