Red Dawn

A voice announces over a loud speaker, “Make a right at the first hallway.  Turn left.  Shut the door behind you.”  Now I can see her face through the window.  This is the same voice that directed me all the way from the other annex. As I step into the two-man cell, the metal bars clank shut behind me. 

The blond-headed prison guard in the disk-shaped bubble tells me to shut the heavy glass door of the cell. They call her the “bubble-bitch”.  She sees and hears everything.  The bubble has windows for walls so she can have a 360 degree view of all the cells.  There are speakers all around the prison.  There are cameras everywhere too; that is how they direct us prisoners through the maze-like hallways.   The prisoners and prison guards have a symbiotic sort of relationship that is built on power, and a lack of trust

 There are five common areas in unit 9.  Each area houses 60 prisoners who dwell in two-man cells.  The cell is a 10X10 room.  There is one metal toilet with one little metal sink next to a little metal table which sits next to a little metal bunk bed.  There is one small rectangular window up high in the far corner next to the upper bunk.  That is where I’ll be sleeping, above the red-headed woman who is now sitting upright, politely waiting to greet me.  The heavy door echoes as it slams shut.  It’s stuffy in here and smells like urine.  I feel the stale air surround me and long for the wind once more.  My cell-mate adjusts her glasses to get a better look at me.  I figure I better speak up first so as not to appear self-righteous or rude.

“Hi, I’m Michelle.  I’ll be your new roommate for a while.” I hold my hand out to shake the outstretched hand before me.

“Welcome to hell.  You can call me Red Dawn,” replies the middle-aged woman in a matching orange uniform.  Her face is hardened with wrinkles from what appears to have been formed from a hard life and too much sun.  She gets up and pulls open a drawer from beneath her bed and tells me to put my jail-things in it.  “You don’t mind taking the top bunk, do you?  I would, but I’m afraid I might fall out and break my head open,” she says apologetically.

I prefer the top bunk since it’s by the window so I thank her.  “How long have you been in here?” I ask.  She sighs and walks over to the table which is covered with newspapers.  “I’ve been here for so long I’ve lost track.”  After we make a little small talk, she tells me that she has work to do and proceeds to read the paper, underlining and marking up the pages like she is trying to figure out some sort of code.  I make my bed and try to go to sleep.  After a moment of silence she starts talking again:

“My birthday is on the third, and today is the third.  I was born on Pirate’s day.  Have you ever heard  of that?”  Before I can answer she tells me about how she was born to be an angel and that her reason for being here is to make the world a better place.  She tells me that angels speak to her all the time, and how devoted she is to God.  I smile and think she is sweet and schizophrenic.  But, I too am a devoted Christian so we connect on that level.

“Let’s call in the angels and I’ll say a prayer before I go to sleep.” I say dreamily.  She tells me how she talks to them all the time so there is no need to call them in, for they are always here.  Then she starts to tell me about demons and how they mess with her life.  She shows me the metal plate in her head and says she got it from being in the military after aliens abducted her right before she got into a car accident.  Her voice sounds like frightened little girl’s as she retells the story. I tell her that it’s all going to be all right.   Red Dawn turns and eyes me suspiciously:

“You look like that bitch my husband ran off with.  She had long blond hair just like you…looked like a little Barbie doll.” Her nostrils flare as she speaks.

I tell her that I am married and encourage her to not confuse me with her husband’s mistress, explaining in lay terms how we project our prejudices onto other people.  She switches back to the innocent little girl demeanor and tells me that she likes me.  I tell her that I like her too.  She offers to give me her dog and some money when she gets out.   

Psychology is a special interest of mine so I’m pretty tolerant toward the mentally ill.  I think she is not used to people being so nice to her. She tells me that she wants me to write a story about her someday.  I find this request no less odd than the rest of the conversation so I entertain the idea.  I’m actually quite fascinated with the alien story that she described so vividly.  I’m tired though so I tell her that I need some sleep.  After a few moments of silence she speaks in a different voice, one that doesn’t sound like the former voice of a sweet, little girl.

“I’m a good fighter.  It feels good to hit.” I open my eyes and turn my head cautiously.  She is standing right next to me now, her head is level with mine, and I see her face contort to different dimensions.  “I killed a few people before and I never got caught because I work for the military.” She boasts, “I am way beyond mind-control.” Thumping her fist to her heart she proclaims triumphantly, “I let them come into me.” 

 “No Red Dawn.” I say in disbelief.  
“Oh please God!  No, Red Dawn, no, what are you doing?” 

 She smirks and says mischievously, 

 “You think men are mean? 

 She shakes her head and huffs, 
 “Women can be way more vicious than men.”  
I start shaking from the flight-or-fight adrenaline.  There is no way out of here so I try to appeal to her former self, 
“Red Dawn, this is not you.  You were born to be an angel!” 

She switches again into the baby doll mode.  She tells me that she was molested and how they tried to make her evil.  I call her sweetie and talk to her like she is a little girl.  She is rocking on the bed with her knees to her chest and crying softly, “I don’t want to hurt you Michelle.  I’m sorry.” 

I tell her it’s going to be all right and press the intercom button.  Not wanting to upset her, I tell the guard that I’m having a panic attack and I need to get out.  She refuses.  Red Dawn is shaking her head and telling me that they won’t let me out.  I press the button again but the guard doesn’t respond.  After pleading and sobbing for help I change my story and tell her that my cell-mate is having a seizure, which is partially true.  Red Dawn told me at one point that she couldn’t see and that she was having a headache right before her voice changed.  She said her seizures occur because she is diabetic.  I think she has multiple personalities and was showing typical signs of disassociation prior to a split.  My only hope is to keep talking to her, asking her to forgive me and not to hurt me so she doesn’t change again. 

Red Dawn tells me that it’s not the guard’s fault: “They’re just doing what they’re trained to do.  They don’t mean no harm.” She tells me how guards are all connected and some of the prisoners work with them as well.  She warns me of how they hear and see everything. I bang on the glass door as hard as I can with my foot.  The whole wall shakes and the other prisoners are shouting to the guard to let me out.  “Call in the Angels!” I cry out faithfully.

Red Dawn tells me calmly, 
“Tell her that you are going to commit suicide.  That is a code word.”  I go back to the intercom and shout that I’m going to hurt myself.  The guard asks me to repeat that.  I say, “I am going to commit suicide if you do not open this door.”  The guard snaps back, “Okay, just hold tight and we’re going to take you to the nurse.”

Two guards show up a minute later and take me to the nurse.  I try to explain what happened but they don’t listen.  They are mad that I faked a suicide threat.  They threaten to put me in with the lesbians or black women if I refuse to go back into the cell with Red Dawn.  I tell them to do it and warn them of the repercussions if I get hurt.  They don’t believe that Red Dawn would ever hurt anyone.

“Well, she might hurt you accidentally if she has a seizure, but she would never hurt anyone on purpose.” The male guard with her agrees with the female guards absurd logic. I feel like I am in the twilight zone.  Careful not to be too assertive, I try to reason with tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum.  After several minutes of one of the most inane conversations of my entire life, they finally threaten me with a tazor gun.  I point out all the witnesses around us and tell them that if I do get hurt, they will be held responsible because they could have prevented it. They finally agree to put me in a suicide unit.  

Two female guards strip-search me.  They laugh while they tell me to get into positions.  I play along and smile, bend down low like a stripper to shut them up.   Angry that they lost some sense of power, they throw me roughly into solitary confinement where I am naked and harassed by mocking guards every so often. It's been over 24 hours and I still haven't been able to make my phone call.  The lines were down they said.  A supervising, male, guard walks by and asks why I lied about being suicidal.  He taunts me from the other side of the window and tells me that I am worse off in here.  I tell him that I’m just operating on survival mode and I’ll do anything I have to in order to stay alive.  He laughs like a cowboy. As he walks away I here him mimic me, “Survival Mode she says...We’re all operating on survival mode.”

Ode to my Beater

Ode to My Beater

Crumbled leaves, matted hair, and dust

Sticking to my center console rust;

The Chaos of Neglect;

A rejected mess.

Forget the fluff,

Forget the fuss,

Ignore the buzz,

It luh-huvs the hums of bums,

The trees, The PhD’s, 

The Spirits of Pedestrians, 

Mounting, Trekking, up and down streets,

Strolling moms eat some crust.  

Only Children can ride in here.

They laugh and call it the “Seaweed Car”.

A noble name for such a vehicle!

When rainstorms leave willow strands,

And bee flowers pour syrup…

Upon my window panes and doors;

The Décor is so Demonstrative.

A spectacle, fit for a parade.

I smile and drive on by,

Obliviously sometimes…

Glossy cars keep their distance.

An ant crawls up my dashboard.

He creeps and seeps into the air vent.

A major Gross Focus.

.

I look away to forget it’s there.

Where is it going?

Oh, who cares.

I let it live.

Altruism or Heathenism…

I could have killed it.

It revs a self-righteous cleanse.

Wiper mist hits front ends.

My mockery of a jalopy pretends.

 Those cars are his friends.

The Prius,

The Tahoe,

The Mercedes-Benz;

Fends for itself.

On highways my Volvo cruises,

Like Medusa on a unicycle.

On a cycle path for bikes,

Participants swerve past,

Murmuring lambast.

Chicken neck sticks between us;

Obligatory pecking stares…

We blend into trucks.

We Know,

We should try harder,

Try to get further ahead,

Try to get it together,

But here we are instead.

Driving in the suicide lane,

Doing our best,

Enjoying the scene like it’s some sort of fest.

When the KKK Comes to Town

Every year the Ku Klux Klan marches through my neighborhood.  Last year the news crew followed them past our house. Tommy and Mark were on the news waving hello.  I can hear them bragging about it from across the street.  Those are my sister’s friends over there sitting on the brick bungalow porch.  She is five years older than me so they don’t usually associate with us younger kids.  Today is unlike any other day.  All the kids in the neighborhood have the same thing on their mind; White Power. Everyone seems closer to one another today; more familiar.  My sister’s friends call us “Stoners” because we listen to Metallica and heavy metal music.  They think we’re weird and immature. We think they listen to boring music and spend too much time feathering their hair.  Today, we don’t notice our differences as much as we recognize our similarities. 

There are at least 50 teenagers on my block.  Most of them live further away but they came to visit some friends.  I live down the street from Marquette Park. The Southwest side of Chicago is segregated into four areas.  West Lawn is where the upper class White kids live. Evergreen Park is an inter-racial neighborhood.  That is where most of the city workers and Irish people live. Chicago teachers, cops, and firemen are required to reside within the city so they go to Evergreen Park because it is the closest thing to suburban living.  There are nicer houses and better schools in the Southwest suburbs of Chicago than there are in the Southwest side of the city.  Marquette Park is a blue-collar, White neighborhood. A few blocks down is Western Avenue.  That is where the niggers live.  They are moving closer toward Marquette Park.

The politicians want to force integration.  They are giving incentives to Blacks who purchase homes in this area.  The property value is going down as a repercussion.  Real estate value has been declining every year since the de-segregation program begun.  The schools are more overcrowded too.  Homeowners worry about losing out financially and seeing their neighborhoods disintegrate.  There is an old joke around here that goes, “How do you get rid of dandelions in your front lawn?”  The answer is that you plant a black dandelion and watch the others move away. 

When I was in second grade they bused in the first Black student as part of an inter-district program to end segregation.  He was so bullied that he finally transferred. He was a fourth-grader.  One day I saw some kids picking on him and I felt sorry for him so I tried to help him out.  Mrs. Whitman, my former first grade teacher, witnessed the whole incident.  Mrs. Whitman is Black too.  She beamed at me proudly and told me that I was a good girl.   I didn’t consider her to be like the other niggers that I had heard so much about.  She was always praising me. My own mother didn’t see all the good in me that Mrs. Whitman had seen and for that reason I called her “Mom”.  My best friend at the time, Pilar Moreno, called her “Mom” too.  I wrote letters to Mrs. Whitman up until I was in 6^th grade.  My parents transferred me to a Lutheran school in 7^th grade because I was so bad. 

Now that I think about it, all of my teachers at Marquette were Black.  Mrs. Leroy, my second grade teacher was Black.  She was evil if there is such a thing as that.  She made us duck-walk around the room when we didn’t do our homework.  If we didn’t recite our times tables fast enough, she made us hold up dictionaries until our arms gave out from exhaustion. I hated school back then but luckily I got Mrs. Whitman again in third grade and enjoyed school for a little while longer.  She would have promoted me past second grade if I had done my homework in first grade.  Instead, she gave the promotion to Jennifer Phillips who was much more studious and well behaved.  Plus, she wore thick bifocals that made her look real smart.   Now I regret not getting promoted because if I had been, I’d be a sophomore in high school. 

After third grade I got Mrs. Grider.  She was Black too.  There was a Black boy in the class as well but he left because he got picked on too much.  In fifth grade I had Mrs. Mosley.  She was Black.   She was pretty nice too.  In sixth grade I had Mr. Douglass.  He was an old Black man with a salt and pepper afro.  He always kept a pack of “Kool” cigarettes in his front shirt pocket. One day he caught me reading a “Truly Tasteless Jokes” paperback.  He took it from me, pointed to the racial jokes, and asked me what my parents would think if they knew I was reading it.  I told him that my dad bought it for me when he took me to the used book store.  I went on to tell him where the bookstore was located to prove to him that I wasn’t lying.  I told him how awesome the bookstore was too in hopes that we could change the subject.  All books were priced between ten cents and a quarter.  I think I got that book for a dime.  He tossed the book back on my desk and shook his head.  Back then I used to draw pictures of demons on my desk. He probably thought I was a troubled kid so left me alone.  He didn’t make me erase it because he said that the artwork was really good and I actually think that he meant it. There are more than a dozen Black students attending Marquette Elementary right now, plus there are many Hispanic kids being bused in from other districts.  There is much hostility over this de-segregation program and that is another reason why my parents wanted me to transfer to a private school.  The public school system was considered to be of low-grade quality and rapidly declining.

I graduated from Nativity of our Blessed Virgin Mary Elementary School this year. I hated that school.  I didn’t make any friends there.  Father Andrew was a child molester and I got into arguments with Sister Helen on a weekly basis. They gave me a real hard time for reasons I didn't understand at the time.  I guess I was just different so they looked on me with suspicion.  After the summer I will be attending Maria High School. Sister Helen told my dad that she was so surprised I passed the entrance exam.  My dad told me that he didn’t realize that it was such a hard exam.  He seemed proud of this fact.  I never told him that I tried to fail the exam so I could go to a public high school.

As I sit here reminiscing about all the Black people I’ve ever known throughout my life, and as I ponder about how much I loathe school, my friends and I are sitting on the front porch waiting for the KKK rally to begin.  Someone yells, “A paddy wagon!  C’mon let’s go, they’re here.” Everyone runs toward California Street where people are now swarming in mass hordes.  People are shouting or chanting, beer bottles are clinging, and mullets are waving in the wind as the KKK pass by in their white sheets and cone-shaped hats.  I get goose pimples from all the excitement in the air.  The chanting is ominous: “What do we want?  White Power!  When do we want it? Now!”  I feel like I am part of a special elite race of warriors.  I think we all feel this new sense of pride and camaraderie because I notice how my friends who typically slouch and mope around in a stoned stupor are now walking more upright and with greater force. 

There are some Black people marching this year.  This is causing a great stir.  Policemen escort them as they somberly walk around the horseshoe-bend road near the monument that I like to climb. The urge to climb that 30 foot tall triangular monument stirs my senses. I ask Chris if he wants to climb it with me to get a better look at everything.  He tells me that the cops will arrest me if I do that.  I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with drunks and perverted guys who feel me up every now and then and my discomfort level is increasing by the moment.  The psychiatrist told my parents that I have a sensory disorder that causes me to not want to be touched and I wonder if that is causing this minor panic attack that I’m feeling.  All the noise distorts my perception.  I can’t think.  The KKK guy is shouting over the bull horn, “Wake up White people!”  One of the Black protesters catches my eye.  She looks scared and I feel sorry for her.  I think I can actually feel her twitching so I look away.  The chanting becomes rhythmic as it grows louder. A bald guy is standing in front of me chanting and throwing his fist up in the air. He turns around to report to us some historical fact about Martin Luther King.  However, his drunken stammers make no sense. Nobody responds to him so he shouts louder, “Marden Loofer King got hit in da head right dere! Right dere!.”  He blurts the same thing a few more times until he gets the attention of the protesters.  I imagine the Black lady getting hit with a rock as she looks at him. She is holding up a sign that has a Martin Luther King quote written on it: “An individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, is in reality expressing the highest respect for the law.”  The glimpse of fear I saw in her a moment ago is now gone. She is walking confidently…quietly…soberly.  Her proper clothes remind me of those which my teachers wore to school.  She looks out of place here and I realize that at any moment the scene can become violent. 

I reach inside my backpack to see if I have any money.  I find a few quarters and a joint inside and ask Chris if he wants to get high.  He can’t hear me with all the noise and commotion. He seems to be having too much fun, so I decide to go to the arcade store by myself to play my favorite game, “High Speed”.  It’s a pinball game that was based on a real life, high-speed police pursuit in California. I like to get high and watch the colors of the pinball game bounce off the reflectors and glass.  Ducking the other way, I maneuver through the crowd and light up a joint along the way.  All these people make me feel invisible so I don’t think much of smoking pot out here in the open. Passing through the crowd, I notice Eddie’s girlfriend from California is getting hit on by an old drunk man.  She looks horrified.  She is too beautiful to be here and I feel sorry for her and embarrassed for him.  I think she feels out of place but goes along with everything because she doesn’t know what else to do.  She has that same proper air about her that the Black lady exuded.  California seems like a place I’d like to visit.  I’m going to head out West someday.  As I fantasize about a brighter future, I slip a quarter in the machine, and zone out to the flashing lights and sounds of sirens.  I feel pleasantly at peace now.  I no longer feel as if I am a part of anything.  I am observing everything by myself.  I am detached.  I feel once more like an individual.  In this state I can better recognize the individuality in others. 

Being in crowds or groups alters my senses to the point where I lose touch with who I am.  I sometimes lose sight of where I begin and where another ends. Too much stimulation fries my nervous system.  I realize that it’s not normal for me to be in here by myself when everyone is outside.  The reason why I’d rather be alone in here than outside with them is not because I feel so different, it’s because I recognize too many of our similarities.

Zelda's Chicken

Sunlight sparkles on the glittering glasses of ice tea. Silence echoes through the clanking of ice cubes on glass walls. Southern heat suppresses the lavishly dressed Fitzgeralds, exhausting them like heavy armor. Zelda sits at the end of the long mahogany table. The bay window behind her, afternoon sunlight glows around her golden hair. The dining room is grand.

Seated next to Zelda is an old woman who wears a white bonnet. She chews her food slowly, contemplatively like cud. Scott sits next to the old woman. His eyes dart up and down at her as if he is creating a story about her which is entirely created by his own imagination.

A large, round black woman enters the room holding a shiny silver plate above her shoulders. She looks to be well into her 50’s. She plops a scoop of mashed potatoes onto Scott’s plate in a heavy handed silent form of defiance. Scott doesn’t miss a thing so he is amused with her zestful honesty which feels like fresh air to him. He leans back in his chair and looks at her derriere. Unconsciously, he chews louder and his lips smack his tongue. He sucks his teeth, creating a soft kissing squeal which awakens him from his forbidden musings. Wiping his mouth with a freshly pressed white linen napkin, his mischievous pale blue eyes twinkle in his own amusement. Zelda’s leer becomes more intense, causing him to feel the pull of her stare. He acknowledges her and smiles politely.

Zelda imagines that her husband would have been the type of man who would have enjoyed being a master. He would have seduced the female slaves rather than coerce them into doing something against their nature. How he could sleep with those women and not love them, she could not understand, not even in her own imaginings. It was power which he craved most. That she knew. His greatest satisfaction came from his belief that he was needed, longed for, and sexually desirable. He felt most alive when he felt useful and he wasn’t beyond role playing to meet this fetish of his, not even when he knew it was all a farce. Power was not only an aphrodisiac for him; it fueled his self-worth, and distilled his nervousness.

Scott broke away from his wife’s accusatory eyes. His smirk no less faded. The twinkle in his eye shone crisply. The old lady continues to eat her mashed potatoes, oblivious to all the drama which took place in some imaginary land. She is too good to recognize such filth that exists amongst such fine things. With an air of refinement, she lifts up her head, searches for the clock on the wall, and squeezes out a hot fart which smells like a can of cat food just opened. It was silent though so she hoped no one would notice. While she pretends to be innocent, Scott and Zelda immediately recognize the gentle leanings of her buttocks in the seat. Scott grimaces at Zelda but she does not reciprocate his abhorrence at her mother’s flatulence. This fart was more real than any of their imaginings so she earnestly went about picking at her food as if nothing had happened.
“Sigmund”, the large hairball of a cat springs across the table. Scott whips his balled-up napkin at the cat. Sigmund yowls and leaps across the room then hides under the table. He rubs against the old woman’s leg searching for the source of food. Zelda lifts the white table cloth and smiles at the big fur ball. She removes her high heel and leans toward the cat with her sole outstretched. Sigmund accepts the offer to be petted. With open arms and legs, he lies back on his back. Zelda strums his bushy belly while he licks her toes with his coarse tongue.

Scott finds her rhythmic movements under the table disturbing. She delights in seeing his weaknesses emerging. His judgments and refinement fills her with disgust. Weakness was disgusting to her. He snarls down the rest of his martini. Zelda put down her fork and knife. Plodding him with her eyes, he becomes mesmerized with her mouth. What is she going to say? He wonders.

He wants to look up at her to see what she says, but he cannot and he cannot look away. So he watches her hands as they pick up the chicken breast, she peels the flesh from the bones, breaks the breast plate and scoops out the marrow with her finger nails. He watches her dissect the meat of the chicken, pulling out a long bluish vein, and dangling it like a worm between her dainty fingers. She scoops her head down like a bird, swoops her fiendish tongue around the vein and slurps it up like a child that playfully sucks in a long piece of spaghetti.

The old woman lines up her peas and carrots. She scoops them up with her silver spoon and gently drops them into her mouth with her head up high. Her mind is far away. Her mouth silently mulls the vegetables. The women seem to be getting enormous satisfaction from their own thoughts. Scott, feeling defiled, gets up in a hurry and leaves the room in contempt. Zelda smiles mischievously at her mother. Her mother acknowledges this and nods her head.