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Posts tagged creative nonfiction

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on december

december was never really religious…even when we were christian…i have no recollection of midnight masses, wooly haired africans in mangers, or gospels according to anyone…i do remember red candy filled boots, santa, and presents…i remember diamonds for mom, ridiculous doodads for pops, and whatever media hyped as the most popular items of the season for me…

…and 10 years later for me and my little bro…

i remember when “first born” was indoctrinated into all things december…that was 17 years ago and still he sits waiting by the tree to find out what the fed ex man delivered several weeks before the 25th…second seed never knew the joys and disappointments of santa…but was thrilled just the same with the packages housed in packages adorned in designer paper layered under the tree…which has been lit since late november…continuously…

…with exact precision it was trimmed by me and me alone because no one else can be bothered by my obsession with equity in size, shape, and colors of bulbs and ribbons and icicles and lights…360 degrees by 6 feet…there it will remain shining continuously into the new year…and slightly beyond…

…praises to allah by mom did not stifle my december traditions that were engrained throughout my youthdom…and i remain in a ball of confusion about this frenzied month of december that is caught between winter and fall…paganism and spirituality…agnosticism, islam, and christianity…december is still not religious…we still make memories though…

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under christmas december perception prose seasons writing creative nonfiction

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hero: used to have locs#17

he came to me by way of vaginal reconstruction. episiotomy included. 1994. he now stands a little over 5 feet tall…genetically cursed with the complex of short men, severe emotional disturbance, thick connecting eyebrows, and legs an above average runner would kill for. self loathing. they’ve said he has attachment disorder, attention deficit disorder, oppositional defiant disorder, bipolar disorder, and dysthymia. disordered. he fell in love with tricolored blonde# 17 and fell in hate with his dad and the two stepdads that followed. he has neither feelings of love nor hate for his sibling that some would say was his half, but we don’t play that here. he loves his mom but feels alone and trusts no one, his motto…T.N.O. he is no doubt ready to be grown, but 18 is so much further away than a year and he wants to move to Cali. he no longer lingers in major depression or lounges in self defeating episodes of solitude. he remains difficult. misunderstood. consumed. recognizing that 15 was so much greater than 16 and 17 is too close to grown…we wait. order is closer than you feel. not 17…first born is number 1…

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under hero 17 used to have locs repost from an old blog creative nonfiction prose people i know

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heroine: tricolored blonde#17

circa 2009. she came here by way of plane from sunny cali-forn-i-a to live with a dad she met long ago. it’s not so sunny here, but she came anyway at the advice of her mother who remains in Cali with her paramour living care free and sending a meager $100 a month to sustain her in her father’s home. she takes the money that her mother sends as a sign of love and buys her school clothes, lunch, tampons, movie tickets, and dinner for her dates with “hero used to have locs#17”. she likes them black and no one seems to mind. she thinks she’s in love but doesn’t really know what love is because no one of any importance in her world has taken the time to show her. love. she is damaged and i didn’t get to meet her like the others, but i could have if someone had made the call. she told me in Cali she was sexing a man that was almost as old as her dad and that her brother who lived in the bedroom next to hers was convicted of sexing little girls. so she and her younger sisters locked their doors at night. she is damaged. she wears shirts that are way too tight and her breasts say hello before her smile. she wears cheap make up to cover the loveless shadows in her face, paints her nails with an opaque gloss, and dyes her hair 3 variations of blonde. she likes basketball and wears nike gym shoes but she never gets to play in the game. i saw her walking one day in the rain. her tricolored hair clinging to her made up face that was melting with the fall of the rain. she said she was crying because love hurt so good. she is damaged and new to 17. 354 more days to go…

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under creative nonfiction prose heroine 17 tricolored blonde repost from an old blog

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"aniger"

yesterday…i spent five hours with Aniger…i was given the opportunity to pick my poison and i chose Aniger…besides Aniger there were two other women; Gep and Aliuqet but they were made familiar to me in a time not long ago (last week). besides i could tell from a brief encounter at a time not long ago that Aniger was eager…so i thought that i’d oblige. as a hard walker, it was barely a surprise to Aniger that someone was quickly approaching her space. her space was a 3 walled structure that was covered with gray fabric walls. there was only room for one. i placed a chair outside of her space and took it all in. it was a mess. a mess of organization i’m sure, as she had no problems finding this and that from here and there. there were pictures of old men and young men and babies. there were pictures of middle-aged women and young girls and babies. she removed herself from the “hotline” to answer my call. “hello”, I stated cheerfully. “would you be willing to provide me with some training today?” her smile was more than i could take and her response went on for hours. i thought she was a tour guide for Ohio. her historical knowledge and antidotal summation of our fictive and real state heroes and by her account important places to see with amazing things to do here in the great state of ohio had me wondering why she felt compelled to be confined in the bland state of grayness and “Experience Ohio” from a screen plopped in her cubicle when she takes her breaks from the “hotline”…

—chronicles from the cube #1

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under prose people i know creative nonfiction repost from an old blog chronicles from the cube

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hero: tight buzz cut#17

it was really more complicated than imagined. yes his father hit him. yes he had a mark. and no i didn’t see it. i rarely do…get to see them…the marks… they had corroborated their story quite well. a scuffle between dad and son over the completion of dishes (his daily chore). neither knows how it got physical but it did and he had a mark, the wall had a hole, and dad was pissed off. really pissed off. again. mom said he was unruly and had been that way since birth. dad said he was ungrateful. and had been that way since birth. and sissy said he was just plain old mean. and had been that way as long as she could remember. he described his own self in a defeated tone as “here, i’m just here”. they said all of this in his presence. because they didn’t keep secrets, mom said. but no one told me that dad was not his dad. i’m not too sure they even told him. no one told me his “real” dad sodomized him when he was two. and no one told me was hurting and scared and tired. they just told me he was angry. no one told me he was smart and artsy and athletic. they just told me he was failing. no one told me he had goals and dreams and ideas. they just told me he was unrealistic. and i looked at them all…together and individually as they gave their accounts of him and understood why he looked forward to june. but for now 17 felt like an infinite eternity…

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under 17 creative nonfiction hero prose repost from an old blog people i know

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heroine: hijab #17

they were late and we, myself and the interpreter, stood in the cold on the stoop and waited. I briefed her on the dynamics. she was 17 and came to America via a student sponsored visa and then left to fend for herself. she was left with an unknown family that she didn’t know. her sponsor advised “this is America, go and take care of yourself for I am unable”. she met an angel in a culturally specific restaurant in that southern state that still gets cold where she was left to live the American dream…alone. she sat for hours with this angel who was only 22 and told her that she left her war torn country where she saw her two sisters and brother get raped and then murdered. she showed the angel the scar on her shoulder…a prop from her magic act of escape. she told the angel that she is unsure where her parents are. she did not know if they were dead or alive. and she was scared. she was scared for her parents. she was scared for herself. she was no longer scared for her siblings. inshaallah. she said that she did not speak American and had never been to school. she said she had no papers. no documents. she said she had been raped and abused in her country. and now here in America. she did not want to go home. she is 17 and under her hijab there are stories, and life. she is no longer in the south, but still she has no documents. she told me this story through her eyes because she did not speak American and the meaning got lost between her angel and the interpreter. 17 is hard…

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under heroine 17 hijab creative nonfiction prose people i know repost from an old blog

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heroine: blonde french braids#17


i met her in a locked facility…but she wasn’t from here. she knew that our relationship would be brief…but i made it relevant and meaningful. she told me she landed here by way of 450mg of a bipolar med that’s prescribed to her bipolar brother who doesn’t take it. she says he takes premium bowls (weed laced with coke smoked in a pipe) instead. she said she’d rather die than go home and was sure she’d kill herself if forced to go. home. she says she’s a cutter and lifted her sleeve to show me her work. “this” she said happened before the seroquel overdose but after the rape. she lifted her pant leg and showed me her thigh. a blood soaked 4x4 inch gauze stuck to her leg without tape. she showed me her latest creation. “this” she said happened after the rape and the seroquel and the visit from mom. she said her roommate found a piece of glass behind her bed and they carved the night away. she said she liked to be in control of her pain. not like when she was raped. not like when her brother gets her high. not like when her mother walked out. not like when her boyfriend said goodbye. not like when her daddy beats her ass. not like when she takes 450 mg of a drug that’s not hers to take. she says she has night terrors and she took the drug to sleep. not to die. she thinks now that death might not be so bad but she likes being locked up. she says she got kicked outta school before she got here. she said school was too restrictive…too controlled…oppressive…but not here. she says she feels calm in it’s sterility and looks forward to groups…she wants to die here. she says she’s home. 17 is suicidal…

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under heroine 17 people i know bipolar repost from an old blog prose creative nonfiction

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heroine: fiery red pony #17

the head of the neighborhood watch called on a 10-66…suspicious persons… and her dirty ass was hauled in by police as she napped in the back of her grown ass boyfriend’s tax refund bucket…still buzzing from yesterday’s hit of dope. she said she felt hungry, tired, cold, and overwhelmed and she could hardly contain herself from the anxious itch and fiend like twitches that held her captive…yesterday’s hit of dope. she was agitated and said that she ran like hell last week cause she didn’t want to go to rehab but wanted to detox. her drug of choice…crack cocaine…which she said she’d smoked daily for the past three years, but last use was yesterday afternoon and she was withdrawing…said she was raped at 11 by an unknown male, saw her stepdad pound her biological mom, and had been clean for 11 months on her own last year. she said, “fuck rehab” cause only willpower could shake her addiction and she’d be 18 in 15 days…she wanted to fuck the world all while high on crack cocaine and had piled up quite a few charges for soliciting…she said she was on probation, but all she really cared about right now was a cigarette, another pack of cookies, a juice box, and clean pad…tired from yesterday’s hit of dope she trailed in and out of a half understood soliloquy about 17…before and beyond…

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under people i know creative nonfiction prose 17 heroine repost from my other blog

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hero: dirty blonde#17

the complainant says he’s truant, delinquent, may be mentally ill, and has dirty blonde hair that used to be only blonde. it took me two and half almost three weeks to find him. by that time he was all cleaned up. he told me that his mom couldn’t care for him because she had her own stuff going on…stuff like pursuing the available dr in the office where she worked as an admin assistant…stuff like attending her aa meetings and making sure husband number three attends them with her…stuff like making sure SHE had a place to live…but this is about him…and i told him that. and he told me he was fine. he told me he has stayed up all night many times because he had nowhere to sleep. and that he has “done things” to ensure he had a meal. i asked him what he’d done and he said “things”. he’s never hungry. he says he loves his 18 year old sister who let’s him stay nights with her, her boyfriend, and their two year old daughter. he sleeps there every other night because it’s 30 degrees outside and it’s cold…but only every other night..because the nights he’s not there it’s not cold. and mostly because he’s stolen from their house. and partly because he drinks a few too many locos and smokes a little too much weed. he comes home angry. after a night of drinking and smoking out in a nearby skate park he speaks his mind. loudly. and he irritates the neighbors, enrages his sister’s baby daddy, and scares his two year old niece with his boisterous soliloquies at two in the a.m. but he’s 17 and feels that no one loves him and everyone loves him simultaneously. he smiled for me and gave me a hug. two hugs actually, while his mom stood in the background looking pensive…he sees the judge on monday and has to move in with a group full of unknown heroes. all of them with no place to go.

(Source: purgingmyguts)

Filed under 17 creative nonfiction hero people i know prose repost from an old blog