Alabama Time

My memory is a series of memories, hazily blended together...


Of the first time, me - at 7 years old - left the city and ventured down south to Alabama with my best friend, Agi and her mother, Jessie for a few days.  Me, crying as the Amtrak train left New York City's Penn Station and my mother behind.  It was the first time I had ever been away from her.

The hot, summer sun and dusty open land as we stepped off the train in Alabama.  The heat wrapped itself on my bare arms as we walked out of the train station to the car.

A cacaphony of 'Bama accents from brownskinned cousins of my best friend and her mother as the cluster of arms wrapped around us in greeting.  And Ma Dear, the grandaunt to Jessie and the matriarch of the family, petite and round,  bringing up the rear, welcoming us to her home in Talladega.

There was me, in the backyard of Ma Dear's with Agi and the rest of the cousins,  being sprayed by a hose,  barefoot, in my favorite green tank top and shorts combo - the one with the apple on the front.  Hands snatching at the green hose, each one wanting to take their turn spraying.

There was me, walking the tracks with Agi and a few of the cousins on a Sunday morning trying to catch up with the rest of the family at church.  The dark metal steel of track was hard under my feet as we moved along and I stared out at the miles of light brown, dusty dirt road  that ran along both sides of the track for miles ahead of us.

Me, sitting outside on the porch steps and looking up at the twinkling stars in a black-as-night sky, as the dark quiet settled around me. A quiet so foreign to me, a little girl from the city.  Shifting in the bed I shared with Agi, listening to the crickets talk outside our window.  Looking up at the weathered walls that Ma Dear called home.

Good southern morning breakfasts of biscuits and bacon and grits with butter in the center.  The shouts of the cousins as they called out to Ma Dear: "Ma Dear, where's my shoes?", "Ma Dear, when we headin' out?", "Ma Dear, ain't nothin' like your grits!  I just love them!"

"Ain't that the truth!" I'd say, my northern accent tinged with the southern, and the southern part would get stronger by the time the week ended.

Can't remember getting back on the train to go home but I do remember shouting and running into my mother's arms on that train platform, my grin huge and my sun-darkened face refreshed and happy as I brought the good memories of Alabama back home with me.



This was inspired by a memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club that asked that we write a memoir piece inspired by this picture of a garden hose.

A Burst of Freedom...

The following piece is in response to a memoir writing prompt at the Red Dress Club.

We were in a two story house on the second floor. It was me, age 7 years old, and a few other kids, younger than me, between the ages of 3-5. Then there was Monique, tall, dark-skinned girl with cornrows in her hair. She was twelve years old and was our babysitter's daughter. She was watching us even though her older sister was the one who was left in charge, while their mother - the official babysitter - was out.

We were gathered in a living room. There carpet spread across the floor was a dingy forest green. The furniture that sat on it was made up of shades of brown fabric the color of caramel. There was one long couch by a window and then one big chair sitting off to one side. An old black colored television was on and the animated cartoon show of The Jackson 5 played on t.v.

Monique had gone into the adjoining bedroom for a few moments while we kids were left outside. Then she called us in one by one. I was the oldest and I was first. I walked in and saw her standing there with a silver wire in her hand that was as wide as a tree branch. She waved it and commanded me to do things to our bodies that included inappropriate touching. It lasted about ten minutes, though it felt much longer. Then she asked me to leave and she called in the next kid.

I sat down on the couch feeling tense - like something inside me was stretched tight. This wasn't the first time Monique had made me do things like this. Under her mother's care, I had endured things that I hadn't even shared with my mother. With that feeling of tension, a rage started within me and continued to build as she called in each kid individually. I found myself staring at the Jackson 5 cartoon in silence but not really seeing it. She then called me in again. When we were done, she walked out of the bedroom with me and began swinging the silver wire at us, threatening us. She did that for a few minutes and then went back into the bedroom.

Something inside me shifted then. With a steely determination, I turned and walked down the stairs, out of the front door and into bright sunshine. I was leaving - totally out of there. I was done with Monique and I was done with this. I wasn't going to take it anymore. I was walking away from that girl and from her abuse.

I walked up the sidewalk, barely noticing the rows of brownstones on either side of the street. I didn't know where I was going and I didn't care. All I knew was that it was away. I barely heard the sounds of the cars passing by or the people talking and laughing as they hung outside their houses on their stoops. My eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of me and I was following it.

Suddenly I heard my name being called. Repeatedly.

A shiny red car came up beside me and stopped. I looked up. I saw my mother's face leaning over her friend, who was in the driver's seat. My mother's forehead was furrowed and her eyes were questioning.

"Melanie! What are you doing out here?"

I looked at her, silent for a moment, and then just shook my head. I don't remember what I said. My mom then gestured for me to come to the car as her friend reached over and unlocked the passenger door behind the driver's seat. I got in and closed the door and sat quietly as the car pulled away from the sidewalk. I said things but I don't remember what they were. I felt a huge sense of relief. Relief to see my mother, who just happened to be riding in a car on her way to another destination with a co-worker (she was planning on returning to get me when her work day was done) and relief to be away from Monique. It was truly done. Over. I felt proud of myself for finally standing up and refusing to take the abuse anymore.

Additonal Note: I was truly trying to recall happier memories. I know I have some - a good bunch in fact, but my sharpest memories from my childhood I've discovered, are the ones that were centered around my abuse and those times when I was freed from it. The above memory was one of those times.