In order for us to fully understand our childhood we must resort to exaggerated stories passed down from our parents, relived and revived by photos and home videos. My parents claim I started talking in full sentences at six months, depicting me to have been a “little person” from birth, an old soul that did not quite fit the mold of a typical toddler. I didn’t like cartoons or Disney movies; I was only entertained by TV with “real people.” The first movie I ever saw was Pulp Fiction. I sat on my dad’s lap transfixed. When my mom walked in the den to view this absurd site she immediately questioned my dad, perplexed by how he thought this was in anyway appropriate. Throwing his hands up in the air with a slight smirk he replied, “What! Look at her, she likes it!”
I preferred the Eagles to barney tunes and often freaked out various babysitters while I happily bounced in my car seat singing along to hotel California. My parents, thinking they had produced a baby prodigy, brought me to a speech therapist. He informed them not to worry, that my language developed way before everything else and in time it would all even out. This aspect allowed me to retain and often repeat words I overheard from my parents unfiltered conversations and my “real people” TV. In most lights this trait was viewed as positive and comical. Yet, I had no idea what these words meant nor did I have any sense of timing, which proved to be dangerous, especially when in public.
We had just moved to the suburbs from NYC and there was a party at a fellow neighbor’s house. My mom was excited to mingle with the new community and introduce my sister and I to kids our own ages. The celebration was for a girl named Jenny who lived three houses down, she was turning two and invited all the other young kids on the block over to celebrate. We began to play a game that consisted of jumping off her bed into the arms of our moms, simple yet extremely. There were about 12 kids at the party and the system of the game was to wait in single file, gathered beside the bed, for our turn to make the leap into our mom’s arms. I was bored with the other children who stared blankly back at me, unable to speak. I began cutting the line thinking I was better than all the other two year olds and that I deserved to go five times before they even went once. My mom pulled me aside telling me I had to play fair, warning me that if I cut the line once more she would take me home. I didn’t listen and continued shoving kids out of the way. She pulled me away once again and firmly stated that this was the last straw. I proceeded to cut the line yet again. My mom was extremely embarrassed by my actions that were being carried on in an environment of strangers whom she had hoped to befriend. She grabbed me and excused herself from the party with flushed cheeks. “We are leaving!” she said in a furious yet hushed tone. I was propped up on a dresser in the corner of Jenny’s room and after hearing my moms intense command I stood myself up, got in her face and screamed as loud as my little voice could, “FUCK YOU!” Every parent at the party averted their eyes to the corner of the bedroom, amazed not only by my choice of words but also by the fact that I had even spoken. My mom froze, yet once again forced a smile and excused herself from the small gathering. She swept me up in her arms and upon a deep sigh told me that, “my life was basically over.”
Monday, March 28, 2011
As told by...
It had been two years since my best friend left for America. She was attending college, the name I can’t remember so well; but for a while she had been trying to convince me to come. During our talks she would tell me how beautiful it was and how much fun she was having. Oh and her big thing was the fashion, she would say “Girl, you should see how these Americans dress! It’s amazing!” No matter how many stories she told in order to convince me to come, I would always remind her of the responsibilities I had in Liberia. I was married with three young kids, my whole life was there. Even though my marriage was a disaster I was still trying to hang in there for the children.
As months past Liberia began to change for the worst. The first incident was a protest about the price of rice. Many people in Monrovia, the capital, were upset because the government raised the price for no other reason than greed. You know how important rice is to Liberians, so the people took to streets. It began as a peaceful march then after police arrived; it was a full blown riot. People were destroying cars and breaking into stores, the next day the city looked like a war zone. Soon after these riots became a weekly thing. So I started saving up money, a year later I got my visa. I did not want to leave my children but I knew a civil war was going to be the outcome.
It was 1985, and I finally saved up enough money for a plane ticket to America. I finally left my abusive husband and left the children with my mother. The day I left was the hardest, my two oldest children were crying and holding on to me, but my youngest who was about three years-old at the time, said nothing. He just held on to a toy that I had given to him, and stared right through me. It broke my heart. I really did not want to leave them but I knew I had to in order for them to survive.
In 1989 a civil war broke out; it was to be the war that destroyed Liberia. I became the sole provider for my whole family; cousins, aunts, uncles etc. If I did not leave when I did we all would have starved. After many years of trying I was finally able to get all three children and mother to America. Although it hurt to leave, I knew this was something I had to do – it all worked out for the best.
As months past Liberia began to change for the worst. The first incident was a protest about the price of rice. Many people in Monrovia, the capital, were upset because the government raised the price for no other reason than greed. You know how important rice is to Liberians, so the people took to streets. It began as a peaceful march then after police arrived; it was a full blown riot. People were destroying cars and breaking into stores, the next day the city looked like a war zone. Soon after these riots became a weekly thing. So I started saving up money, a year later I got my visa. I did not want to leave my children but I knew a civil war was going to be the outcome.
It was 1985, and I finally saved up enough money for a plane ticket to America. I finally left my abusive husband and left the children with my mother. The day I left was the hardest, my two oldest children were crying and holding on to me, but my youngest who was about three years-old at the time, said nothing. He just held on to a toy that I had given to him, and stared right through me. It broke my heart. I really did not want to leave them but I knew I had to in order for them to survive.
In 1989 a civil war broke out; it was to be the war that destroyed Liberia. I became the sole provider for my whole family; cousins, aunts, uncles etc. If I did not leave when I did we all would have starved. After many years of trying I was finally able to get all three children and mother to America. Although it hurt to leave, I knew this was something I had to do – it all worked out for the best.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
As Told By... In the style of the Malcolm X Autobiography
Halfway through my first year at an all girls’ middle school, my parents put me in therapy. It was a sudden and largely unexplained decision that I couldn’t understand. In several years time, their reasoning would become clearer, but at the age of 13, I felt that I was being punished. Once a week my parents would pick me up from school and take me to the therapist’s office that was in a building complex not far away. On those afternoons, I remember needing to make up excuses to friends about where I was going and why I couldn’t hang out. Therapy wasn’t trendy in 7th grade.
After dropping me off in front of the office, my mother or father would leave to go do errands. I’d walk into the building quickly, aware that cars could see me from a nearby congested road. The most memorable thing about the actual office was the wicker basket of toys in the corner. Plastic giraffes, lions, and zebras overflowed from their container in the far end of the room. I remember the sheer humiliation that stemmed from having a therapist that primarily worked with children. The toys made me question whether my parents still thought of me as a child, and if their choice in therapist reflected their true feelings. Sometimes the plastic toys would be scattered around the room, as if they had been played with right before my session.
I spent a total of six months in that office before my parents decided they didn’t like things my therapist was telling me. I remember very little about what she said, but I do recall hearing the fateful acronym O.C.D for the first time. I believed I was leaving the uncomfortable nature of therapy forever when I left the building complex for the final time and felt relieved of a giant weight. It would be many months and another therapist later until I would question the reasons for my initial visit to the toy strewn office.
Archie, by Kate Geller. As told to Aleksa Maglich
I grew up with Maggy, my sister, my best friend. Maggy happened to be my dog. But I’m not kidding when I say that she was my sister. Until I was eleven I completely believed this, my mother convinced me that she gave birth to her. My dad would joke around and say “when Maggy was in the basonet, she was so hard to give birth to.” At my naïve age there was no reason not to believe that dogs were given birth to by humans… and in basonets. I spent more time with her than I did with my two older brothers, who I had a hard time relating to at that time.
Before me, my parents had two boys and had given up on having a girl. They always wanted a daughter named Maggy, so they adopted a daughter in the form of a Golden Retriever. I came along two years later but the name Maggy was taken so naturally I was named Kate. I like my name better.
In elementary school my dad used to put sweatshirts on Maggy on the first days of school, so we were prepared for whatever faced us together. One usual day in sixth grade, I was sitting in science class and a woman walked in with an adorable golden retriever puppy on a leash. At this point Maggy was getting grey and old, my dog-sister became more of a presence than a playmate, and this little puppy was so full of life. My teacher told us that the dog would be put up in our school’s annual auction to raise money for the school, a perfect tactic to use on young kids who they knew would fall in love with the adorable creature and run home to tell their parents the puppy is exactly what they needed. Some form of, “please put your money towards my school so I can have this dog and you can make me happy!” Obviously that is exactly what I did. I had to have this dog. It was so cute. I remember them telling me there was absolutely no way, Maggy was hard enough to take care of. There was no discussion and I was silenced in my misery.
A week later I was at my friends house and my parents picked me up telling me that they had a surprise for me at home. When I walked through the front door there was the puppy from the auction in my entrance hallway! They had foiled. I cried because I was so happy.
My new dog, Archie, was really rowdy. Five months after his addition to our family, Maggy had passed away. She might have lived longer if Archie didn’t ware her out. I think that my sadness towards Maggy’s death was slightened by Archie’s existence, something I see now as a blessing in disguise.
Even though I protested, we had to get Archie bark collars. He was out of control and would bark at every little thing that moved, or didn’t move. One time he fractured my Mom’s nose by jumping on her. My parents decided that something had to be done and ended up sending him to a guy people called “Hitler for Dogs.” He was this German man who has acres and acres of land in the middle of California and takes bad dogs and makes them better. Later I found out they spent $10,000 to make Archie calm down.
So Archie was away for half of a year on a farm with this guy. While he was gone we got another dog named Bentley, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, because we couldn’t be in a house without the companionship of a pup. I was never fully satisfied with Bentley because my loyalty to Archie was too solid. Unlike Maggy, I knew Archie was out there and I prayed that he thought of me, too.
Eventually Archie came home. The “Hitler for Dogs” gave us methods to maintain his new disciplined manner. We whispered to him when we wanted him to do something, because apparently dogs respond to your tone. They don’t know exactly what you’re saying so you have to keep a tone of neutrality. Anyway, no one seemed to pay attention to him because Bentley was in the house now, except for me. Archie and I slept together every night and I would whisper him my secrets. My parents said that when I left for college he would wait outside my door for me, or he would somehow get the door open and sleep on my bed. They tell me he’s never as happy as when I come home. He’d do this thing where if I was standing he would push his way through my legs and go around and around you. He was huge too, 110 pounds to be exact.
This year I went home for winter break and slept with Archie every night, as usual. A month after I came back to school my Mom called me and told me that he wasn’t doing very well. This didn’t worry me because he’s only eight years old and dog’s get infections all the time. I called home a couple of weeks after her call and he still wasn’t better. I was told he couldn’t walk or pee and he would stay awake all night whimpering. It was so bad that my Mom took him to a special MRI specialist. While my mom was at the vet she called me and told me they had found cancer all over Archie’s body. It was Valentines Day.
My friends and I were at my apartment drinking wine and avoiding the fact that we were alone on the day of love. While we were getting drunk and dancing to music my phone was going off with calls from my Mom, but I did not want to talk to her. I ignored the calls and vowed I’d call her in the morning, when I was sober and could deal with her nagging about how much money I spent or my grades. I had completely forgot that Archie was taken to the vet that morning.
The next day I called my Mom, and with out letting her speak I asked her if I could go on a road-trip with my friends for spring break. I went on and on about all the details and was so wrapped up in excitement I didn’t realize she wasn’t responding in her usual authoritative, perhaps concerned, way. She told me that all my plans sounded “fine,” and then paused. “Archie was put to sleep last night,” she said.
I could not stop crying. My friend came over and brought me cookies and a bottle of wine but no one seemed to care because it was a dog that died, not a “real person.” I would tell people that my dog died, and I never got more than an “Oh, that sucks.” I was alone in my mourning, and I was so far from home. I called my brother for support and he told me to forget about it and distract myself, so that is what I did.
I don’t think the reality of the situation will sink in until I go home and expect my dog to be there waiting by my door ready to push me down and follow me around. I’m so far away from home and the familiar roles in the life that I have there that I haven’t realized what is lost. I feel how I once felt when he was away learning how to be obedient. I have to pretend that he is off living somewhere, just without me, and it’s only a matter of time before I see his smiling, slobbery face again. I will take my cookies and my wine and ignore the fact that when I go home, I will be sleeping alone.
Before me, my parents had two boys and had given up on having a girl. They always wanted a daughter named Maggy, so they adopted a daughter in the form of a Golden Retriever. I came along two years later but the name Maggy was taken so naturally I was named Kate. I like my name better.
In elementary school my dad used to put sweatshirts on Maggy on the first days of school, so we were prepared for whatever faced us together. One usual day in sixth grade, I was sitting in science class and a woman walked in with an adorable golden retriever puppy on a leash. At this point Maggy was getting grey and old, my dog-sister became more of a presence than a playmate, and this little puppy was so full of life. My teacher told us that the dog would be put up in our school’s annual auction to raise money for the school, a perfect tactic to use on young kids who they knew would fall in love with the adorable creature and run home to tell their parents the puppy is exactly what they needed. Some form of, “please put your money towards my school so I can have this dog and you can make me happy!” Obviously that is exactly what I did. I had to have this dog. It was so cute. I remember them telling me there was absolutely no way, Maggy was hard enough to take care of. There was no discussion and I was silenced in my misery.
A week later I was at my friends house and my parents picked me up telling me that they had a surprise for me at home. When I walked through the front door there was the puppy from the auction in my entrance hallway! They had foiled. I cried because I was so happy.
My new dog, Archie, was really rowdy. Five months after his addition to our family, Maggy had passed away. She might have lived longer if Archie didn’t ware her out. I think that my sadness towards Maggy’s death was slightened by Archie’s existence, something I see now as a blessing in disguise.
Even though I protested, we had to get Archie bark collars. He was out of control and would bark at every little thing that moved, or didn’t move. One time he fractured my Mom’s nose by jumping on her. My parents decided that something had to be done and ended up sending him to a guy people called “Hitler for Dogs.” He was this German man who has acres and acres of land in the middle of California and takes bad dogs and makes them better. Later I found out they spent $10,000 to make Archie calm down.
So Archie was away for half of a year on a farm with this guy. While he was gone we got another dog named Bentley, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, because we couldn’t be in a house without the companionship of a pup. I was never fully satisfied with Bentley because my loyalty to Archie was too solid. Unlike Maggy, I knew Archie was out there and I prayed that he thought of me, too.
Eventually Archie came home. The “Hitler for Dogs” gave us methods to maintain his new disciplined manner. We whispered to him when we wanted him to do something, because apparently dogs respond to your tone. They don’t know exactly what you’re saying so you have to keep a tone of neutrality. Anyway, no one seemed to pay attention to him because Bentley was in the house now, except for me. Archie and I slept together every night and I would whisper him my secrets. My parents said that when I left for college he would wait outside my door for me, or he would somehow get the door open and sleep on my bed. They tell me he’s never as happy as when I come home. He’d do this thing where if I was standing he would push his way through my legs and go around and around you. He was huge too, 110 pounds to be exact.
This year I went home for winter break and slept with Archie every night, as usual. A month after I came back to school my Mom called me and told me that he wasn’t doing very well. This didn’t worry me because he’s only eight years old and dog’s get infections all the time. I called home a couple of weeks after her call and he still wasn’t better. I was told he couldn’t walk or pee and he would stay awake all night whimpering. It was so bad that my Mom took him to a special MRI specialist. While my mom was at the vet she called me and told me they had found cancer all over Archie’s body. It was Valentines Day.
My friends and I were at my apartment drinking wine and avoiding the fact that we were alone on the day of love. While we were getting drunk and dancing to music my phone was going off with calls from my Mom, but I did not want to talk to her. I ignored the calls and vowed I’d call her in the morning, when I was sober and could deal with her nagging about how much money I spent or my grades. I had completely forgot that Archie was taken to the vet that morning.
The next day I called my Mom, and with out letting her speak I asked her if I could go on a road-trip with my friends for spring break. I went on and on about all the details and was so wrapped up in excitement I didn’t realize she wasn’t responding in her usual authoritative, perhaps concerned, way. She told me that all my plans sounded “fine,” and then paused. “Archie was put to sleep last night,” she said.
I could not stop crying. My friend came over and brought me cookies and a bottle of wine but no one seemed to care because it was a dog that died, not a “real person.” I would tell people that my dog died, and I never got more than an “Oh, that sucks.” I was alone in my mourning, and I was so far from home. I called my brother for support and he told me to forget about it and distract myself, so that is what I did.
I don’t think the reality of the situation will sink in until I go home and expect my dog to be there waiting by my door ready to push me down and follow me around. I’m so far away from home and the familiar roles in the life that I have there that I haven’t realized what is lost. I feel how I once felt when he was away learning how to be obedient. I have to pretend that he is off living somewhere, just without me, and it’s only a matter of time before I see his smiling, slobbery face again. I will take my cookies and my wine and ignore the fact that when I go home, I will be sleeping alone.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Malcom X
For as far back as I can remember I’ve been accused of acting white. I first heard the term Oreo in 6th grade, you know, black on the outside, white on the inside? I cringed after someone explained the meaning of the makeshift derogatory term to me. Deep down I think I knew my love for Tori Amos lyrics and all things Spice Girls qualified me as a first class Oreo in whatever school I happen to be starting that year. Since my mother and I moved around a lot I was always the new girl in school. I kept to myself most of the time but when I did happen to open my mouth it was apparent to everyone: I talked like a white girl. The latest slang or rap lyrics didn’t roll off my tongue as easily as it did for my classmates. Oftentimes I was the odd girl out and as a result, gravitated towards kids who shared similar interests, which usually meant white girls.
It wasn’t just my peers who noticed either. Growing up I can remember so many times when I was sat down by my father to discuss my behavior, my social circle, and the music I was listening to. He would relay instances from his youth in which white friends of his had done him wrong. In 5th grade I fell in love with Hanson and started pasting posters up on my wall. I remember the anxiety I felt when I was told flat out if I ever brought home a mixed baby or a white boyfriend I would be disowned. I remember feeling the same waves of anxiety when my father started ordering college brochures for me from historically black colleges.
Often times I wondered why I just wasn’t free to be myself? Why did I have to be a certain way, listen to a certain type of music, or speak a specific way? When I was 18 I fell in love with a girl. A white girl. By that time my father had eased up and we no longer argued about all of the reasons I wasn’t black enough. Still, I was scared to tell him about Barbara, my first girlfriend. What would he think, of her, of me? We went to prom together and I wanted them to both meet for dinner after my high school graduation. He said yes but then backed out and gave me a 20 dollar bill instead. She and I went to a diner on our own. I don’t think they ever met.
It wasn’t just my peers who noticed either. Growing up I can remember so many times when I was sat down by my father to discuss my behavior, my social circle, and the music I was listening to. He would relay instances from his youth in which white friends of his had done him wrong. In 5th grade I fell in love with Hanson and started pasting posters up on my wall. I remember the anxiety I felt when I was told flat out if I ever brought home a mixed baby or a white boyfriend I would be disowned. I remember feeling the same waves of anxiety when my father started ordering college brochures for me from historically black colleges.
Often times I wondered why I just wasn’t free to be myself? Why did I have to be a certain way, listen to a certain type of music, or speak a specific way? When I was 18 I fell in love with a girl. A white girl. By that time my father had eased up and we no longer argued about all of the reasons I wasn’t black enough. Still, I was scared to tell him about Barbara, my first girlfriend. What would he think, of her, of me? We went to prom together and I wanted them to both meet for dinner after my high school graduation. He said yes but then backed out and gave me a 20 dollar bill instead. She and I went to a diner on our own. I don’t think they ever met.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
In September 1974 David arrived in New York City intent upon becoming an actor. His older brother Peter met him at the airport and together they took a bus to Grand Central station. Standing on the pavement outside in the fading afternoon light, David felt overwhelmed and vulnerable suddenly aware that he really had left home. He wasn’t in England any more.
The two brothers were headed downtown towards the Village Plaza Hotel on the north side of Washington Square. They stood on the side of the road; younger five inches taller than older and an enormous man approached them. He offered to help get them a cab, saying he would put them in a cab in a strong voice that forced them to accept his offer. A cab was found and their bags were loaded then the money was demanded with great hostility. It was a rough initiation to New York
They arrived at the hotel- a dilapidated brownstone inhabited by cockroaches and prostitutes. Peter had arrived at the hotel the day before and he led David to the room they would be sharing. They headed up to the second floor, endured the surly and unpleasant presence of the elevator man then entered the small room with two beds, peeling blue paint and a grimy linoleum floor. David cautiously sat on the end of one bed; then he burst into tears.
He got his first job cleaning apartments through the Village Voice. It lasted just a few weeks, then he quite. He had never liked doing housework in his own home and cleaning up other people’s hair and bathtub rings made him miserable.
David’s next job was as a taxi driver. Because he was only nineteen he was not legally permitted to drive a Manhattan cab and instead he took the subway each afternoon to Long Island city, Queens. It had been ridiculously easy getting a taxi license, all he’d had to do was answer 20 questions, where was Grand Central Station? Where was… the test could be taken in five languages and cheating was such a frequent occurrence that it was practically condoned. He began driving the day shift, his first day he drove out he jerked and bumped his way forward, awkwardly unaccustomed to driving an automatic car.
Very soon after he started, he switched to the night shift. Isolated and foreign he sat waiting for his cab in the big holding area, surrounded by much older men, Poles, Russians and Ukrainians who smoked cigars and played cards while David sat alone, reading T.S. Eliot.
The two brothers were headed downtown towards the Village Plaza Hotel on the north side of Washington Square. They stood on the side of the road; younger five inches taller than older and an enormous man approached them. He offered to help get them a cab, saying he would put them in a cab in a strong voice that forced them to accept his offer. A cab was found and their bags were loaded then the money was demanded with great hostility. It was a rough initiation to New York
They arrived at the hotel- a dilapidated brownstone inhabited by cockroaches and prostitutes. Peter had arrived at the hotel the day before and he led David to the room they would be sharing. They headed up to the second floor, endured the surly and unpleasant presence of the elevator man then entered the small room with two beds, peeling blue paint and a grimy linoleum floor. David cautiously sat on the end of one bed; then he burst into tears.
He got his first job cleaning apartments through the Village Voice. It lasted just a few weeks, then he quite. He had never liked doing housework in his own home and cleaning up other people’s hair and bathtub rings made him miserable.
David’s next job was as a taxi driver. Because he was only nineteen he was not legally permitted to drive a Manhattan cab and instead he took the subway each afternoon to Long Island city, Queens. It had been ridiculously easy getting a taxi license, all he’d had to do was answer 20 questions, where was Grand Central Station? Where was… the test could be taken in five languages and cheating was such a frequent occurrence that it was practically condoned. He began driving the day shift, his first day he drove out he jerked and bumped his way forward, awkwardly unaccustomed to driving an automatic car.
Very soon after he started, he switched to the night shift. Isolated and foreign he sat waiting for his cab in the big holding area, surrounded by much older men, Poles, Russians and Ukrainians who smoked cigars and played cards while David sat alone, reading T.S. Eliot.
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