To be Young Again

To be young again.

I've heard the phrase a thousand times and it has always failed to impress me. To be young again for me and many other children would mean that we would live in the shadows of poverty while dancing in our rodent infested homes. Sharing our last scraps of salvageable food with cockroaches and leaving as early as daybreak in order to avoid our drug addicted neglectful parents who had been partying all night long and where ready to rest.

Parents like mines who were each in their own worlds which never included me or my younger siblings but who still remained worthy of our love for no other reason than, they were all we knew. Where the people rot from the inside out and roofs made of tar leak rain into the houses of many families whenever there is heavy downpour. Where you grow up distrusting the sounds of pleasantries and people smiling. And wonder how does a man get from here to there if his boat has been destroyed before birth, his walks upon nubs, and the nearest bridge is located in the outskirts of the city, where fruits and vegetables grow & thrive in abundance.

I use to wonder about that as a child, whenever I caught glimpse of a beautiful piece of fruit that was clearly taken care of. Why do people take care of fruit but leave people to rot? But the broken glass bottles which have become a permanent part of the street, the smell of urine, and the crying of neglected hungry babies is my answer. And I learn to appreciate it, because it is the truth --raw and uncut.

I am a fine piece of fruit, worthy of an award, and a newspaper article in today's daily news, picked for consumption and placed on display only when I am at my ripest.

There is that sense of wonder & imagination about being young that causes feelings of nostalgia but that feeling only lasts as long as it takes one to round the bend. I do remember running across train tracks and placing my ear down close to the track to see if I could pick up on the sound of a train approaching, but this particular train station had long been out of service. And although all of the children in the neighborhood knows it; it doesn't stop us from trying to listen for a sound that we know will never come. It's like that when you live in poverty. Almost everyone ears are tuned in to the frequency of the wind, hoping for the sounds of change. Which never comes. Old battered long forgotten cars and their parts now occupy these tracks....oh, and crack addicts, wino's and homeless families. At first they all look alike --but over time you can tell the difference between those who are homeless and those who have addictions. It's in their eyes.

I must admit the age of innocence skipped me, and anyone who knows me intimately would confirm that I was caught smoking Winston cigarettes not once but twice as a child. They were my grandfather's, Tex, favorite brand. And I would be in my teens long before I knew there were other brands of cigarettes because whenever I walked to the neighborhood grocery store for my grandpop, I never had to ask. The man behind the counter knew me, he knew my grandfather, and he always had a fresh pack of boxed Winston's ready for me.

The man behind the counter, was also the store owner who knew all of the neighborhood children by face, or their selection of hoagies, chips and sodas. All which he sold for just a dollar and fifty cents. God, bless his soul.

To be young again for me would mean watching the world pass by at such an amazing speed that my mind never fully caught on to adulthood even though I craved becoming a woman more than life itself. An example of this would be the time I resorted to walking around in my mother's creme colored high heeled shoes for weeks on end, until one of the shoes made its way out into the middle of the street, in front of our home, and became a victim of a "hit & run."

With me and my sister being the only witnesses, we were subjected to an intense hour of good cop-bad cop with my mother playing the "good cop" and my stepfather playing the "bad cop".

"Did you have anything to do with its death?"

"Where were you and your sister this morning at ten thirty?"

"Am I a suspect?" I ask.

"Well, you were the last one seen with the shoe."

In my mind, I know they are telling the truth, but I remain quiet. Hoping that at any moment my lawyer would come walking in, present himself and put an end to all further questioning. But within ten minutes , I am found guilty ---all without proper representation and I am sentenced to an ass whopping by wooden paddle. I do my best to stand tall as the paddle makes contact with both my legs and butt. I also make sure to look my mother in her eyes as she tries her best to break my spirit with the paddle, even though we have long ago come to the conclusion that I am too stubborn to cry when taking a beating. Once again, I confirm this statement by not crying and my spirit remains intact. The only thing my eyes reveal is the fact that I would like this beating to come to an end so I can go outside. Plus, the hits come at a much slower speed than if she was using a belt.

I'm beginning to sweat and smell myself. I smell like brown sugar, unwashed underarms, the city streets and perspiration. As I make a vow not to move, the clothing begins to cling to my unwashed skin and I am reminded that I haven't showered or bathed in about three days. It will be another day because I never wash after a beating.

I take the beating in silence, and hope that this is grounds for an appeal.

To be young again. The aftermath of a disaster for many. The sum of zero for others.

I am a woman of many desires but being young again is not one of them.