After reading this, I lie down on her bed and cry myself into hysteria. I hold the diary against my chest and I’m crying so hard that I can’t even breathe anymore. One minute I’m crying like a big baby and the next, I’m encompassed in total darkness. I open my eyes and wait for them to adjust while wiping the last few drops from my tear stained face. Instinctively I move my hand to my chest in search of Celeste’s journal to find that it’s not there. I remember laying down and hugging the diary to my bosom in a vain attempt to hold on to what’s left of my daughter. I don’t remember falling asleep, and I don’t remember putting it away. I look on the floor and under the bed thinking that I may have dropped it but it’s not there.
Something is nagging at me but I don’t know what. After looking everywhere that the diary could be, I look in the one place that it can’t and it’s in the same spot that I found it only the lock is intact. I sit on the bed trying to make sense of all this when something catches my attention. Her room looks undisturbed. There are no boxes packed and everything is in its place. I realize what’s been nagging at me and look under her mattress to confirm my suspicions and the gun is not there either. Then, I look in the drawers and there are no condoms or birth control pills. Then it all comes back to me hitting me like a ton of bricks.
I came into Celeste’s room to wait for her when I realized that she’d missed curfew and I was starting to get worried. I decided to wait in her room because I wanted to be sure to talk to her when she finally came in. While waiting for her, I must have dozed off. The pain was so real. It’s hard to believe that it was all a dream. Actually, it was more like a nightmare; every parent’s nightmare.
You know, being a single parent is overrated BIG TIME, and as I sit here on my daughter’s bed thinking about it, I don’t think GOD ever intended parenting to be a one person’s job. While all these women are running around shouting their independence to the top of their lungs, they do not talk about the guilt that is felt from working two or three jobs and going to school never having time to spend with their children. They never mention getting up with the roosters and coming home with the vampires. (Yeah, when I leave the house it’s dark, and when I come home it’s dark.) They will not admit how we sometimes know our children are doing things they shouldn’t and we stick our head in the sand because we are too damn exhausted to have a simple conversation, until it’s already too late. They do not dare bring up the fact that it’s hard to have to do everything by yourself with no help. Sure, we do it because we have to, and some us make it look effortless, but I can assure you that any woman who WELCOMES THIS, DOING ALL THIS SHIT ALONE, is lying to herself. I mean, it’s not rocket science. Door #1: Doing this shit solo or Door #2: Having a husband or at least a cooperative Baby-Daddy. Give me door number #2 all day long, with this husband and help for $200 Alex! Geez!
I keep asking, “What happened? When did the idea of the traditional black family shake the spot?” All I can think of is the “James Evans Theory” that one of my co-workers talked about. It’s really funny because My Sister Circle at work all shared a good laugh when Deidra was on her soap-box that day, but I must admit her analogy seems to be on point. She said that when James Evans died on “Good Times”, so did the idea of having a Black Father in the house. When he died, Florida began filling both roles as mother and father. She went to work, took care of the finances, provided food, clothes, and shelter, but she also, cooked, cleaned, and nurtured the kids. Turns out, they were all fine….without James.
And you know what? Somewhere in all these years, we as Black women, have become comfortable without having a “James” around the house, just comfortable in our new blended roles, and a little too comfortable if you ask me. And on that same note, Brothers have become just as comfortable letting us do it. Some of them have no problem just sending a check every month, or only seeing their kids on the weekends and/or holidays.
Where’s my fucking help? Where’s he at? Where is my “James Evans” or “Cliff Huxtable” to help rear, chastise, and raise our child? I didn’t pull off my panties and fuck myself with an invisible dick and my child shouldn’t have to grow up with an invisible father. WHAT THE FUCK? I’m telling you, we’ve transformed into this deceptive community of broken families with single mothers parading their independence, single fathers proud to be labeled “a good baby daddy”, Grand-mothers and Grand-fathers filling in when the parents are deadbeats, absent, doped up, or don’t care and nobody says anything about it. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Day in and day out, we bust our humps to the point of exhaustion to provide for ourselves and our children and wear this fake ass “Halo of Single-Motherhood” as if it’s a badge of honor. Again, nobody complains, nobody says anything. Do you smell that? I do. I smell COMPLETE BULLSHIT. BULL-TO-THE-STANKIN-ASS-SHIT.
That no good piece of sperm donor of mines ain’t worth 50 fucking cents. When did it become ok to make a baby and not help take care of one? I swear that fool spent more time and effort trying to get the pussy from me than he does trying to make proper arrangements to see our daughter, almost as if he lives out of state when he is less than two hours away. I presume in his absence, it just makes me want to be the best parent that I can be and I know in my heart that I’m not perfect. I’ve been slacking on a small number of things that I know I need to get a better handle on and that horrible nightmare really put a few things in perspective.
I once again go into her drawer with all intents on reading her diary, and then I stop myself when I realize that is not the answer. When I think about it, that dream was God’s way of telling me something I’ve known for quite a while now; I need to get to know my child and make sure that she knows how much she means to me. To be honest, I had started feeling guilty lately about the lack of time we spend together.
Whether she is or was involved in any of those things is not the issue right now. Right now, I have a job to do and that’s to communicate with my child while I have the chance. When Celeste does finally come home, I’m more relieved than angry. Right after I hug her and tell her how much I love her, I ground her, which she doesn’t seem to mind. I tell her that we need to talk and although it’s late, she doesn’t seem to mind that either, so I warm up some leftovers, brew some coffee and proceed to do in life what no parent should ever have to do in death, which is
get to know my child.
CHAPTER 3 – WHY ARE YOU MAD?
Why Are You Mad?
Your mother never had to work two jobs,
And raise 4 kids alone.
Your father never went to the store for cigarettes
And lost his way home.
You weren’t born in prison or in a crack house
And sold or traded for drugs.
From the time you can remember
Your parents have always given you hugs.
See I don’t know anything about that.
My mom’s on dope and my doner’s facing life.
My grandmother died before I was born
And I never met my grandfather who consequently has kids by his second wife.
So why are you mad, that silver spoon is not enough?
I mean I’m the one who’s had it rough.
Not enough food, clothes, or cash
And having to constantly prove I’m tough.
But you’re the one that’s bitter and evil
Claiming you’ve been bullied and abused.
Why do you get a pass for shooting up those people
And I get sensationalized by the news?
You’ve never gone hungry
Or had to work with what you had.
Never watched your mom get high with a “For Sale” sign
So why ARE you so mad?
At least you’ve got a therapist
To talk to about your problems and provide interventions
To convince your parents and the rest of society
That expression was your only intention.
Your anger management is on a nice comfy couch
While mine is up in smoke or in a bottle;
Cub scouts and dad as coach of the soccer team,
Movies or television are where I find my role models.
You were teased, bullied, and tormented
So was I but at the one place I’m supposed to be safe.
I got my first gun and learned how to shoot
By keeping mommy’s boyfriends at bay.
So I really don’t want to hear about your problems
Wah wah, daddy won’t buy me a jag
But he did buy you an Escalade
So tell me again, why are YOU
So…damn…mad???????????????
CHAPTER 4 – LOVE TRIANGLE
Love Triangle
A
Lover
Is not a bad
Thing, but a thing
Of beauty and grace and
Softness and warmth when
Those days and nights become
Extremely cold, and lonely, and empty
But full of condemnation and abominations
Accusations and collaboration to destroy what no
Man can put asunder. It is by insecurity that we allow
Ourselves the detachment to inflict and blame and dishonor
Ourselves with dishonesty & denial & rationalization that make
Us see ourselves as victims when we are in fact villains that selfishly hurt.
Me, she, he; I, her, him, them; amongst 3, instead of between 2. ≠
CHAPTER 5 – FACE VALUE
Face Value
As he looked down and out from the roof of his expensively furnished penthouse, he saw the city's immeasurable vastness with all of its lights twinkling giving off a faint illumination to his contented face. No longer did he have to contemplate what was to be done, because in a few short hours, it would all be over. He was brilliant, damn it. Everything had worked exactly according to plan. Damn he was good. And as this little moment of certainty quickly vanished, his eyes were surprised with fear, and in the very next instant, it was all over.
Darren
I've always been good-looking. Shit, I KNOW I'm fine. Good genes, baby. My daddy was fine, my daddy's daddy was fine, and my daddy's daddy's daddy was fine. So it's no wonder that I was born into the world full of ugly ass people being as handsome as I am. Women love me. Men do too, but I'm not gay. Naw, black men have too much other shit to deal with besides being gay in America. But the women, they absolutely love me, especially my wife, Elaine. That woman loves my dirty draws.
She would do anything for me and when and if she tries to act stubborn, disciplinary action will take place. She knows this; she accepts this. It’s not like the dumb bitch has a choice.
See, I met her one day after leaving Gina’s place. Gina was great in bed but hard on the eyes. I was desperately looking for a way to let her go and then the Lord answered a playa's prayers. I was getting into my brand new 2010, silver Lexus LH 600 hL when I saw this goddess of a woman setting up an open house for the house for sale across the street. Being my usual debonair self, I got out of my ride and went to go talk to her. To make a long story short, she was pretty much in love with me from that day forward.
I dropped Gina and added Elaine to my long list of Honey Dips and Honey Don'ts. Gina was a Honey Don't, and since I was dropping another Honey Don't, I had to add a Honey Dip. Yes, Elaine was my new addition, but she had something all of my other brawds didn’t, weakness. She needed me like a baby needs titty milk. Her finances were unstable and I was her Superman with a fat wallet and a big dick, every woman’s dream.
When I went out onto the roof of my penthouse after about a year and half of banging her, her weakness and vulnerability are what ultimately finalized my decision to marry her and not Teresa, or Linda, or Asia, or any one of my other Honey Dips. Elaine was the one. I could make her do whatever I wanted her to do. By marrying her, I would make her mine, permanently.
Well, on to my side of this bullshit. It all started right after my brother's funeral, when Elaine decided to sell his house. Dalyn had been diagnosed with lung cancer and suffered for years. He didn't have much, only this house and he left it to me. Elaine said that by fixing the house up and selling it, we would make a nice little profit. I disagreed; I wanted to keep it. We didn't need money. With me being a senior commercial loan officer at the bank and she being a real estate agent, we were not hurting for money. I had plenty of it. In fact, I had a separate savings account that Elaine didn't even know about. When we got married, I never closed my old account and every month I had a cool little way of getting a few extra pennies. I've had that account for at least 17 years now and I'm sure that I have close to 10 million dollars, $9.9 at the least.
I didn't understand why she wanted to sell that damn house so bad. We argued every day for two months about it. It was like she was possessed and I don't know what got into her. She was acting as if we were a paycheck away from the welfare line. We had money. I kept telling that bitch, "We got money! Why, why, why are you tripping woman?" But she kept saying that we needed it, like we were some kind of charity case or something.
Anyway, one day when I came home from work, I overheard her on the phone closing the deal with the buyer, saying that it was great doing business and she hopes they enjoy the house. When she hung up, I clinched my fist as tight as I could and punched her dead in the mouth. Why did she always make me do that? She had a habit of it, making me slap her ass around every now and again. I think sometimes she forgot that I was the man of the house and every decision about every thing, including what color panties she was to wear was to be made by me and me only. That was part of the deal when we first got married. I had to remind her stupid ass sometimes.
Needless to say, the house was sold and we made a hefty sum which caused a major problem; I didn't have anywhere to have sex with all my fine Honey Dips anymore! Now I know you didn't think a playa just gave up his “Playa-Card” cause he got married. Hell, I got even more pussy as a married man than I ever did as a bachelor. I wasn't going to spend money on a room with those dizzy brawds and getting hotel rooms always left a paper trail so that wasn’t an option either.
I had to shorten my list, for the time being, to bitches that had their own place, cause there was no way I could take them home. So that meant Teresa, Angie, and Kya were all out. Angie and Kya both had nosey ass roommates and Teresa still lived with her moms. Gina was still around and I could always go to her for some bomb ass head, but because she didn't look as good as the other girls, I really didn't want to be bothered. I had gotten used to being with hot, fine, ass, sisters with nice asses and perky tits, and even though Gina could suck the coloring out a dick, she was ugly as hell and a whiner. I hate bitches that whine about every lil thing. YUCK! That only left Linda who lived 2 hours away and I'll be damned if I drive 2 hours just to bust a nut. Hell, I got a wife at home.
Then, the Lord answered a playa's prayers once again. Kenya, the buyer of my brother's house, actually was a co-worker of mine at the bank. All through escrow, closing, and all that, I was so upset at Elaine for having the balls to go behind my back and sell my brother's house that I never even paid any attention to who was buying it. To my surprise, it was Kenya, the Senior Teller Manager with the sexy eyes and plump, sweet, ass. I usually didn't have very many dealings with the tellers any more since becoming a Commercial Loan Officer, but things changed after Kenya came up to me one day and asked me to lunch. We talked about my wife, my brother's old house, and we just seem to naturally click. It was all good food and casual conversation but it was something about the way we held hands a little too long after saying goodbye or the way our conversation kept turning into unconventional flirts that made me see Kenya differently.
We agreed to meet and have dinner. We did and for the first time in my life, I felt a connection that I never felt before. Not even with Elaine. I felt that Kenya somehow, really understood me, about why I loved having sex with different women even though I was married, about not wa
nting to have children just yet, about being a man period. I opened up and told Kenya everything, even about the money I had in the separate account and how I earned my extra dough. We had sex that night and it was the best I ever had in my life. Hands down, Kenya was absolutely the best.
What happened next? Yep! Yep! I ended up having an affair with Kenya for about 6 months before things got real ugly between us. Kenya wanted to be with me exclusively; wanted me to leave Elaine. Elaine was my wife and I loved her. She was a good woman and she did everything she was told and accepted her role with no problem. I wasn't about to give her up and all my control just for Kenyatta, so I tried to end things, but that didn’t go well at all.
Kenyatta’s bitch ass straight blackmailed me. Yeah, I didn't know what to do. I had kept my sexual encounters from Elaine during our entire 7 years of marriage. All the others, I could have easily lied about and said it was only sex and it didn't mean anything, but the way I connected with Kenya, I could never let Elaine find that out. Fucking other bitches was one thing, but connecting with somebody else on an emotional level was an entirely different animal. Elaine used to always say we were soul mates and I don't know which would hurt the most, me and Kenya or the fact that I was keeping a $10 million secret she didn't know about.
I tried to pay Kenya off by offering part of that money but Kenya wanted a bigger percentage than I was willing to part with. Shit, it was my money and I should be able to spend it how I see fit, and giving it to Kenya as part of being blackmailed was not on my agenda, you feel me? I was caught up. It happens to the best of them, right? I tried everything in my power to change Kenya’s mind about this whole mess, but nothing worked. So then I gave in and told Kenya that I would indeed leave Elaine, I just needed some time to get all my assets in line. Kenya agreed to give me time, in fact 48 hours was all that I was offered before Blabbermouth was to go to Elaine to tell her everything.
Urban Diaries Page 2