Tag Archives: memoir

Another Day at the Office

Note: This traumatic situation happened in the 90s, something I’ll never forget.

Ever think you’d wake up to face another day and everything go according to plan? Remain normal? Nothing out of the ordinary? Yeah, me too. But this would be no ordinary work day for me …

After several months of working the drive-thru window at my new banking job, I looked forward to working the inside lobby. I retrieved my cash box and set up my drawer as I do on any other day, except that I was stationed alongside Manager and friend Judy, who has fifteen years of experience in the industry. Once all bank tellers were set up with their consignment items, our security guard, Victor, unlocked the front doors and opened for business. Because it was the beginning of the week, I felt confident the day would go by fairly smoothly.

After assisting a couple of customers with their transactions, I became startled by a commotion to my far left. I glanced in that direction in time to see a masked man shove Victor against the counter, snatching his gun out of his holster. Like a surreal scene right out of a horror flick, the masked man pressed the gun against Victor’s spine, ordering him not to move or to turn around. Before realization hit me, another gunman shot passed me from the opposite direction with a stocking over his face, shouting obscenities and threatening that he would “pop” anyone who moved!

Another hooded gunman appeared, waving his rifle, shoving customers and employees along the wall, and yelling at them to drop down and not move. Staring in disbelief and shock, as if frozen in time, the tellers behind the counters were still standing with their hands in the air. As thoughts reeled in my brain, I hardly noticed that my hand was slowly etching out, attempting to set off a silent alarm hidden under the counter inches from me. Out of nowhere, one of the gunmen jumped on top of my counter, glaring with his gun pointed at me, and growled, “You! Down, now. Or I’ll pop you!”

I was going to faint on the spot at best or be shot to smithereens at worst. Thank the good Lord, I still had some control of my faculties and complied, dropping to my knees with my head down, all the while praying. Judy was not so lucky.

The gunman began ordering her to climb over the counter to go into the vault with him. One of the other gunmen already held Victor and the commercial teller with his gun pointed in their faces while they waited to go inside the vault once it was unlocked. The gunman became impatient with Judy and proceeded to pull on her arm, attempting to drag her up and over the counter. As she struggled to raise her leg to climb, she stumbled back and was immediately pistol-whipped after he jumped down, cursing her for moving too slowly. He proceeded to push her towards the vault with the others. (Yes, my head was up and I was peeking.) Once the vault was unlocked, one could only imagine what was taking place inside.

One of the gunmen stood by the front door, holding everyone at bay, spewing profanities and waving his gun back and forth. After what seemed like an eternity, the two gunmen ran out from the vault, throwing money bags at their partner by the exit. They ordered everyone to remain down as they scurried out the front door. After the ruckus, we began to stir and rise from our positions. Peering out of the windows, we noticed the police were already on the scene (an alarm had indeed gone off), and they were in hot pursuit of the bank robbers who apparently had jumped into a getaway car. Instantly, I thought of Judy and the rest who had gone into the vault. They were still inside! Were they hurt? Still alive? I shuddered to think.

As I quickly approached the vault, I heard sobbing, and my heart dropped! All three employees were lying face down on the ground. But the sight of Judy faced down with blood glistering from a gash on her forehead stunned me. A sob escaped me as I called her name. I was relieved to discover that when I called out, they all responded by sitting up and were simply waiting for one of us from the outside to come and get them. Upon examining Judy’s head, we knew her outer wounds would heal. But one never knows about the turmoil that goes on inside.

We hugged one another and let the tears flow freely.

After the police had interviewed everyone, we were allowed to call family members to come and pick us up. When Mark came for me, I was still trembling and immediately crumbled into the safety of his arms. I couldn’t wait to leave, go home, and hug my kids.

Recovery from trauma is a process. Most of us were shaken up for quite some time after that ordeal and needed counseling. Some even quit their banking jobs to seek employment elsewhere. As for me, that moment in time would forever be etched in my memory. I experienced what is called a trauma-related symptom in the aftermath of that bank robbery.

Days after the incident, while on lunch break at a fast-food chicken joint, an outraged customer began verbally attacking one of the employees over his incorrect order. My heart was pounding out of my chest, and my nerves felt like pins and needles. I left my food and made a hasty exit and got the heck out of Dodge.

Reflecting back, one thing became perfectly clear: You can be “busy as usual” with the mundane things in life, and at a moment’s notice, your world can turn upside down, and you are faced with a life and death situation!

Life is precious and not to be taken for granted.

© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved

Your turn. Have you had a traumatic experience or a close call when you least expected it?

24 Comments

Filed under Bank Robbery, Social

A Sneak Peek Behind the Scenes

Well, the day had finally arrived. A special day filled with prepping for my first professional headshot. I am very mindful of my followers and supporters and that I am not alone on this incredible journey. So, here I share with you some behind-the-scenes moments from my day (and not all are glamorous). Lol.

After conducting some research and making appointments weeks in advance, I started the day early for my first appointment at Hair International Day Spa. My youngest daughter, Angela, wouldn’t miss it for the world. Everything I needed to do today was right up her alley, so she met me at the hair salon.

I decided to step it up a notch and do something different with my hair. Hopefully, it pans out.

Hmmmm, how short should I go?

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 A rare photo for all the world to see – and may be the last one I ever post! ((meh))

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I have chosen Chelsea to be my hairstylist and makeup artist. I trust her, knowing I am in capable hands.

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 Okay. I think we’re on a roll.

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Getting in the groove.

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 “Mom …,” my daughter whispered, “there’s a lot of your hair on the floor.” Yep, 7-inches – gone!

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The finishing touch – hairspray!

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My new Bob cut.

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Chelsea did a fantastic job! I just love her!

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Next appointment … to the photographer. (No time for lunch!)

I located this place by searching the internet, and after reading the reviews, I decided to call them. After speaking with Mary, she answered all my questions to my satisfaction. I was able to coordinate a time with her, not long after my hair and makeup session.

The studio, situated in the Museum District, is housed in a historic home in Houston. The husband-and-wife team, Tom and Mary, were friendly and accommodating. The atmosphere, charmingly odd, had an old-fashioned feel, and I immediately felt at ease. After changing outfits in complete privacy, show time!

Angela stood near the photographer, and as the instructions began on how to turn my head and lean forward or back, look to the right or left, I saw my daughter’s thumbs up in my peripheral vision. I knew things were going okay with every click of the camera.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, faithful followers and fellow bloggers, click here to see my untouched photos. I posted these on my Facebook page, and the votes were cast. I have three favorites, and we will be working on them to use professionally.

Thank you for accompanying me on this journey; many more to come. After so many years, I am beginning to look and feel like a published author.

© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved

22 Comments

October 28, 2014 · 9:02 PM

Forever Mama

As I mentioned in a previous post, Mama’s and my relationship and communication skills are a work in progress. This is good because we are so much better than we were before. You see, I missed out on doing the everyday mother-and-daughter things with her when I was a child. But as an adult, I am blessed because I get to do some things for her that she never could for me. That’s not necessarily a bad deal. I feel fortunate enough to know that there is enough stability in my life, although it hasn’t always been this way.

I enjoy taking Mama out to dinner and a movie on occasion because these simple outings mean a great deal to her. I remember taking her to her first musical about a couple of years ago to see “Annie.” I knew there would be a lot of walking; therefore, I insisted that we bring a wheelchair (instead of her walker). In more ways than one, that turned out to be a smart move. We were given great seats, close to the stage. As I watched those talented girls performing in the musical along with Annie, I commented to Mama on which ones were my favorites. But Mama’s interest centered on one thing. And one thing only. On Sandy the dog. “What a smart dog!” she’d say. “Isn’t that dog smart?” she’d ask. “Well, yes, but look at the little girl, the youngest one there,” I pointed out. “Isn’t she something?” “Yeah, but can’t you see how animals are so smart?” she squealed. “Oooh, I want to take him home with me!”

Okay, so Mama and I don’t always see eye to eye or agree on everything. What may mean a big deal to me won’t necessarily be a big deal to her, and what may seem mundane to me isn’t to her. However, we are working on improving our communication and understanding. We really are!

Just a few days ago, we celebrated Mama’s 80th birthday. Family and friends surrounded her with their presence, delicious food (at a Cuban restaurant), birthday cake, and showered her with several cards and gifts. She seemed more comfortable having pictures taken. I’m glad she’s still a part of my life. I’m glad she will forever be my mama!

Please visit She’s My Mama – posted last year.

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© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved

 

12 Comments

Filed under communication, Memoir

News Flash

Dear Friends, Family, Followers, and Fans:

I am super excited to announce: “Running in Heels” has landed a publishing home with Chart House Press. Please read all about this in the link below, posted just today, while waiting in the lobby of a movie theater and sipping on a milk shake. Minutes later, I chatted with a lady whom I had never met before, and upon hearing what my memoir was about, she said, “Women like me need this. Honey, congratulations! I want to go to your book signing.”

Thank you for your continual support. Our journey has just begun.

27 Comments

Filed under Author, Blog

Not That Girl

She is not the girl who scratched and clawed her way to the top. She is the girl who learned how to float to prevent her from sinking when life tried to weigh her down. Who walked on pebbles and used them as her stepping stones to get to higher ground. Who learned that childlike faith in the God above would blossom into something much greater than herself. She may have had father figures who were missing in action, but she found comfort in a Heavenly Father who never left her side.

Once dejected and rejected, she is no longer the sad little girl she once was. Don’t feel sorry for her. Applaud her, because it was during the dry seasons that she discovered an oasis. Rejoice with her, because in the darkness, she found a beacon of light. Admire her for rising above her crisis despite her circumstances. She may have started out in the valley, pecking along like a chicken digging for worms. But then the Ancient of Days taught her to spread her wings like an eagle and soar into the air over the mountaintop.

Don’t cry for her, feel sad for her, or grieve for her. If you’re looking for a lost and lonely child, she is not here. Misunderstood, she may be; a wonder to many, she may be. If you’re looking for perfection, she is not that girl. If you expect to see sophistication or to hear profound eloquence, you will be disappointed. Her past may want to dictate her future, the voices in her head play a broken song, and her name may even mean “bitter” — but she refuses to be that girl.

What kind of girl is she? A simple girl. A blessed girl. She is stronger today for everything she endured. She appreciates the beauty of living life one day at a time. She surrounds herself with those who encourage and genuinely care for her. She clothes herself with a garment of praise, amazed by the wonders of God’s grace.

Sad . . . alone . . . afraid.

Not that girl anymore.

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© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved

 “The past does not have to be your prison. You have a voice in your destiny. You have a say in your life. You have a choice in the path you take.” Max Lucado

 

 

12 Comments

Filed under Memoir, survival

In the Thrill of It All

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Once again, my birthday was planned by my beautiful and creative daughter, Anna Marie. She has always believed in and supported my writing endeavors, so I’ve started calling her my publicist. While I was on vacation, back home she rallied up my hubby, and her siblings, as well as secretly contacted my list of friends. (I believe she even hacked into my Facebook account, for goodness’ sake!) The outcome was a wonderful, surprise birthday celebration for yours truly.

To my delight, I realized that my daughter planned out a theme for my birthday this year to honor me. She centered the theme with “Running in Heels,” the working title of my completed memoir. She designed and printed out bookmarks, created a decorated donation box, and collected donations from donors who believe in my work.

This cloud-nine feeling of such love, support, and all that took place was surreal. I can’t imagine EVER getting used to having people who genuinely are fans and those who faithfully remain in my corner, cheering me onward toward the finish line. I have been deeply touched, and I am grateful. But my work is not yet over.

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Yes, I am the author of this story. I lived and survived those years. I wrote the words on the pages through hours upon hours, throughout the night when sleep escaped me, and upon every available moment when at home in front of the computer or jotting down on a writing tablet. To my dear friends and family who have made this birthday gal feel loved and special, to the readers and fellow bloggers who’ve encouraged my work, and to my supporters who went and will continue to go above and beyond, words cannot express the gratitude that is in my heart. Together we shall make a difference. Together, we shall see this project completed.

From my heart to yours, one beat at a time.

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© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved

16 Comments

Filed under Birthday, memoir book project

“Dun You Forget.”

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Into my pre-teen years—although I tried to hide my true feelings—I became self-conscious, which developed into a guarded inferiority complex. While not as shy as my mother had been, I felt like an outcast: I came from a broken home, my family was poor, and I was still on the school’s free lunch program. My clothes were hand-me-downs. We didn’t own a car. I didn’t even own a bike, although I always wanted one. We didn’t go on vacations to Disney World, like the other kids bragged about, nor could we afford the latest trends or luxuries like others.

As I wrestled with these feelings of mediocrity, I became ashamed of my Puerto Rican heritage. I didn’t play the blame game, but felt second-rate, forever on the outside looking in. I determined not to let anyone see through my brittle exterior to see a weakling. In school, because I didn’t feel part of the “in” crowd, I enviously watched as the popular kids voted for class president, vice president, or secretary. In my mind, I believed the ritzy kids went to summer camps, swimming lessons, and Girl Scout meetings. After all, they paid for their school lunches, not the state. They wore the latest fashions, not hand-me-downs. Their straight, pearly whites glistened when they smiled. They even pronounced their words perfectly. They lived in big houses whose parents had “nest eggs.”

“Some are more privileged than others,” Grandma explained to me. “But we are all the same in God’s eyes.”

I wasn’t about to argue with Grandma’s statement. All I knew was that there never seemed to be enough funds to do anything extra. My grandparents were extremely frugal. They didn’t believe in splurging or in keeping up with the Joneses.

In the early seventies, several public schools were still racially unbalanced, so the federal courts stepped in. Miami’s school districts bused students from one neighborhood to another to achieve integration.

Busing made my life plummet from bad to worse. I attended Miami Shores Middle School, a predominantly white school where kids commonly called Hispanics “spics.”

Because I was of Puerto Rican descent, I was the target of their taunting. “You spic English?” they scoffed, using their favorite line. They even gave me grief about my naturally full-sized lips (something others now pay money to have done).

To make matters worse for me, my grandma—unpretentious and a bit old-fashioned—insisted that I wear dresses to school past my knees, even though other girls wore the trendy mini-skirts and mini-dresses. Almost all my clothes were second-hand, and at eleven years old—going on twelve—that bothered me.

“Grandma, this isn’t what the girls wear nowadays!” I groaned.

“Dis is what you’re wearin’, and you shouldn’t be ashamed. Your clothes are clean and pressed,” she said with finality in her usual accent.

I threw up my hands. “Grandma, you’re gonna make me get into fights!”

“You are a Christian girl,” she retorted, her eyes wide and fierce. “Dun you forget that.”

* * * *

Thanks to you, Grandma, I haven’t forgotten.

I’ll always remember my beloved grandma, who passed away in the eighties, whose birthday would have been July 26th. In her simplicity, she impacted my life and instilled in me values and principles I shall never forget. 

© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved

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10 Comments

Filed under Grandma, Memoir

A Simpler Place in Time

In the mid-1960s, as a girl with my grandparents, we would ride the Metro bus every Sunday to attend services at First Faith Cathedral. Once church was over, we hopped on another bus to downtown that took us to the Painted Horse, a favorite all-you-can-eat restaurant on Biscayne Boulevard. Adults ate for $0.99 and kids ate for $0.49. I preferred the hamburger steak with macaroni and cheese, and even though they displayed Jell-O in every color to choose from, my favorite: red.

After lunch, we would head for the Miami Public Library, near Bayfront Park. Grandpa would walk on ahead, while I strolled along with Grandma under her umbrella. We’d stop by a large pond filled with giant goldfish and feed them crackers. The park was located next to a waterfront where elegant boats and luxurious yachts sailed by. As I waved to them, I imagined how the rich folk lived.

Once we arrived at the library, I’d take the elevator to the children’s section on the second floor while my grandparents remained reading in the downstairs lobby. I strolled the aisles, running my hands across the binders of the books neatly stacked on shelves. I loved the smell of those books, the textures, the colors, and even the different lettering.

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My imagination ran wild as I chose a fairy tale, sat on a nearby stool, and read about magical and faraway places. In my mind, I turned beautiful and clever all in one.

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I pretended to be Cinderella, overjoyed that the glass slipper fit my foot perfectly and that my uncle, the tall Prince Charming, singled me out to dance. I imagined my brother as Hansel and I as Gretel, hunting for food, and then eating chunks of candy broken off the cottage with no evil witch in sight. I pictured myself as Little Red Riding Hood, who saved Grandma from the Big Bad Wolf. While reading, I became all those characters and more—until Grandpa called for me, saying, “Mary, time to go home.”

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My real so-called adventures didn’t take me to faraway lands like those in the books I read. My adventures were riding around town on those city buses. If the bus was crowded, we stood while swaying back and forth. Back and forth. Grandpa held onto the straps. Unable to reach them, I held onto the bars instead.

“Mary, hold on tight now,” Grandma cautioned. Grandpa stood nearby, ready to steady Grandma or me if needed. I don’t think he enjoyed riding on the bus much.

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When it was time, I liked to pull the cord to signal the driver to let us off.

“Now, Grandpa?” I asked, not wanting to miss our stop.

“Not yet. Be patient, young lady.”

“How about now?”

“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

Eventually, the sunny, bright-colored Sable Palms apartment complex came into view.

“Okay, now, young lady,” Grandpa nodded.

I would kneel on the seat and reach for the cord, or sometimes Grandpa hoisted me up. I pulled on the cord fast, once, twice, and sometimes even three times for the bus driver to stop. Then swoosh the rear doors opened, we exited, and then the doors swooshed closed.

Palm tree-lined winding roads, landscaped and shaded, led the path to my grandparents’ home. Often, coconuts fell from those towering trees, and I’d run to pick one up for us.

I’ll never forget one day when we arrived home, I overheard Grandpa complaining to Grandma about standing too close to so many people.

“¿Tu ves, Ana?” he said, showing her something. “See? They stole my wallet.”

From the hall, I listened.

“Oh, no!” Grandma gasped, staring at his inside-out pocket in disbelief.

“We have to stand so close we are like sardines. Too easy for someone to put his hands in my back pocket, take my wallet out without me knowing.”

It made me sad to think someone would do something bad to my grandpa, stealing from him as if we were rich. Then again, maybe we were.

(An excerpt from Running in Heels) 

© M.A. Pérez 2014, All Rights Reserved

I loved books then. I love books now. I remember the simple things in life as a child, with a vivid imagination that took me to wonderful, faraway places. What are some of your fond memories as a child?

5 Comments

June 27, 2014 · 11:09 PM

That Special Someone

From the beginning, I loved Mark’s adventurous spirit for the outdoors and watching him interact with my gang. He took us on weekend outings and summer vacations. They included dove hunting with my son, camp-outs on the beach, air shows, the circus, barbecues at the parks, and a vacation to Disney World. Even though raised in Miami, I had never been to Disney World and recall that I was as excited to go as the kids were.

Our all-time favorite excursion: A ten-day road trip to his hometown in California. We stopped in San Diego and spent the entire day at the zoo, the largest and grandest I had ever seen or strolled through. Our second day was in Los Angeles, where I knew we’d bump into Hollywood glitter to brag about back home.

I was right, too. Well, sort of.

To my shock, a few yards away, I spotted a celebrity in the crowd at Universal Studios. I saw the back of his head, and then he turned just enough for me to see his profile. He wasn’t Tom Cruise. He wasn’t Mel Gibson. He wasn’t exactly your Prince Charming … Of course, my kids didn’t know of him. Yep, I called out his name, and he waved right at me. It was he, all right. Tiny Tim! His song, Tiptoe Through the Tulips played in my head for the rest of that day.

In Monterey, we cruised along the 17-mile drive, passing greenery, plush golf courses, Clint Eastwood’s home, and the infamous Lone Cypress tree we’d seen only in photos before. We hung out at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and toured the Museum of Natural History. We stopped in Salinas, visited Mark’s aunt, and continued to Modesto. We spent the night at his brother’s home and watched the children happily camp out in their backyard under a full moon in a tent.

Come morning, on to Yosemite National Park. As far as the eye could see, the view was breathtaking, beautiful, and serene. We enjoyed a picnic and watched a waterfall nearby, and then the little ones wanted to explore. Wherever Mark led, the children followed. The kids trailed him, fearlessly climbing one rock after another. I never cared much for heights, so I took pictures on “lower” ground.

Just as I started to worry, weren’t there bears around? My kiddos raced down the trail with Mark in tow.

“Mommy! Mommy!” they cried in unison.

“Where’d you guys go?” I asked. “I started to get—”

“You should have seen Mark,” they said, trying to talk at once.

As Mark drew closer, I noticed him soaking wet, a sheepish grin on his face. Apparently, when he wanted to venture farther along where the river ran, he instructed the kids to wait for him while he climbed higher. But when it was time to descend, Mark found himself in a tight spot. The drop was much too far down from where he stood to hop off. After some scheming, he threw his wallet and keys where the children were, then jumped into the cold river and swam until he could gain better footing and get back on track.

Amidst the chatter, I teased Mark by saying he had fallen into the river (instead of voluntarily jumping in). However, he and the kids insist that he deliberately dove in when he ran out of options. We would joke about this for years to come.

Unknowingly, those voyages were just the beginning of some wonderful memories my children shared with their step-dad, who lovingly, selflessly, and so “bravely” (as my brother puts it) stepped up to the plate. That husband of mine became more than just a “step” dad.

It takes a strong man to accept somebody else’s children and step up to the plate another man left on the table…

~ Ray Johnson

I love my husband for striving to be the best Daddy he can be for my children. It seems to have come naturally to him, ever since day one, when we crossed paths some twenty-three years ago.

By the way, that special someone makes a great, fun-loving “Papa” for our grandkids, too.

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© M.A. Perez 2014, All Rights Reserved

10 Comments

June 11, 2014 · 9:34 PM

Heaven, Hell or Hoboken – Part II

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Out in Jersey’s bitter cold, the moon full, the trees rustled. Mama and I spent half the night shivering, huddled together on a bus bench—my head on her lap.

“M-Mama,” my teeth chattered. “I’m cold.”

“I am, too. Now, stay still.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I know, Mary. Close your eyes. That bum. Where is he?”

We would have frozen if a kind woman hadn’t invited us up to her place to sleep on her sofa overnight.

Whenever Mama cornered Jimmy in a bar, drinking his pay away, after bickering over dinero, she’d remain with him. If I happened to be around, they sent me away, or Mama left me at home by myself. It saddened me how she preferred being with him rather than with me. Often, they’d stagger home and pass out in a stupor. Only then did the arguments cease and the fights end.

More often than not, I’d gone to bed with the sound of my stomach rumbling. Mama and Jimmy routinely barged in from a night of carousing.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Why are you awake?”

“Can you fix me something to eat?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’s late.” She turned on the hotplate to fry a hot dog. A few minutes later, she’d have one for me rolled inside a slice of bread. “Here. Sit up.”

“Fix me one, too,” Jimmy demanded.

“Hold your horses,” Mama snapped.

As soon as I finished, I lay back down, my eyelids heavy. Eventually, the bright lights in the room faded. My parents’ fussing drifted away as sleep overtook me, but not before I heard familiar sounds. A can is popping open. Cursing. A slap. Sobs.

Unsure as to why, one evening Jimmy overturned the bed that Mama and I slept in. We tumbled onto the hard floor. As Mama struggled to rise, Jimmy pulled her by the arm and shoved her into a windowpane. Jimmy became aware of my presence, and after he flipped the bed upright, he ordered me back into it. I faced the wall, sniffling until I fell asleep.

The next morning, I awoke to the sight of a blood-spattered Mama hobbling on crutches. I ran to help her.

“Mama, what happened?”

“It’s nothing, Mary. Stop crying! I tripped, that’s all.”

I couldn’t help but wonder, Why did she think I didn’t know anything?

I knew some things. I hid loose change and planned to save enough money to take care of Mama one day. In my childish mind, I knew that one day we were going to live in a big house, have plenty to eat, and Mama wouldn’t ever have to worry again.

That afternoon, I heard cursing and knew it wasn’t good. A rattling sound echoed around the wall, as if something were whirling in a container. Then, to see Jimmy shaking my pink, plastic kitty bank upside down in mid-air, my pennies, dimes, and nickels clattering onto the floor, made me feel weak and sick inside.

I followed the coins that rolled under a chair and dove for them. I looked up, my eyes darting between Mama and Jimmy, hoping she’d do something. Mama called him a “jackass,” but that didn’t stop him. He couldn’t care less that I knelt there sobbing. He expressed zero shame as he scooped the scattered change into his pocket. My coins.

Later, Mama told me that Jimmy was just thirsty and to stop sniffling. “He’ll return the money soon enough,” she said. I knew that wasn’t true.

On my knees, I gathered up the broken pieces of my kitty bank. With no more tears left, I seethed, thinking, maybe Mama can take care of herself. And maybe I’ll never talk to her again. Or to Jimmy. And maybe I’ll run away . . . to my real daddy.

(Excerpt from  Running in Heels – a continuation of Part I)

© M.A. Perez 2014, All Rights Reserved

 

15 Comments

May 28, 2014 · 7:20 PM