Sugar in Rice

Chapter I.

Day Dreaming

In my dream, I was dancing in my bedroom with one of my favorite Jazz songs. I was feeling free from all that had happened in the past. I danced with my hands held up high. I wanted to hug God and to thank him for all he had done for me. Then suddenly…

I was awaken by the sounds of sirens outside my window and the dream is all gone. There are fire engines and police cars racing up the street to a fire or other sort of emergency. I think it was a false alarm, possibly a few unruly kids pulled the lever on the red box at the corner. I then understood, that red box did not exist any more, authorities got tired of the many false alarms. I was still half-asleep, when I jumped up from the bed and went to the windowpane. What is going on here? I thought. In that respect is nothing going on, then I bent round and steered backwards to bed. I lay on my back, relaxing, with my hands folded under my head. My long braids grouped together in the palms of my hands, I shut my eyes tightly. Ah, peace and quiet at last, I remembered. The window in my bedroom, just slightly opened enough for a small breeze to shoot a line through.
I conveyed a deep breather and allowed my memory to go far back to when I was five years old. I could now see my mother and she is crying. Her eyes are dragged out, as if she has been up all night. She is sitting on the edge of the bed with grief in her eyes. What is wrong with her? Why is she crying again? I thought. She then looked up at me as if she was losing her mind. My mother was a pro at hiding her wounds and concerns. It was something that most parents try to do, without realizing that children usually know the difference. I was not too young to understand, what was going on. I may not have been old enough to comprehend why our living conditions were so stressed, only you would have to be completely blind not to realize that we had problems. I was taught throughout my childhood, that being my father’s child was always my fault. My grandmother Pauline, was my mother’s mom. She made an effort to mention this every single time she laid eyes on us.
“If you mention your father’s name again, I would slap the taste out your mouth.” She would say.
We knew better, that the name calling of stupid, dumb and asshole was who we were.
“Girl, get your dumb ass out the window.” She yelled at me, while pointing her finger in my face. I have to admit, it was quite painful in the beginning, but as time went on it, I got used to it. You stupid girl or boy, that was used in the place of our actual names. I am the only female child from four male children. I was the first born female child in my generation of grandchildren and the first niece. Although I was born the next one to the youngest, being that girl was not always pleasant. The fighting with my brothers and everybody else kept me wondering if it really was a great thing. Laurence, the oldest brother knew more was required of him. Thus he has constantly turned the worse situations into something serious, specially for my youngest brother and me.
While my two elder brothers were somewhere playing alone, he would maintain a tight eye on us. He told jokes, played silly little games and did all the things that big brothers did to keep us laughing. Laurence has always tried to keep all of us out of the way of adult confusion. Even through all that laugher he gave, there was so much annoyance. It is hard to believe that no one really knew how painful the wounds were for him or is it that no one cared. You see, in my family, children really did not matter. We were extras, hardly noticeable, you know, something you have around the home, collecting dusk. A thing you can manage without. Darnel, the middle brother, took every doll I had and tore the heads from them. He was mean and sometimes dangerous to us or to most of the kids on the block. He knew how to convey his emotion with anger or torment and we, his siblings dealt with it every day. I can still hear Carnel, my second brother, yelling in the background for Darnel to stop. As quiet as he was, even Darnel could aggravate him enough to bring him out his shell. He and Daniel is close in age, born eleven months apart, many might mistake them as twins, but I can promise you, they are really much dissimilar.
Carnel was so damn greedy and hungry all the time, and still not a single word or complaint about anything. It was unfortunate, but a household like ours, hunger was a normal way of life. And so there is little Terence, my youngest brother, who we called Bird. A nickname thought up by my mother, because of the laugher he gave, every time he heard it. The epithet is so amusing to him, that he could not quit laughing. It was to the point of not being able to take a breather. My mother found it humorous that he found it so hilarious. Terence was very cute, smart and full of energy, but he was always into something. We played together, until we both fell asleep. Bird had a strange habit of sleeping almost anywhere, but those who knew him loved him. He was a gifted little boy, with golden brown skin, a head full of curly, thick hair and the most handsome smile that could warm the toughest heart. That was my mother’s baby and she loved him, I suppose, she loved all of us in different ways. It was almost daily that I would ask my mother.
“Where is my father? And “When is he coming back?”
Still, she always rendered me the same response.
“I do not know, he is just not here for today and will be back soon.”
It was hurtful, but soon was all she could promise me. Now, before I go any further, you have to understand something about my mother. It was despite the fact that my father came to visit us once a month for three causes. He could get sex from my mother, the welfare check from all of us and beating on my brothers whenever he felt like it. Sadly, but my mother still adored him. Truthfully, I do not believe he ever actually had strong intentions of abiding by the union. He certainly did not care about the horrible living conditions, he put us in. Maybe it was better if he did not come at all, because when he did, he brought fear along with him. I watched him as the big bad wolf, a stranger or perhaps the predator who have come to consume us. He was this big six foot three inch man that weighed at least three hundred and eighty five pounds. He was a beast, a monster. Although, he was exceedingly smart, very handsome and boastful, he was the man. I know, it is a contradiction, but that is the way it was and the way I saw him. At that time, he claimed he worked as a bounty hunter for the government, but with all the dead bodies crammed in his trunk, I did not know what to believe. He drove a white 1970 Eldorado automobile, wore a big cowboy hat and boots. He took these bodies to our house on numerous of times, to scare us not to run for assistance.
“Come on kids, let me show you what I got in my trunk!” He said proudly, as if he picked fruit from a tree. He forced my three older brothers out to the car to see. He was more like a hit man, reading off his prey. I do truly believe that. A cold blooded killer, who had the balls to do just about anything. And boy did he brag.
“I told that Motherfucker. You run, you die. You stay and you still die.” He told the story with a chuckle. I listened from my bedroom, while he laughed in a belly roll sort of way. Yes. He totally enjoyed every bit of it! Our life was surrounded with fear, it was considered normal. It also appeared that everyone around us feared him as well. In a child’s eye, he was powerful, like a God and it seemed that my mother was attracted to it, as if she was under a spell. I considered it was the not knowing, what, or when something dreadful would happen that kept her faithful. She would have done just about anything for him. Sometimes, I believed she loved him, more than herself. Her love was anything but normal. It was a self-destructive, unhealthy, scary type of love. She would have sold her soul if she had to and the saddest part of the entire situation was he would let her. She needed him to love her. Somehow, she felt if she did not give him all of her, she would simply wither away and die.
“Hey honey!” She spoke softly in a loving tone.
“Is there anything I can get you baby?”
Yes, she loved everything about him, even the scent. He drew a very strong masculine body odor. It scented the house of three days old Brut on a dirty ass. The building hallways carried his scent, every time he got into town. When walking up the stairs, this was always the indication that he was there. He spoke to my mother with authority, while lying on his back like a king.
“Hey, come in here in bust these hair bumps on my face.” He said it loud enough for everyone to hear. He wanted to demonstrate how much power he had over us.
“Alright baby,” She stated, proudly in her loving voice.
The notion of being loved is what she needed. Then a few hours later, they closed the bedroom door and she felt like a wife.
Wow, my daddy is home. Now, I am just like all the other kids here in the neighborhood. I have a father too. I thought. I really did believe that, until the next morning. He was gone and so was our food and money.
How disappointing is that to a child? He did not tell me good-bye. When was he coming back? I thought. It was distressing, but somehow I imagine my mother felt it more. She displayed the same routine every time he left. Slowly, she would creep from the bedroom with her hair all over her head, looking a complete mess and her night gown twisted on her body. On top of that, there was bitter sadness and guilt planted across her face. You can clearly see, her heart had been stolen away, and thus, another day of rice with just a sprinkle of sugar and butter we used up again.

Now, being hungry as a child is rough. It seemed that every other child on earth was accepted, or favored but you. How does a parent explain that you are exactly as important as any other kid? Particularly, when you are suffering from hunger and you are throwing up fluffy white stomach fumes. Who does a child express those feelings to? Should I explain it to my mother?