I'm finally doing it. I'm finally going home to interview my grandmother and get the one love story I want to hear. I've told it on here before, but this time, I'm going to write it for real.
The other story I'm working on is the history of Bryce through the eyes of the Partlow children who lived there when they were growing up. The PR director at the Department of Mental Health told me nobody had ever done this angle of Bryce before. I'm pumped.
What now?
What next?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Trying my hand at fiction.
This is what I wrote for a Creative Writing class:
They call me Mister Jones. My momma stuck one little bit of respect in my name because she never thought I would earn it on my own. I won’t, either. She left the little note tucked into the folds of my blanket before she put me on the steps of the Presbyterian church, knocked on the door and ran away.
That’s how I got my start, as one big game of ding-dong ditch. Hell, I don’t even know if that note that said “Mister” was supposed to be my name. Maybe that whore that birthed me was just trying to get a man’s attention like she was always doing.
There’s something fun about growing up a whore’s child. All the nuns in the orphanage give you that look where their eyes change shape all together. I swear it’s true. Those eyes turn into teardrops that look like they’re going to fall off the sides of their face when they look at a whore’s child. I was passed around from foster home to foster home, but I figured you could guess as much. That first lady I lived with, Shirley Thompson, I think, man she was a nice lady. But man, I hated living there. She lived in one of those big antebellum houses that folks had died in during the wars and stuff. Once, one of the housekeepers told me that a man had shot himself in the upper room where I slept. You just can’t find any sweet dreams in a room where some soldier blew his brains out. I swear it.
I moved around a lot, but it wasn’t so bad. Nobody ever laid a hand on me, but few God-fearing Baptist women do dare lay a hand on a 6’7 black boy whose mother had to get rid of him before she went out to turn tricks for the night. There was this other lady, Joan something, we called her Miss Joan even though she was married. It takes a special person to take in a foster kid, but I swear sometimes some of them are as crazy as a Bessie bug. So this Miss Joan, she used to pray for the demons to release my poor soul every time I acted up in school. I could hear her through the vents that connected her room to mine. She hadn’t figured out this vent thing, so one day I got bored and decided it was time for those demons to start talking back. I don’t know what demons sound like, but luckily, neither did Miss Joan. Anyways, I started talking in a real low, scary voice and convinced Miss Joan that the demons were actually coming down to earth to talk to her. She must have talked to those demons for more than an hour. Then I had to start wrapping up the conversation because the maid would be calling for dinner soon and I don’t think that demons take the same kind of dinner hours that we do. Maybe they do, but I doubt it. I swear, for almost three months after that, she would try to sprinkle me with a little holy water that she got from a missionary that came to speak at the Little Gethsemane House of Prayer last August.
I always get to this part of the story and people ask me when I started playing football. I have never touched a football in my life and I never plan on it. So they ask me when I started rapping. Rapping? Really? I don’t rap.
What have I done with my life then? (people who have done more always like to ask that question just so they can tell you what they’ve done.)
I survived.
For now.
They call me Mister Jones. My momma stuck one little bit of respect in my name because she never thought I would earn it on my own. I won’t, either. She left the little note tucked into the folds of my blanket before she put me on the steps of the Presbyterian church, knocked on the door and ran away.
That’s how I got my start, as one big game of ding-dong ditch. Hell, I don’t even know if that note that said “Mister” was supposed to be my name. Maybe that whore that birthed me was just trying to get a man’s attention like she was always doing.
There’s something fun about growing up a whore’s child. All the nuns in the orphanage give you that look where their eyes change shape all together. I swear it’s true. Those eyes turn into teardrops that look like they’re going to fall off the sides of their face when they look at a whore’s child. I was passed around from foster home to foster home, but I figured you could guess as much. That first lady I lived with, Shirley Thompson, I think, man she was a nice lady. But man, I hated living there. She lived in one of those big antebellum houses that folks had died in during the wars and stuff. Once, one of the housekeepers told me that a man had shot himself in the upper room where I slept. You just can’t find any sweet dreams in a room where some soldier blew his brains out. I swear it.
I moved around a lot, but it wasn’t so bad. Nobody ever laid a hand on me, but few God-fearing Baptist women do dare lay a hand on a 6’7 black boy whose mother had to get rid of him before she went out to turn tricks for the night. There was this other lady, Joan something, we called her Miss Joan even though she was married. It takes a special person to take in a foster kid, but I swear sometimes some of them are as crazy as a Bessie bug. So this Miss Joan, she used to pray for the demons to release my poor soul every time I acted up in school. I could hear her through the vents that connected her room to mine. She hadn’t figured out this vent thing, so one day I got bored and decided it was time for those demons to start talking back. I don’t know what demons sound like, but luckily, neither did Miss Joan. Anyways, I started talking in a real low, scary voice and convinced Miss Joan that the demons were actually coming down to earth to talk to her. She must have talked to those demons for more than an hour. Then I had to start wrapping up the conversation because the maid would be calling for dinner soon and I don’t think that demons take the same kind of dinner hours that we do. Maybe they do, but I doubt it. I swear, for almost three months after that, she would try to sprinkle me with a little holy water that she got from a missionary that came to speak at the Little Gethsemane House of Prayer last August.
I always get to this part of the story and people ask me when I started playing football. I have never touched a football in my life and I never plan on it. So they ask me when I started rapping. Rapping? Really? I don’t rap.
What have I done with my life then? (people who have done more always like to ask that question just so they can tell you what they’ve done.)
I survived.
For now.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Xander.
I was up all night writing about a little boy, Xander, who had been adopted from Ukraine. It started off as a happy story about an adopted babies. I've changed the angle to be a story about how Down syndrome children are not wanted in Eastern Europe because they're still considered to be Mongoloids. I've hated every minute of this research. I found Facebook groups against DS people. It has made me sick. In trying to do the children justice, I've just begun to hate their biological parents.
Here's the lede:
The child weighed 16 pounds on his fourth birthday. He had never seen a toy because his keepers thought toys would give children with Down syndrome heart attacks. He had never smelled like Johnson & Johnson because baby powder was considered too much of a luxury at the orphanage in Artemivsk, Ukraine. The only taste he knew was vegetable broth out of an infant’s bottle and the only home he knew was a closet where he lived with five other children. He stared at the ceiling for 23 hours out of the day and for one hour he was put in a cage on the front lawn just so he would not forget what the sun looked like.
Still, he was one of the lucky ones. His hands and feet were not bound to his bed by leather straps.
There were six metal beds in that closet. Each bed contained a small child that was unable to leave unless it was at the hands of their keepers.
They did not want to hurt him, so they didn’t touch him. The six damaged children at the orphanage were kept in one little room where they were safe, and the other children were safe from them and their diseases.
The child laid in the bed and rocked from side to side for endless hours. With each movement, the skin on his back would rub away leaving bedsores on his undiapered bottom. They will never heal.
With every motion, a little piece of his neediness would rub off with his skin. With every sway he would replace the need to be touched and held by a human with the sensation of the threadbare sheet against his skin. He would later be diagnosed with autism, and would struggle with different sensations as he tries to find some touch and pressure that is satisfying. There was no one to hold him in the orphanage, no one to touch his face. All he had was the pressure of the bed against his back and the sight of the shadow creatures on the ceiling.
On the day he was born, the doctor that delivered him told his parents that he looked different from the other children. He had little arcs under his eyes and his toes pointed in the wrong direction. No tests were done, but because of those signs that he was not like the other children, they left him there. His birthday and the day he was abandoned became one, and it would be a thousand nights before he had clean pajamas again.
He never heard a lullaby and he will never know what it means to belong to someone who shares his eyes. To his biological parents, he was just another one of God’s mistakes.
He was a bundle of hopelessness, wrapped up in a cheap blanket and left to be picked up by whomever got the task of driving to the hospital that day. He was condemned by an extra chromosome, and the sentence was carried out by the ignorance of the Ukrainian people. In Eastern Europe, they still think Down syndrome children are damaged goods. Nobody wants a mongoloid child.
I hate this, but I'm glad I'm writing the story. I don't think Professor Bragg will like it because it's just a student scratching the surface on what could be a major break in the fight for human rights, but I'll keep this around. I'll see if anyone wants it, and the one day, I'll do this story right.
jg
Here's the lede:
The child weighed 16 pounds on his fourth birthday. He had never seen a toy because his keepers thought toys would give children with Down syndrome heart attacks. He had never smelled like Johnson & Johnson because baby powder was considered too much of a luxury at the orphanage in Artemivsk, Ukraine. The only taste he knew was vegetable broth out of an infant’s bottle and the only home he knew was a closet where he lived with five other children. He stared at the ceiling for 23 hours out of the day and for one hour he was put in a cage on the front lawn just so he would not forget what the sun looked like.
Still, he was one of the lucky ones. His hands and feet were not bound to his bed by leather straps.
There were six metal beds in that closet. Each bed contained a small child that was unable to leave unless it was at the hands of their keepers.
They did not want to hurt him, so they didn’t touch him. The six damaged children at the orphanage were kept in one little room where they were safe, and the other children were safe from them and their diseases.
The child laid in the bed and rocked from side to side for endless hours. With each movement, the skin on his back would rub away leaving bedsores on his undiapered bottom. They will never heal.
With every motion, a little piece of his neediness would rub off with his skin. With every sway he would replace the need to be touched and held by a human with the sensation of the threadbare sheet against his skin. He would later be diagnosed with autism, and would struggle with different sensations as he tries to find some touch and pressure that is satisfying. There was no one to hold him in the orphanage, no one to touch his face. All he had was the pressure of the bed against his back and the sight of the shadow creatures on the ceiling.
On the day he was born, the doctor that delivered him told his parents that he looked different from the other children. He had little arcs under his eyes and his toes pointed in the wrong direction. No tests were done, but because of those signs that he was not like the other children, they left him there. His birthday and the day he was abandoned became one, and it would be a thousand nights before he had clean pajamas again.
He never heard a lullaby and he will never know what it means to belong to someone who shares his eyes. To his biological parents, he was just another one of God’s mistakes.
He was a bundle of hopelessness, wrapped up in a cheap blanket and left to be picked up by whomever got the task of driving to the hospital that day. He was condemned by an extra chromosome, and the sentence was carried out by the ignorance of the Ukrainian people. In Eastern Europe, they still think Down syndrome children are damaged goods. Nobody wants a mongoloid child.
I hate this, but I'm glad I'm writing the story. I don't think Professor Bragg will like it because it's just a student scratching the surface on what could be a major break in the fight for human rights, but I'll keep this around. I'll see if anyone wants it, and the one day, I'll do this story right.
jg
Monday, March 1, 2010
Three strikes?
I will never understand protests. Never.
In the history of anything, has any policy ever changed because of a protest? Did any congressman change his mind because of people standing on the courthouse steps? no. It's a good thought, I suppose. Everyone ganging together to stand in the road.
This isn't long. I hope someone will read it and explain to me why people like to protest stuff.
jg
In the history of anything, has any policy ever changed because of a protest? Did any congressman change his mind because of people standing on the courthouse steps? no. It's a good thought, I suppose. Everyone ganging together to stand in the road.
This isn't long. I hope someone will read it and explain to me why people like to protest stuff.
jg
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Oh, I've got to get one of these.
I'm working on a story about a Down Syndrome orphan that was adopted out of Ukraine. After hours and hours of research (procrastination) on reecesrainbow.com, I've decided I'm going to get me one of those babies one day. I have to. I highly recommend you go to that web site. There are 12 families in Tuscaloosa adopting internationally right now. Their blogs put mine to shame. I suppose Momma's just have the best words for describing their children.
Also, it's stories like these that remind me how much we take for granted in the U.S. The kid, Xander, was 16 pounds on his fourth birthday. He lived in a closet with five other children. I'll spare you the tears, and there will be tears when you hear the whole story, but we forget that babies live through that.
I have to get me one of those babies one day. One day after I've worked hard, of course.
I'll post the story on here later. It's going to be a profile on this child's life almost told through his eyes. He's had Down syndrome and autism, but I'm going to try my best to put things in his terms.
Suggestions welcomed.
Also, it's stories like these that remind me how much we take for granted in the U.S. The kid, Xander, was 16 pounds on his fourth birthday. He lived in a closet with five other children. I'll spare you the tears, and there will be tears when you hear the whole story, but we forget that babies live through that.
I have to get me one of those babies one day. One day after I've worked hard, of course.
I'll post the story on here later. It's going to be a profile on this child's life almost told through his eyes. He's had Down syndrome and autism, but I'm going to try my best to put things in his terms.
Suggestions welcomed.
Your poker face.
I'm so tired of hearing about gambling in Alabama.
There are some stories I can hear for days and never get tired, but I never want to hear about electronic bingo again. So, I'm weighing in.
One hand: It's in our constitution that it's illegal. End. Shut them down, put them in jail, capital punishment, whatever you want to do. Just do something.
Other hand: It could help our economy. Let's vote on it. What could that hurt?
DO SOMETHING.
I'm on a few hyper-conservative email lists and I keep getting email that say "Sister Grace met ill fated words at the steps of the courthouse."
Maybe Sister Grace shouldn't have been damning people on the steps of the courthouse. Let's get to the bottom of this. I'm sure Sister Grace is a lovely woman, but nobody is just going to randomly spit on a good Christian woman.
Just, do something Alabama.
There are some stories I can hear for days and never get tired, but I never want to hear about electronic bingo again. So, I'm weighing in.
One hand: It's in our constitution that it's illegal. End. Shut them down, put them in jail, capital punishment, whatever you want to do. Just do something.
Other hand: It could help our economy. Let's vote on it. What could that hurt?
DO SOMETHING.
I'm on a few hyper-conservative email lists and I keep getting email that say "Sister Grace met ill fated words at the steps of the courthouse."
Maybe Sister Grace shouldn't have been damning people on the steps of the courthouse. Let's get to the bottom of this. I'm sure Sister Grace is a lovely woman, but nobody is just going to randomly spit on a good Christian woman.
Just, do something Alabama.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Awe-struck.
I'm stressed. Real stressed. But the thing is, I could not ask for more right now. I'm stressed about these amazing opportunities I've been giving. No more complaining. The stories will get done on time, the research will be done, I have a post-grad job in case nothing else opens up. I have family and friends who will drop anything when I need them.
I've been blessed.
We're supposed to keep a blog about newsworthy things, I suppose. I try, but I'm not good at that. I don't want to judge people. I want to write about them, but I always feel like I'm shooting my opinion in when I write blogs. Hm.
I was writing a story the other day and asked God this, 'How do you see these people?' That's what I want to capture. I want to describe how the creator sees them. He knows we aren't perfect. But what characteristics does he see when he looks at us?
Something I read in The Shack was God saying that nothing bad ever comes from Him. We think he 'let us go through it to teach us a lesson,' but I don't think it's like that. We screw up. Other people screw up. We do go through it by His grace, but he didn't cause it.
I've been blessed. I just needed to take a minute to realize that today.
Sometimes, it just can't get any better.
jg
I've been blessed.
We're supposed to keep a blog about newsworthy things, I suppose. I try, but I'm not good at that. I don't want to judge people. I want to write about them, but I always feel like I'm shooting my opinion in when I write blogs. Hm.
I was writing a story the other day and asked God this, 'How do you see these people?' That's what I want to capture. I want to describe how the creator sees them. He knows we aren't perfect. But what characteristics does he see when he looks at us?
Something I read in The Shack was God saying that nothing bad ever comes from Him. We think he 'let us go through it to teach us a lesson,' but I don't think it's like that. We screw up. Other people screw up. We do go through it by His grace, but he didn't cause it.
I've been blessed. I just needed to take a minute to realize that today.
Sometimes, it just can't get any better.
jg
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)