Hey Homegirl. Lashell Rivers
neighborhood for her. One of her sidekicks named Jes was very petite and lived downstairs underneath us; I hung with her little sister. Her other friend was Krysta, and she lived over us. I hung out with her little brother; she was light-skinned like my sister. They pretty much owned the block when it came to the street fights. The bitches they went to school with were from other blocks. One of her friends, Riana, loved me though. They once fought and became friends, for our mothers met and gave them that choice. Riana would get on her for being so mean to me and making me cry.
But I did feel some love from her here and there. A bigger girl had pushed me while playing, and my sister was told. Livia came out and pushed that girl down in front of everyone. “Don’t you touch my little sister.” The girl ran off crying to her family, and I herd of them came out of the building, fussing at my sister for being older than her and pushing her. “She’s too big to be touching my sister!” yelled my then fifteen-year-old blood, as one of the members held her arm and had the big girl push my sister back. It was more hurtful mentally as I saw it, for the girl didn’t hit her or hurt her physically. The point was that she was defending me, and they didn’t see that. Their point was to come tell them and not put hands on each other, which was the adult way. The hood doesn’t always teach that. She went to our building and cried on the steps after that. I sat next to her with my arm around her and her head on my shoulder. I saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to show love.
My big brother was magic and would love to get me away from it all. We would go to the movies and watch the same one three times in a row. We would go to art museums or whatever just to get me the hell away from the house, and for that, I treasured him. Not to mention his gifted abilities. He inspired me when it came to art, for a person could just sit there while he drew them on paper and it would be perfect.
My father spent his whole paycheck on buying him art supplies because he was that good. Let mom tell it was her money (shrug). I would simply stare at him do it, then painter Bob Ross on TV every day whenever Sesame Street came on. All that became my influence in drawing. My teachers would notice my drawings in class, for I’d sometimes draw while they taught. But instead of getting on me, they actually liked what they saw and placed me in TAG, a “talented and gifted” class. So I could continue to become better at my art. I didn’t care what other people thought, only my brother; for I looked up to him and he inspired me. Whenever I drew a picture, I’d take it to him, only to hear “That’s good, but you can do better,” which would truly irk me (hand 2 face). However, I kept going to the point that I was in competitions during second and third grade, and for some reason, I always chose parts of the human body to draw and compete on in science fairs. It simply caught my interest. I studied the human body because no one was teaching me what to do with myself at home. Mom placed me in everybody’s hands while she worked, so I would go for days without a bath. I would scratch myself to see dirt in my nails. I placed my dirty underwear underneath my bed because everyone was doing their own thing, paying me less attention. I really wasn’t being taught anything as far as hygiene from my sister, and she was the only girl to teach me when mom wasn’t there. Just because I learned while younger doesn’t mean the crap will stay in my head. One should never stop teaching and checking to make it a child’s habit.
You always make sure a little girl has on clean clothes, clean underwear, bathes properly, brushes her teeth every day, and wipes her ass from front to back until it stays in her fucking head!
Eventually, I came up with my own ways of doing things and was a dirty little girl before their eyes without them truly noticing. We were one of the many unstable families in the hood. Mom would write notes and give me money to buy her Newport cigarettes when they were only $2. With a note from the parent, the cashier would actually sell the child the cigarettes or, hell, even liquor back then.
My brother had a pizza job and a pretty girlfriend, along with his acne problem. Many never thought that he could get a girl like her. However, as long as he had the money, he had her. I almost caught them on his bed doing it by walking in (hands to face), and he would buy her things and draw her picture. I believe she was his first young love. But he lost his job, and without money, she dumped him. He was so heartbroken that he took a bunch of pills, trying to kill himself. He ended up walking to the playground and passing out, then being robbed while lying there on the ground. I’m glad I was too young to truly understand and remember it all. I glanced at him in the hospital bed, but Dad hurried up and took me away. I mean I needed him more then I needed my parents—mentally, that is. He would have reptiles for pets, and he opened my mind to so many things. Once we had a big turtle who had baby turtles. He would keep a boa constrictor, a python, and would simply keep them all in his room, away from Mom. I would watch the snakes chase the white baby mice that he’d buy to feed them, and it would truly touch me to see them become squeezed to death, with teardrops of blood coming through. Our mother was okay with it because he’s a boy, even though she was scared of those pets. Everyone loved Cindy because she would eat all the roaches that ran around the apartment. :)
We lived on top of the trash-dump room, and Jess’ family had such a huge infestation of roaches that they would spread into our apartment. Hell, I believe everyone had roaches, but my parents were very clean people. And we’d cover all the furniture to let off roach bombs. We would come inside to air out the place and clean the dead roaches from everywhere, mainly the kitchen, which was the cat’s cookout spot. But while all these ordinary things were happening, my parents slowly began to separate. Mom started having some friends on the side, and Dad had me with him while getting high with his homie. I met a couple of Mom’s friends and knew they were nothing, but then the dude my mother was creeping with actually had the nerve to call my house while she was out of town and asked for me (shaking my head). Of course, my jobless dad at that time was home and answered the phone.
A grown man calling your seven-year-old daughter? Really?
Dad was far from ignorant.
That man was not the first one my mom had on him, but she ain’t plan on keeping his ass either. Dude snuck his way in, and it was through me.
“Shell, who was that man on the phone?”
“Mom’s friend.”
“How does he know you? Why is he calling you?” And this finalizes all that I refused to see, because I was the baby of the family. I’d ask, “Why is Dad sleeping on the coach?”
“Because he snores,” she’d respond, as the other siblings laughed.
They knew our parents were having a hard time, but they said, “Shell’s the baby she doesn’t need to know. Just keep it from her.”
Three months later, my dad was renting a room somewhere, and I came home one day and saw a man in Mom’s bed—the same bed my parents slept in.
It was the same man on the phone—Mr. Tyrone.
Before that phone call, I remembered my mother showing him to me, and I immediately hated his skinny black ass. Children are not dumb, especially when it comes to another man trying to take their father’s place. And I knew he was no good. My sister and her friend saw the shit, screaming, “Damn!” while he lay there in a robe, waving hello. I stood there while they ran out the door, laughing, because it was just that weekend that I stayed with Dad, who gave me his fold-up cot bed to sleep on while he slept on the floor.
Dad did eventually move on to who was to become his future wife: a beautiful, heavyset woman named Kelly. I fell for her instantly, for she got out of her car with the biggest smile and hugged me. Her young son was in the back seat; his name was Micheal. And the confirmation was clear that my parents were done. Yeah, Mom knew she fucked up, and Dad fucked up too.
But being unfaithful was the difference.
We began to leave DC, packing for Virginia after Mom got into it with Liv. She had graduated high school by then and needed to figure shit out. I was nine years old ending 4th grade, but can’t say much.
Okay
Leaving DC in the late ’80s was a blessing in disguise. I never comprehended that until moving to the new place. We moved from the city to suburbs, and I never heard of Fairfax,