From Whispers to Wisdom

Fluctuating Faith Khalid was absolutely on a downward spiral. Eventually he was asked to leave St. Peter and St. Paul because of his behavior issues, so my mom enrolled him into another Catholic school.  The academics in Mount Vernon public schools were not as challenging as she wanted for us, so we always attended Catholic schools going forward. My mother always wanted the very best for us. Actually - let’s take a pause on Khalid. I want to talk about my mother because she is a huge part of this. My mom is literally Superwoman. During our entire childhood, she presented us with so many valuable opportunities. In addition to putting us in the best schools she could afford, we were enrolled in dance classes, swimming classes, gymnastics, math and science tutoring, painting, pottery, drawing, double dutch, karate, piano, guitar and basketball. (Wow! When you see it in writing, it’s even more impressive!) She was the carpool driver for all of Khalid’s many basketball games, and ...

I stood behind the door leading into the psychiatric unit of Mount Vernon Hospital. I peered into the window and waited to be buzzed in. Beyond the door, Khalid was standing in the hallway, in a white hospital gown, talking to someone - perhaps his girlfriend - on the payphone. He had taken out his cornrows without detangling, and his hair was quite disheveled. He looked up and his eyes met mine through the door’s glass window. I waved, not knowing what to expect in return. He just stared in my direction with a blank expression, almost looking through me instead of at me. I wondered if it was a one-way glass mirror or something. After locking away all of my belongings, and giving me a once-over with a metal detector wand, a nurse let me into the hallway where my brother stood. I smiled nervously, and took a few steps toward him, when suddenly, his eyes narrowed at me as if I were someone who betrayed him. “Do not take another step." he sneered. "Turn right back around and ge...

She said, "I'm going to take care of you," and my thighs became the mouth of the Nile River. Suddenly this body was separate from my brain. Arched back and starving hands gripping her collar bone, my nails, and teeth became chisels, etching thank you notes into the soft of her neck and shoulders. I thought to myself, "she told me she couldn't dance," but her tongue performed perfect jazz circles in my mouth, drawing my chest in closer. I felt her hands push my panties to the side, and she looked to me for consent, (which just made me want to fuck her even more.) I whispered a soft, approving murmur, and in an instant, I realized what pleasure really was! Were those her hands, or did I fall into  a heated pool of ecstasy? An unfamiliar sound escaped my lips. It startled me, and I felt slightly embarrassed for a moment but there was a fire in her eyes suddenly as if to say There's gold in you, honey, and I'm going to find it. I ...

1. During the first few weeks, keep wearing the promise ring she gave you and her old band t-shirts. Make it so none of it feels real. When your mother asks about the shirt, lie and tell her it’s laundry day. Don’t mention how they still smell like her whipped shea butter and cool-water incense; how you pretend that the loose thread on the sleeves are her fingertips feather-dancing against your skin again. & When your mom asks about the ring, don’t tell her it is the anchor that is keeping your hands from shaking. Keep finding excuses not to put the trinket away. Eventually your hand will learn to accept its new nakedness. 2. Eat everything. And I mean Everything. Even the food on the diabetics DO NOT CONSUME list. Ignore your blood sugar. Lay in bed with ice cream and leftovers while the fatigue seeps into your limbs like melatonin, lulling you into a sleep that will surely delay the pain. Open the snack wrappers quietly so that your roommates don’t hear you eating crap at 3a...