vineshab08′s Blog

I heard over the weekend that three young boys were shot at their apartment complex in Roxbury. Upon hearing this I immediately shook my head and wondered whether things would ever change. Over the past few years, violence has plagued the young generation that roam the streets of Roxbury, Mattapan and even my own neighborhood, Dorchester. The foundation of this violence ranges from being in the wrong place at the wrong time to rivalry between different gangs. And it seems that these generation of kids are disappearing one by one everyday. It makes me so mad because they are killing each other off, and in the process they are missing out life. Granted the kids from the weekend shooting survived, but not everyone is so lucky. The unlucky ones will never graduate, will never get job, experience love and will never experience growing old.

On top of all these shootings, “inner city Boston” or Roxbury, Mattapan and Dorchester get painted as these dangerous, violent, poor and ghetto places. I still recall how those on the outside looking in preceded to tell me what they my world was like, and even got mad when I proved them wrong. Its hard because no matter where I go, to some people I will always will be a stereotype in walking flesh.

Sometimes I ask myself what’s the point? 

I remember the blue sofa that stood against the beige wall

The blue cushions that bulged under her weight

I can smell the bammy, escovitch fish and Irish moss

And I can hear the sweet voice above all the noise of busy Brooklyn street

Come here my sweet pickney,

Come my sweet pickney

The irie breeze sweeps around me.

I stop in the doorway, searching. 

Afraid that I won’t remember the

Thump tap-tap, Thump tap-tap and

The sweet voice that accompanies the similar beat to that of a drum.

But it doesn’t come and neither does the face that I search for

Instead voices entrapped in thick Jamaican tongues swarm around me.

Dragging slowly, I walk over to the sofa,

The green cushions sigh underneath my weight.

 I remember the beige walls

The flower pattern quilt spread on her bed

Her sweet voice that knew her Bible inside and out

Never showing that she couldn’t actually read.

Her hands so strong, stern and gentle that stretched towards me.

Her eyes that held wisdom, secrets and unspoken love.

I follow the red dirt path to her final rest stop

Her eight sons carry her in her black cocoon,

slowly letting her go.

Sing, sing for the bereaved family

We shall never forget you.

 I won’t forget.

I remember you

I remember you, Grandma

Mint, dandelions, a clump of nettles, old bottles scattered on the wooden floor. He carefully gathers them into a large pile in the middle of the floor. Mint, dandelions, a clump of nettles, and old bottles. Oh the stories they could tell, he thought. 

He picked up the dandelion and twirled between his long, thin fingers. 

 The snip of scissor blades sounded in her hands. She looked into the long mirror in front of her and laced her brunette hair in between her fingers.  

 Found Words:

Beneath notice 

Failed by disregard 

Inmates liberated 

Beneath the notice he is calm and collective. But I wonder what he is really like, does the calm and collective feelings run through his veins. He smiles sorrowfully at each remark wrapped in condolence. Saying good-bye is never easy. She is in a better place. He continues to smile and nod, but I really wonder if he is truly happy. He turns to me and uses his eyebrows in a lifted expression. I return the expression and attend to the people around me. They seem to swarm like angry bees waiting for their instructions from the queen bee. Am I the queen bee? What could I possibly do or say that would be fitting for this occasion.  

Boat, shell, riverbed

            The little toy boat sits on the top of the white shelf. Dust has swathed around it, keeping it company over the past few years. I believe it used to white, but from here it seems a little grey or maybe black. Its hard to tell from here. Right next to it lays a shell,  probably collected from the banks of the riverbed. Maybe these two things have a story together.

Chestnut 

            The smell of chestnut wafts around the kitchen. She hums softy to herself as the smell continues to prance around the room. She waddles over to the pantry and grabs the black pan from the top shelf. Walking back to the stove, her humming becomes soft spoken words. She takes a handful of chestnuts from the basket. She feels each chestnut her hand, the velvet feel of the surface and sees the brown usually reserved for hardwood floors painted before her eyes. She slides the knife off the counter and into her palm. It fits exactly where it supposed to, as if it molded her hands to its touch. She etches little Xs on  the body of the chestnut, marking it as her own. 

“Giddy shadow-boost”

Found Words: 

Outstripped 

Rebound 

Coffer for the light 

Unburdened and dismayed 

And now this is an inheritance.

An inheritance that has put a chain around his wrist. He feels trapped and guilty for wanting 

Found words:

Within the walls of the family  

Whimsical beat downs 

Drop the words in an empty mike 

Some nonsensical vengeance on the people erupted within the small room. He could not explain why but he wanted to punish them. Punish them for the wrongs of the past, present and the future. In his mind they were all to blame for the wooden boxed laced with gold etchings that stood in the front of the room. 

Four structures sculpted together by a craft man’s skill

Constructed of only white walls and portals,

white walls and portals. 

A line has formed between two seemingly

Omnipresent structures.

A permanent, binding,

White line that will transmit me from

Childhood,

a world of

dress-up,

make believe and

Dreams

To Adulthood,

a world of days in and days out…

first impressions, and

locked trunks of my past made believe world. 

The Storm

Yes, look at me. I know that you are probably thinking, “Oh, there goes another homeless person. What does she want now?” Or maybe you don’t see me at all. I have been stuck in this position for so long I have slowly started to disappear all together.
I wasn’t always like this you know. It might be hard to believe but its true. I once owned a house, a job and a heart. Yes, life was pretty normal, or as normal as normal gets. But I guess that’s how it always begins. Everyone seems to notice the quiet before the storm.
I drove into downtown for work that morning. I parked the car in spot 312. I walked into the office and began my day. Boring meeting after boring meeting develop as the day goes on. Five o’clock rolls around and I head home. I get dinner started. Then there is a ring. I run to get it, only moments later to drop it. I grab my keys and rush downtown to the emergency room. I frantically shout his name, only to receive worried expressions and useless information.
Finally I can go in, only to say good-bye. But I could only stand there and look. All I heard were the murmurs: too much blood, damage to the…I am so sorry for your loss…Madam, are you okay?
Yes, slowly I lost it all, my mind, my ability to live and my heart. As for the other pieces of the puzzle they broke apart and got lost in the mess as well.
The aftermath: Its this moment right now, where you are staring at me and judging me without knowing what’s underneath these layers. You are looking at the quiet after the storm; the part no one ever talks about. How it seems so normal.

It is a slow and difficult trick

That engulfs my body in its stronghold,

Slowly eating away at me.

Constantly unfolding,

Revealing more trapdoors than exits.

Yet, I want to find its weakness,

A moment where only I stand in the winner’s circle.

Yes, I will find a way to beat You.