| I have never been a perpetrator of violence. This I swear with the conviction of a prize fighter Poised for the biggest brawl of her natural life. Stance firm, head cocked to one side I lock gazes with my memory in defiance goading history to prove me wrong. Somewhere though, in the midst of my Ali-like antics truth jumps into this fight. He gut-punches me to the age of six and I, clutching tight to my haughty expectations, Blackout to the scene of my earliest hate crime. It was a haymaker to my mother's heart Halloween night When she chose to dress me as her favorite hero -- Herself, trying to stay in shape, and maintain her jaw-droppin, Foxxy Brown-type figure. Two pillows -- one for breast, one for hips Red jogging pants, black wig, white headband A complete ensemble for a run at the Y, But not the beauty of ballgowns and limelight created by my Barbie-like playmates. Two hours of lipstick and sweat invested by a woman with meager means and the creativity of gods, turned into ten minutes of wobbling confidence,/ ltimately destroyed by the laughter of a well-meaning fan club who thought it was a joke. Its butt was not amused; I did not want laughter. I wanted love. I used tears in my arsenal that night, Slung freely in my mom's direction like Tyson's left jabs attacking her for daring to recreate me in her likeness. Crying was all I knew to do as she finally dragged me home-- begging not to leave, yet praying not to stay-- ogled, Hotten-totted FAT. I won a tambourine for best costume that night but my hate wouldn't let me play it so I tucked its shiny metal blue between my chubby legs and crushed it, never once letting its muffled tinkle convince me that I could ever be anything but unsightly /And mama? She never brought it up again. That this offense is over 20 years old makes it no less easier to forget; That its effect has evolved makes it no less mistaken-- I've still been fighting; I've still been disowning pillows. I am coming back to life now, Discovering through blurred eyes The error of my ways standing over me. It has pulled me back to the surface, To begin healing wounds, /long overdue for proper dressing. /I take history by the hands and lean in to kiss her goodbye, pleading forgiveness for what I've become, And I crawl back to the corner that always was my mama's love, slapping palms to my thighs to recreate that tambourine rhythm she once tried to teach me to be proud of. |
| Random Order/ Tracie Gilbert Prize Fight For Ms. Linda F. Jackson |
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