An excerpt from ghetto girl

I am afraid of taking a stance on a given position. The years of life experience have shown me that I am no person to give an opinion. Those who complain our newer generations have no backbone, are correct. We, the young ones, don’t know how to complain and to be heard. I certainly don’t. Who would listen to me anyway? I come from a place of sin and disgust. A place you warn your children of when entering a large city. I come from a place statisticians love to examine. It is a place abhorrent and ignorant to a great big word such as abhorrent. Who am I to give advice to others? You say we are foolish, we are stupid and ignorant, you blame my mother or my father for lack of parental guidance, you blame my school for a slack in educational value, you blame my politicians for being corrupt and guile, you blame me. I say, I am fine; I just lived in the ghetto. We have gunshots to decorate our sidewalks; it is an agricultural practice allowing aeration of our soil beneath the human-laden cement. Helps the weeds break through the cracks. We have graffiti to promote volunteer opportunities among our youth interested in creative expression. We have torn textbooks in a rebuttal of the information poured into them. We have politicians taking money away from the people because the money isn’t clean. See, just as you can spin an idea about the ghetto, so too can I.

I am intelligent enough to speak out against the wrongs in our society. This is my opinion of such doings.

I’ve been listening to men and women take shotguns to the heads of other men and women because these men and women are lacking in physical possessions. It is disturbing as an image for me to call America home. America the great. America the beautiful. America the all-powerful and all-knowing; the greatest land in all The World. Who wouldn’t want to be us? It shouldn’t matter that I learn the geography of my neighbor East or West, North or South. It shouldn’t matter that children, resembling my children or your children, or that my wife, your husband, the mother I’ll deliver to the world and the father you’ll sire is murdered, raped, starved, enslaved, or suffering. It doesn’t matter because they are not AMERICAN. How much does it cost to become an American I wonder?

            I know a man named Steven. He’s homeless and asks for quarters day in and day out. He listens to a classical music station on his portable radio, hidden beneath his musty hooded jacket. At one time he appreciated Jack London (I know because I asked him what type of a book he’d like to read and he told me Call of the Wild). He used to live and work in the Ag fields until he injured himself and became unemployed. He now mumbles to himself and looks for quarters from passersby. I remember him telling me, “(he’s) got a good gig here.” I see that he’s accepted his position as a beggar of quarters and smelling of grunge and dirt. He’s accepted that people will see him as a “scraggly-beard-missing-teeth-and-torn-stained-jeans” so that they can cross the road to avoid him. A friend of mine told me she did that once. She felt bad afterward. It was instinct. He’s accepted that he is to wear a badge of isolation.

            The funny part of this story is that he doesn’t see things this way �" we do (those that see him).

He doesn’t laugh often but I’ve heard him laugh. I made him laugh once or twice. We even played a game of cards; he knows how to play Rummy. He remembered how to stop asking for quarters and laughed with me. I saw his smile, toothy in certain places, toothless in others. He coughed hard, too hard for a physician to write him a clean bill of health, because I had him laughing more than what he was used to. The next day he saw me he sat too far away and ignored me until I finished my lunch and left his space. He was angry that day. He knew how to forget a part of life that he couldn’t fit into. It was a life that he chose to leave. I was pushing too much to bring him back in and he finally woke up to see my damn pushing.

I knew a man named Steven that used to laugh so hard that he would cough and cough, sometimes gagging because of the years of cigarette smoke. I knew a man that read Jack London and drank coffee. He was a man that used to work in the fields and for others; a man that used to be a man: a walking member of society. I knew him. Now he looks at me like I’m a ridiculous quarter. He doesn’t remember we used to hang out. That he and I sat upon stone walls playing cards on a windy but sunny afternoon. Nor that some random kid who I attended Mass with half an hour earlier approached the both of us to preach the Gospel. He doesn’t remember I had to remind the kid I sat alongside him listening to our Priest’s homily less than an hour ago. He doesn’t remember how the kid was confused by my presence with him, a homeless man. He doesn’t remember when I would show him my studies and what I was learning at the university. He doesn’t remember the times I brought him applesauce because he told me he loved apples and couldn’t eat them after he had lost too many teeth. I’m a quarter now. I’m a damned quarter. Worth twenty-five cents because that is all Steven thinks he needs to get by now. And here I complain if I can’t get a promotion at work.

I listen to the news today: genocide this, homicide that; murder a kid, and stuff a cat. It’s a rhyme right? Our poetic little media… And we listen. We listen with eager minds and eager hearts asking for more. Craving more. We, America, are blood thirsty for the spoils that spill on our sidewalks only so that we may walk over them twenty seconds later with heels made from China. And yet we’re the great and the proud. We’re the coveted ones. We know what is best.

My brother tells me he hates Americans like me. He says it with good humor and a smile on his face; as does a close personal friend of mine. She’s a girly girl, or rather would like to be. She chooses to give up some of her girlish ways to fight for America. The only nail polish she wears hides below her military issued shoes. She is African American and loves to put extensions in her hair but keeps it free of foreign hair when on staff because it is the rule. Her hair is short to have the appearance of neatness. My brother is 6 foot four inches in height; he weighs easily over 200 pounds. He’s what they call a Jarhead. He drives a Hummer and complains about the gas consumption and alimony he pays to an ex-wife. He was too depressed when he returned from his tour in Iraq and she with their infant son needed help and support. They didn’t talk. My buddy in Mississippi is young and trigger happy. I now wonder if he knows the cop’s poem: “I don’t know if all cops are poets, but I know all cops carry guns with triggers.” Invisible Men know this poem. What rhymes with trigger my black buddy from the south? And yet he’s trigger happy and probably has worn hoodies and eaten skittles while drinking a Snapple. Would his murderer be served with justice? He’s an American (because his ancestors were forced into citizenship).

            My military friends know I love them and that my words are not to deliver an attack. They are to bluntly explain an injustice of times gone wrong. I am merely saddened that we need people on hold that can’t wear nail polish or play with a hairstyle for a date in the night. And those that do have these luxuries have a chance to complain about the state of things, such as I’m doing. I am sad that my brother can’t see his son because he was depressed from a war he fought in his twenties and she retains primary custody. And I am sad that my southern friend has collections of guns in his house, one decorating each room, eager and learning to pull a trigger.

            I see Americans killing over a piece of plastic. It comes in the form of numbers and can be ordered with specialized emblems of our pets and kids; for a personal touch. Each uniquely branded with letters spelling Chase or City Bank. We kill because of a bag of skittles and a raised hood masking the youth on his way to learn an education. Boy, you don’t need none of that schoolin’. Times of the past still ever present… Am I wrong in discussing our White Elephants? If I am then explain how we rush into a classroom of toddlers and babes, and then form picket lines bordering their burial claiming its cause stems from homosexuality. We kill and we kill. We kill and we order more casings, more metal; full metal jackets sitting next to the Bible on our night stand. We kill and we kill, and then listen to the Good Book teaching us how to live in peace, watching our protection glisten under the 75 watt light bulb just above. We kill and we kill. Guns protect us. Money saves us. Technology connects our face to the screen of another face yet separates us because we forget to look up once in a while. We kill and we kill. Hire the illegal to manicure our lawns/clean our homes according to a law booklet on suburban life but make sure to cite federal laws so that (s)he returns south at the end of the day. We build fences to keep others at bay, yet throw a temper tantrum when we’re picked last in gym. They’re not playing fair Mommy. I can’t get my way Mammy. We murder and we murder. We tell our children this must be done. Without money, you will get nowhere. Without a bullet you cannot protect your family. Without an MBA and college degree you cannot climb to the top to find that Zion, that cloud nine. But now what about the poor and their college education? Don’t they deserve a chance? No, they don’t have the money to begin a proper search for money. It takes money to make money, money to make money, money and more money. Educate, with consternation and without consideration. Achieve past the weak. If you can’t keep up with the big dogs, don’t just get the hell out the game, change your species… Cat.

            We kill and we kill. We die and we are dead. What then?

            I am tired of this blame game. I am sick of Bloated White Elephants. I want to live easily and without an eye for bias. I want to cast that political/religious/ethnocentric log out of my own eye before I go toward my neighbors’.

            I don’t want a podium full of words to fling. I simply want to watch my kids grow as I did not.

            When I was a kid I stole. I was a good little thief. I stole and I conned. I learned I could sway the tendencies of others by gauging their morals.

            Stealing was a natural art. Before I hit 10 I knew to bend down and “tie my shoe”, but really grab a candy bar in the checkout lane and slip it into the side of my tennis shoe. We had just moved to a city called Romulus when it became a rather impressive habit. I was hanging with a friend at that time and the two of us picked up the deed; competing with each other sometimes. At first it was Big Lots and items we needed but didn’t have enough money to buy - tissue, tampons, food. We’d enter and browse a few isles grabbing tiny things that seemed interesting and walk away with hands empty but sleeves loaded. That was the trick: long sleeves, puffy in appearance so a bulge couldn’t be seen. And this was my artistic talent, pick up an item, slim and flexible was best, begin walking as if browsing further and casually glide the item along the inner side of your wrist while using the other hand to turn something visible over before your eyes. No one pays attention to those acting as everyone else.

This habit later became a problem when I took it to the mall. I no longer looked for items to live with; I began to look for wants. Things I could live without.

I entered a jewelry store and had collected a fair amount of merchandise. My discount was very close to expiration when a clerk asked if she might be able to help me find something. She had been eyeing me all the while. So I wouldn’t draw suspicion I asked to see a few items hidden behind a wall of glass. She did her job and pulled them out, a bit of skepticism etched on her face. As she did I forgot my place and raised my arm. Everything up my sleeve landed in a heap on the floor. She didn’t notice me kicking the fallen items beneath a shelving unit. I enjoyed the jewelry she showed me and promised to return at a later date because, “it (held) such beauty that I couldn’t live without.” I never returned to the shop but failed in grasping an opportunity to brag to my friend watching from outside the shop. She had been banking on my skill for a shiny piece of metal to decorate her collarbone.

            I brought in new friends on the trick. This was the mistake. Others can be greedy. I had a favorite shop I enjoyed “shopping” at. It was a clothing store. After a few visits I noticed their policies in the changing rooms had tighter security. I could no longer go into a dressing room and slip a shirt under another shirt or up my sleeve; rather I had to do it on the floor beneath the cameras and eyes of employees. The problem with this new supervision is that I stole less. I became limited to taking one or two pieces at a time. Eventually I had to space out my visits because I became a frequent patron without ever buying an item.

            I gave up thieving at age twelve. It became too much of a bother and a crutch. Too many people asked for things, and my mother may have been aroused with suspicion. She never came out directly to say anything, but the two of us could read each other like books. But how do you discipline a child who walks as if she has no parents? Because, that was me: sans ownership. I was my own parent in those days and she knew it. We just happened to reside together.

            At age fourteen I began my con game. I was smoking at this age and preferred to down a Pepsi each time I lit up a pack of cigarettes. I took to the streets of the neighborhood my foster family lived in. I couldn’t stand them. They had money, our city did not. A simple bridge separated us metaphorically in the means of wealth and literally in cement. On the weekends I would walk over the bridge with a coffee can and construction paper wrapped around it reading S.A.D.D. (Students Against Drunk Drivers). I knocked on the doors just a block away from my foster mother’s dwelling and said that I was with the River Rouge high school and that we were taking donations for this cause. “Would you care to support us?” Most of the people eyed me suspiciously and dropped a few coins in the can then slammed their doors. I had to change my tactic when someone rudely told me he knew I was running a scam and to beat it.

Foiled and fumbled, I did the math. I needed $5.00 each day to get by with a pack of smokes and Pepsi. Funny enough, it took place in a math class that I found my way to begin my newest con. Some chic was gabbing about a chocolate candy fundraiser to support some random trip I wasn’t interested in. I asked to look over the booklet and saw the prices of the chocolate. I asked her if I could borrow it. She agreed. I went back to the same city but traveled a mile deeper than the neighborhood of my foster family; all the while, with the booklet tucked under my arm. People loved chocolate and it helped to have the booklet validating my proposal. I didn’t even push for the money upfront. I gained confidence and trust by saying I could come back with the order and collect on a later date. I’d curse those people under my breath as I walked away from their lawns onto the next house.

The con worked for a month or so. I had even collected more money than what I needed to get past a month of cigarettes and Pepsi. I remember the day I put it to a stop. I remember the woman responsible for changing my mind. I remember the neighborhood and the previous neighbor I had just collected from. I remember crossing the street of a cul-de-sac. This woman lived in a tiny ranch-style home with a neat lawn and cute shutters bordering her windows. She had short cropped hair, was a brunette, young (maybe late thirties), and smiled. She asked for one box of something sweet and gave me the money. Eleven dollars. Before leaving her doorstep she said, “God bless you.” That was it. I was a bit unnerved and looked deeply into her eyes. Her face shone brightly and was pleasant. No judgment, no scrutiny. I didn’t see that face again until I had a “burning bush” moment at twenty-three with a friend of mine in Texas. The later experience was the reason why I gave up smoking and haven’t taken up the habit in nine years.

God bless you.

It’s been stuck with me ever since.

I felt deep shame for taking the money. I still do, two decades later. Once, at a public event of which I was a keynote speaker, I took the opportunity to give out cash to the audience. At the end of the event I gave two dollars to each person in attendance. The money I gave that night was drawn from my veins at a plasma center. I cried when I passed out the money and everyone was confused. They didn’t understand what I was trying to do, and didn’t understand the purpose of the cash. Even when I give my last of anything; food, money, my pewter necklace with a crucifix charm to a friend with a Cross Wall as a birthday gift, my time of studying during midterms because my sister needed me at her side to wane a sickness, warmth of my torso to my dog because we were cold as the electricity was out in the middle of winter and her water bowl kept freezing in the night, my five dollar reward card for a coffee shop to the homeless man because I didn’t have money except in plastic, a night of sleep because I needed to make a gift I knew a friend would cherish forever and the inspiration finally came the night before his visit… I try to give and give. But I’ll never be able to give enough. I try. I think I still try to try, which is the scary part because I am not sure I still do.

I’ve stolen, I’ve taken without permission. I used the trust of others for my own personal greed. I have felt shame and I force myself to wear capitol T’s, L’s, C’s for being a Thief, Liar, and Con. I am a modern day Hester.

And this is my opinion. I don’t ask you to agree with it, or to understand it fully. Even if it is only read here, in these pages, I’m happy to know it is out there, competing with others. I’ve gained a voice. The ghetto doesn’t keep me down and the experiences I’ve had only push me ahead through the clouded haze.

Author's Note

Ghetto girl - 2014

Reviews

[Pax]

I truly enjoyed this, the wit, the keen observation and the experienced, it is simply beautiful and you can help but admire the strength of the person writing this. I see that you mention it is based on actual or true events, directly taken on your life I assume.

The way you present your thoughts in introspection, somehow a journal type or an Biography of what lies the life of the ghetto girl.

First I was intrigue by the title so click and read along, and surprisingly I didn’t stop until I read the end. I did a quick browse what does ghetto means, it says, “formerly, a street or quarter of a city set apart as a legally enforced residential area for Jews, or an isolated group or a situation that resembles a ghetto especially in conferring inferior status or limiting opportunity.” From that, I learned a little on how the background of this story takes place. I know this is just an excerpt but for what I can feel and imagine, it can be a stand-alone short story or simply a journal/diary entry. Though in some note it almost did feel like a rant about the society or the country itself.

I find the story really mysterious specially Steven, a question remain in my head on what happen to him after the time he ignores you, wondering if he still remembers you or simply he doesn’t remember you at all or does he have amnesia or something and the list goes on. Haha, I like it.

I haven’t lived in America so I would not really know how the system there really works. The media portrays a different view on how we look at the American life should be. You said how power America is, and perhaps still is, aside from China. You know I believed or have known before that the two most powerful nations in this earth was America & China. Now, look at China, almost all brands or atleast some brands we daily used are made by their people, made in China here and there, haha, just me facing some facts I see. As I see America now, its power has some loose ties, perhaps because of the war they engaged in the past or how the conflict still on between nations, but still it remained strong as the world progress.

You know, when I was young I dream I would live in a clean environment, with clean river beds and clean surroundings. Maybe I dream that dream because I used to live in the slum areas of our country. It is crowded and have tight places. I didn’t mind because it is still a good place as if I have a choice, but we do thrive in poverty. Perhaps that is why your story caught my attention because on how hard was your life style before. I am not sure what’s your real reason to why you steal from store to store. I guess based on our human nature, our survival instinct kicks in to do what we must to take pleasure on the bad ways and be away from the hard ways of our life at home or anything that makes us emotional or physically deprive of the good things life can offer.

You asked: “How much does it cost to become an American I wonder?” In our home country many do loves to have that American dream, perhaps the luxury and pleasure that the media brought in our televisions. I asked myself before what is it like to live in America? Is it really that good as so they say. Well I shove that question long time ago. For me, I go to other country to earn more than what my country’s job provides. Like I said earlier we thrive in poverty, so doing jobs outside our country helps us provide more for our family. That’s the life of an OFW(overseas Filipino worker). You know at the back of my mind still somehow wish to go to America, but then I always have this feeling that going there cost too much. Yes, it cost a lot more to have a green card or just a resident permit there. So I guess it is easy to shove that wish aside to do the priorities in mind. For now Middle Eastern countries are the easiest country to get in to have a working visa to.

You know what I like about this piece, it about how you find your voice to write and how you find the right path to took. I always have this voice inside my head in everything I decide. I just never knew I could use this into writing. Writing was not really in my dream list at first, but doing art was and always is… still in one way or another, literature is also art, the art of crafting words. So I enjoyed writing till now, I just started last two years ago since I joined this site. So now here I am and still writing…

You know, no matter how hard I tried to look at everything at balance or equally, there are times that there will always be big people who are better than us or some people who are more powerful to manipulate everything that surrounds us. I guess is just look at it as survival of the fittest. That is why I could see the perspective of we kill and we kill, we die and were dead, because I see that life is a survival game, you evade death now but later in the future death will be just in your door step, Perhaps now you haven’t been caught stealing but in the future you will. I guess my point is as the world constantly revolves, as our life constantly evolves, not all we do is permanently unseen or permanently untouched, someday it will change eventually.

“Stealing was a natural art”

I bet it is, big smiles. But it is naturally not a good nature to nurture. I guess for me, stealing is naturally bad as it is naturally an art. I really enjoyed the bits and bits of piece on how your life in stealing here grows until you’ve learned the effects of it in your well-being or the others well-being.

What I learned from life and from this piece is that no matter how money defines almost everything in our daily lives it is still not the most important thing that life gives us. You have penned a great piece here, bravo…

-@ Pax :)

[Austin]

From just this excerpt, I am interested. As an ignorant, dumber-than-dumb person (in my opinion), the talk about how people have no backbone strikes me. I don't know how to raise my voice against injustice. I see this excerpt not only as entertaining, but potentially eye-opening.

One thing I'll praise in particular is the descriptions. I could imagine Steven being in this world, and I could see a clear type of person, but with some mystery to him. This not only makes me see the world you portray, but makes me want to know more about the existence of it [I hope I'm not sounding pretentious]. I also like how the main character's (I'm not sure if it's meant to be you or not, so I'll just call it the main character) life of crime was described fluidly. It didn't just list it along with the injustices; it held its own power, presented itself as a story, and intertwined with the overall message of the excerpt as a whole (I think. And again, I hope I'm not sounding pretentious or highfalutin).

There is one thing that caught my eye:

"The funny part of this story is that he doesn’t see things this way " we do (those that see him)."

Is that stray quotation mark meant to be there?

Overall, this definitely caught my interest. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for your book in Summer.

[Jack V.]

Wow, thanks for the review Austin. These are true stories. I write from what I know and have seen. The stray quotation mark is something writerscafe does when you copy in info from a word doc. I'm trying to advertise a bit before the book comes out in Aug. Again, thanks.