Strong Baby - original story
Title: Strong Baby
Author: bearklaus
Summary: "I don't blame her, but sometimes I wonder why she chose to leave us behind"
A/N: Written for my English class.
---
I’ve been fighting for myself ever since I was young, growing up in Florida, where the hot weather nearly kills you during the summer. The tiny house I shared with my three brothers and my dad could never have enough air conditioning to cool off all five of us; the small fans that were placed in each of the rooms could never blow hard enough to dry the sweat off my body.
I was always sweating, whether it be from running around the house, cleaning up after my brothers, or running outside, buying groceries and hurrying to get home in time to finish the chores. That’s another thing I was always doing, running, my dad always said I was just like my momma. Always running everywhere, even when I had nowhere to go, as long as I got there fast.
I didn’t know what he meant until I heard him and Grammy talking about my momma, and how she ran away from my dad because she couldn’t take the trapped feeling she got from him.
I don’t blame her, but I wonder sometimes why she chose to leave us behind. Maybe she didn’t have enough space in her heart, or in her wallet, to take care of us. My dad can be pretty strict when it comes to family roles. The women will clean, and they will cook and they will run the errands, while the men work each day, and come home to be taken care of by the women. I’d been doing this for my entire life.
I’d always thought “As long as I have an education, everything will be fine.” So I bothered my dad about going to school the entire time I wasn’t busy with chores. I asked and asked until he agreed, only if it wouldn’t interfere with my housework. The following years were tough. I almost couldn’t manage all the work.
Luckily, I had one teacher, my art teacher, who would stop at nothing to make sure I got the grade I deserved in his class. To me, it was the only class that mattered, the one class where I could sit down and create instead of fix or mend or clean.
I sketched a lot of dresses and clothing in that time, it was my favourite pastime. While doing it, temptation to run away from home became greater. But, with the story of my momma always present in my mind, I would run home in the heat, or in the rain, or in the humidity, to be able to walk my youngest brother to his soccer practice.
In school, my most memorable project was one in which I incorporated Art class and English class I wrote a poem. It’s words aren’t clear in my mind, but I remember, one stanza, the one that was most important to me throughout the years and even during my first marriage, I was reminded of it everyday.
“It’s our alibi
For all time
That as far as history goes
We were never on the scene of the crime.”
By the time I was married to Ricardo I had convinced myself that women should never have important roles in society. Taking advantage of my vulnerability he convinced me that in the hard economic times, a woman getting a job should be considered as only an extreme necessity. And that even if I were to get a job it would have to be something fitting, like housework. This didn’t sound so bad, I’d been doing housework for most of my life and thought I knew nearly all the tricks in the book.
It was easy at first. Until I started coming home, late at night, to dirty dishes and roaches in the cereal boxes. And I tolerated it, little by little. My night and day job of a maid. My entire life was as a maid.
I loved him, with all my heart I did, but enough was enough. Sickeningly going to work all day, cleaning the toilets of rich people, then coming home to a messy house, filled with messy objects and a messy husband with the same ideals as my horrible father. After planning what I was going to say, and repeating them in the mirror of a beautiful house, with a sparkling bathroom, I approached him one night, the stinging words in my mouth..
“It’s a little too late for you to come back
Say it’s just a mistake
Think I’d forgive you like that.
You don’t care how it hurts
Cause you’ve taken [me] for granted.
You’re just a boy”
I packed my things and moved out that night. I didn’t care where I would sleep, all I knew was that I couldn’t spend another moment in that house. Every second I spent in there took away the severity of my words, and I wanted him to know exactly how it felt to be hurt.
As I ran through the streets, trying to find a taxi to take me to a hotel, I remembered my momma, who ran, possibly in this exact same way, from my dad. The uncanniness of the whole ordeal was quite unbelievable, and I wondered who this woman was that I could imitate exactly without ever knowing her.
Shortly after, I tried to pick up my life, searching without rest for my momma who I believed was the only one that could tell me how to begin my life again.
The leads dwindled after a few months and after even more months I began to doubt that this woman existed.
Sitting in a café one evening, I drank my coffee, rubbing the bags under my eyes, sketching a new idea for a dress that I promised myself I would make when I had the money for supplies, a fashion designer glanced over my shoulder, and being a gentleman, instead of taking the idea for himself, asked if I would be interested in a career pertaining to clothing design.
I almost didn’t accept, but for this small voice in my mind saying
“A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
from year to year until I saw thy face.”
Before I had time to process that I had even answered “Yes” to this man, we were on a plane to New York, New York, in order for me to pitch some ideas to one of the top fashion designers in the United States. My shabby dress and worn-out shoes made me feel inadequate next to the expensive suits and ensembles worn by all the executives at this office.
As I followed the man down a long hallway, through many glass doors I felt the stares on my back, and heard the whispers echoing from the little cubicles in which many people sat at.
Once inside the office, I felt too awkward to sit down on the pristine chair that was offered to me. I stood for most of the meeting.
I stood facing that ‘great’ designer turn down my idea because “is this a woman or a pig? Women should look beautiful if they are going to make other people beautiful.”
I felt the lump I my throat, but I promised myself that I would not cry over this and I looked him straight in the eye, as I came to the realization that men truly know nothing of the struggles of women.
I said “[You say] a woman needs to be helped into carriages and lifted over ditches and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helped me into carriages or over mud puddles or gives me a best place. And. Ain’t. I. A. Woman. Ain’t I a woman..”
I marched right out of that building. Just like my name, marching with pride everywhere I go. The man from the café followed me for some way, until I told him I’d had enough of men, and that I would find my own way in this zero-degree climate.
So I stomped and marched and found my way to the office building of a designer who had gone through similar struggles of mine. And I pitched my ideas, and even before I had said a word, she offered me one of her expensive coats. “To battle the cold” she said.
That’s how I got my start, this woman who I had never met before in my life, Sandra Locks had become a guardian to me, some one to look to for advice and support.
Years later, my life is as that woman’s was. Designing clothes for rich celebrities and lottery winners and fashion show after fashion show, making people feel good about the clothes they wear.
A few years after that, a new lead came up in the search for my mother. It was more than a lead. They had found her.
But she had died some years ago, shed been some great executive of a fashion company and again I wondered how it came to be that I could imitate her so well, and never once in my life have met the woman.
They gave me her files, and some old will that was now obsolete and when I saw her picture I wondered how I didn’t notice earlier. The front of the file read
Sandra Locks
Now I’m old. And my wrinkles are too many to count and my back is ever-so-slightly curved from bending over a sewing machine for so many years. And
“[People] have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride in my step
The curl of my lips.
I am a woman.
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman.
That’s me.”
---
credits (in order of appearance):
Eaven Boland's "It's a Woman's World"
Beyonce's "If I were a boy"
Elizabeth Barret Browning's "Sonnet XXV"
Soujourner Truth's (speech) "Ain't I a Woman?"
Maya Angelou's "Phenomenal Woman"
Author: bearklaus
Summary: "I don't blame her, but sometimes I wonder why she chose to leave us behind"
A/N: Written for my English class.
---
I’ve been fighting for myself ever since I was young, growing up in Florida, where the hot weather nearly kills you during the summer. The tiny house I shared with my three brothers and my dad could never have enough air conditioning to cool off all five of us; the small fans that were placed in each of the rooms could never blow hard enough to dry the sweat off my body.
I was always sweating, whether it be from running around the house, cleaning up after my brothers, or running outside, buying groceries and hurrying to get home in time to finish the chores. That’s another thing I was always doing, running, my dad always said I was just like my momma. Always running everywhere, even when I had nowhere to go, as long as I got there fast.
I didn’t know what he meant until I heard him and Grammy talking about my momma, and how she ran away from my dad because she couldn’t take the trapped feeling she got from him.
I don’t blame her, but I wonder sometimes why she chose to leave us behind. Maybe she didn’t have enough space in her heart, or in her wallet, to take care of us. My dad can be pretty strict when it comes to family roles. The women will clean, and they will cook and they will run the errands, while the men work each day, and come home to be taken care of by the women. I’d been doing this for my entire life.
I’d always thought “As long as I have an education, everything will be fine.” So I bothered my dad about going to school the entire time I wasn’t busy with chores. I asked and asked until he agreed, only if it wouldn’t interfere with my housework. The following years were tough. I almost couldn’t manage all the work.
Luckily, I had one teacher, my art teacher, who would stop at nothing to make sure I got the grade I deserved in his class. To me, it was the only class that mattered, the one class where I could sit down and create instead of fix or mend or clean.
I sketched a lot of dresses and clothing in that time, it was my favourite pastime. While doing it, temptation to run away from home became greater. But, with the story of my momma always present in my mind, I would run home in the heat, or in the rain, or in the humidity, to be able to walk my youngest brother to his soccer practice.
In school, my most memorable project was one in which I incorporated Art class and English class I wrote a poem. It’s words aren’t clear in my mind, but I remember, one stanza, the one that was most important to me throughout the years and even during my first marriage, I was reminded of it everyday.
“It’s our alibi
For all time
That as far as history goes
We were never on the scene of the crime.”
By the time I was married to Ricardo I had convinced myself that women should never have important roles in society. Taking advantage of my vulnerability he convinced me that in the hard economic times, a woman getting a job should be considered as only an extreme necessity. And that even if I were to get a job it would have to be something fitting, like housework. This didn’t sound so bad, I’d been doing housework for most of my life and thought I knew nearly all the tricks in the book.
It was easy at first. Until I started coming home, late at night, to dirty dishes and roaches in the cereal boxes. And I tolerated it, little by little. My night and day job of a maid. My entire life was as a maid.
I loved him, with all my heart I did, but enough was enough. Sickeningly going to work all day, cleaning the toilets of rich people, then coming home to a messy house, filled with messy objects and a messy husband with the same ideals as my horrible father. After planning what I was going to say, and repeating them in the mirror of a beautiful house, with a sparkling bathroom, I approached him one night, the stinging words in my mouth..
“It’s a little too late for you to come back
Say it’s just a mistake
Think I’d forgive you like that.
You don’t care how it hurts
Cause you’ve taken [me] for granted.
You’re just a boy”
I packed my things and moved out that night. I didn’t care where I would sleep, all I knew was that I couldn’t spend another moment in that house. Every second I spent in there took away the severity of my words, and I wanted him to know exactly how it felt to be hurt.
As I ran through the streets, trying to find a taxi to take me to a hotel, I remembered my momma, who ran, possibly in this exact same way, from my dad. The uncanniness of the whole ordeal was quite unbelievable, and I wondered who this woman was that I could imitate exactly without ever knowing her.
Shortly after, I tried to pick up my life, searching without rest for my momma who I believed was the only one that could tell me how to begin my life again.
The leads dwindled after a few months and after even more months I began to doubt that this woman existed.
Sitting in a café one evening, I drank my coffee, rubbing the bags under my eyes, sketching a new idea for a dress that I promised myself I would make when I had the money for supplies, a fashion designer glanced over my shoulder, and being a gentleman, instead of taking the idea for himself, asked if I would be interested in a career pertaining to clothing design.
I almost didn’t accept, but for this small voice in my mind saying
“A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
from year to year until I saw thy face.”
Before I had time to process that I had even answered “Yes” to this man, we were on a plane to New York, New York, in order for me to pitch some ideas to one of the top fashion designers in the United States. My shabby dress and worn-out shoes made me feel inadequate next to the expensive suits and ensembles worn by all the executives at this office.
As I followed the man down a long hallway, through many glass doors I felt the stares on my back, and heard the whispers echoing from the little cubicles in which many people sat at.
Once inside the office, I felt too awkward to sit down on the pristine chair that was offered to me. I stood for most of the meeting.
I stood facing that ‘great’ designer turn down my idea because “is this a woman or a pig? Women should look beautiful if they are going to make other people beautiful.”
I felt the lump I my throat, but I promised myself that I would not cry over this and I looked him straight in the eye, as I came to the realization that men truly know nothing of the struggles of women.
I said “[You say] a woman needs to be helped into carriages and lifted over ditches and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helped me into carriages or over mud puddles or gives me a best place. And. Ain’t. I. A. Woman. Ain’t I a woman..”
I marched right out of that building. Just like my name, marching with pride everywhere I go. The man from the café followed me for some way, until I told him I’d had enough of men, and that I would find my own way in this zero-degree climate.
So I stomped and marched and found my way to the office building of a designer who had gone through similar struggles of mine. And I pitched my ideas, and even before I had said a word, she offered me one of her expensive coats. “To battle the cold” she said.
That’s how I got my start, this woman who I had never met before in my life, Sandra Locks had become a guardian to me, some one to look to for advice and support.
Years later, my life is as that woman’s was. Designing clothes for rich celebrities and lottery winners and fashion show after fashion show, making people feel good about the clothes they wear.
A few years after that, a new lead came up in the search for my mother. It was more than a lead. They had found her.
But she had died some years ago, shed been some great executive of a fashion company and again I wondered how it came to be that I could imitate her so well, and never once in my life have met the woman.
They gave me her files, and some old will that was now obsolete and when I saw her picture I wondered how I didn’t notice earlier. The front of the file read
Sandra Locks
Now I’m old. And my wrinkles are too many to count and my back is ever-so-slightly curved from bending over a sewing machine for so many years. And
“[People] have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride in my step
The curl of my lips.
I am a woman.
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman.
That’s me.”
---
credits (in order of appearance):
Eaven Boland's "It's a Woman's World"
Beyonce's "If I were a boy"
Elizabeth Barret Browning's "Sonnet XXV"
Soujourner Truth's (speech) "Ain't I a Woman?"
Maya Angelou's "Phenomenal Woman"