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| You can self publish your short story or memior for free here too......... To find out how click here |
| Nigger Lover By Kellie Milite |
| My grandfather used
the word "nigger" whenever he had the chance. My
mother and her boyfriend would make racist remarks also. Whenever we
drove by a person of color they would joke about how many points
they would earn if they ran them over, 10, 20 points, as if they
were bowling. I'm assuming the darker their skin color was, the
higher the points. The once all - Italian neighborhood I lived in was quickly becoming a predominantly black and Hispanic neighborhood. I was accepting of friendship from all races. When I was eight years old I kissed a black kid named Toby. We were playing the dating game. I was somewhat apprehensive because my cousin was there and he made it clear that he was going to tell on me. I can't imagine how Toby must have felt. I was belittled by my family and earned a new nickname from my grandfather , "nigger lover." I was called this along with " D.G" or "dumb Guinea" all my life. It was normal for me to be addressed by these names, even on my birthday cards. I earned the "D.G" title because my father was Italian. My grandfather was not accepting of mixed nationalities. He was a very proud Frenchman. My grandfather enjoyed my playful come-backs of "dumb frog." This was a predictable dialogue between us. It was uncommon to see an interracial couple growing up. I remember the first time I saw a black man and a white women holding hands. I was shocked! I pointed them out to my mother while saying, " Ick , look at those people!" My mother responded with disgust. In fifth grade I met a girl named Danae. She was the first bi-racial person I met. Her and her brother were the only "mulatto" kids in our school. She had light brown skin and an afro. Her mother was white and her father was black. I was surprised to find out that Danae's mother was a school teacher. Danae was very smart. Education was taken very seriously in their home. Unlike mine. My mother was a high school dropout who expressed her hate towards school and teachers frequently. I developed a poor attitude towards school as a result of this. Danae's mother was a very well kept woman. She dressed conservatively , like a typical school teacher. She had long, shiny , dark brown hair that flowed down the bottom of her back. She reminded me of the singer Crystal Gale. She didn't fit the stereotype that I imagined she would. In fact, I envied her stable and nurturing living environment. My home was nothing like hers. I believe this is when I learned to form my own opinions and views for what would be acceptable. I never met Danae's father. All I knew about him was that he made license plates as a hobby. He was definitely an artistic and talented man. The license plates that Danae proudly showed me were beautiful! I assumed he learned how to do this in prison. For some reason I thought this was something that only prisoners were taught. I'm not sure where I got this idea from, possibly TV. The only reason I assumed that Danae's father was in prison was because he was a black man. I doubt if I would have made that assumption if he was white. When I was twelve years old, my white friends and I would go to the "plaza" on Friday nights. We would go to the arcade and then roller skating at "Skate Odyssey." We were called the "Plaza Boys" and the "Plaza Girls." Everyone was very "stuck up" and " cliquey." I never felt like I was good enough to fit in with that crowd. Also I wasn't ready to compete with the sexually active "Plaza Girls" to gain respect from my peers and attention from the "Plaza Boys." A couple of close friends and I decided to try our luck on Saturday nights. It was a known fact that only the tough black crowds went to "Skate Odyssey" on Saturday nights. I had many black and Hispanic friends from school that went on Saturdays that would meet us there. The atmosphere was different. A different style of music was playing and there was more dancing than making out. This is when rap music and break dancing came out. It was fun to watch the groups of break dancers compete. The music was lively and the atmosphere was inviting. Unlike Friday nights where everyone walked around trying to find some poor soul to beat up on in efforts to gain a tough reputation and to hide the fact that they didn't have a make out partner. I met my husband on a Saturday night at skating. I was instantly attracted to him. I thought he was the most beautiful black kid that I had ever seen. He had a light brown complexion and defined, but soft features. He was very neatly dressed in well pressed jeans that were starched and creased down the middle. He wore clean white sneakers and a dark brown "pleather", bomber jacket with fur around the hood. This was the style in the early eighties where I lived. Within minutes of seeing him, I very confidently approached him and said, " Do you know you are fine!" I giggled while my girlfriend pulled me away embarrassed. The rest is history, three kids and nineteen years later. I often wondered why I was attracted to him. I'm not sure if it was because I was rebellious and wanted to do the opposite of what my family taught me was acceptable. Maybe it was a genuine attraction? I learned over the years that being white didn't make me any better then anyone else. If anything, I felt like I was less of a person by my white peers. It's possible that I was looking to prove myself and gain respect from my non-white peers. I know that society has stereotyped me. I was a teen age mother in an interracial relationship with mixed children and I was an eighth grade drop out. I've made a point of not caring what people think about me. If people are ignorant enough to judge me, it's their problem. Not mine! I refuse to notice any opinions or criticism. I believe that would only empower the ignorant and would allow me to feel ashamed of who I was and of my beautiful, intelligent mixed children. I do have to admit that I've worked very hard to disprove this stereotype. I love to hear the surprise I get when people find out about me! I take it as a compliment. People usually assume that I would be married to a preppy rich white guy, because of the way I carry myself. The same surprise I felt about Danae's mother. I live a respectful and honest life style. I carry myself with dignity. I genuinely love all people. I live my life to care for those who need me. I'm not less than or more than anyone else. I am a person who made choices that society views as disagreeable. I am not my choices. I am a person. We are all people. |
I'll Be Okay Mom By Kellie Milite |
| My life may become the
next story-line to a night time drama series. I've often wondered why my life had to be so crazy. Was my life destined to be this way ? I've been told that God has a plan for me. That one day my existence on this earth will actually have a purpose. I hope so! There has to be more to life than this. I never felt loved as a child or as an adult. I grew up an only child raised by my mother. I had very little contact with my father and his side of the family. My father suffered with a mental illness. He is a diagnosed schizophrenic and manic depressive. He lives under the care of St. Vincent DePaul in my town. I've made several attempts to get involved in his life but have been unsuccessful. He tells me it's not a good time. I understand the effects of his illness but the rejection of him and his family still hurts. I've learned over the years to put those feelings away. I'm sure, subconsciously this absence of love has affected me and the decisions I've made throughout my life. I was a very shy, timid child. I was very insecure and had a poor self image. I felt unworthy of love and acceptance. I thought I was stupid, clumsy and that I was different from other kids. My poor self image carried over into my adolescent years. I had a hard time feeling like I fit in with my peers. I had many friends, but I still had a hard time accepting that they liked me for who I was. In efforts to stand out and be envied by my peers, I put a lot of effort into my appearance. I still do this to this day. It helps to hide my insecurities. I also became very rebellious. I stayed in trouble. I started using drugs and alcohol. I rarely attended school. I never made it into high school. I had a poor relationship with my mother. She was good to me but I resented her for her lifestyle and my upbringing. Affection was not shared with touch or words. It was shared by giving gifts and making sacrifices. My mother often tried to change this up until my adult life. She wanted to stop the cycle. She was brought up without affection and felt bad doing it to me. I never opened myself up for this change. In 1982, at the age of twelve I met my husband. He was a very handsome black boy.(I'm white.) Society and my family were not accepting of interracial relationships at that time. Soon after I quit school at age fifteen. I became pregnant with our oldest daughter. Two years later we had our son. I believe I chose this path because I was rebellious, looking for status among my peers and looking for love. If I knew then what I know now! My husband and I never had a good relationship. I was so in love with him. I don't believe he ever felt the same way. He was always out with his friends and meeting other girls, acting the way a boy should have been at his age. I believe he grew to resent me over those years. He wasn't ready to become a responsible man. It showed in his behavior towards me. He was occasionally abusive. The abuse started to get really bad during my second pregnancy. At this time we lived together. He spent most of his time away from home. He continued his promiscuous behavior and began selling drugs. By this time he was also a heavy drinker. He would come home drunk almost every night and start a fight. He kept me very sheltered and controlled. When I was in my ninth month of pregnancy he put my head through a wall because I questioned him about his other relationship. Then he dropped me off at the emergency room. He had no remorse for his behavior. The mental and physical abuse continued throughout our relationship. The police were often at my house. I learned to be tolerant of his behaviors. I alienated myself from my friends to avoid a fight. The only time I went out was when it was a family activity with my kids or to work. I would always work two or more jobs. Mostly to escape. I learned how to walk a tight rope to avoid a fight. I suppressed my identity. Things improved for about five years. We had a full active life. We bought our own home. The kids were actively involved in the neighborhood sports association. My husband coached most of their sports and was making an honest living. I was involved in the P.T.A and other associations. We drove elaborate vehicles, vacationed more than often and the kids had more than the average child. If you knew us you would think we had the perfect life. We were envied by all our friends and family. I believed that achieving this image made me successful. It was important for me not to fit the profile of a typical teenage mother in an interracial relationship. I lived my life around my children. I liked to think of myself as “The Kool Aid Mom”. All the neighborhood kids would come to my house. We were always doing something fun or going somewhere exciting and different. I always traveled with a large number of kids. They appreciated the time I invested in them. Most of their own parents didn't care to spend time with them. This helped my relationship with my kids. They always knew they were the center of my world. I was determined to give them the life I never had! We decided to have another baby. Our other two children were teenagers and growing up quick. We were struggling financially and my husbands' anxieties over finances increased when I got pregnant. He decided he was going to sell drugs again to make money to get our basement finished to make room for the baby and to get caught up on bills. I begged him not to! He did it anyway. That's when the worst three years of my life started! My husband reverted back to his old ways. The abuse increased and the affairs started again. But this time he began using drugs. Everything was out of control! The house, the kids, the finances. Though we had a lot of money coming into the house, I was always worrying how to cover all the checks before they bounced. I had a bad shopping addiction! It distracted me from everything that was going on in my crazy life. Worst of all, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I was devastated! Everything in my life was becoming ugly and diseased! My worst fear of losing my mother became reality. I didn't think I was going to be able to get through all this. I was by myself. I didn't have any family. I was alone raising two teenagers and seven months pregnant. I truly thought I was going to lose my mind! I thought about driving my car off the highway every night on my way to work. I was so angry that my life was so out of control and there was nothing I could do about it! Up until then I didn't believe in God. I never heard of anyone else being able to perform miracles and there was no one else to turn to. I started to talk to people that I knew had a strong faith and started to talk to God myself. My faith and beliefs grew intense. Over the following three years things became increasingly worse. It became obvious that a miracle wasn't going to happen. But I became stronger. I had an amazing strength! I decided to change whatever I could within my own power. I filed for a divorce. I had to eliminate any stress that I could. He was the biggest source! The separation was followed by death threats and stalking. He followed me every night for one month with a gun in his lap. I had him arrested. The court ordered him to a six-month anger management program. The physical abuse has stopped, but the mental and verbal abuse hadn't. The divorce turned into a nasty custody battle. He knows that our children are the center of my universe and that loosing them would devastate me! I believe he hates me more then he loves his children. He treated them as if they were pawns to a chess game. He appeared not to care that his game was hurting the children. My mother's cancer had spread to all her major organs and was dying more every day. I had her move into my house. I wanted to be able to look after her. Up until then, I spent more time avoiding her than seeing her. It was the only way I could cope. I was very angry at her for dying. I was selfish. I should have been there for her. I needed to learn not to rely on her. I had more stress than I could handle! My mother was a healthy woman. She had lost a tremendous amount of weight and lost all of her hair. It was great having her living with us. The kids were her life! She really enjoyed the baby. That time together was so important for all of us. But it was sickening to watch her body slowly rot away. My mother was a very strong person. She never asked for help and rarely complained. She internalized her pain and sadness because she was more concerned with me. I believe she lived as long as she did because she was worried about leaving me to struggle alone. She knew what I was going through and how much I relied on her. She once asked me why she couldn't just die? Why did she have to suffer so long? She had lost two close friends to cancer during the time she was sick. They both died within months of their diagnoses. She envied them. Soon after, my mother began throwing up dark brown coffee grinds. She yelled from the bathroom for my help. I never heard my mother ask for help before. I was afraid to look. I'll never forget the image and the smell from that day! I started to shake uncontrollably. I called her doctor, then my grandmother to come sit with her. I had to leave to get myself together. That day the doctor admitted her into the hospital. My mother had the most beautiful blue eyes you would ever see. When I looked into her eyes that day, the whites of her eyes were the brightest shade of yellow that you could imagine. Tests had shown that she was toxic. Her liver and kidneys were shutting down. Her cancer ridden liver couldn't handle the chemotherapy she was taking in desperation to stay alive. They gave her what they referred to as a “tune up” and sent her home a couple days later. The doctor said it wouldn't be long before she died. Her roommate in the hospital took a special interest in her. She gave my mother some Christian medallions to put on a bracelet to wear. That night I brought my mother home, she was acting funny. Kind of simple. She was forgetful, but was reminiscent and appreciative of certain songs that were on the car radio. I arrived home from work the next morning to find my mother on the floor. My son and husband were trying to help her up. She couldn't stand. We managed to get her on the bed. She was combative and insisted on getting up. I had to push her down and sit on her until the ambulance arrived. She was completely disoriented. As the E.M.T's were carrying her out, she snapped out of it for a minute to tell me she was sorry. It kills me to think she felt like she was a burden to me! Or maybe she was apologizing because she couldn't hold on any longer and she knew this was the end. The hospital gave her another chemotherapy treatment upon leaving the day before. This caused her organs to shut down and affected her brain. My mother went into a coma-like state. She could no longer speak. She balled herself up and slept all the time. Anytime we moved her she moaned in pain. Amazingly, she reached out to hug my husband. I believe this was her plea to him to take care of me and the kids. Unfortunately the damage done to our marriage was not repairable. I had to make the decision to discontinue life support and to put her on comfort measures. It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make. And by myself. I left the hospital shaking and disoriented. I knew I was doing the right thing. It was the reality of it all. I stayed at her bedside. There was so much I wanted to say to her. Like, “I love you!” I wanted to curl up beside her and hold her in my arms. I couldn't get myself to do it. I labored over the thoughts of doing it. Instead, I created a memorial in her hospital room. I brought every significant item I could think of to put her mind at ease. I set up pictures all over her room. Past and present. I brought in her lucky bingo figurines, memorabilia from her coffee shop and other miscellaneous items. I found a recipe she wanted me to have. She had been looking for it and never could find it. It was Christmas time. I decorated her room for the holiday. I purchased her a small fiber optic tree for her room. This now represents my mother at Christmas time. The medallions she never had time to put on a bracelet, I put on my necklace and wrapped it around her wrist. Workers were coming from all over the hospital to see her room. One set of young aids entered her room all excited. I'll never forget the mortified look on their faces. It wasn't what they had expected to see. When friends came to visit, they couldn't enter the room. They left apologizing and crying. My mother was unrecognizable! I helped care for my mother. I cleaned her mouth with lemon swabs frequently. She commented before how dry her mouth was. It made her very uncomfortable. I repositioned and changed her every hour. The nurses would comment on how strong I was, as if it was a good thing. The truth was, I was completely numb. Sometimes I think maybe I was temporarily insane. A couple of hours before she died, I had some time alone with her. I let her know that it was okay for her to leave us and that we were all going to be okay. I used a very serious and emotionless voice. I knew if I put any feeling into it I was going to break down. It was an unwritten rule that we didn't cry in front of each other. There couldn't have been a more appropriate time to break down, but I wanted my mother to see how strong I was. I stayed close to her bedside that night. I had a feeling this was it. I planned on staying awake all night. I wanted to be awake when it happened. I woke up at about 2:00a.m. with my back towards her. I panicked and quickly turned around to check her. Her breathing was very shallow. I watched for the rise and fall of her chest. Within seconds I watched her take her last breath. No air went in, just out. She exhaled three times loudly. Then stopped. She was gone. All I could do was call her name. I couldn't believe that she was never going to answer me back. I was in a daze and didn't feel comfortable driving so I called my husband for a ride. The nurse helped me pack up her room. I took the chain off her wrist and put it on my neck. I've worn it every day since she died. My husband came into her room and started crying. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and said good-bye. I stood numb. I never cried that night. I hated leaving her alone. Her room was bear and felt cold. Who was going to make sure she wasn't lonely and uncomfortable? I couldn't stand the thought of her body being tossed around and that she was going to a scary mortuary and then to be cremated. I realize now how short life is. My mother died at 52. Time is too precious to waste. Appreciate the people you love now. Treat every individual with love and respect. Even if they can't talk or walk they can still feel. It's not an earned privilege. It's a God-given right to be loved and respected. Every life is valuable. My mother's and yours. That's often forgotten in this world. Every life has a purpose and out of all our grief and hardships there is a lesson to be learned. Trust your journey. Give unselfishly. Life's not about indulging. And when you think you're alone, your not. God's always with you and you'll always be okay. I've learned to appreciate adversity. It's taught me many valuable lessons about life. Even though the repeated heartaches over the years left me cautious and unable to trust' I still have a loving heart. I'm just very careful about exposing it. It's very fragile and may break if it's not handled with care. |
