Chapter 1
Black Bastard
I was ten years old when my mother passed away. She liked to run the streets at night, partying and drinking. I can recall the days when it was just she and I against the world. Then there were those other days when she’d leave and not return until the next day. I didn’t care though. I’d just stay up all night watching TV. Shit, every once in a while I’d put my feet up and sip on one of her half-filled cans of Miller beer.
I remember stroking her long black hair. It was dark and silky, and would glisten whenever the light hit it. She was pretty, nothing at all like myself. I was bony and unusually tall for a female, awkwardly shaped and more attracted to my own gender than them pussy-hungry boys. I later learned that was all they wanted from a woman.
Nevertheless, men chased behind my mother as if her ass was going out of style. Having that knowledge played a major role in my decision to alternate what was deemed a natural and morally correct lifestyle into that of a gender-bender. I liked women. From a young girl to pre-teen to young adult, certain things about me just physically dictated butch.
My mother never once shunned me for being who I was. My wonderful mother, she never once was ashamed of me. She’s no longer here anymore because of her wild ways. So it was no shock when life’s third rail spit on her soul, beating her down in the street until her tragic death.
Ohhhh, baby, gotta get you home Gotta get you home with me tonight Oooooh, baby, Ohhhh Gotta get you home with me tonight
The Foxy Brown/Blackstreet joint vibrated against our tenth-floor apartment door as I stepped out of the elevator from school. I turned the knob and pushed. It was latched at the top from the inside. I had to pee, and the music was playing so loud my knocks went unheard. I began pounding it until the latch detached and the door flung open inwardly.
“Girl, what’s the matter with you? You running from the police or something?” My mother smiled as the door opened.
I ran off into the bathroom. I hopped in place, trying to pull my pants down before I pissed myself, but it didn’t work. By the time I finally got them down, a homemade Jacuzzi equipped with a heating system had formed a pool of shame in the bottom of my panties. I quickly kicked the soiled panties off and tossed them in the cabinet under the sink.
I scrubbed the piss off the floor with ammonia. Hey, I didn’t know any better then. The strong fumes burned my nostrils, eyes, and lungs. I dropped to my knees and struggled to breathe. The constant-running ventilation up above couldn’t expel the poisonous toxins in the air that was overwhelming me.
“Quiana,” Ma said, knocking on the door, “you wanna hurry out of there so you can eat this sandwich? I’m having company tonight. I already called Grandma. She said it’s all right to come over. I already laid you out an outfit on your bed to wear to church tonight. Quiana.” Ma knocked again. “Don’t play with me, girl. You better open this door.”
I wanted to cry out, but my voice had become just as heavy as my limbs. My eyes started to close, and vomit ejected from my mouth and splattered on my face.
“You gonna make me beat your ass,” she said, turning the knob and walking in. “Quiana!” she screamed and immediately dragged my naked body out of the bathroom by the arm. She pulled me all the way into the living room and out onto the balcony. “Breathe, baby,” she said, fanning my face. “Breathe.” She held up my head under her arm. She shouted, “Breathe!” and shook me by the chin.
I coughed up more vomit before involuntarily inhaling a long stuttered breath from deep down. I’d have to say, looking back on it all, it was the only time I can recall seeing death around the corner. No, more like meeting death on my own front porch.
Going to church with Grandma Thomasina was like hell. My mother loved leaving me with her on Friday nights. That was church night. Grandma would get all dressed up in her fancy clothing and her favorite feathered hat. Those were the most boring days of my young life, sitting up in church listening to some crazy nigga whooping and hollering about a highway to heaven. I think it was called First Truth Baptist Church. Quite often I’d nod off to sleep.
Grandma would pinch the hell out of my leg every time. “Pay attention. He’s talking to you.”
Pastor Charles King sipped a glass of water. “God spoke to me today.” His curly salt-and-pepper hair offset any color coordination with his brown pinstriped suit. And the white collar around his neck seemed to tighten each time he turned his head from left to right.
“Go ’head and preach,” someone shouted from the congregation.
Two black six-foot metal fans blowing from opposite sides of the room did little to suppress heat rising from the bodies of the overly dressed religious fanatics. Notes from the organ up above played a melodic tit for tat each time the pastor said something pivotally motivational.
“I was on my way here to give you the Word, as I do every Friday and Sunday. And I was stopped by a police officer for speeding on the I-95. I pulled over, and he arrogantly walked to my window and told me to roll it down. I kindly obliged and smiled. He stood stern and asked if I knew I was exceeding the state speed limit. I said, I honestly wasn’t paying attention, officer, but as you can see on my license plate, I am a pastor and I’m running behind schedule. I’m not making any excuses, but I’m sure you can understand the concept of being on time for the Lord.
“We’re listening. Go ’head,” another crazed freak shouted out.
“Now how many of you have licenses?”
The majority of the congregants raised their hands.
“Yeah. But how many of you are legally registered? You don’t have to confess anything to me, if you don’t want to. I’m not the DMV.”
A young lady seated beside my grandmother sang, “Well ...”
“Let’s just say that the Lord is like our DMV.” Pastor King smiled as he removed his glasses. “You listening, brother,” he said to the drummer in back of him. “Now I say the Looooord is like our DMV. And we are his vehicles. Without him your vehicle, my vehicle, our vehicles cannot legally be driven on the road. Are y’all feeling me yet?” He chuckled. “We are all the Lord’s vehicles, and it is our responsibility to get licensed with Jesus. The license is acknowledging that there is none after, before, or in between. The license leads to the registration, and the registration is the Lord, and if you don’t go through the tunnel of Jesus, then you do not get registered with the Lord. Your vehicle will be off the road, and you don’t want to be off the road with the Lord. So if you’re not licensed, or you’re driving with a suspended one, please get registered.” He wiped the perspiration off his forehead, while the congregation displayed their zeal, clapping their hands, and stomping their feet in the middle of the aisle.
Grandma pinched my already sore thigh. “Pay attention. He’s talking to you.”