I was going to write about something else for this post, even had it started—the wonderful Wyoming School For Girls where I made a connection when I was out at Ucross Foundation for a residency in March. I’ve been doing writing workshops with them on Google Hangout, and I wanted to tell you about how much they’ve meant to me and seem to mean to the girls incarcerated there. The director, Dixie Fox, with whom I’ve been dealing over the complexities of doing such an intimate experience virtually, is a stunning example of what a facility for troubled girls needs in a leader. I am mightily impressed with her and hope to continue to volunteer as a writing group facilitator with them until I get back to Wyoming, hopefully next spring. It feels so good to be able to reach out to these young women with all the poems and stories of my girls and know how inspired they may be by them; how I have missed this work.
But that story got pushed aside for the moment when this morning’s phone exchange hijacked all my focus. I’d been wanting to call Chim’ere, one of “my girls”(those of you who’ve read my book will remember her as one I featured), and finally sorted through all the changed phone numbers she’d given me over the years to find the right one and click on it.
“Hi Sharon!” she warbled in that melodious voice of hers. “Guess who’s sitting right next to me? We’re going to get some breakfast and then to Newington to pick up my new car and get her rental.” Chim’ere’s boyfriend had totaled her last car, in addition to smashing her TV, breaking the windows in her house, stealing money and expensive sneakers from their children to buy drugs—he’s the one she said she was going to leave in the book. It hasn’t happened yet.
“Sharon it’s me, Tarray.” (You will remember her from a few posts ago and the book as well—that they’d been friends since middle school).
“Tarray, Chim’ere! I am so happy to get you both. Double joy, double trouble…” We all laughed.
“But Chim’ere, it’s really you I wanted to talk to this morning; I need to know you’ve left that guy in the dust.” She’s texted me a few days ago that she’d called Chrysalis, the domestic violence organization where she lives, and that they were helping, that she’d gotten a restraining order on him. I had hoped she wasn’t just saying that to make me happy and wanted to hear that in her own words.
They both began talking over each other. Chime’re said the boyfriend wouldn’t help at all with finances and would not “babysit” for the children (his children) but that he’d given her a $1500 engagement ring and $1000 diamond earrings since the restraining order. I didn’t even want to think about where he’d gotten the money.
“Sell them and use the money for a responsible babysitter!” I yelled over the din of their strong voices. “You don’t want to leave your children with a drug addict. My god, Chim’ere.”
“I know, Sharon, I know. Muhlanie (her oldest daughter) says I should pawn them.”
“Yes, I agree, do it! Get rid of him, he’s bringing you nothing but pain and suffering. Stressing you out, affecting your health and well-being. No possible good can come of this relationship unless he’s years in rehab. And maybe not even then.”
“I know, Sharon. I have to do it.”
“I know it’s hard, I know, it’s like an addiction—I know, I know, I’ve been in unwise relationships myself where I rationalized that the person would change. Never happened. Sometimes we can all be so blind.” This is one of the things I’ve loved about my kinships with the girls—I can express my outrage, pain and disappointment, share my own experience in a way I never could as a therapist, in that boundaried, asymmetrical, working relationship. But in the freedom of our love and respect for each other I can say anything, as can they. I can swear and yell just like they do, and as we all did large amounts of this morning.
“Sharon, the worst, worst thing that has ever happened to me happened last week. I have to tell you,” Tarray interrupted.
“Oh god, what now?”
“I wanted to get my girlfriend a bottle of Clase Azul tequila for her birthday, it costs $150 a bottle, she loves it. So I go to Total Line (I interrupt to ask what Total Line is as I’ve never heard of it and she tells me it’s a big store with everything and good prices on liquor)—I decide to go to the one in Manchester where I think I’ll be less harassed, instead of West Hartford—we go in and I pick out the bottle, get in line after she says she’s leaving, going to Marshall’s and will meet me there. I put the bottle on the conveyor belt, get out my ID and debit card, and the cashier guy says he won’t sell it to me!”
I know right away without her telling me, that he’s a white guy. Tarray is black, for those of you who don’t remember. Not only black, but large and imposing, with long dreads under her backwards baseball cap, men’s shirts and shorts and wildly expensive sneakers. Tattoos too. Simply gorgeous.
“Why, I say? What’s the problem? I’ve got money, I want to buy it.”
“Leave the store,” he says. “I’m not selling it to you.”
“I keep asking him, why? Is it because I’m black?
“What did he say?”
“Nothing, just turned his head, said it again, ‘I can’t sell that to you.’
And all around me, a crowd is gathering, watching. They’re all staring at me.”
“Did anyone do anything, say anything, try to help you?” I ask, my outrage boiling over, imagining what I’d do and say if I’d been there.
“Nope. No one.”
“I can’t understand how he could deny you service with no reason, I just can’t. This is outrageous! And no one tried to help you? Did you ever get any reason from him?”
“He finally said something about ‘that girl who was with you’—but she didn’t do anything—she had already left.”
“Do you think he thought she’d stolen something? Was underage?”
“I don’t know, Sharon—and anyway, why would that mean he couldn’t sell to me? She wasn’t even with me.”
“I know, of course.”
“I kept it up, kept saying it was wrong what he was doing, it was because I was black—he was a little white dude—I wish I had filmed it-- everyone standing around watching…I ended up leaving, going to the Total Line in West Hartford, had no problem there. I think it’s a class issue too…“
“Yes,” I say. “For sure. The guy in Manchester needed to feel superior to you—he was insecure and afraid, so he lashed out at you, made a power play, to make himself feel better about being a jerk.”
“Yeah, Sharon, and in West Hartford—like when I worked in Westport—there are rich people there—they already know they’re superior so they don’t have to act that way towards us.”
“Can you write about this, you need to write about this! The white world needs to hear the insane, every-day injustice you guys go through! None of us comprehend the pain of your lives!!” I yell.
“No Sharon, I’m too angry to write, I just want to talk about it, tell you.”
That’s when I knew what I’d be writing this week.
***
Here’s the latest reading for “I Am Not A Juvenile Delinquent,” A FB live stream with Donna Hemans last week: it was great!:
https://www.facebook.com/vacenterforthecreativearts/videos/277556357017814/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRl2-LDnVJk
And thank you so much, everybody, for reading the book and sending such great responses my way. I’m working hard on publicity, along with Lesley Budny, my wonderful former staff support at Touchstone, who is now a marketing and publicity person with skills she’s offering freely to someone without them. I am so grateful to her.
I am hoping those of you who’ve read the book will write an Amazon review—the publisher wants them as they boost sales. It’s easy and I would so appreciate it!! And for those of you who are waiting to get it: