The 'N' Word, Book 1

by Tiana Laveen

  “You could say that.”

  “You stated she fed you and other people… that’s important. The people that feed us, we oftentimes associate feelings of gratitude to them, sometimes romantic love, even attaching a motherly connection, especially if our own mothers were absent in some way. Patti is what I call an investor of maternal roots.”

  “I can understand that, I get that. I suppose that makes sense.” Aaron nodded in agreement as he clasped his hands together.

  “Food, culturally, symbolizes togetherness.” The man tapped his fingertips together in demonstration. “Nurturing, so to speak. It creates a sense of care. What do you recall regarding some of the food Patti gave you? You mentioned some homemade desserts in your last session.”

  Aaron jetted the tip of his tongue from between his dry lips and licked the right corner as he delved deeper into a pit of perplexity. He shrugged, suddenly growing annoyed, and feeling a bit inane, too.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” His brows furrowed.

  “Please just humor me, Aaron…”

  “Well hell, I don’t know.” His shoulders slumped in annoyance.

  “You do know… Go back to that time frame, Aaron. Live in that moment again.”

  He took a few deep breaths and thought about Melissa… used her as motivation to move the hell forward and not bail out once more.

  “Sometimes it was just boxed macaroni and cheese, sometimes it was instant mashed potatoes and gravy, and other times it was more. The more was the best.” He couldn’t help a smile as his stomach rumbled just beneath the memory-scratched surface.

  “More?”

  “Yeah, more… More was a table full of crispy, golden fried chicken, still hot to the touch… heat rising from it right before my eyes. Sometimes it would be a seafood spread. She’d have baked fish that she caught herself from the river and skinned, too. She’d boil shrimp, devein them ’nd all and make her own cocktail sauce outta ketchup, onion powder and horseradish sauce. She’d fry up thick slices of potatoes and cover them in green onions, real bacon bits and rich sour cream, the works. I get where you are going with this now, besides making me hungry… I know it doesn’t really matter what it was, Dr. Owens…” His eyes moistened ever so slightly. “It was that she was doing it, all the work she put into it, and that it is one of my fondest memories of bein’ with her.”

  The doctor nodded in agreement, and smiled back at him, too.

  “Keep going.”

  “It was whatever she could get her hands on, but that woman could cook her ass off. I’d never tasted food like that in my entire life and to this day, I still haven’t. Me, Joe-Joe and Amy and some other kids were accustomed to this sort of thing from her. Our bellies would be stuffed, and then she’d hand us ice cold cans of juice or soda, let us pile up in her small living room that smelled like lavender from the carpet powder she’d use when she vacuumed, and we’d watch all our favorite shows with a bowl of ice cream or eat whatever dessert she’d made.

  Her apple cobbler and chocolate cake were my favorite. If she’d fall asleep, we’d turn to a dirty movie on HBO or Cinemax and have a good time with that.”

  The recollections poured in, things he hadn’t thought about in what felt like eons. Another wave of pleasant thoughts flooded his psyche. “Patti had cable, most of the rest of us didn’t. She hadn’t paid for it; her brother rigged it some kinda way. Her house was where we’d go to sleep on something soft, listen to loud music, and fill our stomachs with something that would hold us over until the next day. After a while, I ran away to this woman’s home on a regular basis. I was barely at my own house anymore. I finally had some peace, a refuge, you know? I finally felt safe…”

  The two looked at one another for a long while. The inside of his mouth grew suddenly dry, and he sat bat and rocked a bit, thinking of things, little things and big things alike…

  Strange how the past kept repeating itself… just like heartburn…

  “Aaron, let’s stop right there, okay?” the doctor offered. “I think this is a good spot to take a break. I’ll follow up with you regarding the call to your pen pal in the next day or two.”

  Aaron nodded, still distracted and a bit discombobulated as he got to his feet. Dr. Owens buzzed the guard in, and the office door slowly swung open. He extended his wrists to be re-handcuffed and simply waited. As he approached the door with the armed man at his side, he glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the doctor reaching for his desk phone.

  “Dr. Owens?” he called out.

  “Yes, Aaron.” The man paused, the receiver still in his hand. “What is it?”

  “I don’t feel safe anymore… I…I haven’t felt safe in years…”

  And then, he turned and walked away…

  Chapter Eleven

  Dear Melissa,

  I know that I just sent you a letter and you haven’t had a chance to write back yet, but there are some things on my mind right now. As you know, I’ve been seeing the prison psychiatrist, and now, I am starting to realize that I needed to. Do you know what they call people like me in here? Ding Wings. No, I’m not in the psychiatric unit, but sometimes I feel like I may as well be. I want to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone before. You see, in talking to the head doctor here, it brought back a bunch of memories and stuff I just didn’t want to think about anymore. I admitted to you that I had been abused as a kid, by both my parents. Myself, Joe-Joe and Amy – we all got messed with by them, it wasn’t just me, but I can only tell you things from my perspective. I told you about my father playing that cruel joke on me, leaving me in the woods, to my own defenses. He did other things like that later on, too. That was just the first time, but definitely not the last. But my mother wasn’t any better, Melissa. One day, some money had come up missing out of her purse. I didn’t take it, but I knew who had. I’d seen him do it. My father was notorious for stealing because he had a really bad gambling problem.

  So the money came up missing and I swear I was her favorite out of all three of us to pick on. This ain’t no pity party type of thing; even my brother and sister say I got it the worse. They knew, trust me, they knew. I think she thought I ruined her life or something, because she got pregnant so young with me. So, she came at me hollering about me stealing her money. I hadn’t, I told her so, but it did not one bit of good. I didn’t want to rat my father out though, either. I still wanted him to like me and want to do stuff with me, so I didn’t say anything and you know what? Even if I had, she still may not have believed me or cared.

  She checked me all over, didn’t find any money. She tore up the bedroom me and my brother shared, still didn’t find any money. Then she made me strip down naked. I was about ten at the time. She stripped me down, Melissa, and made me stand outside in our front yard, then had me walk a ways up the street. She had me hold a sign over my dick that said, “I’m a thief. I stole money out my mama’s purse.’ Melissa, I can’t tell you really how that made me feel. I know if I’d ever felt anything like that before then, but I don’t think I had. I believe that was the first time in my life that I got a glimpse of what hatred tasted like. My friends around the neighborhood saw me, and started pointing and giggling. And then my father saw me, and all he did was walk right on past, like nothing had happened. Like, so what?

  She brought me back in after about an hour or so, put water all over my skin, then beat me up and down my body with a belt. I could barely sit or lie down. My skin was all busted open, bruised and bleeding. The sheets of my bed stuck to me that night, and a couple of the welts got infected. The next day my father came into the bedroom. I’d been in there crying all night. He came up to me and poured whiskey on the cuts… said it would help disinfect them. The shit burned and hurt so bad! Then he winked at me and thanked me for not telling my mother he’d taken that money outta her purse. And that was that…

  I just wanted to tell you about that is all. I don’t cry about it or anything like that; it just popped into
my mind. I know the Good Book says we’re supposed to honor our parents, Melissa, I know what it says, but I fucking hate them and I’m just fine with that. I hope you have a good night, sweetheart. I love you.

  A.P.

  A RUBBERY PIECE of mystery meat wedged itself between two molars and refused to set him free. Aaron sat on the bench, looking up every now and again at his cell bars, taking notice of a guard or two walking leisurely past. He felt like something stinking and on all fours at the damn zoo. Their eyes would narrow upon him, a veiled threat dancing in their pupils. He’d simply nod, dare the bastards to come forward, but they never did. He hated fucking cowards…

  His thin mattress with old piss stains from other sons of bitches of yesteryear was fully exposed as he’d wrapped the equally thin cream-colored double sheets around his shoulders, fighting a chill in the place. The night air was falling, and he knew better than to ask for a bit of heat, something to get his blood flowing once again. No, he’d simply make do. He jammed his finger into his mouth to work the hard gristle out while the other hand held onto something precious, but possibly slipping away… Melissa’s letter…

  His skull throbbed as heat surged within him. The woman had written some things that gave him pause, confused him, and captivated him, too. Deciding to go at it again like a relentless case of O.C.D., he re-read the letter for now the third time, inspecting the damn thing for checks and balances. He surmised she had not received his note detailing the horrific incident of his childhood, but it didn’t matter. She was addressing things in a timely fashion, and that was all he could ask for.

  Dear Aaron…

  Thank you for your letter. I believe there are some things we should discuss. I would first like to say that, once again, I do thank you for your honesty regarding the details of your crime and affiliation. I’m certain it must’ve been difficult for you to admit such things, especially since you are appealing your sentence and have to be mindful of what you share with others. Now let’s address the other matter brought to my attention. I will say this: you were correct to assume that I would not embrace the belief system you state you possess.

  I believe that God created all of us equally, and it was us, as human beings, who decided to divide and assign inconsequential, inaccurate meanings to one another, as well as create a system in which we fight over the most trivial of matters, including things we cannot change, such as our race, our parents, and our cultural background.

  You stated that you do not hate non-whites, yet you are a part of a group of individuals who have orchestrated and participated in countless acts of harassment, civil and non-civil disobedience and disruption, public and private acts of racially motivated ferocity, and other illegal acts driven by abhorrence and intolerance against people that are not of European ancestry. You also made it clear that you are held in high regard and apparently have a following; thus, that makes you perhaps even more steeped in such illogical beliefs. You did not elaborate enough for me to accuse you of being a braggart about such status, but I doubt that you are repentant at this time. I have let you know, in no uncertain terms, that I do not approve of the group you are affiliated with. Nevertheless, what I will say to you next may surprise you.

  I am certain at this point you believe that I would wash my hands of you and tell you God bless, take care, or something of that nature. No. Instead, I will do what I do best, and that is to fight with love, not vengeance, and utilize my other super-power for the greater good – and that is, my teaching ability. That’s what I do, that is what I went to college for and received my degree and certification for, and that is what comes to me naturally. Aaron, your first lesson is a history lesson of sorts. You are a white man in a country you did not originate from.

  Europeans showed up in North America approximately in the year 1620. It was not in 1492, because Christopher Columbus didn’t actually set foot on American soil. He was in the West Indies, not the new world. The Pilgrims that came here in 1620 were originally believed to have come from England, but there is evidence that they were first in Holland as well. You are here, living and breathing, due to your ancestors. Without our forefathers and mothers, we would not exist.

  Your ancestors were not the original Americans, Aaron; Native Indians were. I am not going to write out hundreds of pages about the history of America, because it would truly turn into a book of information, but I say all of this to say to you that, if you want an ‘All white America’, to ‘restore’ a country to its former glory, then please note that this ‘former glory’ is not one that includes Europeans or their descendants. To me, an all white America is not a utopia; it is anything but. You have this idea no doubt that if you woke up tomorrow and everyone who wasn’t white were removed, the country would suddenly thrive.

  You couldn’t be farther from the truth. This need to hate and hurt and destroy is what connects you and your ilk. Let’s say you got your wish. Once that element is removed, you will feel as if you’ve lost a limb because these emotions and racially driven actions have become a part of who you are. People who thrive off negativity will eventually turn on each other, in order to derive that same sense of superiority and security if the source of their animosity is removed.

  So, this land was never ‘all white’ to begin with, Aaron. White and pure are not synonymous, either. Acts of violence, political corruption and misdeeds are not respecters of race, age, gender/sex, sexual orientation, religion, nationality, and creed. I do not believe in a grander race, nor do I find racism acceptable in any form or fashion. If you choose to not like someone, not want their company, it should be based on how that person has behaved, treated you, or conducted themselves with the general public.

  As I’ve stated to you previously, you are a very intelligent man. That is what lured me to you in the first place; and then, from that, came other attractions based on your personality and the manner in which you expressed yourself. The attraction grew between us, and so did an undeniable attachment, dare I say, love. I think it is rather sad that with all of that intelligence you possess, you are brainwashed and filled with so much hostility towards the majority of the world population.

  You cannot say that you do not like people of A, B, and C categories, if you have not met all people in the A, B, and C classifications. People are people, Aaron. There are good people and not so good people walking the Earth. I am disappointed in this turn of events, but feel that we did not begin corresponding by accident, Aaron. We’ve shared so much, become comfortable with one another, and formed a friendship. I have told you things that mean a great deal to me, and I’m convinced you’ve done the same.

  There is a reason for this current discussion and after I got over my initial shock and anger at your declarations, I realized that we are in fact being presented with an opportunity to dig deep, reach for and teach one another. As far as the phone call, yes, I’d be interested in verbally conversing with you, but only if you are open to hearing another opinion about these topics. Just let me know the day and time, and I will make sure that I am available.

  Sincerely,

  Melissa

  Aaron looked at the letter, glossing over the words now as he slowly folded it back into its original shape. Though she was polite, there was a distinct chill woven into the written words. Her typical softness, her kind and true nature was all but gone. This one felt like a good ass whooping from a person like… well, like Dr. Owens. She used big words, grand ideas. The letter she chose to write was disinfected, sterile, void of the passions of letters past, and yet, still, it smelled of sweetness, divinity… with a touch of suffocated hostility. He realized with certainty that he’d drawn close and comfortable with a damn liberal! Worst of all, she was an intelligent liberal, a rare breed indeed, and to top it all – the woman baked things that made his taste buds get up and sing. She had the best of intentions, and for that, he was a bit forgiving…

  As he’d stated, though, he wasn’t one to miss an opportunity due to political differences. Besides,
though educated and apparently a bit naïve, Melissa had not stated anything he hadn’t heard before. Now, her word choice at various intervals was a bit surprising, but the concepts? Nah, he’d seen them espoused a million times. He appreciated her attempts, nevertheless.

  I care about her. We can talk about this…

  He leaned over to the side of the bed, pushed past a small paper cup filled with old water, peppered with bits of unknown debris, and grabbed his notebook.

  Melissa,

  It is apparent to me that I’ve struck a chord. I apologize if I upset you, but I don’t apologize for the truth. I am more than willing to discuss this with you further, and I’m glad you didn’t write me off due to this. I am familiar with the old, beaten story about how white people were not here first, that the Indians were, Christopher Columbus was a buffoon, and all the rest of that rhetoric. That has nothing to do with who made this great country what it is today. This country was built mainly on white logic, reasoning, and inventions. The Indians had done nothing but prance around with rain sticks praying to a bunch of gods that did not exist, and the Africans were only good at following labor instruction, and barely did that correctly. One of the greatest mistakes we as white Americans did was to import the Africans.

  Anyway, we can discuss more of this later. You stated you do wish to talk to me on the phone, and the timing of me receiving this letter is perfect because I was given the green light earlier today.

  I have the day and time that we can talk. I hope you are free at the end of this week, on Friday. At 4:00 P.M., I am allowed to have a twenty-minute phone call with you. You are to call the prison, at which time I will be alerted. Then, I’ll be allowed to speak in a private location. By the way, I dreamt of you last night and the way you tried to educate me just now kind of turned me on.

  His lips kinked in a smile as he continued to write out the words…