by Sapphire
think. Unfair picture? Unfortunately it a picture I know, except of course Farrakhan who is real man. But I never seen him ‘cept on videos! He say problem is not crack but the cracker! I go for that shit.
Ms Rain say one of the critcizsm of The Color Purple is it have fairy tale ending. I would say, well shit like that can be true. Life can work out for the best sometimes. Ms Rain love Color Purple too but say realism has its virtues too.
Izm, smizm! Sometimes I wanna tell Ms Rain shut up with all the IZM stuff. But she my teacher so I don’t tell her shut up. I don’t know what
“realism” mean but I do know what REALITY is and it’s a mutherfucker, lemme tell you.
Mama come to 2way house. (What is J4way house? I thought I already told you. But anyway I tell you from book I read about battered woman.
In a way I was a battered woman but I was not a woman—actually I was a chile. And it wasn’t my husband. I don’t have a husband. It was my muver.) But anyway, I never readed no book about a place for children, jus’ for grown-up women (in a way I am that too) and babies. But this book I was reading was about a woman who got beat up by her husband. And she escape to
#way house. She asks people at the place just what 2way house is. They tell her, You is busy between the life you had and the life you want to have. Ain’t that nice. You should read that book if you have a chance.
So I’m in 2way house, I been there, oh, not quite a year; like in book I read—I’m on threshold of stepping out into my new life, an apartment for me, Abdul, and maybe Little Mongo, we see on that one, mo’ education, new friends. I done left Mama, Daddy, Ms Lichenstein, I.S. 146 behind.
So I’m wondering what hoe want wif me. Can’t get no money. I went see about Little Mongo back when I first get in Advancement House.
They put her in institution, say she severely (mean real) retarded, and Toosie hadn’t been doing things that would help her—like colors on the wall and books ‘n shit, so she really in bad shape. They say even if she could be help, take a lot more than me to help, and ain’t I got full load with Abdul.
Anyway live-in social worker at Advancement House call me into office, say, Precious, your mother is here to see you. Ax me do I want to see her. I say OK. (It’s not like I want to see her but since she corned all this way here I will see her. She know better, I think, than to fuck wif me now.)
I walk in dayroom. Mama quiet. Mama look bad, don’t have to get close to know she smell bad.
But then I look Mama and see my face, my body, my color—we bofe big, dark. Am I ugly? Is Mama ugly? I’m not sure. I know she got pussy odor and ugly brogan shoes like people make fun of and giant green dress that her legs come out of like black jelly elephant legs. I’m ashamed, this is my Mama. No matter how fly my braids is, how I grease my skin, scalp, no matter how many jew’ries, this is my mother.
Mama don’t look me in eye. She never did ‘less she was shouting on me or telling me what to do
—cook her something or go to store. She look down say, “Your daddy dead.” She come out the house to tell me that! So what! I’m glad the nigger’s dead. No, I don’t mean that, but so what.
Mama quiet. Mama say, “Carl had the AIDS
virus.”
You know, so what, why you telling me. Then oh!
No! Oh no, I get all squozen inside. Carl fuckes me. I could be done have it. Abdul could be—oh no, I can’t even say nuffin’.
A long time I don’t say nuffin’, jus’ look at Mama.
This what I come out of? Like Abdul and Little Mongo come out of me. If she ever said a kind word to me I don’t remember it. Sixteen years I live in her house without knowing how to read.
Since I was little her husband fuck me beat me.
My daddy. I want to hate him— but it’s funny I, he, give me the only good thing in my life aside from Ms Rain, ABCs, and girls at school; Abdul come from him, my son, my brother. But Mama give me to him. This my mother. Carl come in the night, take food, what money they is, fuck us bofe. Something cross my mind now. Man rape Celie turn out not to be her daddy.
“Mama?”
She look over where I’m at.
ʻYo’ huzbn, Carl, my real daddy?” I ask.
“What chu mean?”
“Carl, was he my real daddy? Was you married to him for real?”
“He your daddy, couldn’t no one else be your daddy. I was with him since since I was sixteen. I never been with nobody else. We not married though, he got a wife though, a real wife, purty light-skin woman he got two kids by.”
Hmmm, they got special kinda AIDS for yellow bitches? Mama! Thought jus’ now hit me, don’t know why, it the most obvious—do Mama got it?
“You got it?” I ask.
“No.”
“How you know?”
“We never did, you know—”
I look at Mama like she fucking crazy! What she talking about?
“You know,” she repeat. “What you got to do to get it.”
“He never fuck you,” I say shock.
“Oh yeah,” she say. “But not like faggots, in the ass and all, so I know—”
Her voice trail off, stupid bitch. I’m jus’ staring at her. I wanna kill her. I remember what I know from AIDS Awareness Day at school. Look at Mama, say, “You better get tested.”
That’s all really I got to say. Mama look at me like she wanna say something.
“You welcome back home,” she say.
“I home here,” I say. Silence. “Well I guess I better go see ‘bout Abdul ‘n do homework.”
Mama don’t move. So, you know, I jus’ get up and leave.
Song playing in my head now, not rap. Not TV
colors flashing funny noise pictures in on me, scratching and itching in my brain at the same time. I see a color I don’t know the name for, maybe one like only another kind of animal thas not human can see. Like butterflies? I ask Ms Rain tomorrow do butterflies see colors. Song caught on me like how plastic bags on tree branches. I sit on my bed. New picture on wall now. I got Alice Walker up there with Harriet Tubman ‘n Farrakhan. But she can’t help me now. Where my Color Purple} Where my god most high? Where my king? Where my black love? Where my man love? Woman love? Any kinda love? Why me? I don’t deserve this. I not crack addict. Why I get Mama for a mama? Why I not born a light-skin dream? Why? Why? It’s a movie, splashing like swimming pool at Y, in my head. I see Abdul running away from me, he is like little animal running toward a cliff, I am running running too, all over is clowns with evil eyes laffing at me I can’t run fast enuff, the music is playing louder now I going off cliff myself now, maybe I don’t come back. Don’t see Abdul. A huh! A Huh! I can’t breathe! Song loud now real loud. I stop running. It’s grass green all aroun’. I listen to song, I can hear it now. It’s Aretha. I always did wish she was my mother or Miss Rain or Tina Turner; a mother I be proud of, love me. I breathe in, lay down on my bed. Bed, I remember, I finded for myself when Mama go off on me that last time. Aretha singing, “Gotta find me an angel gotta find me an angel in my liifffe.”
Heart hurt. I don’t know what to do. If not for Abdul (name mean servant of god) I… I… my god, Jezus— allah most high, ABDUL! Mama, Carl, me, Abdul Abdul Abdul, he my angel, my little angel. Do Abdul got it?
I don’t know what to do. I ask Ms Rain tomorrow.
On the wall under pictures of Harriet, Alice Walker, and Farrakhan is my Literacy Award.
That is good proof to me I can do anything.
Already Abdul know ABC. Plus he know his numbers. Barely talk and he counting. I did that.
One day I going back for Little Mongo. Maybe I make the day sooner than I had thought. Time, I want to learn to look at round clock and tell time.
No one ever show me. I never tell Ms Rain I don’t know that. Got everything like digital watch display, them watches from Korea. What’s the difference between Korean and Jap? Mr Wicher say I got aptitude for maff. Where I gonna go when I leave V^way house? I got AIDS? HIV?
What’s the difference? My son got it? Lil Mongo?
How I gonna learn and be smart if I got the virus? Why me? Why me? Maybe virus don’t get me? Maybe, I, jus’ ‘cause Carl have it don’t mean me and Abdul have it.
I gotta go upstairs to the nursery to get Abdul. I hink about this later. It make me feel stupid crazy, I nean stupid crazy.
[ don’t say nuffin’ Monday in school, Ms Rain ax me vhat wrong. I say, I OK, talk about it later. Ms Rain say yhat about now. I write her in my journal book.
Jan 9, 1989
One yr I ben scool I like scool I love my techr (One year I been school I like school I love my teacher)
lot i lern. Books I read, chile care work comprts (lot I learn. Books I read, child care, work computers)
Ms Rain i wood like to get a gud job lern wrk comptrs
(Ms Rain I would like to get a good job learn work computers)
get apt me n lil Mongo and Abdul
(get apartment me and Little Mongo and Abdul) Ms Rain I ass you wy Me?
(Ms Rain I ask you why Me?)
Precious
Dear Ms Precious,
You make my day! You don’t just don’t know how much I love having you in class, how much I love you period. And I am proud of you; the whole school is proud of you.
I’m sure you’ll be able to find a job when you get your G.E.D. And maybe your social worker could help you get a nice place for you, Little Mongo, and Abdul.
I don’t know what you mean by your question,
“Why me?” Please explain.
Ms Rain 1/9/89
Blue,
So many time u say i cood call you bi yr firs name. I nver doo.
(So many time you say I could call you by your first name. I never do.)
Blu Ran Blue RAIN Rain isgr.
(gray)
but saty
(stay)
my rain A pome
(a poem)
that all i hav to say rit now
1/11/89 Precious Jones the poet
1/13/89
I talk to s wrk tody she gonn get tess for me
(I talk to social worker today she gonna get test for me)
an Abdul (se
of God) to see
(and Abdul (servant of God) to see) see the i
ey see
see me liv
(live)
or
or
die poslv
(positive)
negv
(negative)
wh? wh?
(why? why?) must
Hi (He) to misel
(myself)
I
must
no
(know)
the truf
(truth)
Precious P. Jones
1/13/89
Dear Precious POET Jones!
Awesome! I love your poetry and your drawings.
What are you and Abdul going to see?
How did you like the poems we read in class?
Love Ms Blue Rain
Ms Rain
Mi an Abdul got a scrit
(Me and Abdul got a secret)
I tell yo latr promois
(I tell you later promise)
no i tell yo now
IV HIV HIV U an Mi coold hav HIV
(IV HIV HIV You and me could have HIV) mi sun God Allh
(my son God Allah)
Alice Walk pra o IV VIYWXYZ
(Alice Walker pray oh IV VI YWXYZ)
IahVIIHIHIHIV HIV.
Precious P. Jones
Dear Precious, 1/23/89
Are you saying you and Abdul need to take an HIV test? Well, tell me as much as you feel comfortable.
Ms Rain
Blue wmon
who tech mi who hep mi I don no whut (who teach me who help me I don’t know what) to sa it hard to xplxn i nver tel mi hole store. Yes I (to say it hard to explain I never tell my whole story. Yes I)
need tess four AID I skred thas ALL four nov (need test for AIDS. I scared that’s ALL for now) pane (pain)
Precious Pane (Pain)
2/1/89
I gotta learn more than ABCs now. I got to learn more than read write, this big BIG. This the biggest thing happen to Precious P. Jones in her life. I got the AIDS virus. Thas what tess say. We sitting in circle thas when I tell class. Jus’ like it’s cornflakes for breakfast. After so many days looking out the window, doing double talk in my journal. I just come out and say it. “Nurse at clinic say to me, You are HIV positive,” I say to girls, we sit in circle, some faces new, some the same faces from first day—Rita Romero, she hanged.
Jermaine still here, Consuelo gone. Rhonda still on set, some new girls—who is like me when I first walk through the door. Only now I the one who say “keep on keepin’ on!” to new girls. I show them how the dialogue journal work. You know how you write to teacher ‘n she write back to you in the same journal book like you talkin’ on paper and you could SEE your talk coming back to you when the teacher answer you back. I mean thas what had made me really like writing in the beginning, knowing my teacher gonna write me back when I talk to her. I explain the phonics game, vocab building list—all stuff like that J know now. We have a class project—LIFE
STORY. It’s where we write our life stories and put it all in one big book. From the girls who been here awhile I only one ain’ done my story yet.
One day when I have time I read you what the other girls wrote. Some bitches get down, some bullshit. When I hear Rhonda’s story, Rita Romero’s story, I know I not the worse off. Rita’s daddy kill her mother in front her eyes. Rita been on street selling pussy since she was twelve.
She the only one came in like me—can’t read, write nothin’. Then Rhonda’s brother raping her since she was a chile, her mother fine out and put Rhonda, not brother, out. Consuelo in fantasy land, she pretty, long hair. But I glad she gone.
She wave her pretty in my face like a flag, tell me exercise and stay out sun so I don’t get no darker. Say she found good man.
I glad. I don’t hate no one. I don’t hate Mama, Carl, so why I gonna get bent outta shape behind some Spanish talking bitch who bent outta shape
‘cause she dark like nigger instead of white. Shit, Rhonda a nigger and she lighter than Consuelo!
Consuelo did leave but Jer-maine didn’t follow behin’ her. Jermaine stayed on. She write real in book. Call what she is sexual preference. Say she shouldn’t be judge ‘cause of that. She got hard rock story too. Say mens beat her for what she is. Mother put her out house when she fine out.
These girlz is my friends. I been like the baby in a way ‘cause I was only 16 first day I walk in.
They visit at hospital when I had Abdul and take up a collection when Mama kick me out and bring stuff to 2way house for me—clothes, cassette player, tuna fish, and Cambull soup, and stuff. They and Ms Rain is my friends and family.
Ms Rain a butch. This still shock to me ‘cause you can not tell it, but I remember what she said
—not homos who rape me, not homos who let me be igne-rent. I forgets all that oP shit lately—
Five Percenters, Black Israelites, etc etc (etc etc mean yeah yeah). I never be butch like Celie but it don’t make me happy—make me sad. Maybe I never find no love, nobody. At least when I look at the girls I see them and when they look they see ME, not what I looks like. But it seems like boyz just see what you looks like. A boy come out my pussy. Was nothing. A dark spot in the sky; then turn to life in me. When he grow up he gonna laff big black girls? He gon’ laff at dark skin like he got? One thing I say about Farrakhan and Alice Walker they help me like being black. I wish I wasn’t fat but I am. Maybe one day I like that too, who knows.
But I look my friends in the circle and I tell them, test say I’m HIV positive. And all the tongues dead, can’t talk no more. Rita Romero hug me like I’m her chile and I cry and Ms Rain rub my back and say let it out, Precious, let it out. I cry for every day of my life. I cry for Mama what kinda sto
ry Mama got to do me like she do? And I cry for my son, the song in my life. The little brown penis, booty, fat thighs, roun’ eyes, the voice of love say, Mama, Mama he call me.
Then crying stop. Rita go to her purse and get magazine call Body Positive say I got to join HIV
community. Jezus! It’s a community of them? Us, I mean. But I tell her, Not now. I just need to think. Is life a hammer to beat me down?
Jermaine jump up do boxing dance (she think she Mike Tyson!) say fight back! I laugh, a little.
Ms Rain say we got to write now in our journals.
Say each of our lives is important. She got us book from Audre Lorde, a writer woman like Alice Walker. Say each of us has a story to tell. What is a black unicorn? I don’t really understand the poem but I like it.
I don’t have nothing to write today—maybe never. Hammer in my heart now, beating me, I feel like my blood a giant river swell up inside me and I’m drowning. My head all dark inside. Feel like giant river I never cross in front me now. Ms Rain say, You not writing Precious. I say I drownin’ in river. She don’t look me like I’m crazy but say, If you just sit there the river gonna rise up drown you! Writing could be the boat carry you to the other side. One time in your journal you told me you had never really told your story. I think telling your story git you over that river Precious.
I still don’t move. She say, “Write.” I tell her, “I am tired. Fuck you!” I scream, “You don’t know nuffin’
what I been through!” I scream at Ms Rain. I never do that before. Class look shock. I feel embarrass, stupid; sit down, I’m made a fool of myself on top of everything else. “Open your notebook Precious.” “I’m tired,” I says. She says,
“I know you are but you can’t stop now Precious, you gotta push.” And I do.
IV
2/27/89
Ms Rain say more now, much more. She wan more from me. More than 15 minutes an she write back. Say walk wif it. The journal? I say.
Yeah, she say, Walk wif da journl. Everywhere you go, journl journal go. You know I go walk with Abdul etc., take journal, write stuff in journal.
