by Sapphire
I don’t know why I don’t like counselor but Ms Rain say TALK, it gonna make things better whether I like her or not. But you know she jus’
another social worker scratching on a pad. I know she writing reports on me. Reports go in file. File say what I could get, where I could go—
if I could get cut off, kicked out Advancement House. Make me feel like Mama.
Me and Ms Weiss in counsel room. She as’ me what’s my earliest memory of Mama.
Huh?
“What’s your earliest memory of your mother?”
Last week it was Daddy Daddy. She on a
“Mama” kick this week. I don’t say nuffin’.
“Precious?”
I can’t move, speak. It’s like second grade again, paralyzed. Tired of this honky askin’ me questions. And I do need someone to talk, but not this hoe. But the room here is nice, you know, big sunshine window, dark green leather furniture, pictures on wall. I’m on big green couch. She behind desk in swivel chair. On the side of her is file cabinets.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Soda.” I don’t say water. I could go get that myself. She know I ain’ got no money. Only way I’m gonna get soda is if she buy me one.
Machine down in laundry room. Advancement House rules—staff do not give clients money (let’s face it some of these bitches who act so s’perior ‘n shit usta be crack addicts).
“What kind?”
“Cherry Coke.”
Soon as she close door behind her I’m up.
Moving fast quiet. But inside slow torture walk like I’m walking through glue. Nervous, I can smell my sweat stinking. If she was to walk in on me now I turn around and slap her cracker ass down. Problem not crack but the CRACKER!
Farrakhan say. Big beige file cabinet behind her desk. A-J one drawer, K-Z on next drawer. Jones, Jones (it’s a very common name); no P Jones, oh thas right, they late! Got me under Claireece Jones. Yup, here it is, jones, claireece p. ‘n underneef my name, social security number, 015-11-9153.I fly back to big green chair, stuff file in my backpack. I’m wiping sweat off my forehead when Ms Weiss walk back in room.
“It is hot in here, isn’t it?” she say.
“Yeah,” I say. She hand me soda. I say thank you.
“Anything come up while I was gone?”
Shake my head.
“You know you can use your notebook in between
sessions—”
“I do.”
“I mean you can use it specifically for something like this, trying to recover your first memory of your mother.”
I already know what I’m gonna recover, the smell of Mama’s pussy in my face.
“What’re you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
“Well let me know what comes up for you during the week. Write it in your notebook OK?”
“OK.”
“You know your mother’s been calling here wanting to come visit.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Would you like to have her come into a counseling session with you?”
“I don’t know, I never think about it before.”
“Well one more thing to think about before I see you next week.”
Get up, grab my backpack. “Bye,” I say. Go upstairs to pay phones outside nursery, call Rita, she not home yet, she probably at one of her meetings. Call Jermaine, she home, don’t tell her what I done did, jus’ say it’s real important can she git over here. She say yes.
When she git here I pull file out backpack, don’t know why I didn’t want to read it alone. Don’t know if it’s because I’m afraid of what it will say or if I’m afraid I won’t be able to read it, maybe both. I start reading.
“I have just finished a session with Claireece Precious Jones. Precious, as she likes to be called, (I guess so bitch it’s my name!) is an eighteen-year-old African
American female. According to her teachers at Each One Teach One where she attends school she is a (I don’t know what that word is!) p-h-e-n-o-m-e-n-a-1 success.” (Jermaine lean over my shoulder, say she not sure about that one herself but judging from the contents it must be good!)
“Having made strides so tre— men …
tremendous! in the past year she was given the mayor’s award for outstanding achievement. She seems to be actively en …” (“Engaged,”
Jermaine say) “in all aspects of the learning process? However, (oh oh, when white bitch start with however!) her TABE test scores are disappointingly low.” (“Not to Ms Rain! Not to Ms Rain!” I say.) “She scored 2.8 on her last test.” (“So what! Ms Rain—” Jermaine interrupt,
“Git a grip and gon’ read the report and don’t get all emotional about what this piece of shit white bitch got to say. Anyway, if your shit wasn’t dope you wouldn’t be standin’ up here readin’ what, what’s her name?” “Ms Weiss.” “What Ms Weiss got to say.”) “She will need at least an 8.0 before she can enter G.E.D. class and begin work toward her high school e-q …” (“Equivalency,”
Jermaine say. I wanna say, I know, don’t tell me the word ‘less I ax! But I never say anything like that to Jermaine.)
“Abdul is the client’s (oh, now I’m the client) second child; born in 1988, he’s from all outwhere” (Jermaine say, “That’s ‘outward’ “)
“OK, from all outward appearances, a healthy and well adjusted toddler (he’s a boy!). Precious attends to his needs a-s-s-i-d-u-o-s-l-y (whatever!) and with great affection and ee-” (“Eagerly,” Jermaine say) “seeks any and all information on child rearing. (I guess so I’m his mother!) The client…” (I’m the client again! I feel bullshit coming. I actually feel sick. I hand the papers to Jermaine tell her, “Finish reading.”)
“The client talks about her desire to get her G.E.D. and go to college.
“The time and resources it would require for this young woman to get a G.E.D. or into college would be considerable. Although she is in school now, it is not a job readiness program. Almost all instruction seems to revolve around language ac-” (Jermaine spelling now) “q, a-kwi-si-tion acquisition!” (“What that?” I ask. “You know, to get. Language acquisition, to get some language.”) “The teacher, Ms Rain, places great emphasis on writing and reading books. Little work is done with computers or the variety of multiple choice pre-G.E.D. and G.E.D.
workbooks available at low cost to JPTA programs.
“Precious is capable of going to work now. In January of 1990 her son will be two years old. In keeping with the new initiative on welfare reform I feel Precious would benefit from any of the various workfare programs in existence. Despite her obvious intellectual limitations she is quite capable of working as a home attendant.” (“A home attendant? I don’t wanna be no mutherfucking home attendant! I wanna be—”
“HUSH!” Jermaine say.)
“My rapport with Precious is minimal. Although I am not sure with whom, she evidently has access to counseling services provided by Each One Teach One.
She has a history of sexual abuse and is HIV
positive.” (“She say she not put that in my file!
Bitch!” “If you told it to her it’s in there. That’s that bitch’s job, to get the goods on you!” Jermaine say.) “The client seems to view the social service system and its proponents as her enemies, and yet while she mentions independent living, seems to envision social services, AFDC, as taking care of her forever.”
Jermaine hand me the file. “No way!” I scream.
“I’m getting my G.E.D., a job, and a place for me and Abdul, then I go to college. I don’t wanna
‘home attend’ nobody.”
“Be quiet!” Jermaine hiss. “And put this shit back before you get in trouble!” I just sit there. She push the file at me again. “Put this away. We’ll talk about it with Ms Rain in the morning.”
“Let’s put our chairs in a circle class,” Ms Rain say, “and do a little writing in our journals, then we’ll talk. If you want to focus on the topic introd
uced by Precious—”
“What topic?” Aisha, loud India girl from Guyana.
“Workfare and education.”
“What about it?” Bunny, real skinny girl wif broke teeth, say.
“Anything about it or nothing at all; if you want to focus on the topic fine but you don’t have to if you don’t want to. You have twenty minutes to write in your journal.” She look at her watch, then say, “GO.”
5/3/89
It’s not like I in no big state of shock. I knew white bitch had something up her sleeve. Ms Weiss.
Fuck her. I don’t need her if all she see for me is wiping ol white people’s ass. I ain been going threw all this learning to read and write so I be no mutherfucking home attendint. Rhonda usta hafta go all the way out to Brighton Beech wher she work for them mutherfuckers.
If I’m working twelve hours a day, sleeping in peoples houses like what Rhonda usta do, who will take care of Abdul? The ol white peoples had her there all day and night, “on call,” they call it.
But you only get pay for 8 hours (is the other 16
hours slavry?) so that’s 8 x $3.35 = $26.80
dollars a day, but then you is not really getting that much cause you is working more than eight hours a day. You is working 24 hours a day and $26.80 divided by 24 is $1.12. Rhonda say ol bitch would ring a bell when she want Rhonda in the night. Home attendints usually work six days a week. I would only see Abdul on Sundays?
When would I go to school? Why I gotta change white woman’s diaper and then take money from that and go pay a baby sitter to change my baby’s diaper? And what about school? How would I keep up with my reading and writing if I can’t keep going to school?
I got to work it out before Abdul’s birthday. Thas when the letters start coming. Letter say, you wish to keep receiving Aid to Families with Dependent Children report to XYZ place by such and such a date or your money will be cut. I mean I don’t know exactly what it say but I got the drift, so many girls done told me what happen to them.
“OK,” Ms Rain say. “Time is up for now, does anyone want to share?”
I’m only one raise my hand.
“OK Precious, go for it,” she say.
“I don’t really wanna read all I wrote, I jus’ wanna kinda say what it is I’m writing about and how it came about. And how I’m really upset—”
“What happened?” Aisha say.
“Well to make a long story short the counselor at Advancement House pumping me about Mama and Daddy etc, etc, but it’s really about workfare
—”
“How you know?” Rhonda ax.
“‘Cause I stole my file from Advancement House and read it. All this, ‘What you wanna be?’ and
‘You can talk to me.’ They ain’ no mutherfucking therapists on our side they just flunkies for the
‘fare.”
Jermaine bust in. “If all they wanna do is place us in slave labor shits and we want to keep going to school, then that means they have a different agenda from us. I wanna work, but not for no mutherfucking welfare check in Central Park. And I be displacing brothers and sisters who really got jobs cleaning up ‘cause I’m there working for free. And what kinda shit is it for someone like Precious to have to quit school before she get her G.E.D. to work at some live-in job for old crackers and shit. She’ll never make a rise she get stuck in some shit like that!”
“Yeah,” Ms Rain say, “but is stealing—”
“Ms Rain, I didn’t steal that file I wouldn’t know what my difficulties was!”
“You read the whole thing by yourself?” Ms Rain ask.
“Yeah, basically,” I say, then, “Am I gonna hafta go be home attendant?”
“No!” Ms Rain say. “So stop worrying about it.
We cross that bridge when we come to it. Trust me,” she say, then, “No, trust yourself. But what I’m worried about right now is, if this Ms Weiss is someone they have you talking to to try to work out your history with and you can’t trust her, you’re not getting the help you need.”
“Well, I just write in my notebook till I git wif some kinda therapist I can trust. Actually that help me more than talking to her. Plus I’m going to start going to meetings wif Rita for insect survivor—”
“Incest” girl name Bunny say.
“Thas what I mean.”
“Well, it ain’t what you been saying.”
“So, what’s the big deal insect, incest?” I say.
“One’s where your parents molest you, the other is like a roach or bugs,” Bunny say.
I crack up laffing.
Ms Rain look at me funny and say, “Precious have you ever had your hearing tested?”
“No,” I say. I have never really had nothing tested. Glasses is what I really want so my eyes not get so tired at night when I be reading. But you can’t get all hung up on details when you trying to survive.
“OK, let’s put our chairs back in rows and get to work on our business letters we started last week.”
For the past week or so Jermaine been putting her story in the book. Title, just the title done upset the class, Harlem Butch. What kinda title is that! Jermaine done wrote it like a poem. She bes’ writer. We can’t wait to read it.
I write everyday now, sometimes for an hour. Ms Rain, she call and say I am staying late for after school activities and babysitter keep Abdul till 2
p.m. and the following week I get extra money in my voucher for lunch (not that I can eat lunch today wif money from next week, but you know still …). I think about my future a lot. I think a lot.
All the time. Ms Rain say I am intellectually alive and curious. I am just trying to figure out what is going on out here. How what happen to me could happen in modern days. I guess I am still trying to figure out just what has happen to me.
What has happen to me? I cannot just talk it to white social worker. She look at me like I am ugly freak did something to make my own life like it is.
And she is trying to make me go to work wiping old white people’s ass.
When I have a baby at twelve—
I don’t want to cry. I tell myself I WILL NOT cry when I am writing, ‘cause number one I stop writing and number two I just don’t always want to be crying like white bitch on TV movies. Since I ain’ no white bitch. I understand that now. I am not white bitch. I am not Janet Jackson or Madonna on the inside. I always thought I was someone different on the inside. That I was just fat and black and ugly to people on the OUTSIDE. And if they could see inside me they would see something lovely and not keep laughing at me, throwing spitballs (shit one time nigger at school just spit on me when I was pregnant) and polly seed shells at me, that Mama and Daddy would recognize me as … as, I don’t know, Precious! But I am not different on the inside. Inside I thought was so beautiful is a black girl too. But I am going to say what I was going to say. And then. I am going to put it all behind me and never say it again. I don’t blame nobody. I just want to say when I was twelve, TWELVE, somebody hadda help me it not be like it is now. If—Ms Rain say “if” and “but” might be two of the most useless words in the language, at times that is, she say, ‘cause if they was really useless they would disappear from use. Why no one put Carl in jail after I have baby by him when I am twelve? Is it my fault because I didn’t talk to polices?
Tonight is the night Rita gonna take me down to Incest Survivor meeting. We going on bus.
Harlem is small, but when you in it it look like the world. I have a subway map on my bedroom door, show all the places the subway go. Subway go to Queens, Brooklyn—I look at it sometimes and wonder where I be if I get on train and go to end of the line or get off at say, ummm, let’s see, how about Lefferts Blvd in Queens or Middletown Road in the Bronx? What kinda town or part of New York it will be. Jermaine say be a white boy with a baseball bat when you get out of the subway. Rita say it’s NOT true, or if it be true it’s only part true.
So here I go! Precious going downtown. Precious what never go to summer camp;
hear kids talk about going to camp where crackers is. Fresh Air funds and police league and shit. A land of tents and lakes. But maybe if I had gone to camp it be jus’ like school in oP days—no friends. Me ‘n Rita get the 102 downtown. Rita done got her teef fixed. New guy she with got money. White guy.
Got HIV too. He loves Rita. He was addict (I didn’t know crackers was addicts). His parents stop giving him money when he was addict. But now he’s sick they want to give him everything.
Plus he got necktie job, briefcase, the whole bit.
Rita got dream, he behind it. We all behind it.
Rita want house in Harlem for HIV womens and their kids. I can get behind that. In my journal I write:
bus wheel turn me through time past a Mama mama
first you see
the buildings like watching
a cartoon backwards
seem to be getting putted
back together
it’s weird. (I am homer on a voyage but from our red bricks in piles
of usta be buildings
and windows of black
broke glass eyes.
we come to buildings bad
but not so bad
street cleaner
then we come to a place
of
everything is fine
big glass windows
stores
white people
fur
blue jeans
its a different city
I’m in a different city
Who I be I grow up
here?
where a poodle dog •
is not on tv
but walking down the street
on skinny white
bitch lease.
This whose ass
they want
me to wipe?
Push wheelchair for—
I kill ‘em first.
TYGER TYGER BURNING BRIGHT
That’s what in Precious
Jones heart—a tyger.
bookstores
cafe
BLoomydales!
Bus keep on rolling
We git off at 14th Street. Rita say we can get cross-town bus or walk. I say walk; so we walk over to Seventh Avenue where Lesbian and Gay Center Building is. Rita not gay but this is where meeting is. We are going to Tuesday night Survivors of Incest Anonymous. I never been here before. Ms Rain, Rita, Rhonda, and Jermaine and house mom, all say GO. So I am good to go!
