Read an Excerpt
I Sing the Blues and Cry
For the Little Girls of the World
By Iris Killens Cheeks iUniverse LLC
Copyright © 2014 Iris Killens Cheeks
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-2062-2
CHAPTER 1
To Tell the Story
I grew up in a world of shadows and darkness, mingled with dreams of flowers, smiles, puppies and other ideals inspired by television, fairy tales and children's bible stories. I had daddies that were not daddies, cousins and uncles with ugly hugs, touches and kisses and no reflection of beautiful in eyes that were supposed to possess it, for me. I also had pictures of perfect little girls with curly blond hair and blue eyes, daddies, mommies, sisters and brothers, warm fires, quilted blankets, dolls and families that prayed and stayed together. In other words, I grew up in a world of impossibilities.
I was six years old when I first realized it was impossible for me to be beautiful, impossible for me to be special and impossible for me to be loved. Born a poor, dark chocolate, female bastard in a family insistent on living in the delusion of perfection, I was destined for a life of oppression, depression and constant seemingly insurmountable impossibilities.
* * *
For where envy and self-seeking exist, confusion and every evil thing are there. But the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality and hypocrisy. Now the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.
James 3:16-18
God and Nasty People
Act I (Dark stage, colored lights flicker as people speak) (A newborn baby screams)
1st woman's voice – (a little surprised, hushed voice) She look just like him girl.
2nd woman's voice – she'll look like her daddy, after he feed her long enough (Sound of both women's laughter) (Light color changes) (Sound of Shirley temple singing and dancing in the back ground)
Voice of a little girl – I'm gonna be like Shirley Temple when I grow up
Voice of another child – You know you ain't gone be like her stupid!
Voice of the little girl – (whining at the same time the others are speaking) Why?
Voice of another child – cause you too black.
Multiple laughter of children – (in the mist of the laughter) smut, blackey, tar baby, buckwheat, spook (Light slowly comes on to living room set) (Mother looking out the window, child standing by the coffee table)
Mother – Tony is coming to watch you while I go to work (Sound of child whimpering)
Mother – Girl you better shut up, you know I got to go to work, what in the world is the matter with you? (Child opens her mouth to speak, a loud knock at the door)
Mother – Coming! (Gives the child a stern look) Girl you better act right. I'm gonna bust your behind if you cut up! Boy I'm coming! Don't knock the door down!
Tony – Girl you slow as Christmas. Where's my little black butterfly?
Mother – She over there acting crazy. Tony, you let me know if she don't behave. Ok? I got to go. (Mother walks over and kisses the little girl)
Mother – Iris, do what you are told and be good! (Mother grabs her coat and purse, leaves out the door) (Silence, Iris doesn't move from her spot)
Tony – (taking off his coat and reaching in his pocket) How's my little black butterfly? I got something for you, if you are a good girl. (Iris looks up but still doesn't say anything)
Tony – You look so pretty tonight. Come sit in Tony's lap. I like your hair like that. Your momma always has you dressed so pretty. (Tony gets up, takes Iris by the hand and led her to the bedroom) (Lights go down and a red light shows from the bedroom door)
Tony's voice – Be good and I'll give you your present. You better behave or I'll tell your momma you were a bad girl. That's it now, stop crying. I won't hurt you butterfly.
Hopes, Thoughts and Truths
It is my hope that at birth my mother held me in awe and wonder. That she counted precious finger and toes, prayed for wisdom and courage and lovingly breathed in the newness that only a new born child can offer up. Still, it is my thoughts that paint a more woeful portrait.
My thoughts paint a portrait that embodies all of the fear and anxiety of a mother searching for signs of fraternal connections, of a mother meticulously examining the baby's eyes, nose, mouth and the shape of the head. Searching for evidence of what she does not want and creating reasons, excuses and lies to answer for her frailty. The truth is that she did not find the answers she was so adamantly searching for. That baby had the wrong eyes, nose, mouth and shape of the head. That baby was too dark, too skinny and too different from the other children of which she had answered questions with the surety of a faithful wife. That baby was me.
It was me that was left to blame the absences of love in my father's eyes and actions on the darkness of my skin. It was me that determined that I was somehow not as valued as my other siblings. It was me, that little girl, who was desperate for attention, acceptance and love. What an awful price to pay for a debt not owed.
Unspeakable Words
There are so many words I cannot say,
Thoughts that have no verbal symbol
But could reflect meanings so simple.
They swim in dark brown pools and sink into black holes.
They rest in creases and tightly pulled lips.
They race through tunnels and stagnate in pulsating rivers.
They struggle to pull in breath and rush to release stale air.
They fester in corners and hide in smiles and laughter.
They have no peace, no rest
Only longing to be
Free.
A Secret told to a Doll
There is something I have to tell you
But you can't tell anybody else
I'm not supposed to say anything
But I can't keep it to myself
Not anymore
He said that I was pretty
Looked at me as if that were true
I knew that he was lying
But I didn't know what to do
And then he closed the door
He kissed my forehead
Touched my hair
Kissed my lips
Touched me there
Said it wouldn't hurt
Bit it did
Said that I was smart, special
But I'm just a kid
At least I was before
But not anymore
A Storm is Coming
I think I smell the rain.
I'm not sure but I feel a pain.
You know, like the old folks feel
When a storm is coming.
I think I better go and look outside.
There is no use in trying to hide.
Maybe I can see the clouds coming.
Maybe I can protect myself, start running.
But I'm tired and scared.
Maybe I'll just pretend not to care
And keep looking out of the window.
The storm might just turn and go.
But still,
I think I smell the rain.
I'm not sure but I feel a pain.
A storm is coming.
Please Don't Leave Me
Please don't leave me here with this man
Take me with you if you can
He is not who you think he is
And you would go mad if you knew what he did
Momma he touched me and hurt me
And held me to secrecy
And I can't find the words to say
To make you not leave me here or just stay
Can't you see it in my eyes?
I'm scared
Can't you hear it in my cries?
He crossed the line and dared
To take my precious away from us
He does not deserve your trust
My body has been made something bad
His presence makes me so sad
Momma please don't close that door
And walk away like you did before
Please don't leave me
He gives power to the weak; and to those who have no might He increases strength.
Proverbs 8:14
Be Quiet
I never told anybody, not with words anyway. I screamed it out in my anger. I covered it with my insecurities. I hid it within my isolation. There are many little girls like Iris in the world with family members, friends of the family and strangers that touch, hug and squeeze the life out of them.
Nearly 50% of all victims of forcible sodomy, sexual assault with an object, and forcible fondling are children under twelve. Child sexual abuse can result in both short-term and long term damage psychologically, emotionally, physically, and socially. The FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin reported that child molestation is one of the most underreported crimes: only 1-10% is ever disclosed.
To "be good", "respect your elders" and "don't cause trouble" are not the only lessons needed to be taught to children. There are lines that need to be drawn and signs that need to be recognized when those lines are broken. In the mind of a broken child "be quiet" can take on a whole new meaning.
Nothing said, nothing done.
Dish
I feel like a pretty dish that
Is won from the fair
Set on top of a small table, under a big window
By a soft chair
Then just left there
Left to collect dust and grime
That stick to the thinly glossed surface
and damage the cheap paint
Left for the spiders to build webs
To catch the bugs which unsuspectingly crawl across
The reds, yellows and blues to end up wrapped in silk
With the life sucked out of them
Left to be covered
With filth and dry carcasses clinging to dusty strings
Left to decay and eventually be thrown away
With all the other trash
I feel like a pretty dish that
Is won from the fair
Then just left there
I Didn't Do It!
It was my innocence
My laughter, my hopes and dreams
It was my value, although I don't understand
What it exactly means.
Still, it is damaged
I didn't break it
But it's still my fault.
I couldn't learn it
Because it wasn't taught.
I didn't steal it
I thought it was free.
I didn't lose it
Someone took it from me.
I didn't value it
I didn't know the cost.
It was so precious
But still it's lost.
I didn't tell
Secrets are supposed to be kept.
I just closed my eyes
But I never slept.
I didn't ask for it
But I was forced to take it.
I didn't want to be the bad girl
But I was forced to fake it.
I just wanted to laugh,
Dream big dreams,
And play outside.
I didn't want to hurt,
Feel all dirty,
Sneak and hide.
I wanted to be beautiful, precious
Just a child.
Can I take it back, rewind and be that
For a while.
Because I didn't do it!
In My Sleep
I hear her sobbing in my sleep
Such a sad little soul
With such awful secrets to keep
So many nights, her pillow is soaked with tears
Such pain and fright caused over so few years
There should be beautiful things that her dreams consist of
Like pretty parties, butterfly kisses, laughter and love
She should have sweet visions and memories in her youth
But instead her dreams are filled with ugly truths
With dirty touches in forbidden places
Sly winks and knowing glancing on sickening faces
Loneliness, sadness, confusion and shame
A dark heavy gloom that she can't explain
Why couldn't she tell, scream or fight
Maybe in my dreams, she will tonight
I hear her sobbing in my sleep
Such a sad little soul
With such awful secrets to keep
God, Can You See Me?
I am here
Hurt, lonely and confused.
I am here
Broken, disillusioned and misused.
Where are you?
I don't feel your presence anymore.
Where are you?
I can't feel you with me like before.
You can do anything.
You formed the earth and all therein.
You can be anyone
My father, my brother and my friend.
How did you watch over me
while I suffered and bled.
There is no way.
You must be asleep, comatose or dead.
Suffered the little children
To come unto you and you blessed them.
I came unto you but you didn't protect me from him.
I am only a child, your child.
I go to church,
I pray, I sing on the choir, yet still I hurt
What else can I do or say
At what place do I need to be?
Am I too dark, too small and/or too weak?
God
Can you see me?
Caterpillar Waiting
Slow in movement, void of grace,
Struggling, drudging to a destined place,
Bound to the earth, desiring to fly,
Within a passion burns
For things never done and never tried.
Wondering, almost doubting
If the change will ever be,
Something so graceful, so beautiful,
Too perfect to believe.
Within dreams of beauty and hopes of flight
Force the caterpillar to dredge herself along.
Till the days of boundless freedom arrives
With liberty's light, wind and song.
For now it is only a sense, a dream and a vision
Creating a weary soul with hope and patience fading.
Thus no rest, no peace, nor place
For a caterpillar waiting.
Somebody's Baby
Somebody's baby,
Lonely in a crowd.
Lost in the midst of people,
Silent out loud.
Everybody notices,
But nobody wants to see.
All is confusing,
Her hopes, fears and needs.
Inside a war is raging
And spills out at the world
The pain, the secrecy and the guilt
Too much for a little girl.
Somebody's baby,
Lonely in a crowd.
Lost in the midst of people,
Silent out loud.
Just a Walk to the Park
"23, 24, 25, 26, I wonder why there are so many cracks in the sidewalk." "30, 31, 32, how in the world are those little pieces of grass able to break through the pavement?" "38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43 ..." Iris could feel her chest tighten and her heart race beneath the faded blue, cotton shirt that she wore every Friday. She tried to erase all the thoughts from her mind except counting the cracks in the old sidewalk that lined Fairmount Road. "48, 49, 50 ..." The back of her head tightened like someone was turning a screw into the top of her neck beneath her thick black braids. The air was hot and heavy as sweat ran down her forehead and the sides of her temples.
Like usual when she attempted to clear her mind, everything started crashing in. She thought about the old jean jacket she wore and how it had three of four shades of blue from being washed so much. She thought about how she must be shiny black by now instead of just dusty black. "God I hate summer," she whispered across dry pink lips. Iris pictured how skinny her long legs and arms must look as she awkwardly paced down the sidewalk, and had to choke back the tears. She thought about how, by the time she had reached crack 57, she'd be right in front of Clawson's café and Barber Shop. Everyone would stare at the strange little black girl that never lifted her head. They would wonder why she was so different from her sisters, why no one seemed to care about how she looked, were the whispers about who her daddy was true and if she was really "right in the head" or not. All the pretty girls would note what not to wear, all the boys would think she was definitely future dike material and as far as she could tell all of them were probably right. "I hate them all" she thought. "I wish they would disappear and die. I wish I could disappear and die. I literally hate myself. 65, 66, 67," once again Iris had made it pass the café. She could feel the stares and the whispers following her down the street. She picked up the pace to outrun the pain and turned down the path that led to Parkview Recreational Center.
This Won't Hurt
* * *
Was I a bad girl? Was mother a bad mother? Was God a bad God? Somebody dropped the ball. No one should have to grow up trapped in that world. Nothing and no one is ever sure. The people you are supposed to trust damage your body, spirit and soul. The ones who are supposed to protect you foster secrecy, lies and shame. My mother, father, siblings and extended family seemed somehow emotionally distant, disconnected and different from me somehow. This isolation forced me to grow from the perspective of an observer instead of a participant. I learned to mimic the actions of the women in my life. I learned the art of manipulation to get what I thought I needed, to hide emotions behind fake smiles and to look away from direct stares to conceal your true feelings. And most importantly, keep silent to assure that others don't get upset, angry, embarrassed or ashamed for what they have done to you. Besides, nothing can help by telling. You can't change what happened, and who would listen to you anyway?
Negative social reactions to "telling" have actually been found to be harmful to the survivor's well-being. Several studies found that in most cases when children "tell", the person they talked to did not respond effectively, blamed or rejected the child, and took little or no action to stop the abuse. So, most of the little girls of the world don't tell. We just exist in a strange and unfamiliar space. It's like living in a world made of clouds. You get illusions of what could be or should be real but nothing is touched but you. It all just makes you frustrated, angry and so very tired.
This perception of life creates a strange being among the populace.
* * *
This is my comfort in my affliction, For Your word has given me life.
Psalm 119:50
The People Saying Grace
The gossip was so good that night, just caught, cleaned and fried, lay before everybody to feast upon. The good folks were so hungry! They just couldn't wait to get the first taste while it was still hot and sizzling. The Foster sisters sat around like they did at every church supper, trying hard to act like their bellies weren't touching their backs. The others just drew in closer, lips smacking, eyes all bulged, and not a bit of shame. Like good Christian folks, they couldn't wait to feed upon the word. Good Lord Almighty, this was gonna be good! As Kirsey's business was passed around on the platter, each soul anticipated the taste of each delectable piece.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from I Sing the Blues and Cry by Iris Killens Cheeks. Copyright © 2014 Iris Killens Cheeks. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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