115. and 116. Tri Cities, Southside High School, and Ojenika
Okay. This is next on the list to blog about. 115. and 116.
I only have 8 minutes today because I need to get to everything else. So this will be fast. 5 minutes to write and hopefully 3 to find a picture and just publish as is. (ETA: Took me 30. I tried, anyway.)
115. Tri Cities/Southside High School
This is where my father worked. When I was a kid. I remember going there and waiting for him. He is a science teacher. And also with pedophilic tendencies where I think that experimentation and science, there is an aspect to this for a man who wants to abuse his power. Like a male GYN, for example, or like the one who is credited with gynaecology. Except he is White so I need a Black match…but you get the picture.
Can you imagine how many of the enslaved women were intelligent scientists, or had this capacity, and were triple bound because not only they were enslaved and Black but also women, too. Like if a male enslaved person had no agency, a female had even less. This is the legacy I exist on. How did they deal with periods? Too much. So we’ll get into this. Anyway this is it. I need this memory to exist.
Also I need to write my dad for a letter he sent after seven years. When you are unprotected, being unprotected, my compass is off you know. And I won’t write here what I’d say since it’s personal. More personal than what I write here which is personal still right? But it will take into account the assumptions about what I am supposed to accept. Even the letter says “Sometimes Things Fall Apart”.
Never once as a child do I recall him ever mentioning, like that I am African too and that references the Chinua Achebe book “Things Fall Apart” who my mom says we’re related to. I always feel like I have been tried to be made to be “African American”. Or by default. It’s weird, but only that. Anyway.
I have empathy now because we are all trying the best we can sometimes. And not like “forgiveness” or whatever else, like understanding and empathy. And the connection I have and likeness and sameness because of this. And understanding sickness and mental health as well.
116. Mr. Dominique and Ojenika
They were Nigerian I think. We lived next to them. Mr. Domonique was the “ice cream man” we would call him since he drove this big white ice cream truck with pictures of frozen treats and the price plastered on the truck. I can’t believe he lived just a door or two away! I saw Ojenika’s mom a couple of times too, rarely though. She was one of their kids. I think she had a brother too.
I realize that we just met so many different people growing up. Ojenika was a girl about my age. And she wore her hair in a ponytail. She was darker skinned I remember her. She was a cute kid that played outside with the others, all of us did.
A little special needs boy named Jim whose mom lived a few doors away. Dad too maybe, but I remember his mom. A little active boy. Lighter skinned I remember. These are apartments btw.
Anyway, Ojenika and I got into a fight one day and we met on the other side of the apartment buildings which was downhill some. It was a thing for a “moment” and the kids circled around us. At best it was just licks, like I don’t know who started, but it was just each of us took one turn to hit one another. You go. Now I go. It was a little too diplomatic but obviously neither of us was really a fighter one observes.
And that was that. It stung. I think she slapped me and I slapped her. So stupid. But the ice cream truck was nice. I don’t remember what we got. I think he used to give us free cherry torpedo pops or something that cost 25 cents. Like a cheap popsicle that was still free! Just a memory.
Let me go now.
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