Quit going 'round wearing peoples ears off talkin' 'bout how miserable you is! Shittttttttt! if you wuz as upset as yo' make out lak, you wudda' done been gone. Shit! Whut duh FUCK! I wish ugh sorry black muthafucker wud put his black ass hands on me! ….Shit! … I'll salivate dat nigger!
Who lying? Bitch, I have you know, I didn't 'low none ugh my huz-bands, not nar one, not nun of'um, so much as talk loud to me! I wish a damn nigger , wid a swinging dick, pointing tuh mother earth, would ebon act lak he wanted to raise his voice to me!"
That was my mother's braggadocios , tell a lie a minute, entertaining , laugh a minute, born comedienne's voice. Who knew what pain lay beneath her false bravo? What prevented her from believing in herself? Why couldn't she be the woman she pretended to be?
I do find it humorous and a little ironic . I am sitting here typing very slowly on my MacBook Air. Both arms are loaded with bracelets. My left hand has a beautiful sterling silver ring on every finger.
I realize the connection. The only "good times" I enjoyed with Martha involved playing dress up. She loved when I wore her shoes, necklaces, furs and pranced around the house imitating her.
I remember the Saturday treks to"Fed'vul", to Person and Hay streets, "Where all the niggers, meet and greet". I remember going to McCory's Five and Dime, and I was always rewarded with a "ring and bracelet set". A stretch bracelet resembling real gold, a purple piece of plastic that my mother assured me was my birth stone, a mailable birthstone ring.
I loved it! Mathy put a cheap, ate up, green tarnished ring on every one of my pudgy little fingers. Painted my "foot nails" and finger nails fire red like the whore she intended for me to grow up and be. Taught me how to pop my fingers and dance "loose".
Now, my rings are real. Martha is not around to laugh at me and make fun of me any more. If I have one regret. I regret that she could never trust GOD.
"Though I speak with the tongue of men and of angels, and have not charity (love), I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal." 1 Corinthians 13:1
My mother was a brilliant orator! Spine tingling. There is absolutely no way I could have ever known, what I later learned about her , with out peradventure , with out the return of the Prodigal son.
I pray nightly for his deliverance. I fully understand his dilemma. But he has no choice! You can not give up for the right for the wrong! Know ye the truth and the truth will set you free!
If you can't bear the truth. If you are still too weak, too tender, entangled in your own mystifying disbelief, pray! Pray without ceasing! Fast! Fast and pray!
Dear friends and foes alike, while some are still lagging way behind, still screaming that a woman as evil as my mother, Mathy Jane , was a total impossibility. More real Mathy Jane's are being manufactured, being spit out by the second. Worst of all we condone these bitches! Bridezillas, Real Housewives! Diva this Diva that!
Hell NO! I would rather live in a hole in the ground where there is peace! Another clamorous, lying, manipulative, sneaky, lying, bitch! No thanks!
Two dogs, two cats!…Peace Ouuuuuuuuuttttttttt!
[Excerpt from THE JR WALTERS CHRONICLES November 9, 2014 All rights reserved]
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