Thinking back, I had good memories and bad, of course. Just like anyone else. I find it troubling, though, that most of the memories I would call "good" are over shadowed by more than enough bad. Just… like… anyone… else. But there is one memory that I will never forget as long as I live, and you are about to help me relive this story.
The story, my story, which you are about to read, is true. (You just can't make this shit up) Simply put, the subject of this story is death, but not just any kind of death. This one came with a lesson of life. A life sentence, if you will allow me that much. Wait, you'll see.
This story very simply deals with a very strange truth. That is in this world life does not mean living and death does not mean dead. On rare occasions, and under the right circumstances, they can coexist. Sort of sounds like a Spiritual Guidance pamphlet, doesn't it? Well its not. I would not do that to you, but you will get the idea as my story unfolds.
True as this story is, at times I found it hard to believe myself. Hell I lived it, and I've told this story a hundred times during casual conversation, and I still get choked thinking about it.
You know how you can tell a story over and over, and occasionally you will add a little something to keep it interesting. Kinda like those “I caught a fish this big” stories and over time your hands will get farther and farther apart. Well let me tell you this, this story is a trip. I have no reason to embellish on the life and death of a man. A man who, in my opinion had the world shit on him, and still had a heart of gold. This is the story you are about to read.
 

 The date was June 6th, 1977 Nothing big was happening in my life to be noteworthy, just another birthday, and maybe some newfound pubic hair. I had just turned 11 years old that year, and on that day. I'm quite sure there were more important things happening in and around the world, but for the life of me I cant think of one damn thing as I pen this story.
It was days like that day, my birthday that makes me forever dread any further birthdays. Not because I'm getting older, but because my brothers always took shear pleasure in tormenting me. Well why would my birthday be any different? It was my special day, so of course it deserved a special beating.
On this, my special day in particular, they were taking great pride in letting me know that I was the only one in the house that was not a teenager. Try as I might, I attempted to fight back. I had always tried to fight back. Did I mention it never worked? Oh boy, they enjoyed themselves that day.
Wait let me not mix words. For my birthday that year they did nothing short of beating the living hell out of me. O.K. that may be a little harsh way of putting it, but hey I was 11, and that's how I remember it. I have often wondered why my brothers never became cops or prison guards. I mean they could lay their hands on me in many ways and never leave a freaking mark of evidence. I think the missed they're calling.
Well anyway, say what you want about being the youngest in the family, but I'm here to tell you it ain’t easy. I've heard it all, everything from “You know you got all the toys,” to “You were spoiled weren't you?” people have always asked me shit like that. I had learned at an early age though, that in my Mama's house it was best for me to be seen and not heard. That is if I knew what was good for me.
I received my fair share of stuff, but none of it could ever make up for, Clearance my oldest brother, holding me down, while the other, Jimmy, does this thing they'd call the “knuckle-dance” on the center of my chest. And yet all the while whipping out the most bullshit clichés I had ever heard.
“If you quit moving and take it like a man we'll stop.” That would be Clarence.
“Look boy, stop screamin like some lil girl, this'll make you tough.” And that would be Jimmy, a year younger than Clarence.
Now tell me if I'm wrong, but if you beat meat long enough, doesn't it get softer? I digress.
“Fight back, fight back!” Yeah, right.
I believe that's what they were saying. It was hard to tell when you have one ear pressed against someone's chest, while the other is being crushed on the inside of a forearm.
Now with all of the noise and commotion, you would think that my Mama was gonna come to my rescue, running from her room like the Calvary to save the day. I mean these muthafuckers were hurting her “baby”. Right?
Needless to say, she never even peaked out of her bedroom door, that day. I think she may have been on the phone or something. She never showed. It also might have something to do with the fact that we usually were upstairs most of the time when the incidents would start, and her room was down stairs, and what happened up stairs was none of her concern. But there we were down stairs, in the middle of the living room, making all of this commotion, and I couldn't count on Mama to come out of her room to help me this time either, … unless, of course, something was to get broke. Oh, yeah she would have showed if any of her shit got broke. That's when all hell would have broken loose. But as far as I knew, this time, ... I was on my own.
As normal though, during the ritual beating, I would had no choice but to retort with my own special cliché, “I'm gonna tell, Mama.” At least that is what I thought I said, being light headed and all.
Usually the answer would have been, “So what, boy!” said through gnashing teeth. But this time something completely different happened. Those sadistic bastards started laughing at me. That's right, they started laughing. Wait a minute that was usually something that came later. Like after they razzed and knocked me about a little more. Well this time it came early and they let me go. I should have run at this time but I was stopped cold in my tracks wondering what I had done to make them laugh so hard.
It was then that I wished I could have turned back time and take back what I had just said, because from behind my mothers closed bedroom came an unwarranted reply, one that would forever ring in my ears and make me the butt of a whole lot of jokes.
The voice coming from behind that door was a booming voice. The voice coming from behind that door was the voice of authority. It was the voice of reason. Or so I thought. “Will you two please leave that girl alone?” The roar from the preceding laughter was nothing compared to the deafening sound that was now being made.
Girl! I couldn't believe what I had heard. Girl! Ok granted, I was at a point in my adolescence where I was going through some changes. And one of those things was my voice. But had I sounded that much like my sister, Celia, when I talked? But what the hell did she mean “girl”?
Jimmy was laughing so hard, I swear I could see his abdominal muscles developing. Then like a bolt of lightning it hit me, ‘Mama’. I had called out the word ‘Mama’.
You see they had never heard me refer to our maternal figure as ‘Mama’ before then. Up until that day, my word of choice was ‘Mommy’. Damn, I DID sound like my sister.
Looking back I can now see how Mama could have made that mistake. She had associated the title used and the voice to my sister. I was in shock. Here I was attempting to grow up and flex those preteen muscles, and all those muthafuckers could do was laugh.
I was standing in the middle of a situation that went from worse to ‘OK Lord, you can take me now, I'm all through here.’
After I had put two and two together, I felt more hurt than ever. That's when I just took off. I tried to run as fast as I could. All the while choking back the tears. I rounded the corner feeling like I was doing mach 1. There was the staircase. I reached out to grab the railing and steady myself for my ascent. I sprinted up the stairs, took them two and some three at a time.
At the top of the staircase I peered to my left. Cellars room, and like clockwork she was peaking out through a cracked door way again. A look of sympathy was in her eye, yet again. I wished she would just lend a hand just once, again.
Hiding my face I just kept moving. I ran down the hallway past my brother's room, on the left, which they shared. I then passed the bathroom door, which lay off center and across the hall from their door. But I just needed to make it to my room. That was my sanctuary.
My door at the end of the hall was ajar, but I was running blind, still not wanting to look up. But with my eyes were welling up with tears, I quickly looked behind me to ensure my tormentors were not following. It did not even phase me when I ran headfirst into the door. I was moving pretty fast, so when I hit the door with the speed I was moving, the force swung the door open with a tremendous ‘BAM!’ into the wall behind it.