From the category archives:

Literary Leanings

Houston, We Have a Writer.

by Amber on February 27, 2012

About a week ago, Tori’s teacher told me that they’d started working with her on her writing. I was surprised, but when I saw her awkward scrawl tracing the letters of her name, I couldn’t help but beam with pride.

Tori traces her name for the first time.

Not exactly calligraphy, but definitely a start.

However, I assumed it would be months before she was ready to write on her own. Months.

So when she picked up her crayons and started drawing on her easel, I didn’t pay much attention when she said, “Mommy, I’m writing my name!”

In fact, I think I said something like, “that’s nice, dear,” before returning my focus to the serious reading I was doing (about witches and vampires in Washington D.C.).

But when I heard her frantic scribbling grow quiet, I looked up (mostly to make sure she wasn’t drawing on the wall or something).

There she stood, her two-year-old forehead wrinkled in concentration, slowly drawing out the letters of her name.

“T….oooooo….rrrrrr….iiii,” she murmured to herself as she worked.

“Look, mommy, Tori!”

And it was. I could actually make out the letters. Still, I thought it must be a fluke.

“I see that. Great job! Can you do it again?” I was sure that she couldn’t.

But she turned back to her easel and promptly began again.

The T looked like a capital T. The O looked like an o. The r was a little shaky, but still an r. And the i was unmistakable, complete with the finishing dot.

Sure, she wrote it vertically, not horizontally, but there it was. Her name. In print.

“Wow. You can write your name! Great job, honey,” I said, frankly astounded.

My next instinct, of course, was to grab the camera (that’s what we mom bloggers do, yes?). But before I could get my phone unlocked and ready to shoot, she was already scrawling over her masterpiece with a glittery crayon, and topping it off with a dinosaur sticker.

My proof of her budding literary genius disappeared.

But I know what I saw. My kid wrote her name.

She still wears diapers, but she can write her name.

I think Keanu Reeves summed it up best back in the day of Bill and Ted:

Exactly.

{ 3 comments }

Fancy.

by Amber on February 3, 2012

Marla unwound one last golden lock from the steaming curler. Then she ran her hands carefully through her hair, fluffing it out into the perfect mockery of natural curls.

Next she turned to her makeup – the armor she’d been shielding herself with since Mama first taught her how to use it at age ten.

“Now that you’re almost grown, Marla, you need to learn how to make yourself up,” she’d said. “Cosmetics can make even a plain face like yours into something special.”

 

“Mama dabbed a little bit of perfume on my neck
And she kissed my cheek
Then I saw the tears wellin’ up in her troubled eyes
When she started to speak
She looked at a pitiful shack
And then she looked at me and took a ragged breath…”

“Promise me you’ll never go out in public bare-faced.”

Looking at her mother’s fierce expression, Marla promised. She would have agreed to almost anything to keep Mama with her just a little bit longer.

Over the next few months, Mama did her best. She taught her how to play up her still non-existant curves to maximum advantage. When to look a man in the eyes, and when to look away. How to act just seductive enough, without ever giving anything away.

She handed me a heart shaped locket that said
“To thine own self be true”
And I shivered as I watched a roach crawl across
The toe of my high heel shoe
It sounded like somebody else that was talkin’
Askin’ Mama what do I do
She said just be nice to the gentlemen Fancy
And they’ll be nice to you…

Mama grew weaker with every word. As soon as she had given up her last weapons, she faded away.

Marla was just twelve. Alone. Without a single relative who cared to claim her.

Through all the years that followed, through every cold night and unwanted touch, Marla remembered what her mama had told her.

“Just be nice to the gentlemen, Marla,” she’d whisper as she went to sleep. “And they’ll be nice to you.”

And now she was about to move uptown.

But as she looked at her reflection  drowning inside yards of white silk, her soul yearned for just one thing.

“I did it, mama,” she whispered, clasping her tarnished locket. “I only wish you could be here to see it.”

Then, squaring her shoulders, she put on her best smile and turned to face her destiny.

 

 

 

{ 7 comments }

The Sign Revisited.

July 29, 2011

Fighting to keep her writing steady despite the lurching of the bus, she carefully lettered her sign. Then, gathering up her ratty backpack, she clutched the flimsy piece of paper to her chest and pulled the cord. The bus slowed and she stood, hunching over herself as she walked to the exit. With a hiss, [...]

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Wishful Shoeing.

July 14, 2011
The shoes of spring

It was a cold, blustery day. The kind where sleet blankets your hair within seconds and turns into product-infused icicles that drip onto your your salt-spotted jacket when you go inside. The kind where your spirit shrivels up, too bereft of sunshine to properly fill your eyes. My husband had ordered me out of the [...]

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The Sign.

December 7, 2009

Fighting to keep her writing steady despite the lurching of the bus, she carefully lettered her sign. As she did, she gulped back hot, shameful fears. Who would have thought her life would end up like this? She dotted the last exclamation point and looked up. It was almost time. Gathering up her ratty backpack, [...]

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