Red

I grew up in the far country of a 21st century. Growing up in the country creates a different breed of human, a different breed of American; you don’t think the same or maybe that way of thinkn created that old-south country-hick box, you know; that box that says, “White women are like this” and “Black men are like this” and “this thing is like that”.  In retrospect some things hold true except the assumptions of complete stupidity; to someone with high analytical skills all would be depending how far you go to break the box down. But I grew up in the far country in a 21st century and if this box way of thinkn weren’t true, then such a way of thinkn wouldn’t have leaked to the north, and across the world to the Europeas. And so, maybe it’s human nature, you kno, human nature. But, I grew up in a far country of the 21st century; well, my father was in the military so I was born in Florida, lived on a military base in California, and lived in Virginia; but my father got caught up in the crack epidemic, a rural problem. The American government impure cheap form of cocaine ran through major cities; mainly black cities, or maybe minorities in general; you wouldn’t think so based off the news, pictures, and the thousands of blacks strung out in the streets; those blacks who migrated from the south to the north due to segregation and discrimination and Ebony magazine advertisement of job opportunities with a hint of, well a lot of discrimination. In a few years maybe months beautiful homes turned into run down crack shacks. Sane mothers turned to ashy cracky ichin hookers while the kids sit in an apartment drownin on the milk in their bowl of generic brand cereal, if they had that.

       But I grew up in the far country in the 21st century because when my father was discharged from the military due to alcoholism, we lived in Virginia where he became a dark man. Drinkn more and more and more. And more. By himself, for himself; or with his friends in the hood, where he would bring us along with him on his drunk driven escapades and get pissed if we spilled our McDonalds fries when he was the one swerving the car. Some memories are good I guess; except when I realize this empty hole a deep dissatisfaction. There is no dissatisfaction, life is great. Life is good. Life is okay. Who am I? I guess my name is Brandon.

That is what was printed on those lines when I was nothing but ounces squirmn in my momma’s hand like a naked mole rat.

You know what I remember? I remember nothing.

I remember nothing but darkness, darkness was all around me. Then there was a great mass of white. Maybe that was the first time as a newborn that I was able to perceive light. Maybe it was the passing of time in a great flash, as I remember event after minuet event, until I was conscious enough to have an idea of self. It could be a memory of birth as I take the first glimpse outside the womb, I don’t like to think that though.

Things begin to scatter now, random after random events from age 3 to 5, back to 4 and 2, all leading to a solid moment. I am standing there looking up; there is a rush of momentum movement, and sound over there over here ringing. Squeaking shaking baskets with bags and bells of produce vegetable’s a hint of onion gas that tingles the hairs of ones nostrils   “And how old are you little man?” I clench a gigantic hand. The hand is warm; the heat of the giants’ body belonging to the gigantic hand is warm… it is mother. I look down at my free hand searching for the words and finger positions in which were cut and pasted in my head. “Tttwev, three, fff. Im thrwee.” Fingers held up in position; at that moment in the same scene, flashes. Back and forth back and forth back and forth age three to five to two then three. I…

I; I I I I I, you kno –

“I was reading this” begins Brandon’s spasmodic sister “And it says, hold on hold on” she flicks through her iPod.

 “If depressed your living in the past, if worried your living in the future, and if you’re at peace you’re living in the present; I like reading it sometimes.”

Enthusiasm from the enthusiastic sister. “Yeah.” Whims mother, mother and Brandon know better, a shared thought. Somethn about those breast fed babies and mothers, an unworded consensus. “I gotta do somethn about this car.” The blue Prism wheels wobble from the axis.

“Brandon, you excited?”

The rain tears on the window. Spickets of clear blues in the gray clouds of the background.

“Bandon?” sister repeats.

“Yea.”

“Are you excited?”

“Yea.”
“You move into your dorm today!”

“He lookn all stiff and down talkn about ‘Yea.’ goes mother in her mimic voice.

“I know! He movin into his dorm today, if he’s not excited, I’ll be excited for him!”

The two laugh in the front seat of the old Prism.

“I was so excited to move into my dorm.” Continues sister.

       And still, I grew up in the far country of the 21st century, in a small town called Shallotte. Most people don’t kno where the hell this place even is, I don’t blame them don’t even think the place is on the map. It’s almost like that place in your brain that explains who you are, all your thoughts, why you do the things you do; which doesn’t seem real until your sitting on a doctor bed staring at the large bulged tumor. Or, your thirty- somethn speaking to a therapist about how your worst fears have come true, you accomplished nothing, you live alone, minimum wage and you still have those college loans. Then what will you do? What will you do? God knos what I would do?

Polymorphism

Shallotte, the far country. I tell people, well we tell people I guess out of tradition that Shallotte is between Wilmington and Myrtle Beach; all North Carolinians know where Myrtle Beach is, I guess that’s the only damn beach people here go to.

I’m always afraid of the beach of the beach because I think about tsunamis; the beach completely receding at my feet, then charging forward like a super wave. Then I think about Deep Impact when the comet came down hit the water devastating the world with a super wave of kinetic energy. But, Shallotte. Ehh Shallotte been hit by many waves or storm hurricanes. And although I don’t know the hurricane names, I do kno the fallen wet trees outside homes; the high puddles that seem to never completely evaporate under the sun. The colored background of the sea and angry clouds that seem to want to engulf the island covered in pimple beach houses; the people who act like they don’t want to leave. People are too attached to physical things, they wont startle the line. Just startle the line.

My grandfather. My grandfather is a honest man I guess. One of the smartest men you will ever meet in your life. One of the few men in America qualified to operate a nuclear reactor, whatever that means. But this is not the point, the point is that he would go down to the beaches as an Electrical Contractor to do electrical contractor things. And the people they would have ample time to get their shit and leave. The black clouds would cook in distance above the seas building energy and winds. Grandfather would knock on doors, some white guy would answer; you kno, he’s excited he just brought this beach house and he probably just brought this boat with his custom made check that says OPURTUNIES IN LIFE, and he’s gonna take that boat out for a spin today with his sandals and expensive pink Polo’s. Neglecting the rates of the season and the fact that I don’t know what I’m talkn about like physics and wind resistance. Grandfather knocks on the door, white man answers; then grandfather says somethn that the white man never expects out of a black mouth, intelligence.

“You planin on leavn?” “No. I think am going to wade the storm out.”

“You are? Gimme ah second, got somethn foryah”

Then grandfather would go to his car grab somethn then come back.

“Here you are.”  Witty grandfather holding his arm out.

“What is that?”

“It’s a toe tag, wear it around your neck.”

“For what?”

“So we can identify the body.”

       The rich white homes on the beach, the poor in New Orleans with no place to go; all the same, we all die the same way in the end, who cares. My white roommate would say “Fuckem” The typical black male I see would buy more shoes. And the other races tilt their hats to the side or wear their hoodies across their heads because it’s cool, for them. I think about Zimmerman trial.

        But damn Shallotte, the small country. I wonder why the hurricanes never completely wipe the Earth’s ass of the small town; what it turns people into.

       For its here. Where broken down trailer homes and shacks. Padded down dirt roads warn by a storm, shagged cars, and time. Shoveled over dirt mixed with oyster shells to fill in the loose soil. Where many oaks and pines thrive but slowly and surely knocked over by entrepreneur and company in seek of opportunity and land. We leave the dirt road out to the wet one lane pavement issued way way way back during a Truman presidency. Pass the many curves that are safe for many, and pass the curve where that young high school black boy was killed, driving too fast around. Pass the new white apartments build to attract tourist. To another one lane road with a green street sign ‘Shell Point Road’. And you follow this road, to the right is a corn field, or a vast empty space depending on the season.