I grew up in Old Metairie, an upper/middle class suburb outside New Orleans. It was a charming neighborhood so clearly meant for families. Kids ruled that place. We played kickball in the middle of the street and rode our bikes in lazy wide circles. Cars drove around us. If you didn’t have a pool, you had a trampoline. Everyone knew each others names. When you crossed paths with someone, you stopped and actually talked to them. The kids greeted the grown ups with a Mr. or a Mrs. No one locked their doors. In fact, the neighborhood itself felt like a giant family. No wonder why my mother chose to buy a house in that neighborhood after she had gotten carjacked and was forced to watch her parents get brutally stabbed to death. Yeah, Old Metairie seemed picture perfect, and picture perfect was what my mother sought after.Read More
My routine with Ben changed once we started rehearsals for our school play. I got cast as Viola, in Twelfth Night. That’s right, the lead of a Shakespeare play! It was kind of a big deal. Since this was a “prestigious” performing arts high school, (I hate the word prestigious, but I’m using it), other schools in the Orleans Parish would be bussed in to see this production. It would also get listed in the newspaper. I was on cloud nine. Yahooooooo!Read More
Ben and I had set up a daily routine. He drove me home from our school in his dad’s tan pontanaic sedan. On the back sported an anti-Al Gore bumper sticker- 8 YEARS IS ENOUGH! (This was a year after the 2000 presidential election). As soon as we parked in front of my house, Ben and I would make a run for it. It was more of a mind set than actually running. I didn’t want my dad to engage in any conversations with Ben. I also knew he was going to ask me to watch my two little brothers, who were 4 and 5 years old, so my dad could leave and get his daily blow job(s). It was a 50/50 gamble. On bad days, nope. We were subject to my dad’s corny jokes and other communist manifesto quotes. Ben would politely laugh and nod. I wondered what was going on in Ben’s head during these times, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Once my dad got his high off of irritating the young, he’d say… “Okay. Watch the kids for a minute. I’ll be right back.”Read More
I flew home to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. But really, my reason was to confront my father about his sexual abuse. Although at the time, I didn’t refer to it as sexual abuse. I couldn’t comprehend what to call it. All I knew was that it was fucked up. It wasn’t a single event either. He had sex in front of me consistently through out my childhood up until I was a teenager. And even after that, there would be other inappropriate behaviors from showing me topless pictures of women that he photographed to assisting him with his dirty emails.Read More
My mother chose drugs over me, and my dad chose his dick. My mother got murdered, and my dad did not. With his breathing life, he decided not to go to work and provide like a single father would might have done. Nor did he manage to be like a dad at all. Instead, he lived off my mother’s murdered inheritance and fucked. He fucked and fucked and fucked as much as he could. Sometimes screwing women over financially so he could then pay to fuck some more. I saw this with my own eyes. Often times, I was physically too close. I’d be in the back seat of the car, as a prostitute would blow my dad.Read More
I stood there. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, as I was watched my father, slouched over in handcuffs, being taken away by two police officers above from my bedroom window. The cops were both a head shorter than my dad, even with his incriminating posture. My dad was quite militant about our postures. Shoulders up. Chest out. But I guess, at this moment, it wasn’t important to stand up straight. They escorted him down our hardened gravel driveway into one of the seven police cars along our house. An older, overweight officer was readily standing there. He opened up the back seat door, and guided him inside. My dad did not glance up to my window to look for me, to tell me that everything was going to be okay with a nod or a reassuring squint. Rather his head was down. His face seemed tight with anger. The fat officer closed the car door. Then they drove off. And just like that my dad was gone…Read More
I was lying on my bedroom floor on a Tuesday night, talking or rather listening to my new boyfriend, Riley on the phone. It was Fall of 1998, so yes, it was a real phone with a telephone plug and a spiraled wire that always got tangled without even touching it. The chord wasn’t long enough to reach my bed, so I had most of my calls on the blue/greyish carpet that hadn’t experienced a vacuum’s touch in years. Riley was a sophomore. I was a freshman. Riley often said the n-word and spoke fondly of David Duke. He was also obsessed with the Insane Clown Posse. ( The ugly, white hip-hop duo who painted their faces in black and white clown make-up and rap offensive things, in case you didn’t know. And if you did know, I won’t tell anyone). The past weekend we took a streetcar, followed by a bus, to Tower Records in the French Quarter. He pushed me to buy ICP’s latest album- The Great Milenko. So, I did. When I got home that day, I started to listen to the CD, but had to press stop 6 seconds in. It was too abrasive and well…the worst music ever. I told Riley I listened to the whole album. “It was really good.” My youth was either me lying or not saying things out loud even when I should have.Read More
Once when I was around 5 years, I sat in the back seat of my dad’s van and picked a giant booger and stuck it on the window. That booger stayed there for a solid 8 to 10 years. I’m not sure if my dad noticed it or not. He probably saw it but didn’t care. My booger held on like a barnacle, until my step mother impounded the car when she left him. It was one of her many triumphant fuck you’s since my dad’s car was in her name due to his shitty credit. At the time, the van was 15 years old and had a jillion miles on it because we drove across country every summer and other holidays. I’d like to think that in my booger's final days at the car junk yard, it had one last fight left as the 4000 hp crusher opened up it’s jaws and demolished its rusty victim, booger and all. RIP Booger.Read More
I inadvertently felt protected by going home with this stranger. My hand clasped in his, my safety too. We walked less than a minute to his funky place, but cool/funky since it was in the Marigny Section of the French Quarter where all the artists lived. The Bone pulled out a key to unlock his white wooden gate. And then I remembered, I made out with a boy who lived upstairs. We went to high school together.Read More
It was one of my favorite summers. I never got carded at bars, and sometimes I wouldn’t even get charged for my cranberry vodkas. I would demurely wander into a bar and scope out the room. I felt like everyone was waiting for me to show up even though they didn’t know me like…they needed me. Whenever the bartender would say my drink was on the house, I assumed it was because he detected my star quality presence. Or perhaps he took pity on me. How come this teenage girl is all alone? She doesn’t have any friends? What’s wrong with her? So sad. Let her drink for free.Read More
There’s something about sex and sadness that goes together like cheese and crackers. To be more specific, my favorite combination is fucking a complete stranger while grieving for a deep deprivation that has haunted me my entire life. And that’s equivalent to a Trader Joe’s Raisin Rosemary Crisp with goat cheese. Yum!
I went to one of the most expensive private schools in the South called Country Day. It was located in Old Metairie, a suburb adjacent to New Orleans where all the rich, white people lived…the ones that voted for David Duke. We also lived in Old Metairie, walking distance from school. Or as I preferred, a 7 minute bike ride.Read More
In case you don’t know what Juggalos are, they are fans of the hip-hop duo, Insane Clown Posse, mainly referred as ICP. ICP are these two unattractive white guys that paint their faces with clown make up, trying to be scary, and rap offensive things. Juggalos and juggalettes (the women who listen to ICP) also paint their faces and yell “whoop whoop” as their calling. ICP has a very odd following. They mainly attract rough, white-trashy people. Oh, and I dated one.Read More
Raymond was a 34-year-old man, separated from his wife and daughter. He had bug-eyes, a large beer belly, and used copious amounts of gel to pretend that his blond hair wasn’t thinning. He wasn’t handsome, by any means, but was quite likable and energetic. He often talked like Chris Tucker and wanted to be part of the black culture so badly that he nicknamed himself “Redbean.” He had a corporate day job that he hated where no one would even think to call him “Redbean.” Once a week, he hosted a popular stand-up comedy open mic near the French Quarter in New Orleans where people only knew him as “Redbean.” Oh, and I should also mention that he was my boyfriend… when I was a senior in high school.Read More
6th grade was awful. I’d rather have a never-ending yeast infection, than relive the emotional intensity of early junior high. But to be fair, it wasn’t all bad because the year ended with my first boyfriend.Read More
I’m pretty laid back… and possibly lazy. Sometimes I blame my laziness on being from the South. There’s something about the humidity and the deep roots of racism that weigh on people there. I’ve also had a dead-beat dad that wasn’t a good role model. I’ve never had a mother so there wasn’t anyone to tell me to do chores. I could go and on, but in honor of this blog, I won’t.