they handed me wings—a pin to wear with pride

‘cause I was fortun/ate and could ride

on a plane all by my/self—other kids could/n’t or

would/n’t—perhaps ‘cause they were a/fraid or

could/n’t afford air/fare—those days were not like now—

where every.person.flies or could if they wanted to—

planes packed like internment camps—naw, back then,

I rode in the cock/pit—‘cause I was little,

‘cause I was fortune/ate

to have wings

My mother reached enough financial stability to upgrade our

car from a Honda Civic to a Honda Accord four years after her

divorce from my father. We couldn’t afford to keep both cars, but

I was allowed to drive the Civic until it sold. I was proud to have

my own car, even one with a “For Sale” sign pasted across the

back window.

The Predator called after I had changed out of my high school

uniform into a more casual outfit. My bedroom faced the busy

street along Asher Court. It had a door with a window that opened

to a balcony on the second floor of our two-bedroom apartment in

New Orleans. Sometimes I’d sit on the balcony and read.

I picked up the phone as soon as it rang

“I’m watching you. You’re very sexy.”

He talked about the clothing I was wearing

the ones I had changed into

My body fell limp as I slid down onto the floor

my back against the wall

with trembling fingers, I hung up

and called my mother

“Stay down! Don’t move!

I’ll call the police!

Don’t answer the phone.”

The phone rang a few more times

I answered once and hung up

when I heard his voice

This was just one of many frightening experiences I had in New

Orleans. When people hear that I grew up in “The Big Easy,” they

love to tell me about all the great times they had.

attending a Mardi Gras parade

listening to jazz at Preservation Hall

walking the streets of the French Quarter

riding street cars

drinking daiquiris

eating Cajun food, shrimp po’ boys, muffalettas

enjoying beignets at Café Du Monde

They love the food.

They love the spirit of the people.

They assume my life was like their good times.

They wonder why

I’m suspicious of people

I don’t know

They wonder why

I lock the doors of my car

as soon as I get in

They wonder why

I look for the dark underbelly

of everyone and everything

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

ugliness on the streets of San Francisco

drug and urine-infested, “fuck you” attitudes

the homeless with palms upward and jabbing

throwing coins back in your face: “Dollars only!”

“me first” and entitled, even the little ones

store clerks who overcharge at the register, then argue

when you demand proper change

everyone is owed something, and you

are the problem

cold, blustery summer days

chafing my lips and my face

people wrestling with angels

seeking the truth about themselves

and each another, willing to try

anything—Buddhism, Hinduism, Shamanism

Spiritualism, Yoga, Wicca—curious

open-minded, accepting of all

genders, sexual orientations, races, religions, ages

medical conditions, psychological states

more than just words, values to live by

intelligent, passionate, driven-to-succeed

creating, innovating, influencing how we all live

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)