My dear dear Miz Rain,

I been thinkin bout what I write you for days n days n days now, but now I sit down to write, I don’ know what I goan to say.

Guess I begin at time I left you all, ran way, cuz I din’ wan’ be no burden on no one no more. I remember readin ons bout woonded animals, they goes way from the pack to die lone. That me. I got diseases now, I no use to no one now.

Look, peepul tell me they love me, goan be wif me all the way, n all that, but I almos’ 20 now, got 2 babies, I knows how it goes. Rita love me like a sis, but already I gettin down. When I start losin it, what she goan do, clean the food off my face n the sh off my ass? Fuck that! N I know she got her own life to be livin, so I takes some of my money n splits. Rent chip room, set down n wate to die.

I look at what I write so far n I know I can do better. You tawt me all I know bout readin n writin, took me from second grade level to eit grade, but it was alluz hard work for me. I can spell n I can grammar, but evry time I read or write, I got think, got consentrat on evry word, but now I jus’ don’ have the enr- energy (see I can stil do it if I try! :) to try no more. But you alwayz tole me to Push, push Precious, so I goan try. But no promises.

Lone, I got time to think. I think bout my love Abdul. I ver wick now, can’ walk him in green green Park, can’ give him his bath no more. I know Rita goan take good care of him, I rember her sayin our fuss day in the Class how she be good at motherin. But I feel like I give way part of me, my liver or kinneys. It tear me up inside wurs ‘n all the times my fahver get on top, make me bleed, bite my tittys, tellin me I like it all, goin ahhahuhuhahuhhHAHHUAH till white sperms stuff fill me.

I think bout who I is, who I be. I Claireece Precious Jones. I chile, but not chile. I was rape by my fahver from when I three, he stick pee-pee smel dick in my mouf fuss, then my pussy. Make me preg when I twelf. School kick me out when they fin’ out I preg. Me muver go off when she fin’ out, beat me, kick me, call me slut, call me hore. Fahver run way when he sees what he done. My fuss baby borned on kichen floor, her face squash, eyes like them Koreans. She retarded, got Mongloid Down Sinder, muver take her to welfare, say she takin care of little Mongo, but she live wif my nana now, I see her when nana get her to our aparmen’ on 444 Lenox days the soshal worker vissit.

My muver get Carl back, thas my fahver, I think by promisin him a piece of me if he fuck her. He go from room to room, slap me on my ass when he through, holler WHEEE WHEEE! Call me name Butter Ball Big Mama Two Tons of Fun. I think he gave me the diseases at this time. N again at 16, I preg. Not a chile, nevver had time to be.

I try n try n try not to think bad thoss, but they in my min’, not goan go away. I lone now, too many thoss. I gotta try n push the good ones to the top, but they ain’ many. Mainly Abdul (how happy I get when I fin’ he not Down Sinder too, and don’ got my diseases). N the School n you, Miz Rain.

I can rember, stil, how when I was wif Abdul at 16 that white cunt bucket Mrs. Lichenstein (thas what my muver call women she don’t like . . . I kinda get it and I kinda don’t . . . but I likes the way it sounds so I say it too) want kick me out of I.S. 146 on 134th Street, but then that hoe come to my aparmen’ to tell me bout your alternativ School.

I was so skared the fuss day, but I wan’ learn very bad, n you showed me. You made me WRITE, don’ say I can’, just WRITE. I look at that jornal now n see how long I come. When Abdul was borned, you came to the hospital n replied to what I wrote there. I wan’ to drop out of the School, take care of Abdul. Do you rember what you wrote? I lookin n copyin your words
I am glad you love your baby. I think a beautiful young girl like you should get a chance to get an education. I think your first responsibility has to be to yourself. You should not drop out of school. COME BACK TO SCHOOL. WE MISS YOU.
No one said anythin nice like that to me before, ‘cept Mr. Wicher my maff teacher at I. S. 146 who say I have aptude for maff ifn tho back then I cuddn’ unnerstan’ numbers ver’ well.

I was stil wif Abdul fuss wicks of class, n I remembr how you n the girls in class go off when you hear I ain’ seen no doctors yet. Them girls showed me love like I nevver seen before. At fuss, I think I got it bad, but everone in our class had problems. N Rita took me to her insect surviver grup where I foun’ we not lone, many many hurt out there. I know the worl’ it ain’ fair, but why it got kick some peepul in the teef like that? Life no bitch, it a mutherfucker.

Sometimes it gets bad here, but no matter how bad I feel my heart don’t stop beating and my eyes open in the morning. O yea, I rember lookin at The Bluest Eye like you tole me. When you ask us to write bout our fantsy, I wished I had lite skin. You said I is pritty alreddy, but I think even you knowed what I ment. Born lite, born rich, born thin wif littel titties, unfare unfare! But I reelize one thing. I am not Janet Jackson or Madonna on the inside. I always thought I was someone different on the inside. That I was just fat and black and ugly to people on the OUTSIDE. But I am no different on the inside. Inside I thought was so beautiful is a black girl too. But I am going to say what I was going to say. And then. I am going to put it all behind me and never say it again. I don’t blame nobody. I just want to say when I was twelve, TWELVE, somebody hadda help me it not be like it is now. It har’ to let go, but I don’ feel nuffin for my mama no more, tho sometime I stil feel her fingerz spider crawlin into my twat, n drim she hit me wif a iron skilt agen.

But I don’ got time to think bout that sorta stuff no moe.

I usta feel so worfless, you, Miz Rain, opened my eyes, open my min’, show me how I someone. Thank you Miz Blue Rain. Thank you lookin pas’ them arly low tess scores n for believin in me. I sori I hadda run way from yall, but thas the way it got be. In this room, I don’ turn off the lite no moe, not cuz I skare, but I see lite go off like water down the drane n think it like me. My life, my lite goin out now.

I don’ wan’ to cry, I hate hate HATE cry

          Abdul
        My sunbeam warm
          moonlite mine
          summer brizzes
        You my smile
          my song
        Mommy goin now
        I goan miss you love
        I gave you roots
          dig deep
        See butter sun?
        Thas where you got grow to
          become a Man
___________________________________________________
New York Timez Obit
Claireece Precious Jones was found dead in a single-room Harlem apartment after the landlord, not receiving any answer at the door, notified the police. She was battling a number of AIDS-related complications at the time of her death. She leaves behind Mongo, her 8-year-old daughter suffering from Mongoloid Down’s Syndrome, and Abdul, a healthy 4-year old son.

With an early history of sexual abuse by both parents, Precious, as she preferred to be called, was referred to the Harlem section of the Higher Education Alternative/Each One Teach One program (125th St) in Oct. 1987. In spite of slow progress initially, her perseverance paid off as recognized by the Outstanding Achievement in Literacy Award from the mayor’s office in Sept. 1988.

Her instructor, Ms. Blue Rain, called Precious “a gift. With her eagerness, passion, dedication, and imagination, Precious was the student teachers pray for. Her spirit won’t be forgotten by my students.”

t-edication

This one goes out to KB. Happy birthday!
With gratitude to SWJ for letting me practice blabbering for months.

t-mark

I love to read. Before I had a chance to experience the Internet, most of my free time was spent on books. In literature, I’m willing to try almost anything. Time is the reason I’m not able to read as often as I’d like to nowadays; I do try to take in at least a few pages of whatever I’m currently reading before I go to sleep daily.

I hope you find my book reviews informative. I will try to give you quite a lot of details so you can decide whether the book I’m reviewing is for you. Let me know how I’m doing.

Read a book that blew your socks away? Or one that just blew? Why not write and ring in the praises or warn the world about it? If you're a non-epinions member reading this, please consider joining this wonderful community of book reviewers just like you!

I hope you enjoyed the time you spent in getting to this point of my analysis. Please remember to rate this review.

Without your comments, this epinion is unfinished.

01/29/02-01/31/02
01/31/02
Edit needed due to asinine Epinions.com word filter

Recommended: Yes