Hang In There Mama Quotes

I heard you in the other room asking your mother, 'Mama, am I a Palestinian?' When she answered 'Yes' a heavy silence fell on the whole house. It was as if something hanging over our heads had fallen, its noise exploding, then - silence. Afterwards...I heard you crying. I could not move. There was something bigger than my awareness being born in the other room through your bewildered sobbing. It was as if a blessed scalpel was cutting up your chest and putting there the heart that belongs to you...I was unable to move to see what was happening in the other room. I knew, however, that a distant homeland was being born again: hills, olive groves, dead people, torn banners and folded ones, all cutting their way into a future of flesh and blood and being born in the heart of another child...Do you believe that man grows? No, he is born suddenly - a word, a moment, penetrates his heart to a new throb. One scene can hurl him down from the ceiling of childhood onto the ruggedness of the road.

You told Zeb before you told us?" Mama shouted. Oh, crap. "How could you do that?" Mama cried. "We're your family!" "He found out the night I rose, " I said. "But no one else knows. Except for some of the vampires I've met. And Andrea, a girl who hangs out with a lot of vampires. Oh, and Jolene, Zeb's fiance. " "Zeb's getting married? Before you?" Double crap.

Daddy came and got me after dinner. Mama must have told him I knew that dead girl 'cause he was eyeing me all through Mama's pot roast like maybe I was going to get suicidal and hang myself from the ceiling light in my bedroom after the two helpings of dessert I took.

The grim portrait of Beethoven hanging over the piano . . . was removed from its nail, and an equally grim portrait of Hitler was hung on the same nail. . . . Mama . . . insisted that Beethoven be placed, if not over the sofa, at least over the sideboard. This resulted in the grimmest of confrontations: Hitler and the genius hung opposite each other, stared at each other, saw through each other, yet found no joy in what they saw.

What do you know about somebody not being good enough for somebody else? And since when did you care whether Corinthians stood up or fell down? You've been laughing at us all your life. Corinthians. Mama. Me. Using us, ordering us, and judging us: how we cook your food; how we keep your house. But now, all of a sudden, you have Corinthians' welfare at heart and break her up from a man you don't approve of. Who are you to approve or disapprove anybody or anything? I was breathing air in the world thirteen years before your lungs were even formed. Corinthians, twelve. . . . but now you know what's best for the very woman who wiped the dribble from your chin because you were too young to know how to spit. Our girlhood was spent like a found nickel on you. When you slept, we were quiet; when you were hungry, we cooked; when you wanted to play, we entertained you; and when you got grown enough to know the difference between a woman and a two-toned Ford, everything in this house stopped for you. You have yet to . . . move a fleck of your dirt from one place to another. And to this day, you have never asked one of us if we were tired, or sad, or wanted a cup of coffee. . . . Where do you get the RIGHT to decide our lives? . . . I'll tell you where. From that hog's gut that hangs down between your legs. . . . I didn't go to college because of him. Because I was afraid of what he might do to Mama. You think because you hit him once that we all believe you were protecting her. Taking her side. It's a lie. You were taking over, letting us know you had the right to tell her and all of us what to do. . . . I don't make roses anymore, and you have pissed your last in this house.

Mama had used spoons in all of her birds, claiming that a spoon was the utensil for comfort. She said it brought you soup on a cold day and stirred honey in your tea. Without spoons we couldn't eat pudding or ice cream, and you could never hang a fork from your nose or ears" -Grace/Mama

Mommy gets up to give you a glass of water in the middle of the night. Mom invites your friends inside when it’s raining. Mama burns your ears with the hot comb to make your hair look pretty for class picture day. Ma is sore and worn out from wringing your wet clothes and hanging them to dry; Ma needs peace and quiet at the end of the day. We don’t have one of those. We have a statement of fact.

Time slows when we put all of our senses into a moment. When we notice the lighting, the way their clothes hang on their body, the smell of the rain, the sounds of the birds outside. Time slows when we taste our food on all sides of our tongues.

But Mama--at first I tried to pretend she was only gone, like on a trip. And then when I couldn't do that anymore, I tried to believe she was dead.' Her nose was running, from emotion, whisky, or the heat of the tea. Roger reached for the tea towel hanging by the stove and shoved it across the tabe to her. 'She isn't, though.' She picked up the towel and wiped angrily at her nose. 'That's the trouble! I have to miss her all the time, and know that I'll never see her again, but she isn't even dead! How can I mourn for her, when I think-when I hope-she's happy where she is, when I made her go?

When he can't take anymore, Galen plucks his phone from his pocket and dials, then hangs up. When the call is returned, he says, "Hey, sweet lips." The females at the table hush each other to get a better listen. A few of them whip their heads toward Emma to see if she's on the other end of the conversation. Satisfied she's not, they lean closer. Rachel snorts. "If only you liked sweets." "I can't wait to see you tonight. Wear that pink shirt I like." Rachel laughs. "Sounds like you're in what we humans like to call a pickle. My poor, drop-dead-gorgeous sweet pea. Emma still not talking to you, leaving you alone with all those hormonal girls?" "Eight-thirty? That's so far away. Can't I meet you sooner?" One of the females actually gets up and takes her tray and her attitude to another table. Galen tries not to get too excited. "Do you need to be checked out of school, son? Are you feeling ill?" Galen tosses a glance at Emma, who's picking a pepperoni off her pizza and eyeing it as if it were dolphin dung. "I can't skip school to meet you again, boo. But I'll be thinking about you. No one but you." A few more females get up and stalk their trays to the trash. The cheerleader in front of him rolls her eyes and starts a conversation with the chubby brunette beside her-the same chubby brunette she pushed into a locker to get to him two hours ago. "Be still my heart," Rachel drawls. "But seriously, I can't read your signals. I don't know what you're asking me to do." "Right now, nothing. But I might change my mind about skipping. I really miss you." Rachel clears her throat. "All right, sweet pea. You just let your mama know, and she'll come get her wittle boy from school, okay?" Galen hangs up. Why is Emma laughing again? Mark can't be that funny. The girl beside him clues him in: "Mark Baker. All the girls love him. But not as much as they love you. Except maybe Emma, I guess." "Speaking of all these girls, how did they get my phone number?" She giggles. "It's written on the wall in the girls' bathroom. One hundred hall." She holds her cell phone up to his face. An image of his number scrawled onto a stall door lights up the screen. In Emma's handwriting.

I made decaf,” he said. “Caffeine isn’t good for you.” “Thank you, Mama Lane.” He made a face at her. “Tate and I used to share everything. Let him go off in a snit. I’ll share his baby. If he doesn’t come back, I’ll appropriate it, and you.” “That’s one area where all your commando skills will fail, dear man,” she said affectionately. “I like you very much, and you can be baby’s godfather. But I’m raising this child myself.” “Godfather.” He was savoring the word when the toast popped up. “Bad choice of words,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t want to give you any bad ideas. I don’t want my child outfitted in a fedora and a machine gun.” “Commando godfathers are a different breed.” “Black bags and camo gear aren’t much better,” she informed him. “Spoilsport. Where’s your sense of adventure?” “Hanging in the shower trying to dry out.

That dusty, musty theater smell, how it still haunts each one of us in turn, and Maria at least will never shake it free. That swing door with the bar across it, the cold passage, those hollow-sounding stairs and the descent to the abyss. Those notices upon the walls that no one ever reads, that prowling cat with tail erect which mews and vanishes, the rusty fire-bucket into which someone throws the stub of a cigarette. The first sight of it would always be the same, no matter in what city or what country. The posters, sometimes black-printed, sometimes red, with Pappy’s and Mama’s names upon them, and the photographs, always of Mama, never of Pappy—this was a superstition of them both—hanging by the entrance.

It wasn't Los Angeles or the film business that had turned me into a troublemaking twenty-year-old. No. It was my mom, who had often told me to "stand up straight and tall." Her conservative values, and even the lessons from her Mormon Church, had taught me that you don't hang an innocent man at high noon, and that good folks stick up for themselves.

I also want to be happy. To invest in something meaningful and fulfilling, even if it is difficult, and maybe not the most practical option in the world. To spend more time with Baba and Mama and Xiaoyi, and finally hang out with Chanel, and go out on a proper date with Henry. I want to laugh until my stomach hurts, and write until I’ve crafted something that delights me, and learn to bask in my small, private victories. Learn to accept that these things, too, are worth wanting.

You’ve been brave for her a lot, haven’t you?” He says it as if it’s dawning on him, as if he’s fitting a piece of the puzzle together. He’s not wrong. That’s what a good mother does. I’ve always known that life is a series of disasters waiting to happen. Mama was always desperate or barely hanging on or losing it. I don’t see why Mia has to think of things that way. I want her to pick herself up and dust herself off. Get mad instead of scared. I don’t want her to see me as pushed around. Powerless.

In the deep, wet tangled, wild jungle where even natives won't go is a mystical, dangerous river. The river's got no name because naming it would make it real, and no one wanted to believe that river be real. They say you get there only inside a dream-but don't you think of it at bedtime, now, 'cause not everyone who goes there be able to leave! That jungle canopy, it so leafy true daylight can never break in the riverbank, it be wet muck thick with creatures that eat you alive if you stay still too long. To miss that fate, you gots to go into the black water. But the water be heavy as hot tar; once you in, it bind you and pull you along, bit by bit, 'til you come to the end of the land, and then over the water goes in a dark, slow cascade, the highest falls in the history of the world ever. There be demons in that cascading water, and snakes, and wraiths that whisper in your ears. They love you, they say. You should give yourself to them, stay with them, become one of them, they say. 'Isn't it good here?' they say. 'No pain, no trouble.' But also no light and no love and no joy and no ground. You tumble and tumble as you fall, and you try and choose, but your mind be topsy-turvy and maybe you can't think so well, and maybe you can't choose right, and maybe you never wake up. "It felt like that," I tell Tootsie, "even after you got me out and Scott moved me to Highland. I couldn't choose. I couldn't shut out the wraiths...But you would say, 'Hang on, sweetie,' and Scottie would say, 'I miss you, Mama,' and Scott would hold me, just hold me and say nothing at all." Tootsie snorts. "Scott was useless the whole while." "Scott was in the river, too.

Mama, please let me get it bobbed," begged Francie. "It took you fourteen years to grow that hair," said mama, "and I'll not let you have it cut off." "Gee, Mama, you're 'way behind the time." "Why do you want short hair like a boy?" "It would be easier to care for." "Taking care of her hair should be a woman's pleasure." "But Katie," protested Sissy, "all the girls are bobbing their hair nowadays." "They're fools, then. A woman's hair is her mystery. Daytimes, it's pinned up. But at night, alone with her man, the pins come out and it hangs loose like a shining cape. It makes her a special secret woman for the man.

As a parent, Lillian had always been lively and playful, prone to leaving clutter in her wake, sometimes talking too loudly in her enthusiasm, and always demonstrative in her affection. A let's-try-it-and-see-what-happens sort of mother. If Merritt had been forced to offer a criticism, it would have been that as a child, she'd sometimes been disappointed about all the rules her mother hadn't known and couldn't have cared less about. When Merritt had asked her the proper dinnertime etiquette for when one discovered something like a bit of bone or a cherry stone in a mouthful of food, Mama had said cheerfully, "Hanged if I know. I just sneak it back to the edge of the plate." "Should I use a fork or fingers?" "There's not really a right way to do it, darling, just be discreet." "Mama, there's always a right way.

threatened at first to overwhelm the lighter soprano instrument of Michelle. Elliot learned to control the instrument in the ensemble, but never relinquished what has been described as her “let it all hang out vitality.”[70] The particular gifts of her voice were in no danger of being stifled, and throughout her career with earlier bands through the post-Mamas and Papas years, her “distinctive voice always emerged from the group in which she sang.”[71] Interested in a variety of genres, Elliot often mentioned her love for classical music, and had appeared regularly as a jazz singer before being drawn into the hippie folk revolution. A Broadway devotee as well, she sang several prominent roles in residence and on tour, and even dueled Barbra Streisand to a near draw for an important role in I Can Get It for You Wholesale on Broadway, before being

Make Your Own Kind Of Music Nobody can tell you There's only one song worth singing They may try and sell you Cause it hangs them up to see someone like you But you've gotta make your own kind of music Sing your own special song Make your own kind of music Even if nobody else sings along You're gonna be nowhere The loneliest kind of lonely It may be rough going Just to do your thing's the hardest thing to do But you've gotta make your own kind of music Sing your own special song Make your own kind of music Even if nobody else sings along So if you cannot take my hand And if you must be going I will understand You've gotta make your own kind of music Sing your own special song Make your own kind of music Even if nobody else sings along You've gotta make your own kind of music Sing your own special song Make your own kind of music

So shoot.” “I don’t know how to say this.” “I haven’t got all day, you know.” “I kissed Alex,” I blurt out. “Alex? ¡Benditaǃ Was that before or after the Colin breakup?” I wince. “I didn’t plan it.” Isabel laughs so hard and loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. “You sure he didn’t plan it?” she asks once she can get words out. “It just happened. We were at his house and then we were interrupted when his mom came home and saw us--” “What? His ma saw you guys? In his house? ¡Benditaǃ” She goes off in Spanish, and I have no clue what the hell she’s saying. “I don’t speak Spanish, Isabel. Help me out here.” “Oh, sorry. Carmen is gonna shit a brick when she finds out.” I clear my throat. “I won’t tell her,” Isabel is quick to say. “But Alex’s mom is one tough woman. When Alex dated Carmen, he kept her far away from his mama. Don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons. But she’s overprotective, just like most Mexican mothers. Did she kick you out?” “No, but she pretty much called me a whore.” More laughing from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t funny.” “I’m sorry.” More laughing. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when she walked in on you two.” “Thanks for your compassion,” I say dryly. “I’m hanging up now.

And this is where I don't remember. This is where I want to wander my mind back and under, past the smell, past the thump-bump of the boots and the suitcases, toward some semblance of a good-bye. Because we should have seen our loves go missing, we should have been able to watch them leave us, should have known the precise moment of our loss. If only we'd seen their faces turning from us, a flash of eye, a curve of cheek! A face turning - they would never give us that. Still, why couldn't we have had a view of their backs to carry with us, just their backs as they left, only that? Just a glimpse of a shoulder, a flash of woolen coat? For the sight of Zayde's hand, hanging so heavy at his side - for Mama's braid, lifting in the wind! But where our loved ones should have been, we had only the introduction to this white-coated man, Josef Mengele, the same Mengele who would become, in all his many years of hiding, Helmut Gregor, G. Helmuth, Fritz Ulmann, Fritz Hollman, Jose Mengele, Peter Hochbicler, Ernst Sebastian Alves, Jose Aspiazi, Lars Balltroem, Friedrcih Edler von Breitenbach, Fritz Fischer, Karl Gueske, Ludwig Gregor, Stanislaus Prosky, Fausto Rindon, Fausto Rondon, Gregor Schklastro, Heinz Stobert, and Dr. Henrique Wollman.

Is she now? I didn’t know the FBI investigated murders,” Mama Z said. “I thought such things were matters for local authorities.” “There might be some civil rights violations involved,” Hind said. “Whose civil rights?” “I don’t know yet.” “I ask because you have to have civil rights in order for the them to be violated.” Mama Z let that hang in the air. “I’m sorry. Forgive my manners. We can sit in here. Gertie, be a dear and make us some tea and bring some cookies. Make sure the cat doesn’t come in here and bother us.” Gertrude nodded. “I actually like cats,” Hind said. “This one sheds like crazy,” Mama Z said. “Your suit would be a mess before you could say, ‘Mississippi goddamn.’” She didn’t quite sing the words. “What is your last name, Mama Z?” Hind asked. “Everybody just calls me Mama Z.” “But for my notes.” “Lynch. My name is Adelaide Lynch.” To Gertrude, “Go get that tea, baby.” Gertrude left. “Where does the Z come in?” “I don’t quite remember,” the old woman said. “It’s easier to spell than Omega.” Mama Z looked Hind in the eye. “How old are you?” “One hundred and five.” “You look great. Moving around like this. Do you live alone?” “Yes.” “That’s amazing. What’s your secret?” “Venom.” “What?” Hind asked. “It’s what I call my nightly tea,” Mama Z said, then, conspiratorially, she added, “I mix it with bourbon.” “I see.

At breakfast, Mama didn’t talk about other people—not her aerobics friends, her cocktail party friends, her doctor friends, nor her sisters. Instead she talked about my hair, how pretty it was when it was up in a bun, and how it accentuated my jaw and forehead, the very facial features I got from her. She also talked about my cheekbones—which I got from Papa—how they were high but friendly, and how on them a kind smile could hang.

The family moved on to Topanga Canyon and settled in a wreck of a house called the Spiral Staircase, famous for being a community center of sorts for the area’s spiritual gurus and minor cults. The Spiral Staircase was a hang-out for L.A.’s rich and famous icons of counter-culture. Jim Morrison, members of the Mamas and the Papas, and Jay Sebring were all said to get high at the Spiral Staircase, and Manson was drawn by the place’s starry reputation. However, the Manson Family stayed at Spiral Staircase for just two months. Manson didn’t like the other gurus who represented competition for his girls’ affection and pulled away from the satanic and sex fetish elements of what went on at Spiral Staircase. Manson piled his family back into the school bus and, with the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour as their soundtrack, drove them through the Mojave Desert. In the winter of 1967, Manson attracted a new follower. Fourteen-year-old Diane Lake had grown up on a commune called Hog Farm and had her parents’ permission when she joined the Manson Family. Diane was Manson’s favorite for the first year she was with him, and while he continued to have sex with all of his girls, he chose Diane most often. It’s unclear how long Manson had been physically abusing Mary, the mother of his child and ostensibly the very first Manson girl, but once Diane was on the scene it seems Manson took out his frustration on Mary more often. Mary could often be seen sporting a black eye, and it was Manson’s brutalizing of Mary that

The family moved on to Topanga Canyon and settled in a wreck of a house called the Spiral Staircase, famous for being a community center of sorts for the area’s spiritual gurus and minor cults. The Spiral Staircase was a hang-out for L.A.’s rich and famous icons of counter-culture. Jim Morrison, members of the Mamas and the Papas, and Jay Sebring were all said to get high at the Spiral Staircase, and Manson was drawn by the place’s starry reputation. However, the Manson Family stayed at Spiral Staircase for just two months. Manson didn’t like the other gurus who represented competition for his girls’ affection and pulled away from the satanic and sex fetish elements of what went on at Spiral Staircase. Manson piled his family back into the school bus and, with the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour as their soundtrack, drove them through the Mojave Desert. In the winter of 1967, Manson attracted a new follower. Fourteen-year-old Diane Lake had grown up on a commune called Hog Farm and had her parents’ permission when she joined the Manson Family. Diane was Manson’s favorite for the first year she was with him, and while he continued to have sex with all of his girls, he chose Diane most often. It’s unclear how long Manson had been physically abusing Mary, the mother of his child and ostensibly the very first Manson girl, but once Diane was on the scene it seems Manson took out his frustration on Mary more often. Mary could often be seen sporting a black eye, and it was Manson’s brutalizing of Mary that left the other girls afraid of his temper.

As much as he influenced her, Bindi changed Steve, too. After our Florida trip, Bindi and I went home, while Steve flew off to the Indonesian island of Sumatra. We couldn’t accompany him because of the malaria risk, so we kept the home fires burning instead. At one point, Steve was filming with orangutans when his newfound fatherhood came in handy. A local park ranger who had worked with the national park’s orangutans for twenty-five years accompanied Steve into the rain forest, where they encountered a mother and baby orangutan. The rangers keep a close eye on the orangutans to prevent poaching, and the ranger recognized a lot of the animals by sight. “She reminds me of Bindi,” Steve exclaimed, seeing the infant ape. It was a mischievous, happy baby, clinging to her mother way up in the top branches of a tree. “This will be great to film,” Steve said. “I’ll climb into the tree, and then you can get me and the orangutans in the same shot.” The ranger waved his hands, heading Steve off. “You absolutely can’t do that,” the ranger said. “The mother orangutans are extremely protective. If you make a move anywhere near that tree, she’ll come down and pull your arms off.” Steve paused to listen. “They are very strong,” the ranger said. “She won’t tolerate you in her tree.” “I won’t climb very close to her,” Steve said. “I’ll just go a little way up. Then the camera can shoot up at me and get her in the background.” The ranger looked doubtful. “Okay, Steve,” he said. “But I promise you, she will come down out of that tree and pull your head off.” “Don’t worry, mate,” Steve said confidently, “she’ll be right.” He climbed into the tree. Down came the mother, just as the ranger had predicted. Tugging, pulling, and dragging her baby along behind her, she deftly made her way right over to Steve. He didn’t move. He sat on his tree limb and watched her come toward him. The crew filmed it all, and it became one of the most incredible shots in documentary filmmaking. Mama came close to Steve. She swung onto the same tree limb. Then she edged her way over until she sat right beside him. Everyone on the crew was nervous, except for Steve. Mama put her arm around Steve’s shoulders. I guess the ranger was right, Steve thought, wondering if he would be armless or headless in the very immediate future. While hanging on to her baby, Mama pulled Steve in tight with her other arm, looked him square in the face, and…started making kissy faces at him. The whole crew busted up laughing as Mama puckered up her lips and looked lovingly into Steve’s eyes. “You’ve got a beautiful little baby, sweetheart,” Steve said softly. The baby scrambled up the limb away from them, and without taking her eyes off Steve, the mother reached over, grabbed her baby, and dragged the tot back down. “You’re a good mum,” Steve cooed. “You take good care of that little bib-bib.” “I have never seen anything like that,” the park ranger said later. I had to believe that the encounter was further evidence of the uncanny connection Steve had with the wildlife he loved so much, as well as one proud parent recognizing another.

Alek (Twenty years old…) Cinnamon hangs heavy in the air, the delicious aroma luring me to the kitchen where I find Mama and Tiana admiring the honey cake they just baked.

Any little girl whose mama disappears will always have a hole in her heart that nothing will ever completely fill.

My few memories of Mama are like brightly colored birds you see out of the corner of your eye that are gone when you turn to look.

I don't remember a lot about my mom. But I remember her doing these cross-stitches - they're little thread embroidery pieces. Anyway, one time I picked up one of her pieces and it looked awful–all messy, with all these knots and uneven strings hanging everywhere. I could barely make out what the picture was supposed to be. But then, my mom came over and took the piece of fabric out of my hands and turned it over–and right there was this masterpiece. I breathed out and smiled. She liked birds. I remember the picture–it was a nest full of babies, the mama bird just returning. I paused, thinking. Sometimes I think of those little pieces of fabric when life feels really messy and difficult to understand. I try to close my eyes and believe that even though I can't see the other side right then, and that the side I'm looking at is ugly and muddled, that there's a masterpiece that's being woven out of all the knots and loose strings. I try to believe that something beautiful can result from something ugly, and that there will come a time when I'll get to see what that is. You helped me see my own picture, Archer. Let me help you see yours.

So many women are natural mamas, but the harder I try, the more I see that I’m not one of them.

Mama had used spoons in all of her birds, claiming that a spoon was the utensil of comfort. She said it brought you soup on a cold day and stirred honey in your tea. Without spoons we couldn’t eat pudding or ice cream, and you could never hang a fork from your nose or ears.

Six feet thundered down the hall and stomped into my room. Six eyes looked at me bawling. Three hands flew through the air pointing fingers and three mouths screamed at the top of their lungs, “Mommmmmmm! Mommyyyyy! Mama!” “He hit me.” “He started it.” “Ow. Ow.” The intensity of the screams and the bickering was just too much to bear for my still half-asleep mind. I so had no desire to deal with this situation. I just had the desire to scream, “GO AWAY! BE QUIET! PLEASE!” But before I could do that, without even knowing what I was doing, I turned, put my head into my hanging clothes, and just let out a good, ol’-fashioned yell. “Arghhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I bellowed.

Mom was very warm and loving. My favorite moments with her were spent in the kitchen, helping her make biscuits or chicken and dumplings. She would use our time together to share life lessons or talk about the Bible. She always had time for me. She used to take me with her to deliver food to some of the hungry people around our part of the river. “We’re all just people,” Mom would say. “Every race, every color, we all have the same blood.” We used to take garden vegetables to a woman who lived nearby. She’d had eighteen children but was older now and very poor. Mom knew I was still young, and she was worried about what I might say, so she tried to prepare me in advance. “Look, her stuff’s going to be different, so don’t make a big to-do about it.” When I walked into the older woman’s rickety house for the first time, I noticed she had a bed sheet hanging in the kitchen doorway instead of a door. “That’s pretty,” I said, pointing to the sheet-curtain. Mom looked at me, raising her eyebrows. I ran through it a couple of times, pretending I was a superhero busting through a wall. Next, I noticed her old-fashioned rotary dial phone. “I never saw a phone that color before,” I said. Mom held her breath, nervous. “That’s pretty,” I added. Mom gave the woman the food we had brought, and as we left, I didn’t want her to think we were going to forget her. “My mom’s going to bring more stuff. She’s got lots of it,” I volunteered. I think I made my mama proud and didn’t embarrass her too much. She always says I have a tender heart and that my oldest brother, Alan, and I are most like her.

Yo momma's so skinny she can use a bracelet as a hula hoop. Yo momma's so thin that if she stands in front of a wall she looks like a crack. Yo momma's so skinny she can't sideways when taking a selfie. Yo momma's so skinny she played the part of the staff in the story of Moses. Yo momma's so skinny she hid behind a stick during a game of hide and seek. Yo momma's so skinny, her pants have one belt loop. Yo momma's so skinny when she is taking a shower, she has to run around to get wet. Yo momma's legs so skinny, she looks like a blow pop. Yo momma's so skinny she can hang glide off a dorito. Yo momma's so skinny I put a dime on her head and people mistook her for a Nail. Yo momma's so skinny, she can grate cheese on her ribs. Yo momma's so skinny, when I slapped her I got a paper cut! Yo momma's so skinny, if she had a sesame seed on her head, she'd look like a push pin. Yo momma's so skinny the Olsen Twins called and said they want their eating disorder back. Yo momma's so skinny, if she turned sideways and stuck out her tongue, she would look like a zipper. Yo momma's so skinny, she can see out the peephole with both eyes. Yo momma's so skinny, she could dive through a fence.

I should be surprised you’re calling me. But I’m not,” she says. “How was practice?” “Not great. Darlene isn’t a great captain, and Ms. Small knows it. You shouldn’t quit.” “I’m not. I’m just taking a break for a little while. But I didn’t call to talk about poms. Listen, I wanted you to know I broke up with Colin today.” “And you’re telling me because…” That’s a good question, one I normally wouldn’t have answered. “I wanted to talk with someone about it, and I know I have friends who I can call, but I kinda wanted to go to someone who wouldn’t gossip about it. My friends have big mouths.” Sierra is the one person I’m closest to, but I lied to her about Alex. And her boyfriend, Doug, is best friends with Colin. “How do you know I won’t blab?” Isabel asks. “I don’t. But you didn’t tell me stuff about Alex when I asked, so I figure you’re good at keeping secrets.” “I am. So shoot.” “I don’t know how to say this.” “I haven’t got all day, you know.” “I kissed Alex,” I blurt out. “Alex? ¡Benditaǃ Was that before or after the Colin breakup?” I wince. “I didn’t plan it.” Isabel laughs so hard and loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. “You sure he didn’t plan it?” she asks once she can get words out. “It just happened. We were at his house and then we were interrupted when his mom came home and saw us--” “What? His ma saw you guys? In his house? ¡Benditaǃ” She goes off in Spanish, and I have no clue what the hell she’s saying. “I don’t speak Spanish, Isabel. Help me out here.” “Oh, sorry. Carmen is gonna shit a brick when she finds out.” I clear my throat. “I won’t tell her,” Isabel is quick to say. “But Alex’s mom is one tough woman. When Alex dated Carmen, he kept her far away from his mama. Don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons. But she’s overprotective, just like most Mexican mothers. Did she kick you out?” “No, but she pretty much called me a whore.” More laughing from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t funny.” “I’m sorry.” More laughing. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when she walked in on you two.” “Thanks for your compassion,” I say dryly. “I’m hanging up now.” “No! I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just that the more we talk, the more I see you as a totally different person than I thought you were. I guess I can understand why Alex likes you.

I kissed Alex,” I blurt out. “Alex? ¡Benditaǃ Was that before or after the Colin breakup?” I wince. “I didn’t plan it.” Isabel laughs so hard and loud, I have to take the phone away from my ear. “You sure he didn’t plan it?” she asks once she can get words out. “It just happened. We were at his house and then we were interrupted when his mom came home and saw us--” “What? His ma saw you guys? In his house? ¡Benditaǃ” She goes off in Spanish, and I have no clue what the hell she’s saying. “I don’t speak Spanish, Isabel. Help me out here.” “Oh, sorry. Carmen is gonna shit a brick when she finds out.” I clear my throat. “I won’t tell her,” Isabel is quick to say. “But Alex’s mom is one tough woman. When Alex dated Carmen, he kept her far away from his mama. Don’t get me wrong, she loves her sons. But she’s overprotective, just like most Mexican mothers. Did she kick you out?” “No, but she pretty much called me a whore.” More laughing from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t funny.” “I’m sorry.” More laughing. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when she walked in on you two.” “Thanks for your compassion,” I say dryly. “I’m hanging up now.” “No! I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just that the more we talk, the more I see you as a totally different person than I thought you were. I guess I can understand why Alex likes you.” “Thanks, I think. Remember when I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen between me and Alex?” “Yeah. Just so I get my timetable straight, that was before you kissed him. Right?” She chuckles, then says, “I’m just kidding, Brittany. If you like him, girl, go for it. But be careful, because even if I think he likes you more than he’ll admit, you should keep your guard up.” “I won’t stop it if something happens between me and Alex, but don’t worry. I always have my guard up.” “Me, too. Well, except for the night you slept at my house. I kinda fooled around with Paco. I can’t tell my friends ’cause they’d give me shit.” “Do you like him?” “I don’t know. I never thought about him that way before, but being with him was kinda nice. How was the kiss with Alex?” “Nice,” I say, thinking about how sensual it was. “Actually, Isabel, it was more than nice. It was fucking incredible.” Isabel starts laughing, and I laugh right along with her this time.

Every day since waking up in the hospital I've wanted to die, but watching that man sink below the waves, I feel something inside me rise up. A Dragon doesn't surrender. A Dragon fights fate. This is not some loud, roaring feeling. It feels more like someone blew on an ember and found a slight orang glow. I have to hang on to my life—however ruined and useless. Mama's voice comes floating to me, reciting one of her favorite sayings, "There is no catastrophe except death; one cannot be poorer than a beggar." I want—need—to do something braver and finer than dying.

The day before Christmas came. Mama made her clove apple and began baking pies. Papa brought in a fresh pine tree and they decorated it with the beautiful apples. But to Katrina it just didn’t feel like Christmas. Even when she went to bed on Christmas Eve, Papa was still sawing away at the apple tree. On Christmas morning their stocking were filled with oranges, wild hickory nuts, black walnuts, and peppermint sticks. Josie gave Papa and Mama their scarves, and Katrina gave Mama the pincushion. But it still didn’t feel like Christmas to Katrina. Then Papa said, “Now my little ones, turn around and close your eyes. No peeking.” First Katrina heard Papa ask Mama to help him. Then she heard him hammering something to the beam, then he dragged something across the floor. “All right, you can look now,” said Mama. They whirled around. There, hanging from the beam, was Josie’s swing, the very same vine swing from the apple tree. Sitting on the swing was a little rag doll that Mama had made. Near the swing was a drawing board made from the very same limb that had been Katrina’s studio. On the drawing board were real charcoal paper and three sticks of willow charcoal. Katrina softly touched the drawing board. She wanted to say, How wise and wonderful you are, Papa and Thank you, Papa and I’ll always love you, Papa. But all she could say was, “Oh, Papa.” Papa didn’t say anything either. He just handed her the three sticks of charcoal. Josie began to swing with her doll and Katrina started to draw. Now she could see how beautiful Mama’s clove apple looked on the white tablecloth and how shiny red the apples were on the Christmas tree. Now she could smell the fresh winter pine tree and the warm apple pies. Now it felt like Christmas. Katrina gave her first drawing to Papa. It was a picture of the day when Papa picked the apples and Mama made apple butter and Katrina and Josie sorted the apples. In the corner Papa wrote: This picture was drawn by Katrina Ansterburg on Christmas Day 1881. Then he hung it in his woodshop and there it stayed for many long years.

Tell me about your home.” “My home?” It took me a moment to realize he didn’t mean here. When had I come to think of this place as home? I shook away my shock. “Downington.” He nodded and kept working. “It’s not much different than Prater’s Junction, really.” “I guess you miss your friends there.” “Friends?” He’d edged closer to me now, the basket resting at the far end of the line. I scooted toward the porch, eased down on the step, leaving him to hang the last few things. “I didn’t have any close friends there.” “Really? I imagined you to be in the center of the social whirlwind.” “That would be Mama. Not me.” I sighed. “I thought maybe if I were in a bigger place, with more to do, more people to meet, life would be more exciting. Without Mama to direct everything. But it’s likely that’s not meant to be.” “I’m sure you’re appreciated wherever you are.” His gaze captured mine, held it even as he picked up the empty basket.

I won’t be here this afternoon, Ollie. I’m going home to Oklahoma, to my mama and daddy.” She cocked her head, a quizzical expression on her face. “When are you coming back?” “I’m not. I mean, I’m not coming back to live here. I’ll come to visit, maybe. And you can come and visit me.” Her hand separated from mine. She stared at me, her mouth hanging open. “But we need you, Rebekah.” I shook my head. “No, you don’t. Your daddy will take care of you, I promise.” “You can’t go.” Tears dripped down her pale cheeks, her voice escalating into hysteria. “You can’t leave us!” Then I noticed the back door standing open, James and Dan gaping at their sister, confusion screwing up their faces. Frank stood behind them, Janie in his arms. I wanted to crawl in a hole. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. My lips trembled, looking for words to comfort them. To comfort me. James bolted through the hallway and wrapped his arms around Ollie, buried his head in her chest. I squatted down in front of them, determined to hold back my emotions but sensing them rising out of my control. The children weren’t supposed to care as much as I did. I laid my hand on the back of James’s head as if giving him a blessing. “Good-bye, little man. I’ll miss you.” “Me, too?” Dan bowled into me now, Janie toddling behind. “You, too, Dan.” I wrapped my arm around him, my nose near the scruffy skin of his neck. I breathed in the peculiar little-boy scent, like a wet dog in a closed room. Then I lifted Janie and kissed her nose before setting her back on the floor.

up. I didn't like this shit, wasn't no reason in the world for them to be hanging out, but what could I say. I trusted Kaliah enough to believe that she wouldn't do shit to jeopardize my relationship with Cherish.

My train! This is the train Papa promised me!” He pulled a little red engine from the branches of the tree. “And it’s red. Just like I wanted!” Confused, Aletta joined him, and Andrew held up the toy, a tag bearing his name hanging off the smokestack. “All really good trains are red, Mama,” he said, as though everyone should know that. The train was hand carved, not nearly as detailed as the one she’d ordered from the Nashville mercantile, and it had no railcars and certainly didn’t make any sounds. But when she turned the train over and saw the writing on the bottom, she felt the prick of tears. I love you, buddy, Jake. She read the inscription aloud, and Andrew’s eyes lit. He raced over to Jake, who knelt and hugged him tight. “I love my train!” Andrew drew back. “Does this mean I get to call you Jake now?” Jake looked across the room at her, much like everyone else, and Aletta smiled. “I imagine that would be just fine.” Andrew gave a loud shout and went to show Winder his red engine. Aletta joined Jake, who stood quietly off to the side. “How did you know?” She searched his gaze. “That was the kind of train he wanted? And that he wanted red?” “I didn’t. But that’s the kind of train I had when I was his age. Besides . . . aren’t all really good trains red?

It’s for you from Miss Tempy.” Aletta stood and stretched from side to side, then accepted the offered treat. She started to take a drink, then paused and looked back at him, doing her best to make her frown look real. “If it’s for me, then why is half of it gone?” He grinned. “I didn’t want to spill any on the way so I drank a little.” She laughed and took a sip. Delicious as usual. She’d finally managed to watch Tempy mixing a batch one day and had learned the woman’s secret—a little salt and vanilla. And, of course, a generous amount of cream. “Are we ready to hang the star yet, Mama?” “Almost. But I’m to the point now where I’m going to need some help putting it all together.” He jumped up. “I’ll help.” She tousled his hair. “I appreciate that. But I think you and I might require a third person for this next part.” Just then Aletta looked over to see Jake walking from the house, past the barn and toward his cabin. “Captain Winston!” she called. He turned, gave a quick wave, and headed in their direction. “Evening, Aletta.” He knelt and gave Andrew a playful poke in the tummy. “Hey, buddy, how you doing?” “I’m good, Ja—” Andrew cut his eyes in her direction. “I mean . . . Captain Winston, sir. You want some cocoa? Tempy made some just now.” Jake smiled. “That sounds good, thank you.” Aletta caught her son’s gaze, appreciating how he’d corrected his mistake. “Do you plan on drinking half of the Captain’s too?” With an impish grin, Andrew darted back to the kitchen. “Fine boy you’ve got there, Aletta.” “Thank you. I think I’ll keep him.” “With good reason.” Jake eyed the booth lying in pieces on the barn floor beside the manger, and knelt to examine her work. “Very impressive. Your father taught you well.” “I only wish I’d learned how to carve like he could. He would’ve taught me, but I didn’t consider it important enough at the time.” He ran a hand over the manger and looked up at her, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “It’s never too late to learn something new.” “I’ve got yours, Captain Winston!” They looked up to see Andrew slowly walking toward them, his attention homed in on the cup in his hands. Captain Winston took the cup from him but eyed it suspiciously. “Tell me now . . . how much of mine did you drink?” Andrew grinned. “Not as much as Mama’s.

I still can’t believe you kissed him.” “Speaking of,” Lucy says coyly, “on a scale of one to ten…?” I just stare at her, mouth agape. “What, you want me to rate him?” “Uh, yeah,” Lucy answers, smiling wickedly. “Don’t leave us hanging.” “Fine.” I let out my breath in a huff. “He was a perfectly competent kisser.” “Perfectly competent? Yeah, I don’t think so. C’mon, you gotta dish, girlfriend.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Don’t you think I’m in enough trouble as it is?” Her response is a pointed stare. “Okay, fine. He was a good kisser. Really good. A seven, maybe an eight. There, are you satisfied?” Her lips twitch with a smile. “I figured he would be.” Morgan mimes sticking her finger down her throat and gagging. “Your mama’s going to be brokenhearted, you know,” Lucy says, reaching for my abandoned plate and pulling it toward her. She picks up a half-eaten éclair and examines it, then sets it back down. “Hasn’t she already picked out a china pattern for you and Ryder?” “Ha-ha, very funny.” But truth be told, she probably has.

Justice's ass was moving so damn fast. His ass almost knocked the grill over, trying to get over to me with Cree following behind him. “Hell to the nawl! Nigga, nigga, nigggggaa, did you slip and bust yo’ muthafuckin’ head! Did you forget who house yo’ ass was coming to, and the crazy... I mean, the family member named after a country in Asia! Lawd, you about to die and get this innocent deceased girl murdered for no damn reason. Sis, didn't yo’ mama teach yo ass lessons about hanging with common criminals, and gang bangers that have girlfriends that's gang banger affiliated?!" Justice ass looked at her. This poor girl was so confused, but I wasn't worried about shit. This nigga looked like he was sweating bullets.

You think I'm a loser!" Dagou yells. "Am I a loser for keeping us alive when all the decent places are moving to the strip? I keep your business going. You pay me almost nothing. My salary is a joke. I want an equal share of the profits." "Big man," sneers Leo. Ming knows Dagou will turn to Winnie a second before he does it. He always runs to their mother. "He grown up now," Winnie says. "Let him have his share." "You stay out of this! You gave up the business when you left it for this menstruation hut!" The table erupts. "Lay off it." "Don't talk to her like that!" "This is a Spiritual House." Leo pushes back his chair. Standing, he has the look of a beast on its hind legs: hairy, primitive, his long arms hanging almost to his knees. It isn't just the dark, unshaven hair sprouting in patches on his cheeks. There is something hungry yet remote in his close-set eyes. Everyone can see it. Some of them shrink back and turn away. Ming knows this eerie quality well. It has been there in his father for as long as he can remember. Long ago, he learned to escape its worst, to allow other members of the family to confront it. Now he climbs up into a place of refuge in his mind. A kind of hunting blind, where he can watch and wait. From above, Ming watches his brother. Dagou has the blank expression of someone who is only just becoming aware of what he's done. "'Don't talk to her like that,'" their father jeers. "Mama's boy! And you..." He grins wickedly at Winnie. Despite her vow of tranquility, she appears ready to bolt from her chair. The nuns seated on either side hold on to her arms. "You think he's still your diaper-filling lamb. You haven no idea what a dog he is. Ask him why he needs money now. Ask him. Ask him." Dagou looks around the table. "It's true I've fallen in love," he announces. "My whole life is changing." He pauses importantly. People stare at their plates. "Christ," says their father. "All this fuss over a decent fuck." The nuns gasp. Now Dagou's chair creaks, and he also rises to his feet. He is enormous and he swells with rage. His shoulders tense. He points at his father and his finger is shaking. It could be that he has decided, once and for all, to take down Big Chao. As the Sons of Liberty rose against King George. As the sons turned on Chronos, as he himself turned upon Uranus. So it will be in the family Chao.

Cousin Murphy was responsible for Blanche’s becoming Night Girl, when Cousin Murphy found eight-year-old Blanche crying because some kids had teased her about being so black. “Course they tease you!” Cousin Murphy had told Blanche. She’d leaned over the crouching child as she spoke. Blanche could still smell her Midnight Blue perfume and see her breasts hanging long and lean from her tall, thin frame. “Them kids is just as jealous of you as they can be! That’s why they tease you,” Cousin Murphy had told her. “They jealous ’cause you got the night in you. Some people got night in ’em, some got morning, others, like me and your mama, got dusk. But it’s only them that’s got night can become invisible. People what got night in ’em can step into the dark and poof—disappear! Go any old where they want. Do anything. Ride them stars up there, like as not. Shoot, girl, no wonder them kids teasing you. I’m a grown woman and I’m jealous, too!” Cousin Murphy’s explanation hadn’t stopped kids from calling her Ink Spot and Tar Baby. But Cousin Murphy and Night Girl gave Blanche a sense of herself as special, as wondrous, and as powerful, all because of the part of her so many people despised, a part of her that she’d always known was directly connected to the heart of who she was.

Daily, Mom applied hairspray to her stylish hairdo. I remember the smell and the sound of the chemicals invading her ears, nose, and throat, and mine too since I loved to hang out with her. This era marked the start of the consumer use of chlorofluorocarbon (CFC), an organic compound produced as a volatile derivative of methane and ethane that affects the ozone layer of our Earth. These applications of toxins kept Mom’s hair in place until her next appointment. The CFCs from the new aerosol sprays undoubtedly contributed to my sweet mama’s subsequent poor health. But she didn’t stop using hairspray until she went bald from chemotherapy. The United States banned Chlorofluorocarbons in 1978.

Mary and I are about as unalike as two sisters can be. Our stories are similar in many ways, but we told them to ourselves so differently. We tried to get along, but mostly we only pretended to. Now, at the end of our time together, as she asks me to make the same promise to her that she made to her mama, we won’t even be able to pretend. “I promise I’ll do what I believe is best.” Mary turns toward the dim glow of the curtained window. “Mother was right. You Powell women never could be trusted.

too.” With Ellen working at the Emporium, Mattie will of course be showing up all the time, a mama checking in on her daughter, she’ll say, but of course she’ll start bossing everyone around. Maybe I just made a big mistake. Or maybe it’s not a bad idea. I’d rather have Mattie Johnson on the inside, working with me, than on the outside, brooding about how unfair it all is and maybe even plotting against me. Besides, it will get Mattie out of her house, help put her part in Eddie’s death behind her. Maybe behind us all.

At that point, I decided to save my paychecks and buy only what the kids and I needed. As soon as Michelle finished this school year, we were out of here. We would move back to Loxley. That’s where I should have stayed in the beginning. I just needed to hang in here eight more months. By then, Michelle would be in the fourth grade and Michael Jr. would be four years old. I hated to leave my home and my new friends, but I had to think about my children’s happiness for the first time in my life. I needed to do what was best for them. Every day I could feel myself disliking Mike more and more and more. I wasn’t going to tell anyone my plans, not even my own mama. I didn’t want Mike to ever suspect that I was leaving and taking the kids. Who knows, he might be happy as can be, but then again he might make a big deal out of it and try to beat me just for the hell of it. I just didn’t want to go there with him until I had to. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: I Know What I Have to Do The next few weeks went by fast. Everything was pretty peaceful. Lisa and I finally started talking to each other again at work. That made me happy.

looked at the man. “A nice, clean colored girl,” he said, calculating the risks of what he might say next. “Let me see. I tell you what. You get your mama for me, and I’ll get you one.” He didn’t wait for the man’s reaction. Pershing vanished into the colored alleys of Five Points. He couldn’t believe what had come out of his mouth. His face was flushed, and his hands shook. He could get hanged for that. Nothing more needed to happen to remind him who had the power over him and what they could do

Sylvie heard her mama’s voice in her head as if she were in the next chair. A real lady wears a cloth coat as if it were her best mink, and tosses her mink about as if it were cloth. If only she could be here now, see Sylvie’s own Russian sable hanging in the anteroom. Mama, with her one good black coat, relined again and again over the years.

Yo mama is so poor… she put a Happy Meal on layaway! Yo mama is so poor… burglars break into her house and leave money! Yo mama is so poor… her TV has two channels: ON and OFF! Yo mama is so poor… her face is on a foodstamp! Yo mama is so poor… when it rains she says, “Shower time!” Yo mama is so poor… thieves rob her house for practice! Yo mama is so poor… she hangs toilet paper out to dry! Yo mama is so poor… she waves around a popsicle stick and calls it air conditioning. Yo mama is so poor… she was in K-Mart with a box of Hefty bags. I said, what are ya doing? She said, “Buying luggage.” Yo mama is so poor… birds throw bread at her! Yo mama is so poor… it took her a year to save a penny! Yo mama is so poor… a tornado hit her house and did a home improvement! Yo mama is so poor… when I ring the doorbell she says, DING! Yo mama is so poor… when her friend came over to use the bathroom she said, “Ok, choose a corner.” Yo mama is so poor… the last time she smelled a hot meal was when a rich man farted! Yo mama is so poor… she can’t even afford a Payday! Yo mama is so poor… she drives a poor-shhh! Yo mama is so poor… I jumped in a puddle and she scolded me for messing up her bath tub! Yo mama is so poor… I stepped in her house and fell into the backyard. Yo mama is so poor… your family ate cereal with a fork to save milk. Yo mama is so poor… she got caught stealing from Dollar General! Yo mama is so poor… the roaches pay the light bill! Yo mama is so poor… she can't afford to pay attention! Yo mama is so poor… I walked in her house and stepped on a cigarette, and your mom said, “Who turned off the lights?” Yo mama is so poor… when I saw her kicking a can down the street, I asked her what she was doing and she said, “Moving.

Yo mama is so poor… she hangs toilet paper out to dry!

There were outfits purchased for work, church, and casual weekends but nothing to wear to the burial of my seventeen-year-old son. I pulled out a dress and put it back, held up a pair of slacks and put them back too. I glanced at my comfy zip-up robe hanging on the hook and wanted to put it on, crawl into bed, and cancel the day. This isn’t normal! I don’t want to do this! Maybe if I don’t dress or show up, this won’t be real.

Mr. Jamison pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, damp against his forehead. ... “folks thinking that lightning struck that fence of yours and started the fire….” ... Papa had found a way, as Mama had asked, to make Mr. Granger stop the hanging: He had started the fire. And it came to me that this was one of those known and unknown things, something never to be spoken, not even to each other.

Perhaps that explained why the rivers of London had burst forth with new goddesses so quickly after Mama Thames took up her throne. Perhaps there was more than historical continuity between the dead sons of old Father Thames and the daughters that had taken their place. And a certain river on the Welsh Borders where me and Beverley had been “catalysts” in the creation of a new spirit, a new genius loci, a new god. Shit, I thought, I’ve just invented epideism.

Well of course it did and it would have made any man feel just as I did! I told Mama - perfectly politely! that it was enough to make me jump on the Bristol coach, and ship aboard the first packet bound for America, or anywhere else that Bristol boats sail to,because I would rather live in the Antipodes than have Cordelia hanging around my neck...