Victims of Change

Chapter One

Going to Jamaica during the winter made it seem legitimate, considering this is the time of year that people take their vacations to tropical spots. I left my daughter behind with Mama until I returned, not considering that my life was at stake taking the trip in the first place. My daughter Melissa—who was born blind and mildly retarded, due to my pill popping and occasional drinking and catching a venereal disease while I was pregnant with her—was the reason why I was taking this trip. Melissa was the reason why I did anything. The guilt for putting her in this situation was so strong, I had to make it up to her somehow by providing for her the best of everything, which is what I set out to do. Hook or by crook, as one would say. In addition to this misfortune, I live in the ghetto. I live in the projects, which isn’t too bad because my goal was only to live here until I could do better. There’s nothing wrong with living in the projects, if only the media would stop fabricating stories and stop stereotyping us Black folks as the same. Sure, there’s some truth to the matter of the living conditions. Broken elevators, urine-smelled hallways, gangs and drug dealers and users everywhere you turn. On some occasions you’ll find two women fighting over a man, who of course has nothing going for himself but a good time, and that’s as far as that goes. After a while, the women would have made up, either agreeing to share him, or he winds up with someone else in the same building or neighborhood. But me—I thought that I was one of those Blacks that were different. I wouldn’t dare fight over a man, let alone agree to share him. Another good quality about myself was that I did finish high school, which is something that is unheard of around here. Most people here loved the fast lane, the quick, fast, and in a hurry kind of lifestyle, so that didn’t leave much time for school. I also managed to find a job every now and then. The problem was keeping one. I thought that I was intelligent in my own way, living off of what I learned in high school, winging it the rest of the way. The truth is, I was very unstable. Unstable as water in fact. Not that I was trying to be but if I didn’t like something or someone, I moved on to the next window of opportunity. These frequent trips through the window caused me to have multiple sex partners and six jobs within one year. Looking for love in the wrong places is what Mama called it.

Chapter Two

I really didn’t see what the problem was when it came to keeping a job or a man for that matter. One thing for sure, it wasn’t because of my looks. I wasn’t what you called drop-dead gorgeous, but I held my own. Five feet eight inches tall with curves all in the right places, flawless brown skin and shoulder length hair(my own, thank you), I managed to turn a few heads now and then. Most of my female friends were going through the same thing when it came to a man—which is keeping one. But my best friend Joanna Parker, whom I’ve known for several years since I’ve lived in the projects, was known as the cream of our crop when we all went out together. I know this because she received all of the attention. Joanna is a woman who in my eyes could do no wrong. She is everything I wished I could be, but didn’t have the courage or the nerve to attempt half of the things that she did. We did have one thing in common though—we loved to party, and that’s basically all we did. Joanna lived on the fifteenth floor in our apartment building and I lived on the third. People that knew her knew that she liked to keep male company on a constant basis. One thing about being a tenant in the projects—people can spot a new face a mile away(especially if it was a man), and there is always a busy-body knowing who is going where and who came out of so-and-so’s apartment and at what time. If you see a new face enter the building, and it was male and they press the number fifteen on the elevator button, you knew that more than likely they were going to Joanna’s. Joanna knew that most of the women in the building couldn’t stand her. She knew that she was the talk of the building, for the simple fact that when she passes by, there’s this silence. I asked her one day if this bothered her, and she simply replied in her tart manner, I love it when I’m talked about. Either I’m really something, or they just don’t have nuthin’ to do with their time but to talk about me. It feels good to be on someone’s mind like that. That really makes me want to show out then! Then she’ll top off her statement with a really cute laugh that I’ve been trying to copy for years—out of her presence, of course. Joanna carries her own as well—very attractive, and her boldness and personality carries her a long way. She has a nice length of hair, but she won’t leave the house without some kind of weave or phony ponytail. Joanna has a beautiful complexion, caramel-like that doesn’t need makeup and cheekbones that a supermodel would die for. She’s also a bit on the thin side, making her capable of squeezing into the tiniest things. Like most females around here, she’s a single parent most willing to do anything to keep a roof over her head and pay the bills. Unlike me, Joanna has never had a traditional nine-to-five job. At least I did punch a time clock every now and then. Joanna was the type who liked to make lump sum money, either by stripping, selling drugs, or call-girling putting it simply. Although her line of work has been done for ages, Joanna Parker to me was in a class all by herself.

Chapter Three

Three weeks before I went to Jamaica, Joanna’s daughter Kayla, who is twelve, knocked at my door. Staci, my mother wants to see you. She said to come right away ‘cause it’s important. One thing about Joanna that really annoyed me is that she feels that you must drop everything that you are doing to see what she wants. Normally I would, only to see what new thing she was up to. Either she met someone new and she wanted my opinion of him later that day, or just wanted to gossip about the girls she worked with at the strip club, telling me how trifling they are. I have to admit it though—I did enjoy every moment of it, and on some occasions I felt that my day would not be complete without hearing Tales from the Crypt, which is what I called them. Joanna and I did have a lot of fun talking about the men we met. From the way they looked to how they dressed, and some of them their bad hygiene habits, we had a lot of laughs. I recall telling her about a guy I met at a club who looked okay, but turned me off completely. What happened was that the morning after, I noticed that he wore bikini underwear(that our other friend Claudette said was probably his sister’s) that was so raggedy, it may has well have been a thong. Joanna laughed so hard that it brought tears to her eyes. I didn’t just stop there—I went on further to say that his socks were in worst condition. I assume at one time they were white, but now they were muddy with holes to match his underwear. Joanna cried while holding her stomach saying Staci girl, stop it! I believe she passed gas while laughing but she played it off. Three hours passed since Kayla sent for me. It was now nine o’clock at night, which is my winding down or cut off time during the weekday. Everyone who knows me knows not to knock on my door or call me at this time. Taking care of Melissa alone takes a lot out of me. After a daily routine of teaching her toileting and cleaning after herself, puts a new meaning on the word stressful. There were many times when I just wanted to run away and leave her, or just wanted to jump out of the window, but I knew in my heart that I would never do that. No one knew this but I was seeing a psychiatrist to help me cope, but the only thing they gave me was drugs to take the edge off a bit. The edge off a bit. What did that supposed to mean? It didn’t make the situation stop, but I did love the euphoric feeling the anti-depressants gave me. Anyway, I was beat as usual and didn’t want to be bothered at this time of evening. Besides, my medication was kicking in as I was preparing my nightly escape of imagining I was someone other than myself. Someone else who had a child that was communicable and that we lived in a land of bliss surrounded by a rose covered garden, complete without thorns. My fantasies were about to go deeper until I heard a knock at the door. Not just a knock, but a constant bamming as though someone was being chased. As though their wanting to get in was so important that it caused you to stop what you were doing to answer it. Which is exactly what I did.

Chapter Four

I opened the door and of course as I’ve suspected, it was Joanna. Girl, why didn’t you come upstairs when I sent for you? Didn’t Kayla say right away? Girl, I got this guy named Reggie over and he brought his friend. He’s cool and he’s got loot. I was feeling drowsy before she knocked on the door, but when I found out it was her, I pretended to be more sleepier. Joanna girl, I’m tired tonight. Melissa took a lot out of me today. Persistent as Joanna is, and the weakling she knows that I am, she went on further to say, So what else is new? C’mon Staci now, we’re goin’ out tonight. Can’t you find somebody right quick to watch Melissa? I responded in a groggy voice saying, It’s not that I can’t find a babysitter Joanna, it’s that I’m really tired and plus tomorrow is Melissa’s orientation at her new school. Don’t you have to get Kayla ready for school tomorrow too? You shouldn’t be going out either. I should have known that Joanna wouldn’t care about what I had to do. I’ve given in to her so many times in the past, what I said was generally a waste of time. Girl, you know that Kayla is big enough to take care of herself. Plus, we won’t be out that long anyway. My friend Reggie wants to take us out to that new reggae bar on Halsted street. His friend is Jamaican or African or something, and he wanted to check it out. When she said that, I automatically cringed because I’ve never dated anyone African or Jamaican before, plus I’ve only heard negative things about their men anyway. I heard that they could be really mean and possessive and abusive when they can’t have their way. But yet they do have a lot of money for some reason or another, and women too for that matter. I guess I have a lot of nerve stereotyping against my own kind—although I was born in America and they weren’t, it still shouldn’t make a difference. We all come from the same descendants somehow or another. While I was reprimanding myself in my mind for being prejudiced against my fellow Black man, Joanna was going on and on about something, to the point that her voice sounded as though she was talking into a glass jar. In the midst of all of this, I did notice that she had on a new outfit. No matter where Joanna was going, either to a club or to the grocery store, she always looked her best. It could be the dead of winter here in Chicago(which it is), she always managed to wear something provocative. Things that she wore in the summer, like halter tops and Daisy Dukes, she also wore them in the winter; but she dressed them up somehow with boots and maybe a fur jacket or something. Let me try that, and someone would call the police saying it should be a crime. Look Jo, I called her that when I didn’t want to be bothered, I really don’t want to go out tonight. Plus, I would have to find a sitter for Melissa and by it being a weeknight it would be hard because it’s such short notice. Plus, everyone that I would trust with Melissa like my sisters and a few others have to get up for work in the morning. I put emphasis on work in the morning, just to let her realize that people had other things to do than to stop what they’re doing just to accommodate me. With a disappointed look, she says, Well, at least come up to meet them. We won’t keep you up all night. I promise. I gave her a smirk, knowing that her promises didn’t amount to two cents. Still groggy from my evening cocktail of anti-depressants, something dawned on me. Where’s Kayla? I asked, giving her a