Tag: Memoir

The Time, Mother

Terah Van Dusen4 Comments

The time you changed your name from Darlene to Brenda

The time you gave me a blonde baby doll and told me I had a brother on the way

The time you tied a friendship bracelet on my wrist and said now I’ll always be with you

The time we stopped to pick a rose on the shoulder of the highway…and it came with a bee

The time you made long, dangling hippie earrings–for a living

The time my room flooded and you cried because you felt bad

The time you bought ten hamburgers from McDonald’s and for the first time we all got full

The time we looked at a house we couldn’t afford and we all picked out bedrooms anyway

The time you took me to the Bayshore Mall and bought me an eggshell-colored Easter dress

The time you put barrettes in my hair (I don’t remember it but I saw the pictures)

The time you sang You Are My Sunshine to Cloud and I looked out the window and held back tears

The time you volunteered at my school library and I was embarrassed because of your short, slutty shorts

The time you lit a cigarette, looked at me and said don’t ever do this

The time I stole 2 cigarettes from you and you never found out

The time I realized our hands and fingernails look exactly alike

8:05 p.m. the time you gave birth to me, far too young

The time you failed to meet the expectations of your adopted mother

The time I knew exactly how it felt

The time your dad died and if you hadn’t already lost all hope, you really did then

The time you tried to wriggle your way into societies mold but it just didn’t work

The time you introduced yourself as Moonbeam and it all made sense to me

The time you socked my dad through the pick-up truck window

The time we left you in the dust

All the times you left me in the dust

The time you cried and said you’re sorry

The other time you cried and said you’re sorry

The many other times you cried and said you’re sorry

The time you googled me everyday for five years but never called or emailed

The time you said I’m so proud of you and in my mind I said for fucking what?

The time you said Enough already! and I said Okay

Little Girl Me

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

Little girl me
wore yellow rubber
gloves Dad bought at
Safeway along with Sun
yellow dishsoap
I would knee-stand
on the vinyl and metal
chair in front of the sink
in front of the small trailer
window looking out on the
ducks and geese and rabbits
in their cages
A kerosene lamp was lit
as the sun went down and the
night would come alive with sounds
Almost every night Dad had me do
the dishes while he would read
to me from the Holy Bible
They were nights I enjoyed
and miss.

I Want To Be

Terah Van Dusen16 Comments

I want to be forgiven
for what I’m about to do
to you
catch and release
you’ll be guy number five
I’ll be your girl number two
your first
your last
your mystery
I want to be whipped
into shape
taught a lesson
fondled and driven
to madness
wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said wined and dined
I said tell me
to put on a dress
I said ask me
to take down my hair
I said
I want to be whipped
into shape
I want to be tamed
lead me
guide me
I want a man
I’ve never seen a man
I’ve rarely seen a man
I thought I saw a man once
but he walked into the day
and by night he was all gone away
I saw a man once
who had It
I saw a man who
could tame me
but he didn’t want a thing
to do with this woman
with this body
with this piece of work
right here
I want to be forgiven
I want to be whipped
I want to be tamed
I want to be a girl
who is chased
but women like me
are so bold
so brass
women like me are
more of a man
than you’ll ever be
chew on that
and when
you’re a man
come back to me
cause I want to be
whipped
hard
I want to be tamed
and pregnant
I want to be
forgiven

Secrets of the Moon

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The scent of the river
emerges in spring and
at night like moon flowers,
evening primrose and the
married-mans thoughts of me
do

Things and people afraid of
the day, afraid of the
light cast upon their flaws
tip-toe to me and whisper
their wildest
desires

Johns and Janets and Williams
all point fingers, tease and mock
but their hidden agendas are far worse
than those of the prisoners

I laugh with the crescent moon
Smile with the dew
and dream, day and night
of this tortured life,
of me,
and
of you

What Fun (Writing Prompt: Have a conversation with a body part)

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“It takes a village to raise a child.”
“Be Smart. Be Ready.”
“Is he hurting you? Get help NOW.”

My milky thighs tear the tissue paper beneath me as I adjust my hips. I cover one foot over the other protectively, instinctively because soon the stranger will be in to spread my legs. She’ll tell me to move my ass closer to her (even closer..) and relax my feet into the stirrups. “I said relax,” she’ll tell me again.

The nurse enters the room, wearing Winnie the Pooh scrubs. Without skipping a beat, without even looking into my eyes she lubes up the duck clap and inserts it into my woman-cave. I struggle to breathe. She tells me “You’ll feel a pinch here”. But she doesn’t tell me it’ll last so long that I moan, long and hard, resulting in my quick embarrassment.  My mind is flooded with every sexual experience I’ve ever had as a strategy to rationalize why I am here, enduring such pain. Only half the memories are any good. My eyes dart across the room, reading the posters again, frantic for a distraction–less because of the pain and more because of the uncomfortablness of a stranger being inside of me. Some people like it. It’s not my thing. And her stupid cartoon scrubs make it worse, like a stranger with candy, or something. Fucking sicko.

Ittakesavillagetoraiseachild. Besmart.Beready. Ishehurtingyou?Gethelpnow.

Relax, she tells me again. Foolishly I look to a side table and see blood, and those blue napkins they use. Like mechanics napkins. I’m quite literally a piece of work.

The nurse quickly releases the duck clamp which cramps the inside of my woman as it goes out. I shake and tremble as the stranger shuts my legs. “You’re good for 12 years,” she tells me. I smile and thank her, coming to my senses, dizzy, the room smelling like we’re both still inside of my vagina.

Tear Girl

Terah Van Dusen7 Comments

I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. His Oldsmobile pulls away. Finally. Forever. Just like I wanted. My eyes are two brooks a gushin’. I’ve done it again, and this time it hurts differently though just as bad. This hurt has a dark scent, a full moon and a big, gaping wound that used to be a promise. At least we hadn’t gotten children involved; though we had gotten our parents involved, which is almost just as bad. The sun shines hard on my tear-stained face. I’ve looked like shit for weeks.

Unplug–the Internet’s a Spiritual Rip Off

Terah Van Dusen14 Comments

ed7638e386442fc8843e7f178fcf36fcIt’s not a simple time. It’s no longer a simple life. But the simple life is sold and we fall for it. The simple life is sold in t-shirts branded “Simple”. Simplicity is cropping up in your local malls and its shops are growing larger and its simple products are getting more and more. Simplicity is getting expensive. And trendy. But are you being true to yourself? Do you feel simplified?

Spirituality is promoted until it’s not spiritual anymore. The Dalai Lama preaches humility, thrice a day via Twitter. Ideas are exchanged and yoga studios promise enlightenment just… after… this… one… last… post…then its time for meditation. For real this time. “Off to meditate.” “Done meditating.” “Was great.” “Feel so good.” “Can’t stop typing.” “Don’t forget to ‘Like’ us for a dollar off your next workout.”

I personally can’t deal, can’t hang. My thoughts didn’t pinball around in my head until I was pulled every which way by technology. At night, morning and noon, like you, I groggily shuffle to the laptop and quest for information, enlightenment, validation, and discounts. I sit for hours and I find out a lot but I rarely find what I am looking for. And I NEVER find exactly what I’m looking for. Health. Love. Genius. I am disappointed. I am exhausted.

So I quit. Again. From now on I will no longer have a computer in the house, internet on my phone, or even a television. My home 8a2a0f52f232193ed232a70b43779489will house books, food, hot water and a bed. You know–the essentials. And when I come home from work, I will be able to hear myself think. What a concept.

I will no longer search for the things my spirit needs on Google. It doesn’t work that way. Ask yourself: are you exhausted? Let down? Out of touch with those around you? Out of touch with yourself? You might want to consider what I’m doing: unplugging. Already it’s been two days sans Internet and I. Feel. Peace.

Does that mean I’m done blogging? No. Not even close. I will still post weekly, respond to your comments, and read your work. I have computer access–I have my ways. But my Internet use will be scheduled and moderated. And no I will not be signing up for Google+ and Facebook like some of you have requested. I already have WordPress, Twitter, MySpace and Gmail. What more do you want world?

The only way my spirit will thrive is if it has space to breathe. End of story. The Internet is full of false promises. Beware. Truth lies in the space around your head and in the seemingly empty corners of your home. The world is magical if you just unplug and play with it.

Seabreeze Blues

Terah Van Dusen3 Comments

First day of Spring.
March 20th, 2013.

I was trying for a full circle story. And I found a full circle in my story. I really did. I just doesn’t have much girth. I only made it as far east as Arizona. And Arizona isn’t east at all. But its farther than most folks made it.

I’m back in the hometown. A gray, moist place. I stand smoking on a four by four square of concrete on a porch in the projects. I had quit smoking. Like, forever ago. But back here that’s all out the window. As I exhale a cigarette that I’m not nearly enjoying I think, nothing has changed. Including me.

We let our childhoods zoom by like big trucks with stick shifts and little cars with loud noise. When we are just bud-children, we let our innocence go, just a-begging for maturity, tires peeling as we do. Goodbye forever girl-child.

Ten, twenty years later we stand where we used to play. Squares of grass with little hopeful daisies sprout along side cigarette butts and empty, fallen drug baggies and we think we’ve come really far but we’ve just grown taller and back-pedaled.

Other people have children now. But I chose not to bring a child yet into the world. I never minded two children. Boys, I think. Though how would I know. I like to think I’m spiritual, “in-touch”, following my destiny, have God on my side and what-have-you. But other days the world is hopeless, gray, flat, my past a heap of mistakes.

I thought we’d all gotten somewhere. But last night it was me and my dad and 2 aunts and a cousin and all any of us cared about was getting our own individual highs. Nothing big. Tobacco. Alcohol. Love. Sex. Attention. That’s just how it is in the projects. Oppressed. It’s like cursed or something. The manager had each apartment building in the complex painted a different color–baby blue, yellow, sea-foam green. But even the best makeover couldn’t change the projects.

The projects are a body, a soul with something missing. There’s a hole inside of it that can’t be filled, as they say. The projects have a mind of their own.