We do so much tearing down, and not enough praising. So, I'll start. Black woman, you're simply amazing...
Summer, Raychelle, and Tiffany have always been there for one another. Throughout all of the lies, hurt, and pain they've experienced from the men in their lives, they've always been able to count on one another. One tragic event tears the sacred bond of trust that the sisters share. Now they have to try and get it back before it's gone forever. Time waits for no one or anything. Not even a sister's love. Black Woman You Are...
Black Woman You Are
By Jerald HowardAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Jerald Howard
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4685-2884-8Chapter One
Beaten
Tiffany Diana Winters
I wake up to the sound of my alarm clock blaring as loudly as the volume will allow it to. I actually feel pretty rested considering the nightmare that was last night. If only it could have been a dream. The disaster of a room I'm looking at is probably the smallest reminder of how real last night was. Once again, my less than perfect love life knocks me down. Once again, I'm going to try my hardest to get back up.
I decide to first hit up the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. This headache that I have will no doubt escalate into a migraine if left untreated. The mirror to my medicine cabinet is the biggest reminder of how real last night was. Today, every mirror I look into and every person who looks at me will be a reminder of how real last night was. I'm not going to be able to stand looking at myself today, and I'm not going to be able to stand the way people will be looking at me today.
I let out a tired sigh as I stare into the mirror at the blue and black circle surrounding my eye.
"Just another night in paradise," I mumble to myself as I pop two Excedrin into my mouth.
I sigh again as I fill the glass on my bathroom sink with water. Not only do I have a killer headache and a busted eye, I have to swallow pills on top of it. I hate swallowing pills. I bring the glass to my lips and swallow some of the water. I gag on the pills, but somehow they still make it down. Hopefully, relief from the pounding will come soon.
I make my way to the kitchen and carefully tip-toe over the broken glass that I attempted to hit him with. I open the freezer and grab a bag of frozen peas to place over my eye, hoping it will help with the swelling. In the movies, I've only seen this done with a steak, but hopefully bagged vegetables will work just as well.
With my peas to my eye, I sit at the kitchen table in shock. I try to process this disaster of an apartment I live inside, and I try to process this disaster of a life I'm living. Well, I guess my life isn't too bad, but my love life ... it's a complete disaster. God knows I wish I could have a do over for last night. If I could, things never would have escalated to the point that they did. But of course, this is my life and things always seem to spiral out of control. So here I sit bruised, battered, and beaten as if my name were Tina Turner, but without the money. Fug. What's love got to do with it? Everything. I want love and everything that should come with it. I want a caring husband, a pretty little girl, a handsome little boy, a ...
My thoughts are interrupted by my personalized ring tone for him. I look towards my bedroom, contemplating if I should even answer my cell phone right now. I get up and take my time as I make my way back to my bedroom, hoping that I'll be too late to answer and the voicemail will pick up. The phone stops ringing, but just as quickly as it stops, it starts ringing again. I probably shouldn't answer it right now, but I have to. Besides, if I don't, he'll just keep on calling anyway. I might as well get this over with. I press the key to answer and place the phone to my ear. Before I say anything, his voice is in my ear.
"Are you okay, baby?" he asks in a tone that sounds like that of a child who just got caught doing something they had no right doing.
Sarcastically, I respond, "Oh, I'm just great! I have a headache that I went to bed with, woke up with, and more than likely will go to bed with again tonight. I have a black and blue eye that won't be completely healed for at least a week, and now I'm talking to you ... the cause of it all. I'm just fuggin' great! How are you? How are you feeling today?"
"Baby, I'm sooo sorry that I did that to you. I don't know what came over me, baby. I just snapped. I –"
"Listen, you," I say, interrupting, "I'm done." My voice and attitude are as cold as the bag of peas that is beginning to become very uncomfortable against my face. The discomfort just makes me even more irritable. I say, "This isn't for me. You aren't for me. I deserve better and I will have better. I thought we could make this work, but last night helped me realize my worth. I've given you chance after chance on so many different occasions, but you only get one chance to put your hands on me. I've allowed you to indirectly put my life at risk with all of your cheating. I was dumb for that. But when you hit me, the risk went from indirect to direct. Thank you for knocking some sense into me. I am dumb no more and I don't want you anymore!"
"Are you done yet?"
"Excuse me?!"
"You heard me. Are you done with your women's right empowerment and movement speech? If you are, then maybe we can talk about last night."
"You know something, you're just dumb. I am done. I am soooo done with you."
I press the end button on the phone, and hold it down until my thumb hurts. Once I'm sure that the phone has powered off, I set it on my dresser. I couldn't deal with the begging, pleading, and eventual nasty attitude that were sure to have come had I stayed on the phone with him. I take a deep breath in and let it slowly escape. I'm too young for this. There's nothing else to say, but a lot to do. It's time to clean.
After an hour of cleaning, I feel a little better about my surroundings. I still have the bedroom to clean, but knowing I can walk anyplace else without having to risk cutting my foot open is a good thing. I walk into my room and wish another room was mine. If another room were, I'd just let this one stay this way. It's going to take me longer to clean this one room than it did all the others together. Fug!
I scramble through the piles of clothes, trying to decide what's clean and what's dirty. I manage to piece together an outfit that will be suitable for my day at work. Other than my undershirt, which I'm almost sure I wore earlier in the week, everything else has been washed. I bring the undershirt to my nose and sniff. It passes the "sniff test". I grab my good bra, a pair of boy shorts, and I make my way to the shower.
Inside of my bathroom, I make sure to avoid looking into my mirror. The level of depression I'm experiencing is great enough as is without me seeing my eye. Looking into the mirror at this moment will send me over the edge. I'll take care of my eye after everything else is done. It's going to take a lot of work to cover up the damage, but I'll get it done.
I quickly wash and jump out of the shower. No time for pampering today. I've got to get out of this apartment asap. When I first stepped foot in this place, I was so proud to call it home. Now, not even a year later, it's become my own personal hell.
Naked, I plop down on my bed and begin my daily routine ... lotion, oil, powder, and body spray. I perform a self breast-examination, and once I'm okay with the way everything feels, I grab my bra from the bed. I spent sixty-five dollars for this Victoria's Secret bra and I absolutely hate it. It's so uncomfortable, but I'm in dire need of ways to take the attention off of the bruise that circles my eye. I need a little push-up action today. By overcompensating on my breasts, the attention paid to them should take away from the attention paid to my face. I snap my bra on and magically, my medium "B" cup instantly turns into a small "D" ... just one of the many tricks women have to keep a man's eye on our body. I layer my shirts, smelling the "possibly already worn" undershirt one more time. It still passes the test. I pull my slacks on and now it's time to make a miracle happen again. I grab my makeup bag.
Surprisingly enough, it only takes about ten extra minutes to cover up the bruising. And it's a dang good job, if I do say so myself. It's still there, but it's not nearly as noticeable. Now, all I need to do is come up with a believable story for my friends and co-workers as to what happened to my eye.
I glance at my watch and realize that breakfast is completely out of the question today. I spent fifteen extra minutes trying to find the left shoe of my matching, black, six-inch Steve Madden boots. I forgot that I threw it during my boxing match with him last night. I never could fight fair, but in the case of last night, I was evening the fight. Luckily for him, I missed. Even more luckily for him, my shoes weren't damaged, because if they were, there would most definitely be a round two. My shoes are my babies.
I grab my purse, my phone, my keys, and I race outside to the parking lot. I place my earpiece in my ear and realize that my phone is still off. I power it back on as I step inside of my vehicle. As I pull out onto the main road, my phone begins to vibrate uncontrollably. My guess is he's decided to flood my phone with voicemail messages and text messages, confessing his undying love for me. I don't have time or the patience for this ... not today. Besides, it's much too beautiful of a day to be dealing with any kind of drama. After last night, things can only get better ... especially now that I'm out and about.
As I approach the first red light, I shout into the air, "Call Tee Tee."
For the first time, my earpiece actually recognizes my command. It repeats the command and begins to call my best friend. As my phone dials Tee Tee, I dig through my glove compartment; searching for my Monica cd I just bought. I'm working on not being such an impulse shopper, but it was there, it was only three dollars, and I love Monica. Did I mention it was ONLY three dollars? I had to get it. This one is a classic. I begin to sing along with Monica when my loud, but loveable, best friend begins to yell.
"Tip! Where the hell are you?!"
"Umm, excuse me, I will leave your butt sitting there all day if you don't learn to say hello first," I say, jokingly.
"Okay. Hello. Tip, where the hell are you?!"
"Un unh. Hello to you too, Tee Tee. How are you today?"
"Tip! Where are you?!"
"Okay." I laugh. "Forget the morning pleasantries. I'll be pulling up in about three minutes, so be ready."
"Be ready? I'm outside waiting!"
"Well, go inside. I'll blow the horn when I get there. I've gotta go," I say, shrinking down in my seat and trying my hardest not to move my lips. "A patrol car just pulled up behind me."
I look into my rearview mirror at the officer. He's pretty cute. That's all the more reason for me to be careful. Cute officers always pull you over so they can get out and be seen.
Tee Tee says, "Crazy, you're on your earpiece, aren't you?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?" I say, still clenching my teeth.
"Because I hear all the wind and static from that cheap thing, like I always hear when you're on it."
"Hold up now. My earpiece isn't cheap!"
"Sure it's not. You got it out of a gas station."
"And?!"
"And it's cheap. Anyway, you can talk on an earpiece while you're driving, crazy. That's legal."
Still clenching my teeth, I say, "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, Tip. You know what, bye. Let me get off the phone with you before you have a wreck. I'll see you when you get here."
She hangs up on me. Hoochie.
The light turns green and I quickly snatch the earpiece from my ear. Tee Tee may be right, but I'll have to research that law for myself first. I've gotten my share of tickets in my life, but there are three things that I refuse to get a ticket for. I'll never get a ticket for drinking and driving, not wearing my seat belt, or talking on a cell phone while driving. All three of those are just dumb reasons to get a ticket.
The patrol car's signal light comes on and I throw my shades on before he passes me. Even though I've made my eye up with make up, underneath the make up it's still a color that most African Americans aren't supposed to turn, and I'm still embarrassed by it. I won't let myself get down, though. As the sun kisses my skin, I realize how free I feel. I'm twenty-five years old, no children, great career, and recently single. Other than my battle wounds, I'm good. I'm going to have to keep reminding myself of how good I actually am, or should be, because even though the sun feels so good, I still feel so bad.
I pull into Tee Tee's apartment complex and realize that I haven't come up with a story about my black eye, yet. As she opens the door to the car, my mind scrambles for the perfect story that will leave no doubt. It's not coming to me. Hopefully, my sunglasses will by me some more time while I come up with something. She has a seat and closes the door.
"Hey, Tee Tee," I say, smiling at her.
"Ooooh! Those shades are hot, Tip! What's that, Dolce & Gabbana?"
Before I can reply, her hand reaches for my face and snatches the glasses away. She studies the glasses, smiling. She says, "These are so tight, Tip. When did you get these?"
She looks away from the glasses and towards me. I look away from the glasses and out of my window. I talk to the window.
"I got those about a week ago, I think. Yeah, I got that with our last check."
"Look at me for a second," she says.
"Huh?"
"Huh hell. Look at me."
Dang! I was hoping she wouldn't notice the discoloration around my eye or the excessive make up. I should've known her nosey tail wouldn't miss anything.
"Tee Tee, stop playing. I'm trying to drive."
"Tiffany! You better look at me, girl."
"What, Tee Tee? What is it that you want?" I say as I turn towards her.
"What?! What the fuck is the matter with your eye?! Tell me it wasn't that punk ass nigga you call your man! Tip, tell me that motherfucker didn't put his hands on you! I swear to God if he put his hands on you I will kick his motherfuckin' –"
"No, girl. Calm down," I say. My perfect story has formulated under the pressure. "Listen, last night during my kickboxing class, my partner got a little too serious and the padding didn't hold up so well. Well, actually, I didn't hold the padding so well. She missed the bag, and I was being lazy while I held it. I caught a hook to the face. Ask Summer, she'll tell you. I promise it looks a lot worse than it feels."
I grab my sunglasses from her hands and place them back on my face.
"Your kick boxing class, huh? You must think I was born yesterday," she says with a smirk on her face that lets me know that she isn't falling for my story.
Considering the fact that I really attended my kick boxing class last night, I felt it was a great story, and my sister would vouch for me on it. As long as the black eye part never got to her, my story was golden.
"So that's it?" Tee Tee asks.
"What?"
"What shit! Stop playing stupid, Tip. That's really the game you're going to try and play? I was on the phone with you for an hour after your class, and not once did you mention being hit in the face. I can't believe you. That little, skinny, bitch ass, fuck put his hands on you!"
"Teisha Tamara McDowell," I say. "Can you talk without cussin'?"
"Fuck no! I'm pissed. Tell me what happened and tell me the truth. I want to know every single detail. That way I'll know whether to kill him or just cut him. Start talking."
As the chorus of one of my favorite Monica songs plays in the background, I sing along in my head.
Baby, that's just why I love you so muuuuch. Baby, that's just why I can't get enouooouugh. Baby, that's just why I love you sooo much. Iiiii looooove only youuuu.
I hit the FM button on the radio, turning off Monica and my ring tone for him. I can't cry right now, because my make up is perfect. I let out a sigh and begin to tell Tee Tee the truth about what happened last night.
Chapter Two
Regretful
Raychelle Christene Winters-McCoy
As I pull into one of the two parking spaces belonging to our two- bedroom apartment, I wonder why the other space is empty. I don't see the babysitter's car, so that means my baby isn't home and he's out somewhere with his father. I wouldn't have a problem with that if his car seat wasn't in the back of my Camry. I park my car and step out of it with my cellular phone in my hand. I press and hold the number two button on my phone, which my husband's number is preset to. The phone rings until his voicemail picks up and I end the call. He knows better than to answer. I toss the phone back into my purse and begin to unlock the door to our apartment when loud music meets my ears. I turn and look towards the direction of the road it's coming from. Even though I can't see the vehicle that's blasting the music, I can hear the lyrics loud and clear.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Black Woman You Areby Jerald Howard Copyright © 2011 by Jerald Howard. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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