I seldom talk about my sister Evie Marie, a.k.a. Judy.
Evie was nicknamed Judy because she had Judy Garland eyes. I got stuck with Elenita-I guess I didn’t look like any movie star.
Born in Jamaica, she’s the third child and the only one born at home. I wish I had more information on her home birth but mom, my mom passed on. This is where the should haves, could haves, did not haves- the questions that grief will never answer or let you forget.
My sister was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis years ago and though it is not medically proven I think the home birth was responsible in some way. Our family has no MS history unless it is lurking in the mud of truths be not told.
Berkeley Place
It is not rapidly progressive. Evie’s eyes are affected which can make reading difficult and she has trouble walking at times. Heat and humidity exacerbate the symptoms especially in the summer when she’ll stay indoors most of the time.
She was an artist. I don’t know if she continues to draw as I have not questioned her out of fear of hurting.
Evie drew realistic and dreamy poses of fictional characters created from the reading of romance novels. She was addicted to those novels. Yes, she read classics, but not as ferociously as she did romance novels.
Gosh, did I mention she was a romance novel addict? I became one too, reading her books as soon as she was done. I was reading Jackie Collins when I should have been figuring out what the heck Dr. Seuss meant with his words.
Five years old
She introduced me to rock music-Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd and The Who. I also went with her to see “Tommy” when it was released in the movie theatre. Thinking back on that experience reminds me of my first concert, “Meatloaf-Bat out of hell”, too young to understand but I went with the flow. Once again, I should have stuck to deciphering, Dr Seus.
Evie taught me to play chess for which I got pretty good at. I’m not so much the strategic kinda person but rather crush, kill, destroy.
My sister took me to the Brooklyn Public Library once a week, where I was able to research all those biblical things the nuns never spoke of in Catholic school. I was a pro at using the card catalog, and microfilm. My love of researching was planted and Evie helped to nourish it.
My sister Evie, third one born did not make fun of my depression or say I needed meds when I expressed my hurt over some family members mistreatment. Her daughter never called me stupid, crazy or insane and insisted on addressing me as Aunt even though I preferred my name.
There are much more activities and interests my sister introduced and this play with words would turn into a novel if I were to list them.
I seldom talk about my sister Evie Marie, a.k.a. Judy.
But… I did tell my sister I loved her and she said she loved me too and that means more than all the Pringle’s in the world.
Privileged having no clue what it means to be privileged.
Unprivileged you damn well know your lane
Privileged having an easy path based on a phenotype
Unprivileged knowing where the colour lines begin and end
Privilege not moving out of the way while walking down a street
Unprivileged moving out of the way
Privileged the giver of condescending treatment based on speaking a language so well
Unprivileged the recipient of the condescending treatment because the language is not in line with the King’s English or Castilian Spanish
Privileged knowing a promotion is inevitable because you are white, male, full of testosterone
Unprivileged knowing a promotion is not coming your way because you are black, female, lacking in estrogen
Privileged having others bow down to your so called uniqueness, your identity at being celebrated when once the outcast of society
Unprivileged having others skin up their noses because of your so called darkness, your identity ostracized at not fitting core perceptions of what you should be
Privileged using your PHD in passive/aggressive tactics
Unprivileged raising your voice to drown out the passive/aggressive tactic
Privileged I am the unapologetically angry Black and Hispanic old woman who sure as hell does not speak the Kings’ English but loves to spell certain words the English way and an intelligent seasoned woman
I am the unapologetically angry Black and Hispanic intelligent and seasoned woman who can claim both sides of her culture shamelessly and can proudly speak the little Honduran Spanish I know with a smile on MY face.
A visit to the local emergency room on a Wednesday night was not expected or wanted.
An earlier evening dental appointment where vitals were taken exposed a blood pressure and pulse reading that concerned the dentist and his assistant. Needless to say, it didn’t concern me as I started new anti-depression meds and was not exactly adherent to the ‘do not drink alcohol” label on the bottle.
But…
I did not drink prior to the dental. After the appointment, I went home, swallowed the pizza I bought on the way and fed the furs. That lil’ voice in the head, often ignored, nudged me to check my blood pressure.
165/110 pulse 119!!!
Ok…
Got in a neighbourhood cab and $9 later sat in the emergency room at Methodist waiting for a doctor.
After two hours of sitting on a plastic grey chair that once may have been blue; playing Candy Crush while observing the homeless woman across from me sleeping, snoring, hunger rumble from her belly, I was called in.
EKG/Blood Pressure monitoring and pulses oximeter.
My vitals were taken by a Haitian nurse who bragged about her scholarly accomplishments and frowned at my taking anti-depression meds. I was brought into the er amidst the beeping of vital machines, moaning, cursing, frazzled nurses, complacent doctors, and human congestion of the rush hour automobile kind.
Waiting and observing brought back the memory of numerous hours spent with mom, my mom in this same space. She was in hospice care at home but would frequent the er when her draining tube dislodged.
Anxiety, severe depression with the strongest need to scream.
My mom gave up her mental fight during the last visit to this er. Defeated over additional testing, she started to cry. There was no end to the treatments which brought no healing. A return to normalcy was not in her future. I sit with myself in bright fluorescent lights trying to block the memories. I felt so helpless then as I do now alone in sterile coldness, which only exacerbates the fragility of mí alma (my soul).
Nothing compares…
With high blood pressure and an elevated heart rate I was an outsider in the emergency room.
I was an outsider inside a large room where homelessness mixed in and cememented with mental health issues. Mind you, I do have the mental health stuff but I’m also “medically managed” * for it.
Others are not.
In the er, some were going through psychosis, strapped to their beds with heartless security guards sitting nearby. The er that night was a mental health facility over run by those seeking shelter from a cold/foodless night on the outside.
This city, NYC, treats homelessness as the black elephant in the room whom city officials would love to sweep in the sewer.
I applaud all the healthcare workers there that night who did their rounds and interacted to the best of their abilities with the fragile mental humans in front of them.
The shootings senseless killing of children, black grocery shoppers, a man riding on the subway for brunch in the city, all takes a toll. Why are automatic rifles necessary? Why are guns sold to eighteen year old boys?
Covid the naysayers, anti-maskers, hyper-vigilante mask wearers with the sanitizers. One day no mask requirements next day masks and six feet apart. What happens if I only maintain five? What happens if I lower my mask to drink from my water bottle? COVID!!!
I want to rise rise above, step out the door, have hope and see the beauty in a horribly negative world filled with horribly negative people.
My thoughts are jumbled at times, racing up and down, sometimes round, wanting to settle but not able to sometimes, refusing to move or not motivated to do so. Sitting still, sitting terribly still.
My body wants gratification found only in food of the lowest kind. The more, junkier, processed and artificially flavoured, the more my body craves. Each day brings a time for change and each day brings a time for more indulgence.
Sobriety is hard to retain when the world makes you want to space out for a while. Or rather you are not capable of dealing with the world so you choose to space out, be numb, inactive, inaccessible.
Gentrification not a word I use anymore as obliteration is more fitting. Luxury high rises are multiplying like fungi while the old buildings such as my elementary Catholic school are torn down or revamped into something new and trendy for the new neighbourhood, no longer my ‘hood.
Neighbours who have known me from a baby are now old with health issues and passing on. I am now that neighbour watching the new neighbors kids grow up.
My memories are stored in a Memory box located somewhere in mi alma (soul) and accessed through the head. It is not made of rose gold or lined with fancy crystals, no lock or combination to enter or exit. The Memory box is invisible as are the memories stored inside. Like all other boxes, there is a limit as to how much can be stored. In the case of the Memory box in which memories are thrown in haphazardly it can be trying when it comes to cleaning out the rubbish-what to keep, what is of no consequence and of course, there are the ones we would like to burn.
We all know what happens when we refuse to clean…
Memories are a tricky lot. Some are laments, regrets, pain, joy, happiness, and anger with a bit of mad tossed in. Memories have the ability to teach us lessons, that is, if we pay attention. Some try hard to forget them while others spend too much time in them, in the box, going through the clutter, ruminating over opportunities lost and not seeing opportunities gained.
And… We all know what happens when the clutter wins…
I have 58 years of memories stacked in my box and the ones before 7 years of age are not accessible. Good memories are as fresh, vibrant as the day they happened, bad ones are fuzzy fading colours and trauma comes in stark black and white. Those are the ones you can’t throw out. They are there for keeps, reminding you of the space they take up when least expected. The trick is to confront them, waddle in them, bring them close, hug them tight, then let them go. They will still be in the box but the space they take up will not be so overwhelming.
And… We all know trauma is not good but if we acknowledge it, healing can occur…
Anélemc's Writing 
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