Power of the Pen
Winners of our annual writing contest
Carolina Woman received an overwhelming number of entries in our Writing Contest this year. The work was extraordinary. I wish everyone could have the pleasure – as I did – of reading all the submissions.
The diverse selection of poetry and prose covers the milestones in most women's lives and demonstrates the depth of talent in the Triangle.
Immersed in vivid language and striking ideas, our judges had a tough time narrowing down the entries. Congratulations go to all the writers who entered.
I am, once again, honored that Diane Strauss, the former associate university librarian for collections and services at UNC-Chapel Hill, who's also an author and a contributing editor at Carolina Woman, served as head judge.
Enjoy the Grand Prize winner printed here, and discover more exceptional writing as we continue to publish it in upcoming issues.
Grand Prize
Denise P. Sherman, of Raleigh, for her essay "Do Lord"
First Prize
Sadie L. Harper, of Raleigh, for her essay "Wings"
"Do Lord"
by Denise P. Sherman of Raleigh
My step-daddy asked me why I wanted to go to the dance cause he said I won't going to dance with nobody.
That's some shit. Whatever.
I started bawling when Everette stood me up, but I tried to hide it. I won't about to have my tutor see me crying. And if she hadn't of hauled all the way out to Johnston County from Raleigh, I'd have gone home and ate pizza with my daddy and said, Man, oh, man, you're right on. Me dance?
I went straight to the bathroom with Alexa and Sherina and we danced in the mirror just to try things out. Won't too bad, if I must say so myself.
I started bawling again, telling them about my mama. My mama's another story. She's a bad ass, but it really ain't her fault and all. She pulls my hair when I don't clean up my room. And yesterday, she hit me so hard for not minding my two-year-old brother Kevon I still have the bruises. I showed them too. Just so they wouldn't think I was being dramatic.
Dramatic. That's what my math teacher Ms. Lavonda Kincaid calls me. She weighs 200 pounds, but she's real sweet. I like her real good. She says I'm her best student, a sure fire wiz bang. (At least, some things are okay.) Some of the bad ass boys get out mirrors and reflect the light on her boobs. I mean, those things are big. It makes me so mad how they give her a hard time about her size and all. I mean, she can't help being fat. My mama's fat, and she can't help it. I don't fault her one bit for that. It's just the beating she can help.
Or maybe not. My guidance counselor says she's probably doing the best she can, but I shouldn't stand for her hitting me and to let her know real good and right if it ever happens and she'll call the social services on her. Hell, they don't do shit. Just take Sherina.
But that's another story. Well, my mama didn't grow up the minister's daughter like my tutor who takes me skating and even pays our electric bill, once, but she wouldn't go for twiced. What'n gonna have my mama shitting on her, I reckon. My mama's daddy was in prison her whole entire childhood. She used to walk down Western Boulevard and stand outside the gate and sing You are My Sunshine every Saturday.
Ain't that the saddest thing. I never had heard that story before and it kind of made my heart hurt and feel right bad for my mama. It came out in her life's story my tutor was getting her to write after she gave her some book called the Artist's Way. Trying to get my mama to be an artist. Shit. My mama's got enough on her without trying to make artiste. What I mean, she's got to look after Kevon, work the night shift at Waffle House. Everette calls it the Awful House. Clean up the trailer, watch the grocery ads at the store - we don't get no papers which is a bitch when it comes to doing projects, clean gutters to get extra money and cook my step-daddy's dinner. He likes fried chicken. No wonder she steals my babysitting money from my tutor to go play bingo, which really pissed me off before I heard about the singing and all.
So imagine, mama trying to do artiste on top of all of that. But I will say, her mood did improve when she was writing her life story. I didn't get hit onced. So what do I know.
I think I got it bad. But whenever I go singing the blues. I think about Sherina. Her uncle who I'd of never thought was up to no good the way he was so sweet and gentle-like, always giving us candy, not doing anything that would put you in mind of being dirty minded or sick in the head. He just seemed genuinely taking an interest in us younguns.
Just when you think you got life figured out, it goes and throws you a curve ball. Well her uncle, just looked all sad in the eyes when I caught him looking at me from the bus when we let Sherina off yesterday after I had told Social Services on him. It made my stomach hurt. What happens to people that they have to do such things. Her uncle is doing the down and dirty with her, and I don't think of it as the down and dirty excepting when it's in the family. Now that's sicko.
But you know. I started thinking real hard about it. What would make somebody do such things. And I really think he fell in love with her youth and her innocence and just outright desired it. Twisted, I know. But that's the only way I could see how someone like him could get confused in the head and do something so wrong and think it's right.
I called Social Services myself right after Sherina told me. I felt like a snitch. But I didn't want her getting hurt. Now that's stupid. She's in too deep not to get hurt. I thought hard and long about calling. I mean her mama don't have no place to go. Social Services'll likely take Sherina away from them which would break her heart, not to mention splitting her up from her twin sister Katrina. But still and all, I figured that's better than being in her place right now.
Social Services asked me how I knew this information and I told them Sherina told me what you think I'm making this stuff up. They said they would investigate and thanked me for calling. But I don't put no stock in their thanks and for them to make things right.
They've been to my house six times (my tutor called them on my mama the last time I had bruises) and they ain't done nothing, cept send my mama to some parenting classes. Lot a good that'll do.
Sometimes I wish I could go live with my tutor. She'd paint dolphins on my walls and take me skating every weekend which my sorry step-dad won't do as he won't get up off his lazy ass to even go to the movies. My tutor would take me as long as I did my homework and kept my grades up. Piece of cake. I'd have three square meals, new jeans and maybe even a little kiss on the cheek when I went to bed at night. I stayed with her one weekend and she got out her guitar and sang this sad, sad song that made me cry called I'm Just a Poor Wayfaring Stranger. I wondered how her soul could know things that made her sing like that, having a preacher daddy and housewife mama that made all her clothes, living in a little brick house with three sisters and a swimming pool in the back.
My tutor told me if I made A/B honor roll, she'd take me to Florida to swim with the dolphins. If I could just do Language Arts I'd be talking Flipper, I mean.
Well, I didn't mean to go telling you my life story and all. I'm not that interesting. I wanted to tell you about the eight grade dance. Man!
It got off to a slow start and we just stood around drinking this Cheerwine punch that Ms. Kincaid made out of pineapple juice and Cheerwines.
She said when her daddy went up to New York City when he was a boy and asked for Cheerwine they didn't know what he was talking about seeing how it was made in Salisbury, North Carolina and asked him did he mean cherry wine and that he was too young for it anyhow. That made me feel a little better seeing as how my sad self was proving my step-daddy right and I'd have to go home and eat crow. Made me tingle right inside my nose, like those little burns you get when you drink a Cheerwine too fast.
Anyway, me and Alexa and Sherina started playing this game of matching the preps together and guessing which one would dance with which one when. Tired. I tell you. Finally, I said, I'm not going to be no damn wall flower. Let's get up off our asses and get down. Girls, can I have this dance?
We started giggling, being silly and all, and Alexa almost peed in her pants. She does that all the time. I think she needs that bladder medicine you see advertised on the television with all those women dancing around to that I've Got Ta Go song.
We got out on the dance floor, the mirror ball shining down on us like stars and I felt beautiful. I mean beautiful. Bout like I did the time my tutor bought me that red velvet dress one Christmas and took me to Memorial Auditorium to see The Nutcracker. Wow, I felt rich and just loved the way those ballerinas could move their bodies all different directions. Ain't that dancing.
But I was moving just like a ballerina. I'd of done the Nut Cracker hands down right then at Memorial Auditorium no less in front of all of
Raleigh and Johnston County to boot. Then Ms. Kincaid kind of joined us while Aretha, Aretha Franklin, I mean my nanny who still works every day of her life even though my step-granddaddy gave her AIDs, plays her music and gets all misty-eyed lying on the couch, drinking a beer after cleaning houses all week for Swisher Maid, taking care of Douglas, Donny and Devon cause my sorry aunt Belinda would rather shack up with Bean Pole, convicted felon that he is, than take care of her own younguns. Some people don't know how to act.
Anyway, Ms Kincaid started dancing. Her fat rolls were shaking, but don't tell nobody I told you. And Mr. Parker, the science teacher, tapped her on the shoulder and started dancing with her. He's real big too. Ain't that great. I think they might get something going.
And Aretha was singing about respect and you could just hear the passion in her throat which made you know that Aretha had been around the block a time or two. And Alexa made up a dance she called the Alligator and Sherina was copying her and I was just doing my own thing.
Then Everette comes up and whispers in my ear he's sorry, he just got nervous. Would I take him back and do him a favor by dancing with him right then and there? And I about died. He looked kind of cute. Just like my tutor said. Which I agreed with excepting for his long nose which I know he can't help one little bit.
So me and Ms. Kindcaid and Mr Parker and Alexa and Sherina was light on our feet. And we laughed and the mirror ball went round and round and Aretha belted out about Sock It to Me Sock It To Me Sock It To Me.
And no matter how life had socked it to us, we socked right back, big time. And it was beautiful. And I felt the way I felt the time I got saved at Open Door Baptist back when Brother Allen was driving the bus and picking me up on Sundays. He told my grandmaw who raised me before my mama got out of prison and got her life turned around except for pulling my hair and all and wanted me back that the devil had worked hard on me but that I was a good girl referring to how my daddy tried to kill me when he got in a fight with my mama when I was six months old.
I remembered thinking. That damn devil didn't make him do it. But I do like those devil songs they sang at Open Door and the songs about the Good Lord like that one I loved Do Lord Oh, Do Lord Oh Do Remember Me and If the Devil Doesn't like it he can sit on a tack, that funny part after I've got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy down in my heart. And I knew right then and there that if'n there was a Lord and Jesus and all that stuff they talk about in church that the big honcho hisself was winking at us. That God comes out of his castle window of gold and looks down on this crazy messed up, beautiful world and says life is downright hilarious and sad as hell and he's doing the best he can and to please forgive him and you just need to keep your sense of humor to get along. And maybe, just maybe, he'd send a little angel, maybe one that wore her dresses too short and low-cut, to sing in our hearts and make us feel happy and beautiful and skinny and short-nosed and not beat up by our mamas or dissed by our step-dads nor sexually abused by our uncles and I wanted to say Do Lord Oh Do Lord, Oh Do Remember Me, Hallelujah! I'm from Sin Set, You're From Sin Set, We're All From Sin Set Free. My Sin's Are All Forgiven and I'm On My Way To Heaven And That's Enough To Make Me Sing. Sing it Aretha. Sing it.
"Wings"
by Sadie L. Harper of Raleigh
Clipped, pinned back
I stretch my arms up and down and left and right
I cannot reach
The ties that cinch the expanse of feathers to my back.
Dreaming of days long past where I used to fly
Or are they but musings of my mind
Gone mad at the bindings?
They were beautiful, my wings.
Lovely, and soft, and so, so strong.
I never had to fly because I knew I could,
I could if I needed to.
But you wouldn't let me fly
‘Your wings don't exist' you scoffed.
Brows furrowed, fingering the ends of soft, soft feathers
I cannot see them, but I feel them, I know they're there.
‘You can't fly anyways – you're weak,
And silly, silly girl to think you could fly
Away from me, from your problems, from this
Reality I made for you.'
Turning away to hide hot, stinging tears
Steaming down my cheeks, red with shame.
Fingers fall limp by my sides.
Maybe my wings don't exist.
I ignore them, angrily push the feathers away
from where they tickle my cheeks and hips
‘here, let me tie them up so they don't bother you'
‘here, let me put a bag over them so no one else sees their ugliness'
‘here, let me fix you into the image of me'
And so they were: tied up, hidden away until I forgot them
So used to ignoring their presence, their reality
Now you're gone, booted out of my life, excised from my home and world
And with you went the ties, the sack
I turn in the mirror to see these things attached to my back
Oh, hello! I'd forgotten about you.
Neglected you, pretended you weren't there
Even as you made sleeping uncomfortable.
There you are! You're beautiful!
Slowly, slowly they unfurl a little
But oh! no – don't do that! Panicked a little
What if someone sees? What if I ... fly?
I huddle my shoulders close, hoping to pull the wings in closer
so they're not seen.
But wait...what is this? When did I ever feel the need to
Hide from the world?
I loved my wings once, back before you, back when I was me and only me.
Peeking askance in the mirror, I lift my chin;
Breathe, breathe, breathe
'you can do this' my mantra
Perhaps if I say it enough I'll believe it?
My fingers find the feathers by my hips
And of their own accord, my wings spread, spread, spread
This room is too small for my wings
Must find more space
I run, feeling the wind flutter and fluff and rustle
No shame, no guilt, no hiding, no binding
Looking down, the ground far beneath me –
Flying.
