ALL THE LIES ARE TRUE…excerpt

Chapter 1.
Los Angeles, the driver drawled over the cracking PA, please stay in your seats until the bus is in the terminal and thank you for riding Greyhound.

I sat erect in my seat not believing that I was finally here. Five days and nights of white lined highway/interrupted sleep/funky rest stops and an assortment of junk food for breakfast/lunch/dinner…finally in the city of the Angels. I could hardly believe it. California. The other side of the world 2300 miles from Norfolk, VA.


I felt the crush of the other passengers crowding me as I tried to pull my bag from the overhead compartment.

Damn lady! get outta the way, you’re blocking the aisle, hollered a tall guy wearing a wide brimmed Texas hat and armed with an oversized duffel bag. I half fell into my seat getting out of this pardner’s way and decided to stay put until the bus was empty. Besides it wasn’t like I had anywhere to go.

Watching the caravan of passengers: young/old/Hispanic/Black/Hollywood hopefuls, I smiled as I thought of the adventure that surely awaited me.

Five days ago, I was a book shelving library aide in a Navy town and now here I am in sunny Los Angeles California.


I checked my sock to make sure my money-all $200- was still tucked safely inside and patted the slip of paper with the name and phone number of the one person I knew..well sorta knew scrawled on it.
Brian Westbrook 215 E. 120th St. Tell him you are a friend of Phil Murray.

Actually, I wasn’t a friend of Phil Murray. I was a friend of Phil’s girlfriend Stella. She had introduced me to Phil at a party about two weeks ago.

High on something, I remember Stella dragging me over to him from the safety of my corner.


Yeah baby, this is Maya. She’s on her way to Cali.

His red eyes gave away his condition.

Oh yeah, how you doing Maya. I’m from LA. You from there? No. Oh yeah, you got family out there? No. A job? No. Then why you going?


Struggling to make sense in my own altered state, I replied. Well, I just want to see what the other side of the country looks like..check out the Pacific. See what life is like somewhere other than here. Is there something wrong with that?


No sister..don’t get defensive. I mean I love it there. Can’t wait to get back there myself. It’s just not often I hear about too many sisters going out there alone without any family or anything.


Well, I guess I ain’t your ordinary sister.

The weed was making my tongue bold and I could feel Stellas’s eyes on me warning me to be cool.

That’s what’s wrong with you so called revolutionary brothers. You don’t think a black woman can do anything without a man.


Hold on sister. I didn’t say anything was wrong with it. Hmph, I mean you got guts going out to L.A. all by your lonesome. Especially now after the riots and all.


Stella was giving me this uneasy look. I guess she thought I was getting too much attention from her man.

Just then the DJ began playing Treat her like a Lady and I started looking around for someone to dance with.

Hey, wait a minute. Here’s the name of my best friend. Call him when you get there and tell him I said to look out for you.

I took the slip of paper, smiled sweetly and stuffed it in my bellbottom jeans pocket.


Now, I’m the kinda guy that treats a woman with the utmost respect.

My mind was filled with the thumping sounds of the Main Ingredients as I jerked my way out on the dance floor.

Well, things are looking up. LA bound and now I got somebody I can call when I get there. Who said HE doesn’t take care of fools and babies?

copyright 2019. Book Available soon on Kindle.

READERS, MY MEMOIR/ FICTION BOOK… ALL THE LIES ARE TRUE…

THE STORY OF MY BLACK POWER/HIPPIE YEARS IN 1970s LOS ANGELES..

IS SCHEDULED FOR RELEASE LATE DECEMBER 2019 ON KINDLE.

(PREVIEW CHAPTERS WILL BE RELEASED ON BLOG SITE IN COMING WEEKS).

TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS.

AND THANK YOU FOR SUPPORTING MY WORDS !

Hair today…gone Tomorrow

Reader,

Its Summertime and those of you who have followed my writing for the past 6 years know that I tend to avoid serious topics during the Hot fun in the Summer time months.

I mean, there are 9 months that I can devote to our

bumbling political arena

our apathetic approach to

Humankind and Mother Earth

our failing Education system

our Horrible prison system,

immigration injustices

elder and child abuse

the plight of the homeless

Veterans we never thanked for their Service

The uncurable Cancer (unless you are a celebrity or ten percenter)

Health care nightmares.

Do I need to go on?

Damn, she’s making ME depressed.

Enough, Dear Reader.

Today’s topic, Students (in my best Teacher Voice) is something we all have(or have had)

Our Crowning Glory

Sampson’s downfall

Booming Business for 3rd world countries

HAIR!

Huh?

As a Black woman, I have struggled with my hair for as long as I and my Mother can remember.

Blessed with that long thick good stuff ( maternal granny was part Native American…hey heard They are getting reparations And Casinos…better send that swab off)

I digress.

My early years were spent dreading the daily letsfixyourhairforschoolritual.

It seemed like hours of torture. Transforming my thick, straight but a little kinky (Dad’s folk were pure Africans) tresses into 2 pigtails (braids).

And every two weeks, like clockwork, I was subjected to Hair washing Day. Usually preceded by a dose of castor oil and liquid Vitamin D. Mom kept us cold free.

Gurl, get that shampoo, a towel, the big tooth comb and that jar of grease, and get yourself in the kitchen.

Words cannot convey what followed.

She meticuously lathered, scrubbed, rubbed, squeezed, massaged (sometimes gently scratched my scalp) my disobedient locks into submission.

Once dripping wet and still comb-able, She would grab, tug, pull, part,and grease my unruly hair.

Water ran in large rivulets down my forehead, back of neck…hmm is that what water boarding is like.

Ouch, you hurting me.. was my frequent response.

Gurl, you know how thick your hair is. And you ain’t tenderheaded. So be quiet and go get the Straightening Comb.

Every girl of color reading this, probably felt a quickening in her heart with the mention of the SC.

And I am not talking about the modern, cute electric temperature controlled Hot comb..

This SC was a black handled , iron toothed, white smoke generating, grease residue, smelly, angryredifleft on the stove burner to long, Monster.

Hold that ear. Sit up. Sit still. Stop crying. Ain’t nobody hurting you. You want to have curls on Sunday don’t you.

Bend your head.Gotta get to that kitchen now. (aka the nappy nap)

Silent tears coursed down my dark brown cheeks.

It is Saturday afternoon. I have missed all the Good Cartoons, a fierce neighborhood jump rope competition, flying through the air time on my beloved Schwinn, and endured my brother’s unmerciful taunts.

And aged several years.

But, finally it is over and the cracked hand mirror reveals, long, jet black, gleaming straight tendrils..just like Shirley Temple…

Toni Morrison and The Bluest Eye knew exactly what she was talking about.

Self hate.

Conformity.

Integration.

Assimilation.

At age 20, I flew the coop and landed in Sunny Los Angeles. My first stop, a Barber.

Cut it all off. Down to the baby hair, Thank you.

Comments welcome! Thanks for Reading/Sharing!