Emory Continuing Education: Workshop I- Second Writing Submission

My second writing submission to the class was a revision of a dialogue/poem piece I wrote, inspired by the life of Sarah Baartman.

Below you will find the poem/dialogue followed by it's revision.

Poem/Dialogue:

Sarah was confused, misused, and abused. Her body placed on display for the whole world to view. She was known internationally for her enormous ass, big breast that sagged, and large labia lips that played peek-a-boo between her thighs. Everyone was talking about the beautiful black queen who sold the right to her body based on pipe dreams. They found her features so exotic that they paid top dollar and she received half the profits while they all stared and prodded the half -naked black circus freak. They openly examined her while she pranced around stage freely showing the secrets once buried in her woman cave. She was now an international superstar; she was all the rage, picture on the front page of big name magazines. Who cares about self-respect when you have money and fame; plus millions of fans glorifying your name? However, when the novelty wore off and the crowd grew smaller she went from standing on stage to having long nights, wrestling between tangled sheets. She was nothing more than a forgotten memory, comforted by old pictures and magazines to remind her of her heyday. As she scratches the dried residue caked between her thighs she flips through new pictures of her successor who ousted her by juggling champagne glasses on her ass. Now she feels abandoned, she misses all the attention. So in one last attempt to be remembered again she takes her life, overdosing on pain pills. In a note left folded neatly on the night stand she simply writes Remember me Sarah J the original black vixen. 

Reworked Piece: (Please be advised, I'm not sure if i was intending this piece to be a novel or a short story, I was just having fun writing it.) 
Relevance 

Everything I know about my mother has been passed down to me second hand. I have no personal memories of her; she committed suicide when I was two. I cannot recall the sound of her voice, the smell of her breath, nor the feeling of her touch. There are no photographed pictures of the two of us. All I have is a tattered birth certificate, personal journals, and dated newspaper and magazine clippings. I cherish the journals the most. They are the closest thing I have to hearing her voice, and sharing in her experiences.  I’m about to start reading her final journal entry, when I hear loud footsteps pounding up the stairs. Sighing deeply I place the journal underneath the musky old twin mattress I share with my foster sister Deborah.

My stomach muscles tighten as the footsteps quickly approach the open door. I hear his heavy breathing, and can practically smell the sweat I know is coating his skin. He stumbles into the room yelling, “Girl, get your lazy ass downstairs now!” I don’t move right away, I sit rigidly, staring intently at the old drunk. His presence and the stench oozing from his pores momentarily paralyze me. His smell is that of a prostitute’s cheap fragrance and stale beer. I sit too long. There’s a sharp sting at the nape of my neck. I make a brave attempt to unlace his meaty fingers from my hair. My reward is an open palmed slap to the face with his free hand. My head snaps back painfully, the familiar taste of metallic starts to fill my mouth as we exit the room and head for the stairs.

I trip clumsily down the stairs as he drags me along, his grip on my hair never wavering. As we reach the last few steps he releases me. I tumble down head first, landing with a loud thud in the front foyer. As I lay on my hands and knees kissing the unpolished hardwood floors, a sharp pain in my rear causes me to cry out, “ouch, you bastard that hurt!” I feel the effects of his kick traveling and settling deep within my lower back. I feel tears’ threatening to fall as my retort lands me a kick to the rib cage. “Get your worthless ass up and head to the kitchen,” he growls. This time I don’t hesitate, moving as quickly as my battered body allows. He reaches the kitchen before me, taking a seat at the small square table placed awkwardly in the center of the floor. His huge belly swallows the corners of the table making it appear smaller. 

“Can you please tell me what’s wrong here?” he says. His belly shakes the table as he talks. I look around in earnest trying to figure out what’s got him bothered. The kitchen is cleaned spotless, although its dingy appearance may scream otherwise. I set the roach traps so there shouldn’t be any crawling around for a few hours. I know how much he hates spotting those critters in the kitchen. Baffled I turn my weary eyes upon him “no daddy Wright, could you please inform me?” I say.
 “I’m sitting at a table with no fucking food on it,” he yells. I bow my head and stare intently at the ground. I had gotten so caught up in reading my mother’s journal I’d forgotten all about dinner. I was in charge of all the household chores while Deborah got to do whatever she wanted. Deborah  is the pretty one. Pretty people always get treated better. She’s the color of sunflowers with long flowing hair. Daddy Wright says I’m the color of cow manure. He’s always saying “you look like shit and you aren't ever going to be shit.”

I never let his hurtful words deter me. I’d been called worst in my lifetime. Daddy Wright thought of himself as my savior. He was the first person in fourteen years to take me home with them. Before then I sat in Mary Lou’s group home watching others come and go while I remained.  When I was younger it bothered me. I’d cry every night praying that someone took me home too. However, as I got older and learned to read and write, my counselor Louise gave me my mother’s things. Her journals made me stronger. They made me feel wanted and loved. These journals taught me where I came from, and the legacy I had to  fulfill. So, regardless of what he says I am going to be someone. I’m going to be famous just like my mom. 

My mom was an international superstar and I have the articles to prove it.  She was like the black Marilyn Monroe, stealing the hearts of men worldwide. Unlike the Marilyn Monroe’s, Betty Boop’s, and Tinker Bell’s, my mother was no tease.  There were no over the shoulder kisses, flying skirts, or magical moments.  Nope my mom bared all, and left nothing to the imagination. She paved the way for the Josephine Bakers of the world. She was known internationally for her enormous ass and large labia lips that played peek-a-boo between her thighs. The world found her features exotic. They paid top dollar so could stare and prod her naked body. They openly examined her while she pranced around stage. She was all the rage, picture on the front page of big name magazines. However, when the novelty wore off and the crowd grew smaller she went from standing on stage to having long nights, wrestling between tangled sheets. She was nothing more than a forgotten memory, comforted by old pictures and magazines to remind her of her glory days. As she scratched the dried residue caked between her thighs she’d flip through new pictures of her successor who ousted her by juggling champagne glasses on her derriere. She felt the world had abandoned her. She missed the attention. So in an attempt to be remembered again she took her life, overdosing on pain pills. In a note left folded neatly on the night stand she simply wrote Remember me Sarah J the original black vixen.

So as I turn towards the stove to begin daddy wright’s dinner I dream about my future. I dream about how I’m going to steal the hearts of millions.  Up on stage I won’t be Lucrecia but Hottentot Venus.  Like my mother I’ll be a trailblazer for my generation. I’ll also learn from her mistakes. I’ll find new tricks that please the tricks and keep them coming back. Unlike my mother I’ll remain relevant. Until then I’m stuck with daddy wright, cooking his dinner, cleaning his house, and occasionally sharing his bed.