Like someone who suffers from panic disorder, there are some days that I do not feel adequately Xanaxed-up.
Obviously, being a a conservative creates an apothecary of concerns for a former Democrat.
I get attacked from both sides.
It is my own fault, I jumped in feet first and sometimes I fall on my soft head. No one has ever coached me in the details of being a conservative.
If you walked into my apartment, overall impressions of my kitchen table, the cupboard, the contents of my chest of drawers would show you that virtually nothing has changed about me since 2008 except my political affiliation. Well okay…okay- I will confess to purchasing a burlap RNC 1976 convention tote bag at an antiques store in Iowa. It was a great find and I could not resist. Other than that, I promise you that I do not own not one political tee shirt, not one white hood, not one “Don’t Tread On Me” thong and bra set.
I am the same. I just vote differently now.
Still African American.
Sill a woman.
Still, I receive reproachable letters and comments:
“Ms. [Afrocity] Brown, You’re a conservative Republican. Not sure how you can call yourself a PUMA. By definition, PUMA stands for disaffected Democrats.“
“…You [Afrocity]are no republican or conservative of mine. your just a ghetto girl wanna be. Those who accept you in our party are just as bad as those who voted for obama… you are not needed.You black piece of shit, stay far away from our party till you learn you some…“
It seems foolish to get upset over such comments.
I must accept that despite what I do or say, I will emerge the as the villian on both sides of the political divide. I am an aspirin. Devour one half one day, save the next for later.
What is in a villian’ s cupboard?
Campbells Chicken n’ Dumplings soup, Kraft Mac n’ Cheese, vitamins, microwave popcorn, spices, sugar, polenta… What’s in my chest of drawers? I would answer it depends. I own a credenza filled with CD’s, old grad school papers, and ashes… Three small canisters. One with my Dalmatian Paloma she died in 2005, the other with my Dalmatian Picasso who died in 2009 and the last canister contains my mother’s ashes. You can literally unearth my past by looking in my credenza. Now that this post has been punctuated by morbidity, one can presume where I am going with this but you may be surprised.
My mother was once a living breathing human being. Not only did she matter to me but she was actually matter.
Is it true when they say that matter can be neither created nor destroyed? I certainly think so!
Death becomes her.
Mother is not destroyed, she is slimmer than ever at 7 pounds, 8 ounces.
She is contently sitting inside my credenza.
Quiet, serene a silent whisper of ashes, powder. Like a pill. A finely pressed pill ground by mortar and pestle. Whole at one moment, with shape and form. Crushed and dissipated the next.
When I die, I too want to be cremated. Because I am a conservative will my ashes be Republican red? My mother’s are certainly not blue. On one occasion, I felt foolish for opening the canister and looking at mother’s remains. All gray and in a box with a few chips of bone hear and there.
All of her in a box bearing a label with her name on it. The woman in the box allowed me to exist. Suddenly, I saw her at thirty years of age, in 1968 standing in front of a refrigerator on her tippy toes…her birth control pills were kept there on top. As she reached for the pills, she dropped them on the floor, the container opened and the last pills rolled under the refrigerator. According to mother that is how Afrocity came to be. One missed pill, a canceled abortion appointment, and 9 months later. And since matter could neither be created or destroyed then why would the powers that be allow it now?
I will not let anyone destroy me or my message.
Autographed Letter Signed,