Learners as Writers Table of Contents

November 2001
"We Have Stories to Tell"

The following writings are from "We Have Stories to Tell," a collection of writings by learners at the Adult Education Center at Wake Technical Community College in North Carolina.

This book is edited by Richard Kraweic and illustrated by W. McNeill Smith. It was first published by VOICES Community Press. VOICES is a nonprofit organization that teaches writing at homeless shelters, literacy sites, housing projects, community centers, and wherever people have been excluded from such programs because of their socio-economic status. Contact VOICES at P.O. Box 2444, Raleigh, NC 27602.

This book is now distributed through Peppercorn Books, which has a large collection of books written by adult learners. For more information, go to www.peppercornbooks.com or call 1-877-574-1634 (toll-free in the U.S.)

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"Trust Your Instincts" by Chiquita Bryant

One scorching hot summer day most of the children in the apartment complex were at the swimming pool. Shondale, my oldest son, wanted to go swimming so bad. He would say things like, "It’s so hot, I need to take a dip in the pool to cool off," or "Momma, aren’t you hot? Wouldn’t you feel better if you went swimming?" I just looked at him and said, "Keep on trying. You’ll get there."

Finally, after the sun went down, after it had cooled off a little, I took Shondale and my other two children, LaToya and Quvondo, to the swimming pool. After we walked there the first thing I said was, " Don’t play too close to the center of the pool." There is usually nylon type rope with two or three lightweight, football shaped floaters on them in the center of the pool. It was there as an indicator as to where the fifth foot of the pool began. "Momma, please let me play, all the other children are playing at the deep end of the pool." So I, being the "compromising" person I am, allowed him to play with the other children in the pool.

LaToya and Quvondo played contentedly at the shallow end of the pool. They couldn’t swim as well as their senior brother. Anyway, I allowed Shondale to swim beyond the rope. I asked him not to go beyond the step ladders that were located in both sides on the walls of the pool, after the rope.

] "OK," he said.

After a short while I glanced back at Dale. I had to watch him very closely, you see, because I really didn’t want him playing in the water beyond my reach. He was so persistent, he wouldn’t give up. He made me feel guilty. I can remember him saying, "How can I show you I’m responsible enough if you don’t let me prove it to ya?" Well, he proved it all right. He proved not only to himself but to me that I AM the Decision Maker in our Home when it comes to Welfare of my Family. No Matter What!

Nevertheless, he and his friend Tim, another boy of Dale’s age, were playing in the water at the six foot level. I saw Tim go under water. They were flipping and turning circles. I assumed they were simply just horsing around. You know, just enjoying themselves in the cool water. Tim went under, then Dale went under. Shondale came up gasping for air. He couldn’t breathe. I saw it in his big, beautiful brown eyes. He tried to ask for help but he couldn’t speak from swallowing the water in the pool.

Ooh how I panicked. I screamed frantically for help. "Please help him! Someone please help him! He’s drowning!" My first instinct was to jump in and save my son. But I couldn’t. I was afraid. Afraid that we both would drown because I couldn’t swim at all. Shondale could swim far better than I. Then in a matter of seconds, Julius, one of the younger brother’s friends, jumped in the pool and rescued my son from drowning. Although Dale was full from gulping the chlorine water from the pool and a little shook up from near death, he was fine. I, on the other hand wasn’t. Not for a long time.

I didn’t want Dale back in the pool for at least one year, but of course I realized that was a bit extreme. I got over the incident as the week ended. Even now I still feel uncomfortable when any of my children plays too rough in the pool. I can contain my worries because Jr. and his brother "Richie," another of Shondale’s friends, taught me how to swim and taught Dale to swim better.

I am grateful. Grateful that Julian Phifer was there. Jr., if you ever read this, I want to say "Thank you for saving my son’s life. We all love you and we are very, very thankful for your courageous and spontaneous reactions. You are my Hero!"

However, if I could give you a mother’s word of advice: Please no matter how much they beg or make you feel guilty, please do not react against your (motherly) instinct! You may get embarrassed too.

Chiquita Nanette Woods Bryant is my name. I am the mother of three wonderful children. Shondale —10 years old. Latoya —7 years old. Quvondo-4 years old. I have seven brothers and sisters. Three of us are from the same mother and father, two are from my mother and her friend of twelve years, and three are from my father’s second marriage.

My parents divorced when I was nine years old. I am the second oldest girl in the family. I got married when I was in the tenth grade. Got pregnant at 16 years old. Passed the eleventh grade. My husband and I moved out of my mother’s home and moved to New Bern, NC to live with my in-laws. I dropped out of high school shortly after we moved away from my home. I always talked about going back to school. Well, ten years have passed, and I am now enrolled in the adult education program at Wake Technical Community College.

I enjoy reading, writing, music, cooking, and children. I was very happy as a toddler but as I grew older I started to hate myself. I resented my mother. I had no friends, no hobbies. I really didn’t grow up enjoying my childhood or teenage years. When we lived with my father after the divorce, I had to cook and clean for my father, my oldest brother, and my immediate younger sister. I think I was about twelve or thirteen years old.

I began to hate going to school when I was a teenager. My grades dropped, I withdrew from classmates. I didn’t participate in school activities. I can remember wanting to run track, be a cheerleader, and also play volleyball. My father wouldn’t allow me because I had to come straight home from school to study and cook. My sister was always allowed to participate in after school sports. I was always jealous of her.

We were always living back and forth from my father’s home in Wake Forest to my mother’s home in Raleigh. We were always moving around from house to house, from school to different school after the Big Divorce. I was very confused as a child, still confused as an adult some of the time.

I am separated from the father of my three children after eleven years of a controversial marriage that no one wanted to take place, no one except Robert and I. I hope someday we, Robert and myself, can forgive each other in our hearts for the unrighteous things we both did during our lives together as husband and wife. I hope we can continue being civilized towards each other and keep on respecting each other’s wishes and decisions. I still love Robert, he is the father of our children. My goal in life is to accomplish everything that I deserve such as my high school diploma, raise my children the best I know how, to protect, love, and give them the support they need to have the happy, meaningful, fulfilling life they all deserve.

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"Just Plain Aggravation" by Tarbart Faulk

When I was in the fourth grade, it was one guy in class that would walk up behind me and slap me behind the head when the teacher was not looking. When I would get up to get him the teacher would tell me to sit down, as if I was the trouble maker.

Finally, one day I got fed up with him and decided I was going to get him. I was going to give him a good beating. I was planning on getting him for everything he had ever done to me. I knew he walked home from school, and he always would take the shortcut home from school, and walk up the path beside the cornfield. So I decided to wait for him on the cornfield, but he never came by. Not only did he not come by, he stopped slapping me behind the head, and picking on me, and so I decided to let bygones be bygones. I did not fight him, and my problem was "over."

Tarbart Faulk says: "Writing was a new experience for me. Once I got through it, it was wonderful."

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"I Thought I Could Show Them All" (part of a novel by Andre Smith)

Back then no one could ever imagine that I would still be alive today let alone write this story. But here I am.

As a youngster I was troubled and always in trouble. You see, my father and I never got along. For the greater part of my childhood he wasn’t around. When he was around he may as well have not have been. He just didn’t understand family. Not only was he not around but, when he was, he was drunk. He was an alcoholic. An alcoholic with a temper. My mother, brothers, sister and I lived in constant fear. He was basically a happy drunk until wham! His mood changed. You never knew exactly when it would happen. You just knew at any moment it would happen. A misspoken word, and his anger would explode like an A-bomb. And we were left to pick up the shattered pieces of our lives.

Needless to say, coming from this kind of an environment I didn’t know how to act. Relationships were a struggle for me, and I had a real problem with male authority figures. I wasn’t able to learn in school. I couldn’t concentrate. I was always fighting with other boys. I carried a chip on my shoulder the size of a redwood tree and dared anyone to knock it off.

School soon became a drag. As the years passed, I didn’t. I began to feel dumb. Being the oldest in my grade I stuck out. I was viewed by many of the teachers as a hopeless troublemaker, and not someone that was worth their effort.

Then one day it happened. The big showdown with my dad. I was 18 and very much a man, or so I thought. He was drinking. You could feel it about to happen. It did. My mom said something. I can’t remember what. It doesn’t matter. It never took much anyway. He blew up and started to strike her. No way! Not this time. I hit him instead. There it was. It was time for me to honor an old promise I had made to myself. The promise was, if ever I’m a man enough to strike him, I ‘m man enough to leave. And that is what I did. I left school.

I had it all planned out. I would join the Army. I would continue my education in there. I would realize my dream of being a photographer or disc jockey. And I would make my mom proud of me. I would show them all. My dad. My teachers. All of those who didn’t believe in me.

But it never happened. I didn’t score very well on the entrance exam. Instead I qualified for a truck driver. I was in, bad attitude and all. It didn’t take long for me to get into trouble. Every older male reminded me of my dad. Everyone wanted to be my boss. Everyone had an idea of what they wanted for me, but no one asked or cared to find out what I wanted or needed. Yet, finally I was free. I was on my own. Off post I could do what I wanted and I could try what I wanted and did.

Next stop. Vietnam. What a strange place. Such strange people. Men wearing silk pajamas. Beautiful women with long straight black hair, wearing beautifully colored long silk dress. Children dancing all around you laughing and shouting, hey you GI you got money? Joe got food? I was experiencing extreme culture shock. Fighting cobras in the black starless sky. Red tracers streaking overhead. Bombs being heard in the not so distance.

"Hey man, welcome to Nam. Let’s get stoned." I say yeah why not? He rolls a fat joint. Wham! I’m knocked on my ass. This is some powerful stuff. "Lets go to the village." "Yeah I can dig it." We wave a rickshaw down. A man is in front pulling us like a horse. This is too weird. Now we are in an opium den. Bodies are laying around all over the place. We go into a dimly lit backroom. "Hey man, wait till you try this stuff, you’re gonna dig it." I take a joint laced with opium. Man, what a high. I’m free. It’s my life. I can do what I want and do.

Days and nights pass by. Now I’ve tried it all. All day and all night I get stoned. Soon I’m running skag and snorting coke. I no longer know whether I’m coming or going, and I don’t care.

I’m shooting every day. Skag, opium, speed, dropping downers, snorting coke. Sometimes all at the same time. My nose on the inside is raw. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m a Junkie. My nerves are shot, my temper is hot. As hot as the sweltering Vietnamese heat. If someone doesn’t watch out, someone’s going to die.

I’m in the hospital. I got hepatitis from bad points. Still I get stoned. It’s everywhere. There is never a short supply. One day, I see an image in the mirror. Who is that? It can’t be me. Yellow eyes, skin and bones. My God what happened to me. I look awful. A walking corpse. I’m so ashamed. I need help. I cry out to God, please help me. Please help me. I’ll do anything just please help me.

My prayer is answered. Now I’m back home. I’m out, but what a mess I am. I’m a Junkie. I’m dishonored. I thought I could show them all. All of them that thought I would amount to nothing.

Andre Smith says: "I was born May 16, 1951, in Raleigh, N.C. As a result of my father’s military career I traveled a bit in and out of America. January of 1969 I dropped out of school, left home, and joined the Army. From there I began to have the many experiences that shaped my life. I am now a proud husband and father of two very special children. I dedicate all of my works and life to them."

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"My First Perm" by Nicole Van Tassel

When I was in the 2^nd grade I had my first perm. Before I entered the salon my hair was to the middle of my back and healthy. I never had any chemicals like hairspray or mousse in it. After I left the salon my hair was almost close to my ears and not as healthy; it had perm solution all in it, hairspray and mousse after they styled it. I went home that evening and looked in the mirror–it looked like a French poodle had went to the salon and landed on my head. It was just horrible. I hated it.

The next day as I went to school it was raining, so I had to wear a hooded jacket to school. As I entered my classroom I was taking off my jacket and hood. My hair looked like a giant frizz ball. Everyone in the classroom just stared. I immediately reacted and ran into the bathroom and just stood in front of the mirror and cried. My closest friend Terry came to the bathroom and told me it wasn’t that bad and asked me to come back to class. I told her that the only way I would go back to class is if I could wear my hooded jacket. She went back and grabbed my jacket and brought it to me. I put it on and went back to class and sat there and felt like all eyes were focused on my head. It was the end of the day. I felt I couldn’t get home fast enough. I got home. I ran straight for the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror and tried to find different ways to keep my hair down. I finally came to a solution and put a whole pack of barrettes in my hair just to keep it down. Months later it finally grew out and it wasn’t so puffy. After that horrifying experience it was many years later before I had another perm put in my hair.

My name is Nicole Gayle Van Tassel. I was born in Panama City, Florida, but I’ve lived the majority of my life in North Carolina. I decided to come back to school to get my G.E.D. to make my life better in the future. And since I’ve been back in school I entered in a writing class that has made me proud of myself because my story, my experience, it is being published in a real actual book. It is a dream come true.

Revised 11/9/01