The Less Fortunate

When I look back, 8th grade was definitely the pinnacle of crazy when compared to the other six years spent at my Adventist school. The summer before classes began the church announced that they would be closing the school at the end of the year due to "financial circumstances". Of course, everyone knew it was really because our principal was clinically insane and they couldn't find a replacement.
Mrs. B lived in an off-white double-wide mobile home with her three, I'm almost positive, gay sons. It was in the middle of a valley surrounded by the scariest looking woods I've ever seen. When you walked inside you were stepping into an alternate universe. It was every hoarders heaven. A quadruple-wide wouldn't have been big enough for all of her crap.
There were black trash bags piled up to the ceiling and filled with clothes that she had stolen from the Dorcas of our church. Boxes were stacked in every corner, the contents of which were a weird assortment that varied anywhere from puppets and diaphragms, to sega genesis games and cat food.
The kitchen was the worst part of the trailer. The air was thick, like a dead cloud filled with the aroma of cheap floral air fresheners and rotten food, all weighed down with cooking grease. If claustrophobia or the smell didn't get to me, the infestation of cockroaches did.
One Saturday night my family was invited over to dinner and my mom forced me to come. Mrs. B served tacos...not even a crumb of a tortilla went anywhere near my mouth. Now, Mrs. B was not only our head teacher and principal, but the church appointed her the job of leading the congregation in community aid and outreach. While at her house she started discussing plans she had to get the students involved in community service before the year was up.
"There's a Food Bank in Baltimore." she said to my mother. "I was thinking I'd take my boys down there in the morning, then later in the evening we could give the food out to needy families in the neighborhood around the church."
"What a wonderful idea!" my mother replied, but of course she couldn't have just stopped there. "Why don't you take my girls, too!"
I wanted to kill her.
The next morning my sister and I left with our principal and her boys to help our community. When we arrived at the Bank, Mrs. B told us to grab as much food as we could. "Just make sure it's fresh!" she called out as we made our way into the warehouse. I felt strange taking the food. The building was full of homeless, hungry people. I kept thinking to myself "We'd probably be doing a better service letting them keep it."
After an hour or so of perusing, we had a pile of about ten crates ready to load into the van. They were overflowing with non-perishable foods, most of the brands I had never heard of before.
I was so happy when we finally left. The looks on the peoples faces as six, clearly not homeless people carried away the best of the food made me feel so guilty. But, that guilt quickly turned to anger in the events that followed.
"Where are we going?" I asked as we passed the road of our church.
"Just need to stop at my house real quick." Mrs. B answered.
When we pulled up to her trailer she got out and started unloading the food. I almost asked what the hell she was doing, but I was smart enough to realize what was happening. We had just helped her grocery shop at the Food Bank. My sister and I sat silently in her van as her sons took about 6 of the crates inside and put the food away. When they were finished they climbed back into the car like what they had done was perfectly normal, and we drove to the church. I wanted to throw-up.
It took us about 25 minutes to make up baskets with our diminished supplies to hand out to the needy families in the area. I loaded them into a Radio Flyer wagon and dragged it behind me as Mrs. B led the way down the street.
The first house we passed was a dirty, run-down little farm house. The yard was filled with garbage and the lawn was overgrown. There was an old, thin man sitting on the porch in a plastic foldable lawn chair, smoking a cigarette. "Are ya'll givin' out food baskets?" he called down to us.
"Yes, sir." I answered. "Want one?"
"No I don't!!" he screamed, throwing his cigarette to the ground. He then stood up and limped into his house, slamming the screen door behind him. "The last thing I need is your charity!"
"Okay, have a nice day!" I called out after him, and we continued down the road.
We walked for about 10 more minutes and came to a beautiful gated community. Certain that we were passing it I kept walking with the wagon pulling behind me.
"Where are you going?" Mrs. B asked.
I turned and looked at her, very confused.
"We'd have a hard time giving these people the baskets if you're not with us." she continued.
So, for the rest of the day we went from million-dollar door to million-dollar door trying to hand out food baskets to the needy millionaires. One man gave me a $100.00 bill and a bag of his own food because he thought we were collecting for the poor. I kept the money, and ate the chips as we continued through the neighborhood.
After miles of walking, millions of rejections, and dozens of threats to have the cops called on us, we gave up and started to make our way back to the church. I was pretty far behind the rest of the group since I had to pull the food the entire time. As I passed by the run-down farm house the man who had yelled at me earlier called down again. "Ya'll got more food than you started with."
"Yes, sir" I replied "And no one seems to want any of it."
"I'm sorry I raised my voice to you earlier young lady." he said in a sweet voice "Sometimes it's just hard to accept help when you know you need it.
I strolled up his drive-way and handed him the handle of the wagon then reached into my pocket and took out the hundred dollars to give to him. "Enjoy." I said with a smile, and walked back over to the church.
When I got there with no wagon and no food everyone wanted to know what happened, so I told them. "Are you kidding?" my teacher spit out in an annoyed tone. "My boys and I could have kept all that food, Megan. Now we're going to have to go back next week."
Looking back on this I realize the only reason we went to the gated community is because she knew no one would take anything. I'm pretty sure she's going to hell.

A Fainting Spell

I was born in sunny Cape Coral, FL to teen parents on March 21, 1988. We lived there for the first 7 years of my life before moving to Maryland. During the time we spent as Floridians, my parents may have put sunscreen on me a total of three times. As a result, in 1999 I was diagnosed with skin cancer and scheduled for surgery at the Franklin Square Hospital in White Marsh, MD. The surgery took place at 8:45 am on my 11th birthday. It wasn't a serious procedure. I was under anesthesia for less than 2 hrs., and back at my own house before lunch time.
When we got home I was in excruciating pain. To make matters even worse I ended up having an allergic reaction to the pain medication my doctor had prescribed so I just had to suck it up. I walked into my house and my whole family was there. They had been up since I left early that morning and were all sitting in the same places. My youngest brother, trying to be sweet and genuinely happy to see me, ran up and threw his little arms around me. The incisions from the surgery were on my back and the top of my head. It hurt so bad I started blacking out and asked my dad to take me to lay down.
He helped get me up to my room and laid me face down on my bed. A few minutes later I heard my bedroom door creak open and looked over to see my kitten, Tommykins Wommykins Marmalade DeCosta, running towards me. She leaped into the air and slammed down on my back. I woke up an hour later after having passed out.
There was a big pile of presents wrapped in pale pink and yellow paper sitting in the living room for my sister and I. After a lot of complaining on her part my dad carried me downstairs so we could open them together. It took her a little over five seconds to tear into all her boxes. It took me what seemed five hours just to open the first one. It was a sky blue portable cd player with matching headphones. Very practical for someone who has a 20 stitch incision on their head. I let my sister open the rest for me. One present that wasn't wrapped was a huge fleece Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal that I laid on the floor and curled up on like a dog. I don't think I moved from that spot for the next 3 weeks.
Finally, the day came when I was going to the doctor to have the stitches taken out of my head. My dad, mom and I were walking out the door when my dad said something that got everyone in the family excited "If Megan doesn't cry at her appointment, I'll take us all to Cactus Willie's for dinner!" Oh yes, everyone in the family was excited, except for me.
The ride to the doctor's office was horrible, sitting in the waiting room was horrible, waiting for the doctor to come into my room was horrible. I knew that if I cried my siblings would kill me, and I pretty much knew I was going to cry.
After an eternity of waiting, the doctor graced us with his presence and went to work on my head. It was so painful. The stitches had to be torn out with so much force that I was sure pieces of my scalp would be missing when I looked in a mirror. They weren't normal stitches because after the operation they slathered about an inch of a clear sealant on top so that I would be able to wash my hair. I was totally silent the entire time. With every snip of his scissors I closed my eyes and imagined how disappointed my brother's and sister would be if I ruined our chances of dining out.
"All done!" the doctor proclaimed. I couldn't believe it, not a single tear had fallen from my eyes. My head was throbbing, but I quickly stood up and followed my parents out of the room and over to the front desk so they could pay. Next thing I knew I was gazing up at my mom, dad, and about three members of the clinic staff. Apparently I had fainted.
My parents were real sweet to me. They felt terrible that I had held in all that pain just because I wanted us to go to Cactus Willie's. Once I saw that they weren't mad I let the levy's break and out poured all the tears I had been fighting for the past hour.
When we arrived back at the house I still had tears in my eyes. My brother's and sister were playing catch in the front yard, and you better believe they noticed.
"Thanks a lot Megan," my brother yelled at me as I stepped out of the car "you couldn't have sucked it up for once in your life?"
My other brother was holding the baseball that they were throwing back and forth, in two quick motions he threw it as hard as he could at a big tree and then flung his baseball glove off his hand and into the dirt. My sister muttered something under her breath and stormed into the house.
"Stop being jerks and get in the car!" my dad shouted at them.
"Where are we goin'?" my ass little brother replied, with the biggest attitude imaginable.
"To dinner." my dad answered "Megan was good at the doctor's so you should be thanking her that you all get to go out."
My siblings all walked over and got in the car. There was barely enough room for the six of us and their bad attitudes. I was the last one to get in, as I stepped up I smashed my head on the roof of the car and everything went black. The next thing I knew I was laying on my drive-way looking up at my mom, dad, and three angry siblings. I had fainted...again.
"Way to go Megan." my brother said, shaking his head. "Way to go."

Blacks In Wax

From 2nd to 8th grade I went to a private Seventh-Day Adventist school in Joppa, MD. My twin sister and two brothers attended the school with me and the four of us made up about 1/4 of the student body. The rest of our school mates were a group of the most socially awkward and ridiculous creatures ever invented. As for the staff, we had a principal, who was also the only teacher, and a teacher's aid whose only job was to grade paper's.
The school was inside of our church and consisted of one classroom filled with about 20 desks, a second class room with two big tables for doing arts and crafts, and a big creepy basement with brown linoleum floors and flickering fluorescent lights where we'd eat our lunch and play keep away when it was raining.
Now I want to get into the holiday spirit with a story celebrating black history month. Our principal was a big black woman from Atlanta, GA. She was loud, rude, offensive, and very proud of her African roots. When she found out that there was a "Blacks in Wax" museum in downtown Baltimore she jumped at the opportunity to share her culture with the school. So, on a beautiful February day my family, minus my dad, and the rest of the school got into our van's and drove down for a little field-trip.
The trip was pretty normal. Everyone was bored, except of course our principal, as we walked through the various rooms. We acted like all elementary/middle school students act...like asses. We were touching things, laughing, making fun of the statues, and being super obnoxious. I particularly remember a very funny looking black Imhotep.
After about 3 hours of looking at these blacks in wax we were more than ready to go home. My mom had already left the museum to get our car when my principal cried out "Wait ev'rybody! Here's a room we didn't see. Let's look real quick and then we can get outta here." My classmates and I simultaneously sighed and followed her over to a big closed door with a blacked out window pane.
Everything about this screamed "DON'T GO IN HERE!". Next to the door is a warning sign, that no one seems to notice but me. "Very sensitive and disturbing scenes" are the only words I'm able to read as our teacher quickly ushers us through the door and down a dark staircase into the basement.
As we were walking down the stairs I remember turning to my teacher and asking "What's down here, miss?" But before she had a chance to answer me I saw a wax woman hanging by the neck from a tree with her stomach slashed opened and her wax fetus being ripped out by a wax Klan member. It was a lynching exhibit. My principal has just taken a group of children, none of which were over the age of 13, into a basement dripping with gore. I remember her jaw dropping as she glanced around the room. "Surely she's going to take us back upstairs.", I thought to myself. Then her jaw started to move "You see class," she said "this is exactly what I was hoping we'd see today." My heart stopped beating as I listened to her speak to us."It's good to be reminded of the downplayed struggle our people went through." she continued "Let's all take a look around and learn more about our neglected past."
I quickly grabbed as many of the younger students as I could and let them push their little faces into the fabric of my uniform skirt. Once their eyes were protected from the absolute horror of the exhibit I slowly walked with them towards the other side of the room where there was an exit door. I tried to stare straight ahead and block out all of my surroundings. While I was walking I saw my brother's and some of the older boys touching the exposed wax breast of one of the sculptures and then giggling as if they had just gotten to second base. Classy.
I finally made it over to the door and told all the kid's to run out. When we exited the room I saw my mom sitting in the lobby "Why is everybody crying?" she asked me.
"Mrs. B took us into a lynching room." I answered.
"What!?" she screamed, "Where are your brother's and sister? Why did you let them go in there? I am so disappointed in you, Megan!"
Just as she finished yelling at me the rest of our class and teacher came walking out. Some of them were laughing, some of them were crying, some of them looked sick, and Mrs. B looked accomplished. "Well class," she started "I think this has been an excellent field-trip. Tomorrow we can write a report on what we learned, but for now let's get some lunch in our tummy's, you all must be starving."

Pushing Daisies

I used to have this super retarded jack russell terrier named Daisy. She had one brown ear and one white ear, and weighed about 15 lbs. She was 4 months old.
My church did this thing biannually where they'd make all the kids in the congregation perform the service. Someone would lead the congregation in the opening hymn, someone would do the opening prayer, someone would do a special musical number, someone would do the scripture reading, someone would pray about the reading of His word, someone would collect the offering, someone would pray about the offering, someone would tell the children's story, someone would pray for the children, someone would do the pastoral prayer, someone would give a sermon, someone would lead the congregation in a closing hymn, and someone would do the closing prayer. So, they put up the bulletin in the foyer and we all got our part. I was telling the children's story.
My puppy had a million toy's, more than any dog should ever have and definitely more than any deserves. But she had one in particular that she loved like her life depended on it. It was, at one time, a grey wolf, with white tufts of fur on it's ears and stomach and bright blue eyes. But at this point it was an ugly mangled shell, all of it's stuffing was ripped out, it was missing an eye, it's fur was hard and dirty from Daisy chewing on it constantly, and it smelled like rotten Purina puppy chow. Daisy didn't care though, she would just lay on her pillow and chew on that thing day in and day out.
I woke up Saturday morning and realized I had completely forgotten about telling those kid's a story. Church started at 9:00 am and we were walking out of the house when I saw Daisy's ugly wolf sitting next to my brothers really cute Ty beanie baby, Tuffy. "Don't judge a book by it's cover" popped into my mind, so I grabbed those animals and took 'em to church to teach those kid's a life lesson.
My dad never comes to church. Some other things my dad never does is think, close the door to our house, or put our dog on a leash. Later that afternoon when we pulled into our drive-way my littlest brother ran full speed into my mothers arms. He was balling his eyes out, choking on his own breath and just screaming nonsense. Then out walks my father.
"Dog's dead.", he says, completely emotionless.
My brother catches his breath, looks at me and screams at the top of his lungs, "AND IT'S YOUR FAULT!"
At this point tears are running down every member of my family's face, and every member of my family is facing me.
"How is it my fault?", I asked.
"Well," my dad matter-of-factly replied, "you took Daisy's toy. If she had the toy she would have layed on her pillow, but since you had it she ran outside when I left the door open and got hit by a car."
Then my mom glanced at me, shook her head, yelled out a jumble of curse words and stormed into the house. Slowly the rest of my family followed her lead. As they did my youngest brother turned and screamed one last thing to me..."I HATE YOU!! YOU KILLED OUR DOG!"
Well Daisy, I hate you and you killed yourself. Luckily for me animals don't have souls.