Being the youngest I naturally fell
victim to my brother's dumb ass plans. No matter what he said, I
did. I felt I had to be loyal to him, seeing he had more experience on
this earth with my parents than I had. Trusting that he'd never
steer me wrong kept my young ears alert to whatever he told me to do.
My loyalties to him changed after the Crayola Crayon
incident. We were playing in our room when he came
up with the stupid idea that should I stick crayons up my nose.
"Wow, that sounds like fun, Ronny," were my innocent childlike
words in return. I began with longer crayons, sticking one up each nostril,
and graduated down to shorter crayons, laughing and hopping around the
room the entire time. In the middle of my jumping around like an idiotic kaleidoscope my mother called for us to come down for dinner,"
My brother ran out of the room. He left me without bothering to see the end of my show. Food is definitely the way to a man's heart and it begins with childhood. I couldn't move
until I took the crayons out of my nose. Although I thought idiotic kaleidoscope was worthy of an opening night on Broadway, somehow I also thought my mother wouldn't be as amused. I hurriedly pushed my six year old fingers up my nostrils to retrieve the short crayons, one came out with ease but the other one wanted an encore. I frantically grasped and
instead of pulling it out, I pushed it farther up. It was a wrap for my six year old composure then. Terror screams
filled our house as I blared my young lungs to their full capacity.
"Niecy! What the hell is wrong with you? Get
your ass down here now!"
The form I chose to panic in pissed my father off, and with the way he gave butt whoopin's, there was no way I was moving. I hopped around with bulging eyes trying to get the crayon out of my nose, but my efforts were to no avail. Hearing my father summon me again made my brother come back into the room, grab my hand, and drag me down the stairs kicking and screaming all the way.
The form I chose to panic in pissed my father off, and with the way he gave butt whoopin's, there was no way I was moving. I hopped around with bulging eyes trying to get the crayon out of my nose, but my efforts were to no avail. Hearing my father summon me again made my brother come back into the room, grab my hand, and drag me down the stairs kicking and screaming all the way.
"Alice! Get the
tweezers! The chile done stuck crayons up her nose!" were
the next words that came from my father as he flipped me over his
lap while trying to contain my flailing body.
"Hold still dammit! Hold still!"
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
"Hold still dammit! Hold still!"
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
I'm lucky he didn't decide to shake them loose instead. My mother held my forehead and arms while my father used the technique of a brain surgeon. My nose is wide, but damn, it's that wide? It can hold a crayon, tweezers and snot? We all were in a panic, but my father removed the crayons and finished with the one statement that hurt my heart.
"Throw all of them gotdamn crayons out! I don't ever want to see another crayon in this house!"
A child without crayons? How can that be? No crayons? Tragic! I sobbed in silence as I watched my mother throw my entire collection of broken and tattered crayons away. My father meant what he said, too. He NEVER bought me a box of crayons again. In school I went hard with the crayons, knowing that I wouldn't get to smell or feel them for at least 24 hours. The weekends were brutal. Drawing stick people in pencil is torture I tell ya! Pure torture!
When I was thirteen I sat at the table and did a homework project using colored pencils. My father approached with irritated wonderment and asked the one question I wished I could give him a positive answer to.
"Them ain't no crayons are they?"
"No, Daddy. These are colored pencils."
My father was serious about the no crayon declaration. He squeezed my shoulder, smiled and walked away. I guess he thought if I was still sticking crayons up my nose at thirteen it would only be a matter of time before I tried the hard stuff. Erasers and rubber cement would surely clog my big ass nostrils.
To this very day I have an undying love for a new box of Crayola Crayons. I love the colors, the smell, and can't wait until I can fill up a coloring book. Purple, blue and red...ahhhh, I luv ya crayon! Dasia has 3 boxes that she hasn't touched yet. I hope I'm not a crayon junkie. Crayola Crayons anyone?
I luv you
"Throw all of them gotdamn crayons out! I don't ever want to see another crayon in this house!"
A child without crayons? How can that be? No crayons? Tragic! I sobbed in silence as I watched my mother throw my entire collection of broken and tattered crayons away. My father meant what he said, too. He NEVER bought me a box of crayons again. In school I went hard with the crayons, knowing that I wouldn't get to smell or feel them for at least 24 hours. The weekends were brutal. Drawing stick people in pencil is torture I tell ya! Pure torture!
When I was thirteen I sat at the table and did a homework project using colored pencils. My father approached with irritated wonderment and asked the one question I wished I could give him a positive answer to.
"Them ain't no crayons are they?"
"No, Daddy. These are colored pencils."
My father was serious about the no crayon declaration. He squeezed my shoulder, smiled and walked away. I guess he thought if I was still sticking crayons up my nose at thirteen it would only be a matter of time before I tried the hard stuff. Erasers and rubber cement would surely clog my big ass nostrils.
To this very day I have an undying love for a new box of Crayola Crayons. I love the colors, the smell, and can't wait until I can fill up a coloring book. Purple, blue and red...ahhhh, I luv ya crayon! Dasia has 3 boxes that she hasn't touched yet. I hope I'm not a crayon junkie. Crayola Crayons anyone?
I luv you
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