Tapestry 07: “When the Peas Are Le Sueur, But the Pain Is Real”
By the time Lil Scrappy entered our lives, I’d already learned how to sustain without adult intervention. It was evident that I was the only one qualified to navigate this terrain in a way that made accommodation for me. The chanteuse meant well. I’d surveilled her inner and outer workings enough to know she didn’t have the capacity to curate a life that aligned with my desires. She assessed and addressed my primitive needs as any mother would. Grateful.
Ready to nosedive?
Scrap was about 6’3, 300 pounds. Think wifebeaters and Timberlands. An absolute fool and seldom employed. To my shock—not shock, but complete dismay—I came home from school to find them hugged up in the living room, announcing their marriage as I walked into the house. As you’d presume, absolutely no conference with me on this matter. I acknowledged it and pressed on to my lab to document my findings and attempt to make contact with my real family through energetic distress signals.
Three days later.
I don’t know how it began, but it was a Friday evening, 8:17 PM. He and the chanteuse were in a heated dispute in the front yard. My senses flared, yet I remained stoic. Tension had built to a visible fog. I assessed the environment: food was done but not served, sisters completely engulfed in TGIF marathon, unaware. I’d been observing the chanteuse growing in aggravation and impatience with Scrap over the past few weeks. She wasn’t one for having her space crowded. He violated the 2 hour, 37-minute post-work bra removal ritual regularly. That’s dangerous movement. That’s how ignorant this man was. I wondered how long she’d shift and accommodate his gruff and inconsiderate behavior. Typically, she’d lynch a violator on the first or second offense. But this man? He kept pushing. I knew it was only a matter of time.
And then it came. Violent. We saw the whole thing. I remember it like it happened 20 minutes ago.
My energy surged higher than it ever had in my entire life. Threat was rapidly approaching, and I was unprepared. I was 11, with a squad of sisters who fought over scrunchies—and I was completely unarmed. I was certainly the man of this house because the mammal could never. I stayed in the house, trying to ground my energy to think clearly and prepare my next move. She screamed. I reacted.
It happened so fast. I saw the scene. She was down. All the way down. He was unrelenting. We scrambled for spatulas and broomsticks. By the time the squad mobilized for attack, it was over. The damage was done. He finished her. And with her, my hope for humanity. Helplessly witnessing your lifeline bloodied and bruised in real time is an irreparable experience. He did his carnage and left us to pick up the pieces. Aunties and Junebugs were called. I’ve held the shards of resentment for his demise ever since.
If you haven’t figured out how the chanteuse moves yet, you’re about to.
She even shook your boy on this one.
This motherfucker was back at the house the next week! He pulled up with a brand new Dodge Intrepid, forest green, for her and dangled Red Lobster and a movie in our faces. I was furious. Ferociously furious. At him. At her. And at these sisters for entertaining this bullshit. I strengthened my signal to the mainland to the highest octave. Surely, I’m being picked up any day now. This can’t be for real.
It remains one of the most difficult silences I’ve ever held. I tolerated. Bitterly.
A few days later, May 6th, 1998, the chanteuse came to pick me up from school early.
Uhhh... that never happens. And of course, she hadn’t given me a heads-up. Her face was far from healed, and I knew her internal rhythm looked worse than her skin. I’d stayed out of her and that baboon’s way all week. I anticipated being beamed up any day now. She persisted, the way she always did: getting shit done.
It was around 12:42 in the afternoon. She was still in her baby powder blue scrubs from her medical office job, wearing dark sunglasses (not Celine, but I liked to imagine they were—I mean, if you’re going to be distressed, do it with a little chic, right?).
Anyway, she checks me out of school and we begin running errands. Complete silence. It’s a rainy day, as it often is in South Florida. The streets are quiet. The rain is creating a mist in the air, rising from the heat of the pavement. At least he got leather seats in the Intrepid.
As we turned onto Broward, my concern grew. I knew her mental state was fragile, but I didn’t know how far gone. We’d gone to Walmart and picked up garbage bags, ties, string, cleaning supplies, a gas can—random shit. No explanations.
I didn’t quite know why I was there. It was clear this wasn’t a doctor’s appointment. I started cycling through theories, trying to help my mind make sense of it all so I could settle my energy. There was no Q&A planned for this school pickup. I always hated that she never provided opportunity for that.
It dawned on me: she’d snapped.
I don’t know why I was the target. Maybe she thought I knew too much. Maybe she thought I was judging her. Maybe she thought I was supposed to protect her. Maybe she thought I should’ve stopped her from acknowledging his "Aye" a few months ago. Maybe she thought all men were shit now. Maybe she’d lost her grip entirely.
But the vibe? It was giving bury me in a ditch somewhere.
I quietly etched “Help Me” with my index finger through the fog on the window, hoping a passerby would intervene.
Our errands culminated in us pulling up to the driveway of our vestibule in one piece. Without looking at me, she said:
"We’re moving tomorrow. Atlanta. Don’t tell anyone, including your sisters."
I took the deepest breath of my life and said, "Okay." My birthday was tomorrow. I’d planned to wear my tartan chinos and oxblood, cashmeresque cardigan to commemorate. Something told me that wasn’t going to happen.
She made cubed steak and mashed potatoes that night. The peas were Le Sueur. A nice upgrade. But I knew better.
What else do you need from me, dear Jesus? I’m not quite sure what I did to be placed in this predicament, but I’m trying to get it together.
Please make it clear.
Christopher.
