The rules are: Once you have been tagged, you have to write a blog with 10 weird random things, facts, or habits about yourself. At the end, you chose 10 people to be tagged and list their names. Dont forget to leave a comment that says "you are tagged" on their profile and tell them to read your latest blog. "

 

1.  My mother and father came up with my name totally independently, which is how they knew it was the right name for me.

 

2.  I used to pass out for no apparent reason starting when I was 12 and ending my senior year in HS.  Despite numerous trips to the hospital, they never figured out why.

 

3.  My best friend is the result of a bloodline.  Our fathers were best friends since they were young.

 

4.  I collect S. American, African and Indonesian masks.

 

5.  My first car was a Ford Probe.

 

6.  I could sing the chorus of both "Beat It" and "Purple Rain" before I could sing my ABCs.

 

7  The majority of music I listen to currently is in languages I cannot understand.

 

8.  My first celebrity crush was Wynona Rider in Beetlejuice. 

 

9.  I have a birthmark on my upper right arm (where a tattoo would be) that looked like lip prints when I was little.  My mom called it "God's Kiss".  Now that I'm grown, it looks like the British Isles upside down.

 

10. I began going gray at 16.  I will be totally gray by 30. 

 

Random enough? 

 

Here's my list:  Nathan, Kat, Phil, Steve, Erika, Vic, Kylozo, Matt, Lulu and The Gray Land.

My parents never did much to stunt my interest in rap as a youth.  In fact, my father introduced me to a lot of it.  I grew up on West Coast rap; the OGs of Death Row Records telling me all about how drug dealing can and will eventually lead to a lifestyle worthy of envy.  I listened to the lyrics.  Did radio executives really think a 12 yr old suburbanite wouldn't know what "Lean, mean money-makin' machines servin' fiends" meant?  The videos, full of half naked women, ridiculously gaudy jewelry and cars you never actually see on the street were seductive and mesmerizing.  What kid wouldn't want to take whatever steps were necessary to get where those people were? 

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Upon moving into THE apartment, there was nothing to suggest that those videos and songs were misleading in the least.  Lexus and Cadillac were the preferred vehicle of dealers in my neck of the woods, and there were several parked in our lot.  As for women?  A fair amount of what I assumed to be the customer base was comprised of good looking women that were always dressed like they were headed to the club.  Both of the younger dealers that lived upstairs had a never-ending supply of new clothing, always name brand and perfectly coordinated.  Slightly more modest with their jewelry than I might have expected, each young man had a chain necklace, bracelet and pair of diamond earrings.  This remained consistent. 

 

Eventually, I came to meet their "connect", a young man who went by the nickname "..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Yukon".  This young man confirmed the assertions of those many rap videos.  He pulled up in a sporty Lexus, windows tinted so darkly I had to wonder if it was legal, silver in colour with metallic flakes in the paint.  This flashy body sat on 20" chrome "spinners" and the ultimate in premium wheels.  Yukon would step out dressed to the hilt – if not an expensive suit, ultra high-end "casuals".  He was hardly a day older than me, yet, aside from his obviously lucrative drug trade, he was in the real estate business and owned a small record company.  So far, everything the rap videos touted appeared to be pretty accurate.

 

Like all good things, however, this would eventually meet its end.  My's growing drug habit combined with his over zealous sales tactics caused him to be sloppy.  The guy would sell to anyone who had money.  His regular use of the drugs meant that they were not secured or hidden.  His heavy traffic meant there were always people coming in and out.  Because he sold to just about anyone, it was impossible for him to determine friend from foe, and because he fed a few habits, it was guaranteed that the quality of individual was not terribly high.  We are not talking just drug addicts, here; we're talking drug addicts that have no problem setting up shop and leeching from another addict.  All these factors combined created myriad problems. 

 

The least dangerous of these problems was fidelity.  Remember My's wife, Maria?  She had been hooked on cocaine by her husband.  Maria, who grew up in a wealthy family in Vietnam was all but disowned when she decided to marry My and move to the States.  She had a very pleasant disposition, but was uneducated and worked a menial job in a factory that offered no health benefits.  She became injured and quit working.  My's business was successful enough that she didn't have to.  Unfortunately, this injury caused her pain.  She explained to me, in her very broken English, that My posed the cocaine to her as "medicine".  When she used it, it did indeed cease her pain, but she had no idea what price she would pay for that relief. 

 

Maria quickly tumbled down the slope of addiction.  Her pleasant disposition became that of reclusiveness; her modest good looks began to fade at an exponential rate.  In a fit of rage brought on by intoxication, she took scissors to her hair, cutting it short and uneven.  Horrified by this during a brief respite of sobriety, she decided to dawn a beanie.  She became ugly in every aspect, both physically and emotionally.  The descent was truly painful to watch.  As if watching this wonderful woman become an embittered person weren't stabbing enough, the blade had yet to be turned. 

 

We began noticing two rather attractive young women begin to visit more frequently.  One was tall, blonde, slim and fairly glamourous.  The other was also tall and slim, but brunette and more exotic looking.  It was plain as day to see what was going on – My had acquired himself a couple of coke whores.  As time progressed, they came over more and more frequently, even seemed to be staying over night.  Before not too long, there was only one, the blond.  She stayed over frequently, even though Maria spiraled into despair and possibly, insanity in the back bedroom. 

 

It was hard to tell how My's boys felt about this young woman, only a couple of years their senior, who was openly sleeping with their dad for drugs.  Thye had become so immersed in the lifestyle, I wonder if they even cared.  I had certainly developed some opinions of my own…Yeah, I was that guy, that guy who glares when she'd walk by; that guy who'd "cough" things like "Crack whore!" when she was around.  I let her know in my own less-than-subtle way that we knew what was up, and we thought it was deplorable.  After all, I had lived beneath these people for a year now.  I had gotten to know them and developed relationships with them.  In a weird way, they were all friends of mine.  The pain and anger Maria exhibited as a result of the situation was so distressing that I couldn't help but lash out on occasion. 

 

It was about this time that things really started to go down the tube.  My was using his own product heavily by now.  The Lexus had been repossessed.  He had a number of leeches staying with him.  He was open for business 24 hours a day, and the repercussions were clear. 

 

One such repercussion occurred at approximately 7:00AM on a Sunday morning.  One of his leeches, a white kid we liked to call "slack-jaw boy" because he was a mouth-breather and a moron, answered My's door.  Two young men were on the other side, asking for drugs.  Slack-jaw boy told them they were out and to go away.  Not pleased with this answer, the young men called him outside.  They engaged in a heavy round of "shit talking" before Slack-jaw boy decided to heed their request.  Saying things like "I run these streets, bitches!", he obviously believed he had an upper hand.  Remember, I did note that he was a moron. 

 

It was upon descent of the stairs that the battle commenced.  I happened to have a room full of young girls sleeping in my living room at the time (some sort of celebration regarding my little sister).  They had been woken by the loud shit talking, heard the scuffle break out and promptly went to the window only to witness Slack-jaw boy getting owned by these other two young men.  He eventually fell face-down into the gravel that runs along the side of each building, coming to rest immediately below my living room window. 

 

Shocked, one of the girls came to my bedroom door to wake us.  Mike threw some clothes on and went to see what the concern was.  The girls hurried him to the window outside of which Slack-jaw boy laid, face-down, unconscious, bloodied and with torn clothes.  Mike immediately grabbed the phone and called 911.  He then went outside to make sure the kid was still alive and to instruct him not to move if he came-to.  We couldn't stand Slack-jaw boy, but we hadn't been in the hood so long that we would just leave him to maybe recover on his own. 

 

As we should have expected, however, our efforts were in vain.  He came-to, picked himself up and brushed himself off and headed upstairs in an unstable fashion.  When the police and medics arrived, he neglected to file a report and refused medical attention.  He recessed back into the apartment where he hid in shame for a few days.  I can't say I felt much pity for him. 

 

This particular incident hailed the beginning of the end.  My was the victim of a pretty brazen armed robbery during our time there, and had taken steps to prevent it in the future.  One such measure was the cutting of a hole in the metal security door just large enough to slip drugs out and money in.  No, that's not obvious; not at all.  Now, while this would make it a great deal more difficult for a would-be robber to enter, we came to find out that it did not deter them from trying. 

 

Mike, Veenie and I were hanging out in the living room one afternoon when we heard what sounded like a stampede coming down the stairs.  Curious and thinking someone might have fallen, Mike exits the apartment, myself and my sister close behind him.  That's when we see it; a little punk is running with an accomplice from the house and exclaims "What up, Blood?" and opens fire on a car that has just pulled up…a car containing My's youngest son among other occupants.  Well, we're not talking about Sesame Street drug dealers, here, and the driver of the car returns fire.  Not that I've seen any of this, of course – the second I heard the first shot ring out, I grabbed my little sister and rushed into the bathroom, the center-most room in the house, pushing her down on the floor and laying on top of her. 

 

This whole scenario took maybe 30 seconds from the second we heard them running down the stairs until we heard the last shot pop off.  Convinced that all is calm, I stand up, helping my sister off the floor and order her to stay inside while I pop out to see what's happened.  Mike is already out there checking my car for damage.  Luckily, we only find a shell casing near it and no bullet holes.  We also see no blood, which is a good sign.  Of course, everyone involved has scattered at this point.  Cops show up, no one cooperates; they threaten to come back with a warrant.  Standard hood business. 

 

It is not long before two of the biggest cops I've ever seen in my life arrive.  They are from the gang unit of the SPD.  They had heard about what happened and wanted to locate the gun that had been used to fire back on the would-be robbers.  Mike and I are outside smoking when I hear one enormous cops boom in a deep voice, "My, we don't care about the weed.  We just want to talk to you!"  I damn near choke.  My apparently buys it and comes to the door, even lets them in after a moment. 

 

The huge policemen eventually leave empty-handed.  I'm shocked.  How can police go into that house and not arrest anyone?  They've got to know that they are walking on a carpet of powder and surrounded by stolen items.  It's okay, I know they'll be back to collect. 

 

…And they most certainly were.  A few months after the shooting, Mike and I were sleeping soundly in bed when we are woken by a bright flash of light and an explosion.  We jump up and look out the window, where we see a police officer in full SWAT gear holding and M 16 and waiting, I assumed, for drugs to start dropping from the windows above us.  That's when we hear the second flash-bang grenade detonate in the bedroom above my sister's.  We start looking out more windows only to see men like the one standing outside of our bedroom everywhere. 

 

They tear off the security door and use a battering ram to gain entry into the unit.  Chaos erupts.  People are screaming, toilets are flushing, police are yelling at people to get down.  Soon we see people zip-tied and laid down on the cement walkways outside.  We come to find out that My wasn't even there.  His wife and both his sons get arrested instead.  They are all released by the end of the weekend of shortly thereafter, but everything has to change. 

 

My, who was never apprehended as a result of the raid, relocated to a nearby house.  Maria left for California to stay with her sister and help with her beauty salon.  We still see both Joseph and Peter fairly regularly.  Joseph impregnated his girlfriend and I'm not sure if they still live with their father. 

 

The moral to the story?  When you hear a rapper talking about "the game" and the success that resulted from it, you can bet on one of two things:  Either they're blowing a lot of smoke up our asses, or they were a hell of a lot luckier than you can count on being.  Do not buy into the hype.  Drug dealing is a business suited only for those who have absolutely nothing to lose, including their soul. 

In the beginning, it was funny to me.  Here I was, located in a slum of an apartment building, and everything was so goddamn stereotypical.  Mothers on welfare, children running around without shoes, thugs playing craps on the cement walk-way outside my apartment.  Conversely, my Pier 1/Ikea interior reminded those who saw it that we were foreigners to this environment.  This made us a target.

 

The first time we got robbed, it was amazing to me.  For you to completely understand, let me paint a picture of my surroundings.  As mentioned previously, my apartment faces an alley.  The parking lot is between my apartment and the alley.  There is one space per unit, and one visitor spot.  There are 12 units total in three separate buildings.  Each building is exactly the same, with 4 apartments – one on top facing east (alley) one on bottom facing east, one on top facing west (busy street), one on bottom facing east.  I am located in the middle building on the bottom facing the alley.  My porch consists of a slab of concrete that extends out just past the staircase of my upstairs neighbour, maybe five feet total.  This concrete runs under the staircase and connects to a sidewalk between the buildings.  About two feet past the concrete, there is a wooden terrace of sorts between the two sets of stairs that lead from the parking lot to the sidewalks.  Total amount of space between my front door and my parking spot:  About 10 feet. 

 

Upon moving in, I decided I was going to embrace my surroundings.  I was NOT going to give up my BBQ no matter how much drug traffic was outside.  I never stopped entertaining, either.  I placed my Weber in the dirt between the concrete walkway and the terrace.  When friends would come over, we would all perch ourselves in various spots along this terrace around the BBQ.  Good times.  This particular summer evening, my boyfriend and I were barbequing.  We were in and out every couple of minutes, grabbing items from inside and coming out to check on the meat.  We would even leave our door open from time to time. 

 

Once we were done cooking, I went out to my car to get something, only to notice that my stereo had been stolen.  Understand, drug addicts have balls like none other.  They are driven like vampires by an unquenchable thirst, and this causes them to take risks a reasonable human being would not.  It was apparent that the thief had broken into my car during a two or three minute window when we were inside.  Slapped by the shock of being robbed and floored by the skill and audacity of the thief, I could only shake my head and smile. 

 

When I was done smiling (didn't take long), I marched upstairs to let My and his gang know to look out for my stereo.  I knew one of their customers had yanked it, so it would likely turn back up there.  They immediately offered me a replacement stereo.  Nice and all, but that wasn't the point.  I wanted the fucker who took my shit to give it back.  I managed to rile My and Peter up about it, suggesting that whoever did this to me obviously had no respect for them, because the thief had to know that the situation would put me at odds with My and Peter, and frankly, we were the only thing keeping that entire family out of jail.  My assured me that something would be done about the situation.  I left less than satisfied, but better off that I was initially.

 

The next day, we ran onto a guy named Jay.  He was a favourite of mine when it came to the customers.  He was of Arab descent, tall, good-looking, well-mannered, well dressed, and very friendly with a wonderful sense of humour.  He approaches me with an unusually serious look on his face.  He proceeds to tell me that he saw someone in my car last night.  Knowing that we entertain often and noticing that the window wasn't broken or anything, he didn't think anything of it at the time.  Apparently, Peter mentioned to him what happened, and he thought he'd drop by and let me know. 

 

Long story short, My paid me back for the theft in full, including the cost of replacing the stereo by a professional.  He said he'd recoup the cost from the kid that took it, but I don't know that it ever happened.  The kid's accomplice (the snitch we got info from) became a regular sight around the complex.  His name was Derrick, but we called him "Slack-jaw".  Over the course of the next few months, he and I got into more than a couple confrontations.  He just couldn't seem to understand that yes, I would indeed hold the theft of my stereo against him, even though he didn't physically remove it himself.  It's called guilt by association.  Because he stood there and did nothing while his friend stole, he will endure the brunt of my anger, and he will fucking deal with it. 

 

This episode was nothing, however.  The mild frustration that accompanies a minor car burglary does not compare to the rage and insecurity that you experience after coming home to your house being ransacked.  Yes, the second time we got robbed, people actually entered our house.  Lucky for them, we were not home at the time.  Lucky for us, they were witnessed.

 

You see, because my unit is on ground level, the apartment gets ridiculously hot during the summer time.  Certainly, we knew better than to leave our windows open in a hood like this.  However, if we had to rush out the door, it was not always feasible to do a complete check of the windows.  If it looked shut, we would sometimes assume that it was shut.  However, this was not always the case.

 

On this particular afternoon, Mike and I had just arrived home after running some errands to find my sister in complete astonishment.  We asked what was wrong, and she simply pointed to our room.  She attempted to get some words out, but they weren't coherent.  Mike and I walked over to our room wondering what she could possibly be on about.  The second we opened the door to our bedroom, our wonder was no more. 

 

It looked just like it might in a movie.  Our mattress was askew, drawers were pulled out, some over turned on the floor.  Clothes were strewn everywhere.  To our amazement, our room had been tossed.  The strange thing was that it didn't look like anyone had taken anything.  I had antique jewelry that had not been touched.  I had an expensive CD player and CDs that remained.  What could they have been looking for?  Well, as we began to put our bedroom back together and examine the rest of the house, it became apparent.

 

As we surveyed out room, we realized that there were four shot bottles of various liquor gone, a half ounce of pot as well as a change jar and a bong.  Those sons of bitches stole my beautiful bong.  That right there was an unforgivable offense.  Upon returning to the living room, we discovered that our PS2 was gone.  There were 10 brand new, top of the line games sitting right there, none of which were gone.  Shit…they were worth more than the damn PS2.  It was then that we realized that we were dealing with kids.  They weren't looking to rob us blind or get a big return from the pawn shop – they were just looking for fun.  My sister had the thought to look in the fridge.  Nothing gone from the fridge, but the freezer was missing a bottle of pineapple flavoured Malibu rum (they didn't bother with the unopened fifth of Skyy Vodka), a box of taquitos and a package of hot dogs.  Those fuckers had the audacity to steal our taquitos?!?  Some gotdamn taquitos.  Were they serious? 

 

This changed my whole outlook on the situation.  After a good, hearty laugh about the missing taquitos, I didn't know whether or not to be angry with them or pity them.  I mean, if they had to steal food from our freezer, they were probably in pretty bad shape.  Should I really be so angry at people who are this bad off?  After all, they could have pocketed all that expensive jewelry and they chose not to. 

 

Well, standard procedure in this situation is to inquire upstairs.  Find out if anyone heard anything or seen anything.  We walked out the door only to find Dylan sitting on the terrace outside.  We told him what happened.  Before we could finish, he told us that he knew.  He had seen the whole thing.  He was sitting in the back of the broken down Cadillac sitting next to my car in the parking lot smoking a bowl.  After it had happened, he ran upstairs.  My told him not to call the cops.  Since he didn't have a phone of his own, that was that. 

 

Apparently, there were three of them, one male and two females.  The male got through our bedroom window, came around front and let the girls in.  They were only in there for a couple of minutes.  They had locked the door behind them and exited out a window.  As the girls were standing out front, one said to the other, "Don't worry, we've been in here before."  Had they?  There was never any evidence.  Perhaps she had said it to calm the nerves of her friend.  Maybe they really had been in there before.  I mean, if we can get robbed in broad daylight with people watching, anything was possible, right? 

 

We asked if he recognized them.  Indeed, he did.  They were the hood rats from behind us.  The gal that lived behind us was a young, single, black mother.  I'd had several run ins with her in the past.  She was as ghetto and ignorant as an individual can get.  She let several young ghetto children stay with her – kids from 15 to 25 – none of which seemed to have anyone to care about them.  Not that Tenicia did much better. 

 

We then asked if he would be willing to talk to the cops for us.  No suck luck.  In the ghetto, even the good guys have warrants.  We were still going to call the cops, though.  Maybe they were lazy enough to leave fingerprints.  Either way, the event would be recorded, and although our testimony would be no good, the cops would still make a record of who we thought did it. 

 

The cops showed up fairly quickly.  The one good thing about my neighbourhood is the location of the nearest police station, about three blocks down the street.  Two young officers knocked on our door.  We let them in, and one of them said the funniest thing:  "Huh.  We didn't know that decent people lived here.  You've got a lovely apartment."  It stuck me as humourous, anyway.  He proceeded to tell us that this complex was notorious with the SPD.  He said that my complex, along with one next door and one across the street, is about as rough as it gets in Seattle.  As if we hadn't figured that out already. 

 

I remained in the living room with the other officer while he and Mike went into the bedroom to look for prints.  I told the officer all that I knew, that there had been witnesses, but they couldn't talk to the police.  The officer informed me that we could make them talk to the police, but I wasn't interested.  I knew who did it, and that was really all that mattered. 

 

Unfortunately, they found no physical evidence.  Oh well, after they day we had, we hardly expected to get lucky in that respect.  The officers left, and we settled in for the evening. 

 

Over the next few days, we dealt with myriad emotions.  I wasn't sure how to take it.  To be robbed is one thing.  To be robbed by the people who's bedroom wall is your bedroom wall is entirely another.  These people were neighbours, and because of that, we had no real recourse.  Well, that and the fact that the gal who lived there had a young child.  The neighbourhood had turned me, but not that far. 

 

We did learn our lesson, though.  Several, really.  Don't feel safe in broad daylight.  Don't feel safe in a populated area.  Don't trust your neighbours.  Just because people witness a crime does not mean anyone will pay.  Oh, and most importantly, shake it off.  The ability to hold fast and true to your morals will give you far greater piece of mind than the satisfaction of self-administered justice.  The universe does indeed tend to unfold as it should.  Just months later, Tenisha got evicted, got her kid taken away, and got beat by some guy (not that I condone such behaviour) for acting up.  Good times. 

 

While the robberies did provide some much needed hardening, they could not even begin to prepare us for the shootings that would take place over the months to come...

I'm headed south-bound.  For the last couple of months, I have been traveling in the same mundane darkness.  The head and tail lights supplied the only sparkle during these trips, and frankly, I'm unimpressed.  Today, however, marks the beginning of a long missed, exciting sequence of events.

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I journey south toward the looming, majestic ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Mt. Rainier.  It is just light enough for me to make out the slopes of brilliant white snow.  There is still plenty there.  The purple hues that comprise the shadows on the mountain accent those slopes beautifully.  With a faint layer of fog blanketing the base of the mountain, it is a scene that only the most adept producers recreate on screen.  The fear of death is the only thing powerful enough to keep my eyes on the road. 

 

To the east, I see the blessed sun testing the sky, sharply defining those arrogant mountains that briefly stand between it and its impending glory.  No worries – the powerful shades of violet, mauve and cyan that cloak the sky are simply a tease – a display of what the most central character in the known world is capable of.  Like the morning version of shooting stars, jets leave their impressions on the canvas.  As I glance from mirror to mirror, I catch a glimmer of light in the rear view.  It draws me back to it just as soon as the other two mirrors receive attention. 

 

It is astounding.  A single building, nestled among many more cold buildings and set against a cool blue background, is lit up by the approaching sun, displaying a stunning bravado that would steal the spotlight from flame itself.  Does it dare mock fire?  It certainly does, surpassing its brilliance in the process.  Its shine is bold, almost vulgar, taunting the reflective qualities of the water that waits patiently for its chance to entertain the light that will soon dance upon its surface.  Like a most rare Padparadscha sapphire set ablaze by the sun, a camera is incapable of accurately maintaining the many facets of golds, pinks, and orange.  No, this is a sight that one can only hope to experience first hand.

 

And just like that, it began.  The quiet excitement that sits deep inside me is familiar, as it visits me annually.  I smile, because I know that any one of the days in the months to follow is capable of bestowing upon me one of the most spectacular treasures life can offer:  The sunset. 

 

The day before moving in to our new apartment, Mike and I took a walk through the apartment and the area.  When I was a kid, I was lucky enough to have a diverse group of friends.  I attended a school not far from the neighbourhood we were moving into.  I had friends of just about every ethnic background.  Despite this, I am aware of the prejudice I carry.  I am not exempt from stereotyping.  After all, I believe stereotypes exist for a reason. 

 

I mention this because, during our walk through the area, I realized that, while the complex was predominantly black, we would have a family of Asian bloods living above us.  This made me very nervous.  So nervous, in fact, that I vaguely recall saying, “Oh good.  Black folks” to Mike that day.  I knew what to expect from black gang members.  I had a game plan for them already…throw a BBQ (my BBQ skills rival that of the best soul food joint in town), and essentially, offer them a deal.  They offer me the protection of gang “affiliation”, i.e. they will make sure their friends do not rob or jump me, and in return, I will offer them the protection that only an upstanding, educated white girl like myself can:  I will talk to the police for them when requested.  This will suggest to them that I’m not a snitch, so my car won’t get vandalized every time someone calls the cops. 

 

The Asians, on the other hand, were going to be a whole other story, or so I thought. 

 

Move in day, August 27^th, 2003.  Luckily, the apartment was located only a couple miles from the house in W. Seattle, so we wouldn’t rack up a lot of U-haul mileage.  I finished up some cleaning back at the house while Mike drove the truck to the apartment to unload.  When I met him at the apartment, I was surprised to see neighbours actually helping out.  I thought to myself “This won’t be that bad after all, I suppose”.  I climbed out of my car and walked over to the truck, hoping to introduce myself to this helpful neighbour.  To my amazement, I found that he was one of the Bloods from upstairs.  The $100 bill tattooed on his right forearm was unmistakable – he was a 26^th St. OBZ (Oriental Boyz), which we eventually learned was a clique more money-oriented than violence.  Thank god. 

 

Over the next month, we got to know our upstairs neighbours quite well.  We really had no choice in the matter.  The black folk that I had so hoped to be friendly with wanted nothing to do with us as a result of our obvious interaction with the Asians.  Crazy, isn’t it?  People actually live like this!  Rival gangs and all that bullshit!  Unbelievable.  Our upstairs neighbours (My, Maria, Peter and Joseph) turned out to be great people!  They were Vietnamese.  Grandma cooked fabulous lumpia, which we got plenty of.  Yes, they were bribing us.  The neighbours had essentially enacted my plan for the black folk with us instead.  “Why” became painfully clear.

 

My was an immigrant from Vietnam and the father of three children.  He was an accomplished drug dealer with very broken English and a fabulous sense of humour.  He had a knack for working on cars, especially when it came to stereo equipment.  From the day I moved in, I would never have to go to Car Toys again for as long as My was around.  He had a friendly but reserved wife named Maria.  We didn’t see her often, as she worked long hours in a shop downtown (can we say sweatshop?  I’m thinking so).  When we did see her, however, she always had a bright smile on her face. 

 

Their two sons were interesting fellows.  Both gang affiliated, Joseph was 14 when we met him while Peter was 17.  Joseph was always decked out in red clothing with the price tags still hanging on.  He was, by far, the best dressed 14 yr old I had ever met from a money-spent point of view.  Peter had a similar wardrobe and drove a Lexus sedan.  It was surprisingly low-key; the only modification was a set of chrome rims.  No spinners, no crazy lights, no hydraulics…Smart kid.  Nice boys, really, despite their business.  Always polite, respectful and helpful, it was easy to forget that each of them had their own sprawling customer base. 

 

My beloved neighbours sold everything just short of babies.  I do mean everything.  Bikes, cars, car stereo equipment, CDs, DVDs, guns, jewelry; anything you might find in a pawn shop, really.  The real money maker, however, was the drugs, from A to Z.  If they didn’t have what you were looking for, they could find it in a matter of hours, often, even less than that.  And they were always busy.  Lord, were they busy.  It was not uncommon to come home to a line of people all the way down the stairs.  Cars parked everywhere, from spectacular-looking Lexus sports cars down to Pintos with rust-coloured exteriors and hub caps that didn’t match. 

 

Many of these customers paid us no mind, and we offered them the same nonchalance in return.  A few were mischievous; trouble makers, certainly, but no threat to our safety.  Like rats, they would scurry around and pose an annoyance, occasionally destroying property or spreading trash, but I knew that if I jumped at them, they would scatter.  After some time, it became obvious that the focus upstairs had shifted to ‘whites’, and the folks began to sample their own product.  Misery loves company, so a couple of these trouble makers became part of the scenery.

 

One such character was a young man named Dylan, a decent looking young man with a vicious coke addiction.  There was a certain feral aspect about him that attracted my younger sister immediately.  I found myself to be intrigued by the unpredictable nature of his behaviour, so while I kept a close eye, I kind of encouraged my sister’s attempts to befriend him.  The boy acted kind of like a beaten but hungry dog.  You’ve undoubtedly run into one – scraggily and maybe a bit unkempt, this dog strikes you as a prize winner if he were to be cleaned up and cared for.  The dog is wary and approaches you grudgingly out of sheer desperation, but jumps when you hold a hand out and will break into a sprint if you so much as take a step toward him.  This was the nature of my sister’s relationship with him.  He would make himself casually available, hanging around the apartment more often, engaging me in small talk now and again, but as soon as my sister would take a step toward him, he would disappear, only to find himself back at the apartment in a few days. 

 

Another character, a gentleman that I still see regularly, is Dominic.  My apartment faces an alley, and he shares a house with his sister directly across the alley.  Dominic is quite possibly the most tortured individual I’ve ever met.  A severe drug addict, he had all but moved in upstairs for awhile.  He is friendly and surprisingly well read, although I was not aware of this until a couple weeks worth of visits from him.  He speaks in a hurried manner, jumping from topic to topic so quickly it is easy to get lost.  Combine this with his borderline delusional reality and his southern slang, and you can understand how conversations with him are definitely an acquired skill.  He is by far the most generous drug addict I’ve ever met, offering us burned custom CDs in return for our friendship and company (and a few other things).  He can be a bit of a burden on me and cause culture shock to my friends, but I doubt I’ll ever put him out permanently. 

 

All in all, a number of desperate individuals have crossed our porch, many stopping by to talk to us on their way.  13 year old crack dealers, 30 year old gangsters, fathers and mothers looking for their children, children looking for their next thrill, businessmen and hookers alike – I saw all of them at their most pathetic state.  Are drugs the great equalizer?  No.  After all, some people can afford to buy more than others; some don’t get hooked as hard; some do despicable things to get them.  Either way, it certainly does a great deal to remind me that we are all human, all fallible. 

Before I get too far along on this epic journey, it might be advantageous to explain to the folks at home just how a bright, upstanding, suburban-bred girl like myself wound up on the D-Block (a.k.a The Ridge, a.k.a. Delridge).  Not unlike most unfortunate situations, it was a comedy of errors that brought me to this place.  Let’s begin, shall we?

 

Once upon a time, in a land not far from here, I shared a quaint one-bedroom apartment with my boyfriend, Mike.  It was located in a decent neighbourhood and had fabulous amenities like a fireplace, a walk-in closet and a sizable balcony.  Unfortunately, the apartment was rather small overall and did not have its own washer and dryer.  When Mike’s mom fell upon hard times and requested that we move in with her to cushion her expenses, I was pleased. 

 

Mike’s mother, Billie, lived in a fabulous house in West Seattle.  From the porch, there was a view of the water.  It was located in an even nicer neighbourhood than the one I was currently in, and it was in close proximity to some of our friends.  Mike’s mom is a splendid woman; warm, kind, generous, and tons of fun to spend time with.  I anticipated no problems.  The few we encountered during our stay were insignificant, save one that, in the end, we simply could not see past.

 

We gave notice and moved in during February.  Things were fine.  We had a nice little old lady for a landlord who lived right next door, which was often quite convenient.  She took to me immediately.  Having known Billie, and sub sequentially, Mike for quite some time, I was the only one she had to approve of, so this was good.  Mike, his mom and I would spend evenings in the living room watching movies and eating popcorn, or just sitting and visiting.  We all got along far better than I could have expected.  Spring turned to summer in a flash, and that was when the problems began. 

 

You see, I am a natural born hostess.  I love nothing more than to entertain groups of friends.  Spending my summer in this lovely house with a yard and a view was ideal, to say the least.  Unfortunately, summer brought out more than my barbeque.  The landlord had this wiener dog (please excuse me, but the name of that cursed little beast escapes me).  Because it was such a little princess that received no training, it barked at everything.  Hell, it barked at nothing.  It would sit at the fence and bark continuously when we were entertaining in the yard.  We found a solution for that little bastard soon.  When spending time in the yard, we’d turn the hose on and let it run.  If he barked, we squirted.  After a week or so, all we had to do was motion toward the hose and that little fucker would scamper off into the house. 

 

Its owner, however, was not so easy.  With more traffic coming in and out over the summer months, we began to notice her newly sparked interest in our affairs.  It became obvious when she would ask to be introduced to company.  She was slick about it, initially – “Who is that, honey?  Is that your sister?  You know, my eyes aren’t so good…” she would yell from her yard to ours.  We humoured her; after all, her husband was gone, and soap operas aren’t for everyone, so she needed something to keep her busy, right?  After a while, we realized that she would peek out her window blinds just waiting for people to show up.  She would conveniently happen to leave her house just as guests were arriving.  O.k., so, a little weird, but whatever.  Nope.  We should have nipped it in the bud immediately. 

 

Soon, she began asking who people were in a more demanding manner.  She would accuse us of letting people live with us, and threaten us with higher rent, reminding us constantly that we were getting quite a deal.  She would sit outside while we barbequed and attempt to commandeer our friends with her “I’m just a sweet old lady, you should talk to me” bullshit.  We feared that she would enter our house while we were away just to snoop.  We had become prisoners in our own home; being sure to keep the blinds on the south side closed, screening our phone calls, waiting until she went inside to leave or come in, and running interference when guests arrived.  Just when we thought we’d had enough, the lease was ending.

 

Suddenly, Mike’s mom decided she was going to up and move to Montana.  We were shocked.  Two weeks before the lease was up, and this woman drops a bomb.  Why was it so detrimental?  Well, I was on unemployment at the time, and Mike had just gotten laid off.  No apartment would accept us under such circumstances.  Mike and I considered taking over the lease.  Rent was $1000/month (very cheap for W. Seattle), and while I’ll ask you not consider how we made our money, I will tell you that we could have afforded it.  But we just couldn’t do it.  The landlord had become a psycho bitch, and we just weren’t going to subject ourselves to any more abuse.

 

My father, learning of our predicament, concocted a brilliant solution.  My grandmother had a huge piece of property in the city, complete with a mother in law apartment a ways away from the house.  Her current renter was a piece of crap who was late on rent, AND my father and his siblings wanted the security of someone they trusted staying close to the G-Unit in case of emergency.  Win-win, right?  Not so much.  The G-Unit backed out LAST minute.  I’m talking 4 days before we were set to move.  She just felt too bad for the alcoholic, chronically unemployed renter and his loud, drug addicted girlfriend to put them out.  My G-Unit is wonderful, but like many others, far too kind for her own good.    

 

Fortunately (depending how you look at it), she had a solution of her own.  My step uncle, Gary, just so happened to own some apartments in the White Center area.  To give you an idea of the White Center neighbourhood, a friend once gave me a bumper sticker that read “White Center:  Not so centered, not so white”.  Its nick name is “Rat City”.  In case you wondered, no, I did not have the guts to sport the bumper sticker IN White Center.  Say what you will, but the white girl in the white sports car does not want to get jumped or shot, thank you. 

 

We swung by the apartments in a hurry.  We were packing and cleaning frantically, and we really didn’t have much time.  We were aware of the reputation of the neighbourhood, but we really didn’t have much of a choice.  To our amazement, things didn’t look so bad!  The apartment itself was very spacious with two bedrooms and a huge kitchen (over 900 sq ft, which is great for an apartment in the city), and it had a washer and dryer in the unit.  I was sold.  I had stolen my sister from my parents a month prior to all this, so the bedroom was necessary.  Best part about it was that rent was ridiculously cheap!  Gary let us move in right away.  In fact, he seemed thrilled to have us.  It was only a matter of time until we discovered just why that was.

 

 

…to be continued. 

…And the great unwashed that have gotten sucked in by it.  Why do I say this?  Because there is no excuse under the sun for these people.  There is an alternative.  It’s been around for over 10 years.  It involves REAL fighters using REAL training and drawing REAL blood.  They don’t show up with their faces painted.  They don’t enter the ring in gay costumes designed to make them look like super heros and villains.  While there are grudge matches, they are the result of legitimate conflicts, not drama that may as well been contrived by daytime soap writers and written into the script for no other purpose than to get ratings. 

 

People who are truly interested in blood sport, truly interested in wrestling and athletic ability, should be watching MMA sporting events, specifically UFC.  MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) events feature a wide variety of martial arts, often including but not limited to Muay Thai kickboxing, Judo, Brazilian Ju-Jitsu, freestyle wrestling, boxing, and much more.  Most fighters are well-versed in several styles, making bouts well-rounded, eventful, and often, unpredictable. 

 

You get to know the fighters by their skill set, which camps/people they train with, who they’ve fought and beaten, and how they respond to a win, not which cape they showed up in, or what piece of furniture they picked up to cowardly “beat” their opponent with.  Perhaps they have notable tattoos,

 

…more than likely, they’ve got an impressive physique

 

…or they’ve got a remarkable style in the ring.

 

Whatever it is, there are lots of reasons people enjoy UFC events.  If you’re a WWF fan, there’s not time like the present to grow some balls and make the switch. 

 

For me, it’s the blood –

 

Oh, and the chiseled young men.   

Alright – So, it’s illegal to record someone over the telephone without their knowledge or consent – fair enough.  Is it illegal to record someone through a bedroom wall?  I can assure you, it’s not what you’re thinking.  Please, allow me to explain.

 

I’m lying in bed on a Monday night, listless, down right exhausted, really.  I glance over at the clock – 12:45AM, and I have to work in the morning.  It’s been a long time since my own thoughts have kept me up late.  In more recent years, I have mastered the fine art of simply not giving a fuck.  I’ve discovered that is the key to a good night’s sleep.  This night is no different.  It’s what I hear that distresses me.

 

One thing you should know about poor families:  They’re ALWAYS loud.  I’ve been through a few sets of neighbours during my two years here, and all of them have had the tendency to keep me up at night.  Another fact common among them is that they all happen to place their children in the room adjacent to mine.  Further proof that there is no God. 

 

Now, black folk and white folk have different sorts of loud, mind you.  Poor white folk have a loud that is more out of desperation, with hints of alcoholism (or some similar affliction) and resentful undertones.  Perhaps even a touch of post-partum depression that managed to cleverly work its way, undetected, into the daily parent-child dealings.  Black folk, on the other hand, have an entirely different loud; it bears no notable similarity to the white people loud.  It is a loud tainted by anger and frustration, and after listening to it for some time, I get the distinct impression that the parent is saying to the child, “Why the hell should you get better than what I got?!?”  If there is one thing I can say for certain, it is that both brands of loud are equally devastating to the impressionable nature of a child.

 

My current neighbours are poor black folks.  It is “Muffin”, as she prefers to be called, and her four kids.  Well, not all are hers.  Her brother in law lives above me, and apparently there is some agreement that she hang on to one of his kids for awhile.  Please, don’t ask me to explain.  Pleasant group of little ones, all things considered.  I can’t remember all the names of the children, as 7 children moved in between two apartments at the same time.  Three of them stayed at my house for an afternoon of Ice Age, milk and cookies once.  Their “mom” or whatever had gone missing, and I didn’t have the heart to call the cops, so I chose to entertain them until I was able to find the one responsible for them.  “Rob”, “Nae-Nae” and “Princess” were the names I wrote on the plastic cups containing milk, and that’s all I can remember.  How any of them manage to grow up realizing that their name is not “nigga” is completely beyond me.  If “mom” doesn’t have to call them by their Christian name, neither do I.  I much prefer “sweetheart” or “honey”, though.  Maybe it’s just because I can’t pull “nigga” off so well. 

 

So, I lie there; awake, at nearly 1:00AM on a work night.  I hear the children bumping around their room like they might any jungle gym, except it’s not a jungle gym.  It’s their BEDROOM.  Finally, I hear “mom” come in to save the day.  Now, this is certainly an “it’ll get worse before it gets better” situation.  Because it is the only form in which salvation comes, however, I am thankful.  And, it is with a commanding “What the hell’s going on in here?!?” we commence.  Some nights, the quieting process is more painful than others.  This will undoubtedly be one of those nights.  After all, it’s ridiculously late, and any other way would be far too easy.  Yep, I was right.  As I listen to this woman scream repeatedly at her children, I can’t help but wonder, “Seriously.  How many times is this woman going to yell ‘Lay down’ before trying another approach?  I can tell from another apartment it’s not working…can’t she?”  She must have read my mind.  The “lay down”s have become “shut up”s.  More offensive, but equally ineffective.  How long will this go on?

 

It is then that I hear her say “Yo’ mama can’t help you, child!  No, she ain’t here – I am!”  Hmmmmm…Should I be concerned?  I must be kidding myself.  If I make the effort to keep tabs on the intricate network of young, single mothers that watch each other’s kids, it will require an Access database.  I don’t have that kind of time.  I doubt I’d have much luck anyway.  If I, a yuppie-looking white girl, went around asking questions about who’s watching whose kids, I’d be pegged as CPS for sure.   

 

While I’m still convinced she went about it the hard way, all that yelling at the children seems to have worked.  I can still hear them mumbling angrily about the babysitter, but that can easily be droned out with music.  After turning on the radio, I return to the thought of recording through the wall.  How would I go about this?  I’m not sure a simple tape recorder would suffice.  And for what?  The police?  The CPS?  I’m pretty sure that any foster home these kids might wind up in would be the same, if not worse.  It is with these thoughts fluttering around in my head that I fall asleep, eager to catch the fleeting minutes and hours of slumber that will hardly rest me sufficiently for the battle that surely lies ahead. 

As the anniversary of my mother’s untimely death draws near (Nov. 22, 2003), I find myself thinking about it quite often, these days.  It has been nearly two years, now – Two quiet Thanksgivings spent wondering why we bother; two birthdays spent missing the woman who gave birth to me; two Christmases spent vainly wishing that Jesus did indeed live and die as the son of God, and that heaven truly exists.  How I wish I could believe that.  And today, October 12^th, would have been her 50^th birthday.  Happy birthday, mom.

 

I’d be lying if I said life has continued like normal in her absence.  Hell, to be honest, I’m not even sure what normal is, anymore.  For the last two years, my younger sister has lived with me.  I get financial help from my father, but that’s it.  Becoming insta-mom has not been easy.  However, my sister, who is now in her senior year, is doing much better than before.  She’s working, going to school, and has a stable boyfriend.  Considering the rather dramatic turn her life took at 16, I’d say she is fairing quite well.

 

Speaking of my father, he’s only been free a couple months now.  Free from house arrest, that is.  He pretty much lost it after finding my mom dead on that Saturday morning, and with good reason.  My parents had always been together.  Never divorced, my father assumed that they’d live out their lives together.  He had plans.  This death wasn’t a part of them.  He drank nearly 100 lbs off his bones.  He received 2 DUIs the following spring, the latter of which was an expedition to find a cliff to drive off of, we found out later.  How swell would that have been – to lose both parents within 6 months? 

 

Anyway, I suppose my father’s misfortune has benefited us some, in that my sister and I were so consumed with his situation that we were unable to focus on our loss.  Is that a good thing?  Who knows.  What I do know is that my sister and I are healthy, and recovering from our emotional wounds in a timely manner.  I couldn’t ask for more. 

 

For any of you reading this, give your mom a call, a hug, a kiss…whatever you do to show her you care.  My last communication with my mom was an argument, and I will live with that regret for the rest of my life.  The only thing that gives me solace is knowing that I showed here I cared regularly, and that has to count for something, right?

 

Believe me, you don’t want to be stuck wondering if you should have done more.

You’ve just dropped your friends off after a fun filled evening of bar hopping (you're the DD, of course, and sober as the day you were born). It’s 2:00 AM, and you’re smiling, recapping the fairy-tale night you’ve had – after all, it’s not often you and your friends get together without a problem. You’re going the speed limit for once, because this early in the morning, the lights turn as soon as you approach, and there are no other cars on the road to give you trouble. Hell, there’s no one out at all! You couldn’t be more comfortable as you round a bend on the same route home you’ve taken a million times…And that’s when it happens:

Suddenly, it appears as though a figure is illuminated by your headlights. Before you’ve gotten a chance to process what you thought you just saw, your windshield shatters, spitting glass back into the passenger seat of your car. You’re in shock. Consciously, you have no idea what just happened…but subconsciously you know exactly what happened. Auto pilot takes control. You slam on your breaks, hit the flashers, turn off the car, and jump out.

You see him. You sprint like hell over to the figure lying in an unnatural position on the side of the road. You can tell before you even get there that it can’t be good. You kneel down beside him on the sidewalk. He’s bleeding…Oh god, is he bleeding. He has a sizable gash on his forehead, but it's the blood that is pouring out of his mouth that concerns you… And his breathing is so labored…his breathing…HE’S BREATHING!!! Still too panicked for tears, you are shaking violently, and even the constant dialogue you hear in your head has gone silent, but somehow (by the grace of God perhaps?) you are speaking clearly in the most soothing, motherly tone you can muster. “Everything is going to be O.K., honey. I hit you, I stopped, I’m getting help, and you are going to be just fine, darling.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot another pair of headlights. Without thinking, you race toward this car, waiving your hands vigorously, signaling to stop. You reach the driver’s window, and you pound on it (as if this poor girl hadn’t noticed you yet) and you scream the words you hoped to never have to say: “Call an ambulance!! Call 911! He’s hurt bad!” Luckily, she jumps out with a cell phone. Relieved that part is being taken care of, you return to the young man on the side of the road, and continue talking. “The ambulance is on it’s way, you’re going to be fine.” You notice that the girl on the phone is having a hard time telling the cops where she is, so you turn a moment to give her a precise location. When you turn back, a gentleman who was walking down the street at the time of the accident is kneeling beside the victim. YOUR victim…

And the kid is trying to get up! That’s got to be a good sign, right? Nonetheless, you tell him to stay still. You’ve heard a million times to keep an injured person still. You keep telling him to lay down, stay still, but he’s not listening. You hear someone yelling behind you. You stand up, spin around, and see a very scared, hostile, upset young woman. Screaming and crying, she begins to approach your victim. It’s his girlfriend. You look down, only to realize this man who witnessed the accident is trying to help your victim up. If you had any control over this situation at any point, you’re losing it now. You feel you have no recourse, no options. These people may very well hurt this kid worse, and you are not in any position to stop them. As you collapse on the sidewalk because your legs refuse to hold you any more, you hear the sirens…And your brain will no longer support anything more than a blank stair.

Next thing you know, you are crying fiercely as a police officer walks you toward your car. You hear him repeat that the accident was not your fault, that the witnesses said there was nothing you could have done. You can’t help but feel like he’s lying. He asks if you are going to be o.k., and you decide that it’s the dumbest question ever asked of someone. He places you in your driver’s seat, and asks you for proof of insurance. In a zombie-like trance, you reach over to your glove box, and hand the slip of paper over. The officer writes something on it. He hands it back and tells you the case number is what he wrote. “Do you have keys?” he asks casually. You glance around your interior which is covered in tiny shards of glass and spot them. You pick them up and stare at him, as if to ask “What the hell do you want me to do with these?!?” He asks you one last time if you’ll be o.k., and you nod your head, since he obviously hasn’t gotten the hint the last five times he asked. He asks “Are you going home, or back where you were coming from?” – and that’s when the running dialogue in your head clicks back on - (You’ve got to be kidding…I just HIT SOMEONE, and your just sending me on my way as though I hit a cat or something? No sobriety test, no ride home? You honestly think I should be driving right now?)

You realize he’s serious, you answer the question, and then you go on your way, smashed windshield and all. You drive by the accident sight, hoping desperately that’s the only view of it you’ll remember in the morning. Staring at the dark road ahead, you require every ounce of what little resource you have left to avoid looking at the bloody dent in the windshield. Successfully arriving at your destination, you stumble out of your car, fall to your knees, and release a banshee-like scream. Seemed like an appropriate way to start the rest of your life.

I don't know how to feel about this.  For those of you who haven't guessed, this was me about a week ago.  Have any of you been in horrific accidents? What happened, and how did it turn out? What say you about “moving on”? Is there any way for me to find out how this kid's doing, with no name, no police report?