Marjorie Rose
Marjorie Rose stared at her body in the dusty, full length mirror in the corner of her small room. Her skin, the color of chocolate and brownies, seemed as dull and ugly to her as the blackboard in her schoolroom or the tar spread on the road to shut the cracks and holes. Sadly, that was all she felt she was worth, a covering of the cracks and holes in the world, an example that her town wasn't all white; it had her family.
The kids in her class were all that white color that Marjorie Rose craved. She longed to have that creamy white skin that was never made fun of like hers was. As she thought about the names she was called and the hatred directed towards her and her family, she grabbed the rusty razorblade hidden behind the mirror. She cut herself again and again over the maze of healed and half-healed scars on her inner thighs and arms. Marjorie welcomed the pain, a release for her and her pent up emotions. As she cut herself, she cried and begged God to let her die, she couldn't take the hatred anymore.
The next morning Marjorie Rose awoke like she did every day; her legs and arms hurting from the night before. Longing to beg her mother to keep her from school, she got on the hard, yellow school bus. As she sat in her seat in the back of the bus she wondered why God would be so cruel as to place her in this world of hurt and pain; she would be a good angel, even a servant in heaven, she was sure of it. The other kids on the bus, oblivious to her daydreaming, started throwing big, juicy fruit towards her section of the bus. Only when she was soaked head to toe from the rain of fruit did they stop, only to laugh at her some more.
When she was in school, instead of being hit by fruit, her tight black curls and her dark neck were hit by paper airplanes and pieces of erasers. This day was different though, Marjorie was starting to give up, to let it happen. A couple months before she would have fought back and yelled at her childish enemies but, she had grown weak and let it happen. The time went by slow, as it always seemed to do, and in a period of a couple long hours it was time for recess. This was her favorite time of day because she could hide from her bullies. She usually went to the library, in the stacks of books where the encyclopedias and dictionaries were; no one looked for her there.
This section of books was her sanctuary and her safe haven from all the bullies, monsters and white people and it wasn’t long before she fell asleep; her dreams were always nightmares of her running, each time faster and faster. All of a sudden she awoke to the sound of her mother whispering in her ear, “Come now child, our time has come for us to escape from this hell-hole. Come now; wake up my dear, wake up.”
Marjorie awoke and looked in her mother’s black-brown eyes. All she could see was the tears rolling down her wrinkled face and she knew this was indeed the time. She got up and, with her mother, ran. They ran the seventeen blocks to their house, hand in hand, tears flying off from the wind blowing in their face. When they got to their house, Marjorie Rose noticed once again their van, ugly with spray-paint that had accumulated from the time they had lived in this neighborhood. How, she pondered could anyone, white, black or any other color of the rainbow, be so heartless? This was their chance, they were going to escape!
They barely saw the car as it came around the corner, four young, white men inside. In their hands they held guns and in those guns the bullets that would take life away. The drive-by seemed, for Marjorie Rose, to happen in slow motion. One by one the bullets were shot and one by one her family dropped. She was the last to be hit but the first to go, for the entirety of her died as she saw her mother, father and younger brother drop before her. Marjorie Rose didn’t die that day physically, but emotionally she was deader than a rock. She was brought to a hospital and when she recovered she went back to her home town in Juba, Sudan with the money that her parents had when they died.
The people in her town were shocked at the racism in her old neighborhood and vowed never to go there themselves. An elder in her town named Abdulla took her in and raised her. Seven years later it was Abdulla’s time to go. She called Marjorie Rose in before she left and said to her that it was okay to cry but to be happy, because she’s going to heaven and she’d see Marjorie’s parents. This comforted her a little but the greatest words Abdulla said, in her dying breaths were these; “Those that cover the cracks and holes in the world hold the greatest power, for without them the world would crumble apart.” From that day forth Marjorie held her head high with the pride that she had being the color of chocolate and brownies.
Marjorie Rose stared at her body in the dusty, full length mirror in the corner of her small room. Her skin, the color of chocolate and brownies, seemed as dull and ugly to her as the blackboard in her schoolroom or the tar spread on the road to shut the cracks and holes. Sadly, that was all she felt she was worth, a covering of the cracks and holes in the world, an example that her town wasn't all white; it had her family.
The kids in her class were all that white color that Marjorie Rose craved. She longed to have that creamy white skin that was never made fun of like hers was. As she thought about the names she was called and the hatred directed towards her and her family, she grabbed the rusty razorblade hidden behind the mirror. She cut herself again and again over the maze of healed and half-healed scars on her inner thighs and arms. Marjorie welcomed the pain, a release for her and her pent up emotions. As she cut herself, she cried and begged God to let her die, she couldn't take the hatred anymore.
The next morning Marjorie Rose awoke like she did every day; her legs and arms hurting from the night before. Longing to beg her mother to keep her from school, she got on the hard, yellow school bus. As she sat in her seat in the back of the bus she wondered why God would be so cruel as to place her in this world of hurt and pain; she would be a good angel, even a servant in heaven, she was sure of it. The other kids on the bus, oblivious to her daydreaming, started throwing big, juicy fruit towards her section of the bus. Only when she was soaked head to toe from the rain of fruit did they stop, only to laugh at her some more.
When she was in school, instead of being hit by fruit, her tight black curls and her dark neck were hit by paper airplanes and pieces of erasers. This day was different though, Marjorie was starting to give up, to let it happen. A couple months before she would have fought back and yelled at her childish enemies but, she had grown weak and let it happen. The time went by slow, as it always seemed to do, and in a period of a couple long hours it was time for recess. This was her favorite time of day because she could hide from her bullies. She usually went to the library, in the stacks of books where the encyclopedias and dictionaries were; no one looked for her there.
This section of books was her sanctuary and her safe haven from all the bullies, monsters and white people and it wasn’t long before she fell asleep; her dreams were always nightmares of her running, each time faster and faster. All of a sudden she awoke to the sound of her mother whispering in her ear, “Come now child, our time has come for us to escape from this hell-hole. Come now; wake up my dear, wake up.”
Marjorie awoke and looked in her mother’s black-brown eyes. All she could see was the tears rolling down her wrinkled face and she knew this was indeed the time. She got up and, with her mother, ran. They ran the seventeen blocks to their house, hand in hand, tears flying off from the wind blowing in their face. When they got to their house, Marjorie Rose noticed once again their van, ugly with spray-paint that had accumulated from the time they had lived in this neighborhood. How, she pondered could anyone, white, black or any other color of the rainbow, be so heartless? This was their chance, they were going to escape!
They barely saw the car as it came around the corner, four young, white men inside. In their hands they held guns and in those guns the bullets that would take life away. The drive-by seemed, for Marjorie Rose, to happen in slow motion. One by one the bullets were shot and one by one her family dropped. She was the last to be hit but the first to go, for the entirety of her died as she saw her mother, father and younger brother drop before her. Marjorie Rose didn’t die that day physically, but emotionally she was deader than a rock. She was brought to a hospital and when she recovered she went back to her home town in Juba, Sudan with the money that her parents had when they died.
The people in her town were shocked at the racism in her old neighborhood and vowed never to go there themselves. An elder in her town named Abdulla took her in and raised her. Seven years later it was Abdulla’s time to go. She called Marjorie Rose in before she left and said to her that it was okay to cry but to be happy, because she’s going to heaven and she’d see Marjorie’s parents. This comforted her a little but the greatest words Abdulla said, in her dying breaths were these; “Those that cover the cracks and holes in the world hold the greatest power, for without them the world would crumble apart.” From that day forth Marjorie held her head high with the pride that she had being the color of chocolate and brownies.
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