Chapter Nine: Serious Sweet Sixteen
By Karen S. Cole – Book Ghostwriter and Ghostwriting Services maven par excellence. Especially when it comes to finding YOU the right ghost on our team. I’ve done personal memoir ghostwriting. Now for me too.
I decided long ago to not even run for President, I’m so “stupid” somehow. I had trouble finding where the next classroom is, then I got told Albert Einstein had the same difficulties as I did. Kentucky Fried Chicken or KFC meaning F was my middle name…au contraire. Einstein had F as his usual grades until he overcame mathematics. Then he was a total genius, with the grooviest hair I’ve seen on anyone.
Personal memoir ghostwriting involves other people.
He wins the Hair Contest for white people, while Blacks still win at it overall. My brown husband has the kissable stuff. Al got the red t-shirt from me with Grandma on it, for being a better singer than me…before. To dream the impossible dream is to figure out whether A Tale of Two Cities is involved, rape is way too paramount in times of war, and switchers are common. I met a man in the hospital who said his sister was switched right in front of him, by him and remembered all too well.
I feel strongly that I’m trying too hard to be LIKE my mother. Miscommunication is the likeliest drawback to all of this. Where is my own story? Tis deep and wide, so I’m afraid far many other people are involved. Like my entire family, which I can barely mention, and strangers that are sue-happy. Hopefully, you are “into” personal memoir ghostwriting instead.
By the way…my autobiography is now a Science Fiction/Fact Novel. Not just personal memoir ghostwriting.
Due to time travel, which dictates that it could happen differently than we expect it to do so. Therefore, we could end up with a more evolved world from TT, instead of a horror show. Heaven itself could occur just around the corner of the human mind. Donald J. Trump the Brave retiring in Switzerland is what I want.
But…I’m voting for Bernie Sanders if possible. He’s “feel the burn” the Idealist. In my mind, I’m hoping for somebody Good for President. Soon.
Who knows? My daughter may be dead and buried in the woods. I don’t know why on that; I’m hoping I hear from her again someday. I’m wondering what it would take, but Reality comes a calling whenever it wants to. For example, I didn’t want any traditional publishing companies to control my wayward imagination.
JULY 20TH, 1969. Columbus, Ohio.
I had a little journal or diary with a lock and key. There I stood, eating myself. The yummy orange and white Racially Mixed treat trickled down my hand like the claws of death raking at my face. Tidy, my cat licked up the mess (the most beautiful cat in the world, not a kitty, not a pussy. The most beautiful cat in the World, a grey tabby mix with brown and a tri-color nose), so not wanting to be as fat and porker as I was, I dropped the Push-Up onto the hot cement concrete, where it drizzled and dripped and looked sticky, icky and wicked.
Nine years old, I started dreaming again, about my cat finding me a Black Cat for a husband. Someone like Dr. King, or Malcolm X. Or Kwame Ture, such a name. The third man in their administration. But they were all gone, dead and killed by unknown mystery personages. It made me feel weird to think about it, would I marry anyone who shot them too? I was suddenly willing to marry any man who wanted me. Fear of fat, Karen “Fatty” Cole, but I was only chubby and not obese. To say the least, an overweight kid. Now I’m doing personal memoir ghostwriting, and hoping sitting on my butt doesn’t lead to further fat.
Vietnam raged away until 1975, so I had to contemplate something called a college deferment.
Magically, maybe everyone now had brains and parents with money. I doubted it about Black people. We were living in a Jewish neighborhood, small row apartments owned by one Jewish family who lived there with us. Dr. King had begun that practice, as it turned out later when I researched The Boys of Birmingham by P. L. Ryan.
“He’d better be the tallest guy ever.” Or Sammy Davis, Jr. like my Dad. He did. Or any of the basketball playing Harlem Globetrotters whosoever, who deigned to be beneath my cat’s dignity enough to take turns cleaning a litter box. Or, I chuckled, I’d do it Allah the time! The 1969 Apollo moon landing was going to commence soon. It would be held indoors on our TV set, but like many other Americans far away from Florida at the time, we couldn’t scrape it together with bills and saving for college and all for three girls.
I stood in a living room, NOT a “lebensraum,” blessing a small black and white box that told me about the world infinitely. The TV is the greatest savior of mankind other than Japan, which invented this mystery machine I’m driving called a notebook computer, or laptop. It has about five hours of battery life. My own personal memoir ghostwriting involves many hours of leisure, writing books under my pen name. The computer burps from time to time.
Sounds like what I have left, every day of my somewhat (wet and cold weather) miserable but gratitude-ridden existence.
There have been ups and downs for this unimportant person, Karen the Nobody. I knew someday I’d change my name, and I’d be a Somebody. I remember riding my bicycle in Florida, ‘twas a banana seat bike with blue trim that I put into red white and blue crinkled paper ribbons for the Fourth of July, two years ago. For Precious and Few are the Moments we Two can Share. I looked up at a street sign once, it said Coleman Blvd. Shuddering or shivering, I knew something was up with that sign. It was up there. Over my head. Cliches abounding, something was wrong. I rode away slowly, thinking I’m ridiculously slow and needed to speed up.
I first began to cry over Dr. King’s death, which was April 4, 1968 (or so) while dropping my ice cream onto the sizzling sidewalk. Tidy was lapping up the funny push cone while I was suddenly drowning in tears. For well over a decade, I couldn’t stop crying at odd times. Like I knew I was going to be a widow someday. Probably, if I was lucky, some Jewish guy and not Jack the Ripper, I silently mused to myself. I didn’t have any real friends, just white girls who were highly amused at how “stupid” I was. They shoved me around for being fat, so did my parents, who are now deceased.
Now I think about how precious those friends were, to me. Personal memoir ghostwriting makes me recall how lucky I was.
As if JFK meant anything to me…dear God. I sit here realizing now when President Kennedy said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” I growled at the screen, “Shut up and go away, you mean Blacks on welfare. They are NOT all on welfare…then it dawned on me. The second statement applied to me somehow. I should ask me what I could do for the world, there was that class back there. But I didn’t want to be shot in public.
Columbus, Ohio, 1976
First shopping mall in the USA, supposedly was the one where we lived. When we were housed in Gahanna, Ohio. I remember walking there, met my parents there, due to it being my 16th birthday or thereabouts. There was a Grand Opening celebration, but this was at least a week after it opened. I was walking down the mall strip way between the nice little shops. Wearing my blue jeans jacket and blue jeans, carrying my Indian fringe leather purse.
Suddenly, an all-white-faced man, so pale, was standing about 50 feet away in front of me. And pulling a gun out of his jacket, he was wearing a suit. I thought, what is he doing that for…to shoot people at our shopping mall.
It was the first mall shooting; this was in the days before school shootings.
Having decided to be brave and a good person, I continued walking towards him. Without stopping. He began firing the gun at me, which I somewhat ducked as he was firing wildly around me. I began to wonder if this was a gag, but I could hear bullets pinging around and behind me.
I kept on towards him. Was this a test of some kind by the FBI, or maybe the Dad of one of those boys at school who was “into” the Kill Karen Cole club? Perhaps that was it. Well, it was certainly an older adult. I felt obligated to keep going forwards, as he could shoot whoever in the mall. I had no idea really who he was or why he was doing what he was about. At all. Just ideas. “He” finally shot me across my left arm, the upper part, tearing open my sleeve. Angry now, I kept on forwards, thinking of my hero from Mad Magazine.
Namely, Ralph Abernathy of the American Civil Rights Movement. Accidentally “founded” by Hitler (the backlash against him) and seconded by Dr. King and the FBI. Maybe I could take bullets and die too.
I ducked the next shot by watching his trigger finger and darting to the right. He was so nervous; he couldn’t shoot straight. I raced forward, a fast walk really, and grabbed his gun. “Gimmee that,” I chanted under my breath. “NO,” he gasped. He hadn’t seen a feminist before in his life, his wife probably stayed home and drooled into her food all day on wonderful medications he made her take, or something.
Yep. I had finally met Mr. Robinson. I was all of sixteen and meeting my parents for lunch there. I ended up running through the mall away from the cops.
“He” reported me to the authorities for taking his precious gun away. Well, I recall his spurting off like a white Jesse Owens, shouting, “I’m going to report you to the authorities,” over his burly be-suited left shoulder, and then I looked around the mall. The girls were all acting scared of me and seemed exactly alike, all at once. I thought, “Asses.” They’d seen what happened and looked SCARED OF ME instead of Jesus the gun freak, I guess. Maybe it would mean they were lesbians if they liked me instead. None of them could ever marry their white freaky brothers then. I guess.
I ended up shooting the gun behind me to verify there were bullets in it.
Once. The round pinged behind me, so I guess I looked guilty then. The news story about what happened concentrated on that over and above what I’d done. Which was take the gun away, run away, get pursued by cops who radioed it in and took over an hour to find me further on down the mall after I finished lunch with my parents. Batman was right; cops are never around when you need them. Unless that “bastard” was one. Who knows. They took me in but had to release me once they located the idiot who owned the handgun. Couldn’t pin it on me no matter how hard they tried…and didn’t. I learned then I might be treated fairly under the law, but such wasn’t to be.
Fighting back brings on the mental health authorities, but after I was 25. It was 1986 before things came to a head between me and the Idiots.
Three years later, I was 19 and two more handguns were displayed by the Mafia, at Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin’s party. And Trump cocking his shotgun recently on TV. Why that guy was so nervous about a 16-year-old girl with NO WEAPONS…my SEXUAL PREFERENCES??? Bullshit. Bye!
Hello. Jerry Lewis and I will make Heaven. But we already did, wink! As to Gloria Steinem and me, we both heard the click. She heard it once. I have heard it repeatedly, and that clicking noise from the Ku Klux Klan. Lots. With luck, it unseats Trump, but I get it. We then get Rudolph Giuliani. Or Bernie Sanders.
I’m voting to “feel the burn” and hoping it helps. Exercise counts. I have next to no hair and look awful sometimes, but I’m in good health at 59.