Re-Write part two

Living with Mrs Neale Hurston was wonderful, she set me off to school in the mornings with a full lunch box, I came home to a wonderful roast dinner, usually meatloaf, Mrs Neale Hurston made a fine meatloaf, and she sent me off to bed with a warm mug of coco. She treated me like I was her own daughter and I loved her for it. We got a lot of strange looks from the neighbours, a white girl staying with a coloured women was not common and it was most certainly frowned upon, we kept it to ourselves for the most part, but the majority of the town new, especially when I went to a church full of coloured people, I loved it though, they were very welcoming to me and treated me as if I was one of them; It always sadend me that they could be so accepting when our society was doing everything in its power to make them feel like outcasts. I stayed with Mrs Neale Hurston until my senior year of high school, her husband had just got back from the war and wasn’t very happy to find a white girl living in his house. He tore through the house, smashing pictures off the walls, the freshly backed banana cake was now in pieces and wine glasses shattered on the floor while Mrs Neale Hurston stood in shock, her whole body violently shaking, tears streaming down her face as she watched her husband go on a rampage. I stood frozen behind the bathroom door, watching the scene play out. Wishing I could comfort Mrs Neale Hurston the way she had done for me so many times, but there I stood, frozen unable to move as if my feet were permantly glued to the ground.
‘Those white men treated me like I was one of them Japanese, do you know what that feels like to have someone from your own country treat you like the enemy. I don’t want that in my own home Neale. She had better be gone by the time I get back’ he shouted. Fist clenched to his sides as he pushed past Mrs Neale Hurston causing her to stumble and fall onto the hard wooden floors, her hands covering her face as she sobbed forcefully into them. The sight of her falling, snapped me out of my days and my legs soon found their strength again and I was soon at her side.

‘Its alright, Mrs Neale Hurston you have had me for such a long time already and I’m ever so greatfull, it’s probably about time I be headed off. Momma left me some money, I’ll be fine.’ I soothed. My head swam with thoughts. ‘what am I going to do?’ ‘how am I going to surive?’ ‘Will I ever see her again?’ I forced my eyes open and took a calming break as I quietly stood up and walked over to my room, packed a bag of the little things I did own and tip toed over to the door.

‘Goodbye Mrs Neale Hurston, I’ll be seeing you.’ I blinked away the tears as I closed the door behind me. The faint sobs of Mrs Neale Hurston aching in my heart.

1957

After I finally got my head around leaving Mrs Neale Hurston I walked to the bus station and hoped on the first bus I saw. ‘New York City’ as soon as I hoped of the bus I knew I had made the right decision. It was hard to leave behind my old life, but it was time to start a new one, one that would finally get out from the outside and become an insider, a person with friends. The city was as beautiful as I had imagined and white and coloured people both walked the streets equailly, it was like a whole other universe to me. There was still some hostile attitude towards one another but nothing like I had previously experienced. I spent my first nights in the city under a bench at central park and brought my first meal after four days. I had been living off the scraps people left around the city. I showered in the many public toilets and by day I wondered around the city like a normal tourist and by night I watched the city lights. New York took my breath away, the fast cars, busy people off to work, like they had some sort of purpose I praid to be one of them, wearing a Coco Chanel suit. It gave me chills just thinking about it. The women always looked so put together, with their light coloured dresses and matching high heels, hair pulled back and pined perfectly, their lips lined with the most beautiful lipsticks I had ever seen. To me they were all beautiful, each and every one of them, and the way they all laughed together, sipping tea and passing out baked goods, I craved to be one of them. To be considered worthy enough of the elite.

I got a job at a burlesque club in Manhattan, back then it was okay to go bare breasted, I never did though, although I did get plenty of offers, I just could never bring myself to do it. Even if it did mean more money for food that week, I was never that desperate. I tended to just help Georgia behind the bar. It was a fine place, had a little old room up stairs that I got to stay in. the owner was a coloured man called Randel Bethune he had no problem hiring white women, the only rule was that we were to treat everybody the same, even the customers. It was easy for me to do although the others did have a hard time, some of them were brought up with parents like mine, convinced that a person’s skin colour made them diseased.

‘ I don’t even understand why they are even allowed in here, I don’t want them fawning all over me. I am a white woman. It’s just not natural.’ I overhead Maria talking to one of the other dancers.

‘You do realise that they only thing that makes them different than any other man in her is that they are black right?’ Rosalie answered. Sending a wink my way. I smiled back at her, happy to have someone else on my side.

1958

The year Johnny Foote entered my life…

Re-Write part one

The Help Celia Foote

1956

My name is Celia Foote, I’m just a small town girl, nothing special, I don’t own nice clothes although I have spent most of my life between the racks of Gucci and Channel, but I will get back to that later. My father left my mother and I when his power plant started employing coloured people, our small town Bolingbrook just outside of Chicago was one of the first towns to hire coloured people to do every day white man’s jobs. This angered a lot of the small town folk, especially the white men who prided themselves on their work and providing for their family only for it to be taken away from them by the so called lazy coloured people. Everything went downhill from there; something snapped inside Momma, the only peace she found peace was when the last drops of Whiskey moisturized her lips. One afternoon I found her going through the trash outside, desperate for another drop.

Momma, what are you doing? I shouted at her as she threw bottle after bottle out of the trash and onto our lawn which was about 3 weeks over drew for a mow. The grass had a started to turn brown, the same tinge my mother’s eyes had started to go. She didn’t sleep; she didn’t do much of anything really, except curse every coloured person to come in walking distance.

‘It’s those Negros; they drove your father away. Now I have nothing! Nothing!’ She would shout, while searching for the next bottle.

I got my first black eye that day when an empty scotch bottle was sent flying at me.

‘What does it look like I’m doing? She hissed, throwing more bottles my way.

‘We ran out of Whisky! How have we run out!?’ She screamed. My hand rubbed my face as I felt the bruise start to slowly form.

‘I think there is some Gin still inside Momma’ I whispered, praying she would go inside and stop the neighbours from staring at me. Particularly Mrs Neale Hurston the coloured woman who had just moved across the street. She was a nice lady. Often gave me a muffin to eat on my way to school. Momma hated her though, said she was lazy and didn’t deserve to live in our too good town. Back then I didn’t understand how much hatred we Americans had in our hearts. It’s something that still haunts me to this day. Not long after Momma’s show in the yard she was arrested for trying to steal at the corner store, of course being a white folk she was only held for half an hour and then sent home, a full bottle of jack secured under her arm. Surprisingly at lot of people took pity on me, not what you would see these days though, In Jackson they would of stripped you down one by one until you were too ashamed to step out your own front door. In Bolingbrook they just simply patted me on the back and halved their meatloaf sandwiches with me. About two weeks later i found momma dead with a whisky bottle still in her ice cold hand.

To say I was alone after Momma died is an understatement. I had nobody. One good thing daddy left was the house, I was able to still go to school and have a roof over my head. Getting food however was a completely different story. I spent two weeks living off peoples left overs at school and the occasional loaf of bread I managed to steal. Mrs Neale Hurston was my saving grace. I didn’t care that she was a coloured woman, when she came knocking on my door with an apple pie still steaming with warmth I hugged her so hard the poor woman nearly fell head first into the thing!

‘My child, look at you, it’s like you havn't eaten in months!’ she screeched while pulling my arms apart and pinching my stomach.

I shrugged back at her, my eyes never once leaving the apple pie still placed firmly in her hands.

She laughed at my shinning eyes and sat the pie and herself down on the sofa.

‘Go grab us some plates dear, we can eat it while it’s still hot.’ She smiled.

I practically ran to the kitchen and the back before setting down and taking a bite out of the most wonderful thing I have ever tasted. (This was true, right up until Minny came into my life.)

I ate the first piece in about 3 seconds, Mrs Neale Hurston smiled and added more and more onto my plate until I had finished the whole pie. She clapped her hands together and smiled at me, her eyes shinning bright.

‘Wonderful. I have been worried about you dear. Where is your mother?’ she asked.

‘she died’ I sighed

Mrs Neale Hurston gasped and placed her hands on my shoulder, well it’s settled then, you will come stay with me. I can’t have you starving to death. She smiled a real smile, the whites of her death glowing next to the chocolate brown of her skin. To me she was beautiful and I felt a strong sense of trust I did the only thing I could think of doing. I flung my arms around her and sobbed for the first time. I sobbed for my mother and for my father but most importantly I sobbed for the love this coloured women was showing me, when all my life I had been taught to hate them.

First Part of Rewrite (draft)

Why people always have the things that I can’t even reach?

“What… what did you say?”

“Us two are going to get marry soon.”

You guys won’t know how I feel…

I love my sister, but at the same time, I hate her too.

Why she always get those things that are so far from me!

We have the same parents, but why is it only me that inherited our father’s red hair?

“Your hair is so pretty.  Pretty as flowers.”

That is the first time, I started to love my red hair.

It’s the first time, I learnt how to love others, other than my sister.

Have you ever imagined how I felt, when I noticed you two are in an intimate relationship?

My sister knew I love him.

No matter how dull you are, it wouldn’t be that hard to realize that isn’t it?

Yes… I’m sure you realized that started from long time ago, but you just can’t lie to yourself.

You can’t hide your feelings, you can’t ignore them.

That’s what you want to say, isn’t it?

I know, humans are selfish.

You always say how much you love that person, what can you do for them, but eventually you’re doing those things for your own good only.

“Ann… I’m really”

“Don’t say that.  Please, just don’t say anything.  I know what you’re thinking, but let’s just let it go over.” I put my finger on my sister’s lips, stopping her from saying those words I don’t want to hear.

At this moment, I don’t think it does worth to say anything.

After a period, I met another person.  Another one that I might love.

Say it in truth, I started to go out with him because they looked alike.

I mean inside of him. 

The personality kind of thing… not the looks.

They are both gentle and cultivated… and can tolerate when others cannot.

I feel like I am a human, when I’m with them.

Also, both of them all say they like my red hair.

Maybe all I want is just someone that can accept me, my own identity.

I want someone to stay beside me, who can just stare at me only.

Maybe this is only what I want.

“Angelina… will you stay with me forever?”

I answered him “yes”.  Indeed I still can’t understand why he would ask me to marry him.

He just knew it, that I’m always looking through him, seeking for someone else.

The person living in my heart… couldn’t be him.

“Watch out…! Ann!”

On a sudden day, our carriage crashed with somebody’s car.

Our baby has gone.  So as he.

Don’t leave me alone.  Didn’t you said that we’re always together?

Then why are you gone?

Didn’t you said you don’t mind who do I love?

“Is it just a joke? Urh…!” Can’t control myself, I swing off the flowers and other items and they fall on the floor.

“Don’t… calm down! Ann! Angelina!” “She’s right, calm down sweetheart.”

“Hahah… calm down? You two tell me to calm down?! How can I do that? I’ve got nothing now! Nothing! Not my husband, not my baby! Not even my… uterus! I can’t have another baby anymore!”

I’ve just realized that getting use of someone is so terrifying.

I needed that person… a lot more than I’ve ever thought.

When did this all happen?  When did I start to put my eyes on him?

Oh… no, I should know that more than the others.

It was until the accident, I still didn’t feel his importance.

Maybe it is just as usual that people always request something that they can’t touch.

The further they are, the more you love it… and hatred.

Those things that are close to you are like rubbish.

I think those untouchables seem beautiful because you can’t get close to them… and you know nothing about them.

Humans are not perfect. 

They just can’t be!

People won’t recognize how precious they are… until they’ve lost them.

“Rachel… Vincent……”

I can’t believe… who is it… how could they do this to me?

Is it that entertaining to take people from me, one by one?

What do I have left…?

I became a doctor, after I’ve lost all my loves.

At least I want to do something for the others… so that they can live happily.

However… I’ve just found out that all the humans are rubbish. 

They’re meant to die.

What kind of women are they?  They just throw away those things that other people can’t have.

How can they say that?  Babies couldn’t make choices by themselves but they are still alive.

Those husband stealers are wicked witches.

If you don’t want them, don’t go to bed with men.

If this is the case… I’ll do it by myself.

I will get rid of all of those bad women.

If you don’t want them I’ll get rid of them… but you’ll have to go with them.

”Go to hell!!”