UAB Digital Commons (Univ. of Alabama at Birmingham)

Staff, Memorandum

Memorandum 
Volume 5 Issue 1 Article 2 
2018 
Memorandum 5 (Front Matter) 
Memorandum Staff 
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 Part of the Technical and Professional Writing Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Staff, Memorandum (2018) "Memorandum 5 (Front Matter)," Memorandum: Vol. 5: Iss. 1, Article 2. 
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Volume 5
What About Marketing? 
Featuring an Interview 
with Alexis Brost
Beginner’s Tips for 
Website Design
Turning Off The Lights
PW for Small Businesses
Writing in a Digital Age
The Impact of 
Social Media on 
Professional Writing
Complementing 
a PW Major
Random Job Experience 
at Random Logic Games
the Chameleons of 
the Job Market
Don’t Trust the 
Process(or)
Professional Writing 
Odd Jobs
Pro Writing and 
Video Games
Hyundai Motor 
Manufacturing
Controlling Flow 
in Writing
Caret Software Review
ProWriters Wield 
Power on Society
The Creativity of 
Grant Writing
Blazer’s Block
Using the Internet 
for Fundraising
UAB’s Professional Writing & Rhetoric and Composition Magazine
IS PUBLISHED BY THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA AT BIRMINGHAM 
PROFESSIONAL WRITING PROGRAM IN COOPERATION WITH 
THE UAB ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
PLEASE DIRECT QUESTIONS, COMMENTS, AND SUGGESTIONS TO: 
Jeffrey A. Bacha, Ph.D. 
Associate Professor 
Department of English 
205.996.5328 
jbacha@uab.edu
Copyright © 2018 UAB English Department 
Publication and cover design by Olivia Hall


English

Memorandum 5 (Front Matter)

McWaters, Ashley

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 09 Article 3 
2009 
All the Girls 
Ashley McWaters 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
McWaters, Ashley (2009) "All the Girls," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 09, Article 3. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol09/iss2009/3 
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5PMS. .
Ashley McWaters
All the Girls
Something nearly blue, you turn. It plays.
Beethoven’s across the road. Ellen, unoccupied
for months, shows up at the central market,
half-buried in a drift of fat, stirs up some dust.
Turn. Can Allison be a good mother?
All the avenues lined, so hard to find
men who are not dogs nosing beautiful girls. 
Ash gathers everywhere. Turn. Bea
is on the dashboard, on shelves and sills of churches.
The weather is cool, so it sparkles at every speed. 
Turn. Sue could easily relax in her best
movie, or watch the muddy light play and run
in the park, or think about the heat. Or Christmas,
the light. Which might be why you smoke
in a parked car with all the windows up. Or
it might be the dragon tutoring games
from a magazine. Turn. Fran buys the best
cheese she has ever eaten and talks about
how good it is coming back from Paris.
The sun shimmers all to drum. Checkers,
boules in the square. Houses on the ridge
having slipped behind clouds. Amelia says blue,
you think of herons or cranes. Something
foreign. You think swimming for the gold.
You think praying, folding, your two hands, empty.


All the Girls

Wetlaufer, Valerie

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 09 Article 13 
2009 
One Day I Laid Down the Bruise of You 
Valerie Wetlaufer 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Wetlaufer, Valerie (2009) "One Day I Laid Down the Bruise of You," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): 
Vol. 09, Article 13. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol09/iss2009/13 
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19PMS. .
Valerie Wetlaufer
One Day I Laid Down the Bruise of You
In those five-inch stilettos, 
she thought you were fierce.
You wanted to patent-leather wound.
But I was watching the entire time.
Rubber suit, leather crotch, paper cut,
lucky dragon, loose buttons, dirty feet. 
If this is the nadir, my wrist is already broken; 
hit me with everything— 
slanted wigs, rotten fruit, shattered glass. 
But no more on my knees at the keyhole. 
No smeared-lip vendetta. Your nomad cunt 
keeps coming back, but the locks have frozen, 
the whip gone missing.
Once I sat alone in a velvet theater.
I imagined you inside me.
That was enough.
Tiny fist curled, like a bird:
wings beating in the nest.
A pocketful of feathers.
Most accidents happen close to home.


One Day I Laid Down the Bruise of You

Webb, Katherine

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 10 Article 9 
2010 
The Static Electricity of Playground Equipment 
Katherine Webb 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Webb, Katherine (2010) "The Static Electricity of Playground Equipment," PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine): Vol. 10, Article 9. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol10/iss2010/9 
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11PMS. .
Katherine Webb
The Static Electricity  
of Playground Equipment
In a sandbox
 in our hometowns
we all wrote out
 our full names
our birthdates
 and we laid sticks
as the dash—
played rock paper
 scissors to see
who would die first.
     We weren’t afraid
as we waited
 in the long line
for our turn down
 the slide. We stood
and wondered if
 its yellow walls
would quick-shock
 our slipping skin.


The Static Electricity of Playground Equipment

Trede, Meredith

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 10 Article 18 
2010 
Working Around Peterson's Field Guide 
Meredith Trede 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Trede, Meredith (2010) "Working Around Peterson's Field Guide," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): 
Vol. 10, Article 18. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol10/iss2010/18 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
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24 PMS. .
Meredith Trede
Working around Peterson’s Field Guide
as the cormorant unfurls his heraldic wings
                                                                  hold
that pose
              the roofer is here       his task directly below
my window      movements deliberate
                         as is my gaze
on the page
                                                           he preens
on the piling   dives snake like beneath
the river’s surface
                           how can he hoist such a long
ladder               copper-gold tanned skin
     must look up deltoids
        the long submersion of a creature
without gills
            the cutout sides of his turquoise shirt
dark plumage              lumbering wide-winged giant
            the stroking syllables of latissimus dorsi
so slow          to elevate
the backbeat of hammer, saw and staple
25PMS. .
            so swift
                       in descent
triceps contract, biceps flex the right
                                                           forearm
      slender hooked bill raised
have a nice day, ma’am
                                   swimming low, like a loon


Working Around Peterson\u27s Field Guide

Che, Cathy Linh

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 10 Article 28 
2010 
Story 
Cathy Linh Che 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Che, Cathy Linh (2010) "Story," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 10, Article 28. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol10/iss2010/28 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
38 PMS. .
Cathy Linh Che
Story
If every cell
inside my brain
is replaced
after seven years, 
then why can’t I
excise this:
he pushed his tongue 
into my mouth, I sat
in my Catholic skirt,
the Listerine
and old cigarettes, 
that tongue like a slug
that turned 
in my mouth. 
My story’s an arrow 
pointing back to this, 
back to when 
he clamped my hand 
around his cock. 
These little hands 
haven’t grown
since then. My story 
is a series
of pent-up men. 
39PMS. .
I lie with them
and withhold 
my tongue.
In my chest
is a neon portrait
of the Sacred Heart 
It lights up 
every time
I am touched.


Story

Hamilton, Masha

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 10 Article 32 
2010 
Zarmeena 
Masha Hamilton 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Hamilton, Masha (2010) "Zarmeena," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 10, Article 32. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol10/iss2010/32 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
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51PMS. .
Masha Hamilton
Zarmeena
On a Kabul football field marked with white chalk as though ready for 
sport, a woman in a burqa kneels, her shadow yawning long before her. 
A man approaches almost casually, his Kalashnikov pointed skyward. She 
half-turns toward him, her left arm raised slightly, then seems to glimpse 
the weapon out of her peripheral vision and turns away. He lowers the 
muzzle to her head. The rifle kicks as he fires once, then twice more. She 
surrenders to the ground, a discarded blue handkerchief. 
I can still picture with precision the smuggled video I saw on the inter-
net in November 1999, the execution and its aftermath: the burqa-hidden 
woman who appeared to modestly cover the lower half of her sister’s life-
less body, the group of turbaned men moving like an athletic team toward 
the body, the Toyota arriving to remove it. The version I saw, which ran 
on the AP wire, had no sound. Its silent violence left me shaken.
I knew far too little about this woman to be party to such a stark and 
intimate moment. Zarmeena: her name. Seven: the number of children 
she had. And her alleged crime: beating her husband to death with a 
hammer as he slept. It all amounted to a scattered detail or two, not 
a life story. This absence of narrative, in fact, was true for virtually all 
women in Taliban-held Afghanistan. They were gagged as well as hidden, 
I understood then. This recognition left a lasting impact that sparked a 
deep interest in the country, sending me first to books and news reports, 
then to travel to the country myself, and finally, a decade later, to the cre-
ation of the Afghan Women’s Writing Project.
I first visited Afghanistan in 2004. The U.S. Embassy urged caution, but 
I felt safe. I visited the opium poppy fields south of Kandahar, the border 
city of Jallalabad, the province of Wardak, and wandered around Kabul. I 
interviewed women in prison in Kabul and Kandahar, a child bride steps 
from a playground to which she longed to return, a war widow living 
in rubble, the smiling, elderly matriarch of an opium-growing family. I 
practiced shiatsu on a group of women who had walked for hours to see 
a doctor. The stories I heard spilled one over the other; each night I tran-
scribed my notes until the electricity failed, so that the next day I could 
52 PMS. .
take in more. It was a trip that left me by turns horrified by what these 
Afghans had endured, and exhilarated by the strength, grace, and humor 
with which they had survived.
When I returned to Afghanistan in November 2008, I found a coun-
try more dangerous for Afghans and outsiders alike, a country where 
women’s optimism had been replaced by strong undercurrents of trepida-
tion. The Karzai government, most believed, had done too little to protect 
women’s rights. The prospect of that government opening negotiations 
with “moderate” Taliban left many women wary. Some, like Shaista 
Hakim, told me about the speed with which the Taliban seemed to take 
over Kabul in September 1996, almost overnight. Shaista and others said 
they did not feel their rights were secure enough to rule out a sudden 
return to a set of rules that would leave them powerless within their own 
society, unable to go to school or work, forbidden to speak, unable to tell 
even their own stories.
I had a kitchen-table idea: in order to give at least some of them the 
ability to tell their stories, I would teach a free online class to them for 
ten weeks or so. But it took only one class for me to understand that their 
interest and desire would outstrip my ability to meet it. So in May 2009, 
the Afghan Women’s Writing Project was founded, and grew quickly from 
me at my laptop to three secure online classrooms taught by rotating 
published novelists and poets, memoirists, screenwriters, and journalists 
around the country, with an entire volunteer and generous support team, 
plus donations that have contributed to laptops for our writers, and will 
eventually help create Afghanistan’s first women-only Internet cafe. 
I have come to feel that speaking our own truths aloud is as critical to 
a certain kind of survival as food and shelter. At first, though, the Afghan 
women who joined us in three secure online classrooms were not sure 
how much they should disclose about their private worries and losses to 
a faceless, nameless audience. They weren’t sure if it was safe, or if it  
mattered, or if anyone would notice. Over time, under AWWP mentor-
ship, the stories deepened, and became more revealing of what it meant 
to be an Afghan woman. Now their work is published online at www.
awwproject.org, using first names only for security reasons. 
As many times as I’ve read them, I remain moved and illuminated by 
these essays and poems. I offer a small sample of them here, in honor of 
Zarmeena, who never had the chance to tell her history. I offer them in 
hopes that you, too, will be moved, and that these stories will connect 
us, American to Afghan, and broaden our understanding of our complex 
relationship with Afghanistan and its compelling people.


Zarmeena

(Afghan Women\u27s Writing Project), Shogofa

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 10 Article 35 
2010 
Kill Silencce 
Shogofa (Afghan Women's Writing Project) 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
(Afghan Women's Writing Project), Shogofa (2010) "Kill Silencce," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): 
Vol. 10, Article 35. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol10/iss2010/35 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
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58 PMS. .
Shogofa
Kill Silence
I was youngest in my family. Everyone loved me a lot when I was child. 
I talked very cute and because of that, all loved me. But I can remem-
ber my mother admonishing my sisters about how they should always 
behave like good girls, always look down when they go outside, don’t talk 
with anyone, just go straight there and come straight home. One of my 
sisters was studying in the college. My mother told her every day, “Don’t 
talk with boys. Be polite. Wear your veil like a good girl.”
In our family, if we needed to make a big decision, only the boys—
meaning my brothers—had the right to speak. We were not allowed to 
talk whenever we wanted to. They said to us, “Be silent, don’t talk, you 
don’t have the right to say anything.” Then we had to be silent.
After years passed, I became a young woman and I also followed what 
my mother said to my sisters about being a good girl, not talking, stay-
ing silent. I did whatever my father and mother and brothers said. Then 
everyone in the family liked me because I was always quiet. But some-
times I asked myself why I was so shy and couldn’t defend myself.
For example, in school, I saw other girls playing, shouting, enjoying 
themselves, but I couldn’t. It even had a bad effect on my grades. One of 
my teachers cut my score on an exam even though I was right. When I 
asked her why, she told my mother, “Your daughter is intelligent but very 
shy, and so for that I cut her score. I want to know that she can defend 
herself.”
Once when my brother did something wrong, my father didn’t beat 
him. He came and beat me, even though it wasn’t my fault. I was silent; 
that is why.
Step by step, being silent had a bad effect on my life. I went to Kabul 
to study in college. It was very difficult for me to talk with people. I was 
just afraid. In class, I knew the entire lesson, but when the teacher asked 
me something, I didn’t have the courage to explain. I felt really badly 
when other students were laughing at me. They thought I didn’t know 
anything. Because I was silent, I failed at the university. I just hated 
myself. I was too afraid to even tell people I am Hazara.
59PMS. .
One day, one of my friends asked me, “Why are you crying?” I didn’t 
say anything. Then she said, “Cry as much as you can. I didn’t say stop. 
You have to cry.”
I just looked at her and said, “I am a loser.”
She laughed very loudly and said, “No, you’re not a loser. You’re the 
best. You just have to kill silence. You have to speak up. Say whatever 
comes in your mind. Don’t be ashamed. Everyone here is the same. No 
one is better than any other.” After this, she told me one more thing: “No 
one can give you your rights. You have to grab your rights.”
That night I thought a lot about what she told me. Then I started to 
change myself day by day. After one year, I went home totally changed. 
I tried to teach to others: don’t keep your child silent, and don’t punish 
her, let her grow up naturally. I am not the only victim of this kind of les-
son. Most girls are humiliated and kept silent because they are girls. One 
thing I want to say in the end: as much as we women are quiet or keep 
silent, we are destroying our lives and our future.
Kill silence and take your rights.


Kill Silencce

Thomas, Donna G

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 10 Article 39 
2010 
Kiddie Land 
Donna G. Thomas 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Thomas, Donna G. (2010) "Kiddie Land," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 10, Article 39. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol10/iss2010/39 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
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67PMS. .
Donna G. Thomas
Kiddie Land
The brown-brick house nestled on a side street in the old community 
of Norwood is filling with family, my family. Everyone migrates to my 
parent’s home for family gatherings. The usual, or should I say unusual, 
crowd of aunts, uncles, and cousins all swarm together to celebrate my 
son’s third birthday. The cold January weather doesn’t stop anyone from 
coming, all fifteen of them come after Sunday eleven o’clock Mass. The 
adults move throughout the house in party hats recalling old nicknames 
like Bro-Bull, Stinker, No-Money, and Mo-Money. The children take 
advantage of this time to misbehave thinking that spankings are out of 
the question with so many relatives to come to their rescue. So when 
Baby Kim is caught using my parent’s bed as a trampoline, sure enough 
her mother grabs the nearest belt, and sure enough her great aunt, my 
mother, comes to the rescue. 
“Leave this child alone,” she grabs the four-year-old, protecting her 
from the extra-large, brown, plastic belt. “She can jump on her great 
Aunt Catherine’s bed all she wants.”
Most come to get my mother’s famous—well, everything my mama 
cooks is famous. Her cooking is the best in the family. Probably could 
be outside the family but Mama isn’t the adventurous type. She loves her 
family, and making things perfect for them is her passion. Her collard 
greens, black skillet corn bread, and homemade vanilla ice cream, which 
my Uncle Blue Bland swears the local creamery stole, are all favorites of 
the family. She has prepared her savory chocolate cake with pecans for 
my son’s birthday. Since he is not old enough to cast his ballot, Mama 
makes my father’s favorite. 
After singing happy birthday to a three-year-old, who is irritable 
because he missed his nap, the men retreat to the den to burp, fart, and 
snore. Some may even watch whatever sporting event dances across the 
television screen. The women pile into the dining area to discuss the 
young man cousin Bonita brought, while Mama and I linger in the kitch-
en. As we wipe the dull green, wobbly table, I trace my finger through a 
series of five straight lines in the left corner of the table. My brother drew 
68 PMS. .
Thomas
these lines when he was told to count to fifteen and ran out of fingers. 
The childish lines make me think of my first trip to the local amusement 
park.
“Mama, do you remember the time you and Daddy took me and 
Mariann to Kiddie Land Park? I remember standing in line waiting to 
purchase our tickets. I had so much fun.”
Mama, who is now sitting at the table, resting her round face in her 
aging, beige hand takes a deep breath and gives me her famous evil eye. 
“Yeah, I remember.” 
“Why do you say it like that Mama? And why are you giving me the 
evil eye?” 
“It may have been fun for you but not much fun for me or your 
father.”
When I was a young girl, Mama and Daddy took my best friend and me 
to Kiddie Land Park for my birthday. I think it was my tenth or eleventh. 
This was the ultimate trip for two reasons. I got to share this trip with my 
best friend without my brother or sister tagging along. This was impor-
tant because now I was two digits instead of one and that meant I was 
big enough to have a birthday without my siblings. My brother is two 
years older than me. I knew he wouldn’t want to come. Well, actually, a 
couple of days before my birthday he told me to say to Mama and Daddy 
that I only wanted my best friend to come. He didn’t want to hang out 
with girls all day. I was at that age where I did everything my big brother 
requested. My sister, who is five years younger, I’m sure would have 
wanted to come, but a Butterfinger candy bar and a chance to spend the 
day with her best friend, who lived next door, was all I needed to prom-
ise in order to avert the unwanted intrusion. The second reason this was 
the ultimate trip was because Kiddie Land Park had only recently opened 
its doors to Negroes. In years past, before segregation lost its control over 
Birmingham, Alabama, I could only look as we passed by on our way to 
church. I saw brown and white ponies with their tails swaying. The Ferris 
wheel, the roller coaster, the bumper cars, all flashed bright colors of red, 
yellow, and green as they spun out of control. I saw little girls in brightly 
colored dresses skipping along the pathway, their hair bouncing as if 
dancing to the beat of the magical rides. I saw little boys in suits they had 
outgrown racing to be the first in line. The air smelled of sweet, sticky, 
cotton candy. The musical chimes blasted from the loud speakers. 
69
poemmemoirstory
PMS. .
Walking through the arches was like entering a magic world. Since 
the park entrance faced 3rd Avenue West, and was next door to the 
Five Points West shopping center, one of the busiest shopping cen-
ters in Birmingham, I could imagine other boys and girls watching us 
as we entered the park. The walkways were dirt filled but for me and 
Mariann it was golden sand. Most people came on Sunday after church 
getting their best shoes and socks covered in brown dust from the dirt-
filled walkways. My family was no exception. We came in our Sunday 
best, Mama in her fitted navy dress and Daddy in his dark brown suit. 
Mariann and I, after hours of conversation, decided to wear our match-
ing yellow dresses with the white butterfly collars. We wore our white 
patent leather shoes with white ankle socks trimmed in yellow lace. We 
topped it all off with thick black ponytails sealed with yellow bowed rib-
bons. Our dark eyes sparkled and danced as we walked from the car to 
the park.
“I remember walking into that park. Your father and I were so nervous. 
We had spoken to other families who had taken their kids just to see 
what the atmosphere was like. They said the usual things like. 
“We got lots of stares.”
“They love to whisper.”
“I didn’t know white folks spit so much.”
“They stare, whisper, spit, stare, whisper, spit.”
But it was different with me and your father, me with my light skin, 
freckles, and brown hair and your father with his black skin and kinky 
hair. We always got more attention than other couples.” 
Mariann and I rode the roller coaster, the spinning cups, and we laughed 
ourselves silly in the house of mirrors. We ate cotton candy, popcorn, 
and giggled as the fizz from the sodas tickled our nose. We danced and 
skipped, thanking Mama and Daddy every five minutes for bringing us. 
And then we came to the last ride, the Ferris wheel. Suddenly the smell 
of sugar mingling with mustard and catsup made my stomach churn, and 
churn, and churn. 
After I complete a second bowl of homemade strawberry ice cream, 
I start to wash the few dishes that have accumulated. I can feel Mama 
watching me. She knows that the second bowl of ice cream will probably 
70 PMS. .
Thomas
make my stomach ache later, but I revel in the taste as it glides down my 
throat anyway. Beside, Mama knows it’s my favorite. 
Mama insists on using paper plates, paper cups, and paper forks at the 
family gatherings. So there aren’t many dishes to wash. Everyone adheres 
to the rule, except my Aunt Marie. She insists on a real plate, real cup, 
and real fork. Mama always says, “I’m going to make her bring her own.” 
But she never does. I wash the real plate, real cup, and real fork to keep 
the two siblings from arguing.
Mama starts to talk about Kiddie Land again. I was eager to hear her 
story. Like most middle children, I felt my older brother and younger sis-
ter got most of the attention. So I savored this moment when Mama felt 
she could confide in me. 
“We were always getting the look. You know like what is this white 
woman doing with a black man? They above all people should under-
stand the different shades of black people. They are the ones who made 
us multicolored. Still sometimes we would be careful not to touch, you 
know, hold hands or anything. That’s the way we were at Kiddie Land 
Park that day. We walked side by side, but we never touched. It just 
seemed easier.
We also made sure we used the bathroom before we left home. But of 
course you had to go. How could I tell you that I was afraid? So I bravely 
arched you and Mariann to the rest rooms. Some of the white women 
pinched their noses like we brought in the smell of stench.”
Mama rolls her eyes, shrugs her shoulders, and adds, in her sassy 
childlike voice.
“But they were in there first.”
Then she mellows and smiles. 
“I distinctly remember one white woman tall, skinny, and red hair. 
She smiled and told me I had two pretty daughters. She asked about your 
dress. I told her I made it. We chatted for a few seconds about my sewing 
skills. I could tell she was trying to show me that all white people were 
not racist, and I appreciated that. There were no major incidents that day. 
Actually a white man winked his eye at me when your father turned his 
back.” 
Mariann and I were anxious to get on the ride. However, for some reason 
I felt weak. Before I could protest, Mariann grabbed me by the arm and 
71
poemmemoirstory
PMS. .
pulled me in the direction of the Ferris wheel. I got a strange feeling as 
I stared at the cages circling the air. I really didn’t want to ride; however, 
my friend insisted. The attendant, a skinny unshaved man missing most 
of his teeth, looked at us and winked, saying, “Dis is de best ride in de 
park.” The attendant waited until we were safely in our cages and then 
closed the door. As new riders were seated in their cage we moved higher 
and higher into the sky. I grabbed the handle and firmly tightened my 
hands around the bar. With each new rider my grip got tighter and tight-
er. I looked for Mama and Daddy. They were getting smaller and smaller 
with each new passenger. When the last riders had been securely placed 
in their cage, we were at the top. Mariann raised her arms high into the 
air and said, “This is so much fun!” 
“It was no fun for me and your father. I couldn’t wait to leave that park. I 
just felt as if everyone was staring.” 
Mama gets up from the green table and hides a slice of birthday cake 
for my father to have with his coffee in the morning. Then she sits down 
and wipes a smudge of cake from her pink lips. When she is about to 
restart the story my sister wanders into the kitchen. 
“What do you want?” I asked. I didn’t mean to sound angry, but I had 
Mama all to myself, and I didn’t want to share. I love my sister. We love 
each other. But I felt that she got more attention, and at times, I suppose, 
I was jealous of that.
“I was just wondering when you guys were coming into the dining 
room with us,” she said giving me a nasty look. We exchange angry stares 
at each other for a few seconds. Then my sister looks to Mama for help, 
but Mama averts her eyes. Although Mama tried hard not to pick sides, 
sometimes she did. My sister retreats to the dining room, and I am so 
proud mother has sided with me. 
“Thank God He lets some of us live long enough to change. Now I 
would march you into that park, hold your father’s hand, and dare any-
one to say a word. When I look back I guess most families were just out 
giving their kids a good time as we were. So much has changed. Then so 
much is still the same.” 
I’m stiff. I haven’t moved.
At that instant, I realize, I am afraid of heights!
72 PMS. .
Thomas
I hadn’t said anything to my friend because I couldn’t. 
I was frozen! 
My chest felt as tight as the white Playtex girdle my mother struggled 
into every Sunday morning. My knuckles were a pale green from the 
death choke I had applied to the handle bar. My eyes must have been a 
dull brown from the small tornadoes of wind dust that found its way into 
them. Slowly the cage started to rotate. We were going down. A slight 
squirt of relief filled my chest, but it was only momentarily because now 
we were fully into our circular rotation. Each time we passed the atten-
dant my friend said, “faster, faster.” He would smile the toothless smile, 
and we would go faster. For five minutes two little brown girls in yellow 
dresses experienced two totally different emotions: one excitement, and 
the other horror.
I was still mesmerized by what she had told me. I start to sweep the 
kitchen floor but only as a distraction to try and shut my mind down. 
However, I couldn’t.
“Mama, I didn’t know. I mean about your feelings. I never thought 
about your skin color. You are just my mother. I guess it was hard for you 
and Daddy years ago.” 
“At times it really was. Sometimes you just get tired of battling.”
Looking at her I still couldn’t see anything but Mama. Nothing else 
mattered to me. No one had ever said anything to me about my mother’s 
color. Or at least, I never noticed. I am clearly color blind when it comes 
to her. Then I remembered an incident with my daughter. 
“You know Mama I do remember awhile back Tippi told me that you 
were her white grandmother. She said very innocently that she has a 
black grandmother and a white grandmother. I asked, who is your white 
grandmother? She looked at me as if I were silly and said that you were.” 
“That granddaughter of mine, what did you say?” 
“I tried to explain to her how black people come in all different 
shades.” 
“Well now we are African-American, so how are you gonna explain 
that one.” 
We were silent for a few seconds then I said, “It’s funny how differ-
ently we remember the Kiddie Land experience.” 
“You know Diana, that’s just the way it was for me and your father in 
the beginning. Now, when I look back, I don’t see it as such a bad thing.”  
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PMS. .
Then my mother, now with gray hair, faded freckles and skin that has 
darkened over the years, added some of her much-sought-after words of 
wisdom. 
“Love makes you brave. Children make you brave. If it wasn’t for you 
children I probably would never have ventured outside the house. You 
taught me about volleyball, your brother taught me about football, and 
your sister taught me about cheerleading. Things I would have never 
thought to explore had I not had kids.”
I smile at my mama wanting to hug her. I resist. She is not the type 
for “mush” as she calls it. 
I finish sweeping the kitchen floor. 
When the ride was finally over the attendant released us from the cage 
and said, “I told ya dis was de best ride.”
I still couldn’t speak. 
I walked quickly toward Mama and Daddy. I wanted to grab them 
and tell them about my horror. However, as I got closer, I saw them smil-
ing. They were so proud they were able to take me to Kiddie Land.
So when they asked me, “How was it?”
I replied, “FUN.” 
I never told them the truth. 
I never rode a Ferris wheel again.
The silence controls us for a few moments. I assume it tastes like relief 
for Mama to finally tell something that she has held inside for years. For 
me the silence tastes like bitter chocolate melting and spoiling happy 
childhood memories. In her attempt to bring us back to the present, she 
states, “I remember you on that Ferris wheel. You looked like you had 
seen the face of evil coming for your soul. Your father wanted to ask the 
attendant to stop the ride. I told him to let you finish. When you start 
something you should finish. When you got off, you raced toward us as if 
you were on fire. You didn’t say anything, but I knew you were afraid.”
Cousin Bonita yells from the dining area for Mama and me to come res-
cue her from the relatives who say her date is short and ugly. He really 
is; however, we always side with Cousin Bonita against the other family 
members. It makes for great conversation. The men start to come back to 
life asking for more ice cream and cake. Cousin Bonita’s boyfriend comes 
74 PMS. .
Thomas
in the dining area and asks if she is ready to go. She shakes her head no. 
When he is safely out of sight we all laugh. We know the men probably 
have started to give him a rough time. I’m sure my father asked him, 
“Where do you work boy?” 
And if the answer is, “I don’t have a job,” Daddy will promptly come 
into the dining area and whisper to Cousin Bonita. Of course everyone 
in the room will hear. 
“Do you know that boy doesn’t have a job?” 
If he does have a job, No-Money will ask him for a twenty-dollar 
loan. Mo-Money will take to him about investments. Then Uncle Junior 
Parker, who for more than thirty years was the projectionist for the 
Famous Movie Theater, which was one of only two Negro theaters in 
Birmingham, will ask him if he remembers John Wayne in the old 1945 
Western, “Dakota.” If he lasts long enough to become a member of the 
family, he will learn to say yes. For some reason my uncle just can’t 
understand that we who were born after 1945 don’t know anything about 
John Wayne.
The children finally give into sleep, and the brown-brick house nes-
tled on a side street in the Norwood community, settles into a cold win-
ter’s day of family fun. 


Kiddie Land

Marshell, Kyla

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 11 Article 27 
2011 
The Two Fridas 
Kyla Marshell 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Marshell, Kyla (2011) "The Two Fridas," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 11, Article 27. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol11/iss2011/27 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
53PMS. .
Kyla Marshell
The Two Fridas
no one body can bear all that breaking. the painting in utero,
the woman. the splitting, then again, & again. the body, burst 
into unison. the new body made from pure self.
*
if you hold your own hand: you are pure light. 
in the tightrope woods: empty, bottomless space on either 
side, an airless death. you must keep to your light, every branch illumined 
by what you are becoming: you, you.
*
you hold the brush, you hold his portrait, you hold the shears.
one red line from your pincered heart to the other, one hand assured. 
*
remember: you are peerless light. 
to be your very own; to guide one self through the swimming 
ocean of the other—there is no match for this.
& when you place the final stroke; & when you step back;
& when you see it, so whole, your one tiny spore 
unraveled into twinned beauty
you lapse into being


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