Read an Excerpt
nuthouse love
By kenny attaway AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Kenny Attaway
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4490-4453-4
Chapter One
At times the world can be a cold, cruel, and dangerous place that kills and destroys everything including storms to harvests and people and their so called dreams- waking up the cold reality that loves some times loves no one. Everyone and thing needs some form of love and life to remain in existence. We all need love in some kind of form, rather than imagery or fictitious, rather a warm pipe or cold dick we all need it. Strangely, thanks to my loving and caring family, I fell in love and all its wonderful attributes at the age of two or three. Mom and dad always taught love was the most powerful element in the world. And as I child I felt love from my baby bottle, mixing on down to my hard but delicate spankings. And since the age of five (as I remember), I became a hopeless romantic that would do anything for love including swimming in a pool of knives, and playing Russian roulette with cupids painfully agonizing bow and arrow, believing I could survive each sting or walking playing Russian roulette with the chamber of five filled with eight bullets. Yup I have watched
Love Jones, Love & Basketball, and every other romantic movie a hundred times. I loaded my IPOD years back with songs from Anthony Hamilton, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder and even Cher's
Life after Love. In knowing how cold and dangerous theworld could be and how cold the hugs of life could be, I believed that love was like the warmth I felt when dad would hug me when I scraped my knees after falling off my bike when I first learned how to ride. Although I was terrified to ride a bike for weeks after that nasty bloody cut, after thinking of the big rewarding hug dad would give after the hurt, I somehow gathered the strength to ride again, in hopes of receiving that big, giant, inviting hug that melted the pain away in an instant. My mom and dad were both compassionate and loving parents that taught love from every aspect and exuded it from every follicle. It was rumored that since the only pregnancy the two would ever encounter in us (my sister, brother and I), being triplets they were aiming to name us Love, Laverne and Lovell, but after my uncle Rasheed died of cancer on our day of birth they settled on Rah (my sister), Rasheed (my brother) and Rasheeda (me), thank god. Mom loved love, but dad respected love. Dad believed the only thing more important than love was who or what was protecting love?. Early on it was discovered life was a battlefield and since love is life and life is love; love is a battlefield as well.
Every Sunday, like clockwork, sometimes after reading the Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper, Dad would clean a different gun. Although I never knew the name of each gun other than the silly nicknames he had given them like Lucille Ball (the house gun), Peter the pistol (hunting rifle) and the rosy shooter (his work gun). Daddy was a Philadelphia detective and loved the idea and logic of uncovering mysteries and helping people to smile again after solving the murders of their loved ones. Dad believed that outside of God, Rosy the shit stopper was the protector of love for it not only protected his partner Mr. Fields and himself, but protected his family from hurt. Yup, every Sunday he'd clean and scrub every piece and element of Rosy and as he cleaned he would refer to her as his fifth favorite girl after mom, Rah, myself and grandma Isabelle. Oddly enough, no matter how many times he'd clean the gun on Sundays, I s believed that he was bathing my sister Rah (pronounced Ri), because he'd talk to Rosy as if she was a person instead of five-pounds of scrap metal. "Come here baby, daddy loves you". The man toy was scrubbed and dried gently before being placed into its metal box with ruby red interior cloth made of cotton, leather, and suede. Mom hated that he cleaned the gun in front of us rather in the comfort of their bedroom or the garage, but daddy later explained he was secretly teaching us the importance of "taking care of what takes care of you ". We feed dogs, buy shit for our homes, why can't we clean and take care of our shooters (gun). And as planned Rah, Rasheed, and I knew every element and make of gun there was to know before we completed eighth grade. But oddly enough they hated guns and I fell in love with the artistic merit and action of a pistol. Mom looked on puzzled when I'd laugh and chuckle at dad when he licked the chambers of the many guns he owned.
He rubbed his fingertips over the bullets, kiss the clips and swoon the gun handle while laughing at the excitement he and I shared in the love of guns. "Guns protect the love, and guns are the love". But no matter what, mom never could come to grips with or share the same ideologies as dad. "Gun are dangerous Ne' (short for Rene) and they end more lives than save. They break up families and cause many to lose their religion. Dad and I clicked and meshed more than the others, not only in our love for life and the unique shaped metal (gun), but in our never-give-up-hope and the protection of love theories.
As a child and even in adulthood, I breathed the sincerity, compassion and realism that no one or thing would ever hurt my family. And although my sister, brother and I were identical the outside, our inner love and likes of the world were completely opposite. Early on, mom always confused Rah and me at times, but dad always knew the difference. Later in life, prior to his death, I asked Dad how he knew the difference and he'd always say "a good detective is always on beat and your eyes ooze with life while your sister's cross and blink a thousand blinks per second to protect her dreams and secrets. (She was far-sided). Mom would sometimes become so confused by the triplet crises that she would punish me for something Rah did and discipline Rah for something I did. At seven we promised to keep that bound and protect each other no matter what. That meant that if mom was ready to spank for something I'd done, and I wasn't up for the beating, Rah would take it and vice versa. Rasheed, on the other hand, always sported a hustler hairstyle or baldy, bracelets and left the occasional pee on the toilets; which made him easy to peep out, but Rah and I were the interchangeable kids that only dad's love could decipher. Grandma Isabelle (mom's mom) would always make us wear different clothes when we would stay with her on weekends, mom and dad getaways, and the occasional weeks when dad was on special stakeouts etc. Grandma Isabelle had loads of money and was a caring grandmother to some degree due to her line of work in being a B/C class actress that made $500,000 per movie or more. My sister loved grandma more than I did at times because her ideologies and respect for life were far from mine. Being an actress forced her to believe life was a movie itself and that life was merely a stage. And of course the people in it were actors and actress. Whenever we had any questions, fears, or problems with life she'd stick us in front of the VCR and shove a tape in the player and make herself a cup of expensive tea ( no matter the weather). Rasheed loved grandma for her expensive gifts and teaching him how to draw and illustrate, while Rah loved Grandma Isabelle for her theory that life was a movie and like actors and actresses you could play any part you want, dress how you want and look how you want to look, which is why she later became a plastic surgeon. Like mom she believed in covering up any ugliness she felt rather it was wearing oversized sunglasses as teen, smothering her face with sheets as child and later becoming a plastic surgeon, but if life's a movie ... lets push rewind for now.
RW/
On April 1, 1973 Rene and Roberta Griffin gave birth to triplets Rasheed, Rah and Rasheeda. Growing up in a modest middle class district on a middle class income meant very little problems with financial issues, but a gang of emotional and love driven issues. Mom's mother, Grandma Isabella, paid for four years of acting school with straight up cash due to the family's make-up business in the 1950's. Sadly, Grandpa Willie died before we were born, but grandma shared enough stories of his workmanship for us to form a description without trying. Our family business was sold in 1970 to a very rich Jewish family. The money generated from the sale of the business and grandma's starring role in low budget films and supporting roles in bigger films, made us want for nothing. We ate with silver spoons and ate golden cakes for snacks. Dad wanted us to work for everything due to his workmanship and poor family. His mother and father both died in their late teens 18, 19 from simple cases of the Flu.. Dad was raised by his grandmother and had it very rough. He always said that "growing up in Augusta Georgia in the 60's were no joke for a black man, especially a poor black man." Dad not only had to collect water from a well, but he also had to share everything with his older and younger brothers. Dad believed we should work and be grateful for everything, but mom was the complete opposite. Grandma Isabelle made sure that mom and her twin sisters Jeanette and Joy and brother Chris, received anything their little hearts desired. Dad always believed that the reason mom and her siblings received whatever they wanted as a result of the guilt grandma felt for not being around and for not having Grandpa Willie in the home. But mom's logic was simply that "black folks own that slave mentality that everything should be handwork or hard work, when it shouldn't. White Americans and foreigners pass wealth off to their children every single day ... why can't we do that." Grandma and grandpa worked their fingers to the gristle and bone to ensure we had whatever we wanted because "my kids will not and should not have to work as hard for nothing". Such conflicting and often confusing ideologies made us wonder why mom and dad gave each other a second glance, but it was simple: opposites attract. Dad loved mom's up keep of her family and good looks and mom loved the fact that dad didn't care for much, other than his jazz collection, girls (as he refereed to mom, Rah and I) his boy boy (Rasheed) protecting love and keeping the peace. Neither mom nor dad ever danced with infidelity (they both believed in staying faithful and keeping all ugly problems from the others in the family).
Outside of the occasional flare-ups on cleaning the guns in front of the children and dad's late hours and weeks of stakeouts, their problems were worked out in privacy and discussed later among us. We loved when they played the game "You Be the jury and judge".
Both mom and dad were great debaters, and after settling many issues in the bedroom they'd place Rah, Rasheed and me on the couch {our panel} and ask us our opinions. And although the two would come to various verdicts in the comfort of their bedroom, if our argument and point of view were thought-out and met with all forms of logic, they'd overturn various decisions. The debates and overturns made us not only more intelligent, shaping opinions, but most important it forced us to stick together and support each other and, like a jury, our decisions and final arguments all had to mesh as one. How unfortunate that we would lose sight of such beautiful ideologies as time progressed. No hung juries. Mom loved it because it reinforced that sense of togetherness and decision making as a team; while dad gloated that he was teaching us "good ole fashion detective work." Aside from the similar but different point of views of the two, we loved that mom and dad were from two different worlds, but met at the same moon in loving each other and the fact we benefited heavily from having to learn two point of views from the world. Mom battled for catholic and private school and won. Dad pushed working at libraries and completing chores although we could afford two maids and a butler were our only work. Dad grossed over $250,000 a year while mom pulled in a little over $500,000 a year as a result of opening her own hair solon; which kept our chores to a minimum; for no one was ever home to dirty anything other than on the weekends. Ironically, none of us liked school, but mom and dad insisted that we earn straight A's. Neither Catholic nor private school excited us and having many classes together made it worse. By the age of ten all three of us were searching for our own identity. Dad was the only person who treated us differently, but equal. He and I would watch cartoons and discuss debates on Sunday while he and Rasheed would bowl in father and son tournaments every other Friday if he wasn't away. Rah and dad spent and Saturday morning discussing detective work; how many victims needed but couldn't afford plastic surgery after many of the crimes suffered?, etc ; which placed the topping on her desires of becoming a plastic surgeon and one wanting to change and make things as she assumed they should be. And although Rasheed was a master at engineering and bowling, he only wanted to draw and become an illustrator and comic book writer, which mom and dad supported. Aside from enjoying the eye candy of picking apart guns and being a master level debater, I was stuck on what I wanted to be professionally, or what to study in college. In our household everyone had to go to college and receive a $50,000 check following graduate to buy a car, house or whatever you wanted. At one point in time I wanted to be a detective just like dad, but the sometimes month long stakeouts and seeing how mom missed him, made me drift away from that dream. By the age of 12, I was sick and tired of not knowing what I wanted to do. After all Rah was already reading several books per month on plastic surgery and learning how to cover head and face scars with hair thanks to working with mom at the salon Tuesdays thru Thursdays afterschool. Rasheed was already in private art school at ten and making his way to the top of the class. Mom boasted several of his works of art on the salon walls and allowed him to sell his works to all her snobbish uppity customers on customer appreciation night, which was held every three months.
Monday and Friday nights mom paid me cash to wash some of the lower paying customer's hair and although I could professionally cut ,relax, and curl by age 12, I had no ambitions of becoming a hair stylist. Hair was partly boring and disgusting. Some of the stories those wannabe brunettes and black blondes would share about things being placed in their hairs/heads by lovers made me a little nauseous, but the tips were good. Dad really didn't like me being around the 'stuck up broads' as he would say, but he wanted me to earn money early on. I hated the reality that I was stuck in the web of confusion, but silently prayed I'd find my dream /career path before I was Grandma Isabella's age. After hearing dad talk of busting up an underground dog fight club and the pain and suffering the dogs and other animals went through, the thought of being an animal rescuer crossed my mind, but watching Grandma Isabella cry hysterically after finding her pet Chihuahua dead from a dog cold, pushed that thought over the edge into the bag of veterinarian. I always loved dogs and birds as long as I could remember and now it was a perfect fit. Yup! A veterinary. The common characteristics of animals to humans and humans to animals always amazed me. My career was almost set.
FF//.
A little before for high school things had changed a great deal in my home. Dad was now chief detective in charge, mom's boutique, Isabella's Hair Factory, had expanded by two floors. Grandma Isabella moved to Los Angeles, California in order to avoid having to fly due to her new few films and infomercials for life insurance for the elderly, which of course were all being filmed in LA. Rah and Rasheed were far ahead of their class mates, but mom and dad agreed not to have them "skipped a few grades", so they could enjoy life as a young teen. Fare enough. My fascination with guns fizzled out a little, but my fascination for animals and Kayla had arrived (confused by the introduction of Kayla?). Thanks to doing exceptionally well in grades sixth thru ninth grade mom and dad allowed me to choose whatever school I wanted to attend and I choose public school. As long as I kept my grade at an A level or better (as dad would say) I could stay for two years. I Thought dad was the most "hood" or "black" of the rest of my family, even dad acted conceited sometimes like my neighbors, peers, and siblings. I longed to be around normal people with normal problems. Mom and dad's combined income was now over a $1,000,000 a year; which made their biggest problem which bag should I wear or which Benz or Porsche should they drive. Being around the normal people brought about a since of life outside the flowers, birds and bees of Lower Merion (30 minutes outside of Philadelphia). And yes like most of the "geeky' boys and corny snobbish girls from Lower Merion at one point in time we all claimed "Philly" when asked "where you from"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from nuthouse love by kenny attaway Copyright © 2009 by Kenny Attaway. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
