My grandma was a giant black man. And she was one chill muthafucker. She didn’t get riled about shit.
I remember her telling me stories bout how the people in Wizconson would call her colored and what not, how Rush Limbaah used say lots of dumb ugly BS, and how all the kids used to dress like clowns.
Folks always got out of grandmas way… She was still one hulking beast even though her flowered mu-mus gave her an air of sweetness. They said she used to be violet & mean when she was young. Back when there was a lot of razism and weird shit going on I guess.
By the time I came along the world had changed and most of the anger had seeped outta her cuz I never saw more than a trace of it in her.
We was all different colors, sexes, and robotics and shit these days.
I weren’t much bigger than rooster Grandma would say, and because of the solar fields I was 78% robotics.
We’d sit out on the porch most evenings, Grandma with her steaming medicine sticks, her merry june. She loved to cuss and spit, but what she loved more than anything was singing. She could sing like a fucking thunderstorm. She’d start real low and then slowly soar into these high reverberating howls that would rattle the steam plates behind my eyes, causing them to over lubricate.
I’d always sit on her lap, looking up at her, holding her hand and she’d be singing. Singing about smokestacked lightening… the purple dog stem oil running all down my face.
