Victoya Coleman         

                                                                                                October 17, 2007

                                                Personal Memoir

“Toya.” an unfamiliar voice yelled over the phone as if I was exact about who it was that I was speaking with.

“Yes, who is this?” I responded with a look on my face that would’ve forbidden a stranger to approach me had we been face to face. The woman never gave her name but instead, she continued as if I had not asked a question.

 “Your mom was just stabbed and she needs you, Toya.” Confusion quickly struck me as I recalled my mother using the same telephone to call and check on where I was just fifteen minutes prior to her friend’s call. The tone of my voice suddenly changed from happy and regular to confused and saddened.

“Well…wait!” I had to find the words to say. “What?” I continued. I didn’t want to overreact and I actually didn’t find too many words to say.

 “Toya, this is your mother’s friend. Your mom was just stabbed so JUST COME!”

“Well, where are you?” I asked.

The first tear of the night filled my right eye as I dropped my head, causing the tear to fall onto my right thigh.

“We are near MacAuthor.”

“MacAuthor where?” I yelled becoming frustrated.

“Your mom said for you to come near the motel that you took her to the other day.”

“Ok.” I immediately responded, hung the phone up and instructed my best friend to take me to that location.                                                                                                     

“Go to the motel by Seven Eleven where we took my mom the other day.” Without saying a word, she headed toward where we needed to be. As we got close to the Seven Eleven, my heart began to beat at an abnormal pace.  Before we reached the parking lot of the motel, I got out of the car searching for blood or a bleeding body. I looked around; not one ambulance in sight, only one police car that was there for a totally different reason than I was. I expected my mother to be outside somewhere but I figured that she was inside one of the rooms since she was nowhere near where I focused my eyes. I began to panic, crying harder by the second.

 “Where are you?”  I yelled as I sat on the ground of the parking lot fumbling with my cell phone-trying to call this woman who had called me. Suddenly, my phone rang. My anger had built inside and I expressed it. “Damn, where are you? I’m at the motel!”

“Toya, get on the freeway. Your mom is walking on the freeway.” My friend Jamela, who was unusually in the car with my best friend and I, helped me get off of the ground and back into the passengers seat of the car. Our next destination was very close, however, I delayed the trip as I said each correct turn was wrong. Ten additional minutes WASTED! My phone rang again just as we approached the freeway. I didn’t say hello I just began talking.

 “Were getting on the freeway right now.”

“Ok. Get off near the Seminary exit and you should see her.” She said.

We got on the freeway and as soon as I was sure that we were almost to my mother, there was another delay. Once I said “NOT THAT WAY!” we had taken the MacAuthor exit instead of keeping straight; left of the fork in the highway, which would have lead us to the Seminary exit. “AGAIN,” I thought to myself. My thoughts continued, “ANOTHER EPIC OF TURNAROUNDS!” My intentions were to find my mother and by all means necessary, help her survive. From the continuous turnarounds, I’d cried until I screamed and until I talked to God.

“God!” I screamed. “I need my Mom!” I recalled the pain that my heart felt in September of 2004 when my 16-year-old cousin Greshanda was killed. I was psychologically affected by her death and the thought of feeling this pain again literally sunk my body to the floor of the car, under the glove compartment, leaving my neck under the seatbelt that protected my waist on any normal occasion. I laid my head on my left arm. I held my right fist to my chest, monitoring my heartbeat until I needed my hand to release my seatbelt.

The thought of the stab wounds and the amount of blood lost embedded the thought of death in my mind. I was sure that my approach to the Seminary exit would leave me motherless. My arrival to the scene amplified chaos just as much as my mother did for me through her mumbling and crying. Hearing her cry also amplified my hysterical expression of sadness and the lack of knowledge concerning her condition didn’t make me feel any better. Before the car could cease its motion, I was out of it and on the opposite side of the red, burning flares. In the midst of the 55 mile per hour traffic, I had managed to leave the passenger’s seat of my best friend’s car and I quickly joined the crowd of police officers and paramedics on the side of East bound Highway 580.

As I sprang from the car, drivers behind us honked their horns and slightly swerved to prevent hitting the Chevrolet, Malibu that had amazingly made a complete stop to the left of the 5 police cars and one ambulance truck. Questions and comments sprang from almost every police officer that was on the scene.

“What the fuck is your problem?” a buff male officer screamed out.

“You could’ve fucking killed someone!” multiple officers yelled in a roundoff.

“Who the hell are you?” The only female officer on the scene approached me.

She was about five feet, six inches tall, with short, blond hair. I ignored them all. I was amazed that they would even speak to me in such a way- being police officers- whose purpose is to assure me that I can confide in them for that moment, at least.

Before I could get close to my mother, officers surrounded me as if I was the person who had stabbed her. It seemed as if I had suddenly moved an inch, I would have gotten tazed. Officer’s faces seemed to turn pink from their increasing tones. The faces of those with even more to say to me had turned red. With intentions of receiving information about the incident, the only calm police officer on the scene-which came from behind the crowd of officers that surrounded me- came and approached me. He stood approximately six feet tall, slim build and had blond hair; it was cut, leaving enough hair to run his fingers through it.

“Ma’am. I need you to tell me your name. Do you have any identification?”

“No. My name is Toya.” I quickly responded with a shaky voice, due to my continuous crying.

The paramedics only glanced up each time that they had a chance as they concentrated on treating my mother’s slice to the bone on her left wrist. She also had a stab near the spine on her back and two minor cuts; one on her upper right arm and on her left thigh. I never grew worry free; I only grew calm, as I was reassured of my mother’s existence.

“My baby, my baby” My mother sobbed a she heard my cry.

 “Who is this woman?” the officer pointed to my mother who was laid on the ground being treated.

“Lee.” I said. I revealed her last name, with the thought in my mind that almost one week before this moment, she had just been released from Chowchilla, a woman’s correctional facility near Las Angeles, California. I didn’t know if they would try to take her back to prison or if they would report this incident to her parole officer. If anything of that nature was bound to happen, I didn’t plan on contributing to what would lead up to it.

“She’s my mot-” The same female officer interrupted me before I could reveal my relation.

“You could’ve fucking killed yourself.” She said. I stood silently as tears rolled down my face, somehow becoming a component of warmth on this cold evening. I looked at her as my eyes squinted and my head- possibly revealing my thoughts- shook. “Are you THAT retarded? Do you have a family, STUPID? Who do you think you are?” I wanted to say everything that went through my head but my respect for myself wouldn’t release a word of disrespect. My silence conveyed the fact that my only concern was my mother’s welfare.

“You know what?” she paused. “You can take her to jail for all I care!” The female officer was seriously speaking. She seemed to have had some kind of animosity toward me and the only reason that I could think of as to why, was because I got out of the car on the freeway. The calm officer was aware that my mother was a victim of a crime and also, that I was unaware about everything that had happened. He stood as silent as I did.

“Getting out of the car on the freeway is a crime!” the buff police officer added as justification for his partner’s comment. It seemed that my concern for my mother’s well being was overlooked, as the focus was placed on me exiting a car on the freeway. I continuously thought to myself, this is so unjust!

I didn’t want to go to jail but I wanted a reason to take this incident to those in a position of higher power. I began to be stereotypical. “I’m African American,” I thought. “What if they really do take me to jail?”

My thoughts were interrupted as I noticed each officer becoming distant. They huddle into a circle amongst officers, having a conversation about something that I was unable to hear. Once the calm officer approached me again, he needed answers.

            “Where do you live?” He asked.

            “In Berkeley.” I responded.”

            “Do you live with your mother?”

            “No,” I said. “I live with my Grandma.”

            “How’d you know where to find her? He asked.

            I answered. “I got a call from a friend of my mother and she said that my mom had been stabbed and she had walked onto the freeway and that I could find her near Seminary.”

He began talking, but to no officer in particular.

“She’s going to Berkeley.” He said. He then turned toward me and began speaking.

“You can get in the front seat of that car right there.” He pointed to his police car and I began walking toward it. He assisted me with opening the door and instructed me to walk behind him as I made my way toward the seat. I walked behind him- hands in the air as if I was being searched. Before I knew it, I was actually being patted- from my ankles, up to my pant’s pockets, up to jacket’s pockets and then, with a nod of the head, the officer officially instructed me to enter the car. I got into the car but he took a few minutes to talk to his colleagues before he was in the driver’s seat. Another officer’s anonymous conversation, I thought to myself. Once he finally entered the car, we pulled off in silence. He instantly exited the freeway on Seminary, made a left, kept straight for a few blocks, then made another left and kept straight onto the freeway; West bound 580. Everything was familiar as we passed the Seven Eleven on MacAuthor. I looked out of the window, disgusted. I was angry because I was so close to my mother before I had finally found her, yet, we kept traveling so far away from her. I knew my way around Oakland but panicking caused me to forget the simplest directions. At this point, I was at my calmest moment so I decided to break the silence.

            “May you take me to West Street?” I asked, knowing that his plans were to take me home.

            “West Street?” He asked, making sure that he had heard me correctly.

            “Yes.” I responded. He gave me a quick nod, agreeing to take me to west Oakland instead of Berkeley.

“Or… may you take me to the hospital? I asked.

“No. I’m taking you to one place and you said West Street.”

Again, silence took over. I broke the silence with a phone call home. The phone rang about five times before the answering machine took over. “Sorry, no one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.” At the sound of the beep, I hung up. Next, I gave my aunt Bev a call.

“Bev, I’m ‘bout to come to your house. The police are dropping me off… My mom just got stabbed.”

“Hold on-whoa, whoa, whoa. WHAT? She asked although she had heard what I said.

            “My mom just got stabbed.” I repeated.

            “Alright, I’ll meet you there.” She said, before she hung up.

The officer got off of the freeway and took the street down West MacAuthor. I silently looked out of the window, directing the officer to my Auntie Bev’s house.

            “Make this left and when you get to 34^th street, make another left.”

He silently drove and I grew nervous. I didn’t want to be seen in the car with a police officer but there I was, in West Oakland, in the car with “Them Boys”. Once we got to 34^th street, I called for him to stop the car buildings away from the apartment complex where my auntie actually lived.

            “It’s right here.” I pointed. “Thank you.” I said. As soon as I got out of the car, he wasted no time before he pulled away. I quickly put the hood of my coat onto my head, hoping that the fur attached to its brim could shield my identity from the approaching van. I was nervous. “Who is that?” I thought to myself as the van slowed to fifteen miles per hour driving over the speed bump that sat in the road. I stood on the curb awaiting my auntie’s arrival. About four minutes later, she pulled up in her baby blue Honda. I noticed her car when it first turned the corner. She pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex and got out of the car.

            “Hold on.” She told me as she quickly ran toward her front door. I got inside if the car and waited the short amount of time that it took for her to go in and come out of the apartment.

When she got back inside of the car, she wasted no time before she backed out of the parking lot. We stopped at the gas station on West MacAuthor and West Street, got some gas, and then headed to Highland Hospital where my mother was taken by an ambulance. On the way to the hospital, I felt comfortable. I was with a family member and I knew that my mother was alive. My aunt called my grandmother to inform her that my mother was stabbed, and to tell her that we were on our way to the hospital. The second call was answered. Amazingly, when Bev and I arrived to the hospital, we found a park close to its entrance. She parked, we exited the car and went directly into the hospital. Crowds of individuals sat, waiting to be seen by a doctor from the emergency room. We walked past them and headed toward the receptionist. When we approached the receptionist, we learned that he was also security.

            “My sister, Jacqueline Lee was just brought here by an ambulance.” My aunt Bev told security. He began fumbling with papers, which were attached to a clipboard, and then he pointed for us to enter a small room with about four chairs lined against three sides of the walls- only one chair near the door- and a small table in the middle of the room. My aunt and I took a seat. Shortly after that, my grandmother had arrived and she was escorted to the room to join Bev and me. When she walked through the door, I sensed her nervousness. She paced a short distance before having a seat. She needed to calm down and only good news could make that happen. Before any information was given to her, security had approached us. Standing in the doorway, he spoke. “A social worker will be in to speak with you in a minute.” My grandmother and I silently conveyed our understanding as we nodded our heads and my aunt privately expressed to us, her dislike toward speaking with the social worker.

“A social worker?” She asked. The security guard walked away. Following his direction, Bev went outside to stand in front of the hospital.

            “Hi, I’ll just need to ask you a few questions ma’am.” The social worker approached my grandmother. Coincidently, Bev came back just at that moment.  

            “This is her sister Beverly,” my grandmother revealed to the woman. The woman stood, clipboard in hand- ready to receive any information given.

            “So how long has Jacqueline been out of jail?”

            “Almost one week.” my grandmother responded.

            “And where is her place of residence?” She asked.

            “She doesn’t really have a place of residence. She’s in and out of jail.” My grandmother responded.

The questions continued until my face grew stuck on the woman’s mouth. I found myself slouched in the chair, legs crossed at the ankles and eyes wide and stuck. Bev was slightly the same as I, although, she didn’t really pay attention to the social worker as much as I did. When the questioning ended, Bev approached the security guard.

            “Do you know her condition?” she asked.

            “I’m really not suppose to give out that information but, let me got back and see something.” He responded. He disappeared behind the automatic doors and soon returned with information.

            “She’s up and talking. They said that she should be ok.” He assured us.

            “Thank you.” My grandmother told him. He, again, walked away and went back to the front desk to continue his receptionist task. Almost forty-five minutes had passed and we weren’t yet able to go in and visit my mom. Bev then decided that she would leave and come back a little later. Shortly after Bev left, my grandmother and I were granted access to go see her. When we reached her bed, she was asleep. My grandmother and I both stood, quietly talking to one another. Suddenly, my mother’s eyes opened.  She gave us a dry smirk, one that expressed the humor that I had inherited from her. As did the social worker, my grandmother wanted answers.

            “So, what happened, Jackie?”

            “ Nothing really,” my mother responded.

            “So did you know the person?” my grandmother asked.

            “Mamaaaaaaaaa,” My mother dragged. My grandmother just looked around before she spoke.

            “Well, you better thank God because this could’ve been a lot worse. You know?”

            “Yep.” My mother responded, moaning through the pain the pierced each wound. “This one is all the way to the bone.” She continued, holding out her left arm to show where her wrist had been cut. Blood had filled the gauze that was momentarily placed over the wound revealing a big, red circle.  Not long after, a doctor approached with an antibiotic that was shot into the open wound. As the doctor walked closer, my grandmother and I stepped back. As the needle touched the meat underneath her skin, she wiggled her lower body in vein. She shook and trembled until tears rolled down her face. My grandmother turned her back as I stood, silently watching. I wanted the pain to be over as I imaged how it actually felt for her. I wondered what was on my mother’s mind. One wonder lead to another and the last wonder had me thinking about what it would’ve been like to lose my mom. I wanted to know who was responsible for this incident and why it had to happen in such a way.  Wonders lead to a constant daydream that lasted until the doctor had bandaged my mother’s wrist again and then walked away. I hadn’t noticed that the procedure was over until my grandmother tapped my arm, asking if I wanted to stay or go home.

            “I’ll stay for a little while longer.” I said. Curiously, my grandmother asked more questions. “So, Jackie, how’d you get on the freeway?

            “I walked.” She said releasing a tone that conveyed something normal about walking onto a freeway. She continued after a short pause. “You know it’s dark on that hill so, I was trying to get somewhere where Toya could find me- or where someone could find me.”

            “Well, girl, you had better take care of yourself.” My grandmother insisted before she turned to wait for me in the lobby. A different doctor approached my mother’s bed and revealed what they had planned for the night.

“Well, because we haven’t took the x-rays yet, we can’t allow you to go home. We have to make sure that nothing was punctured so that’s why we’re waiting for the x-rays to be taken; so that we can examine them and in the morning, you should be able to go home.” She said. “Is anything bothering you?” she asked. My mother slightly sat up, reaching as far near the stab on her back as possible. “It’s numb right here.” She said. The doctor took a quick peek at the wound and explained, “This is why we want to keep you for now. We want to make sure that everything is ok. At that point, I decided that I was ready to go home. My grandmother was already in the lobby and she too, was ready to leave. I hugged my mother and she instructed me to tell my grandmother to pick her up the following morning. We laughed as I walked out and she said, “Have me a pallet made.”

 On the way home, my grandmother and I talked. We talked of nothing particular, we only focused on conversations about the night’s happenings much longer than any other conversation that we had. When we arrived home, we both went straight to sleep. The next day, we picked my mother up from the hospital. Before she was able to leave, a few more things had to be taken care of. She was sent to receive the pain medication that was prescribed to her.

Waiting for the prescription to be ready delayed her opportunity to go home- only for a short while. Once everything was ready, it was time to leave. She walked out of the hospital, medication in one hand, and bloody shoes inside of a bag in the other along with other items that she had gotten from the hospital. Once we entered the car, my grandmother pulled off and went directly to a gas station, which was only a few minutes away. When we arrived, my mother requested her usual- a box of long, Newport cigarettes.  At that moment, I was reassured that things would be the same. From there, we went home, where I had already made a pallet for my mother to comfortably lie on. I got dressed, went to work and came home later that evening. Everything was normal. My mother didn’t need my assistance as I thought she would. Within the next few days, she had made a turnaround that didn’t delay anything. This turnaround was the direction that I’d wondered about. For years, I’ve patiently waited for my mother to leave her street life alone. I’ve always hoped for the day when I would face my mother and I would be reassured that she would have her mind on positive things; no drugs, alcohol, prostitution, violence- nothing that could bring us down. It seems that my wish was her command and in this midst of a positive mind frame, everything was vice versa. I was willing to do what I could in order to motivate her to continue her daily meetings at the drug program. On multiple occasions, I have waiting at the location of the meetings with her. All I ever wanted was to see my mother with anything that she wanted. At this point, all is well and a tragedy, somehow, became a component of success and it seems as though success will continue, as long as a tragedy has a supernatural purpose.