Calliope.
1309 Words
I remember the things she said to me, how she spoke like I was old enough to understand the meaning behind the things she was saying, but I think that it was mostly about having someone to talk to even if that someone was only five years old. I think it had something to do with the fact that...
She could say anything without the concept of being judged by me, by knowing that, no matter what it was she told me, no matter how bad, I wouldn't utter a word about it to another soul. You see she does things, things I didn't understand, but now that I am older I do. I know that every bad thing she ever did, she did them for me.
Even if she couldn't provide a roof over my head, she did the best she could in order for me to survive. When I asked her why she had named me Calliope, she told me I was the only fancy thing she ever owned, and fancy things needed fancy names. My mother was smart like that, or at least I thought she was.
She always thought outside the box, always tried to make our living situation better than it was, she was the wisest soul I knew and always quoted things that didn't make sense at the time, but they do now. I remember them... I remember everything, every word spoken from her lips as she cradled my head in her lap.
She rocked me back and forth, brushing my hair with her fingers. They would snag between her fingers a lot, but she would pry her fingers from my unruly hair as gently as she could. I hated it... not her running her fingers through my hair. I loved that part. I hated my hair...
It had the tendency of looking like a bird's nest even after she combed through them. My dull brown hair curled no matter how much she tried to straighten it, and it stayed dull even after she applied hair food on it. She said I had my father's hair but that I got the dullness from her...
She told me that I was the perfect balance between my father and her, but she would never tell me who he was, where he was from, if he even knew that I existed or if he was even alive. All she told me was that she had enough love for me to cover the love of a father and I believed her because that truth rang true.
I lived in tent number B10 under a bridge with many other people that were homeless... That was all I knew. People told me my mother gave birth to me right where our tent was located... They said I wailed so loudly they thought I'd never stop. They even joked that I didn't want to be let out of the warm comforts of my mother's womb.
I am Calliope Jaftha, also known as Cal or Calli and this is my story... School was never a must for me. My mother told me that everything I needed to know would be taught to me in those very streets I was born on... but like every child I want to know what it was like to go to school...
After my first week, I realized that mum might be right... Kids can be mean... especially when you live in a tent, wear broken clothes and shoes... when you don't even have lunch or money... when you don't have the latest cellphone or bag... can I tell you something? Oh well, I'll tell you anyway...
People that live on the streets are the most caring people you might find... We know what it's like to have nothing, so we are grateful for every little we get, even if it is hand-me-downs or broken... We can make furniture from almost anything, you'll feel like we might rob you, but once you spend a day with us, you will realize that we're not so bad after all.
There are a few mongrels around that will definitely take what they can from you and think nothing of it, which leaves a bad name for the rest of us street livers. But if you look for the right crew, you might never want to leave... Okay, that's a lie. You might want to leave it gets freaking cold you'll starve most of the time, but you'll have a ball of time.
We're called hawkers, a term I hate. If not hawkers, then squatters, another word I hate, it leaves such a foul taste in one's mouth... I have two best friends, Carmalita Africa, also known as Carmy for short. She lives a few tents away and Sameul Pickens, we call him Sammy. He lives right next tent to me.
Even though we live in tents, we still get to do some of the fun stuff people with houses do... we have sleep-overs mostly because mum always leaves me tent alone, but I love my friends and i would do anything for them just like they would for me... Mum would disappear for days... and I learned to never ask where she had been.
She never answered me when I did... but when she returned she always came back with new clothes. Well, someone owned them before, but they were still new to me... bags of tinned food... some sweets, money, maybe a new guy on her arm. Sometimes her eyes had this bluish purple circle around them or her lip was busted up...
Then a few months later, a round belly, then she'd disappear again and returned with someone she called my baby sister or brother and the guy she had never come back with her again. The cycle repeated itself over and over again until we were six kids crammed into one tent like a can of tuna fish.
You know that saying it takes a village to raise kids? It is true there was always someone to help me look after the little one. All I needed to do was make sure there was enough for us to get and maybe a bottle of the cheapest wine for whomever was watching the little ones...
By now, the tent was too full to have sleepovers with my two best friends, but we still made it work on nights when it was too hot. We slept outside. Someone started a fire even if it was hot. Once a month, my fellow squatters would come together and make food for everyone on the fire using old pots and spoons...
We were, of course, required to contribute to the food, whether you brought the water for it or the meat, which was most of the time necks from a chicken, but if you didn't have anything to eat for days, anything would work just to fill up that hole in your stomach. It was like our own little community, our own little family.
We looked out for one another and helped each other out in any way that we could, but just like most families, we had our squabbles. I remember way back when I was about 7 years old, mum was beaten so badly she could hardly walk. She came stumbling into our tent, blood dripping everywhere...
She was taken to the hospital by two men in our camp, and I wasn't allowed to accompany her. They kept saying things like social workers would take me away if I went with her... waiting for her to come back home was torture. I didn't know whether she was okay or not. I didn't even know what hospital they had taken her to.
When she came back, she looked much better, still bruised but not like she was about to die.
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