I'm Down: A Memoir Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Mishna Wolff
said.
Then his voice got really low and he grabbed my chin in order to look at me in the eye and said, “This shit stops here.”
Which I assumed meant, “Go pick on your sister.”
My sister endured all kinds of verbal abuse from me during this time. It didn’t even bother me that “your mama” jokes directed at my little sister were “my mama” jokes. And I used her as a sounding board for all my new caps. I found I could measure the effectiveness of the put-down by how berserk she went. She would sit watching TV, and I would walk into the living room and make some declaration about how smelly she was or how much the ugly stick liked her. If she glared at me and went back to the TV, it meant the cap needed tweaking. If I got her to yell at me or throw something, I was definitely on to something. And if she whirled her arms, in a move that could best be described as “the windmill” and clubbed me about the head in a flurry of blind rage—I had a winner. I didn’t hit back, though. Hitting her back meant facing Dad and the five fingers of death. So I happily took the licks as payment due for her allowing me to use her as a focus group.
Every day at GSCC Club I learned something new. Like Caprice taught me that throwing
psych!
on the end of a flattering comment was an awesome way to make a fool out of someone.You could walk up to any unsuspecting person and say, “Nice shirt . . . PSYCH!” It was cheap, but it was almost more effective than a straight cap, because you couldn’t brace yourself for it. The only way to brace yourself for a
psych!
was to already think you were a piece of shit—which, if you did, you were capping at a Jedi level.
Faggot
was also en mode, thanks in part to Eddie Murphy. None of us knew what a faggot was, but it rolled off the tongue like butter, and I used it as a comma.
When the end of day camp came, I found myself a little sad. I was really gonna miss everyone, especially Caprice, who had made me a very pretty Chinese jack as part of an alliance against Jamal. I thought it would be nice if just once all her hair was done, but I didn’t have the skills to finish it, so I drew her a picture of Jamal with breasts.
The counselors announced that, for the last day of camp, we were required to do a performance for all of the parents. They suggested a song and dance number about our experience at Government Subsidized Charity Club. Which was strange, because all we did all summer was sit in a dank room and make fun of each other while they sat in an office and handed out the occasional kick ball. So, the number we wrote was called “I’m in a Cappin’ Mood.” We sat in a circle with a small Casio keyboard that someone had brought in, and wrote caps for ourselves to the prerecorded beats. Jamal and Caprice wrote for the younger kids like Anora, Gitana, and Rene, who couldn’t write their own caps.
The night of the show we stood in a line on a makeshift stage, swaying back and forth as we sang the chorus;
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap, clap)
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap)
Then one by one we stepped downstage to deliver our own personal cap.
Jamal, who was standing next to me, was first. The room was filled with the twenty or so parents who had bothered to show up on the last day of camp. They watched patiently, knowing that it was penance for the months of almost free child care. Jamal fearlessly stepped forward and stayed on beat as he committed to the delivery of his cap.
Keep your shoes on
If you don’t mind,
’Cause your feet smell like
A cow’s behind.
Then the whole group did the chorus.
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap, clap)
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap)
My turn. I felt my stomach turn into knots as I stepped in front of the row of kids trying to keep the beat with my rhythmless body, while I delivered my cap.
You’re so poor.
It’s really sad.
I was at the junkyard.
And I bought your dad.
I got a laugh and
Then his voice got really low and he grabbed my chin in order to look at me in the eye and said, “This shit stops here.”
Which I assumed meant, “Go pick on your sister.”
My sister endured all kinds of verbal abuse from me during this time. It didn’t even bother me that “your mama” jokes directed at my little sister were “my mama” jokes. And I used her as a sounding board for all my new caps. I found I could measure the effectiveness of the put-down by how berserk she went. She would sit watching TV, and I would walk into the living room and make some declaration about how smelly she was or how much the ugly stick liked her. If she glared at me and went back to the TV, it meant the cap needed tweaking. If I got her to yell at me or throw something, I was definitely on to something. And if she whirled her arms, in a move that could best be described as “the windmill” and clubbed me about the head in a flurry of blind rage—I had a winner. I didn’t hit back, though. Hitting her back meant facing Dad and the five fingers of death. So I happily took the licks as payment due for her allowing me to use her as a focus group.
Every day at GSCC Club I learned something new. Like Caprice taught me that throwing
psych!
on the end of a flattering comment was an awesome way to make a fool out of someone.You could walk up to any unsuspecting person and say, “Nice shirt . . . PSYCH!” It was cheap, but it was almost more effective than a straight cap, because you couldn’t brace yourself for it. The only way to brace yourself for a
psych!
was to already think you were a piece of shit—which, if you did, you were capping at a Jedi level.
Faggot
was also en mode, thanks in part to Eddie Murphy. None of us knew what a faggot was, but it rolled off the tongue like butter, and I used it as a comma.
When the end of day camp came, I found myself a little sad. I was really gonna miss everyone, especially Caprice, who had made me a very pretty Chinese jack as part of an alliance against Jamal. I thought it would be nice if just once all her hair was done, but I didn’t have the skills to finish it, so I drew her a picture of Jamal with breasts.
The counselors announced that, for the last day of camp, we were required to do a performance for all of the parents. They suggested a song and dance number about our experience at Government Subsidized Charity Club. Which was strange, because all we did all summer was sit in a dank room and make fun of each other while they sat in an office and handed out the occasional kick ball. So, the number we wrote was called “I’m in a Cappin’ Mood.” We sat in a circle with a small Casio keyboard that someone had brought in, and wrote caps for ourselves to the prerecorded beats. Jamal and Caprice wrote for the younger kids like Anora, Gitana, and Rene, who couldn’t write their own caps.
The night of the show we stood in a line on a makeshift stage, swaying back and forth as we sang the chorus;
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap, clap)
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap)
Then one by one we stepped downstage to deliver our own personal cap.
Jamal, who was standing next to me, was first. The room was filled with the twenty or so parents who had bothered to show up on the last day of camp. They watched patiently, knowing that it was penance for the months of almost free child care. Jamal fearlessly stepped forward and stayed on beat as he committed to the delivery of his cap.
Keep your shoes on
If you don’t mind,
’Cause your feet smell like
A cow’s behind.
Then the whole group did the chorus.
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap, clap)
I’m in a cappin’ mood (clap)
My turn. I felt my stomach turn into knots as I stepped in front of the row of kids trying to keep the beat with my rhythmless body, while I delivered my cap.
You’re so poor.
It’s really sad.
I was at the junkyard.
And I bought your dad.
I got a laugh and