The first and only time I was summoned to the principal’s office I was in 6th grade and eleven years old. Hearing my name called out in science class sent an electric jolt through me. I felt the sting of every eyeball on me as I slunk out of the room toward Mr. Simmons’ office, a place very familiar to my older brother David but previously unseen by me.

Mr. Simmons kept a paddle hanging outside his door as an ominous warning to Not. Mess. With. Him. It was a flat, rectangular shaped hunk of varnished wood with a handle and holes drilled into the paddle to reduce air resistance and increase velocity. Ouch. David was BFFs with that paddle.

I got hotter and clammier with each step toward THE OFFICE wondering if my rear-end would become intimate with a hunk of wood for the first time. I quickly scanned the inventory of my life in search of what I could’ve done wrong to deserve this. But I had not broken a rule since I was five years old when my brother busted me stealing Cherry Smash flavored roll-on lip gloss called Kissing Potion made by Maybelline. I was a good girl.

When I entered the office, I was relieved to see a few other girls in attendance. I would not suffer this fate alone. Mr. Simmons launched into a speech that started with school bus safety. That’s when I realized the other girls also rode Bus #9 driven by Mrs. Buttercase.

I audibly exhaled and turned about five shades of pink. “That’s what this is about?” Relief swept over me even though I knew my brother was one of “the boys”. He’d thrown one of the tampons at me, nailing me in the left eye. It landed at my feet where I gawked at it wondering what everyone was so freaked out about. It was just a white hunk of cotton with a string coming out of it. What was the big deal?

“This mornin’, Mrs. Buttercase told me some of the boys were throwing feminine hygiene products.”

I’d never seen a real tampon before in or out of its applicator, but the older kids were in hysterics. They winced, convulsed and heaved like they might puke if the flying cotton came within an inch of them. Chaos reigned. Mr. Simmons was right when he yelled, “It’s a miracle Mrs. Buttercase didn’t run off into a ditch and kill all y’all.”

David was sure to get paddled again for this infraction, but I hadn’t thrown anything. I had only kicked the offending cotton under the seat in front of me.

Mr. Simmons continued, “But what I wanna know is where did the boys get such a thing? Which one of you girls knows something about this?” I could swear he was looking at me. Someone supplied the ammunition and they were going to be in as much trouble as the boys who’d begun throwing them around. My brother was usually the instigator of trouble on Bus #9. By the look in Mr. Simmons’ eyes, David had already been convicted and I was the likely accomplice. Never mind that any boy could’ve raided his mother’s or sister’s stash. Duh.

Anxious to distance myself from my brother, I shot my hand in the air. Mr. Simmons looked surprised, like he’d caught a fish without using any bait; it jumped into his boat. “Yes, Kambri, what do you have to say about this?”

“Sir, it wasn’t me. I haven’t even had my first period!”

Mr. Simmons turned a shade of scarlet worthy of its own letter. “Oh, well, umm…okay, you can go on back to class then.”

And thus began my lifelong habit of sharing Too. Much. Information.

~Kambri
I never ever got Kissing Potion by stealing or purchasing. The slick, yummy gloss was forever ruined for me by the shame of stealing it once in a moment of selfish passion.

I was watching “Cheers” and nearly choked on my chicken when I saw the shirt Carla was wearing. I had the same shirt when I was 10 yrs old and wore it on my brother’s 14th birthday.

It’s like the trailer trash edition of Who Wore it Better?

I came across a mustard yellow moth, perched on the sash of a window. Had it not been perched on a white windowsill, it otherwise may have been overlooked.

But I gently prodded his wings open and LO!

Moral of the story? You don’t know what beauty, talent and creativity is lurking beneath until you spread your wings.

And that’s one to grow on.

Well, it happened. I looked at a bird through binoculars. Go ahead & sign me up for AARP, I don’t care. The bird was motherfucking gorgeous.

With all the talk of cicadas coming out of a seventeen year slumber emerging from the earth, I can’t help but think of my maternal deaf grandmother. She was traumatized at the mere sight of their crusty brown exoskeletons, so surely the onslaught of trillions must have her convulsing in her grave.

During my childhood, I spent summers staying with her and Grandpa at their two-bedroom Tulsa home. Once the magic of cable television wore off, I staved off boredom by playing pranks on my sweet, gullible, good sport, grandma. My budding acting skills were honed as I terrorized her. I would ring the doorbell and pretend an axe murderer was trying to break in and the phone lines had been cut, or I’d push over the swing set in the backyard and act as if my cousins or the neighborhood kids were trapped underneath with broken limbs.

My favorite prank was finding the empty shells of locusts clinging to trees and bushes and place them where I knew Grandma would grab before looking:  The kitchen faucet, the television remote and the steering wheel of her car. The jerk of her hand as if she’d touched a hot stove coupled with a blood curdling scream was pee-in-my-pants hilarious. The meanest placement was on the toilet paper roll knowing she would have no choice but to either not wipe or gather the courage to remove the critter on her own. Bless her sweet heart.

But this?

I never thought to do this.

Why would I?

Because WTF?

By now I’m sure you’ve seen the news from Cleveland, Ohio that three young women Gina DeJesus, Amanda Berry and Michelle Knight who were missing for nine, ten and eleven years respectively, have been found alive. 

During an epic interview with local news reporters, neighbor Charles Ramsey had this to say about his kidnapping neighbor Ariel Castro, “You got some big testicles to pull this off, bro.”

Indeed.

“I knew something was wrong when a little, pretty white girl ran into a black man’s arms” is just one of several amazing quotes Ramsey gives. The interview came after he came to the aide of Berry who bravely initiated the escape from captivity with her six-year-old daughter at her side. (Yeah, do the math, that daughter is the product of her captor or one of his two brothers who are also in custody.)

“I figured it was a domestic-violence dispute,” Ramsey said. And he helped anyway. 

Now that is a motherfu*king hero right there. Thank God he didn’t just look away when he thought it was a domestic situation like so many people do. Bro should get some hefty reward money to buy some of those newfangled wraps from Mickey Ds!

I had screamed and begged for someone to call 911 the night Dad attacked Mom. No one did. Yet within the week we were evicted for “excessive noise disturbance.” So my neighbors DID hear my cries and chose not to intervene. They didn’t even place an anonymous call to 911. I wrote about it in my memoir (excerpt below) and to this day my heart races and blood pressure rises when I think about the cowardice and selfishness they displayed.

If you hear or suspect any abuse of any kind, you can anonymously report it. SIMPLY REPORT IT. Charles Ramsey? He ran to the porch, smashed the door, pulled the woman and her child out and called 911. To him I’ll echo his own words:

“You got some big testicles to pull this off, bro.”

~~~

Excerpt from BURN DOWN THE GROUND Chapter 14 – Excessive Noise Disturbance:

I was back with Rob for only a week when Mom dropped another bombshell: “We’re going to be evicted.”

“Evicted? Why?”

“Excessive noise disturbance. Come on and help me pack.”

My blood boiled. I had screamed and begged for help the night my father smashed our porch light, punched holes in the walls, and broke down our front door. Not only had the neighbors heard my cries for help and chosen to ignore me, but they had complained?

Defeated, I packed up my room for another move. I was loading up boxes of books and letters when I came across a pile of college brochures and scholarship applications. Before August 15, I had planned on attending a university to major in aeronautical engineering as homage to Mom, admiring her for her work with helicopters. Aeronautical engineering could be my backup plan in case my acting career didn’t pan out. The paperwork had been overwhelming and asked detailed questions that I didn’t know how to answer, like what my parents’ income was. On the rare occasions Mom inquired about the process, I brushed her off. She never went to college, so she wouldn’t know how to fi ll out the forms any more than I would. “I’m working on them,” I answered and that was that. They remained incomplete.

Who am I kidding? I angrily hurled the blank applications in the trash and emptied the rest of my room. I felt hopeless and just gave up. I should have asked for help, but I didn’t know how.