"Who is she? She's not from around here." She is me, Khawaga Kid and I'm writing a memoir called Khawaga Kid. Moving around all over the world since the age of four, I've had many hometowns that I love, yet none of them really claim me, always moving, becoming a foreigner even in my own family.
Long ago, in our childhood, my younger sister would say this to me as we tried to fall asleep at night. Our life behind closed doors was far from the perfect family facade we were coerced into living for an abusive father.
My sister died on July 17, 1995. She had been in a coma since her car lost control in a curve in the early morning hours of July 15, 1984. Not wearing her seatbelt, she was thrown from her car and her head hit a utility pole.
I saw her there, in ICU, my beautiful golden haired, blue-eyed sister. From birth to graduation, people called her “Doll.” Beautiful inside and out, smart and funny. Now she lies in her bed, fingernails and toenails perfectly polished.
She’s on life support, the front side of her hair shaved and the stitches mark the place where they removed part of her skull as her brain swelled. One cut on her chin that didn’t even require stitches is her only other injury.
“Tell Me A Story.” I hear her say this to me in a whisper all these decades later. My pen now whispers across pages, notebooks filled with pages of all the words. So, though I haven’t been able to do her justice, I will not give up.
Dearest of sisters, my Sidekick through life, I haven’t given up, I’ve only been side-tracked by that man we used to call Daddy. He’s proven his worthlessness and I delete him for his depravity.
I remember how we huddled together, laughing silently as I told you stories making the real monster raging in another room into a comical coward, one we could blow away when we synchronized our breath.
I took this picture of rain droplets caught in a spider web, but Rico Mack was caught in the World Wide Web.
Oh, he likes people to see his facade, the public perfect family persona, he only has a problem with me, his oldest kid, Khaki Mack. I am part of the(fictional) public, so what he chooses to make public includes me. I know too much and he can’t control me with fear, or threats, or lies, or lawsuits.
Finally, I see the finish line and I run across it, beating him with truth. He is a bad liar and a sore loser, and me? I’m ready for a new race, a new story. Tired of the same track and the same loser trying to beat me.
When this is over, my blog might take shape and maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll finally be free of his life of lies.