ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
Bio
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/HER
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
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Stories (191)
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Old Enough
As you know I am all about adventure, new places, faces and a lover of secrets; meeting Pearl's niece Clara has been so far the best part of summer, maybe even my life. We did exactly as Pearl said, "Ya'll go play", which is a grown ups code for skedaddle. Skedaddling we did. I had never seen a girl my age with eyes so dark it was hard to tell where the dot in the middle was; Clara had eight braids in her long, shiny black hair with many colourful beads and ribbons to make her easy to find when she ran off ahead of me. First thing she did was laugh at me when I kicked off my shoes, "You're gonna be all cut up with them little pink feet down here!" I wondered what down here meant as I tried to keep up with my newly introduced playmate. I ran back to the porch and put my sneakers back on, unsure what might be cutting me up. "You're the first white girl Aunt Pearl brought home; probably the first white girl in this whole part of town except for bad news kind." I slowed down as I had a side ache from running, sweat was pouring down my red, freckled face, I asked Clara what "bad news" white girls was. She said, "they ain't girls like you, grownups I mean, always poking 'round seeing if we are living right." Hmm. "What is living right?" I guess I was poking 'round, too. As we stepped over broken glass, trash and passed some men drinking on the curb out of bottles in paper bags I thought of Hank the hobo, train jumpers and wondered if they was living right. Probably not. I sorted this conclusion in my mind as if they were living clean then I would likely not be told not to hang around the train tracks. Clara continued, "white women come and look around to see if we are living clean in our houses, if we are we get to stay, if we aren't they give us some situations that need to be fixed or they might for example take a girl like me and put me in a foster home." Of course I asked what a foster home was. Clara said it was a place for kids who didn't have anybody home takin' good care of them. I started to get scared; why did Paw-Paw send me off with Pearl? Were we not living clean? Was he really giving me away to Pearl until some white woman came to fetch me here? I started to cry. "What's wrong with you May? Why you crying like a baby right here on the street?" I looked into her mysterious, spacious eyes, filled with years of memories I didn't have or know and wondered if my heart was too soft like my pink feet. "Aww, now stop, stop right now, hear me May?" I had a mind to run as fast as I could back to the house but then the most amazing thing ever happened. "What you need is a blood-brother, in our case, a blood-sister; let's fix this problem now so when you feel sad some of me will rub off into your head and toughen you up. C'mon!" Clara ran toward the backyard where we'd started our day together and then motioned for me to go into some shady spot under some scrawny trees. "Sit down; I'll get what we need. I squatted in the poky weeds, grateful to be off the boiling hot street. I followed Clara's eyes as she plucked little twigs then cast them away as if they weren't good enough, then I heard an "ah-ha!". "Gimme your wrist." of course I asked which one, "don't matter", so I held out my left wrist while she explained that our ritual was going to hurt just a little but would keep us safe from foster homes. She first ran a sharp stick across her chestnut coloured inner wrist and bits of blood appeared. "You can can do your own or I can do it for you"; I opted for Clara to do it as it was her idea. "Wait!" she barked, "Are you a bleeder? Cause I don't want you to die!" Now I felt more fright than curiosity, am I a bleeder? I shook my head no as I really didn't want to go to a foster home. Dying seemed like a slim chance considering I had skinned my knees, elbows and had sure had my share of childhood damage thus far and survived. "Okay, here we go May. No turnin' back." Clara ran the stick harshly across my pale, inner wrist and blood trickled out; she then took my wrist and pressed it into hers, our blood mixing together so we could be each others protectors and sisters for life. She gave me a big magnolia leaf and told me to wipe my wrist. As we walked toward the house Pearl came to the side door smiling. "Tea for two?" ~
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Chapters
Old Enough. Top Story - May 2024.
I get up early cause I know Pearl will make biscuits, eggs, and crisp bacon and let me lick the warm salty lard with my fingers from the skillet once it cools off. I watch her go "mmmm, mmmm" and squeeze her lips into a smile. She starts the percolator for Paw-Paw, pours me a big glass of ice cold milk and stands over me saying, "drink it down." Pearl always makes hard things seem easy, not so good days feel okay and I wish she were my Momma. We don't look the same but if she asked me to be her child I'd be the luckiest girl alive. She pulls my fingers out of my mouth, " you get worms now, hear me?" I most definitely don't want worms so I am really trying to stop chewing my nails. Pearl's nails are always clean, trimmed, with a clear, shiny gloss. Her lips are full, ripe, like a fresh dark purple plum. She has fine teeth, big hazel eyes and wears tiny gold studs in each earlobe. I want earrings, but the thought of a needle being pushed though my ear doesn't sound like it's worth the trouble, at least right now. I would like some tap shoes though. Pearl laughs when I tell her about my dancing dreams. She says I have happy feet cause I am wiggling my toes all the time. When Paw-Paw goes out on the porch to smoke his pipe I always show him my latest moves. After breakfast, Pearl starts washing our sheets and says there is a dust bunny under my bed. I don't want to look. I scare myself enough just looking at hobos. Anyway, back to the railroad. Just can't help myself. I don't curse, smoke, steal or commit sins that I know of, but I can tell you right here and right now, hobos teach and preach more than any one body needs. I confess I became on friendly terms with a man named Hank. He'd wave and say, " Hey, May! Keep smilin' kiddo!" and he'd sometimes be laying in the shade right calm when I snuck up to see him. He always looked sad just before he caught sight of me. Soon as my big trap started jabbering he'd change like a chameleon. That is, he'd try to make life seem so fine. I new he was hungry. I started taking biscuits on the days I figured he'd be around and he was always obliged. Just like the song, Mr. Bojangles, I began to show off my dancing moves to cheer ole Hank up. How is it we just know someone isn't happy? He laughed and smiled; in my mind he had a harmonica or some groovy steps he'd show me, but he never did. When the rest of the jumpers, as he referred to his fellow train hopping hobos as, came around he'd shoo me off. He told me in a kind, yet tough way to go on home. Where Hank went I never knew; in my heart I liked to hold it was somewhere much better than the hard ass dirt he slept on, full of God only knows what, and lonesome nights with an empty belly and mosquitos. Back home, I'm hosed down. Pearl gives me a hard stare; I am guessing she is guessing where the heck I've been. I am full of cockleburs, red from the sun. She leaves Paw-Paw and me my favourite, whipped cream and orange jello. I always hug her when she heads back to the place she calls home; I will make sure that this summer I follow Pearl like a cat stalks, curious that is, not aiming to find trouble. Late, when Paw-Paw is loving his heap of second helpings from supper, I ease out from my bedroom and stand right in front of the late night news. Paw-Paw's old Grandpa eyes widen and I start dancing; I pretend to tap dance and point my toes toward the ceiling fan, clap my hands and fall onto the thick, Persian patterned carpet. Paw-Paw laughs with his belly bouncing. I guess for now, summer is getting off to a good start. I slink down the long hallway and slither into bed. I wonder where Hank is now; Memphis, Baton Rouge, New Orleans? By now, hobos, I mean, jumpers, could be anywhere. I say out loud as if I am praying, "Goodnight jumper Hank; goodnight Pearl". I wiggle my toes one more time, roll over toward the moon shining through my window and smile.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Chapters
Old Enough
Should read PART III of YA series ~"Old Enough; Surviving Summer~ From under the white, formican kitchen table I watch Pearl's feet as she moves about the room. She has on white shoes, the kind that are for old feet or nurses, with knee high nylon hose. Her dark skin peeks out and says, " let me out!". It's too hot for anything, I don't have on socks and I would certainly not want to be in nylon knee highs. Her ankles are swollen; her legs look real strong though. Her yellow and white plaid dress buttons from the bottom up and her arms, although I can't see them from here, are busy as her hands as she whistles and slaps a big mound of dough. I watch flour dust fall to the floor like a fall morning's frost. I slither slowly toward Pearl's feet and grab onto her left leg and squeeze real tight. She just acts like I'm not here and says, " Hmmm. I smell a snake." I hiss and coil up, then unwind and slide back under the table. Pearl rolls an apple across the floor and it arrives to my den powdered in flour. " I hope snake has brushed it's teeth this morning." Snake bites into the apple with a mean grip and inches down the long hallway to the bathroom.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Chapters
Old Enough. Top Story - June 2024.
Truth has so many lessons, so many meanings and the lord knows it's a debatable subject when sitting around the supper table. I always make sure I look busy eating; nobody knows what I see in a day. Truth is, I ran straight to the railroad tracks after breakfast this morning, cut through tall, dry, grass where clumps of broken beer bottles and cans swell up on unkempt lots, where people have dumped ole fridge-a-dares, washing machines and just about anything they don't want. I was told never to do such a thing, that is, go to the railroad tracks. By being obedient in other ways, on time for meals, helping carry groceries, running the vacuum cleaner down the long hallway to Paw-Paw's room, well, I earned that big, little, title of "Trust-worthy." Truth is I am trust worthy when it comes down to it; if I hear someone passing hearsay around about Paw-Paw, I correct them or I run home and tell him. So, at the railroad tracks I saw a man drunk at 8.30 in the morning today, a little boy crying with his Mom dragging him behind her with no shoes and some good tires to make swings out of; I have a swing made from wood, but somebody could make a swing if they wanted to. The drunk man looked familiar. I stared at him until he growled; I jumped backwards behind a poison ivy covered oak tree and well, that would draw some attention to me later on, but it shook off that ole smelly hobo for a bit. I am eight and smart but my teacher told Paw-Paw I talk too much; I am fascinated by hobo's. I think about hopping on the back of a real caboose, hanging on like I do at the schoolyard's merry-go-round, screaming my fool head off. I want to see what's out there beyond the sycamore and brow beating summer heat. Paw-Paw loves Jimmy Dean sausage; this afternoon I saw a trailer bed with Jimmy Dean written fancy across it; I almost blew it and told Paw-Paw. That's how much I talk. Learning to be quiet at the supper table is my goal for the summer. Pearl, Paw-Paw's help, sets the table for us and he always tells her to take a plate home for herself. She's pretty with chocolate milk coloured skin that is as smooth as a satin pillow case. When here, she wears her hair pulled back in a small coal bun right at the nape of her neck with a net over it. A little charcoal bun in a net. My hair flies all over the place until the day before school starts up. That's when Pearl takes me into town and has it cut into a pixie with bangs. I don't look forward to that day. For now, summer is endless, miles from here, full of nothing to do day's. Before supper, Pearl always checks me for ticks and hoses me down so I don't track mud in. She is playful with me. I love her; I wonder if Paw-Paw loves her, too. It's lonely sometimes with just me and Paw-Paw; his grand-paw eyes grow heavy after supper and he falls asleep right quick, sprawled out on the gold, plush sofa he snores away and I sneak around the house looking for treasures. I am a tom-cat, meow! I am a spy for "Get Smart" and use radar. Suddenly, I drop down on the floor crawling, I am a hostage escaping through secret tunnels under Paw-Paw's bed; I am a pilot steering my jet over the endless tree tops, beyond the drunken hobo's and rusty, iron train tracks. Whoooa! I can see Pearl shucking corn and singing, I go higher and higher above the midnight street lamps, the moon is full of cheese, smiling by my side; I am soaring until I plop from my parachute into my marshmallow bed where I lay until dawn dreaming.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Chapters
Litha
Full, fertile glow, swelling summer moon, tastes of suckled honey 'round the lea low. Litha wings bud, like breasts on humans breech, joining her are sisters, braiding floral wreaths; crowning of the sunrise, as old lyrics ring, holding hands Light dances, her dew breath moistly sings. Ripe, the fairies frolic, then kiss the earth below, without their spirits blessing solstice dares not flow. ~ Glad Midsommar ~
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
3 A.M.
Never bearing children, Cassandra took to nurturing animals. From the most common domestic companions such as dogs, cats, birds, fish and rabbits, to the more exotic likes of guinea pigs, opossums and even a seagull she had a place in her heart and home for each. An early riser, her morning routine was cleaning cages, walking dogs, feeding and refreshing water bowls and if necessary taking in injured wildlife. Everyone knew her to be the one who couldn't say no and her voicemail was full each morning with word of mouth callers asking her to take in a fledgling found wounded, an abandoned baby bunny, even chickens which had fallen off trucks headed to the slaughter house. She accepted donations of various necessities such as items to make special formulas required to meet the various animals nutritional needs. For twenty years she had been the queen bee of her own hive. She often had round the clockers, that is, wildlife so young they needed feedings every hour to hour and a half. It was an early summer night when the dreams began to grow. Grow in that they became more and more detailed, seemingly longer each night to the point she was afraid to sleep at all. Yet, inevitably she nodded off at midnight only to wake at 3 a.m. screaming, crying, jumping out of bed even running around the house and farm yard to check that all of her critters were safe.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
Flutter, flutter
Breathing in the sunshine, basking in the bright, rolling in your laughter, giddy in your light. Smiling from your whispers, touching so delight, soaring above memories that we made last night. Senses revel in our new found love, clouds burst butterflies and drench me from above. ~Flutter, flutter heartbeats, messy morning hair, sipping on sweet nectar, bathed in warm, spring air.~ Each moment is so special, like none I've known before, meet me in the meadow, just outside the back porch door. Let's roll like playful children, holding hands so sweet; hug me by the apple tree, kiss me on my cheek. ~Flutter, flutter heartbeats, messy morning hair, sipping on sweet nectar, bathed in warm, spring air ~
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Mind Maps. Top Story - June 2024.
Lying on Momma's sofa, memories walk in, lead me astray, away from my safety net. Momma walks by, " You alright?"; " Mm", I say. I stare at my phone, she sits near with a crossword having no idea where my mind is at, or does she? I feel loathed, ugly, sad, broken. I don't want to go down the road to why my father left me; the road comes to me. I try to bypass this gnawing pathway, to avoid yield signs, run stop lights, push through the traffic in my brain; no can do. He's right in my face, saying, "Love you, be good, do your homework, okay?" then boarding his flight. I am sure he will be back as he always has been. He called every Sunday at eight p.m. sharp; the man was a machine. He used to read poetry to me over the phone when I was missing him, stuff he'd translated from some French dude, Rilke was it? I loved my father's eyes, all sad like a puppy; his generosity and good manners when we were out and about together had me looking up to him. Then I came out, questioning my gender identity. First to Momma cause, she's just easy with me, always. I plopped down at the foot of her bed and told her, " I feel like a girl inside." She said, " I understand." That was it. I was like, shit, this will be a breeze with Pops, too. He's like a puppy-dawg, a marshmallow cupcake who reads poetry. I wrote him an email; he wrote back, " I have to let it sink in awhile." Then for awhile there were guilt deposits from him into my bank account; five hundred dollars on my birthday, no contact, more money come Christmas, no contact. No answered emails. No returned phone calls. Momma got real mad, like frothing at the mouth rabid about it all. She tried to reach him, wrote him and said he was a cruel-assed bastard. She really wrote that. I look up, my eyes glide carefully from my phone screen to Momma mumbling to herself about 26 down on her crossword; she asks me if I know the answer, God knows I don't. I have no answers to anything. I shift a bit on the sofa and watch her. I know she is all I got. My inner road map is taking me home, right to her heart where I know I still belong.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Fiction
Dry Mouthed Dreamer
Seventeen and a half hours of disturbing, seemingly eternal, dreams of those who I love and whom I can not seem to convey my reality to in real time, has left me emotionally hungover. They all live far away yet I feel as if they should understand by now why I feel so desperate, desolate and isolated. It's sinking in that life has been an illusion; without an oasis, a gold nugget, not even a postcard to cling to, I have fallen into this remote place where all that I assumed would be turns out to be just a mound of bones, fragments of my past that meant zip, nada. I can't cry or run back to the beginning and fix it all so my journey continues into this desert of self, where nothing matters, especially within my selfish cravings. Laying on the bed just avoiding that one move that changes everything for the day; if I get up I am beckoned to answer for myself, be present; if I lay here, I am sick, lazy, a carcass of my own despair. There is not a magic wand, pill, or sweet talking shrink who can take away this inner disgust, the broken me. The worst thing is people feel bad cause I feel bad. I stuff my mouth with carbs and live for the darkness where I can drown in Discord with far away voices who make me feel, for a few hours, part of this crazy ass world. Waiting to feel something, show something for myself, just to be so-so is a bitch. I honestly have no idea how to turn this cradled cloud of deep sea blackness around. Anybody who's been here knows it's not a choice, a matter of pulling up my boot straps. Hell, I don't even have boots. The notion that we all have hard times, rough patches and so on makes me cringe. I have had ten years of a bad ass trip. Learning to know who I am led to discovering I will never, ever, feel okay in this world. My dad dumped me cause I am me. I was his gift he'd said so many years ago. Years ago. Truth is the killer man. Nobody really wants to hear your answer to "how are you?" now do they? In fact, anybody out there struggling with self loathing, depression, or just a miserable set of cards knows, being happy is a can fucking sardines. All our memories jam packed into one little tin, smothering us and all smelly. Ugly is what it is. Nice little therapists with pretty smiles and nods piss me off even more. "Oh, you have a lot on your plate right now." For the love of jesus, joseph, mary, gods and goddesses, YEAH, I gotta lot on my plate. I don't have a plate. I am spilling my shit all over the place, on the floor, in my bed, my plate is salty and wet, it's full of big ole cry it out tears. No one can fix this. I walk in circles, dry as burnt toast and nothing makes me want to make a move. I just stare at the sky, wondering why me. I know I am not alone; there's a lot of wild shit in this universe. I just wanted, just wanted, just wanted, a little piece of sweetness for a little while. Just a taste of something good for me. Is that such a bad thing? I am either asking too much or not trying at all. There is always a beginning, a middle and an end. Or is there? I feel like I have been in the middle of my worst day for a thousand sunsets. Now, all I can think is if, if, if, you know something I don't, maybe have a map to get me out of this barren mental tundra, can you give me a clue?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Psyche
Shadows of Self
Looking at my feet, staring at the sky, wondering about nothing, not afraid to cry. Shadows cast on an old family wall, pictures remain from when we were small. Clouds are my ceiling, night is my friend, nature is healing, despite it's the end. I wander through darkness, a well inside of me, a place I frequent that no one can see. I see hands reaching up, arms stretched out, all that I gave for this feeling of doubt. Was I ever seen for who I am, honoured with love, did they give a damn? Behind the smiles, the presence of self, I feel so lost, put away on a shelf. I held the belief that if I could've just given more, I'd reach the place where I would soar. Years and tears roll around, who I was seems washed up and drowned. I am the ghost of a woman who thrived to be, honoured, respected, not taken for granted or washed out to sea. Staring into the moonlight, my blue eyes red, nothing feels peaceful, just over; dead. In this still depth of after-hood, I dig to remember did I ever do good; mother, spouse, sibling and daughter, all of me present without thinking further. I assumed I'd be rewarded in some special way, for the sixty plus years I gave away. Tired, lonely, a feeling I despise, learning that after, there is no reprise. Giving, giving, dishing it out, realising it's true, there is no clout. Numb from making other's beds, now I lay silent in the world I bred.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
Somehow, Someday
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I will paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; How will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a fix it alright kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, with three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils to cherish in my bag and I said nothing. I fled, I flew, I would return for no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail: I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
