Thrown-away Child

evil. I suppose I go to my grave trying to figure out why she let me go.
    Uncle Willis he say he ain’t a churchy man. He don’t intend to lie by that. But all the same he is spiritual in a way. Uncle Willis always say about my Mama Rose something I think is godly-like—Before we blame we got to see if we can excuse.
    I remember Uncle Willis setting right here where I am now. Setting on this porch smoking his pipe. I remember Uncle Willis and me horsing round this little backyard where he so proud of his grass so soft on his feet and so proud of his lilacs on the fence and his chinaberry tree.
    No I ain’t hardly a danger.
    Actual truth is I'm too damn sad to be dangerous.
    I am sad as a dead bird’s birdbath.
     
    Ruby’s eyes were streaming as she finished this, Perry’s maiden journal entry. She had touched the broken bits of a man’s heart. And she thought, Shame on me for blaming Perry before excusing him, for betraying Daddy’s faith.
    She felt another nauseous wave. Ruby was glad to be lying down. The Big Chief notebooks spilled from her sweating hands, all but “Thoughts from a Dirt Lane #4.” When she recovered, she turned to the last few pages, and read:
     
    I see these boys and girls roaming round the streets of New Orleans. Hundreds of them living in shadows everybody pretend they can’t see. Well it ain’t hardly different for these children than for Clete and me up to Angola except for the fact that in the trap we all got us a place to sleep at night. These children they free but not free. They living but not living. They dead but not dead. They eat. They breathe. They suffer till they beyond suffering.
    To my way of thinking it only going to be worse when these childrens grow older and wiser and meaner. Then they going to figure out what happened to them is a crime
    Somewheres they could be a war in some desert. Somewheres they could be scientists shooting up rocketships to Mars. Up in New York City they could be putting on a cock-a-whoop Broadway show like Mama always want to be in someday. A fine show with a orchestra and singing and dancing—starring Rose Duclat in a slinky mink and a spangly gown. But all that don’t mean nothing to a child with no place to dream. Don’t mean nothing to a child who don’t mean nothing. See what I mean about crime?
    I see the childrens everywhere. Mostly boys I don’t know why. Down under the levee right here off Tchoupitoulas Street. And over by Chartres Street. Also back of the Di Moin where they close up the power station. All kind of hiding places like that. Sometimes these dirty raggedy children brave enough to show they faces right in Jackson Square and the French Market. The polices chase them off lest they upset the almighty tourists.
    It troubles my mind all of this. Mushroom tea it helps.
    As I have lots of leisure time I drop by the library up to Rampart Street most days. One time in the library I seen a magazine article with pictures to it all about childrens roaming the streets of Rio de Janeiro and Caracas and Mexico City and Calcutta and I don’t know where all else. Plenty other places in the world though—oh my, plenty.
    When I look close at the eyes of these foreigner childrens in the magazine pictures they look the exact same as the boys and girls getting thrown away right here in New Orleans. Most others see that magazine though they like a fat man at the chow table. They don’t see nothing below they big guts.
    Children who don’t mean nothing might like to see that magazine. But it ain’t going to happen. Them snottylibrarian ladies they know the thrown-aways when they see them. And they ain’t letting them in by God. I think if they could these snotty ladies would just go ahead and hang the childrens in advance of their eventual foul deeds that deserve the gallows.
    How come I can see what I see but people born high and fat are blind fools? How come in this world one fool can make many fools but one wise man make only a few other wise ones? Anyhow that’s the way it seem to go.
    One time at the library I hear this snot with her arm held up like a traffic police say to a thrown-away child — You bring along your mama or daddy before you come in here, boy. Child just about shamed to stone. Oh my, I know shame. But snots and fat folks they don’t. Blind fools.
    Fools so blind they don’t even respect the dangerous words they got waiting for the likes of me on they library shelves. Like these words I copy down from Dr.