What a Sista Should Do by Tiffany L. Warren

and making sure that it kept coming.
    Something, however, has torched a revival in my spirit. I can’t say that I’m sure what it is. Maybe it’s because I’ll be thirty this year, and I have yet to accomplish any of the goals I had at twenty. It could be the fact that I just read a novel and it was the most horrible piece of garbage I’ve ever laid eyes on.
    At any rate, I’ve started writing again. Well, I’ve begun the preparations for writing. It all starts with a mind-set and an idea. Ideas are not a problem for me. I can see a book idea in anything. Getting the mind-set is where I run into trouble. I can be in a writing mood and have words flowing out of me like a river. Then Troy will ask me something stupid, and then the inspiration is gone, just as easily as it came.
    But I’m not going to give up on my dream. I remember a publisher telling me to come back to writing after I’ve lived a little. Well, I’ve lived. Now I’m back.

Chapter 9
    Taylor
    S o I thought that getting fired was my lowest moment. That’s what I get for thinking.
    I’m sitting here, where I said I’d never sit, at the Ohio Job and Family Services office. I spent the last of my savings last week, and that was just to keep Joshua and me in our apartment for another month. Don’t even talk about food or utility bills. We’ve been eating macaroni and cheese out of the blue box and drinking Kool-Aid.
    I guess everyone in the church has heard of my misfortune. Sister Yvonne brought two bags of hand-me-downs to my house. I couldn’t even think of anything to say. All that went through my head was my mother accepting ragged castoffs for me and my sisters. Even though I felt tears spring to my eyes, Yvonne seemed pleased. Maybe I acted humble enough for her approval. I really wanted to vomit right in her pious lap.
    I look around the crowded waiting area. I’m not like the other women here. But now, I am a single mother with no other choice. All of the women here look tired and beat down. Why does the welfare office have to look like a cattle call? There are lines of women here, crowds of children here . . . I mean, can we at least have a little dignity?
Lord, how did I get here?
    I’m glad that I have a sitter for Joshua, because I’d hate to have to deal with his antics all morning. One poor mother sitting across from me has five children, and the oldest one can’t be more than five years old. One of the babies is in a car seat, and she has another baby in a stroller. I wonder if she had to ride the bus here. All of her children look clean and well kept. She’s obviously doing the best that she can. Without even thinking about it, I pray for her.
    A little boy keeps running down the aisle where I’m sitting, and he has already crushed my toes four times. I usually don’t say anything to anybody else’s kids, because I don’t really want anyone trying to chastise my son. But this child’s mother is in a daze, and she acts like she doesn’t see him or his sister, who keeps banging on the front of the vending machine, trying to get herself a free bag of potato chips.
    The little boy flies past my seat again, and I say, “Little man, why don’t you go sit down by your mother?”
    The little heathen replies, “You don’t tell me what to do! You ain’t my mama.”
    Out of nowhere his dazed mother yells, “You leave my son alone. He ain’t doing nothin’ to you.”
    “Well, your son keeps stepping on my feet. You need to be watching him.”
    The woman stands up and walks down the aisle. I’m not afraid at all, but I do feel sorry for her. She has dusty-looking cornrows that definitely need to be redone, her jeans are two sizes too small and she has obviously given up on finding a bra that fits. I don’t want trouble, but I’m not backing down either.
    She sizes me up, squints her eyes and grabs her son around the neck. “Come on, Man-Man. Sit yo’ black behind down.”
    This place depresses me. Contrary to what the