Rabbit: The Autobiography of Ms. Pat

I knew from experience that next to jail the place with the highest concentration of trifling bitches was elementary school.

When most folks think about the problems of growing up in the hood, they think about what it must feel like to be poor, or hungry, or to have your lights cut off. The struggle nobody talk about is what it feel like to be invisible, or to know in your heart the nobody cares. Mama didn’t want to be famous, she wanted to be seen.

I was a grown woman before I found out black folks aren’t the only ones who have hard times. Everybody’s got a struggle. Nobody gets through this life easy.

Is this for someone special?" asked the saleslady as she folded my purchase in layers of tissue paper. "For my mama," I said proudly. "She dead.

There is a myth in this country that the way out of poverty is to “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” that by sheer force of will one can change the course of one’s life, no matter how great the obstacles. But in all my years reporting, I’ve never once spoken to someone who came from abject poverty and transcended that path without help.

The way you turn a sad story around, you should be a comedian! You’re the funniest person I know.

Well, Lord, I changed my mind. Fuck that nigga. Take away my love for that lying piece of shit. Don’t change him. Please, God, change my heart.

Crack seemed to have a different hold on folks than liquor did. Drunks would sober up and come to their senses in the morning. But once a crackhead got hooked all they did was chase that high. Even if it meant selling everything they owned for a hit: wedding rings, household appliances, their kids’ clothes. Anything that had been important didn’t matter anymore.

Mama didn’t trust a doctor, so whenever something was wrong with one of her kids, she liked to do the diagnosing herself by asking a million questions and then taking a wild guess.

Now it’s like we on a highway to hell.” He added, “At least we have Bill Cosby.

He definitely wasn’t my type. I liked the roughneck Jodeci look, and Michael was so clean-cut, he looked more like the fifth member of Boys II Men.

It occurred to me that maybe it wasn't my fault I wasn't crying for my dead Momma. Maybe I wasn't full of grief because Momma hadn't given me the kind of special memories I needed to feel sad about her passing, all she ever gave me was a feeling of being cheated out of love.