TRIVIAL LIVES - Division Street

by Elissa Jones

Father O'Toole says it shouldn't be this way. He says there aren't any class divisions at St. Peter's Primary School. He says all the children are treated equally in Mrs. Grant's first grade class. But Tina knows that Father O'Toole is wrong. She knows he is wrong every time she gets a phone call at home. Tina? he says, we had another small incident with Ramie, we know you're having a hard time but we just can't work with her. Tina knows her child is singled out. Tina knows her child is different. They live across town on Division Street, where no one comes to play. Ramie doesn't get invited to many birthday parties. Ramie doesn't go on play dates. In first grade and already having a reputation, Ramie often spends her weekends playing by herself in her room and she hates going to school. It's her mother, they say. Did you know? Alcoholic. Dead father. Illegitimate Psssssssst. Did you know?

Douchebags, Tina says between gritted teeth when we go to pick up Ramie. She looks at them. The other mothers. PTA and Girl Scout cookies and DVDs in the SUVs and ballet classes and swim lessons. Tina has to spend their extra money on Ramie's play therapy. Those other mothers. They look at Tina and look away. They are not my kind, Tina says and she is sure because she has felt them look her over like she is a piece of shit. Fucking douchebags, she says. It reminds her that she lives on Division Street. Tina smells like smoke because she is addicted to cigarettes. She wears spiked heels and her skirts are short. She has the blown veins of a junkie. The heroin evaporated from her body three years ago in a jail cell, her back on the floor, legs up against the cold walls to ease the pain of kicking. Tina whored to feed the needs and with it she pimped her soul.

Now Tina is a sober mother, bewildered by the serene life. Instead of waking up to grinding for a fix she braids her daughter's hair and puts her on the yellow bus. Instead of going out into the black night to cop a bundle, she checks her horoscope online while Ramie sings in the bathtub. She lives on Division Street because she is poor, on food stamps, working two jobs under the table. She can't cook well. The patches on Ramie's Brownie uniform are sewn on with long crooked stitches and she cannot remember when she last mopped the floor. But she squeezes her girl-child close to her heart when her baby can't sleep. She shows up for every school play, she whispers, Sleep With The Angels Baby into Ramie's tiny ears every night before she goes to bed. You are not a bad girl, she tells her every day, especially on the days when Father O'Toole calls home to tell Tina that Ramie hip-checked another kid while waiting to go into Mass or punched another boy on the playground for not letting her on the swings. And I will never leave you again, she tells her. And you are just as good as those kids at school, Tina reminds her. It doesn't matter if we can't go to Disneyworld this year or afford a car. Ramie doesn't even know they are poor when she gives her outgrown clothes away to children less fortunate than herself. She doesn't know that living on Division Street means she is different from the kids at school, that she is not a part of the chandelier club. She doesn't know that being in subsidized housing is something shameful, because Tina tells her they are not better than you.

Today Tina is volunteering at the class bake sale. She's excited because Ramie's excited to have her mom at school. I am dropping her off but I'm early to pick her up. Tina's four-inch heels march across the linoleum floor so she can let me in. Who is it? she barks. It's me, I say. She unfastens the bolt and opens the door holding a cigarette, a long ash threatening to fall on the carpet. Hey Liss, she says, how are ya? She is wearing a miniskirt with black tights and when she sits I can almost see the garters. Her shirt edges down towards her breasts and inches up her belly. Is that what you're wearing? I ask her. Don't I look okay? she asks and seems genuinely worried that she looks bad. Actually what she looks is hot. It's a delicate moment. Is it right for me to tell her that she can't dress this way for the St. Clements bake sale? I don't want to tell her they will think she looks like a whore. Is it condescending to tell her she looks like a trick? She drags hard on her cigarette. I can't believe I passed the background check, she says, exhaling. You have to pass a background check to volunteer at schools now, she says. I remember the day Tina was stunned she passed the background check to get a checking account. She has a felony record for grand theft auto, forgery, grand larceny, and possession of a forged instrument. She served minimum time in a county jail and then was offered a drug court program. She took the opportunity to get clean, but her record was not expunged. She considers her arrest and conviction part of her saving grace, but knows in her heart that her past is a bleeding scar on the whitewash of her daughter's life. In a way Tina will always live on Division Street but she has higher hopes for Ramie. She prays that Ramie's seven-year-old defiance will evolve to constructive confidence, perseverance, and strength of constitution, placing her out of the stranglehold of her mother's demons.

Finally I suggest another outfit might be more practical if she's going to be selling cookies and pies for the field trip fundraiser. This time she comes out with a mini dress and bare legs revealing her calf-length tattoo. Is this do-able? she asks me. I shake my head. Father O'Toole will love it, I tell her. She will never be like them and for this am I grateful. Tina is Tina.

When Ramie turned seven the children took turns beating a stubborn piñata with a wooden bat in my backyard. When it wouldn't break, Tina's old man whipped out a six inch switch blade and hacked it open with one graceful stab. The kids stared at his tattoos as he slipped the blade into his back pocket then suddenly remembered they were in competition to get the most candy off the ground. We called it a ghetto birthday. As the party wound down each child got a goodie bag. The kids were eager to play with the cheap plastic toys inside. Suddenly one little girl spoke up. There's an old cigarette in mine! she announced and held it up between her fingers. Tina jumped up and both apologizing and self-blaming and swearing she got rid of it. Now she knows it isn't a good idea to keep the overflowing ashtray next to goodie bags.

On the way to school I let Tina drive because she is working towards getting her license. Her cellphone rings from inside her purse. Fuck, she says, can you get that? I unzip her leather purse and say, Hello? Tina's cellphone! Can I please speak with Tina? It's a male voice at the other end of the line. She's driving right now, I say, can I take a message? Yes, this is Father O'Toole, says the man. I cover the phone with my hand and say, Tina it's Father O'Toole. Hi, Father, Tina shouts into the air, how are ya? Did you hear that Father? I ask him. Yes, he says, It's about Ramie and I need to her to call me back when she can. He says to call him back when you can, I tell Tina. Father, Tina says, anything you have to say my good friend can hear. Did you hear that Father? I ask him. Yes, he says, Ramie said the F-word today in the library. I look at Tina and say, Ramie said the F-word today in the library. Oh Fuck, says Tina. Sorry Father, she corrects herself. Father O'Toole is quiet and then says, why don't you stop by when you come for the bake sale? OK Father, thank you, shouts Tina, into the silence of the car. Bye Father, I say and hang up the phone. MotherFUCKER, says Tina, what am I going to do with that child of mine? Well maybe if you didn't have a mouth like a truck driver, I start. Yeah yeah I know, Tina says.

We arrive at St. Clements. Lets park away from the other cars, I suggest since she still can't park straight. Tina pulls the car in over the yellow line. Oh shit I fucked it up, she says. Don't worry about - it just leave it - no big deal, I tell her. We sit for a minute before she gets out. She lights a cigarette. I just want better for her, Liss, she says. I don't want her down the path I went, selling pussy at 4 AM for a bundle of dope. I don't want her to know how to rig a syringe or to have Hep C at 25. I ask her, So do you want her to grow up to be one of those douchebags? Nah, she says reapplying her purple lipstick, I just want her off Division Street.

working note

When I wrote the first drafts of Division Street, my aim was to expose the prejudice and adversity a typical single mother and her child go through as they navigate a hard life. Most people don't realize that the majority of single mothers are living on or below the poverty level. They face stigmatization, have a higher risk of health problems, often struggle with substance abuse, and have a higher incidence of mental illness. But the woman in Division Street is not a statistic. Tina represents a friend that was once very dear to me. As I shaped the subsequent drafts, the piece became less about exposing social problems, and more about telling the human story. Division Street challenges the reader to accept a recovering junkie who dresses like a prostitute and swears like a truck driver and happens to be a good mother. I have a great love for the woman who lives with great hardship yet still manages to love others. I have great respect for the woman who walks the line a little differently, holds her head up even when others ask her to drop it low, and never apologizes for loving herself. Tina is just that woman. I wrote Division Street in honor of the brave fight she puts up every day raising her daughter alone, sometimes on the brink of poverty, while battling a substance abuse in remission, and without an education to provide income. I hope this is a story that asks each reader to look inside herself and wonder, "Can I accept this woman? Do I hold myself above her? Does her style make me question her fitness for motherhood?" These are important question for feminist thinkers, especially as we head into times where the poverty rate is alarmingly high, women's voices are increasingly silenced, and right-wingers continue to press for "the perfect wife and mother" model.

about the author

Elissa Jones lives and writes in Sarasota Springs, NY. She is an avid listener and observer of women's stories and life experiences. Her current project is finishing a novel that questions women's use of violence as a means of reclaiming power. In a climate of right-wing fundamentalism, she tries to be a dedicated liberator of feminist voices.