- Once I'd found my dress, I pretty much stayed out of the wedding process. Other than listening to my occasional input about it, Tommy and his mother continued on with their own plans. The one thing I was forced to do was address and send out wedding invitations to my side of the family. I told Tommy's mom that I didn't claim family.

"Everybody's got family," she replied.

"I didn't say I didn't have family," I angrily retorted. It's just that my daddy and uncle are the only family I claim!"

"The only family you claim? How can you disclaim family?"

I couldn't believe how naive people could be. I wanted to scream at her: It's easy-especially since they'd long ago disclaimed me! But I kept quiet. She wouldn't understand. Her family had always been there for each other. Mine had deserted me the day my momma died. Still, despite my warnings that no one from my family would show up, she made me agree to send out invitations. Jr. provided me with names and addresses of family members. Tommy and I had each sent out one hundred invitations.

Tommy's mom wanted an outdoor wedding so the event was held in a park located in Lemon Grove, a small city east of San Diego. When the day of the wedding arrived, San Diego provided its famously flawless weather: beautiful, warm, and clear-not a cloud in the sky. The sounds of birds chirping made beautiful music to coincide with the beautiful day. The sun's rays caused a beautiful orange-and-yellow glow to spread across the sky, putting the final touches on the perfect picture.

Tommy's mom had done a beautiful job with the wedding plans. White wooden chairs sat in two columns on the freshly cut green lawn. Since I'd refused to use red as wedding colors, someone had chosen yellow and white. Huge satin yellow bows were placed on each aisle seat. An arch covered in yellow and white roses was centered at the front of the chairs. The minister, dressed in a black suit, stood making small talk with guests waiting for the wedding to start. I had no idea whose minister he was or what church he'd come from.

Nor did I care. I had a horrible hangover and was dead tired from lack of sleep due to my attending a private party the night before. Since we had only a limited amount of people we could invite (apparently, the reception food cost by the plate), we decided not to invite our friends. Knowing there would be no hard liquor there, and that we'd invited a crowd heavily stocked with squares, our friends weren't insulted by being left out. In fact, they'd preferred the idea of having our own lil celebration on the eve of the wedding. And celebrate we did. We stayed up all night partying, drinking, and tooting. By the time we got to sleep, it was 7:00 in the morning. Tommy's dad woke us at 11:00 to leave for the park and prepare for our 2:00 wedding.

"Y'all ever do anythin' but sleep?" his dad shouted as he watched us scrambling around, falling over each other in an effort to get our stuff and leave.

My first meeting with his parents had not gone well. They had flown in from New York five days before the wedding so his mom could tighten up the finishing arrangements. Tommy and I had decided it was best they stayed in a hotel. After one look at our dirty, nasty apartment, they readily agreed. Still, even though Tommy's parents were staying in a hotel, his mom managed to find a way to bug me every day about something. I'd only agreed to a big wedding as long as it didn't interfere with my life. Now that his parents were in town bossing us around and ordering us to do a bunch of shit for the silly day, I was starting to have second thoughts.

As I arrived at the park, Tommy's mom was obviously irritated.

"You guys are late!" she shouted, shooing me into a dressing room where my dress and bridal party awaited. The "dressing room" was really just a small room on the side of the park in which several wooden chairs and a mirror were placed to allow the bride and her party to see themselves as they prettied up for the big day. Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling very pretty.

I irritably looked around the room at the three bridesmaids who made up my bridal party. They stood around admiring themselves in their yellow-and-white Cinderella gowns. Actually, the girls in my bridal party weren't even my friends-they were women I'd worked with at different jobs. I'd picked them because I knew: (1) they didn't drink or drug, so I was sure they would be able to afford the $25 rental fee for the bridesmaid dresses, and (2) they were reliable enough to show up for the wedding. They were cool-for squares-but at that moment they were irking me because they were smiling too fuckin' much, were talking too fuckin' loud, were just too fuckin' chipper about the occasion, and on top of that, their dresses were just too fuckin' yellow.

I casually strolled into the room, grumbled a "hi" to the girls, who were standing in a semicircle giggling and admiring themselves. I plopped down into one of the hard wooden chairs and dumped my head in my hands.

"Are you crying?" Gwen, one of the bridesmaids, asked. We'd worked at the second title company together. Gwen was the shortest of the girls, standing about five one. She had brown skin and wore her hair in a jheri curl. Her large brown eyes and deep dimples complimented her girlish smile and made her look much younger than she was. She was sweet. Square, but sweet.

"No," I grumbled. Oh, how I wanted to tell her what I was really thinking-that I was trying to figure out how I could get out of getting married.

Just walk out, I thought. Better yet, tell her the truth. Tell her the only thing you really love is partying.

Just as I got ready to open my mouth and tell her, Tommy entered the dressing room.

"You can't see the bride before the wedding!" Gwen exclaimed. "Yeah!" the other girls chimed in as they all stared at Tommy in obvious violation-of-wedding-tradition panic.

"I just came to give her her wedding 'present,' " he responded, ignoring their nervous expressions.

At the mention of "present," my ears perked up. Tommy grabbed my hand and pulled me outside. He looked so handsome in his black-and-gray pinstriped tux-just not handsome enough to marry.

"I know how irritable and rude you are when sober"-he paused for a moment-"or hungover." He gave me a sly grin as he placed a small brown paper bag into my hand, kissed me on the cheek, and gleefully jogged away.

I looked inside the bag and instantly began to feel better, happier, more at peace about the occasion. The bag contained a half pint of rum, a fat blunt sprinkled with PCP, and a small brown vial filled with meth. I would have felt better if there'd been a rock in it, but then I remembered that I'd sworn it off for a year. So I gulped downed some rum, lit the joint, tooted some meth and reminded myself that "beggars can't be choosers." The rum felt good going down, even though it burned my throat with each swallow. I knew it would have gone down smoother and tasted better if I'd had a lil coke to mix with it.

But hey, I told myself as the alcohol dispersed through my veins and the meth kicked in. Do what you always do-use what you got.

When I walked back into the room twenty minutes later, I was a happy, joyous, high bride-to-be.

"Let's get fuckin' married!" I screamed as I began putting on my dress.

"Wow, look how happy her man makes her!" Gwen exclaimed, obviously grateful for my mood turnaround. She had no idea how right she was. Any nigga that brought me booze and dope made me happy.

- One hundred people showed up for the wedding. But as I looked out into the crowd from the small dressing room, a heavy sadness came over me. I had sent out one hundred invitations to family members who lived in California. Not counting Daddy and Jr., who were in the wedding, the only people who showed up were my aunt Pam and one of her daughters. I hadn't seen or talked to Aunt Pam since she'd discovered the welts on my back and I was sent off to Hillcrest. Still, I was glad to see her at the wedding. However, that didn't hide the miserable realization that although I had sent out one hundred invitations, only two people thought enough about me to show up.

Tommy had also sent out one hundred invitations-'cept instead of all of them being sent to relatives in California, his went to family members located in five different states. Ninety-eight showed up to see him get married. Ninety-eight. Hell, even his ninety-eight-year-old great-aunt made a ten-hour trip from northern California.

Fuck 'em! I sternly commanded myself as I thought about my no-show relatives. The angel dust had kicked in and I couldn't risk getting sad. I hated being sad, but on top of that I knew that dust significantly magnified whatever feelings I was experiencing. I didn't want to have a bad trip and end up having an all-day bawling fest. So I talked myself into being happy.

You DO have family here. You've got Daddy and Jr. here. You've got dope and booze here. That's all the family you need.

I took another gulp of rum and quickly tooted a spoonful of meth. The girls were looking at me in disgust.

"You shouldn't be high on your wedding day," one of them commented.

"Just start the fucking wedding!" I screamed, spitting rum all over the place and completely disregarding their looks of revulsion. "Let's get this shit over with!"

- Besides my dress, the only other thing I insisted on was that Daddy and Jr. both give me away, since they both had spent time being my daddy. Daddy looked after me till Momma died, then Jr. took over. In fact, while I was running away, living in the streets, and hitchhiking up and down the California coast, only Jr. ever knew where I was-that is, when I wanted him to know. Still, he'd been there for me when no one else could have or would have. Unfortunately, Tommy didn't choose the men in his wedding party based on the same criteria I'd chosen my girls-reliability. So, at the last minute the best man-a fellow partier-didn't show. Tommy appointed one of the groomsmen to be his best man.

Tommy's mom started running around frettin', sweatin', and stressin' because Tommy's last-minute best man promotion meant that a bridesmaid would not have a man to escort her down the aisle. To appease Tommy's mom (and because he was always so thoughtful and accommodating), Jr. offered to step in as an escort. I was livid that the wedding party had been rearranged without my permission. I really wanted Jr. and daddy to walk me down the aisle; but by the time I'd discovered what they'd done, it was too late since the wedding march had begun to play and Daddy and I stood arm-in-arm preparing to walk down the aisle.

My memory lapses were becoming more and more frequent when I was drinking-especially when drinking and using. My wedding day was no different. Just as the wedding march began to play, the rum, dust, weed, and meth converged all at once and in full force, hurling me into a blackout. As a result, I have no memory of the wedding. Nonetheless, I became Mrs. Tommy Brown.

I remember coming out of the blackout during the reception as some old black bald guy was shoving a beer into my hand and shouting, "Congratulations!"

"For what?" I snapped back. He was grinning from ear to ear as if he'd just won the lottery.

"For getting married to my great-nephew!" he exclaimed. Party music blared in the background.

"I did what?" I screamed back. As my mind began to clear, my eyes scanned the room. I had no idea how long I'd been out of it. But obviously it'd been long enough to get a party started. People were everywhere: dancing, drinking, eating, celebrating.

"You's a married woman!" he shouted back at me, while gulping down what was left of his beer. He was obviously very drunk. Not wanting him to drink alone, I tossed back the beer he'd handed me.

Though I had no memory of the wedding, the portion of the reception I was mentally present for was great. It was one big party. And anyone who knew me knew that I loved to party.

Tommy's mom walked around admiring the great job she'd done and what a wonderful wedding it turned out to be. Tommy walked around greeting people, giving hugs, and thanking them for coming. I walked around sneaking toots from my lil glass vial and downing the unfinished beers and glasses of wine people left sitting around.

No sense in wasting perfectly good booze, I told myself as I downed what was left of yet another person's wine.

Soon I was loaded and drunk all over again; so it wasn't long before my mind was gone again.

- When my mind found its way back, Tommy was saying how nice it was that his work friends had given us a dinner cruise as a wedding present. We were sitting at a table aboard a beautiful boat filled with people I'd never seen before.

What happened to the reception people? I asked myself as I watched the ship's crew milling around setting plates of food in front of everyone.

"You need to eat," Tommy was saying. "You haven't eaten all day. All you've been doing is drinking. You're going to get sick."

I wasn't trying to hear that shit. I leaned over to the lil old white woman who was sitting on the other side of me and asked her where the bar was. I immediately began to make my way toward it.

As I was returning to my seat with my favorite drink in my hand-Long Island Iced Tea, no coke and no ice-a thin white woman approached me from behind.

"Excuse me," she said very quietly, "did you sit in something?"

Did I sit in something? I repeated to myself. Shit, DID I?

I had no clue. I started to say something smart, like, Bitch, you brought it up, so you tell me! but for some reason I decided against it. As I was thinking of something else smart-alecky to say, she whispered, "I think you should go to the restroom and check it out."

Why do I have to go to the bathroom to check it out? I asked myself. And why the fuck is she whispering?

Deciding it was probably in my best interest not to make a scene in a place where being put out meant being tossed into the bay, I made my way to the restroom. I was horrified when I got there.

The bathroom was full of white women, talking about their husbands, boyfriends, and children; combing their hair; touching up their makeup. When I walked in, all of the chattering suddenly stopped as they stared at me with what looked like colossal shock.

During the reception and still in a blackout, I had changed into a white cocktail dress. I had no memory of changing into the dress or where I'd even gotten it from. Actually, where it'd come from was not important. What was important was that the entire back of it was red. I had started my period! I guess I was so out of it, I had no clue-even though the dress was soaked through to the skin.

"Oh, you poor thing," one of them cried.

Before I could respond, the women got to work, moving as a team. One told me to take off the dress as she began to fill one of the sinks with cold water. Another began to help me pry off the saturated dress while carefully trying not to get blood everywhere. Another went to get the spare shirt and pair of shorts she "just happened to have" in her bag. Another grabbed the dress, threw it into the sink and began ferociously plunging it up and down in the cold water in an effort to get the blood out. The way they grouped together to help me, you would have thought we were all old friends.

The woman hurriedly returned with the shirt and shorts. As I struggled to keep my balance while putting on the shorts, the women continued to focus on the dress, chattering about various tricks they'd learned or heard about over the years for getting out blood. As I threw on the shirt, I interrupted their chattering and told them that I was on my honeymoon. At that announcement, they seemed even more determined to get me looking right again. Though, I really cared less. What I did care about is that I'd learned that their pity for me kept drinks coming.

"What are you drinking?" one of them asked as she dunked my dress in the sink of cold water. "Long Island Iced Tea-no ice and no coke," I replied.

"Darn," the woman who'd given me the spare clothes said, "I've never heard of that before. Long Island Iced Tea. Let's see, that's made with vodka, rum, gin, bourbon, and coke. So if you remove the coke and ice, all you've got is . . . straight alcohol!" Her eyes were wide with amazement.

"Well, this is such a depressing moment," another chimed in, "I don't blame her for drinking like that."

Finally, someone who understands!

"We'll keep your glass full," she continued as she looked at me compassionately, "How 'bout that?"

"Shit, fine wit' me," I replied. But, what I was thinking was, Y'all can HAVE that raggedy-ass dress. Just keep the booze coming!

And they did.

I returned to the table a while later. The entire time I was in the bathroom, Tommy stayed at the table drinking. He never once came to see what was wrong. Never wondered about why I had taken so long. When I walked over to the table and told him what had happened, he got upset that I was on my period because that meant we couldn't have sex.

"Nigga, I done embarrassed myself by walking around God knows how long soaked to the core in blood and all you care about is you ain't gettin' no pussy!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was livid.

"Cup, shut up and sit down," he said sternly. "You're making an ass of yourself-as usual."

What did he say that for? That only pissed me off more.

"Fuck you!" I screamed. "You been fuckin' me for years and all of a sudden you pissed cuz you can't fuck now?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Cup, I said sit down!" he said louder as he stood up to face me. His eyebrows scrunched and his lips curled.

"You threatening me?" I screamed, bracing myself for a fight. "You threatening me?" I balled up my fist.

The entire boat became instantly silent. Tommy and I were the only black people on board. A sea of white faces stared at us in silent amazement.

Realizing I was drunk and aware of how belligerent I became when I was, Tommy immediately changed his stance and lowered his tone.

"Listen, baby, it's all right. Just sit down and we'll talk about it," he said quietly and slowly, in an obvious effort to calm me down.

"Fuck you," I screamed. I was pissed. It was too late for talking. It was too late for soothing. He'd gotten my anger boiling, and once it began to boil, I wouldn't stop-I couldn't stop because the alcohol took over and was in complete control. The six and a half Long Island Iced Teas I'd drunk had taken over and were talking to me.

You know you shouldn't have married this mothafucka! they were urging. Cuss his ass out! In fact, cuss everybody out.

And I did. I cussed Tommy out, calling him everything but a child of God. Then, the booze told me to storm out of the room. And that as I went, I should cuss out everybody I passed. Like a good drunk, I did as commanded.

"What you lookin' at, white woman?" I screamed at one person.

"Bitch, who told you to put yo' fat ass in that dress?" I snapped at another.

The room was completely silent except for my ranting and raving. The ship's crew, obviously uncertain of how to deal with the bizarre situation, just stood aside and, along with everyone else, watched in complete astonishment and disgust. No one within my eyesight was safe from an insult, not even one of the women who'd come to my rescue in the bathroom.

"Thanks for the help, heifer," I slurred and popped her on the back of the head as I staggered by. On and on I went as I staggered toward the door.

"Boy, who gave you that fucked-up hair cut?" I growled at an old white man sitting near the door.

Though he looked at me with obvious distaste, he was the only person who didn't seem shocked by, or afraid of, my behavior. And he was the only person who said something back.

"I hate drunks," he stated calmly but somberly as he stared up at me with piercing eyes.

"Well, us drunks hate YOU too!" I indignantly yelled back, staggering out the door, losing my balance, and slamming my head against the door frame.

I don't know what happened after I left. I made my way up to the deck where I spent the remainder of the cruise hurling over the side of the ship.

That night was the first time I'd ever admitted to being a drunk. I wouldn't admit it again for a long, long time.

37.

THANKS TO Tommy's mom, the wedding was a huge success. Unfortunately, the marriage was not. Within a couple of months of getting married, Tommy and I began having ferocious fights-usually because he thought I was flirting with someone. It started with pushing, shoving, and shouting. But his jealous rages began to happen more and more frequently. The pushing and shoving escalated to slaps. I'd slap back, which he said forced the dispute to come to heavier blows.

"If you wouldn't get up in my face like a nigga," he'd plead the next day while he'd be apologizing for beatin' my ass the night before, "I wouldn't have to hit you!"

But I couldn't just roll over and do nothing. So I'd always hit him back. Even though I knew he was bigger, taller, and stronger than me, and could kick my ass with minimal effort, I couldn't allow him to just hit me without my doing something. So I'd rear back, stick out my chest, get in his face, and hit him back, even though the first hit was usually the only one I'd get in. Still, I got one in.

My ignorance of domestic violence prevented me from seeing anything wrong with Tommy's behavior. At first, I justified his behavior by pointing out that he landed only body punches so as not to mess up my face. Of course, once we'd come to stronger blows, that theory went out the window. But ignorance manufactures denial. So though my eyes were sometimes black or swollen, my lips puffy or busted, though I often intentionally wore clothes that would hide the black and blue bruises scattered all over my body, or grit my teeth through the pain in an effort to walk so I could look as if nothing were wrong-when in fact my entire body was sore-I believed that as long as he didn't break any bones, it wasn't really violence.

I further justified the hitting by telling myself that he must really love me to be so adamantly vicious about the thought of losing me. I defended his behavior even further by telling myself that it was the dope and booze that caused him to act that way. I came to this conclusion because Tommy was only violent when he was loaded or drunk. Problem was, we were always loaded or drunk.