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My Favorite Apartment  

A past journal entry that is refreshing for me to re-read when I long for the days on 31st Street…

I once lived in an apartment here in Savannah. It was the cutest little one bedroom with a “bonus” room that I used as an art studio. I had a separate dining room and 1 ½ baths. Yes, a one bedroom with two toilets! One- toilet homes agitate my anxiety. Rent was a “whopping” $550 per month. The place was enjoyable and cheap.

I reminisce about my spacious porch where I enjoyed many an activity- attempts at grilling, alcoholic beverages accompanied by serendipitous ceremonies with friends, orchestrating photo shoots, taking naps with Shakeh in the summer breezes, mimosas in hand. The place had horrible insulation, so the first few winters were rough; but I even managed to rig that under my control. Heat one room at a time, buy heated mattress pad; sleep in skully, tube socks, and a scarf. I lived there three years. I took great pride in caring for my little home.

David was my landlord’s son. He managed the place.  In better words, he picked up the rent. Some days, David and I would have long discussions, talk for hours. We’d talk about all of society’s woes, “the man”, bucking the system, the difference between him and his republican father who owned the property.  I don’t ever have a problem talking trash. I always enjoy myself. I knew however, that beneath all the talk was a spoiled, rich, white boy, who had chosen to live the bohemian life, who also wasn’t as timely as I needed him to be with fixing/ handling my shit; but it was fun.

When he spoke to me he would give me tight squeezes or a caress of the arm.  When he spoke I saw how the spit gathered around the corner of his mouth. Shakeh said that and the shade of yellow his teeth and eyes were reminded her of a crack-head. But, he liked me. He like me because I wasn’t a “problem”, and I paid my rent on time. He thought he had a friend.

I left that apartment. I left because I didn’t want to be who he saw in me, his friend; his pass into the land of marginality through a sweet-faced brown girl, his stamp of approval.  A raw sewage leak into my apartment through the kitchen, repairs on the damaged area that were never made, nothing ever attended to with urgency or care, gave me a deeper understanding of what I must really look like in his and his father's eyes. I didn’t want to be that to David or Joe Hutchinson. So, I left. I left right away.







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    Anya M. Wallace | Photographer - notyournextfeministsuperstar - My Favorite Apartment
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Reader Comments (3)

I love this post!!! So beautiful. Keep writing. It's such a shame that when you had a real studio I STILL didn't get a completed painting. What's it gonna take I wonder. . .

November 30, 2010 | Unregistered CommenterShakeh

Thanks for being my biggest fan.

...And if you stop talking about that painting; you just might get it.

Your Biggest Fan

November 30, 2010 | Unregistered CommenterAnya

I am happy these images exist. That home, was often filled with warmth, good food and plenty of love. My first "black women and our sexuality" gathering was held in this space. Yummy strawberry fresh salad and red wine, crab cakes and Shakeh wit that damn basket of questions! Keep writing, I look forward to this glimpse into your journey. Love love, beebah.

December 3, 2010 | Unregistered CommenterLabeebah

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