Door to Door Discouraged

“I know that I’m almost there but even then I still feel like giving up.” My homegirl confessed to me her spill about life struggles. 

I called her to vent about my hustle and attempt to sale my new release door to door.

I’ve been doing all this grinding and still nothing to show for it. As soon as I make $100 that goes to a bill. As soon as I make $20 that goes to my gas tank. As soon as I make $10 I’ll go find me something real to eat. As soon as I make me $5 dollars I’ll put it away in hopes that it will grow into something later, but instead I’ll just use it for tomorrow. I know that when I drop my son off at daycare I will need to put gas in my car; either to go re-up or Bust swerves to sell books: to people who may look at me crazy like I have shit on my face…. or they may support me? 

I’ve been publishing books for two years now; I’m learning that I was more enthused about speaking to people one-on-one about my business and what I stand for when I first put my big toe in the water… before Africa, becoming a mother, and postpartum depression. 

Now, Today… I realized that I may be a little bit more discouraged this year just because of everything that’s been going on. Deaths, deeper poverty, and worry. 

Dealing with politics in a revolutionary world where Afro-centricity is on the rise/going door to door was a little edgy for me. Seriously, I didn’t know what to expect. I figure I’ll try my dad’s neighborhood because it’s seems to be well-rounded people who stay there.

All you see are American flags stabbed in yards, Air Force or army spray paint on the curbs, next to the mailboxes of people who probably receive important mail. 

I noticed two African men standing in a driveway supervising a little African child ride his bicycle with training wheels through the street. One was a tad bit older than the other… I figure grandpa, father and son. 

This will be the perfect opportunity, I know they will buy a book! I smiled on the inside. Shortly after approaching them I introduced myself and explain to them what it is that I do. Book publishing, Massage Therapy, and graphic design; 

“Do you fellas like to read?” I asked from across the street.

“Ah course, whaw you got der! Com’on 

over here.” He yelled using this thick accent.

“Where are you from if you don’t mind?” I questioned to spark conversation. 

“Ghana” He replied.

“Oh really, I lived in Gambia for a month where I worked at a newspaper office.” 

“Oh really! That is great. Yes Gambia is west with Ghana, Cameroon, Nigeria, and places like that.” 

“Yes, yes. I’d love to visit them all…” I explained. 

The conversation went on. He wanted to know more about my massage services rather than my books for sale. He expressed his lack of carrying cash (understandable) Which was fine with me, if I didn’t need the money for dinner to feed my family tonight. 

I ended the meet and greet by exchanging contact information for future wellness appointments. 

On to the next house where I met a white lady who approached the door in attempt to mute her barking dogs. The same house with the Air Force indication; automatically I assumed to myself this household pays their bills on time and enjoys luxury dinners every once in a while. They must have room to support my start-up business. 

Her face a little puzzled when she opened the door. As if I shouldn’t be there. I gave my spill on my LLC; and new poetry book, “Let Me Spit.” Her face looked like it was saying, just shutup already… instantly my smile turned into a pout. Realizing that some people really don’t care about my efforts and where I have to be in this lifetime, put me in my feelings about a lot of things. 

I stopped by a few more homes in hopes that I was sale just two books. That would give me $20 and I wouldn’t feel so bad about putting my feet to the concrete in efforts to eat. 

Some people just let me ring the doorbell and wait a couple of seconds for no answer. Another white man explained to me that he doesn’t like to read but his wife might be interested; she’s on vacation and she won’t be back for two weeks. HAHA. 

An elderly black man sat in his garage staring into space. When I asked him did he like to read he just grunted NO! That was it. This is the moment where I probably begin to lose faith that I would return to my child with money for his meal.  

A tear fell from my cheek as I turned onto the third block of my father’s neighborhood where I barely visit. So many things raced through my mind. 

Blacks complain about support because we don’t support each other. How will we be able to start any businesses or self operating schools, grocery stores, or anything valuable for ourselves if we don’t invest in those already trying to! Seems like the only black support is going into entertainment business; where America has created this little box we (blacks) belong in; Strictly entertainment. 

Here I am, 22 years of age with one son trying to make ends meet. Without the help of my parents or grand parents. Just me and my little sister. 

Here I am asking for guidance because I’m tired of running in circles. Constantly telling myself everything will be okay. 

What does a girl have to do to get you to buy one of my books? 
(Poem of the day) 

Nobody Cares Joe

Nobody cares about you being broken; 

Nobody cares about you feeling empty; 

Nobody cares if your parents don’t get you; 

Nobody cares if you’re a single parent; 

Nobody cares that you can’t pay your bills; 

Nobody cares you can’t eat tonight; 

Nobody cares that you dropped out of school and put a dent in your game plan;

Nobody cares you suffer from depression, trauma, fatigue, or being unmotivated, 

Hey you… NEWSFLASH; Nobody gives a FUCK about you but you, really… accept it and BE GREAT… 

The real question is… what are you gonna do about it? 

Good Vibes Only. 
Stank The Goddess. 


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