To Dance with Ugly People
VULANI RINGI RING - Children Circle Dance - Celebration of youth. - Chapter One.
To Whom It May Concern: Even as a girl, four years old, the pain was worth something; it taught me how to dance, emotionally. The adults in the house did acquiesce in my situation, failing to be observant or even interested, as we joined together every Sunday for a family gathering.
The large yellow stucco house where we assembled, on Boston Street, in a quiet, luxurious, tree lined neighborhood belonged to my Big Mama. The huge and rambling house sat on a hill in Detroit, Michigan. The era, the mid-fifties, was a time that spawned the celebration of “Michigan Week.” A celebration of the economic, cultural and natural resources, which made Michigan great. I imagined my great grandmother, an entrepreneur, who was lucky in real estate - rare for a woman of color - had contributed to that economic growth. She left that big old house to Big Mama.
The sun beats down boiling hot, as we climbed the tired, aged, cracked concrete steps that led up to its weathered front porch. The surrounding grass baked crisp, looked like straw. Mama mopped her forehead with a dainty white laced handkerchief, several times, along the dreaded journey. Summer in Detroit was hot, lethal. The winters were brutal, bitter and cold. Mama always said, during winter ice, Big Mama was going to slip on those steps and break her neck. Mama told Big Mama, often, that she needed to move, but Big Mama loved her house and owned it outright. She told Mama, she was crazy.
Big Mama liked giving me pennies and listening to me count. I often practiced counting on those exhausted, crooked and lengthy steps. I was silently counting on that day, too. One… Two… Three… Sixteen steps! That wisdom made me smile.
We had dinner at Big Mama’s house, after attending church. The dining room table, always neatly set with gold trimmed china, sparkling crystal glasses and polished silverware was inviting. The smell of fresh baked peach cobbler overpowered the table. A table already filled with steaming hot aromatic and delicious homemade foods. We called “Soul Food.’ The savory smells that filled the air had us all ready to indulge.
I always looked angelic, in frilly dresses, with a petticoat underneath. I wore ribbons in my hair, ruffled socks that matched my panties and white patent leather shoes. After dinner, the adults would spend time in the front room, laughing, dancing, drinking and playing cards. However, I was filled with sickening dread as Big Mama’s third husband placed all of his attention on me. “Give me some sugar, baby girl.” He would say. “Go ‘head baby, give Grandpa a kiss.” Big Mama would urge me on. Reluctantly, I kissed him on the cheek. They all said I was his favorite.
To Whom It May Concern: When no one was watching “Grandpa” would sweep me up into his flabby muscled arms and carry me to the stairs, off the kitchen, that led to the basement. I didn’t want to go down there! I hated descending those rickety stairs to where it was dark, damp and eerily below the surface of the land. The tipped, tiny and filthy windows, sat high near the ceiling yet bottom level with the earth. It made me feel like I was entering a grave.
At the foot of the stairs a single dusty light bulb and chain hung from the ceiling. Once Grandpa yanked on it; it only dimly lit the room. Disturbed by his touch, it rocked side to side, creating ominous shadows and shapes as ranks of light swept and swayed about the floor and walls.
I clung to him; afraid of the space we were in. The bathroom we entered had a sink, with a crumpled and dented, rusty metal bucket beneath it - no pipes. The small stained toilet, starting to sink into the ground, giving it a slumped, hunched-back look, sat so close that while sitting on it, his knees were against that rotting pail. He pulled the door shut, a makeshift group of left over wooden planks nailed together, and locked it. My stomach tensed listening to that splintered door scraping mournfully along the floor, groaning and straining until securely closed. The bathroom was dark, with a shadowy light streaming through the spaces between the slats of the door.
Rejoining the group, Mama is always smiling, dancing deliriously or playing cards, the sight of me seemed to upset her. I didn’t belong in the room. She was having a good time at the drunken party, too impaired to see my fright, my predicament. She fussed at me instead. She said I was selfish. I didn’t really feel her words affecting me then, because I was alienated from my body, from myself and perhaps, in some ways, I still am. Giving me a mean stare, Mama usually ordered me outside to play with the other children. Somehow, the play was gone out of my life.
Why should I dance against the dust?
To Whom It May Concern: In case you didn’t know, Big Mama was Mama’s mother. I didn’t know Big Mama had died. No one told me she was gone. I just remember being dressed in my Sunday best and it wasn’t Sunday. Everyone else was dressed somberly in black. I was five and a half years old. When we arrived at Big Mama’s house I drifted around searching for her. Daylight crept softly through the house and I felt something was wrong. I finally heard someone yell, “The cars have arrived!”
Mama hurried me out of the house and we climbed into a big black car. Silent, Mama positioned herself and vainly smoothed her skirt. Sitting in church, with my ankles crossed and feet swinging, I decided Big Mama had gone to the store and was probably back at her house. Puzzled and sad, I watched Mama, my aunts, uncles and cousins cry their eyes out. I was confused. We were in our church, but I hadn’t ever seen it filled with so many people and beautiful flowers.
Mama took me by the hand and led me down the purple carpeted aisle, towards a large dark gray box, surrounded by more flowers. I pulled ahead eagerly, full of anticipation. “Just a second child.” Mama whispered.
As she lifts me off the ground, I couldn’t wait to see what was inside. I DID. I screamed. The sight astounded me! I gasped for air so rapidly my lungs burned. I went limp in Mama’s arms. Big Mama was lying there! Mama lowered my shuddering, rag doll limp, body back down to the floor. Carrying an angry look, she snatched me back down the aisle, my legs flailing about like a puppet, my throat had closed and I was terrified. It hurt to swallow. I was thirsty and the very way Big Mama looked was frightening. She had red lipstick on, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Those were things she’d never done. I clasped both hands to my chest hoping to hold back my cries. A strange woman, weeping, pulled me into her arms. “That’s better,” she said, careful not to look too long at my face.
The spirits were wailing all around us was telling me Big Mama would not be coming home. Later, at Big Mama’s house, as I waded through the heavy throng of people, I could hear, not every particular word, conversations cementing the fact that my relationship with Big Mama, as I knew it, had reached an end. “She was too young. Just turned seventy-four.” I heard another click her tongue, “Livin with that old fool killed her. Wit’ his ugly ass.” She started reciting the Lord’s Prayer. “Met him at the liquor store,” her companion interrupted. I melted deeper into the crowd continuing to listen. “Them chillins gonna sell this house.” “Shame,” another answered, her eyebrows raised. “Gonna miss her and this old house,” Big Mama’s best friend sighed. So would I. For hours, I prayed for my Big Mama to still be alive, for my mother’s forgiveness and for a banana split. To Whom It May Concern: Big Mama was special, my best friend in so many ways. I started having dreams of my own death. I was always dreaming of and startled awake by the sensation of falling, but unable to remember most of the dream. To lull myself back to sleep, I would try to recall every curve of Big Mama’s face and the sparkle in her eyes, sometimes crying myself back to sleep.
Big Mama had been an ample woman. She was a tall, large framed lady with long silky hair that she parted down the middle and pinned behind her ears. She had soft, delicate hands and in contrast to her big, plump, stout feet. The biggest feet I had ever seen on a woman. She most often went barefoot. Walking away from the bathroom sink, one day, I saw her step on a big, water bug roach with her bare feet. I thought she had to be a strong woman to do something like that! When I heard the crunching sound of that annihilated bug, I could not prevent an involuntary shudder. After swiping her feet across a rug, she kept right on walking. Big Mama’s favorite thing to do was to go fishing. I would sit in her kitchen and watch her mix her fish bait - Water and Wheaties cereal - rolling it into little balls. To my horror, she would pour from that same Wheaties cereal box a bowl of cereal for me! FISH FOOD! I’d dump it in the garbage the minute she left the kitchen. If I could have her back, I would eat every drop.
Sometimes, Big Mama took me along, when she went fishing. I loved to lie on the shore, near her, as she sat by the lake. Stretched out on the grass with my hands folded behind my head. I stared up at the
sky. It was usually clear and blue with small white clouds floating by. I enjoyed the feel of the breezes, the chirping birds and listening to the wind rustling the leaves of the trees.
Every now and then, I would give a sideways glance at Big Mama. There she sat wearing a print muumuu. Its hem sweeping the ground, barefoot with her shoes by her side. Her fishing pole always in the water, as she waited patiently. She always wore her favorite old wide brimmed straw hat, falling down over her eyebrows. Her high cheekbones and the slight point of her nose was prominent in her silhouette, adding to her beauty.
She had a bucket of fish, she’d caught, sitting nearby; a container of worms she’d dug up herself and a container of minnows she’d snatched out of the shallow waters. The thought of them made my skin crawl. “Gonna help clean these fish, aint you girl?” She knew I found I found fish to be disgusting. “No, Big Mama,” I answered hesitantly - praying she’d never order me to obey. I would hear her chuckling, her shoulders shaking. That chuckle no longer filled my world and warmed my heart
To Whom It May Concern: Big Mama had lovely soft skin, like silk. I would crawl into her lap, when she allowed, my cheek pillowed on her breast. It was like sinking into a comfortable sofa. I would lay still against her, because if I squirmed too much, she would put me down off her lap. I loved caressing her fleshy arms, rubbing her plump belly with my fingertips as I dozed off. I heard people say she looked white. My skin was as white as Big Mama’s. If there was anything in my life I was sure of, we were not white. Black people were referred to as Negro, colored or worse, but we were not white. I didn’t understand how significant that was; how tormented my own life would be, until I started school.
Big Mama said she and her second husband, a stout man as black as shoe polish (Mama’s Daddy) were run out of Alabama because white people felt she looked too white, like an interracial couple. Big
Mama’s first husband, hung by an angry mob, was something Big Mama would not discuss. She said after she and her second husband settled in Detroit, he vanished - my Mama was a babe in arms. She said she wasn’t surprised. When she married him, it had mostly been a “longing.” A kind of possession that did nothing to relieve the troubles they were having. She already had six children and then four more for him.
Big Mama’s mother was half black and half white, married to a half black and half white man. She felt my knowing our heritage was important. My great great-grandfather was a white plantation owner, who had lived in a beautiful white mansion. He owned my great-great grandmother who slaved in her master’s kitchen, but went home, at night, to an old ugly run down shanty to join her husband and children. Her master would visit the shanty to lay with her while her husband stood by helpless, a vile act, nearly driving him out of his mind. Big Mama said the reverend would have to chase him down the dirt road and hold him. One day they found him hanging from a tree, his mother never speaking another word. I saw an old, fragile, yellowing picture of him, my great-great- grandfather, once. I was too young then to understand slavery. He has been just a very tall, slender and mean looking white man to me.
I didn’t care if my Big Mama looked white, she was always very beautiful to me. My Mama, if it wasn’t for the fact that she wore Big Mama’s eyes and high cheekbones, you wouldn’t think she was Big Mama’s daughter. But, she was Big Mama’s baby girl, the youngest child and only daughter out of her ten children. Big Mama is so large and Mama so small was why we called my grandmother Big Mama. My uncles called Mama “Little Mama.” I rarely saw my uncles, most of them lived out of state. They would surprise us and come to town. I’d hear a knock at the door, open it and happily jump into their arms.
To Whom It May Concern:
On rare occasions Big Mama, Mama and I got dressed up to go downtown to the prestigious J. L, Hudson Department Store on Woodward Ave. Big Mama looked elegant when she wore her pearl gray sheath
dress with matching gloves that fastened with a single white pearl button. She’d pin her hair back with the pearl hair combs, she wore only for special occasions.
Mama was slender, shapely with ample breasts; she wore her hair all the way down to her waist. She was only five feet five. Her wavy hair was dark brown, with natural golden highlights, which accented her lightest of browns tanned complexion and shiny hazel eyes with flecks of green. I envied her skin color because I was so pale. The men turned and looked when we walked down the street making me feel proud to have her as my mother.
When we approached the J. L. Hudson building I would try to take it all in. I would stretch my neck to see all the way up to its roof. It was the tallest store I had ever seen. It was a massive, fine building of red brick. I felt like I was entering an enchanted palace once we passed through the revolving doors. Often, I took an extra spin around inside those doors, irritating Mama. There were floors and floors of sights, sounds and smells. Once we boarded and elevator, a colored man, in uniform, stood in the corner operating it. He would smile, looking down at me and I’d grin back. He would shove a lever back and forth causing the elevator to raise or lower, giving me a funny sensation in the pit of my stomach. As the elevator doors slid open and shut at the different floor levels I gazed at the sights. He would announce the items that could be purchased on each particular floor. When the elevator stopped at a floor, and its doors slid open. “Household goods, Bedding and Draperies,” he’d announce melodically. The elevator door would shut and we’d rise up to another floor. “Children’s Clothing and Toys,” he sang out. I dreamed of getting off on that floor, but we always got off on a floor when he called out, “Women’s Fashion.”
I remember that once I became an adult, years before the store shut down permanently, I would go there as often as I could. I couldn’t afford to buy much, but I explored every floor, every shelf and every corner. I couldn’t get enough. I explored everything I couldn’t as a child, sometimes spending an entire day there. I wore my Sunday best, a habit from childhood, although it wasn’t expected anymore. I’d travel through the toy department, that forbidden floor more often. Visiting their candy and peanuts counter was heavenly. I never left the store without the same goodies Big Mama always bought me – hot peanuts and pink coconut Bon-Bon’s!
To Whom It May Concern:
Big Mama had said Mama got married, the first time, when she was sixteen. She had married so young that Big Mama had to sign papers. Mama fell in love with a seventeen-year-old classmate, in High School, an almost handsome boy, Big Mama said. With pock marks from acne and black as burnt toast he thought he was cuter than he really was. He dropped out of school and got a job so he could marry Mama.
Big Mama said that Mama was so headstrong, she gave Big Mama no choice but to give her permission. In the kitchen one day, she said, “Those two was school kids filled with fire, Dani!” She continued to beat egg into her cornbread batter. “The only way I knew to fix it was to let them marry.” She was pouring cornbread into a black cast ironed skillet that had hot lard, sizzling with reaction, in the bottom. “I had to think of yo Mama’s reputation ya know.” She shoved the cast iron skillet into the oven, slamming the oven door shut, turned and looked at me while wiping her hands on her apron. Big Mama had little patience with those who choose to sin without marriage. “Now, don’t you go being a fast-tail girl when you grow up! Do you hear me, Dani?” “Yes, Big Mama.” She turned her back to me to stir a large pot of collard greens. All I really understood was Mama had a husband before Daddy and I really wanted was to eat! Their marriage lasted three months and afterwards Mama went to a different High School.
Big Mama also said Mama lost a baby. I would have had an older sister or brother. That confused me. Lost it where? I didn’t question it. I watched Big Mama place the lid back on the pot of collard greens and wished the food would hurry up. Big Mama looked over her shoulder and said, “You gonna do what I say girl, be good, good reputation?” “Yes, Big Mama.” “Set the table.”
“Yes, Big Mama.” Big Mama said she was happy when she married Mama “off” to Daddy because he was an older man. She said she’d hoped he’d calm Mama’s ways. I discovered that Mama was Daddy’s second wife and no one ever spoke of the first one. I was born four months after Daddy and Mama married – premature by only two months. That was difficult to figure once I discovered my birth certificate, but I counted on my fingers and realized I was conceived before they were married. I had crept into their bedroom – forbidden unless allowed – and squat near their dresser as I took a peek. I couldn’t imagine Daddy not following any rules of correct behavior.
Big Mama was the only person who ever cared to explain my heritage. When Big Mama died, Mama had just married her third husband, Ray – having divorced Daddy when I was two. Daddy had also married his third wife – Ernestine when I was three.
To Whom It May Concern: Over the years Mama began to fight, scream and curse Ray increasingly. She did not have her specially made clothing sewn by a seamstress or go downtown shopping at J. L. Hudson. We were always moving and Ray couldn’t seem to keep a job. Ray was always beating Mama because of the things she said. Mama walked around with swollen eyes and busted lips, sometimes bent over in pain more times than I care to remember. She often wore dark glasses.
Policemen dressed in dark blue uniforms, with badges pinned to them, were always showing up to our house to break up their fights. Over time I could identify them, particularly by their hair. A bald headed officer generally held Mama back. A blond restrained Ray. Sometimes it took several to restrain Ray. The one with shaggy red hair always stood back with his hands folded below his big belly, watching, staring with his cool blue eyes. I feared he was there to restrain us if we got out of hand. I eventually discovered he was the superior officer over them all. Often his eyes would dart around the room and then lock on me. I stood with the other children clinging to me, the youngest in my arms staring back. Concentrating on him gave me some relief from the reality of the moment. He was dressed neatly. Knifelike creases ran down the center of each pant leg and he was wearing a pistol.
During her marriage to Ray Mama was sick all the time and having more babies. When she was due to deliver her fifth child in a few months Ray’s drinking worsened. Ray drank whiskey every day, called it his medicine. He was always telling me how much he loved my Mama. He said he loved the kids and me. Sobbing, he’d say he didn’t mean to hit Mama. I hadn’t ever seen a man cry. I was confused. I would stare at him as if I was seeing him for the very first time.
“Are you scared of me?” He asks. “No,” I said, frightened to death.
Ray would drag a kitchen chair close to me and sit there, leaning close to my face. “Honestly, are you scared? I hate to think I scare you or the kids.” He’d reek of the smell of booze. I’d hesitate. Finally, speaking up I said, “You scare me when you hit Mama.” I didn’t like him sitting so close to me. I wanted him to move back. I wanted the conversation to end. I was sure he saw it in my face. He’d drop his head. “Is there anything I can do? Do you want a new dress?” He was crying again. All I wanted him to do was stop hitting Mama. But, somehow his posture and tears made him seem powerless.
To Whom It May Concern: In worn out faded gold letters, William and Ernestine Dobson was on the mailbox where Daddy lived. The other mailbox beside it belonged to the owners of the house Daddy rented. The owners had the larger house up front. Daddy’s house was a tiny house sitting far away behind it.
My stepmother, whom everyone called my stepmother Tina rarely paid attention to me in the few days a month that I visited. Tina’s daughter from a previous marriage, the two daughters, Daddy had with Tina and I slept in one bedroom while Daddy and Tina slept on a sleeper sofa in the front room. The dingy green walls of the bedroom were decorated with a mixture of children’s drawings and The Lord’s Prayer. I found that depressing.
Times were tough for Daddy. He worked hard to keep at least the rent paid, some food on the table and squeeze out child support to Mama. When I wasn’t at Daddy’s house, to my delight he’d even meet me on the corner of the block where Mama lived and give me all of his pocket change. He always wanted
me to have my own change in case there were little things I needed for school. These visits were our secret. He knew his child support was spent on more whiskey for Ray. His children staying in school were very important to Daddy. He was only able to finish the fifth grade and he’d longed to finish his education most of his life.
One day before classes started, right in front of the school, a familiar car U-turned and parked at the curb near me. I was thrilled when I turned to look and Daddy stepped out of the car. He dropped to his knees spreading his arms wide as I ran and jumped into the most secure place I’d ever known. I was thrilled that the other children on the playground who called me ugly names could see that someone loved me! But it hurt me when we were at the home he shared with Tina, to prevent arguments, Daddy didn’t see me at all. Tina’s hurtful attitude towards me stung even more when Daddy chose to not see, to look the other way. I knew he loved me, but he said he needed a mother for his other kids.
Daddy worked two and sometime three low-paying jobs and still was unable to afford much heat in the winter. I remember sleeping in a wool cap, scarves, a winter coat, mittens, socks and even boots to keep warm. Shivers rattled my bones. The tiny space heater barely warmed a small spot in the house. Because of the living conditions Daddy feared I would not want to come visit. During one of our rare private moments, he asked, “Do you hate it here?” His eyes were full. “No, Daddy, never!”
We stood on the porch, shivering, as the snow blew up against the house. I said everything I could to try to reassure him, but, he seemed far away. I loved him so much. He seemed somewhere else, in uninterrupted, deep thought. I just stood by holding his hand. Visiting Daddy was the more important thing in my life. It was much more peaceful than life at home with Mama. Soon, Daddy stopped worrying so much. He was moving his family to an Apartment complex. A Housing Complex some would say was in the ghetto. Low income apartments in the city. He said it was cheaper, much bigger with plenty of bedrooms. He said the city had done a cleanup and there were no unsavory people or dangerous places.
To Whom It May Concern: It wasn’t long before Ray took all of his rage and frustration out on Mama. Awakened by the sounds of a fight, of the destruction of our future, I was in the throes of a family being torn apart. There was crashing and banging and the sound of his fist hitting her flesh. He pulled Mama around like a rag doll, by her hair, slamming her head into the wall. There was so much screaming, I wasn’t sure which scream
was mine. Mama crumpled to the floor like a rag doll as Ray climbed on top of her – hands around her throat. “I know you’ve been with that bastard down the street!” He screamed. He had released her throat. “So what!” Mama spat in his face. “At least he pays attention to me and spends time with me!” “Whore!” Ray screeched as he grabbed Mama’s throat again. Ray jumped up and began dragging Mama around by her hair. “Bitch, you were seeing ME while married to William, I know you’re doing that shit to me, now!” I gasped. “Good Bitch!” Mama yelled back, as she somehow struggled free from his grip. Backing up, screaming, Mama yelled, “My new man got money, you old drunk!” Ray lunged at Mama and fell. Scrambling to his feet, he snatched at her skirt yanking her to the ground and began choking her again. Ray was nearly choking Mama to death. My little brothers and sisters were wailing and jumping on his back and in his rage he was tossing them off like rag dolls. I stood cradling Mama’s newest baby.
More policemen burst in saving Mama’s life. The couple who lived downstairs had called them. Officers were wrestling Ray; they forced him to the floor. Mama was cursing, her voice was squeaking and strained, and sometimes nothing came out. She was trying to call my stepfather all kinds of bad names, "You black ass, son of a bitch, I'm gonna kill..."
She was crawling, pointing at him, blood was flying out of her mouth with every word she was able to scream. Another officer went over to help her up. I could hear the whine of an approaching ambulance. The officer lifted her up off the floor and escorted her from our second floor flat to the ambulance waiting outside. My legs were trembling violently, I felt paralyzed as I was trying to calm the children. A neighborhood crowd had gathered around our lawn, news had spread quickly. Ray went to prison, that day, with us looking on, in full view of everyone in the neighborhood. We were the talk of the neighbors for months. They took my stepfather away in a squad car. I felt sad for him because of the painful way he looked when he glanced back at us. When the officer placed a hand on top of his head and guided him into the back seat, I felt I knew his hurt, his pain. As far as I knew, we were the only family he had. He was going to have no one who loved him. I never heard of him again. He was another living being who seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.
Mama's best friend took the baby. I took care of the other kids the best I knew how. The downstairs neighbors checked in on us, every day and so did the officer with the ugly red hair. I grew to understand he was a man who liked everything about being a police officer. The excitement, the danger, and the chance to be a hero, particularly to children caught up in situations like ours. He brought us candy, coloring books, and crayons. His face it up as the children squealed with delight. I surprised myself when I hugged him. In those days, people were ashamed if anything about themselves or their family ending up in the newspapers. Mama's violent experience ended up in the newspapers! For years I didn’t know that Daddy kept the black-bordered newspaper clipping from the Detroit Free Press, locked away in a strong box. He unlocked the strong box and let me read it when I was fifteen.
The Detroit Free Press: April eighteen, nineteen sixty Newspaper item: Domestic Violence Case Dooms Man:
It has come to the attention of this reporter that on April seventeen ninety sixty, our community experienced another tragic incident of Domestic Violence. Iris Duane suffered a hairline fracture, bruised larynx, and fractured pelvis when brutally beaten and strangled by her husband Ray Duane. She, hospitalized for an unknown period of time, is the mother of five young children. Her husband charged with domestic violence, attempted murder, torture and aggravated battery by the State of Michigan is in jail awaiting his sentencing. According to the Detroit Police Department battles at this residence, on Marsh St, are a recurring event. In this reporter’s opinion, this brutal attack and prior history will put Ray Duane away for a very long time.
To Whom It May Concern: I was twelve years old and Mama said I was fat. I wasn't like my classmates, thin and pretty, either, but fat? I felt awful knowing I was an embarrassment to her. She said she could not dress a fat girl the way she wanted to. I knew that to her, appearance was of substantial importance. She bought me dresses, skirts, blouses, and shoes, but I wasn't looking good enough for her. Mama screamed at me when I ate, telling me to put food back. I felt she had a helpless hatred for me. I did not fit the image of the daughter she had envisioned. When I tried to express the pain I felt, she said, "That should be your motivation to lose weight."
When one of the other children stole a piece of pie or cake, I received a slap in the face. She accused me. I had to have been the one who took it. I was the deceitful one, sneaky! One day, after expressing her frustration to a room full of her girlfriends, she forced me to stand on a scale, in front of them. I
didn't know why they were there, perhaps a Club meeting or card party. Mama stood on the scale after me to demonstrate the fact that, at my age, I weighed more than she did. She was a small woman. I was a towering, sizable child, growing rapidly. I felt hurt. I left the room, in tears, frightened tears, that filled my eyes, clouding my vision. I didn't understand why I deserved that display, that humiliation! I heard them talking in hushed tones, as if they were discussing something scandalous. They spoke in vague terms, hunched slightly together. It hurt more than the fruitfulness of the growing pains that rocked my body. "She has unruly hair, even though it is long. It's a mix between good and nappy." "Appearance is so important." “Especially for girls, maybe her Mama should try a "wet set" for her hair, at the salon." ''That does not help the weight! The poor thing." "They need to use a hot comb on that hair." "She's so fat she won’t ever get a boyfriend." "Boyfriend? No decent man wants to marry a fat woman." “Put her on a diet, is all she can do." "The girl will just sneak food!” I cried myself to sleep.
To Whom It May Concern: My peers at school hated me, too. Several girls chased me almost all the way home whenever they saw me after school, carrying scissors to cut my hair, jealous that my hair was longer than theirs. I was afraid to go to school, I was afraid, after school, to go home. Word would spread that I was going to get “beat up,” and crowds waited outside, in the schoolyard, to witness. I went to Mama for help, and there were none. Mama said, "If you let them cut your hair I'll shave you bald, and see how you like that!" I knew she would. Mama said, "If you're stupid enough to let them beat you up, it's nothing like the beating you're going to get when you get home!" I knew she meant that, too! I was alone, trying to dance a children’s circle dance with tortuous people.
Classmates nagged at me constantly to admit that I was white. They would surround me in groups, when I walked down the halls. "You white aint you?" "No, I am not white," I would answer, pronouncing every word distinctly, in spite of the fact that I was terrified. "You better stop lying." By then my head, hair having been snatched several times by those standing behind me, was throbbing. My face turning scarlet. I refused to cry. I refused to say I was white. So, they’d threatened to beat me up after school. A fist shoved in my face, their faces becoming a blur, would seal the threat. I looked for back doors to escape out of, windows to crawl through, and back streets to travel, even If it was far out of the way of my usual route home. I was lonely and miserable.
I had no friends. I had no one to spend time with, so I spent a lot of time in the library. I loved words. I loved reading. I loved reading about African culture. One day I found a word I thought explained who I was. I liked the word, "Mulatto." I preferred to think of myself as one. I found it in an old tattered and worn Noah Webster dictionary. Its sound was exotic, dreamy, even if not used in America today: 'Mulatto, An offspring of a black and a white parent, or a person whose heritage contained African ancestors mixed with white ancestry.'
At school, classmates used terms drearily like "Hi-Yella, Red-Bone, and White Girl," with contempt. The boys used the terms more seductively; "Red-Bone!" Followed by a lusty groan or a whistle, licking their lips, reaching out trying to fondle my blossoming breasts or behind. I hated it. Always striving to avoid conflict, I ducked, dodged, and hid as much as I could. I was more than lonely.
To Whom It May Concern: The family as we all know was a sorrow for me, too. My relationship with Mama had a very angry, perhaps violent component. The infinite amount of chores she left for me must have no mistakes. Any offense ended in a beating. A fiery hot lashing would awaken me, from a deep and peaceful sleep. My eyes jolting open I’d find Mama standing over me, beating me with a strap.
The beatings were for little things I forgot to do. A few crumbs found on the kitchen table, failure to wipe standing water off the sink or omitting to sweep the kitchen floor! My poor startled heart would
pound like the slap note rhythms of a barrel shaped drum, resonating loud in my ears. My arms, flailing about, trying to fight off the swing of her arm, would be hit in the barrage. I tried to run, or duck deeper under the covers. "What did I do?" I’d screamed repeatedly. Often, I would get a strike across the face, on the inside of a thigh, making it hard to walk and even on the bottom of a foot, making a shoe uncomfortable.
My pajamas would rip, sometimes, from her reaching out to grab me and pull me back into the beating. I wanted to die. When it was over I'd become sick of the pain and would throw up. I’d lie clutching my bed covers weeping, nursing the ugly, raised red welts left on my body, crimson because of my pale white skin. Always in the following morning I would dig, desperately, for clothing with long sleeves, regardless of the weather, to hide my wounds. I would be weak, my limbs heavy, and every move sluggish. When finally dressed, my clothing rubbing against the, sometimes, bloody, welts were agonizing, as I sat in the classroom. Nevertheless, I had to bear the pain. The hateful girls hovering around me got in the way of my hiding them. Once they spotted an ugly welt, usually on my hands, wrist, or legs, they laughed at me.
One day the loud whine of a safety signal disturbed the classroom; Air Raid Sirens went off, a common practice during those years. Was it a drill or an actual warning? Teacher, as always, yelled, "Get under your desks, children, DUCK AND COVER!" The teacher ran around the room, pulling down the shades, if a bomb dropped, we could go blind looking into the light. All of us scrambled around, crawling under our school desks. Under my desk, my hands clutched behind my head and neck, crouched down, I glanced around at the paralyzing fear on the faces of my classmates. I wished they understood that, that was how I lived my life, every day. Running and hiding, ducking and covering in paralyzing fear. I cried, often, when I was alone in my room, because no one loved me and I had Daddy on a limited basis! It seemed that just being me on this earth seemed to upset everyone. Perhaps, I could run away, but I didn't know where to go. I didn't know where to hide. I didn't know what to do.
Klama - Puberty Rites - Youthful entry into adolescence. – Chapter Two
To Whom It May Concern: Daddy planned a party for my thirteenth birthday, a family birthday party, at his place. Mama seemed reluctant. One morning after I had dressed for school, and was eating breakfast, I watched Mama busy herself around the kitchen. I couldn't stand the wait for her approval, my birthday party was in two days. Once again, I begged Mama to let me go. Mama suddenly creamed at me, "Go to your damn Daddy, Dani, and don't come back!"
She stormed out of the kitchen. My throat slammed shut I gasped for air. I was so upset by her words, it was hard to swallow my food. I stopped eating and cried. Her six-year-old dragged into the kitchen, after hearing her words, rubbing his eyes, he grinned and said, "Mama said get out!” The other children sitting around the table started giggling.
I left for school early. It was the last day of school before summer! As I stepped out of the front door, I was stunned! I stood on the lawn, watching my belongings fly through the air, littering the front lawn. I looked up at my bedroom window, just as Mama leaned out, letting go of another armful of my clothing; our eyes met. Her eyes were laser beams burning deep into my soul, hard- featured and hateful.
I rushed around trying to scoop up as much as I could. My tears were blinding. I writhed under that violation, glancing up and down the street embarrassed. Now the whole neighborhood would know I was unloved. I walked to the corner store, slowly, spilling articles of clothing along the way. It was frightening. I trembled as I walked, tears building up, again. I reached the corner store, where I usually stopped every morning, on the way to school, for a sour pickle and a peppermint stick. My visit that particular morning was not as simple as that.
When I walked in, the proprietor looked at my face and he melted into absolute surprise. I stood there, clothing piled in my arms, tears flying everywhere. I wanted to use his pay phone with the change I had in my pocket. He ran from behind his counter and hugged me, "Why is the matter with you?" He said in a foreign accent. He was from Bangladesh and a kind man. His hugs and concern lulled me. He and Daddy had talked several times, when he was standing outside while Daddy stopped in front of his corner store to see me. I sobbed, shaken and frightened. I was blubbering, asking him for help. He shook his head in disbelief, “You’re such young child! I call father?" “Yes,” I whimpered.
He gave me a free sour pickle and a peppermint stick. Daddy picked me up on the corner, in front of the store, taking time to thank the owner. I felt like Daddy was picking up the trash, in spite of the fact that I had never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life!
To Whom It May Concern: Daddy took me home to his third wife, Tina. She was the same age as Mama, fourteen years younger than Daddy. She went to High School with Mama. For days, she walked around like she didn't know what hit her. She seemed at a loss. She had children of her own. To her, I was somebody else's child and worse, the daughter of the woman she hated most in High School.
Being decent to me was simply a duty Daddy imposed on her. She did not want to take me into her family, since she was already completely happy. If Daddy showed me any love and affection, she became upset. She felt he was showing favoritism over her own children. She told me, spiteful, that I had better not think I was cute because I had light skin, hazel eyes, and long hair. She would twist her mouth and remind me of that fact until the day I left her house. It was an ugly way, for a young girl to grow up.
She spit out hateful stories about my mother. She said Mama was prancing around school classy, beautiful, light skinned with long silky hair, and so stylishly dressed. I know, as Big Mama’s only daughter, she made a special effort to dress her well. Tina said all the boys were lusting after Mama. She told me Mama got married while still in High School, as if it were the scandal of that year. If not, it was a scandal as far as she was concerned. She said my mother was whorish. I didn't know what that meant, even though I’d heard Ray call her similar names, but I knew it was an ugly word. As Tina said those things, I saw her eyes fill with tears, and her lips quiver. I could see she was upset and filled with raging hate. I was sure she was looking at me, at those moments, with the same expression she must have looked at my mother: Icy, bitter, and contemptuous. Oddly enough, as she raved on, as upset as I was with Mama, I still began to feel protective of my mother. It gave me a chill to think of Mama being the object of such loathing, and so much contempt. I thought of how I felt, hated by those that tormented me in school.
My stepmother, dark complexioned, tall, with short jet black hair was pretty. She said her schoolmates made her feel ugly, called her derogatory names. Secretly, I felt sympathetic towards her. I knew her pain. I knew the anguish of wanting to be accepted. I understood her. She had no idea! Because she became enraged with every word I spoke, I had no idea of how to express that feeling to her. She stared at me. She lit a cigarette. She was the only woman I had ever seen smoke. Her face, enclosed in a cloud of thick haze, as she raged on, puffing furiously, which only left her dark
eyes peering eerily through the smoke, watching me. I remember calming down, often, and just looking deep into her very human eyes and loving her. There were tears in them and I understood. Those were her personal tears, her pain. I’d always feel a slight quivering in my stomach, because I understood personal tears, too well. I decided, I didn't care what she did or said to me I was going to love her. I sighed with resignation.
To Whom It May Concern: Tina walked out of the room, each day she raged about my mother, with memories that would never go away, hanging loosely from her being. I on the other hand carried her version of events wrapped up in the bundles of my soul. Of course, I was delighted to be living with Daddy, whom I adored, and I wanted to love me, acknowledge me and feel proud of me. I hoped Tina and I could work through our pain. I hoped I could make her happy. I would refuse to become the "fast-tail" girl, Big Mama spoke of, and Tina expected me to become.
Several months later, my "period" started at school, during recess. I ran home, hysterical, thinking I had somehow ripped myself apart. No one had prepared me, helped me understand the changes to my body. Tina looked nonchalant as I waited for the severe pain from what I thought were wounded - to strike. Badly shaken, all I felt were mild cramp-like twinges. Tina returned to give me a tightly folded paper bag. She sent me to the bathroom, alone, to figure it out for myself. Trembling and horrified, bleeding from such a private area, I tentatively opened it and peered in at objects I’d never seen before. The giant sanitary pad and sanitary belt didn't make sense at first. It took several months to figure out how to wear it properly, without the metal fastenings of the belt digging into my flesh or my having “accidents” on the back of my skirt.
The only thing Tina said was it would happen every month, emphasizing how to remove all signs of the affliction before I left the bathroom. I felt so dreadful. I felt like something disastrous, secretive, and frightening was happening. When Daddy got home from work, he patted me on the top of my head and asked if I was o.k. I nearly died! I couldn't believe she'd TOLD Daddy such a personal thing! I could hear them talking in the next room. "Everything's all right?" Daddy asked Tina. "Yes." “Is she going to school tomorrow?" "Of course she will be."
Daddy and Tina were talking about me, as if I had a head cold. I felt devastated, embarrassed, and was sure everyone at school would know. My stomach was cramping and I didn't feel like going anywhere.
The first year or so, of the misery, I tied a sweater around my waist each month because I couldn’t forget the first time someone at school pointed out an "accident," on the back of my skirt, everyone laughed. I ran to the girl's wash rooms in tears, washing the back of my skirt and ran home. I, deprived of my puberty rites, wasn't told menstruation was a wonderfully beautiful female transition from girl to womanhood, the first step towards the ability to create a new life. Instead, I felt terrible. I became so stressed and tense as I neared "that time if the month" that suddenly, my periods became irregular. I would go months without one, a phenomenon I was happy with! Perhaps, I willed it on myself.
To Whom It May Concern: Rules were abundant in our house. Children didn't complain about the rituals put on us, reluctantly, we always obeyed. We watched television, went outside, or indulged in our favorite things, ONLY after all chores were completed. Our life was all about rules. We all had different bedtimes, curfews, and chores according to our age. We had to go to church every Sunday. When we dressed, Tina's oldest daughter would get upset and cry because her hair did not hang long like mine. Tina would look at me, as if I were a walking, ravaging disease that she preferred to leave behind. Tina liked to sew matching dresses for us to wear. I hated them. We had to change into our "play" clothes the minute we got home from church or school.
In spite of all of the chores, we did go on family outings to the drive-in. Daddy would impatiently jangle his keys; a signal that he was ready to go; when we took too long to get ready. We always arrived at the drive-in at least an hour early to allow us time to play in the playground. But it would usually be two hours before the film started. Tina would pack a basket of food for us, no going to the concession stand. Inside the basket were napkins, popcorn, boiled hot dogs, buns, and cupcakes. We carried a cooler filled with ice and Kool-aid and we drank out of old jelly jars. We would race to the graveled playground area, just below the giant movie screen to swing, slide and climb monkey bars before the movie started.
To explain a little more about Daddy’s personality, the drive-in movie could have been one of my favorite outings, but it was always questionable whether we would see an entire movie. The moment, Daddy saw anything he considered inappropriate or intimate on the screen he would start the car and leave! I'd also cringe – the people simply kissed too long and passionately. Daddy was inflexible. He wouldn't say a word; just leave! Often we were unsure of what the offense was. The younger kids would always protest, escalating Daddy's bad mood and his terrible driving. "Please, go back! Daddy, we'll close our eyes," they wailed.
Nothing moved him. He'd fly through the streets, zipping in and out of the traffic, stopping within a half an inch of the car bumper in front of him. He could not get us home fast enough! I'd sit there stomping on the floor each time he braked, sub-consciously trying to help him stop the car, with a white-knuckle hold onto the doorknob. The only movies I remember seeing from beginning to end, with Daddy, starred Jerry Lewis, John Wayne, or was a cartoon meant for children.
Daddy governed our television at home, too. There was one black and white television in the front room, to which, everyone watched. I saw him sob heavily, once in my life, in front of that television. It was a time of sadness for the whole country. Lee Harvey Oswald had shot and killed President John F. Kennedy. I also cried watching the horse drawn carriage gliding along the street with the flag draped casket of "Our" President. That was what Daddy called President Kennedy, “Our" President. “Some white folks don't want us to have nothin'." He said. I hadn't ever heard Daddy talk that way before.
To Whom It May Concern: I was cared for, physically. I was grateful for that, but Tina seemed so far away. I think she relived the days with Mama, every time she looked at me. It was there, haunting her, lingering between us like an invisible wall, when relating to me, and that upset me. I did everything I could think of to make her like me.
Through our chores, we children did all of the housekeeping and laundry. I did my work above and beyond and cooked, too. However, when Tina did anything like laundry, my hair or ironing clothes that pertained to me, she muttered scandalous words, in a voice hushed into submission. She would complain, "I guess your Mama will think your clothes aren't ironed properly," and then, "I hope your clothes are clean and spotless enough for your Mamas taste," and add, "I hate doing your hair, too, if I mess it up, your Mama gonna have something to say."
When Tina took us shopping, it was most often at Salvation Army, something she no longer needed to do. I was accustomed to shopping at Salvation Army, but I always looked around anxiously, hoping no
classmates saw us go in. I winced with irritation, at her choice of some of the clothes she chose for us, like our huge plaid winter coats that were three times too big. A sharp embarrassment, that she called "growing room." She remained very uncommunicative about the packages of beautiful clothing Mama sent me. I often dreaded the packages because they upset her so.
Tina rarely laughed, but when she did, she put her hand over her mouth and her eyes closed. Compared to Mama, Tina seemed hard, simple, and plain. I would never tell her that. Tina, taller than Daddy and narrowly built, I felt, dressed in old woman's clothing, undergarments, and she never wore makeup, except for bright red lipstick. She wore her hair simply styled, no jewelry, nail polish, or perfumes, either. She spent money timidly. A complete opposite of Mama. Course black hairs sprouted out on her chin. She would hide in her room and pluck them with tweezers. I peeked one day when she left the bathroom door slightly ajar. As I stared at her, I wanted to believe she did care about me. She has been just a confusion of gentleness, hate, secrecy, and regret. Her childhood hadn't been so great, either. I grew to believe she watched over me from a distance.
For instance, often, I would starve myself until my brain hissed and grew foggy. Mama lectures on my being too fat still lingering in my mind. I’d get so hungry my eardrums whistled a sound I grew familiar with in the moments just before I would faint. I fainted often, trying to be thin. One day Tina stood looming over me, she was angry, she cared, "I don't want to see you ever do that ever again, young lady, you are not fat! I want to see you eating food from now on. Do you hear me?" Slowly coming out of my haze, I responded, "Yes, ma'am," in hushed tones. She stormed out of the room, leaving me lying on the floor.
To Whom It May Concern: I had a home. I had to be happy about that, but I still felt like someone else's child, a hireling. Even with this truth, I felt no anger. Daddy was happy to put a roof over my head, give me food to eat and a bed to lay in at night – I saw it as survival. I cooked nearly every dinner, cleaned, did the laundry and anything I had to do, to keep everyone happy. I felt responsible for everyone; it was my duty because I had suddenly come into their lives, disrupting it.
One day, Daddy, and Tina went to visit Tina's sister and took the others. I was fourteen and left alone to fry chickens for dinner and do some of the laundry in the basement, not joining the family was something I'd gotten used to. It was hot in the apartment so I opened the back door to the kitchen, locking the screen door; there was only a warm breeze. I was thinking that the breeze was effecting nothing; the kitchen was still very hot. I glanced over at the door and was startled to find the boy from the building next door standing outside of our screen door, looking into the kitchen, grinning. He was sixteen and held back several grades in school, taking special classes, because he was nearly mute. The young people in our buildings called him ignorant, dumb and retarded.
I saw the classmate’s at School encircling him and taunting him, running behind him, even throwing rocks. I could see in his eyes that he was tortured. Knowing how it felt, I always treated him differently, kindly, and better than the others. I welcomed him every chance I got with a hello or asking how he was doing. I ignored the laughter and would even give him a shy wave in the halls or across the school courtyard. He would always grin, delighted! I learned to regret it though. I had to run an errand for a teacher, one day. Carrying my hall pass I was surprised when he caught up with me in the hallways in a particularly isolated area of mostly locker’s with no classrooms nearby. Had he been hiding there? He began grabbing and trying to kiss me, eventually mashing me up against a wall. The sounds he made where pig-like, disgusting. I was terrified. He was so tall and big I was helpless. My face was embedded in his chest as I gasped for air. Groping my breast, then sliding his hands down my body, he grasped my behind, pulling me into his crouch, his hardness grinding against me.
Tears falling I began to let out a muffled scream and a male teacher came racing around the corner and forced him off me. He was suspended from school. “May I help you?” I asked. He simply stood there smiling. I fumbled around the kitchen uncomfortable for quite a while, hoping he would just leave. I wished Daddy was home. I was wearing a lemon yellow dress. It had a scooped neck and back, was sleeveless, and cinched at my waist. My hair, pulled up on top of my head with a rubber band, to keep cool, was flopping around as I moved. I had bare legs and was barefoot. He mashed a piece of paper against the screen for me to read, "You look party." He couldn’t even spell pretty. I timidly asked him to leave, making gestures that indicated, to go away." He recoiled, looking sad, and continued to stand there, staring at me. I could see he was angry. He started making the same sounds all of the other boys make, "Mmmm, Mmmph!" I looked over at his face and at the look he was giving me. I knew that look. His derogatory actions and sounds started to frighten me. I was at home alone and scared. That screen door wouldn’t be hard for someone as big as him to get through. I ran over and slammed the door in his face and double locked it.
Later, after calming down, I traveled down to the basement, confident that he was gone. After all, he lived in another building. The laundry room was in the basement. I hated basements, period and particularly the one in this building - this one was dark and dreary than most! I loaded the washing machines with clothing, looking over my shoulders every few minutes. I felt like someone was watching me from the shadows. My first instinct was to run screaming, but I knew Tina would be angry if I didn’t get the laundry done. All of a sudden, he appeared. My stomach sank. He looked at me with narrowed eyes that filled my chest with fear. I tried to fake that sort of courage and lack of fear that I hoped would make him think that he had better back off. It did nothing to change his posture. I backed up, slowly, trying to reach the stairs leading out of there. My knees and back were so stiff, with fear, I could hardly move. But before I could run he lunged at me grabbing both of my wrists, pulling me across the floor. One of his hands quickly let go of my wrist and vice gripped my forearm.
I dragged my feet, trembling. I watched him unsteadily make his way over to a discarded mattress lying in a darkened corner. I couldn't believe it was me he was dragging! It felt like a bad dream! Oh GOD, how did I get here? What would Daddy say? I mentally called out to Big Mama for help! The closer to the mattress we got, the harder I fought. I lashed out at him with clenched fists, scratching his face, and tried to kick him. My heart was pounding so hard I could even feel it in my fingertips. He yanked me to him and then slammed me onto the mattress, on my back, so hard the wind rushed out of my lungs.
Feeling his hands all over such a private area shot sheer terror into my soul. I began to cry. I tossed my head from side to side. He was trying to give me an opened mouth kiss. I could feel him thrusting against me, missing the place he wanted to enter. I thrashed about, it hurt to struggle, wiggle, and kick under his weight. I bit him. He yelled and was steaming mad, grabbing me by the neck, pushing me back down. Straddling me, my screams became squeaks, the tighter he squeezed. I couldn't breathe! I was going to die. My vision dimmed and the world was going black.
I felt myself going limp, as I heard the sounds of someone coming down the basement stairs. The sound seemed to be in a tunnel far away. He began to tremble easing the grip on my neck groaned, jumped up and disappeared into the shadows as quickly as he appeared. Someone WAS coming down the stairs! I lay there couching and struggling to get my breath, pushing my shirt down. As I slowly sat up trembling, in a daze and dizzy, and still struggling to breathe the fat, old woman from down the hall, had finally reached the bottom of the stairs. She shuffled into the laundry area, squinting and peering over at me. Abhorrence all over her face. I sat there too frightened to talk or move. "You kids always down here messin around. They need to move that old mattress. Where the boy at? I outta tell your Mama!"
I hid my pain and bruised neck with scarves and turtleneck collars and told no one. I had bruises from head to toe, wearing bracelets to hide my bruised wrist. I thought that I would be blamed. I replayed
that day over and over in my mind and each time determined I HAD done something wrong. I shouldn’t have slammed the door in his face. I shouldn’t have opened the door. I shouldn’t have gone into the basement. I avoided him with every inch of my being but when I accidently ran across him, I would drop my gaze and keep walking, praying he did not follow. I was a frightened wreck for an extremely long time. Daddy asked me why I seemed so jumpy and was always looking back over my shoulders. I told Daddy, I didn’t know.
To Whom It May Concern:
Daddy was a fabulous-looking man, even with the deep lines in his face. He was a husky, tall man with big hazel eyes, soft wavy hair, and a fantastic smile. Everyone said we had the same eyes, same smile. Serving our country, in the Army, during World War II, he lost most of his teeth in hand to hand combat most of his teeth were stamped out. Infection set in and all of his teeth were removed. He also wore a steel plate in the back of his head. He had several medals due to his bravery. He wore false teeth and suffered with migraines. When we were little, Daddy chased us around, holding those false teeth delighted with our playful screams. We would run through the house squealing with delight.
Daddy looked like a college professor, to me, with his reading glasses balanced on his nose. When he was a boy, he had to leave school early to pick cotton in the fields and earn money for the family. His body bent from dragging the heavy sacks, hands bloody from picking cotton because of the sharp thistles, I often wondered if it was the reason there was still a slight lean to his stride. He could not read or write very well. He often asked me to read or write for him and I was honored, proud of my ability to help.
Daddy worked in the hot sun and was very tan. One day I saw him with his shirt off and was shocked to see his white belly - untouched by the sun – he was as fair skinned as I was. At first, he seemed to be horrified and grabbed for his shirt hurriedly to cover himself. However, we laughed as I made fun of him for having such a pale belly. Daddy's parents passed away before I was born. He was away at war. Daddy gave me his mother's first name, Marie, for a middle name. I had very little information on his parent's or my lineage on their side, just old pictures. I was curious though, in the pictures, their side of the family looked white like Big Mama! I asked, “Daddy, were your parents white?” I knew it was a dumb question, but wanted to hear his answer. "Dani? At your age, you know we colored folk."
"Grandpa and Grandma look so white." I said, curious. Daddy simply chuckled and said we are light skinned folks.
Daddy was reliable, on time and very routine. He left for work the same time every day, hours before we got up in the mornings. He came home from work the same time every night, six days a week. When one of us did a bad thing, Tina always told us she had called Daddy at work. That scared us stiff! No one wanted a punishment from Daddy! Daddy had a heavy hand. Daddy rarely gave anyone a spanking, but the few given – were absolutely remembered. He usually gave a lecture and a punishment, which was enough pain for me. For me, Daddy's anger was the worst thing in the world!
To Whom It May Concern: Daddy loved the Horse Races. Don’t get me wrong, he worked hard, paid his bills and only went to the races in the little spare time he had with money left over after all of our needs were taken care of. Daddy always told us when we grow up to pay all bills, put food on our table, and take care of our families before we spent money on anything frivolous. We were always excited when Daddy won at the races, because he would give each of us money. The younger child spent theirs on laps full of penny candy. The older ones bought their favorite trinkets. I bought fashioned paper dolls, (dressed and designed new clothing for them myself), long after most girls would feel they were too old for such a thing.
Fortunately, one day, Daddy won a huge amount of money at the horse races. He bought a house! Daddy cried. I cried with him. We were moving. I was so happy. I felt freed from so much of the fear of living in that tenement building where we lived. Freedom from so many bad things that happened and I never told Daddy about. The new house, on Turner Street, was on the Eastside of Detroit, across the street from Tappan Junior High, a tall well-proportioned building. Tappan was an expansive building taking up the entire block. The building was full of tall windows and sat on an uneven concrete court, surrounded by a fence. It was a blessing for us to move to that house. We all ran from room to room screaming with excitement.
My stepsister, two grades behind me, crossed the street to go to school at Tappan and the others attended Turner Elementary. I was going to High School – Mackenzie High. The house was a two-story white house, all bedrooms on the second floor. The inside walls were also painted white. I felt that white was boring. We had a front porch, with bushes under the windows. The backyard was large and fenced with lots of grass and a garage. Our back gate led to an alley where everyone set out their trash and garbage. A huge garbage truck rumbled down the alley early every Tuesday and Friday, except holidays. I would watch them out of my back bedroom window. I loved that house.
I shared a bedroom with my stepsister, but it was a nice large room. We all were able to choose a color to paint our bedroom. I knew it was best to let my stepsister pick our color - admitting there was a pinch in my heart because I wanted some say in the decision. She chose pink. I hated pink. The living room and dining room became light blue, Tina's favorite color. The kitchen remained white. There were many more chores and duties in the new house and Daddy demanded it all done to perfection, in order to keep the house as neat and nice as possible.
We were delighted to discover that beyond our alley, across a vacant field, we could enter the parking lots of a large neighborhood-shopping plaza. We spent every minute we could, after getting our allowance, browsing that plaza. We would walk along, snacking on our favorite foods, peeking into windows. We had our favorite places to visit, S. S. Kresge, Federal's Department Store, and White Castle. Sometimes, we would go to the weekend matinee at the Mercury Theater, if Daddy approved of the movie. We would get up at 5:00 and 6:00 a.m., on Saturday, to complete every chore in order to make it to the matinee showings. I loved it!
To Whom It May Concern: I was fifteen years old, going to High School and in the 10th grade, my classmates more mature than Junior High, and the name calling reduced. My academic life still had some giving me questioning looks. There were occasional whispers students didn't think I’d heard. I wanted them to like me in High School. The thing that bothered me the most, was one question, "You got a boyfriend?” Or “Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
I agonized over that. Here was another thing to make me feel different from everybody else. I didn’t understand everyone’s obsession over having a boyfriend. I wanted everyone to leave me alone. I got the question all of the time from Mama, relatives, neighbors, and even strangers I'd meet on the street. I felt pressured. I didn't even think about boys in that way. Honestly, other than Daddy, I, wasn’t impressed by the male species, didn't intend to have a boyfriend. While most of the High School girls around me were chasing boys, giggling and chatting about them in the locker room, I kept to myself. I stayed involved in my schoolwork, my chores around the house and my part-time job as a babysitter.
Baby-sitting was ok for the most part. But, every time our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Holt asked Daddy if I could babysit for her, my stomach muscles knotted up. I hated her husband.
Daddy always said I could do it, without asking me. I hated babysitting over there. Mrs. Holt usually needed me to sit with her children while she shopped, went to choir-practice, or attended her club meetings. When Mr. Holt came home, always before her, he would be drunk. I, sitting on the living room couch, could hear him shuffling up the stairs of his front porch. Their kids were always in bed, upstairs, when he would arrive. I was taught to respect my elders and always said, “Good evening, Mr. Holt.” At first, he'd shuffle past me, silent, heading straight to the kitchen. In a few minutes he would appear with his mouth stuffed with bread, carrying a wad of bread in his fist and stop and stare. My heart would sink. He would come sit next to me or sometimes across from me and I would get up. He'd follow me. He’d slur, "Hold on, sugar, don't be so jumpy."
Mr. Holt was easy to push away due to his drunkenness, but it was so tiresome and scary. Sometimes he’d reach out to touch me or try to grab me. I was growing increasingly frightened of him because things were escalating. The last time I was there he grabbed me attempting to kiss me and when I broke free he chased me. He seemed to think it was funny. I would jump away from his reach and he'd say, "Awww, come on, sugar. Give me a kiss." "What?" I squealed. "Leave me alone!" Whenever he had managed to grab me, my skin crawled as I struggled to get loose. His hands were "old hands", scratchy, rough, dry and wrinkled. Appalling! I always wanted to run home, but I had strict instructions, from Mrs. Holt to not leave the kids alone with Mr. Holt. It was my responsibility, so I endured.
No one seemed to acknowledge that Mr. Holt was a drunk. The most Mrs. Holt ever said to me was to pray for him. I couldn't understand how Mrs. Holt, an attractive woman, with deep dimples, and a long, slender body could stay with him. Mr. Holt looked like an old shriveled man and he was not that old, drinking had dried him up. Brittle whiskers surrounded his coffee colored, furrowed face. He dressed as if he had pulled his clothing out of a Dumpster. I don’t think Mrs. Holt was aware of his trying to touch me. I think she believed he simply staggered home and fell to sleep on their bed. When she got home, I tried to talk to her, “Mrs. Holt, Mr. Holt…” She cut me off! "Pray for him, Dani." “Yes, ma’am.”
It was rare, but whenever, Mr. Holt came over to see Daddy, I always said, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir." Showing the respect that Daddy demanded, but it made me sick.
To Whom It May Concern: One day, I found a snapshot of Mama. I was bewildered because it dropped out of Daddy's billfold while he was pulling out some papers on the dining room table. In my heart, I knew he still loved Mama! In my heart, I knew Tina knew it, too. In the photograph, Mama was wearing a tight fitting sweater and matching skirt. Made up professionally, her hair was styled fancy, curling down her back. She posed with her head thrown back, hands on her hips, flashing a huge grin. It was something to see.
My chest puffed up with pride - she looked like a fashion model - a sweater girl - a tear slid down my cheek because I loved her and she hurt me so. I wondered if that was how Daddy felt. I hid the photo in my room. That coming weekend was my weekend, to spend time with Mama. Going from her place and back made me feel like a displaced person. I felt unwanted, and unsettled - in the line of fire, always. One night, Daddy sat in the living room alone reading the newspaper. I walked over and hugged him around the neck. He smelled of Old Spice. Daddy always smelled of Old Spice and I loved it. “Why do I have to visit Mama?" I asked. Daddy ran his hand over the stubble along his jaw. "It's a fair thing to do. Makes your Mama happy. She loves you, Dani.” But there was sadness in his voice that I didn't understand, so I dropped the subject. "Yes, sir." “It’s not your worry.” “Yes, sir.”
In spite of that, it was a worry because the men who visited Mama were also trying to seduce me. It was my worry because I felt troubled, I needed help, needed someone to talk to. I stared at Daddy unable to find the words to tell him. It had been a long time since he and I had been alone so I sat silently watching television smelling Old Spice. I enjoyed the closeness.
I loved Daddy so much a sob worked its way up into my throat, choking me. I gasped away the pain not wanting him to see me cry. How would I explain suddenly bursting into tears? After we sat a while, I said,
"Daddy, I picked up the snapshot of Mama, I saw fall out of your billfold." Our eyes locked for a moment. He said, "Have a good night, Dani. "You too, Daddy, I love you!" "Love you, too." Our little secret. I left the room and hid the picture deeper in my room.
To Whom It May Concern: Mama has been always in her bedroom, getting ready to go out, when I arrived. Her date was usually waiting in the living room. I took care of her children (my brothers and sisters) while he was out. I would ask questions about the child care and she would always answer in that absent voice that I hated so much. "Mama, can the kids have cookies while you're gone?" "I don't care." She was slipping on her stockings. "Can they stay up past eight, there's a cartoon special coming on. “I don't care." She went to her makeup table. "When will you be back?" "When I get back." She was applying lipstick. "See to it my guest have what they need, while I get dressed," she instructed. "Yes, ma'am." Over time, I learned Mama had many boyfriends. They were always saying things to me in a whisper, always trying to reach out and touch me, even if just to hold my hand. I didn’t like to be touched. "You're prettier than your Mama, did you know that?" I knew they were telling a lie. "How old are you?"
I never said. The man who came to see Mama most was called, Stone. I’d open the door and let him in "Your Mama in her room?" He’d slur. "Yes, sir." I’d answer. One day he said, "Hand me that cigarette lighter over there, honey."
I glanced across the room and saw a lighter, shaped like a dark-green frog, sitting in the center of one of Mama’s stiff white doilies. Stone seemed nervous and I was suspicious. I stuck my hand out holding the lighter, cautiously. He grabbed my hand and the lighter, yanking me to him as he lurched forward to catch me. Sitting back down, he dragged me into his arms, trying to kiss me. I felt one hand caress my breast. I struggled and pushed against him, feeling his hot breath in my ear as he spoke, "I bet them boys in school are sniffing after you!" The only sniffing I knew about, belonged to dogs. His breath was rank with the smell of booze and cigarettes. I was able to struggle free. I jumped to my feet, infuriated! Just as he straightened himself up, Mama made her entrance; she did not see my distress.
Mama smiled radiantly, whirling around with her arms over her head like a ballerina. I took a deep breath because she was so beautiful. She was wearing a very tight, satin dress with a straight skirt, kick pleat and a thin belt fastened at her waist. The dress was silky and red, reminding me of a China doll. I stared at Mama remembering Big Mama's words, "Old whores and hot ass young girls wear red." Stone leapt up, as if nothing had happened. Mama smelled so good, the perfume drifted across the room to where I was standing. Stone strutted over to Mama like he was King of something. He threw his arms around Mama, sliding his hands down until he’d cupped her butt and lifted her off the floor, I wondered if it that hurt her. He spun her around. I gasped. "Baby you look so good!" He said. He lowered her to the floor. They both laughed and hurried out of the door like they had some wild, crazy secret that everyone else was left out of; they were in their own world. Only, I was the one with a secret. I hated visiting my Mama.
To Whom It May Concern:
The next weekend I spent at Mama's I eased over to sit at her dressing table. I sniffed an oval shaped bottle of perfume, a jar of Pond's Cold Cream and spread Jergen’s lotion on my skin. I peeked at mascara, blush, face powder, and eye shadows, all of the things I never saw Tina use. I occasionally glanced up into the mirror, to watch Mama get dressed. She was wearing a buttoned up cream colored silk blouse, a brown straight skirt with a thick black belt at her waist, and lots of gold jewelry. She looked so pretty. Mama stopped, and our eyes met in the mirror. Her mouth pushed into a straight line and brow furrowed, she said, "You look so plain. You need to start wearing makeup, Dani. You're old enough."
She strolled over to me and began to apply blush to my cheeks. Not since I was a small child had she been so close to me. I could smell her lotion and feel her touch, her warm spearmint gum, breath floated in the air. I, filled with a strange elation, like the pleasure of a suckling child, wanted to crawl into her arms and cry. When she finished, I peeked at myself in the mirror and loved it. I did not appear to be so pale. I seemed to glow.
Just as she was about to apply a light colored lipstick to my lips, a horn blew. She dropped the lipstick, hurriedly gathered her purse, and rushed from the room and out the front door. I was racing behind her, though, trying to thank her, the front door slammed in my face. I rushed over and peered out of the window. I watched Mama get into a car with four men. Two were in the back seat. The one in the front on the passenger side got out and held the door open so she could slide into be seated in the middle. They all laughed and one of them howled like a wolf, as the car roared away from the curb. I stood in the window and cried until my head was hurting, because in spite of everything I realized I loved my Mama very much.
My life was mixed up, it felt like night and day, life at Mama's house compared to life at Daddy's was polar opposites. Mama was so demonstrative with her men, touching their faces, sitting on their laps, and patting their behinds. They were touching her in return. At home, Daddy and Tina never touched, hugged, kissed, or seemed to go near each other. They never showed any signs of affection toward each other, at least that I could see. I was confused about the proper behavior between a man and a woman.
One weekend, I asked Mama if it was okay to hug and kiss. I admitted to her that I did not see Daddy and Tina touch, hug, or kiss each other. She really seemed to enjoy that. I really had so many more questions to ask, so I tested her attitude with that one. She said, "Wait until my man gets here, I'll show you all the hugging and kissing you want." I blushed, I was not sure that was the answer I wanted.
To Whom It May Concern: After begging him for weeks, Daddy decided to allow us to go roller skating on Sundays' after church. I was the oldest and responsible for everyone's safety. I loved the skating rink! I loved the Motown music mixed with the roar of the skater's skates on the rink hardwood floor. The music twirled around the room, caught on the breezes of each skater who glided by, as they swooped, sailed and squealed with delight.
The music slightly lower, sometimes higher than the voices in the room, was wonderful. The smell of roasting hot dogs and popcorn filled the air. That particular building was once an old warehouse, an immense space of joy spread far and wide! Crowds of people, some adults who were not skating, were laughing and having fun, their voices loud and clear seemed to fill the building up to its rafters.
All of my favorite music played: The Supremes, Four Tops, Marvin Gaye, The Miracles, and more. We could not play music aloud at home. I slept with my transistor radio turned down low, buried under my pillow every night and carried it with me, blasting, as I walked to and from school. The driving beats, tambourines, violins, hand clapping, and influences of African sounds made me want to dance! I was a lousy dancer.
From the beginning, I was a lousy skater. I hit the floor on my first attempt so hard that I bruised my left knee, elbow, and the left side of my face. The other skaters were swooping and sliding around me, some jumping over me. I was scared to death. A man snatched me up. I looked up into his handsome face, thankfully. My heart was beating fast. He had lifted me off the floor, as if I were as light as a feather, a good feeling for a girl who usually felt big and awkward. I seemed to float up off the floor with his protective arms and we glided around the skating rink while he held me securely. He made me feel small, delicate, feminine and safe. It was exhilarating. "Thank you," I said, trembling. "My job," he answered. "I suggest you skate when they announce beginner skaters only, okay? I'd hate to see you hurt yourself. I will teach you how to skate."
He looked down at me, perhaps feeling he'd been a little forward and said, "Well, if it's okay with you." He was soft-spoken and seemed shy. "Thank you," I said again, still shaken up. "It's a deal then." He seemed surprised.
He was so comfortable to be with, so polite with kind, with gentle eyes. I answered, "Yes, a deal." We met again to skate; he introduced himself. "Zachudra," he extended his hand. I shook it, "Dani," I answered.
He was twenty years old. He was huge, probably six feet five inches tall and very muscular. He wore tight pants and a ban-Ion sport shirt that had the logo of the skating rink on it. I wondered where he found such big clothing. He was the first man to hold my hand gently, outside of the family. He had giant, tender and nice hands. I was nervous and embarrassed by my attraction to his hands; my hands were sweating. He didn't seem to notice.
When he placed his hands on my waist, I stiffened. I still struggled with the idea that I was fat and didn’t like to be touched. I wondered what he thought. I was a tall, big-boned girl, five feet nine, wearing a size thirteen/fourteen sized dress, and I felt that I was appalling. I saw an amazon when I looked in the mirror. I had huge hazel eyes and long, slightly wavy hair, a color Mama called "Sandy headed." My complexion was extremely fair. I found my features precise, but washed-out and plain. I wanted to be pretty, outstanding.
Zachudra taught me how to skate, he said, to save my life, with a chuckle and I laughed, too. He whistled all the time, a kind airy whistles, to the Motown tunes while we skated. I would bob my head and tap my foot, the best I could while wearing skates. I followed his directions easily and he was pleased. I could tell by his shy sheepish smile. One day he said I was a fast learner and decided I was ready for some fancy couples skating. "Stand here, take my hands, like this." He-instructed. He crossed his arms in front of himself and reached out for my hands. We slid a few steps that away, and then slid a few steps the other way. We swayed back and forth holding each other all the way around the ring, coming to a quick stop - he taught me that too. I was giggling with delight when we stopped. I loved it. Zachudra wore his emotions in his eyes. He was watching my face intensely, tenderly, smiling with his eyes. "That was so much fun." I grinned. I was giddy as a little girl.
He grinned back, gazing at me. I had become a great skater. I skated until the flying dust from the hardwood floors made a white film form on my hair, and stick to my skin. I wanted to tell Zachudra how
much he meant to me, brought so much joy to my life, but somehow it did not feel like it was the most appropriate thing to say. I did not know much about spending time with a man who was kind to me. I did not know anything about attraction between a man and a woman. I just enjoyed having him as a friend. I spent my weekdays looking forward to Sunday!
To Whom It May Concern: I was always the one my stepmother singled out to go to the store when she needed something. Her timing usually stunk; she'd insist I go just after I’d finished putting my hair up in roller's, washed my hair or changed into ratty clothes to perform some messy chore around the house. I did remember Mama had always taught me to look my best in public and wearing hair rollers or frumpy clothes wasn’t it. I sought to hide in the shadows and did the best I could to stay out of her way, but that didn't help. She always found me saying she had to send me because I was the oldest. She'd say. "Tie a scarf on your head, stop trying to be so cute and get to the store."
I always raced around hurriedly removing the rollers, or changed my clothes or find a hairdo that went well with wet hair before I'd leave the house, irritating her. Being the oldest meant I was responsible for everything! If anyone shirked their dish duties, I had to wash them. On my week to clean our room, Tina inspected it, on her daughter's week she didn't come near the room, so her daughter took advantage of that. She would shove messes in the closet and under the beds for me to clean on my week. We had high pitched whispering arguments over it each time. Any broken vase, any clothes that fell from the clothesline into the dirt or even if the toilet overflowed, it was always my doing. I had to re-wash and rehang the clothes, plunger the toilet and clean the floor, or pay for a broken vase out of my allowance. Daddy looked the other way.
I had to go to local Farmer Jack grocery store, one day. A male stranger, with no breathing room abruptness, suddenly stood next to me, too close, at the meat counter. It’s startling me. I just ignored him, at first, wanting him to move away from me. He stood there with his eyes fastened on my face. I turned to give him a quick look, making sure I did not smile and moved away. He looked to be near my age. He followed me. "Will you marry me?" He yelled. I looked back at him as if he was crazy, and I walked faster. "What's your name?" He asked. I stumbled over my own feet, I was so nervous. "You didn’t ask, but, Dane Ransom, nice to meet you." He said.
I paid for my groceries, gathered my bags, and left the store. I hoped he wouldn’t follow me outside. I rushed home, glancing over my shoulder.
When Daddy saw me flushed and flustered, he asked, "What's wrong?" "Nothing," I said and then I told him, "I think a boy followed me home." I was tired of keeping secrets. Daddy stepped out onto the porch and looked around. Tina followed him. I heard her say, "She probably was prancing around the store acting cute, tossing her hair around." Tina seemed annoyed. Daddy walked back into the house.