COLORFUL BEA
“Deidre, did you take out the ham hock's, for dinner?” she said, looking at me while trying to pull her tall and fragile body up off the couch, but with no thanks to her knees she sat back sighed and said, “Lord help me Jesus, I still got them clothes to pin on the line.”
“Momma,” I said appeasing her, “I'll hang out the clothes, and I've already put the ham hocks on.” My mother's twin sister Darlene, said that I shouldn't play into the disease that way, but I felt as long as it kept Grand-Mommy content, it was harmless.
I went through all the typical emotions of losing a loved one, wishing I had called her more often, regardless of if she knew who I was, or not. I hated myself , for not making it to her birthday celebration last year, or that I had forgot to send her a card on Mother's Day this year. Grand-Mommy's words had finally come to past, “Y'all will miss me when I'm gone.” Grand-Daddy had died years earlier, and I felt a little guilty because the news of his death hadn't affected me the way that Grand-Mommy's had. It was weird, Grand-Daddy had always been more easier going, and less intimidating; whereas, Grand-Mommy was far more intimidating and firm in her rearing. Yet, I was far more distraught by Grand-Mommy's, “Call to Glory,” as she would've said, than that of my great-grand father. Hemmed in by the mountain highs and valley lows, I felt embraced as I passed through the Grape Vine on I-5. I soon found myself lost in it's inviting scenery that lead my thoughts into welcoming memories of my childhood, and the impact Grand-Mommy had on it.
When crack cocaine hit the inner cities in the 1980's, it destroyed the family units as we once knew them to be, and unfortunately causing the most destruction in a massive number of black family homes. Although there had always been a drug problem in the black community it was nothing like the affect of crack cocaine, which spread like cancer finding it's home in predominately black neighborhoods. As a result of crack, not to mention other issues that my mother Deidre had, I was raised by my great-grand parents in Pasadena California. I was the third, out of the five of the children, Deidre bore, and just as my older sister and brother, and my two younger brothers, after I was born I too was made a ward of the court, and given over to my great-grand parents, or Grand-Mommy and Grand-Daddy, as we called them. Deidre's mother, my grandmother had preceded my great-grand parents in death, leaving them the duty of raising seven children, Deidre and her brothers and sisters.
My relationship with Deidre had always been null and void, and she was the one person that I definitely wasn't prepared to see. The last time we were in the company of one another, we surely didn't take Grand-Mommy's words, “If you ain't got nothing nice to say, don't say nothing at all,” into account. Her dark complexion accompanied by her high cheek bones made her stand out from the rest of her siblings, even her twin Darlene looked nothing like her. Deidre was also, Grand-Mommy's favorite of the children her daughter left behind, and no matter what she did or didn't do, Grand-Mommy always made excuses for her.
“Deidre is restless with life is all Lindsey,” Grand-Mommy said to her sister one evening as they sat on the front porch, as I listened from the side of the house. Deidre was supposed to watch over us, while she and aunt Lindsey ran errands that day, but of course she never showed.
“That child got runaway blood in her,” Aunt Lindsey said in disagreement, “I tell you it just ain't natural that a woman can't stand being round her own children.”
Grand-Mommy went on to say, “She just got stumbling blocks ahead of her Lindsey. When the Lord see fit, he'll give her the good sense to turn em into stepping stones.” But I sided with Aunt Lindsey, whatever she meant by, “ain't natural.” I hated Deidre, I only called her “mommy,” when in the company of my elders, as respect had been instilled in us just as our own names had been; however, when us kids talked about her, I called her by what felt right, Deidre. She wasn't a mother or a mommy to me, she was plain old Deidre, and I hated her for that. What I hated most, was hearing my aunts and uncles telling me how much I looked like Deidre, despite the differ of out skin tones, or how I walked liked Deidre, and sounded like Deidre, but I wanted no dealings with her of any kind. I've always felt that way, I still don't take communion on First Sunday, because of my harden heart for her. But no matter how I felt about Deidre, even if for good reason, Grand-Mommy didn't tolerate children, “Showing their tail,” as she put it, in front of adults. Whatever I felt towards her, usually ended up in my journal, ironically the only thing Deidre had ever given me; and the only thing I cherished.
Grand-Mommy was the authoritarian in our house, and made sure that she didn't spoil each generation by not sparing the rod! My sister, brothers and I, were raised in the same house that my mother, aunts, and uncles were raised in; as well as, the very same strict and sometimes harsh, religious rules. She wasn't a mean woman, yet stern and consistent in her discipline, and rearing; to say that she ran a tight ship was a understatement. Although we were always fed well, without lacking any of the major food groups, we hated that we were never allowed certain foods like, cold cereal in the mornings before school. I asked Grand-Mommy once why was it so, and she said,” All that sugar ain't good for children, when they going to get their lesson.” Soda was non-existent in our house, even Kool-Aid was forbidden, only facet water and on occasion Tang. We only dreamt about licking the creamy white filling out of a Twinkie, or having a Happy Meal, with the exception of my older sister's birthday when we all went out to eat at Bob's Big Boy, we never ate fast food.
Likewise, almost everything in the house had a pad lock on it, the cabinets in the kitchen, the refrigerator on the patio, and the deep freezer in the garage. Even the closet where our “good” school clothes, and church attire were kept, had a lock on it. My aunts and uncles had been addicted to crack cocaine to the extreme that they would come into the house, and steal anything that wasn't chained down, in this case locked up. The locks on everything although necessary, were but a small part of the way Grand-Mommy operated the workings of our house. Like the many, multi-layered religious guidelines that we had to adhere to, taken straight out the Holy Bible. There were no games allowed in the house, where dice were needed to play, like Monopoly, because dice condemned as sinful, and meant gambling, which the bible spoke against. There were no radios in the house to prevent the influence of “worldly” music, and dancing around like harlots. Sunday's were the Lord's day, and that meant that no work was to be done, inside or outside the house. Sunday's for us was early Morning Prayer, Sunday school, 11 am Worship Service, and 6pm night service. We wore the same outfit to school all week (with the exception of our under garments), until the next week, and then we wore that then that outfit for the entire week. Grand-Mommy, had always said that she wasn't going to her water bill “Ran up sky high,” so she only washed clothes on Saturday's. Everything we did made some kind of bill higher for Grand-Mommy; she even kept the telephone under lock and key.
She was a tall and lean woman with straight baby fine graying hair she kept in a pony tail usually braided at the end. Her skin was soft to the touch as if it would tare at the slightest contact, and in the sun it looked the color of pouring honey. I can see her now, as clear as the mountains surrounding me, hanging the clothes on the line in the backyard, blinded by the sun careful not to step on the plums that had fallen from the tree, just to the right of the clothes line, and next to the collard greens and turnips. Dressed her daily white, and sunflower full apron with two front pockets, which carried keys in one, and clothes pin in the other. Humming, “No Ways Tired,” one of Mahalia Jackson's' old gospel hymns, pinning the clothes on the line, her hands had the look of strength to them, resilient, yet fragile, with detailed lines of her life in each wrinkle and protruding vein. She use to talk about her mother Cherry, as a tall heavy set woman being a full blooded Cherokee Indian, that was “As mean as fire being blown by the wind,” and her father a small framed man that was “Black as night,” as she would say, but whom she loved dearly and felt the same love from him in return. Grand-Mommy was 21 years old when the Great Depression hit, and she would often tell us how she and Grand-Daddy were in North Carolina at the time, and how the good Lord carried them through it, but not without their share of hardships. She would always make reference to her survival of the Great Depression, whenever there was bad news that came. Like the night when Uncle Buck was killed.
“The Lord don't put no more on a man, than that of which he can bare,” she said to the officer that had come to deliver the news. As I think back Grand-Mommy, was notorious for bible quotes, and old wives tales. One day the sun was out and “Shinning in all its glory,” as she'd say, when all of a sudden hail began to fall.
“Grand-Mommy, Grand-Mommy!” my little brother shouted from the den. “It's snowing outside,” he said running into her room, with us hot on his heels.
“Child that ain't snow,” she said in disagreement walking towards the window. “The Blood of Jesus!” she said with assertiveness while pulling back the curtains, as if she was talking directly to someone.
“The devil is beating his wife,” she continued. “Whenever the sun is out shinning in all its glory, and hail begins to fall, that means that the devil is taking a hand to see wife.” We had no clue what hail was, and I myself was a little confused, because I thought that the devil lived in hell. Yet in still I wasn't terrified, we had learned in Sunday school the reason why the saints used the phrase “The Blood of Jesus.” Sister Whetherspoon, our Sunday school teacher said that whenever evil spirits were present, the saints are to use those words so that the evil spirits wouldn't enter their bodies. So hearing it, and seeing the gaze in Grand-Mommy's eyes we were scared; yet, the boldness in her tone and fierce look of defense in her gaze, there was a sense of security in the room and we had taken refuge in her “Holy Boldness,” as she would say.
The house as an adult seems much smaller, than the huge house I remember as a child. There were four bedrooms, and in each generation the girls shared the master bedroom with the bathroom, because Grand-Mommy was extremely conscious about the way girls were to present themselves around men, and that included our own brothers, uncles and great-grandfather. The boys shared the back room next to Grand-Mommy's room, for whatever reason her and Grand-Daddy slept in different rooms, which his was in the front of the house. We were allowed to play only in designated areas of the house, the den, on the inside patio, and the backyard. We were never allowed in the living room, it was reserved for important company. Like the older white man that came every month, or the fair skin black woman who made sporadic visits. She would sit on the plastic covered sofa, accompanied by a bible that lay open to Psalms 100, on the glass coffee table, which Grand-Mommy didn't move for her to set her papers down; so, she left them on her lap. My brothers and I would peek, and eavesdrop from the den, while she sat and asked Grand-Mommy the same selection of questions, that she asked each visit.
So Mrs. Davis, “she’d say pausing to adjust her frames, and flipping through the papers on her lap. “Have you heard from the children’s mother- Umm Deidre?” she question after retrieving one of the papers.
“Grand-Mommy would always sneer and say, “Yes I've heard from her, I just ain't seen her.” The lady knew that she was being sarcastic, so she'd continue to pry.
“Is there anyone else living in the home mam?” she'd ask, turning her nose up at Grand-Mommy. It was clear she was being snotty, because she continued without waiting on Grand-Mommy to respond.
“Now Mrs. Davis, you know that the state doesn't pay you to take care of anyone else other than those five kids,” she'd say while putting her folders back into her brief case, as she prepared to leave. Once she was out of ears reach, Grand-Mommy would say, “That ole high-yella heffa, get on my last nerve, so help me Jesus!”
Grand-Mommy had certain views about life that she never sat us down directly, and taught; however, they were made clear. Inadvertently, we were taught that, darker skinned people were better, so to speak, than lighter skin people; which, I found odd being that her skin was fairly light. These thoughts of course I kept to myself, as kids were to seen and not heard. She made references to white people as “crackers,” and I remember hearing her say. “That ole cracker will be here today,” referring to the white man that came every month around the same time. My sister would run in the house telling her that the State Farm man was here. Her racism was anomalous, she would talk about how much she hated crackers like Ronald Reagan, and John Wayne; yet, at the same time how she loved watching Betty Davis, and how handsome John F. Kennedy was. Grand-Mommy's racism certainly exceeded the norms of black and white.
Alarmed by the low fuel signal, I snapped out of my nostalgia and prepared to exit at the next food and rest sign, which I saw. I hadn't realized that in my reminiscing, I had almost driven pass the 210 freeway, the junction that takes me to Pasadena. After filling the tank, I called Uncle Mitchell to let him know I would be there soon.
“Hey Unc, “I said after he picked up the phone.
“Hey Charlie, Where are you?” Uncle Mitchell asked.
“I'm getting on the 210 freeway now, and I should be there within the next hour. Who’s all there?” I inquire after hearing the voices in the background.
“Pretty much everybody,” he said sounding exhausted. I could hear the frustration in his voice, so I ended the conversation.
“Alright Unc, I'll see you in a minute.” Everybody, I thought to myself after hanging up, I knew that meant Deidre.
When I pulled up to the house there were cars parked on both sides of the small street from damn near corner to corner, and I was agitated I had nowhere to park. I ended up parking in my childhood friend's uncle driveway. He was standing on his porch when I pulled up.
“Hi Mr. Carter,” I said getting out of the car.
“Who that there?” he said, reminding me of when he would yell at us kids to get off his grass, as we made our way to school.
“It's Mrs. Davis's great-granddaughter from up the street. I use to play with your granddaughter Tiffany, whenever she came to spend the summer with you,” I said getting closer hoping that he would able to recognize me.
“Oh yes, I am sorry to hear bout your grandmother. Y'all gotcha a house full down there huh?” he said looking at all the cars.
“Yes sir, and there is nowhere to park on the street, so I was wondering if,” before I could get it out he stopped me.
“Just go on head child, keep it there,” he said pointing to his driveway. “It's alright.”
“Thanks Mr. Carter,” I said heading down the street. Walking down the sidewalk, I passed by a few houses that made the street unfamiliar, as people had renovated and remodeled some of the old homes. But the kumquat tree in front of old man Williams' house was still there, and still yielding. As I passed it I couldn't resist grabbing one, for old times sakes. Every morning on our way to school we would pick a few of the tree, unless we got caught by old man Williams, who'd run out to his porch yelling, “You menaces get the hell off my property! Mrs. Davis will hear of this.” That's when we drop the kumquats and take off running. Old man Williams never told Grand-Mommy.
When I got to the front porch, there were kids running around, and going in and out of the front door, something that Grand-Mommy never allowed. I can hear her now, “Stop running in and out of my house! Ya’ll know good n well I don’t allow that.” I couldn’t help it I had to say something. “You kids, stop running in and out, either you’re going to stay in or stay out!” I yelled with the same frustration that Grand-Mommy had towards us many years ago. When I walked in the front door the smell moth balls, and pine sol made me teary eyed. I hadn’t cried yet and I didn’t want to get here and break down but I couldn’t help it.
I was greeted by the smell of ham hocks and collard greens, as I walked through the large glass front door outlined in wood, I could hear her voice. She was drunk already and, arguing with her twin.
“Deidre,” my aunt Darlene said to her, “Grandma wouldn't want you here like this. She ain't even in the ground good yet, and you acting like this.”
“Oh shut up Darlene. You've always been jealous of me and grandma’s relationship, but shit you ain't got to worry none now, she dead and gone,” she slurred back. That's when Uncle Mitchell got into the argument.
“Deidre, don't you dare swear in grandma's house. Have you lost your mind?” Uncle Mitchell weighed in.
“Now y'all all gonna gang up on me, huh? Is that it?” Deidre said, making sure to make eye contact with all of her brothers and sisters. “Y'all don't want me here?” she said repeating herself, “Y'all don't want me here, huh?”
In my heart I knew that my next words would have disappointed Grand-Mommy, but this was long over due, she had to know how much I hated her.
“No, I don't want you here, I hate you so much,” I started in on her. “You ain’t ever been good for nothing, except making babies and leaving them. You dead to me Deidre, dead!” I cried out.
“Now come on Charlie,” Uncle Mitchell said to me, “That's still your mother, and you know grandma wouldn't have that disrespect up in her house.”
“She has never been a mother to me, Uncle Mitchell, you know that as well everyone else in this house. And if she stays, I've driven here for nothing; cause I'm leaving.”
My sister had come in shortly after all the commotion began, and I was hoping that she would feel the same way, but I was wrong she loved Deidre, and wanting nothing to do with me for talking to our mother this way. She just turned and walked out, without having her say in the matter. She had always make excuses for our mother, just as Grand-Mommy did; but somehow I thought things would be different now that we were all grown. All of my brothers were in prison, and my sister and I had no relationship, as we were divided by our skin color.
“Naw, you ain't got to go nowhere,” Deidre said to me. “You're right I'll go.” She stumbled out of the front door, and to my surprise, I couldn't stop my feet from following her.
“Deidre, wait!” I reckoned with her. “I want you to have something.” I took the old journal out of my purse, and handed it to her.
“I believe this belongs to you.” I handed her the journal that she had given to me years ago, and said, “Here it's finally said and done.”
Deidre, didn't come to the funeral, and I haven't seen her since that night in Grand-Mommy's living room, and I knew why. My journal was filled with hate and anger and rage toward her for abandoning me as a child and I didn’t feel bad about it at all! Grand-Mommy was gone and none of us had prepared for this. I mean yeah we knew that death comes to us all, but Grand-Mommy had out lived all of her children, a few of her grand children, and a couple of her great-grand children, she lived to be 100 years old. Although she was stricken with Alzheimer’s, she was still able to walk on her own, feed herself, dress herself (which was hilarious at times), but her life span was long and it seemed as though she would live forever. I use to hear stories of her being to mean to die, and how she divided this family by her colorful hate. However, Grand-Mommy was the back bone to this family; she held it together when the forces of the world tried to take it away. She was a God fearing woman, and instilled that same fear in each generation that she raised. Yes some of the ways that she did things were unorthodox to some, but her unconventional way of accepted wisdom, for us was a survival mode, and the only way we knew. Today, I may not practice all of Grand-Mommy’s philosophies about life, but I do know that without hearing many of them, I would not be the person I am today.
There are a lot of people who tell me that I was born with an “old spirit,” but I just say that I was raised by a wise spirit. Grand-Mommy was born July 4, 1908 and was laid to rest September 3, 2008, and on her tomb stone, it read: Thank You Grand-Mommy….Love The Generations. I have my own children now, who sometime ask about their grandmother, and I tell them all about Grand-Mommy, and raise my children according to some of the same ways that I was raised, but I've never taught them hate, and especially colorful self-hate.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Say It Like You Mean It...