A Lucky Bat Book
Doorways to Significance: Finding Peace, Power and Passion
Copyright 2011 by Pat Holland Conner
All rights reserved
Cover Artist:
Pixhook
Published by Lucky Bat Books
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other people, please purchase additional copies. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com for your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
I dedicate this book to my family,
Daddy, Mother, CaSandra and Clarence. To Nat and my children,
Alexander Todd and Eric Christian.
You taught me how to love.
Table of Contents
PART I
THE BEGINNING:
“Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here.”
~Anonymous
“No! This isn’t our baby,” Daddy screamed. “Honey, these little glass beads spell another baby’s name! Come here quickly, look at this!” He continued yelling, hoping Mother heard him from the bedroom. He spun the tiny individual alphabet beads repeatedly around the baby’s ankle.
More than an hour had passed since Mother and Daddy had left the hospital with their first, long-awaited newborn.
“What? Let me see,” Mother said, limping with leftover childbirth pains, in short, slow steps. Daddy showed her the baby’s identification foot bracelet.
“Oh, my God, what do we do? I don’t understand … Oh, God, what are we going to do?” Mother asked, sobbing in disbelief. Her torso heaved up and down as she held her distressed belly. “Where’s our baby?”
They returned to the hospital with the “wrong” baby and were swiftly escorted by two white nurses to a waiting room. They sat in the white-walled room with large windows out-picturing a tall white brick building next door, while embarrassed nurses and doctors hastily remedied the situation.
A different baby in Mother’s arms now, she checked to make sure the beads spelled “Holland.” Gently, her fingers caressed the baby’s cheeks and forehead. She whispered, “I’m so sorry, my baby.”
I was that baby. “Did a white family take you home?” a friend once asked when I told her the story. That hadn’t occurred to me at the time, even though I knew my light skin color made me, well, different from my black family.
What I do remember is this story of taking home the wrong baby, told to me over and over again, even though I now realize I never knew all the details. Skin color became significant life-defining and life-altering issues, which lead me to continuously reinvent and redefine myself and the world around me. My very entrance into the world paved the way for an arduous journey of self-discovery, from continent to continent, with many twists and turns in the road. But, like the snake, I shed layers and layers of skin and grew new ones with each new experience. It took a lifetime of encounters and travels on new paths for this little girl to turn into a confident and self-assured woman.
“Mommy, Teacher says you can put my drawing on the fridge,” Eric, my three-year-old said as he excitedly waved his paper.
I caught a glimpse of his illustration and tried to appear unalarmed. My heart moved into my throat and I felt nauseous. “Did you draw it yourself, Honey?” I asked, not wanting, but needing to know if race was affecting him at his tender age.
“Yes, everybody drew a picture of their family. And I got to show mine to the whole class. Teacher said it was special.” Eric was the only African-American child in his school. It hadn’t seemed an issue for him that his skin was dark brown amidst a sea of white. He was smart and made friends easily with his entire class. We, as a token minority family, had been encouraged to enroll our son in an experimental, early childhood program at a private university. According to the directors of the school, Eric excelled in every subject and was popular with his classmates. An African-American child in a southern, previously all-white school made great news for the local and regional media.
“Show me,” I said, as I flashed back to a similar drawing I’d done of my family thirty years earlier. Hiding my dismay, I asked, “Who’s this?” pointing to the large dark figure.
“That’s Daddy,” he replied. “See? He has big black shoes like the ones he wears to work every day.”
“Who’s this one? I asked about the person beside his Daddy, fearing, the answer.
“Aww, Mommy, that’s you.”
My form wasn’t filled in like the others. I felt my face get cold as the blood drained out. “But I don’t have on a dress,” I stammered, then paused. “Did you run out of time to color?”
He shook his head, so I continued. “And is that your brother?” I asked, pointing to a lighter tan figure about twice his size.
He nodded.
“Oh,” I said. “Honey, why did you color us all so differently in your drawing?”
He looked confused. “’Cause you’re white,” he said, “and Daddy, Todd and I are black.”
“What’s the difference between being white and black?” I mellowed my tone so I wouldn’t sound critical.
“It means that if you go somewhere, you’re first if you’re white. That’s why I’m glad you’re white. We can all go together,” Eric explained.
“What’s that square around us about?”
“Mommy, can’t you tell it’s a box? For our family. We’re all together.”
“Gosh, Baby, you’re such a smart little boy, and I’m so proud of you. Did you learn this all by yourself? What did your teacher say about your picture?”
He shrugged. “She made me show the class and then told me to bring it home and give it to you.”
“I see. I’m so glad you did. Now let’s get the tape so we can put it on the fridge, okay?” Once the picture was up on the fridge, I rushed out of the kitchen, telling Eric I’d be right back and hurried to the bathroom, the place I always ran when scared. I tried to will myself not to tear up, to no avail.
I never told him I was black. I didn’t know how.
Chapter 3: Setting my Life in Motion
As a child, I asked God, when I said my prayers, to change my skin color so I could belong.
All the other kids at school had tan, brown or black skin. Mine was white. My frame was more like my Daddy’s, tall and skinny with brown eyes and long, bushy, curly, auburn hair. Boys often pulled my braids and ran. Even though I wore trendy clothes—below-the-knee gathered skirts, cardigan sweaters and brown and white saddle oxfords—I still believed I didn’t fit in.
Walking home from school in a segregated Houston, Texas, neighborhood, white kids from a different school or African-American children from my own school, would push me off the sidewalk.
At age five, I had written an autobiography in my kindergarten class and drew a box around my words—much like the one in which Eric had enclosed his early family portrait. During my childhood, I would often retreat to this imaginary box—my figuratively safe place to hide—and crouch in a corner, afraid to leave because I didn’t understand how I fitted into the world.
One day in second grade, I sealed my fate to be forever picked on throughout my primary education years. I thrived on being able to answer questions or read selections aloud in class. I felt special when I did. “Ooo-wee, let me, please let me …” I would say to the teacher, knowing everyone was just waiting for my perfect response. I was proud of my ability to know the answers even before the teacher finished asking the questions. I felt a sense of self-satisfaction especially when she applauded, patted me on the back or said “Great job!” My goal was always to be the best student.
When I brought my report cards home with a less than perfect grade, Mother winced and wrinkled her brow. “Why didn’t you make a hundred?” My feelings would go from high to low, then back to high again, until one fateful day in second-grade.
It happened in Mrs. Anderson’s classroom. That particular classroom had many windows, all situated too high to see out of. Lots of pictures, papers and artwork colorfully draped the walls. Selected students fed and gave fresh water to several caged animal friends. The beautiful fish, gliding through the water of the aquarium, were much like my daydreams meandering through valleys of tranquility.
The thirty-two students were divided into several reading groups. Group One, which I facilitated as leader, contained more girls than boys and included all students with good reading and comprehension skills. I meticulously followed all the eligibility rules for the celebrated role of group leader.
“Betty, you may read the next paragraph,” I instructed my classmate, as I gleamed with great delight. As group leader, I had spoken with an air of authority. The newly assigned story included many new words. Shortly after she began reading, I heard Betty mispronounce a word and I caught it.
“Please start over … read the first sentence again,” I asked, determined to hear her say the mispronounced word again. I had to be sure of what I’d heard. When a student read a word, phrase or sentence incorrectly, the window of opportunity to move forward in the reading line was canceled. This diminishes the competition in favor of the group leader, whose task it was to mirror the mistake. Embarrassment and shame shattered the student’s world in front of their peers. When this happened, the students also feared the teacher might move them to a lower reading group. Usually, the reason for the problem involved incomplete assigned homework.
Betty began reading the sentence for the second time. “She picked out the recipe and asked her Mother to bake cupcakes for …”
“That’s enough. You can stop there,” I interrupted.
“Why did you tell me to stop? I want to read some more.”
“Because you didn’t say the word correctly,” I explained.
“What word?”
“You know. You guys heard her, didn’t you?” I turned toward the group while Betty glared at me.
The puzzled students began to grumble and murmur to each other, then became unruly. I glanced over the page again, reading the passage. Yes, I was sure she read the word incorrectly. In addition, I was sure everybody heard her, too. I knew I was humiliating her in front of the group, but I witnessed adults doing the same thing and thought it was my role as group leader to correct her.
Mrs. Anderson moved over to our group, looking at me questioningly.
“See?” I explained to Mrs. Anderson, putting my finger on the place in the text where Betty began reading, attempting to explain before Mrs. Anderson spoke.
“She said the word ‘recipe’ instead of ‘ree-sip’ (emphasis on the second syllable).” Overhearing my pronunciation, the group howled and laughed uncontrollably. I shivered and looked distraught. Something clicked inside my head. I knew instantly what I’d done.
“Tell me, young lady, what does the word ‘ree-sip’ mean? And please spell that word for me.” Mrs. Anderson peered over her glasses and into my eyes from what felt like the top of a throne. I couldn’t find the words to answer. She sent me to the end of the line in Group One. Shamed and scorned, humiliation and awkwardness crowded my heart.
Classmates taunted me by repeating “ree-sip” in the hallways and restroom, and on the playground. Girls ostracized me and never invited me to their parties. Boys shoved my head face-down into the water fountain or spat paper wads at me.
My “ree-sip” mistake made me conscious of my desire to be accepted and loved. It further jarred me into seeking excellence and perfection in all I did.
“You don’t hang towels like that in my house,” Mother angrily commanded, her fisted forearms crossing her chest.
I’d just brought in the laundry from the line outside and was folding and putting it away. As I hung a clean bathroom towel on the towel rack, Mother walked up behind me, snatched it from my hands and backhanded me on one side of my face, then the other.
“How many times do I need to show you how I want my bathroom towels hung? I will stand here if it takes you all day. I want those towels hung correctly.”
“Is this the way you want it?” I murmured, my head drooping further into my chest as I bent and picked up another towel, folded it a different way, making it ready to hang. I held it up for her inspection.
Mother watched me make failed attempts; I waited and observed her green eyes for clues of the next blow.
While manipulating the linens in many directions, I searched my thoughts:
Do I fold in threes or just in half? I can’t remember. Help me, God, if there is a God, to get it right this time. Why can’t I remember how she wants things? Why am I so dumb?
When she yelled, I would get so upset and confused, it was impossible to follow her instructions. Hanging towels incorrectly was symptomatic of my inability to meet Mother’s expectations. I tried many ways hanging them in different ways, hoping she knew I wanted to get it right and would soon find the appropriate piece of the puzzle locked only in her design.
She slapped me again. “You white bitch, you’re trying my patience.”
For a brief moment, I stopped blaming myself and allowed other feelings to burst forth quickly—rage and anger. I vowed not to show my feelings, but the fiery pain had permanently stained my heart and mind.
Yet I saw other sides to her as well.
A prayerful woman, Mother shared kindness with neighbors and church folks, always reminding me to ask for little and to be grateful. When she prayed, she called out to God many times—“God, please help me”—tears draining the color from her face. She seemed often lonely, although she was sometimes filled with joy despite her frightening mood swings. The painful years of my childhood and adolescence were excruciating and embarrassing, especially when the neighbors could see and hear daily uprisings through our home’s wide-open windows. They would see me run out the back door and across our manicured lawn into the street, occasionally crashing through thick rosebush hedges, the thorns drawing blood.
I never had a destination; I just knew I had to move away from the pain, knowing I would eventually return home to face Mother and follow-up beatings. After all, parents were God’s gifts, and I had a responsibility to follow their rules.
Where was Daddy, my sister, CaSandra and my brother, Clarence when this happened? I don’t remember them ever being present during these times; but I think they ran in their own way, either physically or mentally. Mother’s emotional abuse and verbal lashings affected each person in the household. My sister was hit, too.
“Don’t you think that’s enough?” Daddy would sometimes caution Mother. “Look at those bruises …” he’d say, unable to do anything against her fury. Daddy always threw away the rubber hose Mother used for whippings, but she would cut another piece from the stash in the garage used for gas connections to our freestanding heaters in each room of the house.
“Don’t you go starting about what I’m doing,” Mother answered. “You never chastise them. The Bible says, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’”
In middle school gym class, girls were required to wear white, one-piece, elastic bloomer shorts. I always pulled the elasticized legs as far down to my knees as I could to hide my bruises, whereas other girls pulled their bloomers up the thigh as high as possible.
Maybe the teachers noticed the purple, orange, blue, red and green spots on my legs, but no one ever uttered a word about it. In those days child protection laws didn’t exist and parents followed church-promulgated rules of discipline for kids. The severity of the punishment was proportionate to the intensity of the sin. In the 1950s, the ministers’ interpretations of the Bible’s rules by southern, traditional, Bible-based churches passed to the home and school.
Church and state weren’t separate.
I have vivid memories of my family going to church every Sunday for the entire day. Like many southern Baptist services, Sunday school classes began at 9 a.m. Our lunch break followed the 11 a.m. congregational worship service, then we’d return to church for a 3:00 p.m. afternoon service. Children re-gathered at 6:00 p.m. for Bible study, the day finally ending with a 7:00 p.m. evening service.
Mother and Daddy believed in following the church’s attendance rules without question. In addition to Sunday church, we attended weekly meetings and social church activities. Required attendance reflected the building of one’s passageway to heaven, according to the minister’s claims. Any deviation meant the soul was bound for hell and destruction. I wondered if God expected kids to have misery and confusion as I did. Taught about hell as the place of fiery burning for evil, I wondered how it compared with the marks of long, lasting wounds on my body. I didn’t understand the minister’s references to a loving God, either. Where was this loving God when I needed him?
Conversely, many people experienced the minister’s public put-downs and disgrace via his verbal exhortations. He condemned women who wore shorts, abhorred those who went to movies on Sundays and discriminated against Catholics. Surely God wouldn’t send my little Catholic neighbors to hell, I thought. They were nice kids.
On one marked occasion, I remember the minister setting the stage for the collection of financial gifts and tithes after his sermon. “As the choir sings the next song,” he said, “I want all you men with twenty dollars for the church to stand up and march to the collection table.”
In subsequent marches, men paraded around the collection table with ten dollars or five dollars for the church offering.
“Now all you boys with one dollar, you can come up with the women and children.”
All my father had to share was one dollar since he gave his two children and his wife tithe money. I was outraged and embarrassed for Daddy’s unspoken feelings and shame. His face turned yellow, the outside edges of his eyes drifted downward, his strong jaw fell into a stiff wrinkle near both ears, and the bones in his jaw rocked from side to side as if completing the digging of its own grave.
This experience blighted my vision about money, the church and the rights of people to give according to their means. As a ten-year-old, I wanted to know, “What are you doing about this, God? Isn’t this wrong?” I wanted to know, “Who is God? Where are You when somebody needs Your help?”
I never shared these thoughts with anyone. I had food to eat, new dresses to wear for special holidays and church services. Many neighborhood kids didn’t have what I had. I felt guilty complaining about my feelings which seemed like another mean, ugly part of my being.
Early family, before the birth of my brother, included Daddy, Mother, Baby CaSandra and me.
Mother was ahead of her time. A cultured woman with only a high school education and little money, she learned from others around her and replicated her observations. She sewed beautiful curtains, and even dresses on occasion, loved to paint and used her creative and culinary skills to preserve and freeze fresh foods and prepare well-balanced meals for the family. She created Christmas ornaments and decorations from nature’s bounty and spray paint. She designed, baked and decorated birthday and anniversary cakes, without ever taking a class to learn the techniques. She was unafraid to ask for help, managing her time at home and devoting her talents to the church and community.
A stocky-built woman with short, shapely legs, tanned skin and light green eyes, she knew how to dress beautifully in outfits she’d designed for her cousin, the seamstress, to sew. She made matching hats from the remnants and used any left-overs for patchwork quilts. Desiring to be the best mother and wife, she sometimes took odd jobs outside the home for extra income to increase the budget. She was the family planner and clever manager, industrious with the resources she had.
Her greatest dream was to have a large family, one that would be all her own to cultivate and mold much like a hen hovering over and warming her eggs into extensions of herself.
I’m certain her dreams were borne out of her own experiences of childhood abuse (at the hands of her father and mother). Cycles of abuse were generational traits that failed to end when she left home to marry.
She married her first love and pledged devotion to her husband, who gave his wife family management responsibilities. Due to disputes with Daddy’s family during their early courtship, Mother mistrusted them. Shortly after their marriage, Daddy and Mother moved to Houston to begin their life together.
Daddy was a creative genius, who could build anything. He designed and built a kitchen clock that sat for years on the tiled kitchen counter in my childhood home, always maintaining accurate time. This birdcage clock, painted black with gold-etchings, reminded me to be patient and wait for the bird’s cuckoo when the next hour began.
A railroad machinist with limited formal education, Daddy created gems of happiness for each of his daughters, even when he held additional part-time jobs supporting our family. He fashioned an ironing board, much like Mother’s, for my sister CaSandra and me. Later, he found small red ceramic irons Mother warmed on the gas burner so we could share in women’s work on ironing day. As young children, my sister and I had great fun ironing kitchen towels and pressing ribbons for hair bows. Eager children desiring to participate in women’s work, we didn’t realize we expressed betrothal to a task soon to become a chore.
Besides our little rocking chairs, Daddy constructed a swing set out of pipes and long chains linking two wooden seats. He painted it green. I spent many hours swinging as high as I could before jumping onto the grassy mattress below.
Handsome with pursed lips and a smirky grin, Daddy told many jokes, laughed a lot and made us happy. I fancied marrying a man just like him, one who was kind, caring, helpful, creative and protective. He could have been Clark Gable’s twin, with tawny skin, cold black wavy hair and thick bushy eyebrows, which stood out from his deep-set, brown eyes. An unpretentious man, his strong handshake left an indelible impression.
The manner in which he dealt with his angst and frustration at not being able to repair our first family car, a blue Chevrolet sedan, is my fondest memory. Carefully, he lined up each nut, bolt, screw, pin and socket, along the driveway’s edge hoping to re-assemble them properly. He worked diligently, only to eventually ask a neighborhood mechanic for help.
I always wondered how he could do his work and make so many creative gifts for our family yet have such difficulty repairing the car. Nevertheless, he was our family repairperson, helping many neighbors and friends as well. He would repair electrical wiring, change fuses, replace plumbing parts and flush out sink drains. He was great at staining and waxing our hardwood floors and painting the house. Once I even crawled underneath the house, handing him tools as he repaired a broken water pipe.
I was the daughter who helped him clean out the garage, passing him tools and sharing small talk as he worked. This was my task until Clarence came along and replaced me. Instead of viewing Daddy as someone with great proficiency and abilities, I regarded him mostly as a man who wanted his family to have the best of all things material, despite money limitations. He wanted comfort for his family and for us to feel his love. He was a kind, gentle spirit who never argued or fought.
One evening when our parents weren’t home, CaSandra and I got into a pillow fight and brawl in our bedroom. Standing on our twin beds, we fussed, shouting at each other, “I hate you, I wish you were dead.” The words carried outside through the open windows. We hit each other forcefully with our pillows, hoping to inflict physical pain.
Walking along the driveway at the time, Daddy heard the fight. He’d entered the house through the back door, quickly moving toward the hallway telephone, placing the receiver to his ear.
“Hello, Sergeant, I’m calling about my daughters,” he said, loud enough for us to hear. “They are fighting, and it hurts me very much. I just don’t know what to do about this. Yes, they’re old enough, nine and eleven. Could you please pick them up and take them to jail? Maybe you can do something with them.”
“Daddy, please Daddy, we won’t fight anymore. We don’t want to go to jail. Please forgive us. Please call the police station back and tell them we’ll be good,” we yelled in unison.
We didn’t fight again for a few weeks. This reprimand was the best lesson for me. Daddy didn’t raise his voice in consternation or beat us in an effort to magically change our behaviors. He handled us with quiet charm, grace and determination.
He was a quiet mediator, an ambassador of good will, benevolent architect and a gentle and effective leader. I’m sure he’s doing the same charitable work in Heaven. Daddy is my hero.
However, there were always cracks in the façade of our loving family. I grew up thinking maybe I could change whatever was missing and help all my family members regain happiness.
CaSandra was eighteen months younger. Eight years passed before the apple of Mother and Daddy’s eye—an only son—was born to carry on the family name. Clarence was a physical copy of our father, although all of us kids looked a lot like Daddy. He was elated with the birth of his son, but doted on his girls’ laughter since we were old enough to understand his comic facial animations and funny jokes.
Treated like exalted royalty, the first male child in our family was special. Because of the great difference in age between Clarence and me, we never really bonded as siblings. He was too young and my life as an adventurous teenager moved quickly. I wish I could tell you more about him, but I can’t. He’s chosen to distance himself permanently from the family. He and I haven’t spoken in years.
As kids, CaSandra and I dressed like twins, and that’s exactly how Mother treated us. Sometimes we were outfitted in differing colors but similar fabric, patterns and style. We wore the same brands of clothing—Vanity Fair, Stride Rite, Buster Brown. On Sundays, Mother coiffed us similarly for church, with Shirley Temple curls and huge, matching bow ribbons attached to ringlets alongside our faces. I grew gangly and skinny like a nimble tree. CaSandra developed like a plump, round, smooth pillow of silk. As we grew, shopping for clothes for my sister and me became a daunting task for Mother. Thus, a self-imposed cycle of differentiation between us began—physically, emotionally and competitively.
We bickered over many nit-picky trivialities, such as who owned the worn sock that showed up in the wash with holes in it. Mother embroidered a red X in the toes of my Buster Brown anklets and a blue X to distinguish CaSandra’s socks, which kept those arguments at bay for a while.
“I hate music and dance lessons. You could save yourself a lot of money, Mother, if you didn’t make me do this,” CaSandra said routinely in disdainful agony, when we prepared to leave home for our weekly lessons.
Mother had a twin fantasy for her children, which neither met our individual or emotional needs. She attempted to create likenesses in us which failed to address our uniqueness, but met her image of uniformity and order. I guessed she tried and failed to create equal renderings in her daughters because nothing worked. The eighteen-month difference in our ages was more like eighteen light years of variation. We were different as night and day, in our beliefs, dream worlds, activities and selection of friends, causing us to grow apart emotionally. Rifts and disappointments in our sibling relationship created a rivalry for Mother’s attention. I don’t think Mother ever really knew what she created, thinking all the while she was providing the best for her girls when paradoxically, she was tearing them apart.
Chapter 7: Love is Where you Find it
When each school year ended, our parents sent CaSandra and me by train for a two-week visit at Grandmother’s house in rural DeWitt County, between San Antonio and Houston. Our family maintained close connections over the years with my mother’s mother, whom we called “Mama.”
Being sent away from home without information or explanation caused me to feel discarded. Besides, farm kids nearby had to work and there were no friends to play with. Their parents sent them out daily to pick vegetables or cotton. When they returned, they had dinner, went to bed and began work early the next day. Nothing helped me to drown the missing comforts of home, toys and friends. Even the great aromas of Mama’s baked goods didn’t make up for wanting to be at home playing with neighborhood kids, going to Saturday movies and dressing up like grown-ups in Mother’s discarded clothes and shoes. Feeling unwanted and bored, I didn’t want to be in Mama’s unfamiliar world.
Her clapboard house, on the town’s main street, sat next to a tall water tower with a red blinking light on top, making it easy to find her house night or day. Her front porch was always open to visiting neighbors who stopped often for a cold drink after walking from town and generated lively conversation. Two hanging swings on Mama’s large front porch seated four people. Shrubs and flowers bordered the house and adorned it. Mama planted a small garden in the vacant lot next door, often requiring us to pick vegetables from the thorny okra and squash plants, pulling the string beans and bringing eggs from the chicken coop. After pulling the okra stalks, snapping the growing watermelons from their stems and breaking the beans incorrectly, she rescinded her demands. Then we sat on the front porch as a reprimand.
Mama spent most of the time preparing meals and baking goodies during the early morning hours. She baked early to avoid the afternoon heat. Her small, aluminum kitchen sink was faucetless. Instead, a hose, attached underneath in the cabinet, hung into a bucket for spilled water from the dishpan. Everyday someone had the task of emptying the bucket outside.
Most afternoons Mama sat in her favorite cushioned swing, rocked, hummed a song or two, rubbed her sweaty brow with a handkerchief pulled from her apron pocket and warded off flies and insects with the cardboard fan provided by the local funeral parlor. The whoosh of air brought a moment of relief from the hot, sweltering Texas summer heat.
Avoiding boredom, CaSandra and I played with paper dolls, wrote personal letters dictated by Mama to her family and friends (she didn’t read or write), read books and played school during the day. At night, we slept in a small bedroom off the back of the house near the kitchen, where sweet odors wafted in the early mornings. Through the kitchen window’s cracked panes, sun filled the room with light.
Mama wore many hats, expertly as a single woman, having raised four children after her husband walked out. She had little money and barely made ends meet. Her husband’s lack of integrity undoubtedly scarred her heart for a lifetime. She’d passed her unresolved anger and lack of fulfillment to her daughters, my mother and her sister. When Mother began work, Mama expected a large percentage of her daughter’s income, and cursed and beat her if she held out.
Tall and robust, Mama displayed her Native American and Negroid features prominently, high cheek bones, brown complexion, light brown eyes and waist-length straight black and white hair arranged into two equal braids. Although she usually spoke softly, when challenged, inspirational tones left Mama’s voice box in favor of loud guttural and unmistakable anger words. On a few occasions I heard Mama cuss up a storm when things didn’t go her way.
Yet there were things we loved. The sweet morning odors of baked sweetened flour and butter laced with cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves overtook our thoughts and created watery, ravenous mouths, subduing our emotional and physical hungers. Mama wanted to surprise us and make us happy because she knew we weren’t there by choice. Her plan worked. Life got better when CaSandra and I plopped down at her wooden kitchen table with the unmatched chairs, unlike the cushioned chrome matching chairs at our house in the city. Our legs dangled as we eagerly awaited a grand breakfast. My favorite was T-Cakes –- round white cookies with browned edges, still warm from the oven, served with milk for dunking. T-Cakes, a term we hadn’t heard, were an expressly southern concoction, prepared from staples found in most kitchens — white flour, eggs, sugar, butter and spices.
We ate with pleasure and little concern for manners and correctness, which we observed at home. Sometimes we slurped and burped, forgetting to say, “Excuse me” as we hungrily chugged as much as we could hold. Mama knew how to make us happy at times, for whenever she baked sweet goodies, our nostrils ceremoniously connected to our lonely hearts and brought instant pleasure.
Mama had unusual dinner plates—a lot of them—all different and beautiful. I once asked her why she had so many and she explained they were left over plates from family and friends’ broken place settings, handed down to her. These unmatched dishes were all she had. I never saw them as hand-me downs. I found them exotic and fascinating.
We only had one spice box, red and white, at our house in the big city, which Mother generally used once or twice a year at Thanksgiving or Christmas. The can had McCormick’s Allspice emblazoned across the top. At Mama’s, spices were all over her kitchen, bottled in differently shaped jam jars saved and washed from previous uses.
Mama offered us the cookies she’d cooled from the square kitchen window sill. Her unique plates filled with goodies were stacked in pyramid fashion, evenly and symmetrically, so none would topple. She always used them and chose a different one each time. She didn’t have Sunday dishes like we had at home, used only for special occasions. Mama used a different plate every day.
“Mama, why do you put the plates in the window?” CaSandra asked one morning.
“To cool the T-Cakes so you won’t get a bellyache,” she replied.
Before Mama could say more, I blurted, “How many cookies do you think I can eat?” I worried she’d remove the plate before I’d gotten enough.
“Not cookies, dem’s T-Cakes,” she muttered.
“Mama, Teacher says you’re not supposed to say ‘dem’ like that …,” I said. “You’re supposed to say those T-Cakes.”
“T-Cakes means I luvs you gals—it’s my gift to you from me. The circle goes round, round to you and then comes back to me. That when we all feels luv.”
I also remember Mama’s fingers. She had round, puffy, soft as cotton, long fingers on wide, hard-working hands that touched many hearts in her community.
Every time she baked, she’d save some of the T-Cakes for her neighbors. When we were there, she’d let us help deliver them. We’d knock on the neighbors’ screened doors while she held the plates with us, her city-bred granddaughters in tow, who for brief periods of togetherness got lost in joy and sweetness.
Before Clarence was born, our family of four took Sunday summer drives (with dispensation from Mother to skip afternoon and evening church). Usually, we went to the park, Galveston beach and other special places. Daddy was always ready to go. He washed, wiped and waxed the Chevrolet on Saturdays until it shone like blue glass. He prided himself as the first car owner in our neighborhood in the late 1950s, purchased from monies saved for years from extra jobs and long work hours.
Mother prepared cream cheese and meat sandwiches for the picnic, wrapping them in Cut-Rite Wax Paper. When we finally stopped on the trip to eat our lunch, the sandwiches were warm, the filling dripping and oozing outside the pieces of white bread. Even as we poised our tongues just right to catch the filling from falling, it was a game to lick quickly around the bread squares. Mother always trimmed the crust and edges from the bread, sometimes using her cookie cutters to squeeze and cut them into pretty shapes. The fresh summer air moved the flavors and smells from the nose to the palate, enhancing our eating experience.
The main dishes were cold fried chicken and German potato salad, prepared with vinegar and oil to keep the salad from spoiling, and sliced pound cake. Other goodies filling the picnic basket included Fritos, Lay’s Potato Chips and Coke, Nehi Orange and Dr. Pepper sodas, frozen earlier. Eating out at a picnic was more exciting than eating the same meal at home.
The journey began with Mother in the front seat as CaSandra and I piled into the back hugging each window.
“Are we there yet? How much longer before we get there?” I usually asked.
On one particular occasion, I noticed we were driving through new neighborhoods, different streets, somewhere unknown.
“Daddy, I don’t know this street …” CaSandra said.
“You don’t have to plaster your nose on the window to see the streets,” Daddy replied. “And, yes we’re going a new direction today.”
“Mother, where is Daddy taking us? Have we been there before?” CaSandra continued.
“Darling, just sit back and relax. We’ll be there soon.”
“What’s that smell?” I asked. “Phew-eeee, it smells awful.”
Everybody agreed.
“Look, Girls, look at the big bridge…we’re going to cross it very soon. You smell oil and gas from an oil smelting plant,” Daddy said. “Look over to your right. See the tall black pipes with the fire spitting out of the top?”
“Wow! Daddy, are we going there?” I asked, pointing my finger at the field of tall oil derricks.
“No, not exactly, but I want you to pay attention as we go across the bridge. Look closely because we’re going to drive through an underwater tunnel made for automobile traffic only.”
“Underwater? Are you going to drive under the ocean?” CaSandra said.
“That’s the way the tunnel is built. The tunnel is made for cars to pass through at the same time the waterway allows big oil boats to stay in the water and travel from the refineries. Okay, Girls, here we go…watch now … we’re going through the Washburn Tunnel.”
I was excited and sat mesmerized on the edge of the car seat as we rode through the lighted cave. This Sunday was different and special for my sister and me.
After we returned home, Daddy instructed us to write a paragraph about the Washburn Tunnel. We always have to act as if we’re in school, I thought.
“Write about it, how?” I asked. CaSandra nodded in agreement. Neither of us knew where or how we’d get information for this assignment.
“When do you want us to turn it in?”
“Here …” Daddy said, sliding a scarf off a set of evenly stacked green and white, faux leather-bound books resting on a two-row bookshelf. “Use this new set of books Mother and I bought for you …The New World Encyclopedia. Let’s see who can write the best paper explaining and describing the tunnel we just drove through. Tell us about the purpose of the tunnel, the date it was built and something about the boats crossing that big body of water. By the way, which one of you said we were crossing the ocean when we were at the tunnel? Well, I want you to check out the name of that big body of water. Is it an ocean or not?”
“Oh, Daddy, is this really for us?” I said, excited and grateful for the gift. I leafed through a few of the new books, noticing their vast array of information and pictures. CaSandra and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing. We now had a home library.
“Now, girls, wash your hands first, so you won’t spoil the pages,” Mother said, hints of reprimand mixed with enthusiasm in her voice. “And we hope you enjoy these books for a long, long time.”
I grew to understand my parents’ love by their gesture of spending precious, scraped-together money to further our education—a choice they’d made together.
Mother piled coins she’d gathered and would place them under the lace scarf covering the top of their bedroom chest of drawers. To this stash she would add the extra amount necessary to pay the monthly installment.
When we didn’t go for Sunday drives, we ate lunch at home after church, a formal affair. Decked out in our best Sunday clothes, we sat in the dining room, a place I always considered special since the table was always filled with special foods and served with the elegance of wealth, pomp and circumstance. During those times, Mother and Daddy beamed with joy and pride in their family.
Assignment to set the Sunday morning table, a task given to my sister or me, involved covering the table with our one and only hand-me-down Irish linen tablecloth and matching napkins, washed, sprinkled with water and ironed to perfection during the week. Ironing the large, rectangular tablecloth, my assignment, wasn’t an easy one. The tablecloth never seemed to dry despite pushing the iron back and forth several times, using its hottest setting.
“When I grow up, I’ll never use linen tablecloths…” I committed silently and defiantly to this lifetime promise.
When I was young, all of these—the formalities, the etiquette, the rules, the chores, the “correct” ways to do things, angered me. Yet I was obedient, always promising myself I would find an easier way to follow the rules of propriety.
The Duncan Phyfe dining room table—its legs sprawled and curled—seated eight people comfortably. A second-hand crystal chandelier, hung by my soon-to-be-an-electrician father, illuminated the table and room. Each spring, Mother unhooked each of its hanging, pseudo-crystal bangles to clean and dust off the cobwebs. I washed them; CaSandra dried them.
We knew our places at the table. Daddy sat at the head with Mother opposite him, closest to the swinging dining room door. Mother lit candles while everyone stood at attention behind their chairs like soldiers awaiting orders. When we had company, Mother relayed to us the seating arrangement so we could guide each guest to their designated places at the table. Clarence, our younger brother, had the responsibility to seat CaSandra and me, even though he was younger. He often rammed the chair into our legs, causing mayhem before the meal. Mother rarely noticed his naughty antics, but if CaSandra or I were to cry out in distress, she reprimanded us immediately. Sometimes it felt like eons before Mother granted us permission to sit.
What I remember most was the great-tasting food—the large servings of turkey, ham or roast beef slices, precisely carved by my father in large servings. Mother spent hours planning and preparing the meals, each at least three courses, believing these events constituted a traditional Sunday meal, even though they were more a growth and training opportunity in our household. She readily reminded us that manners required we leave some food on our plates, but this rule only applied during special meals in the dining room.
“Put your left arm in your lap. No elbows on the table. Don’t smack. Take your time, and chew your food with your mouths closed. Use the small fork for your salad,” Mother’s litany of table graces persisted.
“Why do we need two forks, Mother?” I inquired on more than one occasion.
“What kind of young ladies do you think will ever get married if they don’t have manners? Educated men want to marry cultured and well-mannered women,” she replied. Each time, Mother spoke as if she’d never said this before.
CaSandra and I washed and put away the “Sunday” dishes at the end of each meal, checking them for chips or cracks. We polished the silverware Daddy had given Mother as a gift one Christmas. This silverware stayed put in the dark, felt-lined drawers of the dining room hutch until cleaning and table-setting time. The routine never changed. We knew our places and responsibilities from lots of practice.
I’ve been grateful to know which fork to use, and when to use it, having the social graces to get me through black-tie affairs. Today, I refuse to use linen tablecloths and napkins. I don’t own an ironing board. I use wrinkle-free cloth or paper napkins at mealtime.
Chapter 10: Treachery of Adolescence
Mother didn’t like my boyfriends as none met our family’s standard of perfection. Either he wasn’t from a good family, didn’t study, lacked college plans or was a ragamuffin. The boys at church had faults, too, yet I managed to find a few who were willing to go the full ride with me by following her guidelines for a date. Each date always began with a phone call.
“… If you will just speak to my Mother and tell her you’d like to take me out …” I’d coach the boy, who listened intently to my instructions on the other end of the phone line.
“But, what if she asks me something I can’t answer?” Most of the guys had the same concern.
“Don’t be afraid. Just act polite, be nice and ask if you may take her daughter to the movies,” I’d reply.
“But, I thought you said you wanted me to take you to some friend’s house party,” he asked further, especially if he thought I was asking him to lie.
“Just ask her, and we’ll figure it out.”
As early as age fifteen I found ways to alter my life script as an emergent adolescent choosing to write, act, direct and produce the play. However, I often wondered if the color of my skin made it difficult to be popular with my peers. Ending the boy’s coaching session, I’d hand the phone to Mother.
“I’m sure my daughter told you your first date will be here at our home. You can come over at six o’clock, but only for an hour,” Mother spoke firmly to the confused young man who, having taken the first step for a date with me probably was thinking it would surely be his last.
More than a few times, my dates didn’t show. I remember their lies—broken down car or an excuse only a four-year-old would use.
When my tenth grade year started, my first boyfriend asked if he could carry my books to fourth period English class.
“Okay,” I agreed with a giggly, tingly feeling in my chest.
Then we started talking nightly over the phone under the pretext of doing our homework together. Later, I wanted him to escort me to a school dance. Mother insisted he come over for lunch so she could scrutinize him before permitting me to ask him to be my date. He agreed to come.
Mother got busy preparing and cooking the meal, which was always a time for her to shine, show off her culinary skills and, subsequently, receive praise and high regard.
“Mother, may I set the table?” CaSandra asked, jockeying for the position she thought I’d prefer.
That time CaSandra got to help Mother in the kitchen, handing her items from the pantry, washing dirty dishes, pots and pans and putting them away.
My task was setting the table with the Desert Rose dishes used only for special occasions and kept in the dining room hutch. I had to position correctly and neatly the glasses, plates and silverware at each setting. This should be easy, I thought. Nevertheless, I couldn’t get my mind straight to remember the exact configuration around the plates. My confusion was absolute. I wished I’d landed the gofer job.
I hope he’ll like my family and me.
Excited about my first boyfriend coming to our house, I wanted the afternoon to go smoothly and for my family to appear normal. Mother’s mood telegraphed whether she was excited or tired. When she was tired, she yelled and acted unhappy. When she was unhappy, she didn’t seem to have answers to questions and we had to read her mind. That day she was yelling a bit, blurting warnings, cautions and threats. Soon she simmered down and seemed “normal” again.
“Don’t just stand there day-dreaming.” Mother commanded, catching me off guard. I’d been standing idle at the dining table when she buzzed through the swinging door, the resulting rush of air causing the chandelier to shake and rattle. “Let’s get that table set … and do it now! Lunch will be ready soon.”
I budged my feet a little, first this way, then that way around the big table. My problem wasn’t daydreaming. I couldn’t remember how to set the table properly.
“Are you about done?” Mother shouted, returning to the kitchen.
I jumped. Her angered voice scared me. My mind closed despite my attempts to press it open.
“I don’t know where to put this salad fork,” I uttered in a soft whisper.