by Robin Farmer
Turncoat Mom returned The Autobiography of Malcolm X a week after she took it. She’s been trying to bribe me by bringing home soft pretzels and bean pies. I mumble thanks, which is one more word than I usually say to her. I just can’t connect with Mom. Our family is in a free fall she triggered. Talking to her means crossing enemy lines.
Daddy has checked on us a handful of times and always while Mom is out. I miss him so much my throat hurts. Mom stopped wearing her wedding ring and band, claiming she misplaced them. I pray for no divorce, but if God listens, I no longer hear him. I do hear Mom crying at night. She thinks we’re asleep, but I’m up even later than usual rereading Malcolm’s words.
My connection to his story has hooked Bonnie, who finally started reading the autobiography and loves it as much as I do. Discussing it after school is a daily highlight. On the way home yesterday, we talked about how Malcolm’s education took off in prison. We chuckled at the irony of him feeling freer to learn behind bars than he did in school, where his racist teacher dashed his ambition to become a lawyer.
Malcolm helps me better understand why I sometimes feel like an outsider in my school, church, neighborhood, and even my country. He also questioned the hypocrisy of religion as well as the U.S. Constitution, which counted Black men as three-fifths of a person while the Declaration of Independence said all men were created equal. He’s dead and still a better teacher than Sister Elizabeth.
How I ached for Malcolm when he learned the man he called the Honorable Elijah Muhammad was anything but. The Nation of Islam leader was a hypocrite, having fathered children with several young women. Malcolm’s father figure, who preached discipline and virtue, lied big time. That betrayal devastated Malcolm. I’m dying to talk to Daddy about this shocker.
The grandfather clock chimes, reminding me the trolley arrives within minutes. We’re finally hanging out with Daddy downtown, and Charles lollygags upstairs. Grabbing the latest issue of Right On! off the coffee table, I hurry to the staircase. “Your science experiment can wait,” I yell. “Let’s go!”
Huffing from chasing the trolley, we step on board and deposit our tokens. We sit up front because our parents said we fought too hard not to. Charles fidgets on his cushiony seat in anticipation. I’m psyched, but stay cool. I’m thirteen. I open my magazine.
“Look, that store got tagged.” Charles points. Out the window we stare at black spray-painted letters in squiggly lines. We strain to decipher it. The graffiti popping up across the city in recent years is new in this stretch of the avenue.
“Slanted bubble letters in bright colors look more artsy than like vandalism,” I say.
Leaving Charles on graffiti watch, I read my magazine. Nothing beats immersing myself in the world of celebrities whose lives I’d love to write about some day.
The trolley jerks to a stop and the magazine leaps off my lap, opening to a centerfold of Soul Train dancers—a portrait of ’fros, tight tops, bellbottoms, and chunky platforms. The trolley door wheezes open as I snatch the magazine off the grungy floor.
“Look at all that hair!” says an older woman at the fare box. She approaches me and leans in so close I smell her Dentyne.
I like her vibe so it’s okay when her hand plunges into my thick, huge Afro—a foot high and wide (I know because I measure it). She chuckles as the hair she just mushed down springs back into place. We chat about my hair care until she gets off at her stop.
I wave to her out the window and watch the trolley glide through neighborhoods alternating between Black and white residents. Few stay mixed for long because of what my parents call “white flight.” I admire the area we are in now with its roomy three-story row homes with lush lawns. It’s clear money people live on these postcard-pretty blocks free of litter lining the streets and graffiti scrawled on walls.
Philly is funny like that. Go six blocks in one direction and the neighborhood takes on a new flavor—bright and fresh like a butterscotch Tastykake or as tough and unappetizing as a week-old pretzel.
Daddy meets us at the last trolley stop, which always smells like Lysol, urine, and cigarette smoke. He hugs us, and the smell of his cologne makes me giddy.
“Daddy, can you buy a new pick for my hair?” I ask, sidestepping a mysterious puddle on the steps leading to street level.
“Sure, let’s check out the brothers’ tables, if the police didn’t run them off,” Daddy says, referring to the vendors with thick dreadlocks the color of rusted nails hanging to their waists.
“Why do they run them off?”
“Because they can. You read the papers; you know about police brutality.”
Cops infuriate him. When they arrested the Black Panthers several years ago at night, police lined them up outside even though they were nude or in their underwear. Cops tipped off the newspaper so it could run a front-page photo, Daddy said.
“Are the Black Panthers still active here? I don’t read much about them.”
“Not like they used to be. The FBI saw to that.”
“I recently had to school a classmate. He said the Black Panthers were only known for violence.”
“Give me dap,” he says.
We bump our fists together so the knuckles touch. I float up the stairs. Exiting the subway into a bright afternoon, my body tingles with the pulse of downtown, its noisy traffic snaking past hulking skyscrapers and gobs of people rushing somewhere. I glance up at the William Penn statue atop City Hall. The founder of the colony that became Pennsylvania is a bad dude. No building in Philly can rise above his statue.
At the corner, waiting for the green light, Daddy tugs my elbow. “Write about the Black Panthers for your contest. Scare the nuns.” He winks. We cross the street laughing.
“You ever think about joining the Black Panthers back in the day?” Charles asks.
“I did for a hot minute until I got hired by SEPTA. Had to slow my roll after that. Tell your classmate that the Panthers’ ten-point program will be as meaningful fifty years from now as is it today.”
“In fifty years I’ll be an old lady, Daddy. We won’t need it,” I say.
“Let’s hope not. As a betting man, those are odds I wouldn’t take,” he says as we turn into a block where merchandise-packed tables line the sidewalk. On each table, pungent incense sticks resembling brown caterpillars produce a sweet aroma I adore.
At a vendor table, I pick up a metal rake comb with a black plastic fist on top. Charles selects a sew-on peace patch.
“How is school?” he asks us, pulling out his wallet.
“Fine,” says Charles.
“I’m staying out of trouble,” I say.
“How are you getting along with your Mom?”
“I’m staying out of trouble,” I say.
“You are your mother’s daughter.” He hands a bill to the vendor, whose long twisted, natural hair fascinates me. Daddy deposits his change into our eager hands.
“I’m more like you.” I smirk. “Even though you don’t believe in heaven.”
“Look, I know I am going to hell. Your mother is, too.”
Charles gasps and I freeze.
“In fact, everyone I know is going. You two will be there. We’ll have a heck of a party,” he says laughing. Realizing he’s joking, we join in, although Charles looks uneasy.
“Daddy, how can you not be religious growing up with Mom-Mom?” Charles asks.
“That’s exactly why.” His cartoonish cackle makes strangers within earshot laugh.
When it comes to religion, our mother sits halfway between my atheist father and zealot grandmother. She is religious enough to make us eat fish on most Fridays and say grace before meals. Mom no longer nags us to attend weekly Mass, but ensures we slip in every other week and attend all of the holy days. She’s not exactly a Bible thumper.
“Y’all hungry?”
“My stomach is as empty as a slinky,” Charles says.
That tickles us to no end. We hoot while waiting in line at a hot dog cart with an aroma
of onions and chili that has us drooling. We chow down in silence.
Finished, I lean back on the park bench stuffed. “Did you see it coming, Daddy? That Elijah Muhammad was a fraud?”
He tugs at the small goatee he’s grown since he left home and studies me. “A wise man once told me if you don’t die a hero, you will live long enough to see yourself turned into a villain. People aren’t perfect, Pumpkin.”
“That’s deep, Daddy, but it’s not true. You’re perfect in our eyes.”
Mouth full from his third hot dog, Charles nods in agreement.
Daddy’s face gets squishy, like a water ice left in the heat. “Elijah’s lies caught up with him.” He looks away.
He misses us. Even when he smiles, there’s a hint of sadness. I’m dying to ask when he’s coming home. Instead I blather on about Malcolm. “There’s so much I want to say in religion class these days, but I can’t risk Sister flipping out and getting a bad report.”
“Malcolm’s perspective on Christianity may not be the best topic to discuss right now,” Daddy says, checking his watch. “He wasn’t a fan, as we know.”
“There’s a lot I want to say in history class, too, especially when we discuss current events. Malcolm wouldn’t be surprised by the Watergate mess, which comes down to a lying president abusing his power. He was criticized for saying the chickens came home to roost after President Kennedy’s assassination, but what he meant was taken out of context.” My words run together since I’m on a roll. “Our government, which approved of slavery and killing Indians for their land, is hypocritical and corrupt. I wish I was old enough to vote.”
“You preaching to the amen corner, Pumpkin. I’m all for you speaking up, but maybe slow your roll a bit. Let’s give your mother one less thing to worry about, okay?”
I nod. As Charles heads to the trashcan down the block, I seize my chance. “Will all your overtime . . . make Mom happier?”
His smile tells me the answer. “I’ll be working a lot in the next few months.” He pinches my cheek. “Everything will work out.”
So their fight was over money. He’s gambling, again. Mom’s fault for nagging.
“Do you think—”
He gives me the not-now glance as Charles ambles within earshot. “Thank you, son. Who wants to get dessert at Wanamaker’s?” Daddy asks.
“We do!”
We bounce-walk to the fancy downtown department store that fills an entire block. Known for a soaring Grand Court, it’s home to the largest pipe organ in the world. Passing its sparkly display windows on the way to the entrance, I gape at a blue-and-green jumper falling mid-thigh on a skinny mannequin. I imagine myself in it, flashbulbs blinding me as I strut across the stage to accept my first-place prize for the essay contest.
Stepping inside, I crane my neck at endless columns as we approach the legendary bronze eagle sculpture. The humongous eagle serves as everyone’s meeting spot. I waited there at age seven with crybaby Charles when we were lost during the Christmas holidays. It happened after we rode the monorail for kids that looped above the eighth-floor toy department, which allowed us to gaze down at a toy wonderland. I never confessed that I saw Mom coming and ditched her after we exited the tin cars. I wanted to explore the store on my own. When I slipped into the crowd, Charles tagged along.
“Charles, we’ll catch the Christmas show this year.” Dad smirks at me. “I guess you’re too old to come with us.”
“Y’all better not leave me.”
Unlike Mom, he doesn’t mind me using slang. I haven’t said y’all since he left. I haven’t felt like this since he left. Gathering here for the stunning light show is a Christmas tradition that started long before I memorized the alphabet. The idea of returning as a family makes me grin so hard my cheeks hurt. It’s the be-all and end-all of “y’all” events. Grinning from ear to ear at my father, I’m the happiest I’ve felt in weeks.
The trolley lurches to a stop, forcing me to scribble on the poem I just wrote on the back of a flyer. I nudge Charles, who stops reading my magazine. I hand him my latest creation. In a quiet voice he reads:
My final year here, at HSB
I’ll win the top spot, little old me
My name will be engraved in the trophy case
That’ll restore my reputation in this place
And bring my family together again
For me that will be my most important win
My family will be happy and proud while I’m aglow
Cause I’m adding a first-place prize to Mom’s curio
“Wow.” He flashes me a thumbs up. “I could never write like you.”
“You know it, I’m a poet.”
Charles laughs as if he’s never heard this before. Hanging with Daddy has us both in a cheery mood.
Rereading my poem, I smile non-stop because a) Charles praised it, b) the syllables for aglow and curio don’t match, c) hope, MIA lately, hugs me, and d) all of the above.
CHAPTER 10
“Your decorum,” a beaming Sister Elizabeth pauses, clasps her hands, “and excellent questions during our visitor’s presentation was such an unexpected delight that you’ve earned free time.”
Half the class blurts, “Yay, Sister!”
Stephanie looks at me and we do a Vulcan mind meld: Sister is sleepy.
“Settle down. Please spend your free time quietly,” Sister says with a half smile.
Geoffrey’s hand rockets up. “Can I do a cool 3D project using construction paper?”
Our collective groans actually make Sister laugh. A smile changes her face into something pleasant to look at.
“If you prefer that to read quietly, then do so. If you want to work on a craft project, that’s fine, too.” She nods in my direction and points to the gray steel supply closet against the wall behind me.
“Roberta, get the colored construction paper. Look in the blue bin.”
A smirking Geoffrey turns, mouths “teacher’s pet.” I shrug. Girlfriend is just trying to keep the peace. Sister is, too. Praise God.
Anyway, I’m eager to explore the packed shelves of a storage closet usually locked. Inside is a goldmine of steal-worthy goodies jockeying for space—new scissors, fresh tape dispensers, crisp folders, and packs of jumbo rubber bands. Everything gleams.
Nosey, I rummage through a bin marked 1965–66. It’s stuffed with old rosters, pink laminated hall passes, and a class photograph. In it, Sister wears different glasses and a radiant smile, maybe due to the lack of chocolate chips in her vanilla class. Under the photo, an illustration pokes out. It’s a white (as in European white) baby on a bench feeding three other Black, yellow and brown infants to represent they were from Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Pagan babies. The white baby has a halo. That makes it a saint feeding the poor colored infants sitting at its feet. Suddenly I recall the classroom collections to save unbaptized children in these other continents. The drawing belongs to a certificate issued to our school in 1966 for the adoption of a “pagan baby” named Maria.
The picture is all kinds of wrong. Sourness and shame gurgle up. In third grade, I saved my allowance and bought in the last fifty cents needed for our class to baptize a pagan baby. Allowed to choose the baptism name, I selected Diahann after Diahann Carroll, the first Black woman to have a TV series where her role was an educated professional. Sister said Diahann wasn’t Christian enough and she selected Grace. What an overeager try-hard I was back then, so blind to this racist crap in the name of religion.
“What’s taking so long, snoopy?”
Sister’s hunky-dory voice eats me from the inside. I count to 10.
“I found a Pagan Baby certificate.” I turn, wishing I could unhear what I just said and go back in time and take my money back.
Stepping forward, I hold up the certificate to the class. My hand shakes. I avoid Sister’s face since my temper feels nine cents short of a dime.
“Oh, I remember Pagan Babies,” someone murmurs, voice syrupy with affection. A few other
s with ear-to-ear grins nod with fondness. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.
“Roberta, stop lollygagging.”
Getting off punishment means not saying what I want to.
I replace the certificate and snatch up the stack of construction paper. Why did she have to call on me?
Humming, clueless Sister takes the papers from me. Inside my head, I’m screaming like a banshee while I wrestle with this racist religion of mine.
Back at my desk, I make a commotion digging into my school bag and plopping the Malcolm book down. Please ask me what I’m reading. Just saying the title would make me feel heard. Instead, Sister dozes.
Thumbing through it, I reread passages where Malcolm argues that whites used Christianity in hypocritical ways to oppress Black people. I’m halfway through a chapter when a spitball darts across the row and lands in Eileen’s curls. “Ewww, stop it!” Her response wakes Sister.
“Class, clean up around your desks before the bell rings.” Sister scans the room.
Donna and I arrive at the trash can at the same time.
“I wonder what happened to our Pagan Babies? My second-grade class adopted three.”
“I wonder what happened to all the money we sent them,” I snap, as the bell rings.
Her eyes widen in surprise as she watches me yank my book bag up and rush away.
I storm into my bedroom and reach deep inside my bedroom closet. Its stale air makes me cough. I’ve outgrown all the clothes on hangers, which are crammed together like lines on a ruler. One day, I’ll give them away along with my huge Barbie collection.
I pull out a tiny, lacy white dress and matching veil. This communion dress once made me feel like a holy Cinderella with its matching fancy socks and white patent leather shoes. The silk sash slides across my fingers, and my desire to trash it blinks. Sure, I was a brainwashed kid who used to save pagan babies and wore this dress with pride to eat the body of Christ for the first time. I wore it again later that year during the May Day procession to the statue of the Blessed Virgin, where I wasn’t picked to climb the ladder and place the crown of flowers on Mary’s concrete head. I so wanted to. I toss the dress in my trashcan. Still fuming, I grab the latest Right On! and rocket downstairs.
