by Robin Farmer
At the kitchen table, Charles mouths a catechism answer he’s trying to memorize for his upcoming confirmation. I mimic him. He ignores me. Aiming my magazine at his Bible, I let it fly across the table. It bounces off the Bible and knocks over the salt shaker.
“Cut it out!”
“You’re the one reading like a first grader. Let me help you before the bishop slaps you stupid. What is man?”
“Man is a creature of—I mean, composed of a body and soul, and,” he struggles to remember, “made in the image of God.”
“Close enough. Not that any of it makes sense anyway. Dig this: What you’re reading brother dear.” I throw out my arms and sing, “It ain’t necessarily so.”
Horror fills Charles’s face as he sits frozen, his Bible held mid-air. “What’s wrong with you?” He looks like he wants to throw holy water on me.
I can’t stop laughing.
Mom walks in, turns on the faucet, and adds dish detergent. I join her at the sink to dry dishes and put them away for an extra $1 a week in allowance.
As the sink fills with soapy water, I sing with Aretha Franklin gusto: “‘The things you are reading you best stop believing.’”
“You better stop,” Charles says, making the sign of the cross.
This causes me to double over in hysterics. Coming up for air, Mom gives me a hard glare.
“What I do? Come on, think about the stuff in the Bible.”
Charles watches me with suspicion.
“Do you really think it rained forty days and nights? That Noah really built an—ouch!”
I jump back from Mom’s pinch.
“Leave your brother alone. If you don’t, the Bible says I can smack you and your water bucket head into next week.”
“He—we are being brainwashed.”
“I said zip it.”
Infuriated at losing my constitutional right to freedom of speech, I act mute. Mom tries to chop the tense silence with questions about school, as if she’s not getting weekly reports, and the Malcolm book, which I only discuss with Daddy. So there.
Fed up at my back-to-back shrugs, she turns to Charles, who packs up his books. “Wait. I want to review the questions with you.”
“Okay. Mom, want to hear a joke first?”
Mom pauses from rinsing a glass to glance at me. “I could use one.”
“Why is six afraid of seven?”
Exhaling like a drama mama who ran for the bus and missed, I say, “Because seven—” Mom plucks my arm to shut me up.
“Because seven eight nine!” Charles says, and snort-laughs. Mom joins in. Just another sign that Mom loves him more. My heart knows.
Mom helps Charles with his canned religion answers until I store away the last dish. Annoyed by their mutual admiration society, I take another karate kick at religion to get them hot and bothered like I am.
“Mom, how did you know I wanted to be Catholic?”
“What?” She pauses from signing Charles’s religion homework to give me a legendary frown. Charles squints in disgust. ’Cause, Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
“You baptized me before I knew what a compound sentence was. Shouldn’t I get to decide my religion?”
“I’m your mother, I decide for you. You decide when you’re older. How’s that?”
“Forget it.”
“Good, go pick up your clothes off the floor.”
Great talk.
Back in my room, I press my diary to my heart. It’s the only thing that gets me. No one here comes close. I open to a clean page and bleed out in ink. I write:
The pagan babies are no longer round
They no longer sit and eat on the ground
They’ve grown up tall and lean
Smart with their own gleam
And they are demanding to know
Where did their Pagan Baby money go?
I call it “Another Question for Sister Elizabeth.” I belly laugh to the moon. Mom barges in.
“You were laughing so much I thought you were . . .” She glances at my phone.
“People, knock.”
“I’m not people, I’m your mom.”
“Well, Mom, something’s been bugging me. Why didn’t you ever go and meet with Sister?”
“Are you in trouble again?”
“No.”
“I get weekly reports and we’ve talked on the phone several times. I don’t need to stare in her face. I’m shocked that your father meeting with her wasn’t good enough.” She walks out and leaves me steaming.
The field trip tomorrow is a blessing in disguise. Between dealing with Mom’s nonsense and clamming up in religion and history classes with Sister Elizabeth, I’m ready to blow up like a box of firecrackers.
CHAPTER 11
I dread our field trip to Independence Hall with Sister Elizabeth, but welcome any day away from school. But like yesterday during our discussion about President Nixon’s decision to fire Archibald Cox, I’m keeping my mouth shut. Like Daddy says, Stevie Wonder can see something is wrong when Nixon fires the special prosecutor investigating him and attacks his own justice department.
Independence Hall sounds like another trip down Hypocrisy Lane. The Founding Fathers? Those white men aren’t my daddies. Well, maybe one of them could be a forefather if they were all like Thomas Jefferson. Our Virginia relatives said he had children with a slave.
A paper airplane crash lands on my Afro and tumbles to my lap. I whip my head around. Geoffrey’s cheesy grin is a dead giveaway. Before I can mount a counterattack, Sister, sitting in front of the bus, shoots daggers at Geoffrey. His face transforms into a portrait of innocence.
Sister isn’t fooled.
“Geoffrey, it’s not too late to turn this bus around and cancel the field trip. Use your single brain cell to behave. And Roberta, do not encourage Geoffrey’s clowning.”
I mentally affix a halo atop my head and try to look angelic. Sister glares at Geoffrey and then gives the bus driver unneeded instruction on how to get to a tourist attraction he could find blindfolded. Looking in the rearview mirror, I see him rolling his eyes.
The school bus bounces past City Hall, and I try to window shop at Wanamaker’s when we stop at a traffic light. It’s not yet Thanksgiving, but I’m already compiling more must-have gifts for an already lengthy Christmas list. I’m also trying to fill my checklist balance sheet with a lot of “nice” to offset the one big “naughty.”
But making nice and keeping my lips zipped will be a chore in Independence Hall. Sister told us this was where both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were adopted, as if every Philly kid didn’t have that drilled in us from Day One. But if Thomas Jefferson was the king of hypocrisy, those documents were its Magna Carta.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
Those words from the Declaration: What a crock! All men are equal? Many of the men who signed on to those words owned slaves. Even Benjamin Franklin owned slaves! I was punished for telling the truth about Jefferson’s dishonesty. Now my nose was being rubbed in the lies.
“Roberta, why are you all frowned up?” Stephanie whispers. “Don’t you know a field trip is like playing hooky from school? You need to learn to keep on truckin’ and stop letting Sister and idiot Geoffrey work your nerves.”
Stephanie’s right. I can’t change history, but I can change my attitude. I’m not going to fight battles that I can’t win. My mission, should I choose to accept, is to get through this without making waves. I imagine a tape recording going up in smoke like on the TV show Mission: Impossible.
The bus rolls to a stop in front of a red brick building topped by a white steeple. I’ve passed by it countless times but never been inside. Mom has never brought us down here for a tour, and Daddy calls it the usual whitewash that passes for American history. Whitewash. It’s the only time
the word “white” seems like a bad thing, unlike “black,” which hardly ever means anything good.
“Okay, young ladies and gentlemen, single file and quiet please,” Sister shouts at the front of bus. “Let’s be on our best behavior. You are representing not only yourselves, but our school.”
A petite, sandy-haired woman wearing glasses, a bright smile, and a brown uniform meets us at the entrance to Independence Hall.
“Hello, boys and girls. My name is Betsy Goodman. I’m a ranger with the National Park Service. I’ll be your tour guide today. Welcome to Independence Hall, the birthplace of American liberty. It was here that the Founding Fathers debated and signed both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.”
With a wave of her hand, she summons us inside. In a loud whisper, she asks, “Who can tell me how many signers of the Declaration of Independence were from Pennsylvania?”
Silence. None of my classmates have a clue or care enough to respond. I raise my hand, even though we aren’t in class.
“Yes, Roberta,” Sister says, her sour expression suggesting that she expects the worst, like me calling Ben Franklin a hypocrite.
Actually, Ben seemed pretty cool, even though “Early to bed and early to rise” is one bit of advice I’m not down with. But his flying that kite in the lightning storm to discover electricity was pretty cool.
“Nine,” I say. “More than any other colony.”
The tour guide’s eyes widen with surprise, then narrow with curiosity. I know that look. Who is this smart black girl?
“Can you name them?” Her voice strikes me as more challenging than friendly.
“Benjamin Franklin, Benjamin Rush,” I say, counting them off on my fingers. “George Ross, George Taylor, George Clymer. James Smith, James Wilson.”
Memorizing them had been easy because so many of their names were similar. Two Bens, three Georges, two James. Was there a name shortage in the colonies? But now I’m stuck.
The tour guide gives me what looks like a smile of relief. “The last two are Robert Morris and John Morton.”
Ah, the M’s. How could I have forgotten them?
“Who was the author of the Declaration of Independence?” she asks, locking her eyes on me, as if we are holding a private conversation. Hmm. Maybe I’ve misread her. It occurs to me that she might enjoy having an engaged student on the tour. Maybe most kids go through the motions, pay her no mind, or act—as Mom says—like they just escaped from the Philly zoo.
I know the answer. She knows I know the answer. But I’m not going there today. Thomas Jefferson has landed me in enough hot water without me taking another swan dive into that boiling pool. If I can’t say something nice.
Donna, excited, raises her hand. “Oh, I know! John Hancock?”
I chuckle to myself. Not a bad guess, Donna. Hancock signed that paper like he owned it.
“No, young lady,” our guide says, shaking her head. “Thomas Jefferson of Virginia was the primary author. He would go on to become our third president.”
We walk toward the Liberty Bell, which I’m actually looking forward to seeing. The crack in that golden-brown bell sums up America in a nutshell—flawed from the start. The weight of the nation’s hypocrisy—land of the free, home of the slaves—was too much for the bell to bear. The men who wrote that Constitution declared that people who looked like me were only three-fifths of a person.
I’m ready to go all Patrick Henry and say as much to the tour guide and the class, even though I know it will bury me like a bone beneath Sister Elizabeth’s doghouse. We’d learned about Henry, a Virginian, in history class. “Give me liberty or give me death”? Henry owned slaves, too.
The bell, as far as I’m concerned, is a symbol of the imperfections and outright lies that hang over this nation like a dark cloud, ready to burst. But my inner rage is interrupted by the words of our tour guide.
The bell, she tells us, was largely forgotten before being embraced by abolitionists as a symbol of freedom. Abolitionists? Weren’t they the people who wanted to free the slaves? Long before we learned about him in school, I remember Daddy telling me about Frederick Douglass, an enslaved black man who beat up his master, escaped to freedom, wrote an autobiography and became a leading abolitionist. Douglass even became friends with Abraham Lincoln! “That dude sounds badder than John Shaft,” Daddy said, referring to the cool action movie about the Black private detective.
Our tour guide tells us that the bell is made of copper and tin and weighs more than a ton. I read its inscription, which is from the Bible, Leviticus, 25:10.
“Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof,” it reads.
Hmm. No qualifiers there. No three-fifths compromise. No citizens requirement. “All the inhabitants thereof.” That would include Black people and American Indians, too.
Maybe the bell didn’t crack because of the weight of hypocrisy. Perhaps it couldn’t bear the tension between what America is supposed to be and what it is.
Often, these days, I feel like that bell, like I’m about to crack. The gap between the truth and the world around me is too much to bear.
CHAPTER 12
On a wet fall morning, happiness whispers in my ear, then shouts: hang time with Daddy!
First up: watching the Malcolm X documentary narrated by James Earl Jones. It’s at the community center in Uncle Duke’s neighborhood, which is known as a hotbed for militant activists. Then I’m riding with Daddy on his trolley route.
I’m pacing my tiny room since he’s ten minutes late. Peering out the window and biting my nails, I count the fallen leaves until a familiar car noses around the corner.
I grab my poetry book, fly down the steps, and yell bye to Mom. In record time, I’m snuggled inside Daddy’s car smelling his stinky car deodorizer.
“Hey, Pumpkin.” He kisses my cheek, lowers the volume on the 8-track and honks the horn twice. Instead of peeling away, he waits. Mom comes to the door, and Daddy’s face lights up. He gestures for me to roll down my window.
“She get all her chores done?”
Mom steps out, leans on the railing, and nods.
“Just checking.”
A why-not-ask-me look takes over my face. Doesn’t matter. Daddy’s love radar only checks for Mom. They stare googly-eyed. I sigh like someone stole my jar of coins, which I’ve been saving for five years. Daddy shooshes me. In my head I scream.
Then I feel bad.
I prayed for the icy block between my parents to thaw. But right now? I’m set to jet. Plus, why waste gas in the middle of a gas crisis everyone was talking about? Mom rides her blue 10-speed to work now because she refuses to pay fifty-five cents a gallon.
“Talk to you later,” Daddy sing songs to Mom.
“Sounds good.” She pauses. “Have fun, Roberta.” She says it like I’m an afterthought. I am.
“Later, Mom.” I lazy wave and lean back.
Instead of putting the pedal to the metal, a finger-snapping Daddy turns up the 8-track playing one of their favorite Motown songs. Mom sways and Daddy bops his head. Jesus, Joseph and Mary, I’m going to have a heart attack if we are late.
After what feels like forever, but is actually two minutes and seventeen seconds, we pull off. Daddy eyeballs Mom in the rearview mirror like she’s a snack.
He continues warbling nonstop with back-to-back begging love songs. So much for us catching up. Irked to no end, I doodle so hard in my notebook I poke a hole in the paper.
To keep from blurting out something inappropriate, I edit some new poems. When I glance up, we’re zipping along the accident-prone expressway, where everyone acts like drivers in the Indy 500. Another good sign? Daddy stopped singing.
I reach to turn the radio on to my favorite station, WDAS. Daddy shakes his head.
“Don’t ever mess with a man’s music when his jam is playing,” he teases.
“They’re all your jams.” I pretend-gag.
He turns the volume d
own. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just miss you and thought we’d talk.”
“Baby, we got all day! Don’t we? After Uncle Duke’s, you’re riding shotgun with me, right?” He pinches my cheek, and his thousand-mile stare returns.
Turning the volume back up for him, I lean against the window, wondering what’s up with me. Cause if I’m honest, I felt jelly over the attention he paid Mom. That’s not only weird. It’s kind of sick.
We squeeze into the packed space, grateful Uncle Duke saved our seats. Stinks we’re so close to the projector screen, but that beats standing in my blue platform shoes. These leather tie-ups were too small when Mom-Mom bought them, but I refuse to wear a size nine.
So amen to Uncle Duke, who bear-hugged me then told us he had to step outside to handle a situation, the kind he specializes in. Both of his girlfriends showed up. I’m not amused. I hate that Daddy stays with someone with a bunch of girlfriends. I see why he’s separated.
We barely avoid stepping on toes on the way to our seats in the middle of a crooked row of folding chairs. The smell of Afro Sheen nearly chokes me. Almost everyone sports a glistening bush, but just one—on the head of a mixed-looking girl—overshadows mine.
A lady grumbles about my hair behind me as I settle on the hard seat. I feel bad, but not bad enough to move. Sorry.
Daddy hands me a chocolate bar. I notice his wedding ring. “Mom misplaced her diamond ring.”
“Misplaced or pawned?” Daddy chuckles.
Unsure if he’s joking, I test him. “Maybe she needs another one?”
“Maybe so,” he says. “Maybe someone can help me pick it out?”
I nod, beyond thrilled. I did not see this coming, and I feel like I just played a part. Even if he had planned to replace the ring, my encouragement at least cancels out the weirdness I felt toward Mom earlier. Right?
The ceiling lights go down, and the documentary starts with a black screen. An unseen Billie Holiday sings “Strange Fruit.” The lyrics embed themselves into my brain. I can barely see but I write: “. . . blood on the roots.”
