That trip was the best gift my father ever gave me. During that weekend on campus I got a different, less-threatening view of city life and freeway traffic from the passenger seat of Billie Moore's 300Z sports car. When we stopped for a Fatburger, I felt like I was having an authentic Los Angeles experience. I met the other coaches and stayed in the dorm with Susie Swenson, a point guard. She was friendly and very enthusiastic about the team and the school. Getting to know her and the rest of the team made me more comfortable with the idea of living so far away from home. I knew I'd have lots of friends. By the end of the weekend, UCLA and Los Angeles didn't seem so daunting. I knew I could succeed and be happy there.
To my surprise, the letter-of-intent signing back at school was a media event. Several newspaper photographers and reporters showed up for the occasion. Deborah Thurston committed to UCLA as well, so we both signed the same day. We had no idea anyone would make such a fuss. Neither of us bothered to dress up that day, showing up for school as usual in jeans and T-shirts. Mr. Fennoy sat us beside each other at a big table in the library and put a blue and yellow Nike track shoe and a basketball on the table in front of us, for set decoration. As we signed our names at the bottom of the letter, the flashbulbs popped.
Mr. Fennoy gave me a big hug when it was over. “You've done it all at this level,” he said. “Now it's time for a new challenge. I know you're ready to meet it.”
Momma was elated. Her dream for me had come true. “This is what I've always wanted for you,” she said as she kissed me after school that evening. “A college education and a chance to make something out of yourself.”
Some people in East St. Louis thought I was biting off more than I could chew by turning down schools close to home to venture far away. At school, some of my classmates were a Greek chorus of negativity. I overheard them talking about me when I walked by.
“Why she gotta go all the way out there?”
“That school's gonna be hard.”
“She won't make it. Watch and see. She'll be back.”
Some of it was jealousy. I'd gotten my first taste of that in tenth grade when I dislocated my elbow in a volleyball game against Eastside. I'd run summer track with some of the girls on that team and considered them friends, even though we played for rival senior high schools. But as I was being carried out in tears and severe pain, several of them laughed and cheered. One girl shouted, “That's what she gets for trying to do everything!”
I was voted “Most Popular” in the senior class poll, but when the teachers announced that I was also voted “Most Likely to Succeed,” my popularity plummeted among some girls. I'd always felt that most people respected me for doing well in sports. But the reaction to the voting proved I was wrong. Usually the class valedictorian was voted “Most Likely to Succeed.” The girls who objected to my selection said a female athlete wasn't likely to succeed at anything. I was highly insulted. Even though I'd already achieved a lot on the national level athletically, had a 3.5 grade point average, ranked thirteenth in the class, and had received several athletic scholarship offers, some people still considered me a dumb athlete. I think a lot of them were hoping I wouldn't succeed.
Many adults were just as bad. “There's no way you can go to California and be successful,” one man said to me in the store after reading in the paper that I signed a letter of intent to UCLA.
I just smiled and continued my shopping. But the comments made me angry and they hurt my feelings. Here were black people implying that because I was a black girl from a small city I couldn't handle myself in a big place like Los Angeles. Why did people have to be so negative and small-minded? Why couldn't they be happy for me and wish me well? I wanted to ask them: When have you traveled anywhere outside of East St. Louis? When did you enroll in UCLA to find out what it was like?
Mr. Fennoy reminded me not to let anyone limit my ambitions. “Those people aren't your friends,” he said. “Don't let them make you doubt yourself.”
My mother let me vent about it for a long time one night while I sat in the kitchen. “Some people just hate to see anybody else get ahead,” she said. “But when you're off at college doing well, they'll still be here.”
My father was proud that both Al and I were going to college, felt it was a real tribute to him and my mother. Which it was. On the plane trip back from Los Angeles he'd told me, “I'm not worried about you. You'll make it out there because you can do anything you put your mind to.”
As much as I appreciated the trip and his support, however, I didn't want or feel I needed Daddy's advice anymore. Part of it was teenage rebelliousness and arrogance. But a bigger part of it was anger over things I'd witnessed in our home. Daddy had changed. When he came home drunk, he was verbally abusive to my mother. It upset me to see him act like that and to hear the arguments and angry words. His behavior got worse over the years. Initially the arguments only happened occasionally. Pretty soon, every conversation between my parents was a full-blown shouting match.
My feelings for Daddy were never the same after he flew into a rage one night and knocked my trophies and medals off two display shelves in the living room. He tried to apologize, but to me it was unforgivable. I started crying and ran to the pile on the floor. Looking at them all shattered, I felt like he'd shattered something inside me as well. I gathered them up and ran into my room, not talking to him for weeks afterward. I just couldn't understand how he could be so mean.
Over time, resentment built up inside me. Why should I listen to anything from him after the way he acted at home? I never expressed any of this directly to him. Instead, my feelings were manifested in my behavior and attitude. I wouldn't take my father's advice about anything. I tuned him out when he started talking. Sometimes, I left the room when he came home.
My mother finally got fed up with his abuse and his drinking. She decided to move out and file for divorce the summer after I graduated from high school. I don't know what specific thing prompted it, but one day, Momma just decided she'd had enough. She walked into the family room while my father wasn't home and said we were leaving. She called Della. Then, without packing a single piece of clothing, she, Debra, Angie and I walked out the front door, climbed into Della's car and drove away.
I understood how my mother felt. But I hated what was happening. My whole world was crumbling before my eyes. My family was tearing apart and the house that I'd grown up in was no longer my home. I didn't know what was going to happen to us.
11
A Motherless Child
As the UCLA basketball team bus drove onto the Westwood campus and turned into the parking lot at fabled Pauley Pavilion, the site of our home games and so many glorious moments in Bruin basketball history, I was feeling pretty glorious myself. No one was ready to hang my jersey from the Pavilion's rafters next to the ten championship banners; but I knew I was starting to come into my own. I'd just scored 19 points in our victory over Cal State-Long Beach.
“I really think I found my groove tonight,” I told Necie Thompson, the backup center, as we hoisted our blue and maize Bruin duffel bags into her car trunk. Necie had scored 9 points and grabbed 11 rebounds.
“You sure played like it, girl,” she said. She slammed the trunk shut and climbed behind the wheel.
We talked about the game all the way home. But by the time the car came to a stop in front of the Hedrick Hall dormitory, my euphoria had disappeared. After dropping me off, Necie was headed up the hill to Rieber Hall, where she and a bunch of other players would celebrate and relive every moment of the game. I wouldn't be there. I was the only team member living in Hedrick.
Each evening after basketball practice, the players who lived in the dormitories walked together from Pauley across campus to the high-rise housing units. We chatted about the day's events and laughed at each other's funny stories. When it was time for me to make that right turn into the Hedrick Hall entrance and watch my teammates continue up the sidewalk to Rieber, their laughter and excited voices echoing in
the distance, I felt lonely and isolated.
And homesick. Even the weather made me nostalgic. It was frigid at home this time of year and the January night air in sunny California was chilly enough to remind me of those winter nights when our furnace broke and we had no heat in the house. I never thought I'd miss shivering and huddling around the kitchen stove with Al, Debra and Angie, but tonight I did.
Now, walking down the hall toward my dorm room, I remembered how different the aftermath of my big games at Lincoln High had been. I always floated home amid a thick mob of friends, singing, cheering and celebrating after a victory. I would burst through the front door ahead of Al, Debra and Angie, the details of the night's events already beginning to tumble out of my mouth like water from a falls. Inside, the lights were on, the television or the radio was playing and seated on the family room couch in her pajamas, robe and slippers awaiting the full report was Momma.
I opened the door to my dorm room. It was dark. My roommate was out. I turned on the light and was greeted by the framed picture of Momma that sat on my desk. One night before going out with Daddy, she'd posed in our living room in front of a gold-colored upholstered armchair. Her left hand was on her hip and her lips formed a pretty smile. She was wearing black flared pants and a gold sweater. Every teased strand of her short, black hair was in place.
Seeing Momma's picture always transported me back home to 1433 Piggott Avenue and to our conversations on the sofa. She didn't know a layup from a free throw, but after every basketball game and track meet, she listened intently and enthusiastically to my recap while Al and my sisters made sandwiches in the kitchen or watched television.
I hadn't seen Momma since that September morning when I bid her farewell at my aunt Della's house. We were living there and my parents were preparing to divorce. A few minutes before I was scheduled to leave for the St. Louis airport, she'd walked into the bedroom.
“You all packed?”
“Yep, ready to go,” I said, beaming.
“Good,” she said. “Well. I guess it's time to say good-bye then.” My smile vanished.
“Aren't you going to the airport?”
“No. I'm afraid that your father will show up there and try to make a scene. I don't want to spoil everything for you by having a confrontation with A.J. So I'll just stay here.”
The tears welled up in my eyes.
“But I wanted you to go with me and see me off,” I said. “This is our big day, you know?”
“I know. I know,” she said. She took my hand and led me to the side of the bed, where we sat and embraced. “I've been dreaming about this day since you were born. I really want to be there. But I think it's for the best.”
I didn't think it was. I hated the idea. Tears streamed down my cheeks as she continued to explain.
She hugged me for a long time and said, “I'll be at the airport with you in spirit, just like I'll be with you at UCLA.”
As I wiped away my tears, I quietly said, “Okay.”
“I'm going to miss you a lot,” she said. “But we'll still have our talks. I want you to call me every night. That way, it will seem like we're still together. I know you can take care of yourself out there. I love you, Jackie.” Then she kissed me.
Life for my mother in the months since that conversation hadn't been easy. My father was contesting their divorce after initially agreeing to it. Momma was supporting herself, Debra and Angie on her meager salary as a nurse's assistant. At the same time, she was always having to send money to Al, who was having financial problems at college. Just a few days before, she'd written to me complaining that Debra made her angry by not doing her household chores and going out without permission. In the note, she apologized for not including any money. Al had phoned her, saying he needed money for books. She said she knew I'd understand. And I did.
My first quarter at UCLA had been trying, too. My homesickness was almost unbearable. During one of our nightly calls in November, Momma had asked me if I wanted to come home for Christmas. I put up a brave front.
“No. We have practice the day after Christmas. I'd only get to spend a week at home and I'd have to leave on Christmas Day to get back for practice. It doesn't seem worth it.”
There was a long silence. Then she asked, “Aren't you homesick?” Her voice cracked. “Don't you want to come home for Christmas?”
I cried silently and had to clear my throat to keep my voice from quavering. After a pause, I said, “Uh, no. I'm not that homesick. I can wait until June to come home.”
“Okay, if you're sure that's what you want to do. But if you change your mind, just let me know and I'll send money for the plane ticket. I'd love to have you home for the holidays.”
I would have loved to go home. I was heartsick about not being with my family. I wanted so badly to say, “Momma, I want to come home.” But I knew what a strain it would be for her to come up with $700 for a ticket. That was just about a whole month's salary.
At the instant the digits on my alarm clock switched from 8:59 to 9:00, I picked up the telephone receiver. Finally, it was time to call home. I couldn't wait to tell Momma all about the game against Cal State–Long Beach.
To avoid expensive long-distance charges, I didn't dial direct. It was after 11:00 P.M. in the Central Time Zone where my mother was; and direct-dial rates there were lower than in California. So she and I practiced an elaborate ritual every night.
“Hello, operator, this is Jackie Joyner and I'd like to make a collect call to this number and I'd like to speak to Mary Joyner,” I said.
The call was merely a signal to Momma that I was in my room awaiting her call. She refused to accept the collect call, then hung up and immediately called me back. I grabbed the phone before the end of the first ring. “Hello? Momma?”
“Hi, Jackie. Everything okay?” her voice sounded nasal, as if she had a stuffy nose.
“Yeah, we had a game tonight and I played really well. It was against Cal State-Long Beach. You sound like you have a cold.”
“I don't feel too good. I think it's the flu. I have a really bad headache and I'm running a temperature. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow. Do you mind if we talk tomorrow night?”
“No, that's fine. I can tell you about the game tomorrow.”
“I'm so tired. I just want to go to bed now.”
“Okay. Hope you feel better. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Bye.”
The phone rang early the next morning. It startled me and my roommate, who'd returned and was asleep in the twin bed across the room. The voice on the other end was instantly familiar. It was my aunt Della, my mother's younger sister. She sounded upset and started sniffling when I answered.
“Della? What's wrong?”
She continued to sniffle.
“It's Mary,” Della said. She spoke in a whisper. I could barely hear her.
“You need to come home right away. Mary's dead.”
The words hit me like a two-by-four across the face. I dropped down into the chair at my desk. My eyes went directly to Momma's picture. I couldn't believe my ears. Did Della really say Momma was dead? Surely I misunderstood her.
“What?” I asked her.
There was a long pause. Della was sobbing into the receiver. They were the moans of someone in the midst of unbearable grief. I knew then that I'd heard right. I shut my eyes.
“Oh my God! Oh my God, no!” I stared at Momma's picture as I cried.
My mother was just thirty-seven. How could she be dead? She was too young to die. She was healthy. She'd never been seriously ill while I was growing up.
“It can't be, Della. It just can't be. She can't be dead! I just talked to her a little while ago.”
“She had a bad fever and we had to rush her to the hospital,” Della explained. The words, mixed with moans and whimpers, slowly seeped out of her mouth. “The doctors think she might have had meningitis, but they don't know for sure. It just happened so fast. She started internal bleeding …”
>
I have no idea what Della said after that. All I kept hearing in my ears were the words, internal bleeding, internal bleeding, internal bleeding.
That condition was usually fatal. Ironically, it was Momma who'd told me so. She was terrified of it. When I was in high school, she never let me go to track or basketball practice after having a tooth extracted because she worried that if I started running, internal bleeding might set in. She would come home from work and tell me about patients who started bleeding internally and then died. Now the condition had claimed her.
Della put my mother's best friend, Joyce, on the phone. Joyce was head nurse in one of the surgical units at St. Mary's Hospital. Momma was a nurse's assistant in the same section on the fourth floor.
I asked her how Momma died. She explained that Momma wasn't quite dead. Huh … what? She was on life support, Joyce said—a respirator.
Joyce's voice was sad, but calm. “We're going to get you home right away. Don't worry about the money. Just make a reservation and call me back with the flight information and I'll pay for the ticket.”
I thanked her and hung up. My roommate had heard enough to figure out something was tragically wrong. She walked across the room and put her arm around me. As I cried, I clutched Momma's picture to my chest.
The plane ride was pure torture. It seemed to take forever to get to St. Louis. I couldn't eat or drink anything. Awful thoughts and questions tumbled around inside my head as I stared out the window and wiped away the tears. After hearing my mother was dead, and then being jolted with the information she was still technically alive, I didn't know what to think. Was there any hope of her regaining consciousness? Part of me knew I'd never speak to my mother again. But another part, the little girl who now felt all alone in the world, prayed desperately for it.
Named after Jacqueline Kennedy, I was the first baby girl of the Joyner family. But my grandmother had grander aspirations for me, predicting that someday I would be “the first lady of something.” COURTESY OF DELLA GRAY
A Kind of Grace Page 10
