Keeping the Faith

by Tavis Smiley

  Recently, my wife asked if I ever think of Malcolm. I told her I thought of him all the time. I wake up thinking of him and go to sleep thinking of him. I see parents with their children and think about what could have been. It hurts, but I wouldn’t change anything that’s happened. That little boy showed me what true love is and how infectious it can be. He brought out my wife’s maternal devotion, so that I could at least comprehend what a mother truly goes through. I’m a blessed man to have witnessed such events. The residue of his love still lingers on with us, and always will. He has gained from our loss, and so have we—much more than anyone will ever know!

  GETTING OVER GRANDDADDY

  Tamela Handie-Tilford

  I experienced the power of Black love at a young age from my paternal grandfather, the late Reverend Edgar Douglas Handie Sr. Granddaddy, as I called him, lived in Eudora, Arkansas, where he resided all of his life. As is customary in the South, he pastored several churches simultaneously; at the time of his death, he still presided over two churches. I was crazy about my granddaddy, and most everyone else was too. He was respected and admired in the community, and volunteered a lot of his spare time to fight for the rights of African Americans and help ensure that Eudora’s children received a quality education. Charismatic, he had the ability to inspire people through his words. Though he had only a grade-school education, you’d never know it by listening to him. He was a dynamic speaker who, through God’s grace, had been able to master the English language at the level of a college graduate. He was indeed called to preach.

  Granddaddy had smooth, chocolate brown skin and a bald head. He was about 5’10” and the most physically fit older man I’ve ever seen. His waist was a perfect thirty-two inches. He wore suits every day of his life, whether he was going to church or not. I don’t ever remember seeing Granddaddy wearing casual clothes, other than the pajamas he wore to bed every night.

  Granddaddy showered me with love and affection. Although my family lived in Kansas City, we would make frequent trips to Eudora during the summers and holidays. I looked forward to those visits because Granddaddy was my hero. He would stand in the pulpit and deliver the most powerful, high-spirited sermons that I’d ever heard. He’d have the congregation falling out like flies. As if his good preaching weren’t enough, he’d top it off by singing a gospel song toward the end of every service. Those who knew him would say, “If his preaching don’t get you, his singing will.” I admired the way he encouraged and inspired people to keep God first in their lives just by saying a few simple yet meaningful words. Granddaddy’s deep affection for the Lord was contagious, and I caught it at an early age.

  It all started when Granddaddy was invited to Kansas City to do a revival at a local church. He often received invitations to visit churches across the United States. This particular church service was one that I will never forget. It was Friday night, the last night of the revival, and members of the church had enjoyed four full nights of Granddaddy’s preaching. They were anxious to receive one last dose of his gospel medicine. Needless to say, he literally turned the church out. Though I was only seven, I found myself feeling the spirit of the Holy Ghost. When Granddaddy opened the doors of the church, I got up and walked to the front of the sanctuary and stood in front of him. I still remember the smile on his face when I made the decision to bring God into my life. Not once did he question whether I understood what I was doing or not. The truth is, though I was only seven, I had felt His presence within me years before that. I had been born again, and Granddaddy knew it. He placed his hands on my shoulders and continued to invite others to give their lives to the Lord. Since my parents and I didn’t have a church home, they decided to let Granddaddy baptize me when we returned two weeks later to his church in Mer Rouge, Louisiana.

  As I got older, my visits to Eudora became less frequent. I was suffering from those terrible teenage years when your body is changing and you’re thinking about the opposite sex. With all that going on, visiting Arkansas wasn’t as important as it was before. I assumed that Granddaddy would be around forever to love me, guide me, and keep me grounded spiritually. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

  Granddaddy developed cancer in 1996. I hadn’t seen him in about eleven years. At that time, I was dating a man whom I was seriously thinking of marrying. Granddaddy had married my parents, and I told them that if I ever got married, I wanted him to perform the ceremony. My mother warned me that he probably wouldn’t be around long enough to marry me. She and my father had been to visit him over Thanksgiving that year, and his appearance had changed dramatically. He’d lost quite a bit of weight. But I knew how tough and resilient he was. After all, he could walk on water, couldn’t he?

  On his birthday in December 1996, I talked to Granddaddy briefly over the phone. He sounded weak, but his speech was clear and his enunciation as strong as ever. I wished him a happy birthday and told him I loved him and that I was coming to see him in February.

  On February 13, I mailed Granddaddy a Valentine’s card. I reminded him in the card that I would be there in two weeks to visit him. The day after Valentine’s Day, while visiting with my boyfriend at his apartment, I received a call from my mother. She told me my father wanted to talk to me. I sensed that something was wrong. I asked her if something had happened to Granddaddy. She said no and handed the telephone to my dad. When my dad got on the phone, I received the worst news imaginable. I can still hear his words ringing in my ears, five years later: “Daddy passed away.” I bent over, still holding the phone to my ear, crying like a baby. My mom then got back on the phone, and I managed to ask her when it happened. “Yesterday,” she replied. “Yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. “I didn’t want to spoil your Valentine’s Day,” she said. I was furious. Here I was out celebrating Valentine’s Day when my grand-daddy was dead. I felt horrible for dishonoring him like that. I cried the rest of that evening and throughout the night. The next few days were hell. I wanted to die. I felt so guilty for not spending more time with him. I would’ve done anything to bring him back.

  Five days later, we left for Eudora to attend Granddaddy’s funeral. I saw him in the funeral home. The despair I felt when I initially found out that Granddaddy passed away was nothing compared to what I felt over the next three days. I didn’t want to move, eat, or think. Dad was taking Granddaddy’s death hard as well, and my mom had to comfort him. I’ve never cried so long and so hard in my life.

  When I got back home to Kansas City, my grief continued. Dad was starting to heal slowly, but I was getting worse and worse as each day passed. I was the kind of person who liked to laugh and have fun, but that person was gone. I wouldn’t wear makeup or pay attention to my grooming or what I was wearing. Music was something that I always enjoyed, particularly gospel music, but I couldn’t even listen to certain songs because they would make me start crying. All I wanted was to wallow in my grief.

  Not only did my grief affect my outer appearance, it affected my attitude. I became cynical about everything in my life and stayed that way for almost four years. It drove my mother nuts. No matter what encouraging words she or anyone else tried to offer, I would shoot them down.

  One day, finally, a ray of light peeked through. I liked to watch Dr. Phil McGraw on Oprah. This particular day, Dr. McGraw was talking to a woman named Joanne who had been stuck in grief since the murder of her daughter almost ten years before. She was living every day as if it was the day her daughter died. I could identify with her story, because although Granddaddy had passed almost two years before, it was like yesterday to me. I relived his death every day. But several things that Dr. Phil said to Joanne that day caused a lightbulb to go off in my head. He asked, “Do you think your daughter would want you to feel pain each and every day for the rest of your life?” Joanne’s eyes lit up and she responded, “No.” I knew that Granddaddy wouldn’t want me to allow my grief to keep me from living the life God intended for me, either. Next Dr. Phil said, “Your daughter lived for
eighteen vibrant years, yet you focus on that one day, the day that she died.” That statement was a turning point for me. Granddaddy had been eighty-two years old when he died, and he’d preached for over sixty years. I began to think about the many lives he touched through his ministry and how he’d lived life with passion, zest, and vigor. I had been doing exactly what Joanne was doing, focusing on the day that Granddaddy died instead of cherishing the wonderful life that he’d lived. Dr. Phil said that moving on with your life is not dishonoring your loved one’s memory. He told Joanne to repeat out loud, “Lori, I love you, but I have to let you go.” Joanne began to weep. I was crying right along with her, saying, “Granddaddy, I love you, but I have to let you go.” I was able to let go of the grief that I had been carrying on my shoulders day after day. Unfortunately, though, my negative attitude still remained.

  My mother continued to pray for me. It took another three years, but her prayers were finally answered. I was on the Internet one day and spotted an offer to attend a five-day seminar hosted by the person who had helped me to move forward with my life three years earlier, Dr. Phil McGraw. The notice said that you had to be willing to participate in intensive exercises conducted by Dr. McGraw for five days and have your story televised. In order to be considered, you had to answer a few questions about your life and submit them via e-mail. I immediately answered the questions and clicked the send button with my mouse. I loved Dr. Phil and would welcome an opportunity to let him help me. Instead of thinking, as I normally did, that I wouldn’t be considered, I turned it over to the Lord. Two weeks later, I got a call from a producer of the show saying that I was one of forty-two people chosen to attend the five-day class. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I wasn’t about to pass it up. My mom was excited, because she too was a fan of Dr. Phil’s. I told my parents and friends before I left for Chicago that I was going to come back a better person. Little did I know I would come back born again!

  On the first day of class, I realized how fortunate the forty-two of us were to be there. Dr. Phil had actually handpicked each of us out of fifteen thousand applicants. As Dr. Phil said, “It’s no accident that you’re here. This is your chance to get it right. Not many people get a second chance, but you do.” I knew it was no accident; God wanted me to be there.

  During those five days of grueling mental, verbal, and written exercises, I finally was able to rid my life of the negativity that was killing my spirit and reconnect with my spiritual side once again—the spirituality that my granddaddy had introduced me to as a young child. On the last day, as we each shared our progress, I stood up and thanked God and Dr. Phil for changing my life. Tears came to my eyes as I mentioned to my classmates that I knew my granddaddy was proud of me. I could feel his spirit smiling down on me. I left Chicago feeling spiritually grounded and ready to begin living again.

  NOT JUST A STATISTIC

  Beverly Joan Hughley

  During the summer of 1986, a letter was mailed to each and every address in the United States from the office of the then surgeon general, C. Everett Koop. The letter spoke of a new disease that had been identified in America, a terrifying new virus that was responsible for the deaths of thousands of individuals: AIDS. It appeared that those most affected were gays and hemophiliacs. As I sat at my kitchen table reading this alarming information, I remember breathing a sigh of relief. My close friends and family members were all married or in committed monogamous relationships, as was I. My baby sister, Karen, the one with a light smattering of freckles on her face and a head of thick, wavy hair, had gotten married earlier that year and was now pregnant with her first child. This new disease that was ravaging America was apparently no threat to us, based on the statistics and demographics described in the letter.

  As it turns out, I was wrong. Within ten years, this new plague would visit my inner circle. In fact, April 28, 2002, will be the fifth anniversary of my sister’s death from AIDS. Her name was Karen Elise Perkins, and she was a thirty-eight-year-old college-educated professional woman. She was married and the mother of a young daughter.

  Karen was a dedicated and proud member of Zeta Phi Beta of south Florida. She was a gentle soul who loved working with arts and crafts and tending to the small garden in the front yard of her home. She was not promiscuous, nor a drug user. In fact, she married the first and only man she ever dated. He turned out to be the last one as well, for he, in fact, was the source of her infection. He died in 1995 of what we all thought was diabetes, since he had been diagnosed as diabetic several years earlier.

  Considering the circumstances of my sister’s death, it would be easy to hate my brother-in-law. There is ample evidence that he knew he was infected. However, he didn’t disclose this information to his wife, my sister. We discovered a year after his death, when my sister had already been diagnosed with AIDS, that several people knew of his HIV status but chose not to disclose this information to the one who needed it most. My anger and pain at his betrayal were immense, although they have diminished over the years. I still feel hurt and bewildered by his actions.

  My sister’s husband had been our next-door neighbor; we all grew up together. As kids, my sister and I helped him fold newspapers for his paper route. His parents and ours were very close friends. Our mother, in fact, was his first-grade teacher. People occasionally ask me if I’ve forgiven him, and I doubt that I ever will. His deception ripped the hearts out of our collective chests, leaving my then ten-year-old niece with a gaping wound that would never completely heal. My niece used to roam the aisles at arts-and-craft stores with her mother and then come home and design matching T-shirts to wear the following day to school. She had her own garden tools next to her mother’s. The evening after her mother’s funeral, she screamed that she wanted to die too so that she could be with her mother.

  All of us have suffered tremendously, but none more than she. At ten, she knew that her mother was very sick, but she felt in her heart that her mom would get better and things would get back to normal. My sister didn’t have the heart to tell her daughter the truth, and she would not let me do it for her either.

  My niece is now fifteen years old, and her bedroom walls are plastered with posters of SpongeBob SquarePants, Tupac, and that finely chiseled Shemar Moore. She looks just like her mom and is blessed with many of the same endearing qualities. My sister continues to live through her.

  My father and I share custody of my niece, and we listen with pride when she talks about getting her first car (which she’s hoping for next year) and going to college. She is still terribly wounded. Nonetheless, she is a survivor. She often talks about her mother; of how much fun they had and how much she misses her. Each time she does, my heart breaks. Sometimes the two of us will look at pictures of her mother. Although it is hard to do this, it helps us to heal.

  As this next anniversary of my sister’s death approaches, I am reminded of the grace and dignity she exhibited. I am reminded of the many indignities that Karen suffered because of her illness: the numerous hospitalizations and doctor’s visits; the calls to my mother from so-called professional people; the innuendo and gossip that ran like an out-of-control brush fire throughout our community. And finally, the ignorance and insensitivity displayed by “concerned” individuals who probably should have checked the status of their own health before commenting on my sister’s.

  In spite of everything, Karen rarely complained. Expressions of anger and bitterness were rare indeed, although she was certainly entitled to express these things. She never complained, even when her long, thick, wavy hair began to fall out, or when she had to endure painful injections directly into her eyes in an attempt to save her eyesight. She so desperately wanted to live! I felt as if our small family was besieged from all sides. But we closed ranks and hunkered down for the battle for her life.

  When I think about Karen, I remember the courageous way she played the hand that life had dealt her. Her graciousness, quiet strength, and optimism epitomized true class in the f
ace of a battle that she ultimately couldn’t win.

  Karen Elise Perkins was not just a statistic but a daughter, mother, sister, wife, and friend who was much loved, respected, and adored. Even five years later, it has been very difficult for me to write all of this down. But I made a promise to myself at my sister’s grave site that I would one day tell her story.

  Grief is a road that sometimes has no ending. I’m still not over her death and, honestly, I don’t know if I will ever be. But with the passage of time, I find that I laugh more and cry less, thanks to her memory.

  THE REBIRTH OF WILLIAM

  Celeste Bateman

  For several years, conversations with my brother, William, had been few and far between. For one thing, I didn’t live at home, as he and my sister, Felicia, did. But also, if William had been drinking, which he did a lot during that time, I didn’t have the tolerance to engage in lengthy discussions of any sort with him. William got on my nerves. At some point in our lives, I allowed a gap in our friendship (and siblingship, for that matter) to grow almost beyond repair. But the last two weeks of Billy’s life and those two weeks in mine were a pivotal point in time for both of us.

  I was rushing like a fool that Saturday to get to New Brunswick, where I had been working part time at a theater. Billy followed me around like a puppy dog as I frantically threw together some lunch to take with me. I knew he wanted to talk. I noticed he had made a lot of progress in cutting down on his drinking and was making an effort to get his program together. His skin was clear and his eyes were bright. This time when he spoke, I listened. Something told me I had to.

  He talked about a job he was in line for in North Carolina. He said if he got the job, the company would relocate him and his girlfriend. He told me how anxious he was about finding a boarder for his apartment so he wouldn’t leave the responsibility on my aunt Bennie, his landlady. She’d been very tolerant of his falling behind with the rent, and I could see in his eyes that he didn’t want to put any more hardship on her, not after she’d put up with him for so long.