Keeping the Faith

by Tavis Smiley

  That home was a three-room house with no heat and no running hot water. The unpainted house was located on a dirt street. However, we were all thrilled. Shortly afterward, the family—four younger siblings, one sister who returned after eloping, and Daddy—settled in with my sister Agnes. The neighborhood was blessed with several mothers who sat on their porches to keep an eye on all of the neighborhood urchins, such as my brother and me. Our next-door neighbor was the mother of a librarian, a public school teacher, and a college professor; down the street were several librarians, public school teachers, and a beautician who gave me my first paying job (sweeping up the beauty shop, emptying trash cans, washing dishes, and running errands).

  Agnes rose at six-thirty each day to leave for work, wearing her pink or blue uniform. She worked as a counter girl in the cafeteria at one of the best-known supply businesses in town. Before she left, she prepared breakfast for us and made sure that we each had clean clothing to wear to school. Daddy was frequently away from home working as a mason, carpenter, or landscaper, or hanging out with his friends and drinking. Despite working long hours, my sister always found some way to brighten up our day.

  I remember the day she brought home our first television, a black-and-white Zenith on a rolling cart. We felt we had arrived! I grew up during a period of rising civil unrest; my sister never sat at the back of the bus and told us never to sit there either. In fact, we were told to exit the bus if we were ever asked to sit in the back. I never was.

  It was my sister who made it possible for me to earn a doctorate, although she herself never received a high school diploma. She now takes care of my three nieces, ages seven, nine, and ten—her inheritance from our baby brother, who died of a massive heart attack shortly after his forty-first birthday. Her own enormous heart makes her ministering to the children all in a day’s work.

  My son, a college sophomore, regards her as a role model and listens intently to any advice or criticism she has to offer him (I would encounter great resistance for offering him the same advice). She retired from her minimum-wage production job to raise my nieces, yet my sister is always praying and singing the song “How I Got Over.”

  Because she always gives to others and never expects anything in return, surprising my sister on her sixty-eighth birthday meant a lot to me. Her eyes lit up when we sang “Happy Birthday” to her. For that one moment, we gave her a tiny measure of the joy that she has brought continually into the lives of all of us.

  A SPECIAL IDENTITY

  Linda Robertson

  I awoke to the whir of the ceiling fan above me. The slight breeze did little to permeate the morning heat. Still in bed, I realized I had been dreaming. I felt tears streaming down my face, but with so much to do, I could not afford to languish under the lone sheet. I began to think about the journey that had brought me to the funeral of a woman I barely knew. The funeral was only hours away.

  My eyes darted around the room. I was sleeping in the room where Mother had spent her final days. Years earlier, my youngest sister had died in the bed where I slept. Medicine bottles surrounded me. I saw sedatives, painkillers, and blood thinners as well as aspirin bottles. On a chest of drawers was a Styrofoam mannequin head. Pinned carefully to the mannequin was Mother’s fashionable brown wig. As I hugged my pillow, I felt chills. The room was filled with reminders of Mother and the illness that had taken her life.

  I reached for the sheets of paper that were folded on the nightstand. Since our initial meeting I have carried Mother’s first letter to me in my purse. We would exchange many letters over the course of our brief relationship; however, it was the first that remained with me always.

  Dear Linda:

  Your phone call was without a doubt the most pleasant surprise of my life. I had given up hope of ever hearing from you. I did not contact you because I would never have done anything to hurt your family.

  I have never met more remarkable people in my life. They were also instrumental in you becoming the wonderful young lady you are. Your accomplishments made them very happy.

  I was deeply saddened to learn of your grandmother’s death. I’m sure sometimes it is very difficult for you. I will remember all of you in my prayers.

  I am at work now, on a break. I retired in 1985 after teaching in five different elementary schools for thirty years. Following my first year of retirement my mother was terminally ill with cancer. Being an only child and with my father dead, it was my responsibility to care for her. My daughters did what they could to help, but they were both working. My mother died in 1986. The next year I kept Karen’s baby while she worked. This is my fourth year on the job I have now. I am the community liaison at an elementary school. I don’t have much contact with the students. I work mainly with the parents.

  My daughter Beverly is thirty-four years old and has a fifteen-year-old son and she works for UPS. Karen is thirty-two years old and has a four-year-old daughter. Karen teaches special education. Break time is over. Answer when you can.

  Love,

  Mom

  I don’t know where I found the courage needed to make that first longdistance call to Florida. Armed with information from my maternal adoptive grandmother, I secretly sought my birth mother’s identity and located her easily. I traveled to Florida to meet my mother, stepfather, and new sisters after exchanging several letters and talking endless hours on the telephone.

  I met my mother for the first time just after her sixtieth birthday. She was born in Homestead, Florida, and she had lived in south Florida for most of her life.

  Shortly before graduating from Florida A&M University, she discovered she was pregnant. The father of her unborn child was also a college student, but he was already married. He somehow forgot to disclose that fact during their courtship.

  It was 1953 at the time, and my mother was determined to have her child and begin life anew. Her parents had other plans and forced her to relocate to California, where she would live (and hide) with an aunt and uncle. Once her child was born, she had plans to get a job as a schoolteacher. She missed her family and friends but was certain she could start life anew. There were those who had doubts about her ability to provide a good life for her new baby daughter.

  One family in particular befriended my mother during her stay in California. They were neighbors who checked regularly on the progress of her pregnancy. Mother received a visit from them following my birth. They asked that the baby be given to them to raise as their own. In return, the child would be provided with a wonderful life. My mother could return to south Florida and start a career in elementary education.

  Mother, realizing that a solid family unit would offer her daughter so many more opportunities than she could provide, did just that. No legal documents were ever signed, and no money was ever exchanged. Hugs and kisses sealed their bond.

  Now, some thirty-six-plus years later, Mother finally had a chance to spend time with the daughter she gave up. Our wonderful reunion, however, turned tragic when my sister became ill. Having contracted AIDS from an uncaring husband, she eventually died. I had hoped that I could bring comfort to my mother in the face of her loss. Instead, I watched helplessly as Mother succumbed to numerous physical maladies, in addition to the pain she endured over the loss of her daughter. Some felt Mother had grieved herself to death.

  Today, for the second time in as many years, I will sit in the front pew of the church as the funeral service celebrates the life of a loved one. I will introduce myself to the countless family members who don’t really know me but often remark on my resemblance to my mother. Well, that’s not surprising. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter.

  MY BOSS’S WIFE

  Angela Pea Stroble

  My job had become my life. I would come into the office around 8:30 A.M. and some days it would be 7 o’clock the next morning before I would leave for home, only to return several hours later. I worked all the holidays as well, including the Fourth of July, Labor Day, Christmas, and New Year’s. I was
unaccustomed to taking time out for myself because I was happiest being in charge. I like it when people are unable to do without me. So I would have never taken the time to do something for myself, even in this situation.

  In October, nearly four years ago, while viewing a commercial on breast cancer, I did a routine breast exam and found a big, suspicious lump in my left breast. Because I have a history of fibroid tumors, I passed it off as such. The next morning, I was busy trying to help to prepare my boss, an attorney, for an upcoming trial. Just then, in walked his lovely wife, Wilhelmena, who is also my best friend. I mentioned casually to Wilhelmena that I had observed a knot in my left breast, but assumed it was a fibroid tumor. Wilhelmena said I should wait a few days and if it was still there, I needed to make arrangements to have it checked. I replied, “Sure thing!”

  Over the next three weeks, I watched several breast cancer commercials on TV and never really gave my own breast a second thought. But Wilhelmena certainly thought about it. During those three weeks, Wilhelmena came to the office every day to nag me about making an appointment for a mammogram. In fact, she nagged me so much it was starting to get on my nerves. Here I was trying to work and the boss’s wife was following me around like a child about an appointment for a mammogram!

  At the end of the third week, things were extremely busy at the office. One morning when I arrived at work, Wilhelmena was already there, sitting in my chair. As I entered the office, she said, “Well, did you make the appointment?” “What appointment?” I replied. “The mammogram appointment,” she responded. I told her I hadn’t had the opportunity yet to schedule one, but I would as soon as things calmed down a bit.

  In the background, my boss (her husband) was screaming for a file, the phones were ringing off the hook, and clients were at the door. Wilhelmena continued to sit in my chair. Again she asked me when I was going to schedule an appointment. By now, I had had it with her. “I’m trying to do a job here,” I thought.

  Wilhelmena located the phone book and began flipping through the pages. Finally she found what she was looking for. “Call this number and schedule an appointment for yourself!” “Okay, already,” I said. By this time, I was getting angry. I snatched the telephone book from her, dialed the number, and made an appointment. Later, when she asked me what day the appointment was scheduled for, I lied and told her the wrong day because she had made me so angry.

  When the day came for my appointment, I arrived at the doctor’s office a few minutes early. I went through the initial breast examination, took the mammogram test, and had an ultrasound test all on the same day. Then the results came back. I had breast cancer. I thought, “This can’t be happening to me!” At that instant it seemed as if my life had stopped; I was in denial and shock at the same time! When I walked out of the doctor’s office and back into the waiting room, there sat Wilhelmena. How she knew where to find me, I’ll never know, since I had given her the wrong day for my appointment.

  What I do know is that I will forever be grateful to her for her persistence and concern on my behalf. The tears began to just stream down my face. She saved my life! How can I ever thank her? Had she not pestered me during those three weeks, I would have never scheduled an appointment for an examination.

  WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

  Judy Williams

  The night my son, Will, graduated from high school, I sat down in a chair and cried. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude toward all the wonderful people who helped us reach that day. Will had been offered over $250,000 in college scholarships. Will’s big brother from Big Brothers Big Sisters, when asked about his involvement in Will’s life, says, “His mother had a plan; all I had to do was follow it.” My only “plan” was that Will would never have to experience in his life the emotionally debilitating things I had experienced in mine.

  I was born out of wedlock, and so was he. Societal norms changed substantially for “bastard” children over the decades between our births, but the stigma continues to linger. My plan could be achieved only if Will had the self-acceptance necessary for healthy self-esteem. His understanding and consistently telling the truth about his parentage was the only way to achieve the goal.

  The hazards of telling the truth about your parentage were revealed to me at age seven. My older sister and I went to sign up to become Brownies. When the woman at the desk asked us our father’s name, my sister gave one last name, and I gave another. The look on this woman’s face shriveled my spirit right down to my white bobby socks. We later told our mother what happened and received a whipping for divulging her shame of having had four daughters by four men. The whipping we received for telling the truth seared my soul, confirming that there was something acutely wrong with me that I could never overcome.

  I didn’t tell the truth again about my father’s last name for almost forty years. I became such a good liar on this point that I even began to believe the different versions I told over the years. That early strike at my self-esteem took its toll inside me, despite the confidence I exuded on the outside.

  We lived in Parkway Gardens, a Chicago enclave of predominantly two-parent families living in co-op apartments. The complex of three-and eight-story buildings was situated between the projects on Sixty-third Street and the middle-income working-class community of Blacks on Sixty-sixth and South Park. Every kid knew everyone else in this three-block-long, one-block-wide, densely populated sanctuary. We knew who your parents were, and who your sisters and brothers were. And if your cousins came to visit, we knew them too. Several adults had chairs and sat by the window twenty-four hours a day. Their vantage point ensured that whatever you thought you were doing in the dark soon came to light.

  We lived in apartment 5A in the 6450 building. My playmates, Lucky and Delano McClendon in 2B, Pat Barrett and Reggie Clark in 3A, Donnie Greenhill in 1D, and David Brown in the building across the parking lot, were privy to the horror in our household. I had a stepfather who was brutally abusive to the three older children who were not his. One of his favorite punishments was to beat us on the days my mother’s job required her to work late for inventory. I can still hear him say, “I am going to whip you until your mother gets home.” He kept his word. My playmates made up a song about it, called “I Heard a Whipping on the Fifth Floor.”

  When we went outside to play, the kids laughed at us when they saw the welts on our arms and legs. We laughed with them as we played hide-and-seek and hopscotch and chose sides for softball. My mother eventually divorced my stepfather, as he had two preferred forms of reprisal for her. One was to push her into a tub filled with hot water, and the other was to push her outside with only her underwear on.

  I was never called a bastard, though my cohorts had to notice that my siblings and I did not resemble each other. My older sister and I cleaned classrooms after school to pay our tuition. After school, my high school cronies Pam Walker, Mary Washington, and Priscilla Lamb shed their uniform of plaid skirt and blazer in the locker room, a tactic designed to meet boys during the trip home on the El without them knowing we were “uptight” Catholic-school girls. My tuition responsibilities prevented me from joining them. But I was a full partner in all the mischief that went on in our all-girls school, where the doors were locked when you entered and unlocked only when the bell rang at three.

  I left home for the first time at seventeen because my stepfather had stabbed my mother and me. His blade found my arm when I dared to defend my mother as he leaned over the couch and repeatedly plunged the knife into her body. Everyone else, including my mother, ran from the house; I was left alone to struggle with him. Criminal charges were never pursued. The only counseling I received was from my mother. She said it would be prudent to forgive my stepfather for stabbing us. “Otherwise,” she said, “he will catch you out in the street and hurt you.” This was the first significant break between my mother and me. Mothers were supposed to protect their children. Telling me to forgive him was simply unconscionable.

  I left
again at nineteen and never looked back. Seven dollars was all I had to my name. I didn’t know where I was going to go or how I would survive. Linda Freeman and Mary Holmes saved me this time.

  Mrs. Freeman didn’t ask why I was out walking the street alone at two in the morning. She just said “sure” when her daughter, Linda, asked her permission for me to stay at their house for a while. Not once did they inquire why I never talked about my background or why they never met my family members.

  Mary and Linda helped me find an apartment. I dropped in and out of college and partied away the next few years, until I met and fell in love with Will’s father, Bill Tolbert, and uprooted myself to move to Atlanta.

  Bill was my friend and lover, although he was seventeen years my senior. We held similar worldviews, although age and regional differences eventually led to the end of passion. In spite of what people may say, love does not conquer all. But Bill was gracious enough to give me his apartment, secured other accommodations for himself, and paid my apartment expenses until I found a job.

  Ironically, Will was conceived at the very end of my relationship with Bill. His birth brought my life into focus. As he gestated inside me, I vowed he would never receive the reproach I had received at seven. Lack of a marriage certificate did not prevent Bill from being a friend to me and a father to his son. He did not hesitate to ensure his son had a heritage by signing the birth certificate. His only caveat before signing was this: “Don’t name this child after me if every time you get mad at me, you will take it out on him.” There was a better chance of the world being flat than of that happening.