Gemmia was truly my precious jewel, despite her weird habits. She was affectionate and gentle. She was quiet and reflective. She had a memory like a steel trap, and she was potty trained in less than a month. She got along famously with her brother, and when my third child, Nisa, was born, Gemmia was her surrogate mother—holding her, feeding her, watching over her like a hawk. And Gemmia also took great care of me. She loved to rub my feet and hands and kiss my cheeks. She was the only one of my children who would crawl into my bed and cuddle with me. She learned her alphabet with little or no help from me by watching Sesame Street. Damon taught her how to count, which she mastered before first grade.
Gemmia never talked much. Even as a child, she was not chatty. As an adolescent, she limited her responses to three or four words. The most I heard her say to her brother or sister was “Leave me alone!” or “What are you doing?” Or the classic “Get out of here!” In fact, she was so quiet, I frequently repeated things I said to her, unsure if she’d heard me the first time. “I heard you,” she would say. But it wasn’t snippy or curt. It was simple, soft, and matter-of-fact: I heard you. It was classic Gemmia-ese. Her manner was always gentle, easy, and pleasant. I recognized early that there was something really special, masterful, about her.
It wasn’t until much later in her life that I realized there were a lot of things I did not know about Gemmia. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested. It wasn’t that I was being neglectful—or was it? It was just that my own life was often so chaotic, I never thought to ask my children about their likes or dislikes, their needs or their desires. Damon and Nisa were very vocal. They had so many questions and opinions; they would not be denied my attention. Gemmia, the middle child, often seemed to get lost in the melee of my life and the needs of her siblings. She didn’t present any problems, so I didn’t look for any. She was also the dependable one. I could always count on her to do exactly what I asked her to do, when I asked her to do it. In that way, she was very much like my brother. Unlike me, he rarely, if ever, got disciplined for not following instructions.
When my life became unbalanced, Gemmia became the assistant mommy. She was more than willing to help with dinner or housework. She was also the one that the other children would listen to; using as few words as possible, she would reason with them and convey the importance of what she was saying. I often heard her say things like “You know what she’s going to say” or “You know how she feels about that.” I assumed she was referring to me. Those were the same words my brother had often used to warn me about Grandma. However, I knew when Gemmia spoke them, it was not from a place of anger or fear about what could happen if things did not line up with my expectations. She was speaking them, I thought, from a place of loving concern. Gemmia offered me the support I had never had in my life. I leaned on her the way I imagined Aunt Nancy leaned on me. Oh my God!The pathology! The patterns! I was just beginning to recognize them, and now they were spreading throughout my life. My children living through what I had lived through. It was totally unacceptable! And I was totally unequipped to do anything about it. Instead, I did what I had been taught to do, what I had seen done all of my life. I acted like I didn’t see it, could not hear it, and did not know what was going on.
On the way to get away from where you are, you can run so fast that you miss the blessings along the way. By the time you realize that you have missed them, a major portion of your life has taken place without you.
CHAPTER 6
THE DIVINE SETUP
Like so many people, I had done a great deal of living before I recognized my own healing needs. For the better part of my life, I had no clue that my beliefs about myself, men, money, and almost everything else on life’s menu were playing out as the experiences I lived. It was as if I couldn’t believe in or receive anything good in my life. When it did show up, I was usually the one who did or said something that was sure to make it go away. And nowhere was my inability to create and sustain solid relationships more evident than with my children. I was a great provider, and at the same time, a horrible mother.
My children were two-year stair steps. When Damon was six, Gemmia was four and Nisa was two. This chronology had its benefits. Damon could talk and explain what his sisters were doing, while the girls were close enough to share clothes. As they got older, it also meant that they could look out for each other. I ran our household like a boot camp—the higher rank was responsible for the lower rank, everyone had specific duties, and when one got in trouble, they all got in trouble. There were routines and we always followed them. We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same time every day. We shopped on Thursday, we did laundry on Saturday, and we ironed our clothes on Sunday evenings. In my mind, thanks to Grandma, it was just the way things had to be.
If we were going on a family outing or an errand, the children would get washed and dressed first. In the winter, they would sit in the living room and watch television while I got dressed. In the spring and summer, they could go outside in front of the building until I was ready. There were two rules they had to follow. The first was, do not get dirty. Dirty children did not travel with me! The second rule was, do not let me look out of the window and not see all three children together. Disobedient children did not get to go anywhere with me.
One hot Saturday, I decided the beach would be the best place for us. I made sandwiches and laid out everyone’s clothes. Following the routine, the three of them got dressed and went outside. I got caught up in a telephone call and took longer than expected to get myself ready. After showering, I peeked out the window to see if they were in place. They were not. I didn’t think much of it at the time; after all, they had been out there over an hour. But when I was dressed and went to the window again, none of the Vanzantlets were in sight, and I could feel the rage brewing. I loaded up the car, then issued an ear-piercing yell and waited: 30 seconds, 60 seconds, 2 minutes. No response. Now I was really pissed! Not only had they broken a rule, but it was hot and I was ready to go. I walked around the building in the blazing sun, screaming their names one at a time. After ten minutes, I snatched the bags and blankets out of the car and stormed upstairs. We’re not going anywhere! If they think I am going to spend my time and money on them having fun when they can’t do what I say, they are crazy!
Finally, I decided to go and fetch them, knowing there would be hell to pay. I walked around the block twice. No one had seen them. I walked to the park on the corner. They weren’t there either. This was defiance, pure and simple, and it was going to cost them! I wiped the sweat from my face and neck, trying to figure out where they had gone. They must be in someone’s house! Which of the neighbors would they go to? I was walking back toward the building, trying to compose myself enough to knock on the neighbors’ doors, when I saw it: Nisa’s foot, sticking out of a row of bushes in front of the building. I recognized the little white sandal with pink flowers on the front.
Those crumb snatchers have been hiding from me! How dare they! I stomped my way over to the bush ready to grab an ear, arm, foot, whatever I could get my hands on. This was no laughing matter! I was ready to do battle with these three little children, who were eight, six, and four. It would have been a slaughter, a verbal slaughter, because I never spanked them. I did far more damage with my mouth. Parting the bushes, I was prepared to let them have it when I noticed that it wasn’t just Nisa. All three of them were lying on the mulch behind the bushes, asleep. Damon jumped up first, his eyes as wide as saucers. When he stood up, Gemmia’s head, which had been resting on his legs, hit the ground with a thud. She popped up from the ground like a jack-in-the-box and smashed her body against the wall. Having parted that bush as if it were the Red Sea, I was not at all prepared for what was staring back at me. I saw the terror, the sheer terror in their eyes. In that moment, I realized that my children were afraid of me.
It took me less than ten seconds to realize that while waiting for me to get off the telephone, they had sat down on the cool mulch behind the bu
shes to get out of the sun and had fallen asleep. Damon knew he had to say something, so he did. “We’re not dirty, Mommy. Nobody bothered us. Did you think something had happened to us?” His words cut through me like a hot knife through butter, because the thought had never entered my mind.
I believe there are some things about mothering that are innate. Then there are those things that you must be taught in order to know how to do them. Mothers are meant to nurture and support their children. These were things I did not know how to do. I did know that those in your care had to be fed and kept from harm. I did know that children needed to be disciplined and that they had to do what you told them. I knew that children’s needs, their safety, and their well-being had to come before all of the common craziness that often occurs in the lives of adults. I had no clue that an encouraging word and a positive affirmation was required to keep a child’s heart and mind open. I thought the most positive thing I could tell them was everything they were not supposed to do and everything they did wrong.
I thought I was being sensitive by not doing the things that had fractured my own childhood. Instead, I talked them into the ground. One false move, one mistake, one thing left undone or half done meant you would get a lecture—a 20- to 30-minute lecture about how hard my life was, and why it was absolutely necessary for you to do whatever it was I was ranting about. I did not call my children names, but I know that the tone hurt more than the words.
Perhaps they put up with me because no matter how crazy your mother may be, she is still your mother. Perhaps it was because the food was good, the beds were always clean, and above all else, they felt safe and wanted. Or perhaps my children made it through my rough years because of what Gemmia told me many years later, one day when I was beating myself up about all I had not given her.
“Yeah, you acted a little crazy, but sometimes you had to. I know you think you didn’t do a good job with us, but I don’t see it that way. I saw you as beautiful, proud, and strong. I saw you as trying to raise us alone, working hard to make sure we had food to eat and someplace to live. I knew that no matter what was going on, you would never let anything happen to me, and that was enough for me. What I didn’t know was how much you had to learn to do as well as you did.”
My first husband met Gemmia for the first time when she was just 15-months-old. It was a brief reunion. Because of his brushes with the law, rather than risk prosecution, he relocated. The next time I saw him, Gemmia was 12-years-old. By the time she was two, I was in a physically abusive relationship. I can only imagine what my children must have thought and felt when they witnessed their mommy being slapped and pushed around and hurt by the man they had been taught to call Daddy.
Gemmia was almost four years old when the beatings began. If the children were in the room, I would tell Gemmia, “Go and get the baby. Take her into your room.” She would move immediately, ushering her older brother and younger sister to safety. I tried my best to keep Damon away from my husband when he was being abusive. Damon would often try to protect me. I was afraid that my husband would turn on him. Then, when the violent encounter was over, our lives would continue as if nothing had happened.
When the last violent encounter came, Gemmia was about five years old. I was frying fish for dinner when my husband came home after being gone for three or four days. As soon as I heard his key in the door, I braced myself. The children were just glad to see him. They ran to him, all six feet, two inches of him, and hugged him around the knees. He was focused on me.
“Where did you get the f——g money to buy food?”
I wanted to be amenable, but I was too pissed off.
“Don’t you worry about it. It didn’t come from you.” As soon as the last syllable rolled off my lips, I knew it was a mistake. “Go in your room!”
Confused but obedient, the children scampered back down the hallway. This pushed me from mildly pissed off into high pissosity.
“You don’t get to yell at my children when you haven’t come home in three or four days!”
At that, he started toward me. I kept my back to him and continued tending to the fish. I knew this pattern. I knew he was trying to take the focus off of his absence.
He snatched my hair and pulled me toward him at the same time I was flipping a beautifully browned piece of whiting. He yelled that I thought he was stupid, and that he knew I was screwing some dude—which, of course, he’d made up. He promised to take the children and leave me with nothing.
“Nothing? You are nothing! If I was screwing somebody, you ain’t home enough to know about it!” That was the best I could muster, and it was too much.
He let go of my hair and grabbed me by the neck. Instinctively, I picked up the hot frying pan and threw it back over my shoulder. Although most of the hot fish grease missed his face, a great deal of it landed on his beautiful black cashmere coat. I tried to duck past him out of the narrow kitchen, but now the floor was covered in fish grease. I was slipping and sliding, he was screaming and swearing.
“Look what you did to my coat! You tryin’ to burn me! I’ll burn your ass!”
As he lunged toward me, he slipped and fell backwards against the refrigerator. This gave me time to make it into the hallway. I was halfway to the bedroom when he grabbed me by the hair again. I could see the children standing in the doorway of their room when the first blow hit me in the face. I went down. The next thing I knew he was on top of me, choking me. My ears were ringing. I could see dark spots intermingled with bursts of light. He’s trying to kill me. He is going to kill me. As these thoughts passed through my fading consciousness, a miracle occurred. He started wheezing and fell limp. My second husband suffered from chronic asthma.
Still, I couldn’t move, because all 210 pounds of his body were now dead weight on top of me. Damon was at the end of the hallway, crying. Gemmia, standing next to him, looked paralyzed by terror. As soon as I could catch my breath, I whispered, “Get Daddy’s medicine. Get Daddy’s medicine from my room.” Gemmia ran and retrieved his inhaler from the dresser. As she handed it to me, several huge tears fell across her face.
“It’s okay, baby. Mommy is okay.” But it wasn’t okay; that look in Gemmia’s eyes was not okay.
As best I could, I got the aspirator up to his mouth and pumped it. He was able to take a long, deep breath, which lightened his weight, and I wriggled out from under him, leaving him lying on the floor gasping for air. I gathered up my three children and hurried them into their bedroom, where I barricaded the door. We all piled on the bed and cried. I guess they were crying for me. I was crying for the horror my life had become.
It took me almost a year to leave that relationship, and throughout that year, I never forgot the look in Gemmia’s eyes.
I would never have considered myself a woman who put a man before her children, but that is exactly what I had become.
I knew this was a dangerous relationship. Although he accepted, cared for, and often provided for my children, he was jealous and violent as well as unfaithful and deceptive. I had wanted my children to have a father, some father, and he had shown up appearing willing to engage in my fantasy. What the heck was I thinking? I was thinking that I could give them what I never had. I was not thinking that I was showing my daughters what they should and could expect from a man. I was not thinking that I was showing my son what men could and should do. I was thinking that I was worthless and unworthy, and I should be glad that some man, even this violent man, wanted me.
Gemmia was seven years old when I entered college. This opened an entirely new world to me and my children. I worked during the day while they were in school. At 6 p.m., when the afterschool program ended, I would pick them up and take them to school with me. My small community college, Medgar Evers College in Brooklyn, was child-friendly. While I was in class, my children would sit on chairs in the hallway, playing or doing homework. This lasted until the middle of my sophomore year, when Damon and Gemmia insisted they were old enough to take care of themselves.
They had too much homework and wanted to stay home in the evenings. Damon was 11 years old, Gemmia was 9, and Nisa was 7. With the help of a good neighbor, it seemed possible.
Thus began my experience of parenting by telephone. I would get up every morning, make breakfast, and prepare dinner in advance before I went to work and the children went to school. After school, they would ride the bus home, lock themselves in our apartment, and call me at work. When I arrived at school, I would call home and instruct Gemmia to serve up dinner. My neighbor would check on them to ensure that all homework was done and that they didn’t burn the house down. I would get home at 10:00 or 10:30 to find the kitchen clean, the children in bed, and the pots empty. Rarely did they save any dinner for me.
In my junior year, I was elected President of the Student Government Association and spent more time than ever at the college. Around that same time, I also secured a position as dance instructor at my children’s school. I got to spend three afternoons a week teaching my own children about the love of my life— dancing. Damon and Nisa had the rhythm and caught on easily. Gemmia, at age 11, had two left feet and a long, angular body that refused to cooperate with the beat. No matter! We made it work.
By this time, my father had left Nett and had four other children; five if you count the one his mistress brought into the relationship. He and his new family lived walking distance from the school. Many evenings after dance class, I would drop the children off at his house while I went off to my night classes. I was grateful that they got to spend time with their grandfather. All of them loved it, especially Gemmia. She was his favorite, and he was the love of her life.
Peace From Broken Pieces: How to Get Through What You're Going Through Page 10
