by Amy Sorrells
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
She grabbed my hand and yanked me into her thick arms for a hug. She smelled like night cream, green beans, and snickerdoodles.
“And you must be Ernestine. You been a godsend to these girls, from what I understand. Welcome!”
Ernestine extended her hand, but Aamina hugged her, too. “What’s with all the handshakes? Let Aamina hold on to ya!”
“A pleasure to meet you, Aamina.”
“You must be hungry after your drive. Come on into the back—we’re about ready for lunch service.”
We followed her through the middle of the church sanctuary, which smelled like the old, lemon-oiled wood of the pews, and out the back. A hallway sloped down steep and opened up into the newer part of the building. A sign hung on the wall, pointing right to the dining hall and left for the clinic. We turned right toward the dining hall, a gym that doubled as a cafeteria. Women of all ages smiled and talked, some holding babies or the hands of wriggling toddlers. Others stood by themselves, shoulders drooping, wearing threadbare clothes that were either too man-ish, too tight, too short, or all of the above.
Aamina led us to a serving line like at my school cafeteria, with the same plastic trays that had separate compartments for milk, vegetables, and the main course. I felt starved, and the cheeseburgers, sliced pears, green beans, French fries, and carton of ice cream looked scrumptious. When we were through the line, we found a spot away from the crowded tables where we could visit easier. Aamina said hello to everyone she passed, and every one of them seemed happy to see her.
“We’ve got an afternoon of fun planned for you—helping with the preschool, observing intake, and serving dinner to our friends.”
“Thank you so much. I hope it wasn’t so short of notice that we’re a bother.”
“Oralee, you never a bother. And our friends love when new folks come serve.”
“Are there babies that need rockin’?” asked Ernestine.
“We got a whole room full of ’em for you, Ernestine.” Aamina’s laugh was like happy notes on a xylophone.
“Where do they come from?” I asked.
“Who, child?”
“The women and children. Do they live here?”
Aamina raised an eyebrow at Mama. “Your mama didn’t tell you about what we do here?”
“No, ma’am.”
She winked at Mama. “Well, okay then. We best start at the beginning. Back in the 1930s, during the Great Depression, shelters overflowed with folks needing a place to live. Mothers and children, especially, had no place to turn if their husbands left—and a lot of them did back then. Couldn’t feed their families, so they up and left, figuring at least they could take care of themselves by finding work in the city. Jobs were scarce though. Enough men grabbing them up, weren’t none left for women. A Catholic priest named Father Michael O’Shaughasee saw the need and asked the archdiocese to help start St. Augustine’s Freedom Home in a mansion that once stood on this site. So many lined up the first day they turned folks away, which broke Father Michael’s heart. Eventually, the church raised enough money to build this new building in 1957, so now up to one hundred women and children can stay. The church pays teachers to help run a preschool and day care while mothers find jobs and get back to work as much as possible. Eventually, most of the women leave us able to support and care for themselves.
“I used to live here myself, until I got healthy enough to get a job and live on my own. Now I work here full-time. Wouldn’t leave for the world. These women here, most of ’em been through things you can’t imagine. They’ve come here seeking shelter from families or boyfriends or spouses who near beat ’em to a pulp. Come here bloody rag dolls before they think to go to a hospital, they’re so scared. That’s why we got that free clinic you saw on the way in. Nurses and doctors volunteer to patch ’em up until they feel safe enough to get to a hospital or outside doctor. Some of ’em come here pregnant—by choice or, more often, by rape or incest—and they stay here. We see they get proper pregnancy care, and often, they and their babies come back to stay after delivery. They’re welcome to stay as long as they need, as long as they’re working on more schooling or jobs or a way to eventually be independent again—some for the first time in their lives.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Indeed. These ain’t subjects most folks talk about. Everyday folks are too busy to see the hurt around ’em, or if they could see, they too busy to care. Often, helping hurting people makes a hurting person feel too much of their own pain, and they never come back to volunteer again.”
Mama finished a bite of burger. “It’s amazing how much a smile and warm touch can fill a person up and give them hope to live.”
“See that friend over there?” Aamina nodded toward a table where a pale woman with long blonde braids hoisted a chubby baby boy high in the air, the two of them laughing and carrying on like no one else was in the room. Made me laugh, too, they laughed so hard and big. “Her name is Mary. Mary’d been selling herself to men since she was ten and her mama died of a drug overdose and her daddy—well, she never did know him. She came to us when she was nineteen and scared to death of her pimp and thinner than a splinter off a porch rail.”
“What’s a pimp?”
Aamina looked at Mama to make sure she should continue.
“Go on, Aamina.”
“A pimp’s the name they give a man who enslaves girls and women and sells them to others for sex, making them turn over part or most of the money they make in exchange for a place to live, food, and clothes. A girl can’t leave her pimp without being beaten. Mary was lucky. She ran away without getting caught. Others can’t or are killed by the pimp or his thugs for trying.
“So we gave Mary a bed and helped her change her name. She’s in beauty school now.
“Baby’s name is Ben. His daddy has a real good job in construction, but Mary and Ben are staying here until she and the daddy are sure about the wisdom of a marriage and the ability to build a life together.”
“Why do people do that to each other?”
“Desperation, drugs, they’re born into it, groomed for it … hunger and exhaustion makes ’em not care no more.”
“She looks so happy, like none of it happened to her.”
“That’s what the Lord can do with a life. Like the story in Daniel, when the king put Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the furnace of fire. God stayed with them the whole time—He was the fourth man who appeared in there with them. And when they came out? None of ’em even smelled like smoke. The only thing that burned was the ropes around they wrists. That’s what the Lord can do with a person who’s walked through fire. Free ’em from chains that keep ’em bound up tight and from clouds of despair and smoke and flame. If that person lets God help.” Aamina kept her eyes on Mary and Ben and smiled.
The afternoon passed quickly, and we made lots of new friends. I played on the playground and helped in some of the younger children’s classrooms. Ernestine rocked all the babies she could, and Mama helped Aamina with staffing the front office.
After serving dinner, we sat in the front office for intake, which Aamina said’s the best part of the day. Said she loves seeing folks take the first step toward healing and making better lives for themselves. Said a lot of outsiders think seeking help is for weaklings and that the past should be left in the past and not dealt with.
“But not dealing with the past,” she said, “is like having a skunk in the middle of your living room. You don’t notice it after a while, but everyone around you smells it, and it rubs off on folks who visit, and no amount of tomato juice baths will ever wash the stink away. You can only bury the past when you acknowledge it and don’t allow it to sidle up against your leg no more. Even then, digging the hole to bury the thing is hard work. It’s the hard work of healing most folks never want to do.”
&n
bsp; The intake room was inside an old side entrance to the sanctuary. Pale-pink wallpaper with giant, ivory magnolias covered the walls. Aamina said brides used it to prepare for their weddings. At 6:30, the current St. Augustine residents checked in for the evening. Then at 7:15, check-in opened up to newcomers.
The first woman who came in didn’t look any older than the upper classmen at my school. She wore a faded, tie-dye shirt, running shorts, and blue-and-white flip-flops. A red bandana held her long blonde hair off her face. A little girl about three or four years old slept on her shoulder. She wore a yellow sundress—nearly the same color as her curly hair—that tied at her shoulders. They were both way too skinny, and I noticed matching bruises on and around each of their thighs.
“I’m Aamina. Welcome to St. Augustine’s.” She held out her hand and the young lady shook it limply.
“I’m Sunny, and this here’s June.”
“Sunny, pleasure to meet you. Hey, June. Hey, baby.” Aamina rubbed June’s bony shoulder. “Goodness’ sake. She’s burning up.”
“Yeah, she’s been sick. I ran outta her medicine, and now she’s sicker than last week. Can you help?”
“Well, the clinic’s only open a few hours each day. This is for folks who need a place to stay.”
“Need that, too.” Sunny lowered her eyes and rocked June from side to side.
“Okay, if that’s the case, have a seat. We’ll need to ask you a few questions—basic information we take on everyone. Otherwise, everything you say is kept confidential, and we tell no one you’re here unless you tell us you’re accepting their calls.”
“Not much to tell you. June and me—her daddy beats us. And we had enough.”
June snuggled closer into Sunny, and I saw three bruises the shapes of fingers on her limp upper arm.
“One more thing. You have to be at least eighteen for us to take you in.”
“Turned eighteen yesterday. Got here as quick as I could.”
Aamina pursed her lips like she had to think about the awfulness of that. Finally, she spoke. “Okay. Let’s start with June. My friend Oralee came to help tonight, and it happens she’s a nurse. So we’ll get June checked over and see what she needs. Then we’ll check you over too. Won’t take but a half hour or so. Then we’ll get you something warm to eat and settle you into your beds. Mothers and their children stay together.”
Mama put a hand on Sunny’s back and led her and June to a bench across the room where another intake worker waited to help with paperwork. In the meantime, I saw Ernestine greeting a tall girl with long, black hair parted down the middle that fell in soft waves around her face and down the middle of her back. Pretty enough for a Miss Alabama contestant, the girl kept her arms crossed in front of her tight, like she fought to hold something in. I recognized the Greek letters on her T-shirt from pictures of Mama and her sorority friends. At first, I thought the girl came to volunteer. Then her smile turned into a frown and tears flowed down her face like the creek behind Comfort’s house. She nodded to whatever Ernestine said to her, and it drove me crazy not hearing their conversation.
Aamina must’ve read my mind. “It’s always the ones you least expect. I’ll put money down on her being pregnant and from one of the universities. Come down here so’s none of their friends’ll know they’re in trouble.”
“Why can’t they tell their friends?”
“If they were true friends, they could. But a lot of folks is friends on a surface thinner than a thawing lake. One wrong move or misperception and it’s over.”
“But if she’s having a baby, isn’t that exciting?”
“Not if you’re unmarried and in a sorority it ain’t.”
Ernestine brought the girl to where we sat. “This is Jenny.”
“Hi, Jenny. What can we do for you, darlin’?” Aamina said this like showing up at intake at St. Augustine’s was the most normal thing in the world.
“It’s okay. You can tell ’er.” Ernestine put an arm around the willowy girl.
“A … a few weeks ago, I was at a party and … things were crazy … outta hand …” Jenny searched Ernestine’s eyes for help.
“Go on, child. We’re all here to help.”
Jenny inhaled like a person about to dive under water. “A few of the boys, I don’t know how … I got locked in a room with ’em, and I couldn’t get out … no one heard me … the music and shouting was so loud …” She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes fluttering, trying to fight back tears. “Now I’m pregnant … I can’t go back … I can’t go home … I don’t know …”
“Sweet Jesus.” Aamina flew out of her chair and wrapped a trembling Jenny in her hefty arms. The girl’s shoulders shook with sobs. “You come to the right place, baby. You come to the right place.”
Only three other women came in that night. In the meantime, I helped Sunny and Jenny sort through the donations room for a couple of outfits, new underwear, and pajamas. Then we fixed ’em up with toothbrushes, hairbrushes, and other toiletries. Each one of them got a brand-new Bible, too, a study Bible with Jesus’s words in red. I took off two of the friendship bracelets Ernestine and I made and stuck them in next to Psalm 34, which I told them was my favorite scripture, next to Isaiah 61, on account of how it talks about angels setting up tents around us, protecting us, and pulling us outta trouble, and how God stays close to the brokenhearted. “I hope you don’t mind my sharing this. I thought you might like it.”
I don’t know which they liked better, the verse or the bracelet, but it felt nice to leave a bit of me tucked into those pages for them.
The ice cream part of the Dilly Bar dripped down the stick over my hand.
“Better hurry up and eat that. Told ya to get something in a bowl.” Ernestine grinned at me from the front seat and ate a spoonful of her Peanut Buster Parfait.
“Thanks for taking me there, Mama,” I said between bites.
“So you liked it?”
“Yeah. I like learning about things you did when you were younger.”
“And I like showing you. But that’s not the big reason I took you there today.”
“It’s not?”
“I needed you to see where Princella grew up.”
Well, good thing I was sitting down, because you coulda knocked me over with a feather right then and there. “Princella? Grew up there?”
“Yep. She did. She and her brother.”
“She has a brother?”
“Yes, but they don’t ever speak. I’m not sure I remember what his name is or where he lives. They had a falling out over something trivial like a piece of their mama’s jewelry, and she wrote him off forever.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s Princella. Anyway, Princella’s mama brought them to St. Augustine’s when they were barely in grade school. Much like June’s daddy, their daddy hurt them in awful ways. St. Augustine’s took them in. When Princella was fifteen, her mama died of diphtheria and the folks at St. Augustine took her and her brother in as their own.”
“Then why does she hate poor people so much if she was one herself and so many people helped her?”
“Good question.” Mama turned off the interstate onto the Bay State Highway. We cranked down our windows to breathe in the dark relief of the salty air. “I’m not so sure she hates them, as much as she hates the parts of herself she sees in them.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Ernestine rested her head against the back of the seat.
“Princella worked hard in school and got a full scholarship to Alabama Southern. Room, board, everything paid for. A group of St. Augustine donors sponsor one child every four years for college, and that year, they chose Princella.”
“That’s cool—”
“Woulda been, but Princella took the money and ran. Oh, she went to ASU for a while, and boy did she ever let loose. Got involved in the social high life, ne
ver told a soul about her upbringing. Fell for that football player—Cole’s biological father—who dumped her as soon as he found out she was pregnant.”
“But what about college and how she was in a sorority and all? How’d she do all that being pregnant?”
“She didn’t ever finish. She lies about it all the time. Made up some big story about a New Orleans wedding, too. No one in Vaughn’s family—including Vaughn—ever said otherwise. So folks around town all believe it.”
“So if Princella didn’t tell anybody about St. Augustine’s and kept it such a big secret, how did you find out?”
“When your daddy and I dated, Princella caused me a lot of trouble. I never measured up. The people at St. Augustine’s were some of my best friends. So I talked to Aamina and the others about her. As soon as I said Princella’s name, Aamina knew. I brought in a photograph to confirm, but Aamina knew she was the same Princella. They’d been bunkmates more than once during the years they lived here together. It nearly broke Aamina’s heart to hear how Princella turned out. Said maybe me and Rey could redeem some of the good St. Augustine’s poured into her.” Mama shook her head and sighed.
“You don’t think you have redeemed anything, Oralee?” Ernestine asked.
“No … I don’t know. I don’t know if any of Princella can be redeemed.”
“Oui, but look in your rearview mirror.”
In the mirror I could see the lines around Mama’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “You’re right, Ernestine,” she said. “You’re always right.”
Bay Spring Banner Sentinel,
Monday, March 17, 1980
By Shirley O’Day, Social Reporter
Saturday night marked the Fifty-Third Anniversary of the Daughters of the Confederacy Cotillion and Bay Spring Auxiliary Auction. It grieves me to report the event was a disaster of highest proportion that violated not only social but Southern rules of etiquette as well.
Several ladies invited guests who had never set foot in a junior etiquette or cotillion class, which was quite evident to all. Which goes to show, Southern belles and gentlemen are born and not made, and rules are bred, not taught.
