Lundyn Bridges

by Patrice Johnson

  "I know it's hard to start out talking about yourself," she said from behind her desk. "So, I'll just tell you a little about me."

  I appreciated her introduction and listened as she superficially provided the details of her life. It was a ploy to engage me in conversation, and it worked. I found myself talking with her as if she were an aunt I was meeting for the first time at a family reunion. Our conversation was initially about common women's issues – our distaste for music, movies and videos that degrade women; becoming ladies in a society that has forgotten to honor women; loving men who have never been taught to love a woman; and the need to reach out to young girls who willingly call themselves profane names and wear provocative clothing once reserved for prostitutes. I can't even identify the transition that led to me talking about my life with the Woodard's. Kathleen was good, and I decided to stick with her as a therapist for my own healing and to glean from her methods.

  At the conclusion of our first session, Kathleen gave me a journal and told me to write the fragments of my life as I began remembering them. She acknowledged the enormity of such a challenge but also spoke to me professionally – we both knew this step would be painful yet necessary. These entries would be the basis of our sessions.

  Jamel and I began talking on the phone regularly and going out occasionally. He was comfortable and never over-bearing. Spending time with him was a welcomed addition to my routine. Although I attended a monthly girl's night out with the research team and participated in the Young Adult and Women's Ministries, my time was mostly spent working, with Kiarra, and watching movies.

  Two weeks after my first date with Jamel, I admitted to Kiarra I really liked him. I confessed how much I wished we had met at another time. There was so much going on in my life, and I didn't want anything to interfere with the possibility of a sincere relationship with him.

  A week passed before I complied with Kathleen's directive to write in my journal. This was not how I planned to spend my holiday – looking back and confronting the pain. However, I understood this was the necessary step for me to move forward. On Christmas Eve I wrote my first entry – I spent almost five hours trying to pen the pain I so desperately tried to forget.

  December 24, 2004

  There were never any pictures, and I had no fond remembrances of a favorite Christmas or birthday. My memories seemed to begin when I was five. I remember starting school and my mother taking me to my kindergarten class. She held my hand all the way to the door and then kissed me. “Make sure you learn everything you can,” she told me before leaving me with the teacher. My mother had a pretty smile. She was tall and thin, and I remembered her accessories. She always wore belts and big earrings with matching necklaces. We lived in the Garfield projects, and at that time, I didn’t know we were poor. My mother was creative, and I remember liking our apartment. I shared a room and a bed with Afreeka, and my mother always told me and Afreeka to be friends. Romen was ten, and he played football. We went to all of his games, even when it was cold or raining. My mother said family should stick together no matter what. When Romen played Martin Luther King, Jr. in a program at school, I remember my mother being very proud. Romen’s teacher took a picture of us after the program – it was the only picture I had of my mother, and I kept it in the book my mother had given me that Christmas. ‘Addie an American Girl’ was a book Afreeka read to me so often I could recite it with her by the time I was six.

  I remember my mother's Christmas cookies. Each one intricately decorated with frosting and colored sugar. She could make anything we asked. My mother also painted pictures on the legs of every pair of jeans she bought for me and Afreeka. I always wanted flowers, and Afreeka always wanted designs. My mother’s creativity intrigued us.

  Life changed the summer before I started first grade. That was when the man I remembered as my father stopped coming around and Mr. Anthony started hanging out at our house. I never liked him – no matter how many times he took us to McDonald’s or how many pairs of Reebok’s he bought me, I still didn’t like him. Actually, I didn’t trust him – I didn’t know why, and I couldn’t put it into words. My mother changed after she met him – she became different, detached and withdrawn. Mr. Anthony’s music was always blasting in his black Jeep that always smelled like smoke. When he was at our house, he always wanted my mother in the bedroom with him with the door closed. She would play loud music and there would be smoke coming from under the door.

  I don’t remember when my mother stopped taking care of us, or when her smile faded. I only remember the stillness of the night when my mother and Mr. Anthony had their last argument. It frightened us, and Romen came into our room and closed the door. We sat silently on our bed, staring out the window. We could see people pointing to our apartment because they could hear the argument too. I heard the sirens before I saw the lights, and then the police knocked on our door. Mr. Anthony called my mother a whore and then left with the police officers.

  I remember the day I came home from school, and my mother was still in bed. My mother cried for a long time. It was soon after that when my mother started going out all night. It was then Romen started taking care of us.

  I was eight the first time my mother went to a drug rehab. It was a bitter cold night in March of 1988 when she was arrested for prostitution to support her drug habit. I didn’t completely understand drug addiction, although I was accustomed to my mother’s absences. However, this intervention by the police and the other strangers in the middle of the night was new and frightening.

  The twins, Hustin and Rah'Lee, had just turned one and were too young to understand or question where they were going. They each held Romen’s hand, and he told them everything would be all right. At thirteen, Romen was able to take care of us; he had been doing it for the past three years. He made sure we ate dinner and took baths, even when my mom didn’t come home for days. Afreeka said when my mom first started leaving at night she used to cry. Tonight, at ten, she wasn’t crying; so I didn’t either. I sat on the couch holding Afreeka’s hand like Romen told me.

  The police and the other strangers left the door open while they spoke to Romen. I heard the officer tell Romen to sit down, but Romen just stood there holding hands with Hustin and Rah'Lee. It seemed like they asked Romen a million questions, and I sat close to Afreeka to keep my teeth from chattering. I was cold and afraid. After what seemed like an hour, a lady in jeans, sneakers and a purple leather jacket came in the door. She spoke to one of the officers, and then told Romen the twins had to go with her. Afreeka volunteered to dress them, but the lady said they could go in their pajamas. Romen didn't want to let go of their hands, and when the police officer made him, he began to cry. The lady quickly put their coats on over their pajamas, and one of the officers helped her carry them out the door. We could hear Rah'Lee and Hustin screaming. Afreeka and I went over to Romen and hugged him – then we all cried together. We had no idea what was going to happen to us. No one gave us any information except that our mother had been arrested and would be in jail for a while.

  That night was the first time Afreeka, Romen and I went to the Holy Family Children’s Shelter. We didn’t see the twins until we were reunited with my mother six months later.

  The case worker temporarily placed us in the Salvation Army Shelter because we were homeless. My mother cried each night and then hugged us every morning. With all the sincerity she could muster, she promised she would never use drugs again. She also promised us life would be better after we left the shelter and moved into our own place. Almost three months passed before we were moved from the Salvation Army Shelter to an apartment on Burrows Street in the Hill District.

  My gratitude for the apartment was overshadowed by having to transfer to another school. I was going to the fourth grade and had already attended three schools. This was also the first time, except for living on the campus of Holy Family, I had lived outside of the East End of Pittsburgh. The view of Burrows Street from my heavily dirt streaked bedroom
window obscured the stories I had heard about the grandeur of the Hill District. Although living in the projects was not new to me, this was different. Everyone in Garfield knew us by name, and they would feed us while my mother was away. An older lady, who I only knew as Grandma, lived across the street from us and always seemed to know when my mother was gone. We came to depend on her for a warm Pop Tart in the morning and gifts for our birthday and Christmas. I never got to tell her thank you or good-bye.

  This new life on the Hill meant multiple adjustments. Because we weren’t relocated until after Labor Day, school had already begun, and I didn’t have a chance to meet any new friends. When Romen took me to school on the first day, my teacher gave me one of those ‘I pity you’ looks I had come to know so well. I was sure that, somehow, my old school, Fort Pitt Elementary, had let them know the mother of the Bridges children was on drugs and rarely, if ever, showed up at school. It was almost a relief my mother never came to school – I couldn’t predict her moods and dreaded anyone making her angry because she would cuss them out. The principal and teachers at Fort Pitt knew better than to call her. We also knew better than to give them cause so we were always well behaved.

  When the teacher commented on the unique spelling of my name, I knew she was really saying my mother couldn’t spell. Romen and Afreeka said teachers would say the same thing to them. I didn't know what to think of my name, but by the fourth grade, I began to understand our names were very different. I never complained because Afreeka hated her name most of all.

  By this point in my young life, I had learned to be safe. Meeting new kids always meant going through the torture of being patronized by an unending chorus of London Bridges falling down. As the children sang, my soul sobbed. They had no idea that my feelings surpassed their taunting – Lundyn Bridges had fallen and was already crushed.

  Although several girls attempted to befriend me, I pretended to be extremely shy. My heart yearned for friends, but I knew the importance of keeping everything about me a secret.

  Until next time…

  It was almost refreshing to write it on paper. I stayed up until almost two-thirty in the morning and was glad dinner at Romen's wasn't until five o’clock on Christmas Day. I intentionally slept in. Before getting on the road, I called the Woodard's and wished them a wonderful holiday. I told Mom Woodard about the journal, and she encouraged me to see this through until the end – however long that would take.

  "You have been so blessed, Lundyn. Everyone realizes it but you."

  "I never really felt blessed." I replied before realizing my response seemed ungrateful.

  Mom Woodard was silent.

  "I didn't mean it like that," I quickly stated. "I appreciate everything you and Pop have done for me. I know my life has been completely different than what I imagined when we were removed from my mother. I just have always felt like there has been a void, a piece missing – something has kept me from feeling whole."

  "That something is you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Lundyn, you have been loved and cared for. You have been given opportunities to do, to go and to be, and you have been spiritually fed on the word of God. You are blessed, and you won't accept it. You continue to refuse to grab hold of the things that are already yours. You keep pushing them away because they didn't come the way you wanted them to come."

  Mom Woodard was right. I always felt guilty about receiving a better opportunity than my siblings. Mom Woodard had been telling me for years to study the story of Joseph, and how, in spite of everything else, he had been blessed so that in time of need he could be a blessing to his brothers.

  We talked for an hour, and I ended up rushing to get on the road by one o'clock so I wouldn't be late for dinner at Romen's. Although it hadn't snowed in Pittsburgh, there was always snow in Erie, which could delay my trip for an hour or more. Because of the time, I decided to call Kiarra when I arrived in Erie. Her family was spending Christmas with her grandmother in Philadelphia. I continued to pray she would be honest with her parents about Xavier. Her denial about the seriousness of his abuse would only leave the door open for him to return.

  I arrived at Romen's at four-thirty in the afternoon and was greeted with the disappointing news that Afreeka called to say she was working the holiday because she needed the money. I didn't believe that but refused to let her absence ruin the time with my brother and his family. I only had three days, and I intended to enjoy each one of them.

  Some friends of Romen and Nina's joined us for dessert. After exchanging greetings, I excused myself – I hadn't unpacked and said I would listen for the baby in his nursery. Romen followed me upstairs to the guest room.

  "You don't have to hide in the room, Lundyn."

  "I need to unpack."

  "I know you feel awkward …"

  "I'm used to being alone," I interrupted him.

  "I'll stay with you – we can spend the time catching up."

  Romen was still trying to take care of me, still trying to make things better. I loved that about him, and it made me smile.

  "Romen, don't be silly," I said hugging him. "Go enjoy your guests."

  Romen patted me on the head before leaving the room.

  After unpacking, I sat on the bed and called Jamel at his mother's house to wish him a Merry Christmas. The house was filled with noise – the kind of noise that speaks of family – Christmas music and laughter. In that moment, jealously pinched me. That was the noise I had seen in movies and read about in books.

  After my phone call, I sat on the bed listening to the noise coming from Romen's family room. They were laughing and talking over the Christmas music of Mariah Carey. It was the sound of happiness. I took my journal from my suitcase and continued my story, beginning with the one day when I remembered waking to music.

  December 25, 2004

  One Sunday morning in October we awoke to the sound of gospel music playing on the radio.

  “We’re going to church,” my mother announced. “Only God can help us, and we need to pray.”

  Although my mother had casually mentioned going to church in the past, this was the first time she seemed serious about attending. My excitement about going to church was fueled by the stories repeatedly told by some of the kids in my class. They always talked about the nice things they did at church – the plays, the field trips, bowling, the Girl Scout troop and the free summer camp. I was also interested in learning how to pray to the God that everyone spoke of so highly. All I wanted was stability, but all I ever got was having to adjust. I assumed I probably wasn’t praying correctly because my family had a lot of requests God had not answered.

  Initially, my mother seemed to enjoy church. She would often cry during the Sunday sermon, and when we returned home she would read from the Bible they gave her when she joined. Sometimes, during the night, I would hear her crying and asking God to help her take care of her babies and get her out of the public housing projects. It made me feel good to know my mother wanted to make things better. I believed her and prayed along with her. I asked God to make my mother strong enough to stay off drugs and to love us enough to never leave us alone at night.

  We had been in our apartment for almost three months, and I began to lose hope about the chance to experience better. My faith was waning. Although we did have our own apartment, my mother was unable to secure employment because of her addiction, criminal past and lack of education. I also assumed I was still praying incorrectly.

  Thanksgiving should have been a happy time, but my mother’s tears during dinner were evidence that it wasn’t. After she blessed the food, she apologized for serving chicken wings and for us not having a grandmother and family to eat with. She rarely spoke of her mother or her sister, except to say it was her fault we didn’t know them. She never explained any details. Having never known my grandmother, I didn’t miss not knowing her and thought the barbeque wings and greens were really good.

  By this time, the begging in my prayers be
came specific – “Please God give my mom a job and make her happy.” Sometimes I cried, sometimes I whined and sometimes I shouted in anger with a clenched fist. I was desperate and felt so deflated every time my mother came in with the bad news that no store would hire her. As Christmas approached, my mother seemed to get sadder – especially because she still didn’t have a job. I had already learned my first lesson in addiction and knew, if things didn't get better, my mother would return to the drugs.

  That night in March when the police and caseworkers came to take us away still haunted me. My brothers, sisters and I were so happy to be reunited, and Romen made us hug each other and say I love you every night before we went to bed. It was almost as if he was afraid we would be separated in the middle of the night again. Afreeka cried all the time and she would never tell me why. Instead, she always lied and said, "I'm okay." The twins clung to each other – when Rah'Lee cried, so did Hustin; if one wanted a cookie, so did the other one. They also seemed to have their own language which included facial expressions, gestures and stares.

  My mother tried to maintain some level of hope, and she was insistent that if we prayed hard enough, God would answer her prayers. We prayed as a family every night, and I liked holding hands in a circle in the living room. In spite of the cold, we were walking down the hill to Lincoln Avenue to take the 81 bus to get to church every Sunday and Wednesday. My mom was reading her Bible everyday –still no one called to hire her, not even the department stores. Mom started staying in bed all day, leaving Romen and Afreeka to feed us. Sometimes, when I came home from school, the twins were still in their pajamas in front of the television.

  Until next time.…

  I heard the front door close and assumed their guests had gone. The clock said eleven-thirty, and I decided to put my journal away for the night. Although I spent years trying to forget – the memories of my last Christmas with my mother remained vivid. This Christmas with my brother and his family was going to be a new memory.