The Color of Family

by Patricia Jones

  So in closing, I must say, the discussion of the term passing in all those letters I received has made me think of a question I am most often asked about my own child: “What will you tell her she is?” The first impudent thought that comes to my mind when asked this is to say: “Well, if for some reason she ever forgets, I’ll tell her that she’s a human female.” But my better judgment tells me that this answer would only make matters worse. So my pat answer is this: I say that I have made my daughter aware of all the parts of her heritage that make her so special. And when and if the subject of how she should define herself comes up, I will let her know that if this is supposed to be the land of the free, then she should feel free enough to define herself in whatever way makes her feel whole. However, I would set her up for serious hurt and disappointment if I were not to tell her that there will be many, many in this country who will look at her, and look at me, and not allow her the freedom to define herself as she so chooses—case closed. She can fight it, she can accept it, or she can choose to simply not be touched by it, but she will ultimately need to know that even with the passage of time, color still matters in America.”

  Pat was loved by so many. Her passing affected us all, but what is more important is that her life affected us all. Her family and friends pay tribute:

  To my friend—

  “You are the image that you seek

  You are the message as you speak

  You are a lamp the light shines through

  Infinite Energy expressed as You”

  Your friend forever,

  Debbie Derella Cheren

  My very best friend, your sister, Bettye, introduced us when you were in elementary school. I remember her having to pick you up from school. Boy, would she be mad. We were teenagers in high school and didn’t think looking after a little sister was the highlight of our day.

  Even though we were not sisters by birth, you were that little sister to me. I watched you grow from a little girl in pigtails to a beautiful effervescent woman. My memories of you will always be your radiant smile and your quick sense of humor. In fact, you could always shock me with your vivid language (especially if your mother was present). I would laugh and laugh and love you more for being you.

  There are many memories I have of you, Pat, and they will always be with me. I will not speak on your illness because it took you away too soon. I am at this moment filled with sorrow and yes, tears as I am trying very hard to put my thoughts in writing.

  My memories will always be happy ones. Bettye and I were talking about you several nights ago and we started laughing when we remembered her son Keith and Chenelle’s wedding. You were a riot. You and I sat next to each other and no one could understand why I was laughing because you kept a straight face. If only they could hear what you were saying. Let’s just say it was a “colorful” conversation.

  If someone should see me smiling and chuckling out loud, they will think, this person is strange. If they ask, I will say I am thinking of my “little sister” who is no longer here with me. She left behind many wonderful memories.

  I love you and will always miss you.

  Cynthia

  Her inner and outer beauty, her smile lit up everyone’s heart. Her laughter, her warmth, her genuine personae is what I miss most…. Pat you are always in my heart….

  Love you, Millie.

  Patricia! A great sister!!

  Love, Dave Miller

  I’d been to other funerals—uncles, grandparents, young cousins with short trajectories, too weak to escape the gravity of black life—but only the death of my father hit me like the loss of Pat. Some deaths are unexplainable, tragic; others ultimately make sense. Mama Della, my grandmother, was a kind of sacred and perpetual being, always old, always there, a deep dish apple pie-baking life constant. I assumed, and in a way really believed, that after hitting 100 Mama Della would get another century free, but when she passed just shy of 102, I merely felt grateful for having had her around for so long. Pat, however, was a baby. In some ways, my baby. And I was her best girlfriend. And when it was my turn to pay my respects to the family at the church, after having held up fairly well through the service, I collapsed into her sister Velma’s arms and cried, clinging to her like a lab-raised Rhesus monkey to a mother-shaped towel.

  Tears and a Tyrannosaur. For a moment, I felt guilty. My mind flashed to my seven-or eight-year-old nephew Austin watching Jurassic Park for the first time. The T-Rex, a delightfully engineered animatronic terror, made quick work of the lawyer in two chomps and Austin was rolling on the floor. Samuel L. Jackson was reduced to a severed arm and Austin was seized by an almost obscene giddiness. But when the two kids were being menaced by a pair of overachieving velociraptors he steadfastly refused to watch, their faces a mirror of his fear. In that moment, held in Velma’s arms, I wondered if I was being Austin. But the moment passed. I wasn’t. I was desperate because a woman, a friend I loved, was no longer.

  Boston University, 1982. Pat sat across the room in Soviet Political Dynamics, a slender and stunning curve of deep chocolate intelligence and grace with a southern flavor to her voice when occasionally it was raised to articulate some high-level cold war shadiness. To many folk, brown and otherwise, the brilliance of her smile, the “good” hair—big and home grown—the poorly masked high IQ, the Tanglewood-coached fingers coupled with her reticence, pointed to a chocolate-dipped white girl variety of conceit, but to my eyes she was all shyness and vulnerability. I adored her, but shy myself, I never spoke to her.

  Manhattan. Eight years later, Madison and 42nd, and there she was, as stunning as ever and walking directly toward me. I tried to imagine the course of our paths since our divergence, perhaps as a stabilizing device, to keep my now rapidly vibrating molecules from losing their cohesion—imagine running into her after all these years only to go poof in a gentle fog of cowardice. No. I would not cave in. I resolved to speak to her, and further, I willed that she would be delighted to see me, give me her number and invite me to a picnic somewhere in New Jersey. And so it was.

  I said girlfriend earlier. I said it because at her New York memorial, her female friends indicated that they were delighted to meet me after hearing about me for so long. They were the ones to tell me that she referred to me as her best girlfriend. But I’m not a girl. Not at all. Nor was it my intention to ever be so dubbed.

  I never made it to the picnic, but I did invite her over to my place for brunch, which I prepared myself. She was a delightful guest and we talked for hours. And again. Hanging, talking, laughing. One afternoon, in her St. James Place studio, she sat on a bentwood rocker, crossed her legs, took a sip of something cool, set it down, opened an original manuscript and began to read. Observations about life on the left coast, Los Angeles to be specific. Funny. Sharp. Artful. Perceptive. Her voice sweet and confident, her cadence enchanting, her deep brown legs long and generously exposed. It was all I could do to keep from throwing myself to my knees and pressing my lips to her thighs. When she finished reading she rose, sat next to me on the couch, without speaking put her foot on my knee, and without speaking I took it into my hand and kneaded, stretched, caressed—heel, ball, arch, toes and between, and then the other, all my budding desire finding expression in the gesture.

  Valentine’s Day. I’ve re-known Pat for more than a few months. Spoken to her almost daily. Never really stopped thinking about her. And felt some reciprocity—I’m sure of it. A trip to Balducci’s. Three large chocolate-covered strawberries in a ribbon-bound box and a bike ride in the pouring rain. She opens the door with a smile and invites me in.

  “I can’t come in.”

  She stands in the doorway. I remain on the stoop. “I need to talk to you.” I hand her the box. She smiles again. “I want you to have them because I’d love more than anything for you to be my Valentine, and I don’t even like Valentine’s Day.” I can feel her breath catch. “But I also have to tell you…” The smile ebbs. “…that I have a girlfriend.”

 
; I think she might have cried. I think I did. She didn’t speak to me for a while. When she did, I caught more than a little hell. But while a measure of romantic trust was irreparably eroded, our rapport was intact and we became close. Very close. And so we’d remain. One of my proudest moments was being one of her bridesmaids, or as written in the program, her bride’s dude. There’s so much more I could tell, good and bad, fun, silly and sad, but I think I’ll end it here. As she put it one day as we headed to a book signing at the Studio Museum in Harlem, she’s the writer, I’m just the pretty thing on her arm to keep her drink refreshed.

  (Is this okay, Pat? You are, will always be my darling Sha Sha, and you know what I’m thinking, right? Yeah, you know.)

  Daryl N. Long

  May 25, 2004

  Memories

  Even at three years old, Pat demonstrated a remarkable maturity. I took her to see the movie Mary Poppins. She was a perfect little girl, focusing on the movie like a child beyond her years.

  She was always so very friendly and developed special relationships with people. My husband, Sylvan, took off from work one day to go to her junior high school for career day. The two of them had a special bond because of her outgoing nature. During her illness, she visited Maryland many times. We visited her often at her mother’s house.

  One time, while she was undergoing chemotherapy, she was pulling out her hair and Sylvan told her to stop. She said that her hair was going to come out anyway and that she would just wear a wig. They both laughed. Her sense of humor was always present. Sylvan drove himself to visit Pat before she returned to New York. They were both courageously fighting cancer. Pat had a book reading at Enoch Pratt Library, the main branch in Baltimore, and recited several passages beautifully. Once again she was courageous, friendly, outgoing and professional at this event. I remember the last time I saw her at a book signing in Owings Mills Mall in Baltimore. She wasn’t feeling well, but with her usual sense of professionalism and friendliness, she kept her obligation. Pat had a dream of being a writer. She accomplished her dream when so many don’t. She couldn’t be stopped. Pat did it her way, and she was a success. Words that describe Pat are friendly, persevering, joyful, outgoing, professional, stylish and very humorous.

  Love you,

  Sylvia, your cousin

  My Dearest Pat,

  What words can I say to express my love for you? I live every day with fond memories and regrets. Memories of your visits to Baltimore, my trips to New York, letters written, pictures taken; regrets of never spending enough time with you, and choosing to hang with my friends instead of my family. My greatest regret is never saying goodbye. On your final visit to Baltimore, I knew it was going to be your last, but for some reason, I couldn’t let you go. I relied on faith to pull you through again. I was selfish. I was angry when you died. There were so many things I never got to tell you.

  I have always admired you for your free spirit, your charisma, your dedication and commitment to your family, and the way you never hesitated to speak your mind. I will never forget the life-altering decision I made in the eighth grade. I never told you this, but you were a very intricate part of my healing. You always made me feel pretty when I felt ugly. I will always remember when you told me I had to love and accept myself to love and respect others. I will never forget that. When I was lost and confused, it was you who told me to write down all of the goals and aspirations I had for myself, put them in my favorite Bible verse and never open to that page again until I accomplished my missions in life. For that, I am eternally grateful. For that, I never gave up and I always persevered.

  On my twenty-third birthday, I confidently opened to that Bible verse, as I had finally met the ideals set forth for myself. This Bible verse is the center of my wedding and will always remain close to my heart because of you. I love therefore I can love. I miss the crazy healthy food you always made, your timeless sense of humor, your remarkable smile, and the clothes that you made me, but above all, I miss you. You helped me to realize that my family should always be my #1 priority. As far as Alexandra is concerned, I will always be there for her, just like you were there for me. I will never leave or forsake her. I thank you for watching over me and protecting me, for helping me through hardships and for your angelic visits. I hope you are proud of me for the woman I have become. You are truly one of a kind, you are timeless, priceless, and I will never forget you.

  Love,

  Miss Kelley, your loving niece

  To my Aunt Patricia in the skies above,

  Looking down upon us, with your sweet, sweet love

  This is a tribute to you, and your effect on me

  Years and years of bringing happiness and glee

  From your bright smile to your unique fashion

  To the literary works that you write with passion

  From the beautiful child you brought into this world

  To your personality that glows brighter than a pearl

  The jokes and witty comments that made me laugh so hard

  Your devotion, dedication, and faith in GOD

  Your energy, focus, and motivation

  You always seem to rise above any complication

  I thank you for all that you have done

  As a tribute, I gave part of your name to my son

  Here’s a toast to you—Aunt, Author, and Friend

  I miss you and I will definitely see you again

  Keith Pettiford

  Dear Pat,

  I wake up some mornings and I hear your sweet voice, then I look at my son (Justin Randall Patrick) and remember what an inspiration you were to all. This is why my son has your name. I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with you but the times that were shared were cherished ones, like talking about shoes and the new books that were out. Then there is Kayla who asks about you and how your boo boo is doing. I tell her that Aunt Pat is OK and she’s better than she’s ever been.

  Love, Chenelle, Kayla, and Justin

  If there was one thing I remember about Pat, it was her energy. She loved to EAT and it never slowed her down. When she would visit, you had to make sure you had enough snacks for her because she would eat all night. She always told it like it was, very real and straight to the point. Never had any qualms about telling a person how she felt. She’s had life experiences like none other. She told some hilarious stories about her life in New York. Pat also was a dynamite clothes maker who wore her own creations. She made children’s clothes for her daughter to wear as well. Writing was her love and putting out three books was just the tip of the iceberg for her. If only she had the time to enjoy her success. I was so honored to be at the signing of her first book, and to see the crowd that gathered around her to have their book signed is something you could only dream about. And that was her dream. She was a talent.

  Pat I love you and I miss you.

  Derek (your loving nephew)

  “Me and my Pat—went to the zoo—we saw so many animals it wasn’t too soon…with my Pat, my Pat, my Pat and my Pat….” That was our song Pat. One of my favorite parts of growing up was spending every summer with you in New York. It was like hanging out with my big sister, best friend, and mother all in one. We shared so much—my first Broadway play, the Zodiac Killer, subway rides in the dark, and all of Central Park’s weirdoes. I miss you so much. Sometimes it feels like you are still in New York and I will see you at Christmas. Then Christmas comes and reality sets in that you are gone. But I know you are still the same ole Pat, crazy, fun, and colorful as ever—just in a different place. You will never be forgotten and I love you.

  Love always,

  Your Beanie (Kenya, your loving niece)

  A Vision of Loveliness

  by Erin Dodson

  You came to me in a vision, so beautiful to see.

  You came to me in a vision and spoke so gently to me.

  You assured me you were ok and that everything was alright.

  I never shall forget just how you looked that night.


  You came to me in a vision so beautiful to see.

  That vision of loveliness left me with such peace.

  Dear Pat,

  You came to me in a vision the night before I went to see you at the funeral home. A light shined through my door that was so bright. You were wearing orange, your favorite color. You spoke to me and said, “Erin, it’s ok.” The very next day, I went to see you at the funeral home. You were wearing the same orange out-fit you were wearing in my vision. It didn’t scare me. I was honored that you chose to come to me. All I can say is you are greatly missed. Your humor, your charm, and definitely your unique style are all a part of what make you so special. It is hard to accept that you are gone. Always know that you will forever live on in my heart and my memories of you. I love you, though we didn’t say it much.

  Love forever,

  “Lady Erin”

  Thoughts on a Life

  Asked to reflect upon my Aunt Pat’s life by delivering some words, I ran across a quote I squirreled away by a woman named Gail Sher. She said: “Writers write. Writing is a process. You don’t know what your writing will be like until the end of the process. If writing is your practice, the only way to fail is not to write.” While I’m not a professional writer, this quotation’s relevancy for me and my life is fast. Whatever it is you do, your biggest failure is to fail to do it. To make excuses. The bravery my aunt showed to do what she loved, despite difficult circumstances, represents the inspiration that my aunt has had on my life through living her own.