Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --Bare.
But all the time,
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now --For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair"
-Langston Hughes Mother To Son
When I was younger, I had to read poems by Langston Hughes and other African American authors as a part of my curriculum. I have always enjoyed reading. And a good thing, too, because my mother insisted that we read and write constantly. We had to spend every Saturday morning at the library reading books and checking them out to read during the week. Education was my mother's biggest thing. It's the one thing she insisted on for us. She would always tell us that no matter how someone tried to hold you back or take things from you, they could not take your knowledge - so get all that you can. It's the one thing that you have control of that is always yours.
I read all types of books, not just African Americans. Some of the material I read was written by non-African American authors, such as Jane Austen, Edgar Allen Poe and Charles Dickens. Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility were two of my favorites. But the readings that stuck with me all through life - are The Orangeburg Massacre (Jack Bass), Black Like Me (J.H. Griffin), and the poem Mother to Son (Langston Hughes). I think reading these literary works were the first real eye opener for me, related to the struggles of being black in America. I am it was a part of my curriculum because I probably would not have chosen them on my own at that stage in my life.
I can clearly remember my childhood when the Klu-Klux Klansmen rode through our neighborhood on horseback, yelling and throwing sticks of fire in people's yard. Momma and the neighbors would grab us kids and run for the corn fields where we would hide until they left. I was just a child so I didn't understand what was going on and whenever I asked my mother, she wouldn't explain. The response was always "be quiet. don't ask so many questions". (lol)
I was much older before I figured out that the parents did that to protect us from being raped or beaten or even murdered. And we fled the homes just in case one of those burning crosses landed inside the house and started a fire. I remember one night they threw a burning cross in old man Miller's yard. Mr. Miller was what we called a simpleton, but a nice old man that could really blow a harmonica. I remember hearing momma say Mr. Miller had to move or they might burn him out the next time they came back. Well, Mr. Miller didn't move (he had no where to go) and they didn't burn him out. We could always hear the KKK rallying in the field around the corner and once the rallying started, our parents would get us and hide because they knew they would be riding the neighborhood next. So, as you can see, from very early in life I was introduced to hatred and meanness and it was these episodes in life that sparked my passion for psychology. I just wanted to know what made people think the way they did or do some of the things they did. Most importantly, I wondered "how come it didn't make me hateful, too."
Strangely enough, I've met just as many hate-filled Blacks (i.e. African Americans for those who prefer it) and they are very quick to shoot down or hurt another Black person. I'm glad my mother taught me to know people for "who they are" and not "for the color of their skin". So, despite my experience with the KKK, I was not raised believing all white people were bad, evil or prejudice and all black people were good. My mother taught me that people are people and each have a distinct personality - so get to know a person and treat them accordingly.
In my opinion, that was one of the most valuable lessons I ever learned. I say one of the most valuable lessons I learned because through the years I've learned many. The one that keeps me sane (well, reasonably sane! lol) is "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference"- Reinhold Niebuhr. Once I understood the significance of those words - I got a new attitude! I now have a new outlook on life and a longer life span! People ask me all the time why do I look so calm and relaxed. I answer, "because I am". You have to reach this level of peace on your own. I can't explain it to you, but once you're there, you'll know what I'm talking about. (smile)
Sorry, I digress. That may happen occasionally, but I promise to get back on track. (lol)
Now, back to Langston Hughes' poem and its correlation with my life. Life definitely have not been easy. Can't remember too many happy days although I'm sure there were more than I can remember. We were poor. I grew up in a 7 room house with 5 sisters, 1 brother and a mother. A 7 room house that only had 2 bedrooms and one belonged to my mother. The other five rooms consisted of kitchen, bathroom, living room, dining room and a large walk in closet. The house was old......very old. Probably built back in 1920 something. The floors were falling in, the roof leaky and the plumbing didn't work half the time. There was also an "outhouse" that we shared with our aunt as none of the houses around us had bathrooms. Our house was the only house on the street with a bathroom even though it didn't work most of the time. (This should give you some idea how old these houses were as the health laws now require bathrooms in houses). And just to note - I'm not that old! I turned 52 years old this year. :-)
All of the girls slept in one bed, 3 at the top, 3 at the foot. Of course, there was never enough room, somebody always had their cold feet on somebody until momma started making us wear socks to bed. (LOL) My brother slept on the couch in the living room until he was old enough to leave home. Mother always managed to buy a pull-out couch which could be converted to a bed at night. Struggling night and day, my mother raised us alone, and tried to instill the best possible social values. We were taught to always take care of each other - no matter what. We can be angry with one another and fighting furiously, but if one is in trouble, set it aside and help them. And I can honestly say, that as of this writing, my family still honors that teaching.
Daddy's Little Girl
My father served in World War II, 4178th Quartermaster Company. I barely remember what he looks like and I have no pictures of him. I've tried to locate some but have been unsuccessful. I've searched his military records but many originals were destroyed in a fire some years ago and the government only had documents that were available on microfiche (which wasn't a lot). Anyway, I vaguely remember my father, a very light-skinned man with one leg. He walked with crushes. Even today I don't know how he ended up with one leg. I don't think he lost it in the war because I've gotten a copy of his military records and even though there is at least one record about him being ill and hospitalized; it doesn't mention him losing a limb or being injured during service. However, the commander that wrote me back told me that they didn't keep good records on African Americans back then.
Anyway, I vaguely remember him and that wide smile he had whenever he saw me. I remember him calling me his baby and I remember him telling my mother not to spank me. I was probably 2 or 3 years old at the time. Everytime daddy saw me he would get the widest grin. I remember my mother keeping us away from him and telling us we couldn't see him anymore. My aunt would slip me out of the house, hide me in the back of her husband's car and take me to see him. And there he waited with that big wide grin. When I got back and told momma that I saw daddy, I can remember her wiping me down with alcohol. Now, don't forget that I'm only about 3 years old so I don't understand any of this. Parents didn't explain anything to children back then, they just issued orders. I didn't know why she didn't want me to see daddy anymore, I just know I wasn't happy about it. He was living with his mother and I was living with mine. After I grew up, I learned later in life that my father had Tuberculosis (TB) and my mother didn't want us infected. And we were lucky, we were vaccinated, took preventative medication and did not catch it from him.
I don't have anything from my father - another regret that I have. I remember him giving me two things in my life time - a Kennedy 50 cent and a pink, flowery dress with a white can-can slip (or petticoat for all you young'uns out there, lol). Parents have no idea what impact their actions have on children, do they? My guess is mother was so furious with him, she didn't keep any pictures of him. She said they didn't take any because cameras weren't so easy to come by back then, but hey, she's got a lot of pictures of other people! Anyway, I now know that people react to certain situations in certain ways and parents are constantly doing things to and for their children, sometimes without explanations, and kids end up drawing their own conclusions - like I did. If mother had told me about daddy's TB, just maybe I wouldn't have wasted so much time hating him. Well, I don't plan to take you through 52 years of living (lmao), but I will highlight some memories I seem to have retained along the way.
"I've been rich and I've been poor. Rich is better - Sophie Tucker"
As I said earlier, we were very poor. I can remember selling coca cola and other soda pop bottles at the nearest grocery store to get money to buy food. We were happy if we got enough money to buy grits and bacon. If we got that, we would add grease on top for gravy (lol). Another meal for the poor was biscuits and milk. That was dinner. Sardines and herring was a treat! I hate those foods now and never eat it. Other ways we tried to make a meal was "sweet water and bread". Couldn't afford Kool-aid so we took tap water, add two tablespoons of sugar and stir. Drink that with some homemade biscuits and hope you had enough to full your tummy 'cause that was dinner.
Yeah, I can remember hearing my mother crying in bed at night because she couldn't feed us - or herself - for that matter. I remember her giving me her dinner one night because after I ate, I was still hungry. That night, she did without.
The thing about being poor is that when everybody around you is in the same boat, you don't know how impoverished you are. Yes, the neighbors were in the same boat. Some were a little better off than we were because there were father's in the house to help with a second income but they were still living below the poverty level. So, Sophie Tucker is right. Rich is probably better. (I haven't gotten there yet, but I will!)
So - how did we go from having the only upscale house n the neigborhood to not being able to afford food. Well, my grandfather was a business man. He owned a farm and a barber shop. My guess is those items generated the family's income. After grandfather died, there was no one to run the farm so it died too, and the barber shop closed. My mother was a registered nurse but became ill early in life and had to loose a kidney. She was then restricted on the amount she could lift and since doctors and nurses had to lift patients back then, her career as a nurse ended, too. She became a midwife but there wasn't a lot of money to be made and so the struggle began.
Daddy died when I was in the 8th grade. By then, I was full of hatred for him. I hated that he wasn't living at home with us. I hated that we had to struggle so hard to get food to eat. I hated that I had to wear hand-me-downs. I hated that I had to put cardboard in the bottom of my shoe because the sole had holes in them and my feet was on the cold ground. And I hated that he wouldn't be there to question up my boyfriends or make one of them ask for my hand in marriage. So when momma called me home to tell me daddy had died, I told her I didn't care. I refused to go to his funeral or to the funeral home to pay my last respects. I even refused to stay home from school in mourning.
By the time I was in the 8th grade, I had somehow become the "backbone" of the family. I worked after school to try and help mother get the money she needed to take care of the family. Everytime their was a problem or issue, mother would send them to me and as she got older, she relied more and more on me. Caregiver's don't have a life. The family becomes your life. Their problems become your problems and everybody look to you - no , expect you to solve the problem. As I look around now and see some of my nieces instinctively sliding into this role, I tell them to walk away. Live your life! Do not get caught up with solving family problems 'cause they never go away!! Never!!!!! (lol)
I never thought of myself as the caregiver or as the backbone of the family. Yet, while I was out on an audit job about 2 years ago, this doctor asked me if I was the caregiver of my family. He said it was written all over me. (Well, I thought to myself, that might be one reason why I'm still single!!!)...lol ....But I'm glad he told me. I am always interested in how other people see me. Sometimes it's important and sometimes it's not. If I can use the information to improve myself in someway, then it's helpful. If I can't use the information to improve myself, then I file it somewhere as duly noted - like infamous file 13. But having a total stranger look at me and tell me that my demeanor screams "caregiver" was interesting. I didn't like that but it at least it explained why I was always targeted by men who wanted something for nothing. And darn if I wouldn't get sucked in before figuring out they were users! (LMAO). Obviously, they saw the "bleeding heart" syndrome, too.Crushed Dreams
When I was a little girl, I, like all little girls, planned my life out. I saw myself with a nice big house, a loving husband and 2 kids (1 boy and 1 girl). I would be a psychologists and my husband a surgeon. We wouldn't be rich, but we would be financially comfortable and happy.
I started saving money for my wedding day when I was in the 8th grade. (Aww, little did I know about life's twist, turns and little surprises"). I alwas wanted to get married, but it wasn't in the stars so I sunk myself in work. I stopped dating and focused totally on my career. I worked long hours and sometimes more than 12 days or 80 hours without a day off in between. And then I woke up oneday and I was 35 years old, still single, and wondering where the heck did all the time go.
Regardless of my hard times through childhood, I never gave up. Every obstacle thrown at me was overcome even though it didn't seem possible at the time.
Many of the decisions guiding my professional and financial goals were influenced by mentoring from white people. My church members influenced me too, but my white mentors had connections and knowledge through opportunities that my black mentors never had. They taught me a little about handling money and a lot about "life in the corporate" world. It makes me proud to know that they were willing to guide me and help me because they saw a future for me that I could not visualize. Even today, I thank them every chance I get.
Thank you for reading my memoirs.
Until next time.......jes keep climbin'
Luv2blog
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