Sister gumbo, p.3
Sister Gumbo, page 3
“With all that happened, I can’t believe nobody saw how I was being affected. I finally realized my mother didn’t care about me when she went on a weekend trip with her ladies’ club one summer while I was there, and she came back with souvenirs for everybody but me. We were all excited and jumping up and down and shit when she opened her suitcase and started passing out stuff, but when she got to me she just said, ‘Oh, I forgot you were even here.’
“That was hard, and it was also hard to go from an upper-middle-class neighborhood to the projects every summer, because I still had all my nice clothes and they had used clothes that they had gotten through this white lady, so they used to take my stuff without even asking,” Porsche recalled. “The last time I went was the summer between my tenth and eleventh grade year of high school. In the community where they lived, there was a summer youth work program where they got jobs for all the teenagers, so I got a job working with the little kids at the community center.
“We’d taken the kids to the high school football stadium to play, and there were some boys there who didn’t work at the center, and my brother was with them. They were standing by some concrete bleachers and they were like, ‘Hey, come over here.’ Since my brother was standing over there I went. I didn’t think anything of it. Well, they grabbed me and pulled me behind the bleachers and started pushing me around between themselves, talking about how they were going to find out what I was all about. I tried to get away, but one of the bigger guys grabbed me and the next thing I know, one had his hand over my mouth, one was holding me down, and the other one was taking my clothes off. I was literally about to be raped while my asshole of a brother acted as the lookout, because they had me naked all the way down to my panties. Then, all of a sudden, my brother said someone was coming, and they stopped and ran off, just laughing like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.
“I was scared to death, but what was worse, my own brother just stood there and did nothing. I know he would have been ready to fight if that had been one of my sisters, but I guess he didn’t feel the same way toward me. After that I thought, ‘This is crazy. I am not subjecting myself to this kind of cruelty.’ And I decided if they didn’t want me in their crazy, dysfunctional ass family that was fine with me.
“I didn’t even tell my so-called mother what had happened. Instead, I called my aunt as soon as I could sneak to the phone, and told her I was never going to spend the summer there again. I told her what had happened, and she asked to speak to my mother. About ten minutes later my mother told me to pack my shit. She said I was a liar and that I thought I was too good to stay there, so I left on the bus that night and never went back for the summer again.
“I graduated from high school two years later and went to a college as far away from home as I could, and for a while I was successful at getting away from those skeletons in my past. I got my master’s degree, got married, and completed med school, but my family didn’t even come to my graduation. Actually, I only see them about every four years or so because even though they know the truth, they’re still crazy as hell. They will never acknowledge me as part of the family, as if I’d want them to anyway, and I refuse to spend my whole life trying to fit in with people who want to hold a grudge for something none of us had any control over.”
“It is clear to me that all the things that happened during my childhood and the things I found out about my mom and dad had a major impact on my decisions about marriage and having children. I always wanted to get married, but as you well know, I don’t have the best marriage in the world and I know my childhood played a big part in my deciding not to have children. I didn’t feel comfortable with the thought of being a mother when I never knew what a real mother was supposed to do. I’m a damn good physician and I worked my ass off to get the education for that, but children don’t require a degree, nor do they come with a handbook, so I wouldn’t know how to nurture a child because that’s something I never experienced.
“Besides, that’s the reason there are so many screwed-up people in the world already; people have kids when they know good and damn well they don’t have what it takes to be a good parent. If your parents weren’t worth a damn, then they probably didn’t teach you how to be a good parent either. How could they? You should just spare some poor, little, sweet child the expense of being born if you know this in advance, and choose another road in life.”
MARCELLA, FORTY-SOMETHING
Marcella, a strong Venezuelan woman, was raised in Trinidad and has a beautiful accent. Listening to her always makes me long for the beaches and clear blue water of her childhood home, and when she speaks of her life in Trinidad, where we Americans spend millions of dollars to vacation, one can only wonder why she chose to leave such a beautiful place.
Marcella invited me to her home for the interview, and when I walked in, the first thing she did was tell me to take my shoes off and “get com-for-ta-ble.” You know how people from the islands who have that accent seem to pronounce every syllable in a word? Well, she still does that even though she’s been here for over twenty years, but I find it alluring because you’d think she was born and raised right here in America, until you hear her speak.
Her place was small, spotless, and filled with many beautiful pieces she’d brought from Trinidad and other surrounding islands on her frequent visits, and she could tell you anything you wanted to know about each piece. The pride with which she spoke was obvious and again made me wonder why she chose to move to America. I silently decided that if she didn’t tell me why, I would ask.
“I was born in Venezuela, South America, but we moved to Trinidad when I was six years old because my father was a schoolteacher and got transferred there, so even though I’m really Venezuelan all I know is Trinidad because that’s where I was raised.
“My father was a heavy drinker. But back then in Trinidad when a person who was well known got drunk, they would take him to a jail cell, leave him to let him sleep it off overnight, and then take him home. My father died when he was in jail because he had cirrhosis of the liver and no one knew.
“That left my mother alone to raise all of us, which she did by ironing white people’s clothes to support us. There were four of us and, O Lord, a lot of hard times, a lot of hunger. I remember it as plain as day. Let me tell you something—we walked to school maybe a good five miles a day, back and forth. And in the evening time, when Mommy didn’t get any work, when we hit our door coming back home from school we didn’t know if there would be food in there for us or not. Sometimes we’d have food, sometimes we didn’t, so we’d drink coffee, eat bread, and go to sleep. I remember one time Mommy bought some bread because that was all she could afford, and she fed all of us and didn’t eat one piece herself because she wanted us to have enough. There were times when my baby brother would sit down and suck his thumb and go to sleep hungry. He was just weak because he was so hungry.
“Things got a little better as we grew up because all of us started working. I started washing people’s clothes and baking for money, and I learned to cook by watching Mommy. The railroad was really big there and we used to cook food and sell it to those guys who worked on the railroad, so that helped a bit.
“When I was fourteen years old, my mother went to work one day and didn’t come home that evening. I was the oldest and we were in the house hungry for a whole week, so we finally started thinking that she’d abandoned us because times were so hard. We were there by ourselves with no food, no nothing, but in Trinidad your neighbor is your friend, so we would just eat at a different house every day. If they had food, we’d have food. If we had food, we shared. Everybody shared just like a little African village.
“Finally, my godmother called the police and they put a missing person’s report out on my mother. When the police finally located her, they told us that she’d been on her way back home from work and the driver of the taxi she was in fell asleep at the wheel and ran into a parked truck that was full of lumber. Mommy had been in the hospital for a whole week unconscious. No one knew who she was or nothing. When we went to see her, she was still unconscious; she stayed in a coma for a whole month. She had terrible head injuries, a broken jaw, and she’d lost all her front teeth. It was just terrible. She was lucky she even lived.
“So, my godmother took care of us, but I had to quit school for a whole year because my baby brother was like nine months old. Then when my mommy got out of the hospital, she couldn’t work at all, so I continued to wash and bake bread for people. We had a thing you call sweet bread so I would bake sweet bread and make dinners for people, and we used the money I made to take care of everybody in my family. The neighbors really started helping us because they felt sorry for us. They were giving us food and that was really a blessing, but we were still poor and had to struggle.
“Anyway, Mommy stayed sick for a long, long time. She didn’t remember anything, and she was peeing on herself, and it was like I was the head of the house by the age of fifteen. Then, finally, when I was about seventeen and about to finish high school, Mommy got well and things started to get better. I got my first real job as a maid, going to people’s houses to clean and everything, and that’s also when I met my son’s father. I was ignorant about sex, so I got pregnant by the time I was nineteen, but we didn’t get married, even though my mother begged me to marry him. I didn’t really love him, so I wouldn’t marry him because I didn’t want to spend my whole life being miserable. I’m glad I didn’t marry him because he started doing some really crazy things right after I found out I was pregnant.
“I had my son and shortly after that, I was working for this American couple who were getting ready to come back to the United States. They asked me if I wanted to come, but I told them I didn’t know nobody in the States, so why would I want to go there? After they explained the wonderful opportunities I’d have, I decided to go with them. I sent my son to stay with his father’s mother until I could get on my feet, and I followed the couple to New York.
“Once we arrived and got settled, they told me I could continue to live with them, but they no longer expected me to work for them. They were only helping me to be nice, and I was very fortunate to have them do that for me. I found a job working for another family, taking care of their children and cleaning and cooking for them. But I didn’t like New York because the family I was staying with was different. I wasn’t fast and I didn’t use drugs or anything. I’d never even been exposed to drugs.
“Well, one day they left a whole bunch of stuff on the coffee table, and I was like, ‘Why do they have all that grass and dirt on the coffee table? What is all this?’ I figured they were really nasty, and, girl, I vacuumed all the stuff off the table, stuff that just happened to be marijuana. I was twenty-one years old, and I didn’t even know how marijuana looked. I thought the kids had just brought dirt in from outside and put it on the coffee table. I dusted everything off and cleaned the house and vacuumed the marijuana off the table—like maybe two pounds of it—and when they came home they had a fit.
“See, at home we did different things for fun, like go to the beach and play like kids because that’s what we were, kids coming up. I didn’t have all that other stuff to worry about.
“A lot of people back home get high but my mother is very old-fashioned, so we didn’t know nothing. Even when I started my period, all she said was that I’d become a young lady. I was outside and had sat down to eat some soup, but when I opened my legs and saw this red stuff I thought the soup had messed my stomach up and caused me to bleed. I didn’t know nothing about a period and I was thirteen years old.
“I didn’t like the situation at the house where I was working so I wrote this friend of mine in Trinidad who had a brother in Rhode Island, and he said I could come there and stay, so I did and he and his wife and kids were a real nice, decent family.
“About a week after I got there, he started helping me to get information on the many schools available, and I just couldn’t believe it. This country offers many opportunities and that’s the reason Caribbeans, Africans, Indians, Asians, Iranians, and all these other foreigners come here and end up more educated than people born here. Americans take education for granted, but most foreigners will get here and find a way to educate every last one of their children.
“Just go to a high school graduation ceremony. You’ll notice that when the awards and scholarships are being given out they can hardly pronounce the names. The majority of the children receiving scholarships are foreign. You seldom hear them call many Smiths, Joneses, or Shaquita whatevers—and when you do, it’s usually for an athletic scholarship. I don’t understand that, especially for black American parents because they have had to struggle so hard. You think they’d encourage their children to excel in school so they won’t have it as hard as they did, but many of them don’t even mention the word ‘college’ until the child is a senior in high school.
“Shortly after I moved to Rhode Island, I started going to this school they call OIC, an adult educational center they have up north where you get your GED, and they help you find jobs and stuff. I had my high school diploma, but since I wasn’t raised in the States, they helped me to take a few courses I needed and then I got a job through them. During that time I met this girl from Texas and we became real good friends. After about two years she told me she was going back home to Texas, and asked me if I wanted to come with her. I didn’t have anything holding me in Rhode Island so I worked and saved enough money for a ticket, and I’ve been in Texas every since.”
EBONI, FORTY-SOMETHING
Eboni looked as cool as a cucumber with her new short haircut. She’d lit a few candles earlier and the scent of eucalyptus was all over the room. She turned the jazz music down low so we could talk, but then her phone started to ring. When she didn’t answer, the person on the other end wouldn’t leave a message; they just hung up and called right back repeatedly. She finally gave in and answered it, snapped at him that she was too busy to talk, and told him she’d call him later. Looking at her you’d never think she was well into her forties because she had the figure of a woman twenty years younger. If she was wearing some kind of body shaper beneath that dress and it made her look that good, I was thinking, sign me up for one right now because it was doing one hell of a job. Only if you looked real closely could you see the fine lines etched across her forehead.
Eboni’s living room looked like something out of the Architectural Digest. It was spotless and perfectly decorated with taupe leather sofas covered with oversized pillows. Authentic pieces of African woodwork and black art were strategically placed throughout the room. On her dining-room wall there was a beautiful rug made from Kente cloth and straw. She’d purchased it during her honeymoon on the Ivory Coast. Even the lamps and tables looked like they were made especially to go with her other furniture.
Although the furniture was obviously too large for the small condo she’d recently moved into, it had probably fit perfectly well in the half-million-dollar home she’d left a year ago.
When I complimented her on how beautiful and cozy her place was, she forced a smile and said, “Oh, thank you. I guess it’ll do. Would you like something to drink?”
Since Eboni was newly divorced, I guess “cozy” wasn’t exactly the right word to use. She seemed a little down, which was unlike her. I knew about the divorce, but this had been her second marriage, and even though the divorce had been final for six months, it seemed as if she was still dwelling on it.
I didn’t press the issue or ask any questions about what had happened. I figured that would come up once she loosened up. Instead, I let her talk about her childhood and teenage years, hoping that reminiscing on better days would bring back good memories to help cheer her up.
“I was the oldest child, and I had a good childhood because I got everything I wanted,” she began. “I was the only child for six years and when they had a second baby, my brother, I was very jealous. I couldn’t stand the fact that he was getting any attention because I wanted it all. One day, when he was about a year old, I walked him outside and put him in an ant bed, thinking the ants would take him down into the hole. But, child, when those ants started biting him and he started screaming and hollering, my mama and daddy came running outside and my daddy whipped my ass all the way back to the house while my mama was trying her best to get those ants off my brother. I thought they were being mean to me because all I wanted was to be their only child. I really didn’t think I’d done anything wrong.
“Now, I loved my mama, but I was really close to my daddy. Even though he made it obvious that he hadn’t wanted a daughter, I learned to make him happy by trying to do anything a boy could do because I felt that way I could win his heart. He was a big black man with a beautiful smile that I adored, so I learned to cut the yard, climb trees, whatever, just so I could see that smile. But then he came to expect me to do these things, which kind of bothered me because it was making me tough. When I became a teenager, he got mad at me one day and said, ‘You should’ve been a boy ’cause you’re always out to get what you want,’ and that didn’t make sense because he’d made me that way by being so hard on me.
“My mama gave me love, but Daddy taught me how to think like a man because he was really hard on me. If I fell down and skinned my knees and started crying he would say, ‘What you cryin’ for? Cryin’ don’t help nothing. Get up and clean your face and quit actin’ like a baby.’ And I would do it. One time I fell off my bicycle and broke my arm, and he threatened to whip me if I didn’t learn how to ride without falling off.
