I was 9 years old when I first remember my grandmother. I am told that she was there when I was born and while in the midst of new life, she took me into her arms and calmed me from screaming. They say that while I cried in my mother’s arms and my father’s arms, I was quiet in Ma’ Dear’s arms. (That’s what we called my grandmother.) I understand that Ma’ Dear was living with us then and stayed with us until I was two. Both of my parents were working then and Ma’ Dear was their main help those days. The way my mother tells it, she would sing to me constantly, and pray over me, and at night she would shout praises to God for me. You see Ma’ Dear and God go back a ways and sometimes at night she thinks about how wonderful their friendship is and starts shouting “Hallelujah” at the moon. The way my mother tells it, that was the only time I used to cry around her; when Ma’ Dear went to shoutin’.
My family lived in Atlanta. Our house was a pink split-level with a wooden fence around the backyard to keep my dog, “Mr. Peepers,” in. Our front yard was always manicured low and our hedges perfect. The house was painted every so often and all the neighbors knew us and respected us, especially my dad. He was in city politics and in our living room was a case that showed him in different newspapers and doing great things. In some of them, my mother would be standing beside him, admiring him or smiling at the crowd. Also, in the case was a small trophy belonging to my mother for winning a beauty contest sponsored by a grocer in her old neighborhood. The way she tells me, it was a big deal where she came from. I suppose as far as most folks go, we looked like the perfect family, somewhere between “Leave it To Beaver” and “The Cosby Show,” but such was not the case.
I was always a quiet child and naturally inquisitive, but I was more special than all the other kids. At least, that’s the way mother tells it. In school, I always did good in my grades and my teachers were all very impressed with me. Yet the kids never really took to me. I remember playing on the swings once and Sally Cofield pushing me off my swing so she could get on. I got so mad and wanted to cry, but something in me took over. I stood up and pointed my finger and said, “You just mad ‘cause yo’ daddy touched you!” And from that Sally screamed and ran away. As the other kids looked at me and tried to figure out the meaning of my charge, I watched Sally do a tantrum in the mud. She never spoke to me again and all of her friends stayed away from me. We were never friends before so it was no big loss, but she called me names because I knew her secret and blurted it out. Ironically, I thought nothing of it, just being a kid, I suppose.
There was a second incident and it was one I remember more so than the others. I was a bit older then, around the age of 10 and school was nearly out for the summer. My parents were visiting my favorite teacher, Mrs. Ward. She was the only woman I thought was as pretty as my mother. She was the color of a Snickers bar with big pretty eyes and a smile that you had to smile back at. She was always dressed in bright colors and sang whenever she spoke. I think that was what I liked about her the most.
“Your child is an exceptional student,” I remember her saying. “My concern is in how she gets along with the other children.”
“What do you mean?” my mother asked as my father glanced back at me then to Mrs. Ward. I was sitting next to my mother and fighting sleep. Not really sure why I was so sleepy all of a sudden. Strange. It felt like I was drifting away from my body but wide awake at the same time.
“The children alienate her and do not include her when they are playing. I’ve asked the other children about it but they refuse to say anything, outside of Mrs. Cofield’s daughter who calls her a witch.”
“A what?” my father blurted out, reacting more than questioning. “Point out the parent of the child who said that.”
“Baby,” my mother said to calm him but it only got him riled up. Mrs. Ward, trying her best to be a referee, was accomplishing nothing. Although we were in school after hours, no doubt other teachers were around who could hear us. I think when things got their loudest was when I woke up (but not really) from the trance I had slipped into. I was sitting in a chair beside my daddy but not as I normally would. I was facing the back of the chair with my legs around the back legs. I pretended to be hugging someone in the chair and as I held that imaginary person, I began wiggling around in the chair as weird feelings drenched over me like rain.
“Oh baby! Oh, baby! It’s yours!” I said, not realizing one bit what I was simulating.
Everyone quieted then and looked at me. I removed myself from the chair and looked at my parents, along with Mrs. Ward whose eyes were transfixed on me.
“Say my name! Say my name, Stephanie! Say it!” I said, touching my father’s arm, as if I were out of breath. My mother’s face went into a total shock, all of the brownness in her face drained out and for a moment she looked three shades lighter. I turned to Mrs. Ward and touched her leg, saying, “Donald! Donald James!” I looked at my father next and said, “That’s right baby, I’m your daddy.”
And then I wasn’t anymore, whatever I was, in that moment. I sat back in my chair, like I normally would and caught my breath. Something significant had happened to me that I did not understand then. How could I? At ten years old, I had no clue what sex was, nor did I have any idea why I was acting it out as I did. The silence in the room continued a few moments more until my mother noticed the guilty faces of Mrs. Ward and my father. All at once, she knew what had happened and she did not like it one bit. Now my mother was what you called petite and genteel, but she wasn’t so genteel that day. She leapt from her chair so fast that I did not see her move. I only saw her clawing at Mrs. Ward’s face and pulling at her hair. Mrs. Ward grabbed at my mother’s hands screaming louder than anything I could describe. My father grabbed at my mother’s hand trying his best to unclench them as Mrs. Ward screamed over the clump of her hair being ripped from her head. I was fully myself then and dumbstruck as to what to do. So, I did nothing but watch.
Eventually the fight was over, ending when my mother noticed thick pieces of Mrs. Ward’s hair in her hands and blood stains on her fingernails. My father picked my mother up, tossed her on his shoulder and escorted us back to the car with my mother kicking and cursing the whole way. The ride home was quiet all the way, but that night they argued so much and so loud that I thought the world was coming to an end. It was not until the sun came up the next day that they took a break. That morning I fixed myself some cereal, Cap’n Crunch Crunchberries. I made a mess, but my mother did not seem to mind. My father was sleep on the bed when I ate and my mother sat at the table with me, as dumbfounded as I was over how all this came to be.
“Don’t send me away,” I told her. “I’m sorry I told.”
My mother looked at me weird again. It was not the kind of look that the other kids usually gave me. It was one of... understanding?
“Stop reading me, child,” she said. “And eat your breakfast.”
I think that was the first time there was a name put to something I do, “reading,” and here I thought you could only do that with books. When school let out that summer, she took me to Ma’ Dear’s house.