“A compelling story that traces the journey of a young girl's experiences, personal growth, and unwavering determination.”
An entire month passed, and no one in my class would speak to me. Then one day, someone touched my shoulder and said something; it was Peggy, sitting directly behind me. I thought she was pestering me like so many of the whites often did, so I smiled and ignored her. Then I raised my hand about a math problem. Before she could answer, Peggy raised her hand.
“I can show her how to do it, Mrs. Wilson,” she said, and the teacher gave the brave student an approving nod. Peggy, who wore two braided ponytails with bows that matched her dress, pulled her desk up close to mine and began to explain the problem.
“Did you get it?” She asked, but I didn’t hear a word she said. I was too busy staring at her blonde hair and into her emerald-green eyes. I had never been that close to a white person before, so my nerves took a moment to settle down.
“Can you repeat that?” I asked. Eagerly, she did. Eventually, all the girls in my classroom started talking to me. I had never heard my name pronounced in so many different ways, which at times, startled me. Before that day, I felt invisible. I came and went without saying a word to anyone, but now I was slowly being accepted. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother all about it.
“Mama, this girl named Peggy helped me with my homework today. Then all the other white girls started asking me questions.”
“She did? They did? I’m so happy for you, Sis.”
Over time I didn’t realize it, but I began pronouncing my words just like the whites, and I was reading faster than ever. When I read at home, my mother and father would look at each other and smile. Then my younger brothers and sisters began mocking me. Mama got a kick out of it.
“Tell them to leave me alone,” I complained, but she pulled me aside.
“Can’t you see your baby brother and sister admires you? When you’re not here, they try to talk the way you do, so don’t be embarrassed,” she said, and I was amazed. I didn’t know what my future would hold, but I was already having a positive influence on my family.
My parents didn’t discuss white folks, except for a few hateful words about the malicious family next door. Although they were everywhere we went, my mother never spoke to them unless she was paying for something. Even then, they seem to looked right passed us. I didn’t hate them; I just knew they didn’t care for our kind, something I never considered, until now.
My new school became fun. I had new friends, and so did Randall.
“Mama, the white girls sat with me at lunch today,” I rambled on.
“Baby Sis, God, will always make away, and I want you to thank him every night before you go to bed.”
“Okay, I will.”
Prayer had always been a way of life in my house, so I got on my knees.
“Lord, thank you for letting me be friends with the white girls in my classroom, and for the things I learned today. And God thank you for Mama’s good cooking. Amen.”
Academically, I wanted to show my peers I was as smart as they were, so I studied hard and raised my hand whenever the teacher asked a question.
“You are really doing well in school, Sis. I’m so proud of you,” Mama said.
“Thank you.”
Over time, some of the white girls and I became very close. They were curious and bold. Since we lived in one of their neighborhoods, they had no reason to fear us. Then one day, I invited two of my classmates over to the house, and a couple of Randall’s buddies came alone to. My mother met me at the door with a surprised look on her face.
“Well, who do we have here,” she said.
One by one, they shook Mama’s hand and introduced themselves.
“Hello, Mrs. Morris. My name is Jimmy.”
“Hi, I’m Peggy.”
“I’m Little Johnny, please to meet you.”
“And I’m Jenny.”
Then they wandered in, looking around to assess how we lived, but no one said a word. Then we all sat in front of the television to watch some of our favorite cartoons.
Later, my mother entered the room with a large skillet of cornbread fresh out the oven, with butter dripping down the sides of it. She offered our new pals some. Even the ones that said no at first were wolfing down their second piece. They didn’t stop asking for more until the whole skillet was empty. After that, they walked home with my brother and me almost daily.
“Can we have some more, Mrs. Morris?” They asked as if they were entitled.
“Greedy little things, aren’t they?” Mama whispered loud enough for me to hear while she cut the bread into small enough pieces to serve everyone. When they left, we laughed about it. Still, she prepared a pan every day just in case our new friends followed us home. Out of the blue, they started inviting my brother and me to do things.
“My family is going to the theater this weekend; can you and Randall come?” Peggie asked. I didn’t know what to say. I had never been to a Picture Show before.
“I have to ask Mama and daddy,” and they said yes.
That Saturday, Peggy’s parents picked up Randall and me. When we arrived, my brother and I sat in the colored section on the balcony while Peggy’s family sat with their own kind on the main floor. We watched the movie on the biggest screen I’d ever seen, laughing right along with the white folks. The following week, we were invited to baseball and football games—all new experiences for us. We were used to being around children that loved to fight, but the white kids never got in trouble. They did their homework without anybody making them, and they loved sports.
When the cold weather arrived, my mother made us wear those scratchy old long johns and shined our faces with Vaseline to protect our skin from the harsh weather.
Randall and I came home after school because we had nothing else to do, but my white pals hung out at the “Off the Street Club,” a neighborhood program for their kind only. They told my brother and me they had lots of games there, so we followed them one day to see this gym. Once we arrived, my brother and I weren’t allowed any further than the front door, so we hung around outside for hours like puppies on a leash waiting for our owners to come and release us. It’s silly when I think about it; we just wanted to belong.
My parents knew we were playing with some of our white buddies after school, so they never worried. One time we came home freezing, and it took us a long time to warm up.
“Y’all can’t be playing in that weather like them white folks. Their bodies can take the cold; ours can’t,” Mama said, and I almost laughed—she didn’t know the half of it. We continued to follow our associates like loyal pets no matter how cold the weather got.
Weeks later, they felt sorry for our runny little noses and allowed us to wait in the hallway where it was warm. There, we saw the entire gym through the two glass panels in the steel doors. Randall and I had our own personal views. The gloss on the wooden floors reflected the lights in the ceiling like a mirror, and all of their equipment was brand new, even the chairs. Inside they played Ping-Pong, chess, checkers, and games we had never heard of. You would have thought someone threw us a surprise birthday party by the way our eyes lit up.
We were innocent children, separated from our peers not only by the thick steel doors but by a history of racism we knew nothing about. Finally, after weeks of watching and waiting, our classmates talked to the staff that enforced the rules. They checked out our backgrounds and found we were great kids from a decent family, so we were allowed inside. Right away, I wanted to play Ping-Pong and became good at it. Each day, two team leaders would pick a different group to compete against, and my little brother and I were always in the line-up. When the school year ended, every club member got a trophy. Some got more than one, but my brother and I didn’t get any. In reality, we weren’t supposed to be there in the first place.
Over the next two years, I made lots of friends, and we were all looking forward to graduation. Everyone’s family would be at the ceremony, and mine would be there too.
Picture day came, and I got all dressed up. The photographer took a portrait of me alone, and one with me and all my classmates. My mother bought a complete package.
“Mama, can I keep a picture to show all my friends I’m the only colored girl in my class?”
“Yes, baby, you can.”
While leaving school that afternoon, I overheard some kids discussing plans for a graduation celebration while hanging out in the hallway. I rushed home to tell my mother all about it. My parents were so proud.
“This will be my first party ever,” I said, and Mama was excited for me.
“I’ll get your daddy to buy you a new dress.” My eyes lit up.
“When is the event, Sis?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll get all the details tomorrow.” After saying my prayers, I was too excited to sleep.
The following day, I arrived at school late. As I approached my classroom, someone said: “What are we going to do with the little colored girl?”
SAMPLE TWO
A Voice
My social life now was centered around the activities at church. We had an excellent choir. Each Sunday was like a major concert, with everyone so excited that the floors shook beneath our feet. Sometimes it felt like we would go crashing through them, but that didn’t stop the gathering from getting their praise on. The choir director extended the opening song with the drummer, organist, and guitar player all battling down to the last note. Then the preacher took to the podium.
“Good morning, church,” Pastor Johnson greeted everyone.
“Can everybody say, ‘Praised the Lord’?”
“Praised the Lord,” the congregation replied.
“My subject today is, ‘Are you a good Christian’?'” the preaches said, drawing a compilation of “Amens” and “Hallelujahs” from the crowd. Patiently and strategically, the pastor set up the premise of his sermon for the maximum impact. At the same time, everyone settled back in the pews for another lengthy service. As Pastor Johnson began to shed light on what it means to be a good Christian and how a good Christian should act, some of the deacons reclined in their chairs. They knew the preacher could be long-winded, and soon, they, too, would be asleep. Oddly, they always woke up just before the reverend’s passionate closing. They never opened their eyes right away because that would be a dead giveaway. Instead, they began moving their heads from side to side. Then on one of the pastor’s strong points, they raised their arms high in the air before standing, as if they had been attentive all along.
Every preacher had a go-to man, and our church had Deacon Knuckles. Deacon Knuckles never fell asleep, and Deacon Knuckles never relaxed.
“My God! My God! Preach! Preach!” he often shouted words of encouragement to motivate the pastor. Being a man of stature, Deacon Knuckles, was always alert. “Yes, Lord!” He’s a mighty God!” And when the deacon sensed the sermon was coming to an end, he was the preacher’s number one cheerleader. His powerful voice could spark the congregation back to life, and just in time for the pastor’s stimulating closing.
“Who can you turn to when you are hurting, when you are sick, and when the doctor can’t help you?” The minister shouted, drawing a multitude of “Hallelujahs” and “Thank you, Jesus,” from the now lively crowd. The organ player added a chord of drama each time the preacher paused between each dramatic statement, a crescendo they had performed over a thousand times. With the Holy Ghost hovering over the flock, a young lady screamed at the top of her voice, startling some of the congregation members and giving a few parishioners sitting nearby a mild whiplash. The preacher took that as a sign that his message had been well received. Everybody looked around to see who had got the Spirit this time.
“Oh, girl, that’s Ms. Sally’s daughter. She gets the Holy Ghost every Sunday, but it ain’t gonna do her any good–no, not that one,” an elderly lady wearing a big green hat whispered loud enough for my ears to take it all in. The church was a mecca for gossip, and I absorbed more than my share. Almost everyone was up on their feet within seconds, worshiping the Lord. It was the preacher’s moment, and he was going to milk it to the very end. The flock clapped their hands. Handkerchiefs waved in the air, and Ms. Sally’s daughter ran up and down the aisles until she collapsed back into her seat.
After the pinnacle, the congregation began to settle down for the altar call, and a few souls came forward to join the church and give their lives to the Lord.
When the service was over, it was time to eat, my favorite thing to do. The deacons’ wives and a few members prepared food for Sunday’s gathering. Mama cooked her favorites too, so I got in line because her dishes were always the first to go. She had taught us that not everyone washes and prepare their food correctly, so I ate from the ones she said were okay and took a pass on all the others. Being at church was fun. It was the only place I could be myself and socialize with the other teenagers. Considering I wasn’t allowed to leave the yard except go to school and return home. Plus, I loved to sing.
The word had gotten around that our choir was second to none. The Pastor began inviting other choruses from the surrounding areas to perform at our church, an invitation they eagerly accepted. It didn’t start out as a competition, but grew into one.
Every choir director wanted to showcase the best talent. When it was all over, the winner was selected by the loudest applause. Each choir had a different way of singing certain songs. Their lead vocalists had some of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard. Immediately I loved the attention they were getting. I also loved their flashy robes with puffy sleeves, so at age sixteen, I joined the choir. All the time I had spent listening to Grandma and Mama singing around the house must have rubbed off. Soon, I had a powerful voice of my own, and it wasn’t long before the choir director took notice.
He would call on me to sing a few verses from each song during rehearsals. He would also try different voices to see how he could orchestrate us into a harmonic force to be reckoned with. There were others with vocals more dominant than mine, but I held my own. With so many individuals wanting to participate, the director decided to form a junior choir.
After months of practice, we were scheduled to sing on the second and fourth Sundays. During our first appearance, we sang songs the same way the senior choir performed them, just from a group of younger voices. For our second concert, the congregation was expecting more of the same, but the choir director surprised them.
From the first note, they could tell something was different. When they heard Ruth’s powerful voice take the lead–a young lady about two years older than me–the gathering sprang to their feet, cheering. When she finished, I joined her with a solo verse of my own, and the energy in the church escalated.
Grandma and Mama were surprised. I had never seen their faces so amazed. The choir director had worked with me for several weeks on my pitch and tonal range. He taught me how to sing from my diaphragm instead of my throat. Then he dissected the structure of each song and taught me where a singer can make the most impact.
“You have a powerful voice,” he often encouraged me. My mother once said I was anointed, but I knew very little about the world beyond home. But when I sang, I took the audience on a journey as if I were an old soul singing from the wounds of their hearts. I finished the song, holding the last note as long as I could, and when I opened my eyes, everyone was on their feet, applauding me and praising God. From that moment on, I was one of the crowd’s favorites.
_
SAMPLE THREE
Hardship
“Sis, nobody can wash clothes like you can. The neighbors told me we had the whitest sheets on the line,” my mother once claimed. I don’t know if she said that to motivate me, but it worked. I scrubbed our dirty laundry on that washboard until my knuckles began to hurt. I wanted her to be proud, so I did my best no matter what chores she gave me. Mama paid to get my hair done when she could afford it, but when money was tight, she did it herself, and I hated it. I wanted to look like a young lady, but her hairstyles made me look like a little girl. She bought me new clothes when she could, but sometimes she got them from the second-hand store, and I couldn’t stand to wear them. Whenever Dora’s Rummage Sale came up, I cringed. I didn’t like wearing hand-me-downs, and when she returned from shopping with one of those brown paper bags, I knew there was something in it for me.
“I ain’t wearing them old things. I hate wearing somebody else’s hand-me-downs,” I said hurting my mother’s feelings.
“Sis, I can’t afford to buy you new clothes with all these children in this house. Your father is the only one working. I can’t do it. I just can’t,” she explained.
“Well, I’m gonna get a job because I ain’t wearing them old clothes anymore,” I protested and stormed out of the room. That was the first time I had ever talked back to Mama, and I was still standing. She felt terrible, and I felt selfish. I knew she was doing the best she could, and despite my protest, I did wear those hand-me-downs. They were uncomfortable, tugging on me here and pulling on me there. I felt like a misfit.
“Mama, can I get a job? I want to buy my own clothes?”
“Sis, you’re too young. Wait ’till you turn eighteen,” was her final decision.
I wanted to work, but my mother wouldn’t allow it. The opportunity eventually came disguised in the shadows of my father’s illness.
One day, he was fine; and the next, it was difficult for him to get out of bed. At first, Daddy thought it was the flu, so he took off work for a few days while she placed hot towels on his forehead and chest. She fed him castor oil and other homemade remedies. As days passed, instead of getting better, Daddy only got worse. He had never missed a day on the job, but now he was in pain all the time.
We were okay for a while with my father’s workman’s compensation coming in and the money my mother had saved. In January of 1952, our supplies dwindled to an all-time low. Mama didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was cutting back. I knew something was wrong, but she assured me things would be fine. On Saturdays, my mother and I went grocery shopping. She bought less and less, pondering over each item while adding the totals in her head. From there, we went to Dora’s, where she searched for necessities, which on that day were shoes for Randall and a pair of winter gloves for me.
When we returned home, it was time to start supper. Saturday’s meals always consisted of something fun to eat, like hamburgers and fried potatoes, hot dogs, and Pork”n’ Beans. My mother asked me to get the large can from the cupboard and open it while she tended to Daddy.
“We’re having Pork ‘n’ Beans for dinner, Pork’ N’ Beans for dinner, and hot dogs too.”
After dancing my way to the storeroom, singing my Pork’ N’ Beans song, I grabbed the large can and put it on the table. Then I hammered the butcher’s knife down through the top and slowly worked the blade upward around the outer edges until I reached the point where I began. Carefully I pried the jagged edges upward, trying not to cut myself. Then I poured the beans into a large skillet and added onions, mustard, and just the right amount of sugar, before placing the pan in the oven. When I went to tell my mother I had finished, I heard her and Daddy discussing the family’s dire situation.
“There is not enough money left to support a household of this size. We are already living on the bare minimum,” she explained in a tone of desperation. When I entered their bedroom, the two of them stopped talking immediately. I was the only one in the house who was old enough to work. William was in the Army, and Charles had chosen a life of crime and was now in jail.
“I can get a job,” I suggested, interrupting the silence.
“No, Sis, I want you to be the first in this family to finish high school and go to college.”
“But I can work and go to school until Daddy gets better.”
“I don’t know. Let me and your father think about it,” and that was the end of the conversation.
Later, my cousin told me about a factory that was hiring a few blocks away from where we lived. Being too young, I lied about my age and, to my surprise, got the job. I was scheduled to work the third shift from eleven PM to seven in the morning, five days a week. My mother was in the kitchen when I surprised her with the news.
“Guess what, Ma?”
“What, Sis?” She asked with her attention on the stove.
“I applied for work at the factory three blocks from here, and they hired me,” I announced apprehensively.
She turned quickly. “What? Sis, I told you I don’t want you working. You need to finish school first.”
“I know, and I will, but Daddy is sick, and y’all need help.” For a moment she didn’t say anything. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled.
“Alright, I will give you my permission on one condition: you’ll finish school and get your diploma.”
“I will. Daddy will be back on his feet soon, so you don’t have to worry.”
My mother hugged me, fighting back her tears before leaving the room. I had never seen her that emotional.
SAMPLE FOUR
Growth
It’s incredible what a little money can do for your self-esteem. No longer did I look like the girls my age, but a young lady. Hazel, my hairdresser, was bold enough to dye her hair blonde when everybody else was dyeing theirs jet black, and she looked stunning. The fancy dresses she wore were from designers I had never heard of. Everything about her intrigued me.
While getting my hair done, Hazel told me about an event she was having.
“This will be my second annual hair and fashion show. Why don’t you come? The tickets are only five dollars.”
“I would love to, but I have to ask Mama first,” I uttered, thrilled over the invite. A couple of the hairdressers and their clients overheard my childlike conversation and laughed. Although Hazel’s sharp glance curtailed their mockery, they continued to giggle, obviously amused by my immaturity.
“I will let you know about the tickets after I talk to my mother. I’m sure she will let me come.” Then I checked my unfinished hair in the mirror before Hazel turned my chair to curl the other side. The salon was a place for gossip, so I was the topic of discussion for the moment. It didn’t take long for my little girl’s story to become old news, and soon they were talking about somebody else. When I left the Salon, the chatter was running out of my ears. I thought about telling Mama everything I’d heard, but with Daddy’s health weighing heavily on her, I decided not to.
When I arrived at the house, everyone loved my new hairstyle. My youngest sisters stood around and stared at me with amazement. Later that day, I joined my mother in the kitchen.
“Mama, Hazel is having a fashion show next Saturday and invited me. Can I go?” For the first time, she didn’t answer me right away. My eyes were filled with anticipation. Expectation she’d never hesitated to disappoint in the past, but this time she said nothing, which was a good sign. I was growing up, and she would have to let me go at some point.
“Where and when is it?” she asked giving me a ray of hope.
“I don’t know the exact location, but it’s next Saturday. I told Hazel I would buy a ticket for Barbara and me if you said it was okay.”
“Well, you can go as long as you are home by ten o’clock?”
“Thank you!”
I was so excited I could hardly sleep that night. The next day I called Barbara and asked if she would go, and she said, yes.
“Then it’s all set. I will see you Saturday.”
I stopped by the salon and purchased two tickets before work. Then my eyes scanned them for the time, address and location.
“Ma’, the hair and fashion show will be at the Chateau. Have you heard of it?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said before continuing her daily duties.
Later that week, I found a beautiful outfit to wear.
When Saturday came, my siblings stood around and watched me transform my little girl’s image into one of a young lady’s. I put on high heels instead of flats and a dress that fitted my five-foot frame loosely. I had never looked like this before; I only dressed up on Sundays, which was a far cry from what I was staring at in the mirror. Once I was ready, my mother took me into her bedroom to show me to my father.
“You look beautiful, Sis. I want you to have a good time; you deserve it,” he muttered, forcing a brief smile through his pain. “I’m proud of you, and I love you.”
“I love you too, Daddy. I hope you feel better.” I left the room with the biggest grin. I wanted to run through the house, screaming, thank you, Jesus! But I acted like the lady I was taught to be while waiting for Barbara to arrive. The show was scheduled to start at six, and Barbara rang the doorbell at five p.m. sharp.
“Hello, Barbara, don’t you look nice.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morris.”
“You both look so grown-up,” my mother said.
“We have to go now so we won’t be late,” I suggested.
“Y’all have a good time then.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Morris.”
When we arrived at the location, the name on the tickets mirrored the title above the door, but it turned out to be a lounge. Neither Barbara nor I had been inside a club. Unsure of what to do, we stopped momentarily.
“Did you know the fashion show was going to be in a place like this?” Barbara asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Are we still going in?”
“Since we’re out, let’s make the best of it.”
If my mother knew Hazel’s fashion show was in a bar, she would have never let me come. Two well-dressed men and one woman were standing just left of the entrance, smoking cigarettes. We didn’t know what to expect, but we continued on anyway.
When we got closer, Barbara and I stopped and stood around. We didn’t know what else to do. Then I saw a young man walking in our direction. Before he could get past us, I stopped him.
“Hi, I’m Andrea, and this is Barbara.” The stranger looked surprised.
“Hello,” he said, looking cautious.
“Would you do us a favor? Would you escort the two of us to the door? I’ll be happy to pay you,” I boldly asked. The gentleman looked confused.
“You want me to walk you two over there?” He reiterated, pointing at the lounge only yards away with skepticism in his voice.
“I know it sounds crazy, but we are afraid to go in by ourselves; It’s our first time.”
“Sure.” A smirk appears on his face. I could tell he wanted to laugh at these two squares, but instead, he agreed.
“Can I please hold your arm then?” I asked. He looked amazed. I assumed he thought I was full of surprises.
“I guess so,” he replied, so I clutched one of his arms, while Barbara held the other. He looked at me first and then at Barbara with a slight grin. I’m sure he was thinking, I have a lady on each arm, and I don’t know either one of them.
“What’s your name,” I asked as we got closer to the entrance.
“I’m Reginald.”
“Pleased to meet you, Reginald. Forgive me for being so forward. My hairdresser is having a fashion show here tonight. If you would like to come with us, I’ll be happy to pay your way in. We just don’t want to sit alone,” I proposed. The young man seemed amazed again. I guess he thought: there is no end to what this girl will ask.
“No, but thank you.” I sensed he felt he wasn’t dressed appropriately, or maybe he just didn’t hang out in lounges. I tried to give him the few crumpled-up dollars in my hand, but he refused them.
“That won’t be necessary. Y’all have a good evening,” he says and opens the door for Barbara and me before continuing on his way.
Once the attendant took our tickets, I noticed we were some of the first guests to arrive.
“Where is everyone,” I thought out loud, the place was almost empty, so we sat close to the exit. On the tabletop was a notice: Reserved for Hazel’s fashion show, and most of the other sitting areas displayed the same signage. Hazel made sure her guests were accommodated. Then I began to look the bar over.
The place was huge, with all kinds of fancy glasses and whiskey bottles lined up against a wall of mirrors. I tried to read some of the labels to pass the time, but they were too far away. A man and a lady were preparing drinks. I didn’t know ladies were bartenders; I didn’t know much about anything. The male barkeep raised the countertop, crossed over to the jukebox, and dropped some coins in it.
“Y’all can play whatever you like,” he told the women sitting nearby.
It wasn’t long before more guests begin to arrive. I assumed some of them were models because they carried garment bags and disappeared behind the curtains in the back of the lounge. The empty chairs quickly began to fill up. Both men and women were sitting at most tables while Barbara and I sat alone. I have heard a lady should never be in a place like this without a male companion.
“When the show is over, we’re leaving, okay?” Barbara implied nervously, reading my mind, and I agreed. We didn’t drink alcohol, so we asked the waitress to bring us a couple of lemonades.
“We don’t serve lemonade,” so she brought us colas instead. I felt uncomfortable, but the thought of seeing my first fashion show made the evening more intriguing. While we waited, the attendant approached us again.
“That gentleman over there would like to buy you two a drink,” she said, pointing at his table. We glanced over, and the stranger raised his glass and nodded in our direction.
“Tell him, thanks, but we don’t drink.”
“I certainly will,” she replied, but I grabbed her arm before she could walk away.
“When you get a moment, can you ask him to come to our table?” Barbara looked stunned.
“Sure.” The waitress took a few more orders before delivering the message.
Then the young man stood up, grabbed his coat, and made his way to where we were sitting. He was tall and handsome, but that wasn’t why I summoned him over. We were two women alone in a bar, and we needed protection.
“Hello, I’m Walter,” he said introducing himself.
“Hi, I’m Barbara,” she reached out her hand to meet his. He shook it gently.
“Nice to meet you, Barbara.”
“I’m Andrea.” He reached for my hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Andrea,” he acknowledges while holding the tips of my fingers for a long moment before letting go. “May I?” He suggested, pointing to one of the empty seats at our table.
“Yes, you may.” He placed his coat on the back of his chair before sitting.
“What are y’all drinking?” He inquired.
“Just some colas, we don’t drink,” Barbara replied, so he signaled the waitress, who rushed over.
“Can you take these glasses away and bring them some fresh ones? And put some cherries in them to make them look like real drinks?”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” she said and smiled before leaving. The stranger crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. For a moment, no one said anything.
“Andrea, right?” He asked, rolling a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other while staring at me through his tinted glasses.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.
“Andrea, what?”
“Andrea Morris.”
“Do you have a brother they call, Morris?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, I know your brother.”
“You know, Charles?” I answered, wondering in what capacity, considering he had just gotten out of jail.
“Yeah, we met a long time ago. So, what do you like to do for fun, Andrea Morris?”
“I never been asked that question before. I don’t know.”
“Well, do you go out to lounges?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you go to the picture show?”
“Sometimes.”
At that moment, the waitress returned, interrupting our conversation as if the gentleman was one of her favorite customers.
“Your drinks, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said and handed the attendant some money. “Keep the change.” She briefly stared at the bill and then back at him with the brightest smile.
“Why, thank you. If there is anything else you need, just signal me,” the server said before rushing to take care of the other guests. There was an awkward silence between us, so I took a sip of my cola, and so did Barbara.
“Is this your first time at the Chateau?” He asked.
“Yes, it is. We’re here to see the hair and fashion show. Hazel invited us; Do you know her?”
“No, I don’t. I’m just hanging out with a few friends of mine.”
“She’s, my hairdresser,” I yelled over the noisy crowd. He nodded he understood. As a sheltered young lady, I had already asked one man to escort us to the bar and another to keep us company. I was amazed that men found me attractive.
“How did you two meet?” He asked.
Barbara and I answered his question simultaneously, so I let Barbara do the talking.
“We have known each other since grammar school.”
“Are you in school now?”
“Yes, I’m a senior.”
“What about you, Andrea?”
“I took a break. I now work to help my family out. My father isn’t doing well. Once he gets better, I’m going back to get my diploma.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The gentleman continued to talk to the both of us, but his attention seemed to drift back to me.
“So, Andrea, can I come and visit you sometime?” His question caught me off guard, and Barbara looked surprised too. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I answered him truthfully.
“I don’t know,” was the only answer I could give him. The stranger didn’t say anything for a moment but took a sip from his glass. The memory of not being able to go on a date with Stuart was still fresh in my mind. Now that I am older and making my own money, maybe things will be different. My parents were strict, so that was the only answer I could give him. While thinking of something else to say, I was at a loss for words. Talking to young boys was one thing, but talking to a man was awkward. Does he think I’m pretty? Is he married? Does he like my outfit? What’s his family like? Does he have a job? A lot of questions danced on the tip of my tongue. I can’t ask him anything like that. Why not? My conscience egged me on, but in the end, I chickened out. When I finally thought of something cordial to say, the commentator walked on the stage, and everyone applauded him.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Hazel’s second annual hair and fashion show,” he announced. At that moment, my thoughts and questions abandoned me.
SAMPLE FIVE
Never Saw It Coming
Being newlyweds, Walter and I were getting to know one another. Well, I was learning more about him. As for me, my life was an open book, but I was quickly finding out my husband had a lot of secrets. On Saturday, he insisted I go to the store to get something for dinner.
“But we have food in the refrigerator. What would you like?” I asked, wanting to please him.
“Something good, like a sweet potato pie; you know how I love your sweet potato pies.” Then he pulled me close to him and kissed me softly with a crooked grin. Sometimes his smiles could melt my heart, and others left me wondering what he was up to. Call it a woman’s intuition, but I felt like he was trying to get me out of the house; for what reason, I didn’t know, but I needed some fresh air. Walter absorbed me. He was my life now.
My mornings began with thoughts of him. Afternoons were spent wondering how his day was going, and my nights were filled with doubts, especially when I called the house during my shift, and he didn’t answer. Now, I was thinking about making him the best sweet potato pie he had ever tasted.
I took time browsing the grocery store and gathered everything I needed for dinner. Then I rummaged through the sweet potatoes for just the right sizes because I was taught that the large ones were too stringy. After paying the cashier, I strolled through the neighborhood, waving and speaking to everyone I knew along the way.
“Hey, Betty!”
“Hi, Gloria, how’s your mother doing?” I was growing up, and each occasion provided a different experience for me, and today would be no different.
When I returned and unlocked the door, my husband was passed out on the floor. A stocking was tied around his upper arm, and a needle hanging from one of his veins.
“Walter, Walter!” I shouted, but he didn’t respond to the high pitch of my voice. My first thought was to run and get his mother, but Saturday was her busiest day, and I didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention. Not knowing what else to do, I dropped to my knees and carefully pulled the contraption from his vein; a tiny drop of blood followed. It was an eyedropper with a needle attached, so I threw it in the garbage. Then I removed the stocking from his arm and shook him profusely. Still, there was no movement, and that’s when I panicked.
“Maggie! Maggie! Mrs. Davis! Maggie!” I yelled at the top of my voice while rocking Walter back and forth in my arms. Immediately, they both rushed into the apartment at the same time. Mrs. Davis looked traumatized, holding her hand over her mouth as if my husband was already dead. Maggie stood speechless but not completely surprised, as if she had seen this picture before. I slapped my husband’s face lightly and then as hard as possible, trying to revive him, but he showed no signs of life. Then I grabbed some cold water from the sink and splashed some on his face; still, there was no movement. I continued to scream his name and shake him vigorously. Maggie’s eyes were wide with fright as she paced back and forth.
One of her clients rushed up to see what was happening, but Maggie stopped her.
“Go back downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute,” the matriarch said and slammed the door in her client’s face. I kept rubbing Walter’s arms and hands, shaking his body, and praying to God that he would come around. Then Mrs. Davis began retrieving wet towels from the kitchen sink. I placed them on his forehead and continued to slap and shake him until, at last, his body shifted. We were all relieved. Then my husband’s glassy eyes slowly opened. He looked around the room as if he had no connection to where he was, before passing out again.
“Wake up! Walter! Wake up!” I ordered in a louder, angrier voice that seemed to reach him instantly. He opened his eyes again, still unaware of his surroundings. Mrs. Davis and I helped him off the floor and into his chair, but he couldn’t stay awake. Maggie was thankful.
“I have to get back to my clients. I’ll come up every chance I get to see how he’s doing,” she whispered, placing her hand on my shoulder as if to thank me for not giving up on her son. An hour passed with me on watch before Walter opened his eyes again. He was still groggy and displaced. His mother continued to check on him like she said she would, sometimes every fifteen minutes, until she knew he was all right.
Mrs. Davis stayed with me for as long as she could. The look on her face told me she felt sorry for me, as if the worst was yet to come. I didn’t have time to assess the situation; just react to it. No one suggested calling an ambulance; the subject never came up. I didn’t know if he was going to live or die.
My husband couldn’t stay alert long enough for me to ask him anything, so I watched over him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally, his eyes opened.
“Can I have some water, please,” he whispered, taking a couple of swallows before passing out again. Maggie continued to steal away from her clients to check on her son.
“How is he doing?” she asked, but I was too distraught to give her an answer. “I think he started using drugs when he was in the army,” she alleged, exposing some of the family secrets. Then she raised her pitiful eyes from his blank face to meet mine. “He seems to be doing all right. When I finish my last client, I’ll come back and check on him,” she acknowledged before leaving again.
My head was filled with questions. Was I that gullible? Too anxious to be on my own? He convinced my family he was a good catch. I didn’t know anyone that used drugs. Sure, I have heard stories, but now I was experiencing it first-hand. My thoughts were all over the place, so I kept a watchful eye over him to make sure he was still breathing. Parents are responsible for their children, but my husband wasn’t a child. Maggie had a business to run, no matter the outcome of this day. I had no reason to be upset with her, but I was furious with Walter.
I think he started using drugs in the army. Her voice resonated inside my head. She often bragged about all the women he dated but never once mentioned her son was on dope. That must have slipped her mind; a sarcastic thought crossed mine.
Walter shifted his body from one side to the other, interrupting my thoughts. At that point, I wanted to slap the s**t out of him for putting me through this. I stared at his propped-up body with his head hanging to one side. He’s going to have a crook in his neck when he wakes up, but I didn’t care. I was waiting for him to make a full recovery so that I could beat him unconscious again, but he just sat there like a helpless lump of clay. I managed to free one of his arms trapped beneath his body so it wouldn’t go numb. With all my nurturing, he didn’t know I even existed. His glassy eyes opened briefly on many occasions, but he never focused on any one thing. Somebody should have told me he uses drugs. I’m his wife; I have a right to know.
Several hours passed before he was coherent again, so I wanted answers.
“What’s going on, Walter!” I shouted, trying to get some answers. I didn’t know anything about drugs or what had just transpired. “What the hell is going on!” I yelled again, using curse words I’d never used before.
“What do you mean? Ain’t nothing going on,” he said, sitting erect in his chair.
“You know what I’m talking about. I came home and found you passed out on the floor.”
“I wasn’t doing anything. I must have fallen asleep,” he alleged, denying everything now that he had regained his composure. I got up, walked to the trash can, and pulled the proof out.
“Then what is this? I found you passed out with this stocking tied around your arm and this needle hanging out of it. Your mother was up here. Mrs. Davis, helped me revive you. Maggie told me you use drugs; you had everybody scared to death. Now, what’s really going on?”
It wasn’t until he was exposed that he began to tell the truth. Before the evidence was presented, he was like a snake trying to slither under a rock, but now with no place to hide, he began to confess.
“Every now and then, I’ll ‘chip’ with my friends, but I don’t really get high,” he explained, trying to sell me a piece of swampland in the desert. A story even he wouldn’t believe.
“What is ‘chip’? And what do you mean you don’t really get high? You almost died getting high. How do you think that makes me feel? I was scared to death! Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“No,” he said with a slight smirk on his face.
“What’s so funny? Well, are you?”
“No, I’m not trying to kill myself,” he finally answered.
“Are you sure because I can move back home, and you can get as high as you like!” I was too upset to say anything else, so I said nothing. He sat there looking guilty as sin, trying to figure a way out. The loving and kind man I thought I knew was deceptive and cunning. What other secrets was he keeping from me? Marriage should be built on trust. I never asked him revealing questions, so he didn’t have any reason to lie.
I tried to make sense of things. I had seen drunks stumble around, but Walter never stumbled. He went to work on time, and he kept a job, so he couldn’t be getting high that often. That was the only explanation that made sense.
“What does chip mean?” I asked again.
“That’s when me and the fellas put our money together so that we can all buy a small package. I only buy a little every now and then, but I promise, from now on, I’ll never do it again, I swear.” He was convincing, but I didn’t know what to believe. For the moment, I forgave him, but after that day, I watched him closely.
