MOVING

From birth, or at least my first memory after, I can remember constantly moving. Not for reasons such as homelessness or staying with different family members because of discord. Rather, it was due to the fact that my father was a member of the United States Air Force (USAF). Some would describe those who grew up in this type of environment as "military brats," though I avoid use of that term when describing myself. This lifestyle is typical for anyone who has grown up in a military family and household. As a result, my father would quite often and at any given moment receive orders to PCS (permanent change of station) to a different base or installation. Though I was born in Massachusetts, I was only there for a few short years before my dad got orders to go to the other side of the country — California. We lived there when I was a toddler and through pre-k, and therefore, I do not have many memories. However, one of my earliest memories of being there included experiencing an earthquake (surprise!), where afterward, I can recall my mother going to the balcony to confer with our neighbors about what just happened. "Did you feel that? Are you okay?" I'm sure were the first things out of their mouths. I must have only been three or four years old, but that event was scary enough for me to be forever imprinted in my memory. Who knows, it may have been a 3.5 on the Richter, but in my mind, it was a 9.8.

Another thing I recall while there was driving on the expressway and always passing the most gigantic, humongous toy store that ever existed, complete with King Kong-sized nutcrackers in the enormous glass windows, enticing every child and child-like adult to want to come in and see what this wonderland had in store. If I never verbalized my desire to enter into this wonderland of toys and amusement (which I find hard to imagine), I'm sure my body language would always indicate my willingness to enter into its heavenly gates! Unfortunately, I never had the chance to see what existed beyond the nutcracker guards and what I imagined were gingerbread walls.

While we were living in California, my father and mother ended up welcoming one of my dad's sisters into our apartment for some time. My dad came from a large family, sixteen brothers and sisters total, to be exact. One of my grandparents on my father's side, whom I never met, died around this time, and therefore, several of the younger siblings were being sent to live with an aunt. In order to not overwhelm this particular aunt who was taking in the younger siblings, and since my parents were in a position to help, they graciously offered a place for my younger aunt to stay. My aunt was seemingly adjusting to this new living arrangement and the loss of her parent. Coupled with the fact that my mom is and was very strong-willed, the two clashed, to say the least. Not only that, but my aunt and my brother were relatively close in age (a five-year difference), so this relationship became contentious at times.

One of these instances occurred where we were all in the kitchen area and everyone was yelling, my mom telling my aunt to get out of the house. My aunt refused. This was just after my aunt and brother had gotten into a fight and were chasing each other around. Glass was broken, and I can't recall if it was from a jar of jam or from something bigger, like the back patio sliding-glass door (which, thinking about it now in retrospect, I highly doubt was the latter!). But I recall being scared and just wanting everyone to stop yelling and fighting. At no older than the age of five, I just wanted it all to stop immediately. My cries seemingly went unheard, and the fighting continued. Though I can't remember exactly how it resolved, this event stood out to me as one of the first times I had language and could not use it effectively to quell the chaos that was around me. I hoped my sobs and cries would cause everything to cease and desist. It was terrifying.

My memories of California are sparse, given my age. However, after leaving the West Coast, we moved back to Massachusetts for my kindergarten year. There, I went to two different elementary schools: one was on the military base near Concord, Massachusetts, and one was off-base in the town that was on the South Shore of Boston, about thirty miles south. What was great about my first kindergarten teacher was that she also happened to be my brother and sister's kindergarten teacher as well. Despite all of our moving, we all still ended up with the same teacher, Mrs. Kessel. She was the best teacher, who, in my adult years, I've ascertained as simply the best woman and soul that anyone could know and have as a teacher. She was caring, loving, and endearing, and she truly cared about each and every child that walked into her room. We actually kept in touch with her throughout the years (and still do), to the point where she attended my college graduation in 1997. She was my teacher in 1981. To me, that was so special and a great example of education coming full circle. Not many people can say that they have been able to keep in touch and maintain a relationship with their first teacher, and for that, I am grateful.

Afterward, we moved off base for my first-grade year. My sister Nikki, three years my elder, attended this school as well and hence was the only person with whom I was familiar. As my years there progressed, I made a decent number of friends and enjoyed my time there. I was able to get through first grade before we had to up and move yet again. This time, it was to a state we did not know much about in the middle of the country. When I heard the name of the state, I could only picture rolling tumbleweeds, covered wagons, and vast undeveloped, desert-like areas. The state was Oklahoma.

Moving there was culture shock, to say the least. First of all, geographically, it was in a place with which none of us had familiarity. My mom was born and raised in Massachusetts, and seeing as how my sister and I were also born there and spent some time there as children, there was a level of comfort. Not to mention that all of my mother's side of the family still lived there — my two aunts, four cousins, uncle, and grandmother, or Nana, as we referred to her. On the other hand, my dad was from Louisiana, the south, where most of his family still resides. Their reach actually spans from Georgia to Houston, Texas, primarily, as well as to Germany. My brother was born in California (L.A.), where my mom was at the time working and living with friends, so there was that knowledge of the West Coast. Yet none of us had any prior knowledge of what to expect from the state that exclaimed to everyone that it was mediocre at best — "Oklahoma is OK," as was emblazoned on all of the license plates at the time. Regardless, this did not stop us from doing the research on this state. This included reading about the state in our Encyclopedia Brittanicas; yes, we had the full set, and I was so excited when we got this wealth of knowledge in the form of big, brown, bound books! So we thought we were ready. My aunts, uncle, nana, and cousins even threw us a going-away party complete with a horse-drawn wagon and cowboy on top of the custom-made cake. But even with that newfound knowledge we had of this foreign place, apparently, we weren't ready.

What we noticed when we got there was not only the difference in terrain, but the overall difference in culture and people. While Massachusetts was filled with forests ("woods"), cranberry bogs, and Caucasian people who didn't pronounce their Rs (rather, "ahhhs," as they say it), Oklahoma consisted of flat land, red dirt, small creeks, and people of all backgrounds who actually said things like "fixin' ta" or "finna" when discussing what they were going to do in the near to immediate future. It was very different from what I was used to, but it was an exciting adventure. Well, maybe that's in retrospect. When we first had to move and leave family and friends, I was less than ecstatic. When we arrived, we set up shop in a hotel where we stayed for a couple of weeks until we were able to move into our house off base. My emotional state went from feeling claustrophobic in that hotel room with my entire family of the five of us for the first several weeks, to being scared about the new house that had an oven filled with cockroaches when we moved in. All we knew before this was either base housing or living with family members. This was foreign, new, and different for all of us; yet, we quickly settled in and made the space our own.

It was in this house that I learned how to accomplish many different things. This included how to do back and front flips in our yard — my dad documented this through pictures, as I would spend countless hours outside trying to perfect this move. I was so proud of myself when I was able to accomplish what I set out to do, even if my form wasn't perfect! Numerous hours were also spent roller skating around in our garage until I was able to successfully skate backwards, do spins and turns, and "shoot the duck," a move in which one bends all the way down while fully extending on one leg and holding on tightly to said leg. The moment I learned to do that without tipping over, I was official! Finally, I learned how to find the Christmas presents that were from "Santa Claus" mysteriously in my parents' closet. See, my brother and I were jumping on the bed at the time when he disclosed this little nugget to me. I immediately stopped jumping in shock and disbelief — until he grabbed me by the hand and dragged me into their room in order to show me the goods. "You don't believe me? Come and see!" I think I hated ... ahem ... severely disliked him (we were taught by our mother when growing up that hate is such a strong word and that we should find a substitute for it) for years after that was disclosed to me. But then that dislike turned to curiosity each year afterward to find out what was in that closet. What was hidden in there this year? Would it be what I asked for, or a bigger surprise?

On the walk going to my elementary school off base (just outside of Oklahoma City), my friends and I would sometimes hop over a neighbor's fence at the end of the cul-de-sac as a shortcut while risking life and limb to not get bitten by their dog, only to be in a school filled with black children. Rather, African American children. This demographic makeup was not even remotely close to that of my elementary school in Massachusetts. See, I didn't always view myself as different; only when I was exposed to various backgrounds of people did this start happening. I grew up with two parents from two very different racial and cultural backgrounds — my dad was black, raised Baptist, and from the south, while my mom was white, part French-Canadian, part-Irish, and all Catholic from the northeast — but I never was forced to think about it, let alone have any idea what all of the race stuff meant at such a young age. Yet when I got to this school, I quickly learned what it meant to be different. The other children teased me for speaking differently — although I never developed the Massachusetts accent, I apparently pronounced things differently. I was teased for looking different. I was lighter than many children, and I had the "good hair" that most wanted, for some strange reason, because I always thought their hair was better and I wanted it — not to mention that I have since lost that "good hair" and have gone bald. So much for that! I was also at times ridiculed for being what they considered "smart." I just liked school and always had a thirst for learning. I did not realize that there was a penalty attached to this, in the form of ridicule.

This realization continued down the line when I had white friends who eventually would or could no longer associate with me due to my racial background. One of these guys I considered a decent friend until I was called inside by my mom after a normal evening of playing outside. He immediately saw the differences in mine and my mom's skin tones and began to taunt and tease, "Damon's mother is whiiiitttee, and the rest of his family is blaaaaccckkk!" I was embarrassed, shocked, confused, and angry. I felt betrayed that someone with whom I hung out and had a good time made fun of me in front of my peers and eventually stopped associating with me because of my family's background. This was to be followed by other similar instances, including with my friend Chris, whose parents told him at some point in our relationship that he would no longer be able to hang out with me (nor his other black friends) due to the color of our skin. I was appalled and confused yet again, but I tried to let it roll off of my back like water. I think having this to happen to her children bothered my mom more than it did me at the time.

I actually qualified during this time for the advanced children's off-site placement once a week, where we would go to a school in a completely different area of Oklahoma City that had all sorts of amenities and luxuries that my regular school did not have. It had a computer lab (this was during the day of the TRS-80 from Radio Shack), a gigantic playground with basketball courts and rims that had untattered nets, and teachers that actually seemed to care about learning. In the meantime, at my other full-time elementary school, it seemed as though everyone else was complacent just going to school, going through the motions, and then going home. Of course, I speak in generalities when I say this applied not only to the student body, but the teachers as well. Regardless, there were times when my teacher would sit back in her chair, put on her soap operas, kick back, and watch TV while she was supposed to be teaching us, well, something. It was alarming and frightening to me.

And then I would hear my sister, Nikki's, stories about her experiences in that same school (we were three grades apart). In one instance, she was cornered in the bathroom by several other girls and was bullied for being, looking, and sounding different. She was terrified. This is not what she, nor we, signed up for. I was scared for her, just seeing the fear on her face after this incident. But I think it helped my two siblings and I become a bit closer, because we realized that in the end, all we had was each other. When we moved and went to a different school, neighborhood, and house, the only constant we had was each other. I thought to myself that I couldn't wait to get out of there and finally move on base, which is why we were there in the first place. The issue was that there was simply no base housing available for us when we initially moved. It became a waiting game, and my parents had to make due with what they had in the meantime. Don't get me wrong; we had some good times in that house!

Our neighbors were so cool. This was where I first got cornrows and consequently realized that my hair was too fine for them to stay for longer than an hour or so. But they looked "fresh," for the short amount of time they were in. I have fond and vivid memories of my parents and neighbors jamming to great R&B artists such as Parliament Funkadelic and Marvin Gaye. They actually got to see Marvin Gaye live in concert while we were left staying behind with various people, from neighbors to people we didn't know well. That was one of my first times being jealous about not being able to attend a concert of an artist I enjoyed hearing on the radio. "You got to see him perform 'Let's Get It On' and 'Sexual Healing?'" Words you should never hear coming from an eight- or nine-year-old, though I had no idea what the songs were about; I just loved the sound of his voice and the melody!

My nana also came to visit circa 1983 for my Catholic First Communion, and I was so excited to see her when she came in town. I was not only fascinated with the whole process of traveling via plane (we never traveled by plane whenever we did travel, either because it was too expensive, was too hectic to get all five of us on a plane, or because my dad was terrified to fly; I'm leaning toward the latter), but excited to have a familiar family member come join us in our new home. It was the best! During this visit, she came bearing gifts in the form of a stuffed dog, which became one of my absolute favorites. Max never left my bed, nor my side. When my nana had to leave again, my stuffed dog, Max, served as a transitional object of some sort, as a reminder of her relaxing and calming demeanor. See, Nana was the type of person who got along with everyone, and everyone got along with her. She was so kind spirited and gentle natured, it was easy to love her. Her priorities were family, crosswords, reading, and smoking her cigarettes.

After taking Nana to the airport, I remember watching the plane depart and wondering where she was on that plane, trying to locate the exact window where she would be sitting, and imagining what it would feel like to be in such a large vessel that took off in the air and got you from point A to point B in such a short amount of time. Crazy. Regardless, the sadness really hit me when she had to leave, as I was left to wonder when would be the next time we would see her.