The Dawn of My Life

We all have our stories to tell. I invite you to join me on my personal journey of excitement, adversity, and moments of happiness. Survival was the most dominant part of my life growing up in the South — a real trip without luggage. Joyfully, I still remember the fragrance of the honeysuckles, the taste of persimmons, and the bitterness of green plums. My fear of little green snakes made hunting for ripe plums a memory from the past.

My life began as an ordinary little girl who would become extraordinary as life happened. I was born to a young, colored couple who lived in Durham, North Carolina, in 1945. Back in those days, I recall the air being much cleaner — sweet, like love hugging my body, keeping it safe. I remember the fall most because my birthday is in that season. The new school year began in September. Even the hard times were special, connecting like a web, bringing forth the next adventure, and with it, hopefully, a new lesson learned.

After being in this world for only two weeks, adversity had already found me, sleeping peacefully in my playpen. Mama described the time when a small mouse bit me on my little toe as I slept. She shared a few other events of my childhood over time but often left out a lot of important details. Come to think of it, she told me a lot of things, not realizing the mental and emotional impact. She did not realize the influence adversity would have on me at such an early age. If getting bitten had happened to me at another time in history, I could have died from the bubonic plague. These thoughts were a part of my mother's conversation when she discussed how blessed I was to be here in this world.

Around the time I was born, my parents had emotional disagreements. After a while, my fun-loving father decided he could not take it any more. He left the family and went north. He desired to seek answers to dreams that many black men looked for in those days. This major decision set the stage that would play a major role in shaping the life of this little colored girl, abandoned by her biological father.

Abandonment is a human condition that many children and adults have to cope with. I heard statements that my father, she referred to him as Charlie, left because he did not want a house full of children. Some of this information, left unsaid, would have spared me unnecessary pain; but on the other hand, it contributed to my strong drive to succeed. Each time I looked in the mirror, I saw a cute little girl with pretty, long hair.

I regret that I don't have pictures of myself as a baby or small child. To compensate, I would often imagine how I might have looked based on my mother's descriptions of me. She told me I had big, beautiful eyes and long, beautiful hair. I remember getting my hair shampooed and pressed at a beauty shop when I was five years old, getting ready for first grade. For some reason, I have never forgotten the beautician complaining about my hair being so long. I feel it would be so nice to actually see pictures of myself as a little girl. It would be helpful when I find myself struggling with my inner child. For many reasons, I found myself reading and watching Dr. John Bradshaw's lectures about family secrets and coping with the hurt and pain that comes with childhood trauma.

Many factors have contributed to my need to satisfy my curiosity about my father and find the truth one day. I often wondered why my mom did not seek child support. Instead, she created her own financial plan for our economic survival. This light-skinned, short, cute little lady was also a survivor who managed to keep her children together, even if it meant sharing her home with another family.

Mama managed to get her friend and her friend's sister, both with children, to come live with us. Back in the day, many people occupied a single home and shared responsibilities as a means of survival. A family in a multifamily household often shared a single bedroom. The entire family might sleep in the same double-size bed — some at the head, others at the foot. All of the women in our small house seemed to enjoy sharing chores, taking turns babysitting for each other, and cooking meals for everyone.

We all lived in a two-story, "shotgun"-style house. A shotgun-style house is long and narrow, designed so that, if you were at the front door, you could see straight through to the back of the house. Our house was a little different because we had a kitchen and toilet downstairs. As we entered the front door, there was the front room, middle room, and back room on the first level. The first level did not have a real bathroom. Instead, we used a "pot." This was a white pail with a wire handle that we used as a toilet at night. I remember the cover was also white with a red ring around the rim. The family used this room and the pot when we had to do ... you know "number two"!

The kitchen downstairs had a small sink, a wood stove used for cooking and heating, and an icebox for keeping perishable foods. There was an unheated bathroom just off from the kitchen that was seldom used during the cold winter months.

When I was old enough to stand at the kitchen window, I remember seeing horses from the stable out back. When they got loose, they would sometimes come right up to the window. I remember being terrified of their big, round eyes and long lashes just staring at me! I would have nightmares about them, creating horror stories in my young mind. Even to this day, I am afraid of horses. I don't recall who died first, the horses or the old man who owned them. But I don't recall ever looking out of that window again!

I was around eighteen months old when I fell and hurt my mouth. A blister formed on my bottom lip. Blood formed in the blister, and now I had to live with the blood mole on my lip. Again my future was already being shaped again by adversity. I had to wear this mole throughout my childhood. My mother never did anything about it, not being aware of the teasing I would likely have to endure. Surgery, for me, was out of the question. My mother didn't trust hospital personnel. Her fear stemmed from having to put her own mother in the tuberculosis treatment center when she was only fifteen years old. My grandmother, who was only fifty-five years old, died a year later when my mother was sixteen. There was absolutely no chance that I was getting elective surgery. The doctors warned my mother of the possibility that the mole could eventually become cancerous. Back in those days, it seemed as though anything could cause cancer.

My mom described my grandmother in detail as having very light skin, freckles, and very long brown hair. She shared what little information she had learned about my grandmother. Because her mother died when she was only sixteen, she didn't have a lot of knowledge about her family heritage. Mom was young and inexperienced and had no one to depend on for guidance. Her parenting skills were sometimes trial and error. In my opinion, she did a great job raising six children.

My recollection of certain experiences was not very clear until I was around four years old. Looking back at my formative years, I realize that much of it was lived in limited surroundings. Mom found a babysitter for my brother and me when we were both infants so that she could return to work. The sitter was paralyzed from the waist down and was 100 percent confined to her bed. The smell of medicine was always present in her bedroom. I remember spending most of the day crawling around in her bed and quietly sucking my thumb while daydreaming and thinking. I never had the opportunity to play with other children while in her care.

I found comfort in sucking my thumb and just observing everything around me. This little colored girl's dream consisted mostly of thinking about what Santa was bringing her for Christmas. I looked forward to getting my make-believe baby, Paula Mae, for Christmas. This doll had skin as white as the lotion that Mama used on my skinny, brown legs. It was the only doll for sale at Kress department store. While on one of our shopping trips to Kress, I saw a little girl who had white skin and blond hair just like my favorite doll, Paula Mae. I got my mom's attention and said, "Look, Mama, a doll." Mama said she put her hand over my mouth and was so ashamed of me as she hurried to finish her shopping.

Mama agreed to get Paula Mae for me that year. Paula Mae was blond with pretty curls. Her dress was blue, with a cute little baby hat and a stroller made just for her. I am empathetic to my mom's dilemma of not being able to find a doll with brown skin. Instead, she promised to look for one with darker hair next year. I felt her pain and the pain other mothers must have experienced having to adjust to what was available back in the day. This type of adversity, although painful, was powerful. However, it did not change my love for Paula Mae.

Mama had a lot of pride in the way she carried herself and the clothing she wore. The ladies in her age group would make comments about how sad it was that she had to "raise dem po chillun all by yo self." This mindset forced my mother to become very private after others saw her as "po thang."

The period around 1949 is as clear to me as if it was yesterday. I was four years old. The little blue dress that Paula Mae wore was now the dress I had fun using to dress up my new baby brother William. I don't remember much leading up to the birth of this real baby at this stage of my life. It was the beginning of my being groomed as a caregiver of a real baby. I can remember changing William's diapers and sticking pins into my tiny, four-year-old fingers. This was, of course, before disposable diapers.

I remember a new man coming to live with us. He was an honorably discharged Purple Heart veteran who had purchased a barber shop after returning home from World War II. Willie was his name. On Mondays, Willie stayed home from the barber shop. I always looked forward to him being home. I remember him leaving a dollar on the dresser every day before going to work. In those days, a dollar could buy an entire meal. I also looked forward to his coming home early on Friday nights to watch the Friday night fights on our new television (one of the few in the neighborhood). Willie was a great provider. But he was a business man first and a workaholic. That meant he wasn't around as much as I wanted. Some of my best memories as a child were of days of stormy weather.

Mama would have us turn off everything electrical. During this down time, we were our most creative and happy. We enjoyed sitting around the house telling scary stories to match the storm. We told our stories under blanket tents while the thunder roared, and the lighting flashed, and the rain made music on our tin top roof.

After the rain, the dirt streets were filled with mud puddles. We looked forward to the tiny rocks that the city put down it seemed like once a year. When we had a dry season, the streets were dusty like the cowboy movies we enjoyed.

Sundays were the best of all days. We enjoyed our only cooked breakfast of the week together. My mouth waters even now as I think of the salty dried fish, grits, and orange juice or Kool-Aid. For dinner, we usually had fried chicken, rice or potato salad, something green, and something sweet. After breakfast, we had to get dressed and go to church. Mom always gave us ten cents to put in church and five cents to buy ice cream at Mr. Will's corner store.

After we returned home, we could go to the Regal or Booker T movie theater in the colored part of town. The Regal played mostly cowboy and Indian movies. Of course, the scary movies like Godzilla were the favorite of the young crowd. Going to the movies was an opportunity for me to be away from all of the household chores. It gave me a sense of freedom and added somewhat to my social needs.

At times our parents allowed us to go to the movie theater outside of Hayti. This was a segregated movie theater, and we had to sit in the balcony. Before we went up to the balcony, we would go behind the movie theater and get a half-empty box of popcorn from the trash and fill it with popcorn from other boxes also retrieved from the trash. We were careful not to get the uncooked popcorn or dirty popcorn in the box. We then pooled our money until we had enough to buy one drink, which we all shared. We had no idea that the popcorn had been handled by so many people. I guess that was the gross fun of it all. Somehow, we managed to make being poor an adventure. After the movies, we sat around the house, drew pictures, and made make-believe toys.

We were not allowed to show anger. This was emotionally crippling. Many restrictions were used as a way to ensure that we didn't get caught up in the use of profanity and lose our positive upbringing. We learned our standards from a very old rule book that never changes, the Bible.

I learned to think for myself at an early age and knew that adults can also be wrong. Regrettably, there were gaps in my learning and a lack of feeling safe and protected. I was always searching for the best answer for what little I knew to ask. Trial and error was the process I used.

Mom's encouragement helped to shape my resilience. But many times I received mixed messages. One day the expectation was for me to act like an adult, the next day, to be a child. At times, it left me confused and socially crippled.

Hayti Girl

Hayti was on the "colored" side of the railroad tracks. I recall most southern towns had this division. Unless you were going to work at the tobacco factories or working in the big houses cleaning or taking care of the bosses' children, the other side of the tracks was off limits for you.

Growing up in Hayti reinforced high values and expectations for this small group of so-called colored people. These owners of the businesses were a proud group of men and women, who had some control over their lives by not having to go across the tracks to get their needs met. Having our own part of town made the psychological impact of segregation less traumatic. I avoided exposure to discrimination on a daily basis, avoiding the negative words, stares, mean attitudes, and unfair judgment experienced mostly when we went out of our neighborhood. I was not called the "N" word until later in life when we were permitted to venture out into the world on the other side of the tracks.

It felt good going back to my side of the tracks. In my own little world, I was usually a happy person in spite of all of the responsibilities I had when I was at home. Hayti was one of a kind. Hayti was developed by black businessmen and with the help of a few white supporters. I remember learning a lot by hearing the businessmen discuss everything, from investments to how much they love to work while they waited in my stepfather's barber shop. I was so young I didn't really know what to listen for, but the energy, for me, was confidence building. The other side of the tracks spun its web forth as I learned many lessons.

Economic Life

Durham's history speaks for itself. In the 1940s, '50s, and '60s, Hayti was a success story for the colored businessman. The black-owned banks served most people in the colored part of Durham, now referred to as Black Wall Street.

Singers and performers had the Biltmore Hotel and rooming house accommodations when they came to town. I remember several funeral homes in the area, along with churches and corner stores where you could buy a limited amount of sugary, salty, and fatty foods. I recall that fresh vegetables and fruits were only available through the vegetable truck vendors who would come through once a week — same as the ice man, the coal man, and the milk man. There was always a "spread man" selling pretty new stuff to spruce up the house, especially just before holidays. He came around to collect a dollar payment. He would mark it off of one of the long cards he carried, neatly bound with a rubber band.

The insurance man came every month. He was a very nice, tall, handsome white man. I think he was one of my first crushes. I looked forward to his coming to our house. When my mom couldn't pay him, she would not answer the door. I hated those times because I didn't get a chance to talk and smile at him. I didn't understand the reason she didn't just tell him she didn't have the money. I guess it was just her way.

Early School Life

During the 1950s, all of our schools were segregated. I went to the neighborhood school, where I felt safe. All elementary students walked to their neighborhood schools. The older students were bused to the only black junior and senior high schools in the city. I don't recall ever getting a cooked breakfast. We may have had some corn flakes with evaporated, canned milk before going to school. During this time of segregation, we did not have free breakfast or free lunch. I was given only ten cents for lunch. It was not enough to buy lunch, so I stopped at the corner store and bought a big Baby Ruth or Honey Bun to eat while attending Whitted Junior High.