CHAPTER 1

LISTEN TO MY TEARS

Unbelievable!  I am in a U-Haul on Interstate 83 doing something six years ago I swore I would never to do:  move back to Wilmington.  When I finally got away, I was supposed to stay away; breath; live my own life.  But I couldn’t shake this feeling of urgency.  For months, I tried to ignore the gut feeling to go back to my home.  I dreamt about it constantly.  It was as though I was watching this never ending movie flashing only two words:  Go Home!  Go Home!  Go Home!

I’m mad as fire because I woke up this morning at eight instead of six-thirty.  Packing until two in the morning had me stupid tired.  In my twenty-nine years of living, never had I used an alarm clock.  Of all mornings to oversleep, why now?  When we got to the U-Haul on East Main Street in Ocean City, Maryland, the short Chinese guy told me he had given my large truck to someone else.  “No show up!  Give to other!” he said pointing out of the window.  The only thing available now was a midsize.  “Shoot!” was all I could manage to say.  My back was against the wall and I had to do what I had to do.  I paid with my Visa and signed on the dotted line.  My best friend, Brenda hopped into my car, I hopped into the U-Haul truck and we made a bee line to my apartment.

Our coworkers, Neil and Caleb were there, waiting there in Caleb’s shiny black Jaguar with both front doors stretched wide open listening to the radio.  I heard the Motown sounds on Gladys Knight singing about leaving on that midnight train to Georgia.  Neil hopped out of the car and ate the last of his McDonald’s egg biscuit.  Caleb turned the music off and walked slowly towards Brenda and I as we quickly ascended the many steps leading to my apartment.  They volunteered to pack the U-Haul as a going away present to me.  Caleb had asked a million times if he could drive the truck to Wilmington for me while Neil followed, but I respectfully declined.  My big mouth mama and nosy sisters would have asked too many questions about these two very tall and handsome men and I know my family wasn’t trying to hear me say, “They are my friends.”

It took two and a half hours but the four of us managed to load the truck.  “Are you sure you want to leave?” Caleb asked removing his green Norfolk State University baseball cap.  He used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.  “Brenda’s going to be lost without you.”

 Caleb had a crush on me and I knew he would miss me also. My mind went back to the day Caleb took me to a play, then dinner.  He was a perfect gentleman:  flowers, music, opening the car door, the works.  I was mad at myself for at least a month because for some reason, I wasn’t ready to date him.  I smiled.  “I’m sure.”  I looked at my best friend sitting patiently behind the wheel of my green BMW waiting to follow behind the U-Haul. Brenda was the person who had my back from the days when we first met at Victory Assembly Church.  Six years later, things hadn’t changed.  

Caleb embraced me knowing he didn’t want me to go. “Listen, my aunt just started a day care in Wilmington called Junior Scholars.  If you don’t like your new school, I can put a word in for you over there,” Caleb said.

I smiled.  “Thanks, but I got this one.”

 I hugged Neil, said ‘goodbye’, cranked up that big truck and rolled out.

While driving I reflected on my graduation from Delaware State University in 1998 and how I landed a teaching position in Ocean City, Maryland.  Fresh out of college, I moved not knowing a soul.  I owned nothing but a cheap bedroom set, a set of dishes, one suit case full of clothes and an old broken down black and white television set. But, I was happy.  I was free to make my own decisions, hold my own keys, and drive my own car.  I was excited to live the life Mary J. Blige sang about, No More Drama because my life was filled with drama from the very beginning.

My twin sister, Monette, and I were born on March 1, 1977 in Martin Luther King Hospital.  At least I was born in the hospital.  For years Mama loved to tell the story about how she called a taxi cab when she went into labor that spring day in ‘77.  On the way to the hospital, my twin sister, Monette was born in the taxi.   An hour later I was born breach. 

At the age of twenty-one, Mama had four children. The oldest was four year old Austin. Austin was handsome with almond skin, button eyes and black wavy hair, which he got from our father’s side of the family.  Then there was the feisty two year old Sonya, who was Austin’s look alike.  Finally, the twins, Monica and Monette.   After Mama’s first two pregnancies, our daddy, Preston, told everybody, “Josephine had twins.”  He cried wolf so many times that nobody believed him when Mama really did have twins.

My siblings and I grew up near Abram’s Place, one of many public housing projects in Wilmington’s East End, better known as Temple Hill.  Our three bedroom, one bath house was located on  Millicent Road, blocks away from Olympia Cemetery.

 Before I was born, Mama got custody of two of our cousins, Bruce who was the same age as Austin, and Maxine, who was a year younger than Sonya.  So, Mama raised her four plus two more.  We knew better than to get into “grown folks” conversations or question Mama as to why our cousins had to come live with us.  If anybody asked why Cousin Bruce and Cousin Maxine were high yellow, we were told to respond, “That’s how God made them,” and keep on moving.  

My childhood holds a lot of memories.  Year after year, the seasons slowly changed bringing more unforgettable events.  Even though we were poor, the good times outweighed the bad.  As a little girl the good times mainly happened during Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.  For Thanksgiving, Mama would cook up everything:  turkey, ham, chitterlings, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, greens, rolls, chocolate cake, sweet potato pies, and yams.  We had a feast at home, but Mama still got us dressed to catch the 328 transit bus downtown, pay five extra cents each for paper transfers, and ride the 300 bus to Grandma’s house.  Grandma lived in Dabney’s Place, a housing project in North  Wilmington.  Mama’s four sisters and their kids also came over to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving.  We ate like pigs, played with our cousins, and found some reason to fight them before the night was over.  It would be too late to take the bus back home.  Mama would call a cab for the seven of us, and Grandma paid the cab fare.  Grandma’s twenty grandkids ran around playing tic-tag, fingers crossed, our way of saying, “I’ll see you next time.”

During Christmas Mama put up our Charlie Brown Christmas tree and decorated it with homemade or school-made ornaments.  The Christmas tree just wasn’t complete without the green, red, orange and blue revolving light placed on the floor to give the tree that special sparkle.

On Christmas Eve, like most children, we couldn’t sleep.  One at a time, my sisters and I got up to use the bathroom, tiptoed into the living room and ran back into the bedroom to report what we saw.  “Ewwwwww!  We got some skates, some doll babies, one Easy Bake Oven, a Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robot, some clothes, batons and . . .”

“Go to bed!  All of ya’ll, go to bed!” Mama yelled from her bedroom.  “I’ma call Santa Claus and tell him to come back and get them toys!”

Monette and I cried and begged the others to go to sleep but Sonya and Cousin Maxine were pure rebels.  Sonya whispered, “Max, the twins stupid!  They still believe in Santa Claus!  Monette and Monica believe anything Mama tells them!  How some fat white man gone go to every house in the whole wide world in one night?  Rudolph ain’t real, and reindeer can’t even fly!”

Each winter came with a promise of snow.  We rolled balls of snow, then tightly stacked them on top of each other creating a snowman masterpiece.  Most of the time, we didn’t have gloves but that didn’t stop us from battling the frigid temperatures.  Mama improvised.  Our little hands didn’t know the difference between mittens and mix-matched socks.  I loved lying on my back, flapping my wings, pretending I was an angel.  I used my imagination and let my wings carry me to places I know I’d never go.

Then there were the summers, two and a half months of pure freedom -- no school, no homework and no teachers.  From sunrise to sunset my sisters, friends and I ran around barefoot catching June bugs and bumble bees trapping them in mayonnaise jars.  We used screw drivers to poke holes in the top in order for our pets to breathe.  Somebody would be brave enough to use some of Mama’s thread and tie it to the leg of a poor stinky June bug.

When the sun became unbearable, we’d walk two miles to the public pool located in Castle’s Place, jump off of the diving board, dog paddle, back stroke, float and swim until we were hungry.  Whenever we went swimming, we traveled fifteen to twenty deep. Somebody in our neighborhood group always supposedly knew where an apple tree was.  So, we followed the leader, jumped anybody’s fence, ran from ferocious dogs, climbed tall trees, picked a towel full of worm eaten apples and walked our ashy bodies and nappy heads home.  After washing the chlorine off, we’d take an old blanket and sit under a huge tree eating icebergs made with a pound of sugar, and play Black Jack, Deuces, or Spades for hours.  Once the card game came to an end, we’d visit the “candy lady” and spend up every cent. I learned how to play hop scotch, bo lo bat, yo yo, pitch pennies and play jack rock like a pro.

At night when the street lights came on, we played games like Red Light, “Simon Says,” Are You Ready Mr. Bear?,  Dodge Ball and Kick Ball in front of the door until Mama called us in for the night.  People came from nowhere when they heard the candy truck.  The brown truck with the picture of a soul brother wearing a pair of platform shoes striding, proudly would roll up playing a joyful melody, beckoning us to buy potato chips, kosher dill pickles, Now ‘n Laters, Lemon Heads, Bubble Gum and all kinds of penny candy. 

In the summer, I also remember walking joyfully to China Park with my sisters and friends just to listen to various bands play.   People sat on blankets, leaned against cars or danced enjoying the music.   We took turns sitting on torn cardboard boxes sliding down steep hills.  This thrill took the place of roller coaster rides.  When the sun started to set, the oldest sibling in the bunch ordered us to start walking towards home, and we did.

One summer, Mama bought us a record player so we could listen to 45’s.  Austin took control, positioning the needle just right so that the records wouldn’t scratch.  He was the DJ while his sisters did the latest dance moves dressed in “hot pants” shorts.  We held combs, brushes, or anything resembling a microphone, stood in the middle of the floor and sang Michael Jackson’s hits.   All of us picked one of the Jackson Five members, claiming him as our boyfriend.

The first day of kindergarten is forever etched in my mind.  Monette and I were dressed in our red pants, blue short sleeved shirts with the white dog eared collars, and black patent leather shoes.  Mama had our hair pressed, filled with Royal Crown hair grease, and bright red ribbons.  The school bus for Radford Elementary came early.  Mama hustled, giving us our brown bag lunches and placed our name tags on as instructed for the first week of school.  When I got to my assigned classroom, my teacher called the roll.  “Monica Butler?”

“Here,” I answered.

My teacher, Mrs. Woodard, walked over and checked my nametag, just as she checked everybody else’s.  “Your name is Monette Butler.”

I looked down and realized Mama had mixed up the nametags.  I corrected my teacher.  “My name ain’t Monette!  I’m Monica!”  She was making me mad.  “I know what my name is lady!”

She insisted I wasn’t who I said I was, checked with the other kindergarten teachers and located the person who looked just like me wearing the name tag “Monica Butler.”  Those crazy teachers made me go to Monette’s class and made Monette go to my class.  I cried and cried and cried some more.  Monette did the same.  Finally the teachers got tired of the water works, contacted the office to see if there was another Butler child that could straighten out this mess. Cousin Maxine came into the hallway and saw us with red weary eyes.  “That is Monica and that is Monette,” Cousin Maxine pointed.

The teachers laughed and apologized to us but the damage was already done.  I rolled my eyes, went back into my class and joined the others playing “What can you do Puncha Nella Funny Fellow?”

Mama took us to church every single solitary Sunday of the calendar year.  No excuses were good enough to miss church. My sisters and I sang on the youth choir, were members of the youth usher board, and attended Sunday school at Harmonious Baptist Church.  Each Sunday before the church bus pulled up to give us a ride, Mama gave each of us a quarter to put in the offering plate, but after Sunday school we’d walk down the street to the corner store and spend twenty cents of that money on candy.  The Lord got five cents and during church service we sat on the back pew, six deep, eating, laughing at the preacher because he walked slowly like he was a hundred and fifty-five years old.  We called him Baby Step Thomas but Mama never knew about it.  We got a kick out of mocking Mama “get happy” while singing with the “old people” in the senior choir.

I loved growing up in the hood.  I learned things a classroom knew nothing about.  Like, if there was no soap, we bathed with dish washing liquid.  When we ran out of toilet paper, Mama said, “Use the newspaper.”  In the hood, there was no need for a clothes dryer.  Mama put our wet clothes on the radiators or the clothes line.  No transportation?   No problem.  If the weather was nice, we walked wherever we needed to go.

Sometimes things were bad.  There were the familiar sounds of gun shots, ambulances and police cars.  I watched drunken neighbors stagger to their destination.  Family feuds sometimes spilled into the streets resembling a bloody Ali and Frazier match for everyone to see.  Many times, I could feel danger in the air.  I would park myself on the cold, concrete porch and think.  I thought about my life, my surroundings and my future.  I grew to hate the sight of women walking down Millicent Road wearing old dirty slippers and big combs stuck in the back of their heads.  I knew numerous families where two or more generations lived in the hood.  Girls, like their mothers, had baby after baby and little ambition or direction.

The hood was full of people who learned to beg, borrow and steal.  It was a never ending cycle of games.  Everybody had a hustle. Envy flowed out like venom amongst neighbors.  Many teenaged guys sold drugs and plotted patiently waiting for the right time to break into homes to steal something their mother saw the other day when she borrowed two eggs or some soap powder.  At the hot playground children would fight like trained soldiers because someone took their swing.  Sisters and their crew mapped out the right moment to jump another female because she wore a half decent outfit to school. Little did they know, that outfit sat in lay-a-way for two months.  Clothes that hung drying on the clothes line were fair game for anyone passing by.

 Regardless of what was going on around me when I was growing up, I somehow managed to keep a leveled head.  I knew at the age of eight what I wanted to be when I grew up.  A teacha!  Yes. I loved pretending to be the “teacha” while my sisters sat on the floor as my pupils. This made me feel special.  I longed to teach those hard heads from the inner city.  Why?  My life had been touched by dedicated educators who definitely weren’t in the profession for the money.  I wanted to give back, help those angels caught in their own personal hell, push those that didn’t have a mother or father in their corner.

To get from the hood to the classroom I had to travel a long, rocky road.  This meant graduating from high school, graduating from college, no babies, no trouble with the law, and no heartache for my Mama.  Lord knows Mama had her share of trouble.

To top it off, she had to deal with an alcoholic, cheating, twenty-six year old husband who thought he was too young to be called Daddy.  He told his kids to call him by his name, “Preston.” Preston’s youth, good looks and popularity caused him to resist the husband and daddy roles.   He liked to hit the Trio on Third Street, and hang out at a club called Purple Pitstop on Braxton Street in Temple Hill.  This was when Historic Ward was hot and Temple Hill was cool.

So, Mama did what all desperate mamas do when their backs are against the wall.  She got welfare and food stamps to put food on the table, a roof over our heads and homemade clothes on our backs.

Papa was definitely a rolling stone, to say the least.  He would stay with us for a few days, then, he’d head on over to Braxton’s Place and stay with his girlfriend and her family for a few days.  This cycle continued for years.  When Preston came home, my sisters and I would scatter like roaches running from light.  Austin and Cousin Bruce would just grab a football and jet.  We wanted no parts of the man who put fear in our veins and made us weak as puppets by his presence.  His voice carried authority like thunder.  In my little eyes, he was a giant, a terror, and I feared him.

Preston was the man who made my sweet Mama sad.  He made her cry, shooting at her self-esteem like a little boy aiming his B.B. gun at a distant soda can. Because of Preston, inferiority was Mama’s middle name.  I personally would rather take my chances getting chased by the meanest neighborhood dog, Tobi, than see Preston coming.  The sight of my father made me lose my appetite even for my favorite meal:  fried chicken, corn, and string beans.

When Preston wanted to take a break from the street life he’d pay us a visit.   Sonya would vocalize her feelings, suck her teeth, fold her arms, pat her foot, frown her face, and with a ghetto neck roll exclaim, “Why he got to come here?!  I wish he would go back where he came from! Don’t nobody want him around!  Mama, tell him to go back to his girlfriend’s house!”

We agreed silently sitting on the bottom of the two sets of bunk beds, hoping, praying Mama would say nothing to set Preston off.  Just don’t bring on an unwanted storm.

Mama walked into the living room to wage war.  “Where you been?!” Mama asked Preston.  Even though we were down the hall in our room with the door closed and our fingers plugging our ears, sound flowed like running water.

Preston sat on the sofa watching I Love Lucy on our black and white, floor model television.  He responded angrily, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, “Don’t start nothin’ won’t be nothin’.”

Anger got the best of Mama and she started to cry. Her hot tears and trembling lips didn’t faze Preston a bit. “You thinking you can lay up over there,” Mama said pointing in any direction.  “Then come here anytime you feel like it?!”  She pointed to the floor.

Down the hall, we paced the floor or bowed as if our beds were altars.  “Please don’t say anything to him!  Mama, don’t!”  My bones began to ache.  Bad weather was headed our way. 

“Josephine, didn’t I tell you to get the hell out of my face with that shit?!”  Preston said angrily.

I looked out of the window.  The sun was shining brightly, and I could hear the distant sound of a child bouncing a ball and laughing.  But in my world, my home, I heard a rumble of thunder.  Clouds began to hover overhead.  Trees willingly bowed to the invisible force, the wind, my daddy’s voice.  I became lifeless, wishing I could disappear.

  “You leave me here alone to take care of these children day in and day out!  Those boys need a daddy, Preston!  They be shootin’ and carryin’ on out there and ain’t nobody here to protect us!  I can’t do this by myself!!”

Preston sighed and combed his fingers through his wavy hair.  “I’m gone say this one mo’ time.  I’m hungry.  I’m tired.  Leave – me – alone…”

“Tired of what?!” Mama screamed rolling her neck.  “You ain’t working nowhere!  Just ho’ hoppin’ them streets when you feel like it!  I’m the one tired!”  Mama pointed to herself.  “I work! I take care of them when they get sick!  I help them with homework!  I take them to church every Sunday!  I’m the one they come runnin’ to when they get scared!  But I can’t be no daddy!”

I closed my eyes and started to hum, imagining living in a beautiful home on a hill with a white picket fence and two parents that didn’t argue.  I imagined my daddy giving his daughters piggy back rides on the beautiful green grass one at a time.  I tried to see Preston playing football with my brothers, teaching them how to be men.  But all I could see in my mind was this light-skinned man with black hair sitting in the living room on a beige sofa covered in plastic to preserve its life.  Mama sat across from Preston sobbing, rocking back and forth wiping her eyes with a wash cloth because the man she loved since her teenage years was also loving someone else.  Mama had two choices:  share her man or lose him.  I knew Mama couldn’t bare the thought of losing her king.  So, she settled for the share plan.

The storm was upon us and all we could do was ride the waves.  Thunder rolled.  More screams.  More cursing.  Preston never hit Mama, for that I was thankful.  His moments of extreme rage caused him to break up everything in sight: furniture, glass, lamps, dishes pictures and ash trays. Somehow, I gathered enough courage to tip toe down the hall and peak into the living room. I looked at Preston, this monster.

My eight year old trembling, flip flop wearing feet stepped gingerly over the broken glass.  Tears fell from my eyes.  I took my Mama’s hand.  “Mama, you okay?”

Her sobbing was uncontrollable.  “I try so hard!  Lord knows I’m tryin!”

“Come on,” I said still holding her hand.  “Come back here with us, Mama.”

I wanted my mother to leave Preston’s presence so my sisters and I could cheer her up.  She continued, “I’m sorry!” Mama cried.   “Please stop drinking!”

I looked at the man who helped bring me into the world. Then, I looked at my world, my Mama.  I got mad at her for apologizing.  As far as I was concerned, Preston should’ve been the one apologizing, not Mama.  “Come on.  Get up,” I said pulling her arm.

“Look at that shit!”  Preston said pointing at me.  “Now you got my children hatin’ me!’

I rolled my eyes at the beast and wished right now he’d drop dead from drinking so much liquor.  I somehow managed to pull my weary mother to her feet and led her down the hall to my sisters and closed the door.  Mama sat on the floor lifeless, still crying. 

“You still pretty, Mama,” I said trying to make her feel better.   “Real pretty.”

Cousin Maxine took Mama’s wash cloth and headed to the bathroom to wet it.  Sonya sat on the floor frowning so hard, it looked like her face hurt.  “I hate him!” 

Ssshhhhhhhhh!”  We insisted.  “He can hear you!”

“So!”  Sonya was so mad, she began to cry.  “Y’all scared of him, but I ain’t scared of him! He ain’t nothin’ but a drunk ass punk!”

Mama scorned, “Watch yo’ mouth, girl.  He still yo’ daddy!”

“I ain’t got no daddy and I can’t wait ‘til I get grown!” Sonya yelled.  “I ain’t living in no hood!  Ain’t nobody gone treat me like trash!” She jumped on her bed, covered her face with her little hands and cried loudly.

Sonya’s words made shame appear on Mama’s weary face.  I felt sorry for Mama.    “I can’t talk ‘bout my past.  One day ya’ll will understand,” Mama said.  “Just promise me you will finish high school and get out of this neighborhood, go on to college.  Get a good job and take care yo’self.   Don’t be like me.”

Monette, Sonya and I said in unison, “We promise, Mama.”

Sonya got up and kissed Mama’s forehead, her way of apologizing for those harsh words.  Cousin Maxine returned with the wash cloth and cleaned Mama’s face.  We burdened Mama even more with our four heavy heads and eight arms.  I knew I wouldn’t be a child forever and one day the storm would pass over for good.  The sun was on the horizon, somewhere over the rainbow.

ME?  I WASN’T going to be like Mama.  I wasn’t going to get hooked up with a no good man that didn’t want to better his life.  And I definitely wasn’t going to share my man with nobody.  No way.  I was determined to graduate from college to make a better life for myself. 

At least once a week, Preston took his frustrations out on Mama.  She took the verbal abuse, took care of us, and took her burdens to the Lord every Sunday.  By the time I turned twelve, Mama got tired of being tired.  One hot, summer day in August, Preston came home drunk for the last time, but he didn’t know it.  Normally, Mama would cry, beg him to love her, beg him to love us, but not this time.  She just sat in the chair and stared at Preston, like she was in a trance or something.  Preston smiled a wicked smile and put on his shirt.  A few minutes later, he did what he always did.  He left through the back door.

Mama got dressed and counted her forty cents bus fare.  She told us she’d be back in about two to three hours and headed out the front door.  When Mama got back she looked happy, like a burden had been lifted. She had gone to visit one of her “crazy” cousins, Marlo.  Marlo was meaner than a two headed snake, known to fight anybody, anytime, anywhere. Marlo spent half of his childhood in and out of juvenile and a fraction of his adult life in jail. That night we overheard Mama talking to Grandma about Marlo tracking Preston down, giving him a good ass whippin’ and ordered Preston out of the house. 

A few days later Preston came home with two black eyes and ‘bout three missing teeth.   This time the six of us didn’t run, just stood there and watched.  We waited for his reaction.  Sonya stood by the phone, waiting for Preston to buck so she could dial Marlo’s number.  At that moment, I learned just how much of a coward Preston was.  He shook his head and looked around at his wife, who loved him regardless, his four children, niece and nephew who had grown to despise him.  As always, he walked out the back door. He returned a few days later with his girlfriend’s van to get his clothes.  Now, we were happy.  The storm had passed over.  Hallelujah.