Doorways to Significance: Finding Peace, Power, Passion

Setting My Life in Motion

"Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here."

~Anonymous

Chapter 1: My Beginning

No! This isn’t our baby, Daddy screamed. Honey, these little glass beads spell another baby’s name! Come here quickly, look at this! He continued yelling, hoping Mother heard him from the bedroom. He spun the tiny individual alphabet beads repeatedly around the baby’s ankle.

More than an hour had passed since Mother and Daddy had left the hospital with their first, long-awaited newborn.

What? Let me see, Mother said, limping with leftover childbirth pains, in short, slow steps. Daddy showed her the baby’s identification foot bracelet.

Oh, my God, what do we do? I don’t understand … Oh, God, what are we going to do? Mother asked, sobbing in disbelief. Her torso heaved up and down as she held her distressed belly. "Where’s our baby?"

They returned to the hospital with the wrong baby and were swiftly escorted by two white nurses to a waiting room. They sat in the white-walled room with large windows out-picturing a tall white brick building next door, while embarrassed nurses and doctors hastily remedied the situation.

A different baby in Mother’s arms now, she checked to make sure the beads spelled Holland. Gently, her fingers caressed the baby’s cheeks and forehead. She whispered, I’m so sorry, my baby.

I was that baby. Did a white family take you home? a friend once asked when I told her the story. That hadn’t occurred to me at the time, even though I knew my light skin color made me, well, different from my black family.

What I do remember is this story of taking home the wrong baby, told to me over and over again, even though I now realize I never knew all the details. Skin color became significant life-defining and life-altering issues, which lead me to continuously reinvent and redefine myself and the world around me. My very entrance into the world paved the way for an arduous journey of self-discovery, from continent to continent, with many twists and turns in the road. But, like the snake, I shed layers and layers of skin and grew new ones with each new experience. It took a lifetime of encounters and travels on new paths for this little girl to turn into a confident and self-assured woman.

Chapter 2: Color Blind

Mommy, Teacher says you can put my drawing on the fridge, Eric, my three-year-old said as he excitedly waved his paper.

I caught a glimpse of his illustration and tried to appear unalarmed. My heart moved into my throat and I felt nauseous. Did you draw it yourself, Honey? I asked, not wanting, but needing to know if race was affecting him at his tender age.

Yes, everybody drew a picture of their family. And I got to show mine to the whole class. Teacher said it was special. Eric was the only African-American child in his school. It hadn’t seemed an issue for him that his skin was dark brown amidst a sea of white. He was smart and made friends easily with his entire class. We, as a token minority family, had been encouraged to enroll our son in an experimental, early childhood program at a private university. According to the directors of the school, Eric excelled in every subject and was popular with his classmates. An African-American child in a southern, previously all-white school made great news for the local and regional media.

Show me, I said, as I flashed back to a similar drawing I’d done of my family thirty years earlier. Hiding my dismay, I asked, Who’s this? pointing to the large dark figure.

That’s Daddy, he replied. See? He has big black shoes like the ones he wears to work every day.

"Who’s this one? I asked about the person beside his Daddy, fearing, the answer.

Aww, Mommy, that’s you.

My form wasn’t filled in like the others. I felt my face get cold as the blood drained out. But I don’t have on a dress, I stammered, then paused. Did you run out of time to color?

He shook his head, so I continued. And is that your brother? I asked, pointing to a lighter tan figure about twice his size.

He nodded.

Oh, I said. Honey, why did you color us all so differently in your drawing?

He looked confused. ’Cause you’re white, he said, and Daddy, Todd and I are black.

What’s the difference between being white and black? I mellowed my tone so I wouldn’t sound critical.

It means that if you go somewhere, you’re first if you’re white. That’s why I’m glad you’re white. We can all go together, Eric explained.

What’s that square around us about?

Mommy, can’t you tell it’s a box? For our family. We’re all together.

Gosh, Baby, you’re such a smart little boy, and I’m so proud of you. Did you learn this all by yourself? What did your teacher say about your picture?

He shrugged. She made me show the class and then told me to bring it home and give it to you.

I see. I’m so glad you did. Now let’s get the tape so we can put it on the fridge, okay? Once the picture was up on the fridge, I rushed out of the kitchen, telling Eric I’d be right back and hurried to the bathroom, the place I always ran when scared. I tried to will myself not to tear up, to no avail.

I never told him I was black. I didn’t know how.

Chapter 3: Setting my Life in Motion

As a child, I asked God, when I said my prayers, to change my skin color so I could belong.

All the other kids at school had tan, brown or black skin. Mine was white. My frame was more like my Daddy’s, tall and skinny with brown eyes and long, bushy, curly, auburn hair. Boys often pulled my braids and ran. Even though I wore trendy clothes—below-the-knee gathered skirts, cardigan sweaters and brown and white saddle oxfords—I still believed I didn’t fit in.

Walking home from school in a segregated Houston, Texas, neighborhood, white kids from a different school or African-American children from my own school, would push me off the sidewalk.

At age five, I had written an autobiography in my kindergarten class and drew a box around my words—much like the one in which Eric had enclosed his early family portrait. During my childhood, I would often retreat to this imaginary box—my figuratively safe place to hide—and crouch in a corner, afraid to leave because I didn’t understand how I fitted into the world.

One day in second grade, I sealed my fate to be forever picked on throughout my primary education years. I thrived on being able to answer questions or read selections aloud in class. I felt special when I did. Ooo-wee, let me, please let me … I would say to the teacher, knowing everyone was just waiting for my perfect response. I was proud of my ability to know the answers even before the teacher finished asking the questions. I felt a sense of self-satisfaction especially when she applauded, patted me on the back or said Great job! My goal was always to be the best student.

When I brought my report cards home with a less than perfect grade, Mother winced and wrinkled her brow. Why didn’t you make a hundred? My feelings would go from high to low, then back to high again, until one fateful day in second-grade.

It happened in Mrs. Anderson’s classroom. That particular classroom had many windows, all situated too high to see out of. Lots of pictures, papers and artwork colorfully draped the walls. Selected students fed and gave fresh water to several caged animal friends. The beautiful fish, gliding through the water of the aquarium, were much like my daydreams meandering through valleys of tranquility.

The thirty-two students were divided into several reading groups. Group One, which I facilitated as leader, contained more girls than boys and included all students with good reading and comprehension skills. I meticulously followed all the eligibility rules for the celebrated role of group leader.

Betty, you may read the next paragraph, I instructed my classmate, as I gleamed with great delight. As group leader, I had spoken with an air of authority. The newly assigned story included many new words. Shortly after she began reading, I heard Betty mispronounce a word and I caught it.

Please start over … read the first sentence again, I asked, determined to hear her say the mispronounced word again. I had to be sure of what I’d heard. When a student read a word, phrase or sentence incorrectly, the window of opportunity to move forward in the reading line was canceled. This diminishes the competition in favor of the group leader, whose task it was to mirror the mistake. Embarrassment and shame shattered the student’s world in front of their peers. When this happened, the students also feared the teacher might move them to a lower reading group. Usually, the reason for the problem involved incomplete assigned homework.

Betty began reading the sentence for the second time. She picked out the recipe and asked her Mother to bake cupcakes for …

That’s enough. You can stop there, I interrupted.

Why did you tell me to stop? I want to read some more.

Because you didn’t say the word correctly, I explained.

What word?

You know. You guys heard her, didn’t you? I turned toward the group while Betty glared at me.

The puzzled students began to grumble and murmur to each other, then became unruly. I glanced over the page again, reading the passage. Yes, I was sure she read the word incorrectly. In addition, I was sure everybody heard her, too. I knew I was humiliating her in front of the group, but I witnessed adults doing the same thing and thought it was my role as group leader to correct her.

Mrs. Anderson moved over to our group, looking at me questioningly.

See? I explained to Mrs. Anderson, putting my finger on the place in the text where Betty began reading, attempting to explain before Mrs. Anderson spoke.

She said the word ‘recipe’ instead of ‘ree-sip’ (emphasis on the second syllable). Overhearing my pronunciation, the group howled and laughed uncontrollably. I shivered and looked distraught. Something clicked inside my head. I knew instantly what I’d done.

Tell me, young lady, what does the word ‘ree-sip’ mean? And please spell that word for me. Mrs. Anderson peered over her glasses and into my eyes from what felt like the top of a throne. I couldn’t find the words to answer. She sent me to the end of the line in Group One. Shamed and scorned, humiliation and awkwardness crowded my heart.

Classmates taunted me by repeating ree-sip in the hallways and restroom, and on the playground. Girls ostracized me and never invited me to their parties. Boys shoved my head face-down into the water fountain or spat paper wads at me.

My ree-sip mistake made me conscious of my desire to be accepted and loved. It further jarred me into seeking excellence and perfection in all I did.

Chapter 4: Ground Zero

"You don’t hang towels like that in my house," Mother angrily commanded, her fisted forearms crossing her chest.

I’d just brought in the laundry from the line outside and was folding and putting it away. As I hung a clean bathroom towel on the towel rack, Mother walked up behind me, snatched it from my hands and backhanded me on one side of my face, then the other.

How many times do I need to show you how I want my bathroom towels hung? I will stand here if it takes you all day. I want those towels hung correctly.

Is this the way you want it? I murmured, my head drooping further into my chest as I bent and picked up another towel, folded it a different way, making it ready to hang. I held it up for her inspection.

Mother watched me make failed attempts; I waited and observed her green eyes for clues of the next blow.

While manipulating the linens in many directions, I searched my thoughts:

Do I fold in threes or just in half? I can’t remember. Help me, God, if there is a God, to get it right this time. Why can’t I remember how she wants things? Why am I so dumb?

When she yelled, I would get so upset and confused, it was impossible to follow her instructions. Hanging towels incorrectly was symptomatic of my inability to meet Mother’s expectations. I tried many ways hanging them in different ways, hoping she knew I wanted to get it right and would soon find the appropriate piece of the puzzle locked only in her design.

She slapped me again. You white bitch, you’re trying my patience.

For a brief moment, I stopped blaming myself and allowed other feelings to burst forth quickly—rage and anger. I vowed not to show my feelings, but the fiery pain had permanently stained my heart and mind.

Yet I saw other sides to her as well.

A prayerful woman, Mother shared kindness with neighbors and church folks, always reminding me to ask for little and to be grateful. When she prayed, she called out to God many times—God, please help me—tears draining the color from her face. She seemed often lonely, although she was sometimes filled with joy despite her frightening mood swings. The painful years of my childhood and adolescence were excruciating and embarrassing, especially when the neighbors could see and hear daily uprisings through our home’s wide-open windows. They would see me run out the back door and across our manicured lawn into the street, occasionally crashing through thick rosebush hedges, the thorns drawing blood.

I never had a destination; I just knew I had to move away from