When I Was A Child...

When I was a child I was extremely shy and nervous. I could cry at the drop of a hat and shut it off just as quickly. I was so shy that I felt embarassed calling my father "dad" or "daddy" and always referenced him as "my father". Mom's coworkers used to openly tease me about this and frequently made fun of my speech. To them, it was unnatural for a black girl to speak like white people. They guessed that it came from the white private school. I hated to be the center of attention of mom's friends and the teasing had a profound effect on me that sticks to this very day. I still feel uncomfortable in the presence of blacks when my speech is like the whites.

When I was a child I used to cower in a dark closet in my room, eyes tightly shut, praying to God, Buddah, the spiders in the corner to please let my parents stop fighting. Please stop my father from hitting and beating my mother. Please stop my mother's screams and antagonizing. Sometimes it seemed like she wanted him to hit her. She'd goad him on with ridiculous taunts and smart remarks. When things became quiet I'd come out of my closet and lay on my bed feigning sleep so that neither of them would come close to me. I'd open my eyes when they left my room and stare up at my Rainbow Brite canopy and dream of running away. For years I kept a suitcase packed and ready along with a hand drawn map of where I'd run to. I figured I'd run to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts or maybe to my school which seemed just as big as the museum to me. I got the idea from reading the book From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I loved that book but hated the ending where Claudia and her brother went home. But like Claudia I began to save my money so that I could at least afford cab fare or bus fare to the museum. Once, I slipped out of the house and walked down the darkened street as my parents fought in the house. Amazing that nothing happened to me. I vaguely remember being worried about dangerous murdering men, the Briley brothers, because they frequented the house directly behind ours. But even then I knew that they didn't mess with little girls. I remember meeting one of the Briley brothers once; he was nice to me, said I was a pretty little girl. Funny, I hadn't thought about that in years. Anyway, that night I'd made it a good distance down the street before my conscious kicked in regarding my mother. What would happen to her if I weren't there to step in and stop my father? Would he blame her if I went missing? Probably. And then he'd take more anger out on her. I remember looking one way down the street into the darkness and looking back at my house... and I turned and went home. They never knew I was gone. And they were still fighting.

When I was a child I wanted to be a nun. The only thing that stopped me from taking up the vocation was that I knew my desire to be a mother was stronger than the desire to retreat into a cloister. But the idea of being a nun seemed safe. You were protected, fed, clothed and life was orderly. You knew exactly what you had to do, when to do it, and no matter what you were guaranteed that slot in heaven when you died. I craved the order, the quiet, the peace. I wanted to be taken care of and I didn't want to worry about bills being paid, being successful in life, dealing with boys/men. I wanted a life where it was expected for me to be subservient. Where my belongings would be so few that I would never have to worry about a mess again. Where it was impossible to fail at your mission in life. Pray, live, die. Perfect. The problem with becoming a nun? To my knowledge there were no black nuns. It wasn't talked of back then when the nuns tried recruiting and they ignored my queries. So, I kept that desire in my heart and swallowed my disappointment.

When I was a child and I learned about the Civil War and slavery I wondered what the former slaves thought just before they were freed and how they felt about freedom afterwards. Back then our history books didn't give us that information or any indication that there were slaves that actually prefered to remain captive. That there were some blacks that felt that slavery was right and natural and that there were some blacks that were too fearful of failure and indeed felt that freedom meant that they would in fact fail. As a child I sat and thought that perhaps slavery wasn't so bad if you got one of the good guys to be your master you know? To me it seemed to be not quite so bad because at least you knew what you had to do in order to survive. You worked, hard, but you were taken care of. You never had to worry about money or lack thereof; food; other vagaries of life. None of that mattered because you were kept too busy to be concerned with anything else. Happiness wasn't expected. You did what you had to do and then you died.

When I was a child I wished I could go back in time and live in any century other than now. Centuries ago lines were drawn, men were men, women were women and that was that. Men had roles and responsibilities and they did them. Women had their separate roles and responsibilities and they performed. They were subservient and allowed themselves to be cared for by the men. Despite my growing feelings for women's lib, this appealed to me. No worries. Worries fell on the man's head, not the woman's. God knows in my young world I had enough to worry about.

When I was a child I enjoyed nature so much. I loved playing with my best friend Kim next door but equally magical was those few afternoons that I had alone. It amazes me how quickly I'd forgotten those magical times. I had a ton of toys always. My father would buy me practically anything I wanted. I guess out of guilt but who knows. But on those days when I played alone, I didn't need the toys. I'd be happy with a stick and leaves, water and mud, and whatever else I could find outside. I'd been feeding stray cat, Kitty, and she stayed pregnant so there was always a litter of kittens around. There were spiders, crickets, and grasshoppers to catch; ants to watch as they marched on the sidewalk and up and down the tree trunks (later I'd find my magnifying glass and test that whole sun-frying-them-on-the-pavement theory.). Or I'd chew some gum and leave it's sugary goodness on the pavement and watch as they'd first converge and then stick in the middle of it. I'd study them and note how the first few fools got stuck and the others would come, look, and simply take a hunk of gum from the outer edge and retreat back to the anthill. They didn't care about fallen comrades, only survival. I'd make mud pies, or "fish" in the swollen clogged up gutters in the backyard, hunt for birds eggs, or my favorite springtime activity: sitting on the ground beneath the big japanese maple tree in the front yard and gazing up into the sky watching the squirrels, the clouds, airplanes, etc. I'd lie there and dream. I'd dream of flying, of my future, or escaping my life entirely. I'd think on how wonderful it would be to live in nature, in the wild, answering to no one, failing no one, dependant on no one... except yourself.

As an adult, I wish for that simplistic joy I had in nature. It's all but evaporated. The fear of failure still lingers... no, lingers isn't the right word... it's not strong enough to reflect the way I truly feel about it.

I fear failure. Not personal failure, just failing my kids. Which I suppose means that if I have a personal failure I do fail them as well.

I hate that.