Defying the Verdict Page 3

  To keep me from “smelling myself,” as Granny Ruth would say, my mother would remind me of my station, saying things like, “You might go to that school, but you’re still a poor little black girl.” The comments not only bruised my spirit, but also confused me. Up to this point in my life, I considered myself to be like every other person. No better. No worse. Her comments heightened my awareness of the disconnect between my working class home culture and my upper middle class school culture. Then I noticed, all the black adults at school worked in the cafeteria or on the janitorial staff. In my mind, it seemed they were the schools lower stratum, the subservient class.

  One day, in math class, a boy mocked my incorrect pronunciation of fourth. I had pronounced it “fourf.” I laughed along with some of my classmates. Laughter became my defense mechanism at school. Though the teacher reprimanded him, my confidence took a hit. After that incident, I sometimes withheld correct answers, fearing I might pronounce something wrong and be the object of another cruel joke. Though unaware of its genesis, my eighth grade science teacher corrected this reticence. He told me, “I won’t know what you’re thinking if you don’t speak up. It’s okay to give a wrong answer. I can only help you correct incorrect answers I hear.” Because of this comment, I recommitted to my right to be heard. One of my seventh grade teachers had already warned us against pairing diarrhea of the mouth with constipation of the mind. I would still avoid those maladies.

  By the end of seventh grade, I had become close to my classmate, Denise, another first year Park student. I was no stranger to wooded areas, but she was a nature expert, able to name more types of trees than oaks, elms, and pines. During our free periods, we would cross over a wooden bridge into the woods on the school grounds. On these excursions, we’d walk along the trails, talking and singing. On warm days, we would take our shoes and socks off and walk in the stream. She taught me how to find its spring in order to drink cool, clean water without having to go back inside. As much as I enjoyed my friendship with Denise, the Park School was an alien culture I was ready to escape.

  By eighth grade, my home life was becoming increasingly unpleasant. I was still highly sensitive. The atmosphere in our overcrowded row home overwhelmed me. Sometimes, I would go into the basement, sit atop the washing machine, and read, sing, or cry. I needed to rest my nerves.

  Unlike in my early years, my parents never seemed to get along. In 1968, Daddy wanted to move our family to Delaware where his job was being relocated. Mama, pregnant with my youngest sibling, nixed the idea of uprooting the family. We stayed in Baltimore. Daddy got a new job, but this seemed to place a wedge in their relationship.

  Mama tried to get me—and all of her children, for that matter—to align with her against Daddy, making disparaging marks to us about him. I attempted to get along with both parents. I often ended up in the crossfire of their disagreements. I eventually became the mediator child, trying to keep peace between parental factions, while also serving as go-between for my parents and my siblings. On more than one occasion, when I agreed with my father on a point of contention, my mother snarled, “That’s right, Charita. You’re the wife. You understand him.”

  Yuck, I would think. For me this statement had unnatural overtones. I was too young to understand my mom was simply venting anger over her marital situation. Personalizing her comments, I found it necessary to try harder to make her know I wasn’t a complete defector.

  Mama related how she met my father at a birthday party for one of her students. The party was at the child’s house, where Daddy was a boarder. After serving in the Korean War, he and Uncle Willie had relocated to Baltimore from Chapel Hill, NC, hoping to improve their circumstances. According to my mother, “Leonard seemed like a gentleman. He worked every day and seemed like he cared for his mother.” They married in 1957.

  Daddy was usually open to answering any of my questions One day, alone in the kitchen with him, I asked, gently, “Why don’t you and Mama just get a divorce?” Why did I ask that? His answer exploded from his mouth. Had I been a cartoon character rather than a living eighth grader, the force of the response would have caused me to complete a backward roll. I was shocked by the intensity of his reply. I don’t remember exactly what he said.

  Apparently, my parents shared a love I didn’t understand. Nor did I want to. I now understand that my father took the vows “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse,” seriously. It didn’t matter that I would have labelled their relationship, worser, if that had been a word.

  This incident taught me not to meddle in grown folks business. For the rest of my childhood, I never discussed any opinion I might have held about my parents’ ending their marriage. At least, not with either of them. After this interaction, I added fear to the love and respect I held for my dad.

  In September of eighth grade, during my physical, the school doctor asked, “How are you enjoying The Park School?” At Park, most adults asked students questions, expecting thoughtful answers. My response revealed my general unhappiness, while remaining true to my father’s credo, “What goes on in this house, stays in this house.” I told her about being in a different section than my friend, without mentioning any personal family business. My real feelings about my life were summed up in the Jackson 5 song, “Corner of the Sky.” I sang it often from my perch on our washing machine.

  Cats fit on the windowsill.

  Children fit in the snow.

  Why do I feel I don’t fit in anywhere I go?

  Gotta find my corner of the sky.

  The doctor shared our conversation with my eighth grade English teacher, Richard Peyton. A Park School graduate himself, he believed in making The Park School a racially and socioeconomically diverse, progressive learning environment. He encouraged me to remain at Park. Throughout the year, he suggested specific ways for me to make school and life more enjoyable. Initially, he offered to have me reassigned to the same eighth grade section as Denise, my stream walking friend. Making that change would have removed me from his class, so I declined. Per his suggestion, each of my older sisters shadowed with me for a day at Park to become more familiar with the school culture. I had shared my guilt about attending Park while my siblings went to public schools. We hoped, after a school visit, they, Karen especially, would acknowledge Park was a better fit for me than their citywide magnet school would be.

  Valerie enjoyed her visit. She ended up shadowing a friend of hers from Western High who was now a student at Park. Karen had a great day, but retained her belief that I should go to public school.

  Noting my love of reading, Mr. Peyton taught me to search for meaningful solutions to life’s problems in books. I also learned to connect themes between texts. These lessons became life-affirming habits.

  Once a week, I read to second grade students during their library period. I’m sure I had opportunities to share Russell Hoban’s books about Frances the Badger with them. Frances had spunk, like me. She even made up songs to correspond to life’s struggles, like I did. Francis’ wise mother loved her unequivocally, always making decisions that were best for her. I now understand my Mama also made decisions that were best for me.

  In our final conversation about where I would attend high school, I attempted to convince my mother I could receive a great education at Western High, the public magnet school Valerie and Karen attended. I never mentioned craving Karen’s friendship and approval. Mama told me, simply, “You don’t understand the opportunity you’ve been given.”

  In September 1973, I entered ninth grade at The Park School.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Champion the right to be yourself. Dare to be different and set your own pattern; live your own life and follow your own star.”

  —LIN YUTANG

  SOMETIMES SITUATIONS UNEXPECTEDLY work in my favor.

  My newly hired ninth grade English teacher, Jeannette Davis, was an African-American woman. Having a black teacher made me feel a little less odd. In the Park School t
radition, she helped students hone critical thinking skills. We read works from authors of color, including Chinua Achebe and Lorraine Hansberry. Being exposed to works by non-white authors, one student complained, “I feel like this is turning into a black studies course.” Jeannette acknowledged his displeasure, and continued exposing us to literature new to the Park School curriculum.

  Lorraine Hansberry taught me important life lessons through her play, A Raisin in the Sun. The Younger family seemed more like actual people than fictional characters. I identified with Beneatha Younger. She reflected the energy, stubbornness and even self-absorption I displayed with my family. Carefully attending to Beneatha’s epiphanies as a gifted, young, black woman, I internalized the importance of persistence and being non-judgmental. She held fast to her dream of becoming a doctor, despite the financial challenge she faced after her older brother, Walter, lost the money reserved for her medical school tuition in an unauthorized liquor store venture. After a tirade in which she labeled her brother worthless, her mother reproved her. “When you starts measuring somebody, measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you done taken into account what hills and valleys he come through before he got wherever he is.”

  However, the book that impacted me most that year was Sylvia Plath’s novel, The Bell Jar. Esther Greenwood was a brilliant Smith College student whose life was disrupted by manic depression, now known as bipolar disorder. She underwent shock therapy after an unsuccessful suicide attempt. By this time, I was quite adept at personalizing literature. Esther and I shared a similar sensibility. In the back of my mind, I believed what happened to her, could happen to me.

  Jeanette told us the book was a fictionalized account of Plath’s experience. We read her poetry along with the novel. A few years later, I performed Plath’s “Mad Girl’s Love Song,” as a spoken word poem. I was horrified to learn she committed suicide in her early thirties. After turning on the gas oven in her London flat, she placed her head inside, asphyxiating herself.

  The nuns had already convinced me suicide was the unpardonable sin. They intoned, “If you kill yourself you cannot go to heaven. You will not go to purgatory. God does not forgive people who’ve killed themselves. People who kill themselves are consigned to hell.” I doubted I would ever commit suicide because I WAS DETERMINED TO AVOID SPENDING AN ETERNITY IN HELL.

  Besides critically reading novels, plays and poetry, our ninth grade curriculum included an advertising unit. We studied ways in which specific words are employed to drive consumerism and influence belief systems. I created a personal slogan, I am different and unique. I repeated this internal mantra, attempting to convince myself not fitting in was just fine. When my peers would say, in the vernacular of the day, “Charita, you’re a trip,” my casual response became, “I’m not a trip, I’m a journey.” I gave myself permission to live within my own parameters.

  At Park, each high school student selected an advisor. I chose Jeannette. In a one on one conversation, I shared my assessment of the financial burden I placed on my parents by attending Park. She gently informed me, “Whether or not your parents can afford to send you to a private school is their decision as parents. As a child, it is your job to learn all you can while you are here. Whether or not they can afford to send you here is not your concern.” After our meeting, she called my mom and had a long conversation with her about the things I had shared.

  That Saturday, Mama, my sister Valerie, and I sat down in our living room to talk about my feelings. Although I no longer spoke so quickly when agitated that I had to “suck back spit to keep from drooling,” in the words of my cousin, Lela, I still exhibited quite a range of emotion. Histrionically, I confessed to my mom, “I know you can’t afford to send me to Park.” For emphasis, I added “I feel poor when I’m at school.” That comment launched a conversation that forced my mother to examine her role in developing my poverty mindset. She stopped asserting I was a poor little black girl. As always, Valerie encouraged me, “You should be proud that you’re smart enough to get a scholarship to go to private school.”

  That afternoon, I lay down to rest my nerves without anyone suggesting I do so.

  I returned to school on Monday, feeling a little calmer. I reconciled myself to the fact I wouldn’t be leaving Park.

  To encourage me, Jeanette gave me a ticket to a matinee performance of The Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, an African-American modern dance company at the Lyric Theater in Baltimore. It was the first time I had seen a live, professional dance performance. Watching The Nutcracker on television didn’t count. I sat spellbound throughout the performance. This artistically excellent group of black dancers impressed me. A decade or so before, companies like this did not exist. I was so inspired that I took modern dance classes, beginning in tenth grade.

  Jeanette left Park at the beginning of my tenth grade year. She was a godsend, another teacher who bolstered my flagging self-esteem. She and Marian Dixon, an African-American woman from my church encouraged me during my early high school years.

  Marian Dixon was one of my mother’s teacher friends. She attended St. Ambrose Church and was a founding member of Baltimoreans United in Leadership Development (BUILD.) BUILD is a not-for-profit, interfaith, multiracial organization created to make the city of Baltimore more livable. The organization promoted change within people, and Mrs. Dixon supported change within me.

  When I shared how difficult it was for me to study in my bustling household she created a study space for me in her home down the street from mine. She took me along when running errands and taught me how to sew. Respecting my intellect, she engaged me in meaningful discussions. Spending time with her underscored my value. By listening to me, Mrs. Dixon taught me that my opinions were worth listening to.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Life is a process of becoming, either becoming more or becoming less. I’m becoming more by a process of choosing what I become.”

  —LLOYD STEPHENSON

  BY TENTH GRADE, St. Ambrose Roman Catholic Church had morphed into a predominantly African-American congregation. After a few years of folk masses, which I loved, we had now moved on to a Sunday Mass featuring contemporary gospel music. Our Caucasian priests were still the norm, and each of our two African-American deacons had a wife, according to the Catholic Church’s new ordinance. The nuns assigned to our parish no longer wore traditional habits, though they sometimes wore veils. My mom’s friend, Sister Cecelia, declared they often came in handy. “I got out of receiving a ticket when the police officer came up to the car and realized I was a nun.”

  I worked as an evening receptionist at the rectory several times per week in eleventh and twelfth grades. I also prepared breakfast every other Sunday morning. Being around the clergy gave me an opportunity to know and respect the people who served the congregation. To me, these were trustworthy, regular people with positive motives who had accepted a call to serve God in a different capacity than the laity. One of our priests, Father Henry Zerhusen, especially exemplified Christ-like compassion. He treated each congregant like someone who mattered. That kindness drew people to the congregation. Harvey was one of the people that kindness drew in.

  Harvey, a high school student who was a few years older than I, was one of the unchurched neighborhood kids Father Henry ministered to. He spent as much time as he could at the rectory. Professing a love for God, Harvey aspired to become St. Ambrose parish’s first African-American priest. Though Harvey was well-regarded by many parishioners, I thought that if he ever became a priest, he’d be more like the evil cleric Rasputin than any priest I’ve ever seen at St. Ambrose..

  Harvey never seemed to like me very much. Because he was a student at the zoned high school, I felt he was jealous of my private school education. I also believed he resented the fact that the members of my family, one of the families that integrated the church in the early 1960s, failed to regard him with awe. However, many long-time St. Ambrose parishioners delighted in his evangelical spirit. To his
credit, several classmates he brought to church converted to Catholicism. This was a pretty good evangelism record for someone who had been Catholic fewer than five years.

  One fall evening, Harvey joined me in the office where I sat at the secretary’s desk answering the phone. I half-listened as he rambled on using big words—some correctly, some incorrectly—until I heard him say, pejoratively, “Your mother is crazy.” That got my attention. Forget about sticks and stones or even hearing what he said, in context. I sprang from my chair and kneed him in the groin, exclaiming, “My mother is not crazy!” He had officially pressed my button. No one was allowed to associate the word crazy with my mother, a woman who once soldiered through a significant bout of depression.

  This was not the first time I became angry when I suspected someone was calling Mama crazy.

  In sixth grade, Sister Marie Carl informed our class, “Only crazy people talk to themselves.” Having heard my mother reason aloud from time to time, I raised my hand. When she called on me, I corrected her. “That’s not true,” I declared. She refuted my statement. Then, for the first time, I yelled disrespectfully at a nun. “My mother talks to herself sometimes and my mother is not crazy.” That outburst earned me a trip to the principal’s office with Sr. Carl’s hurriedly handwritten note in hand.

  Because I was one of the good kids, who had just made her school look good by earning a scholarship offer to a prestigious private school, the principal listened thoughtfully to my side of the story. Once I calmed myself down, she firmly, then gently informed me my “flippant behavior would not be tolerated.” I apologized to my teacher.

  By the time I calmed myself down in the Harvey incident, he had left the office. I went home and tried to call him at the rectory the next day. I failed to reach him. Being the kind of Christian he was, when I left the rectory the following night, he had a female friend follow me home with a small posse while he remained at the rectory. When they caught up to me, Harvey’s ally announced, “You hit my friend, now I’m going to hit you.” She punched me in the mouth, gave me a menacing stare and went back in the direction she came, accompanied by her followers.