Defying the Verdict Read online

  I owed my English instructor a final paper, which I completed at my aunt’s house and mailed to him. He sent me a note, remarking how well-written the paper was, better than my other endeavors that semester. Something about the stillness of being with my family allowed me to write at the level I had written while at Park.

  At my urging, Karen, Lela, and I saw the touring company of for colored girls who have considered suicide in Baltimore in February. The play was a booster shot for me. The rainbow was still enough.

  In March, I got a job at a Rite Aid drugstore as a cashier. I reconnected with Debbie who was rehearsing for her role as Dorothy in the musical, The Wiz, at her high school. A petite actress with a terrific voice, she wowed the audience. The guys who played the tin man, the scarecrow, and the cowardly lion were equally talented. This was a lovely theatrical diversion in my time away from Wesleyan.

  I also reconnected with Cora from Park School and the improv group. She was waiting to hear from Julliard, where she later matriculated to study theater. Besides academic excellence, she displayed acting ability that exceeded that of most of our contemporaries. In the years to come, when Cora became a professional television actress, Karen would sometimes question, “Why are you wasting your talent in that church when you could be an actress like Cora?”

  That summer, I returned to The Baltimore Neighborhood Arts Circus for a second year. This time I was co-leader of the team called Summer Fun. We had a theme song and specialized in children’s theater. Frank, who played the scarecrow in The Wiz, was a member of my team. We developed a close friendship through which I tried, unsuccessfully, to cozy up to his best friend, Cedric.

  Years later, as Linda and I reminisced about that Circus summer, I asked, “Why do you think Cedric didn’t want to be in a relationship with me?”

  Linda looked at me quizzically. “What would he have looked like being interested in you when his best friend loved you?” Until my sister made that comment, I had no idea Frank was interested in me. Because he never brought it up, I considered us good friends who spent lots of time together.

  We moved back into our home on Finney Avenue in July of 1978. In preparation, my dad bought the necessary furniture. Being removed from our home for a year psychologically depleted my mother. It seemed she lacked the energy to prepare our house for the family’s reentry. Valerie and I stepped up, picking out curtains, trash cans, dishes, and linens.

  Years later, when I tried to get Mama to talk about how she felt during the year we were displaced from our home, she informed me, in her characteristically succinct manner, “living outside of her home was an unpleasant experience.”

  Looking at this situation from my mother’s perspective, I would guess being forced to spend time away from her children would be difficult, bordering on traumatic. Having been raised by a bipolar mother who abandoned her more than once while manic, she would never have chosen to be separated from any of her minor children.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter: he that has found one has found a treasure.”

  —BOOK OF WISDOM 6:14

  AT SUMMER’S END, feeling both calm and confident, I returned to Connecticut for round two of college life. At the end of our forty-five minute session, Dr. Coughlin determined I was mentally healthy enough to resume a full-time course schedule.

  Gloria Penny Mullings, a sophomore, welcomed me as her new roommate. She lived in a large double in a William Street high rise. Ordinarily, upperclassmen lived there, but because her roommate had decided to take a year off, she could choose whom she wanted to live with her. Since the apartment had a full kitchen, I wouldn’t need to pay for a meal plan.

  I believe we are often drawn to people who are similar to those we are accustomed to. Penny reminded me of my sister, Karen, who never suffered fools lightly and judged situations as black or white. I process in technicolor. We were like Kansas and Oz. By the end of the semester, we had become friends. I sometimes accompanied her to her home in New Haven, an hour south of Middletown, when she went to visit her mother. Her father had passed away from lung cancer during her sophomore year; therefore, she chose to be present for her mom as they grieved.

  In October, my mother visited for four days to make sure my reintegration at school was smooth. She met my friends and made dinner for groups of us. She especially loved my friend Veda’s new baby, Marian. I had the pleasure of helping Veda care for her daughter as she completed senior year.

  Cheryl, a freshman from Philadelphia, became another close friend that year. She taught me how to speak ubby-dubby, a fictional language created for the PBS children’s program, Zoom. My freshman year, a friend informed me I was “like one of those Zoom kids.” Cheryl explained the Zoom kid uber-excited vibe to me. In ubby-dubby, my name was Chubbarubbitubba, hers was Chubberubbyl.

  Cheryl noted my unique conversational style. I jumped from subject to subject in a non-linear way. I would go from A to D to B back to A and on to C before returning to A. She was the first person to point out to me that most people didn’t speak this way. Although some “normal” people speak this way, it can be a bipolar marker, as it was for me.

  Esteban directed Steve Carter’s play Eden that semester and sent the stage manager to suggest I audition. I declined, having decided to concentrate on academics that semester. As it turns out, I should have auditioned. Penny had a role in the play. As much time as I spent running lines with her and attending rehearsals and performances, I was almost part of the cast anyway.

  My favorite course that semester was Afro-American Narrative, taught by Professor Robert O’Meally, a brilliant African-American academic, who had written the definitive biography of Invisible Man author, Ralph Ellison as his doctoral thesis.

  Professor O’Meally introduced me to the writings of Zora Neale Hurston, an African-American female anthropologist and novelist who was part of the Harlem Renaissance. I was excited to discover a female counterpart of Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen. As a black female writer, I considered Hurston one of my literary heroes.

  That semester, Iju, a gorgeous, young African man in the class of 1981 captivated my attention. Insisting I was not his type, my girlfriends made comments like “Your hair is not long enough, nor is your skin light enough for his tastes.” What did they know? Fully confident that I could entice him, I made sure he knew of my interest in him. I was flirtatious, without being too forward.

  In February, I saw a sign on the student post office bulletin board declaring February as “Go For It” month. Whatever you wanted, you should go after it, full throttle. So I decided to invite Iju to be my date for the Sadie Hawkins dance, a dance for which women were supposed to invite dates of their choosing. He accepted my invitation, but not my advances. I am convinced that had he entered into a relationship with me, I would have lost my budding interest in growing closer to God. I would have chosen a man I could see and touch over the invisible God. Therefore, I’m glad no relationship flourished between us.

  In the spring semester of 1979, I was cast as Clytemnestra in a student-directed production of The Oresteia by Aeschylus. The play was the culmination of an ungraded course called Aeschylus, Our Contemporary, taught and directed by a senior theater major as part of his honors thesis. I was delighted to be cast in a classical Greek tragedy. The ensemble performance was performed on the University’s main stage. Valerie and Karen came to Wesleyan by train for the performance. Iju came as well, to my surprise and delight. I had been mindful to send him a formal invitation. Although he never told me he was present, I noticed him in the audience.

  Robert Fagles, whose translation of the play we used as our script, attended the Friday night performance and the reception immediately following. He came over to me and engaged me in conversation about my performance, which he considered brilliant. As Mr. Fagles moved on to talk with the play’s director, Jon Esteban Vega, who had been in earshot, encouraged me to get the translator’s feedback in writing for my portfolio.
I failed to follow his advice. However, Robert Fagles’s feedback underscored my belief that I was a legitimate actor.

  That year, I befriended another student who shared his backstory of battling depression in high school. His successful battle with mental illness convinced me I could live in a healthy emotional space. To ensure depression would not envelop me, I willed myself to stop crying. I decided that the crying symbolized weakness and true colored girls don’t cry.

  Throughout the years I struggled through mental health crises, I could always rely on Penny’s support. Many years later, noting that she’d never known anyone with bipolar disorder before she met me, I asked, “Why did you continue to support me in all my craziness?”

  She answered, “Because we’re friends.”

  To which I say, “Ain’t it good to know you’ve got a friend.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “All is calm. All is bright.”

  —“SILENT NIGHT”

  VEDA GRADUATED IN May and moved back to Arkansas with her daughter, Marian. After graduation, I spent a week in Philadelphia with Cheryl. When we went to the zoo, one of the animals inspired a title for the children’s book I vowed to write, The Great Escape of the Barbary Ape. That creature looked so miserable in that cage. He seemed to understand he was boxed in.

  We went to the theater to view French foreign language films. Indulging our inner children, we read from Michael Bond’s Paddington. We spent time with Cheryl’s older sister whose self-confidence inspired me. On the final night of my stay, Cheryl’s mom took us to an Atlantic City casino. It was my first and only casino trip. I won $25.00 playing the slot machines. Not a gambler, I pocketed my winnings.

  Then I returned to Baltimore for Kelvin’s graduation. Her mom had passed away in April. I persuaded Penny to join my family for the weekend. In an attempt to cheer herself up, she referred to herself as Orpheline, the French word for orphan. My family offered emotional support. My cousin Lela adopted her as a little sister. Karen’s date got us tickets to see a Patti LaBelle concert. Patti’s incomparable performance seemed to brighten her spirits a little.

  After Kelvin’s graduation, I went to Chapel Hill, North Carolina to spend time with Granny Lillian by myself, willingly this time. My paternal grandfather had passed away when I was in eleventh grade. I spent time with my father’s brother Haywood and his wife, Betty, who radiates a calm that always balances my energy.

  When I returned to Wesleyan, I sublet a room for a month while I worked for the University, painting dorm rooms. My African-American crush, Iju, was also on the painting crew. Still no interest.

  On June 25, 1979, I created the following list:

  My professional goal is to become a child psychologist.

  Other major goals

  •Understanding of God’s teaching through Bible study

  •Children’s Theater Workshop—founding a black children’s theater organization in Middletown, CT

  •Semester in Paris (January to August 1980)

  •Trip to Jamaica

  •Top physical condition (weight around 135 lbs.)

  •Becoming a true Christian

  •Theater company at Wesleyan

  At the time, everything on my list seemed reasonable. I had reached out to a children’s theater professional in New York whom Esteban had referred me to for information on establishing a children’s theater company. I would continue to work through my list.

  In July, I worked as a Creative Theater Techniques teacher and counselor at the Center for Creative Youth. CCY was a residential arts program for students who had been identified as gifted and talented in music, dance, drama, vocal music, and visual arts—similar in focus to the Park Summer Arts program from my high school years, except these students were required to audition for slots in the various disciplines. I supervised a group of twelve girls, several of whom I grew close to, remaining in contact with them after the program ended.

  I team-taught Creative Theater Techniques with two other counselors in the afternoons, leaving me time in the mornings to rest and think about the kind of person I wanted to be. I decided I wanted to exude compassion and to show forth love.

  Each student was required to devise a project that they would implement in their high school during the upcoming school year. Inspired by that concept, I created a project combining theater techniques and literacy that I eventually executed at The Long Lane School in the spring semester of 1980.

  In August, I participated in Wesleyan’s residential Intensive Language Program (ILP), studying French. Planning to complete my application for Wesleyan’s program in Paris in the fall, I needed additional language immersion. I had dreamed of studying in Paris since middle school. I completed the program successfully and was later selected for the study cohort that would convene in France from January to May 1980.

  From summer 1978 to summer 1979, busier and more energetic than ever, I was calmer internally than I had ever been.

  I believed those dreadful depressions were over forever.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves; for they watch for your souls, as they that must give account, that they may do it with joy and not with grief: for that is unprofitable for you.”

  —BOOK OF HEBREWS 13–17

  I FIRST VISITED New Born Church of God and True Holiness with Penny, on May 6, 1979, the first Sunday after her mother’s homegoing. Ms. June passed away in April 1979. When she began attending this church in early spring, Penny had told me she thought I would really enjoy this loving congregation. That day, I came to support my grieving friend.

  Truthfully, I had been looking for a church to attend on Sundays. The Catholic Church in Middletown was similar to the church of my early years—one step beyond the Latin mass. It was too dead for me. Though St. Ambrose celebrated a more traditional mass each week, I opted for the gospel mass at which I often sang on either the youth or adult choirs.

  After being seated in the congregation of fifty or fewer saints, as the congregants called one another, I noticed a large sign on the rear wall of the pulpit at the front of the church. It read, simply, “God is Love.” After the morning announcements, the pastor asked all visitors to stand, to be recognized by the congregation. I stood, along with four other people. When he asked if any visitor had anything to say, I responded, “I am delighted to be here. It seems like something exciting is going to happen here today.” That was the improvisational theater performer in me speaking.

  The preacher rendered a sermon entitled “A Common Temptation” about God’s ability to help us overcome any obstacle. Like depression, I thought. His words reflected my concept of God: a loving father who provides a victorious life. After the sermon ended, as the choir sang something like, “Come unto Jesus, while you have time,” the preacher invited people to come up to the altar for prayer. I lined up behind five or more people, sure that the preacher’s prayer would be beneficial in some way.

  While conferring with the minister, I decided to be baptized in Jesus’ name. During the sermon, I learned purgatory wasn’t biblical. The way I lived my life, replete with angry outbursts, which occasionally turned physical, I always figured I would need someone to pray me out of purgatory eventually. I didn’t think I would commit any mortal sins for which the penalty would be hell. The Roman Catholic nuns from my elementary school made sure I absorbed the lessons regarding eternal life.

  With purgatory off the table, I decided to take action. Knowing I had been merely sprinkled with water as a baby, I chose this baptism by complete immersion in water. When my friend Veda, who had met Mama, asked, “What are you going to tell your Catholic mother about being baptized?” I shrugged, then replied, “I’m not going to tell her.”

  That week, the Wesleyan spring semester ended. Although I had remained in Connecticut for the summer, my busy schedule only allowed me to attend two services at New Born: a Bible study in June and a Sunday morning worship service in July. When
the pastor himself drove the half hour each way to make sure Penny and I could attend the service, I was impressed by his humility. This sacrificial attitude was what I had grown accustomed to in interactions with the clergy at St. Ambrose.

  Wanting to know God more perfectly, I decided I really should attend church every week, as my mother had required of any child of hers who lived at her home in Baltimore. In September, I chose to settle in at this church along with my best friend, Penny. I could feel the genuine love the congregants shared with each other, and with me.

  New Born Church of God exposed me to a new way of doing church. The church was patterned according to the Apostle’s doctrine that included repentance, baptism, and receiving the Spirit of God as evidenced by speaking with supernatural tongues. The church embraced the basic tenets of early Pentecostalism in the United States. In an effort to present ourselves in contrast to the world at large, we embraced standards of modesty with parameters that individual pastors determined.

  In an effort to serve God perfectly, I followed instructions, initially those that pertained to how I dressed. As a college student, I wore sweatpants most days. After my baptism, I removed them and wore the same three skirts for a semester to conform to the requirement that sisters wear skirts and dresses. My lip gloss, eyeliner, and mascara became a thing of the past. When one of the mothers told me wearing nail polish was a sign of pride, I removed it, determined to line my life up with what I was told God required. Over the summer, I had decided I needed to add biblical salvation to my peaceful, happy life, making things better for me. If these new rules would help me become a more loving person, I would submit to them.

  I decided my life shouldn’t be about externals; I would concentrate on being a better person internally. If the Spirit of God would change me for the better, I needed to receive it. When I did, I was immediately faced with an important choice. I was accepted for the Wesleyan program in Paris for the spring semester. I had participated in the Wesleyan Intensive Language Program during the summer to prepare myself. Now I had to decide whether or not I possessed the spiritual strength necessary to make the trip while retaining my newfound fervor. When I talked to Penny about it, she suggested I ask God for a specific sign to signal his will, as Gideon had done when he was unsure about God’s direction for his life. I didn’t place a piece of sheepskin outdoors asking God to alternate wetting it one night and keeping it dry the other.