Defying the Verdict Read online

  Knowing that money always fell in place for my scholastic endeavors, I decided I would leave the country if the finances for my trip were in place. I could not find funding to study in Paris. After I decided to forego a major goal from my to-do and remain on campus, Penny shared, “Pastor Geddis told me not to tell you what to do about Paris. He said it needed to be your decision.”

  During winter break, I went to New Born Church of God in D.C. and stayed with Dee Dee, a sister from the church who was in her late twenties. She patiently shared her knowledge of God with me and radiated kindness. She invited me to ride to Tennessee for the revival her pastor Bishop Wilson was conducting. She served as his driver for that trip. As we rode through the West Virginia hills he pointed out the majesty of God. He also instructed me to memorize Galatians 2:20, which reads, “I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.”

  At home, my siblings commented on how plain looking I had become. I think this must have been a personal choice because one of the twenty-something sisters often reminded the sisterhood, “Holiness is not a synonym for homeliness.” In my quest to be sober, I had lost effervescence as well as fashion sense without noticing.

  Because I wanted to be a more loving person, I needed to work on my speech. Not how to speak, but rather what to say. I had always believed if I spoke the truth, people should accept whatever I said. I learned that wasn’t so and that the childhood adage sticks and stones may break my bone, but words can never hurt me was untrue. I wanted to stop using hurtful speech. I decided if I was going to be a Christian ambassador, I needed to be genuine. I read books about getting better control of my tongue. To this day, I am really hurt when I unintentionally offend someone with words.

  In February, our Church embarked on a month of Consecration, twenty-eight days to dedicate ourselves to God. I ate one meal a day as prescribed. Toward the middle of the month, one of the brothers invited Penny and me to his apartment for a home-cooked meal, which was delicious. A week later, out of nowhere, I called Dee Dee to let her know I would soon be engaged to that brother. She didn’t challenge my assertion. However, she recognized a difference in my vocal tone that I didn’t hear. She didn’t believe what I was saying was true, nor did she think I was lying. She alerted my pastor.

  Meanwhile, my thoughts began to race, and my speech and behavior began to speed up. My friend and fellow congregant, Bill, a doctoral candidate at Wesleyan, shared file cards with me on which he had written scriptures concerning Christian speech and behavior for me to meditate on. The uptick in my mood resulted in a loss of insight those cards could not restore.

  That semester, I withdrew from three of my six classes. In my Psychology of Learning course, I gave a ten-minute extemporaneous discourse that no one understood, but the instructor allowed me to continue my nonsensical rant. Penny, a psychology major, found out about the strange discourse from another psychology major who had heard it. When she asked me about it, I had no explanation. What I said had made sense to me while I was speaking. Humiliated, I dropped the course.

  I spent as much time as I could in my room reading my Bible and praying to try to slow down my racing thoughts.

  I attended the church’s all-night prayer service conducted from Friday night to Saturday morning in mid-February, thereby adding sleep deprivation to eating one meal a day and further interrupting the chemical functioning of my brain. On Saturday, I decided it was time to attend an on-campus party. I was extraordinarily cheerful, dancing to a few records before returning to my apartment.

  Of course, being at a party was outside the parameters of my religious tenets. My pastor chided me for attending the party and for putting an earring in the piercing of my right ear. In response, I gathered all my jewelry, including an heirloom bracelet, and threw it into a garbage chute in my apartment building. It never occurred to me to hold onto it without wearing it until I could give it away. In my mood state, I thought throwing the jewelry away was my best shot at resisting the temptation to wear it.

  In mid-March I plunged into a more ominous version of the depression of 1977. Throughout April, I was weepy and sad. I kept praying. Penny said, “It’s a good thing you weren’t at home with your family. They wouldn’t have understood.” How could they have understood something I didn’t understand? At the time, I had no explanation for what was happening to me.

  That semester, I designed two independent study courses at the Long Lane School, the juvenile detention facility for the state of Connecticut. I was teaching English and Creative Theater Techniques curriculums I designed to young men on the maximum-security unit. When hypomania kicked in, I manifested a new seductiveness that became counterproductive. One of the counselors warned me that my behavior was too provocative for this population. I mustered enough clarity to know I needed to leave that ward.

  With heightened persuasive abilities, I was able to rescue my project by appealing to the head of the girls’ division who allowed me to switch my attention to a group of girls in the minimum-detention section of the facility. I tutored English and taught them how to turn their dreams into stories they acted out. I recorded my experiences in one journal for the English professor who was overseeing my work and another journal for the theater professor who monitored the theater component.

  Penny and Bill graduated from Wesleyan in May. To celebrate her accomplishment, Penny and I decided to travel from New York to California where we would stay with one of her friends. We traveled to parts of the country I had never visited, passing through Arizona’s fresh air, seeing the Saint Louis arch at dusk—every new state provided its own beauty. But after two days, it seemed the bus trip would never end and our feet were swollen. After arriving in California, we decided to fly back home. Penny had enough money to buy a ticket, but my refunded bus ticket money was not enough for a plane ticket. I borrowed the remainder of the money I needed from Karen, promising to pay it back later that summer.

  When we returned to Connecticut, Penny suffered whiplash in a van accident and wasn’t able to work. Covering the rent, I couldn’t afford to pay Karen back in the timeframe we had established. It took much longer to pay her back than I expected. She promised she would never loan me money again.

  In July, I went home to have my bridesmaid gown fitted for Valerie’s upcoming wedding and bridal shower. I returned in August for the wedding. Penny and one of the other sisters from church attended the wedding with me. My pastor suggested I skip my sister’s wedding reception to attend a church service my congregation attended in D.C. that day. I let him know I planned to celebrate with my sister and our family on her special day. Though, I wanted to create a new life for myself in the Pentecostal faith, I would always participate in major family events. There was no way I would be off somewhere at a church service when my sister was beginning a new chapter in her life.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Do you know what happens when dreams cannot get out?”

  —MERRICK, THE ELEPHANT MAN (BERNARD POMERANCE’S THE ELEPHANT MAN)

  BY THE FALL of 1980, I no longer felt the internal freedom theater had given me, nor was I walking in the joy I derived from my initial salvation experience of November 1979. As I think back, I had become enslaved to rules, judgments, and traditions no one explained to me. I just accepted them—even those that seemed arbitrary—because at the time, I thought they were essential to salvation.

  Penny moved in with one of the sisters and her children in New Britain. For the first few weeks of the semester, I would spend Sunday night there, returning to Middletown in time for my class on Monday evening. Not wanting to inconvenience the woman Penny roomed with any longer, Penny started bringing me home on Sunday nights. My old roommate Michelle and I were roommates again at the William Street high-rise. On the weekends she went out of town, I would sleep in her room, allowing Penny to stay in mine.

&nb
sp; This semester, I took two English courses, a religion course, and two theatre courses. I studied standard stage diction and began writing a play to be performed at the student-run ’92 Theater during the spring semester. I loved studying voice and learning how to care for my vocal instrument more effectively. I felt a little uncomfortable lying on the floor wearing skirts and wondered if my sweats-clad classmates found my attire strange, but I made it work. With my play unfinished by the end of the semester, I deferred my grade.

  I spent part of the semester pursuing a young man from church who described me as, “a rushing mighty wind.” I was drawn to him because he loved the Lord, I reasoned. I was more attracted to his need for nurturance. His lack of interest answered the question from for colored girls regarding whether or not “I could stand not being wanted when I wanted to be wanted.” Like the lady in red, I decided I could not. However, I felt punted in no predetermined direction, as a football kicked by a young child.

  In early December, a friend from a church we fellowshipped with just outside Boston invited me to spend a couple of days with her. Bishop Wilson was preaching there for a few nights, and the saints from my church would be coming to Saturday’s service. I arranged a ride back to Connecticut in the church’s van. One of the brothers from my church, a Harvard law student, offered to give me a campus tour. While there, I visited the English department to get information about the graduate program. I didn’t plan to apply, but the visit gave me assurance I could succeed in the Harvard intellectual community had I chosen that path.

  My friend’s roommate had been a professional modern dancer before joining their Apostolic Church. In conformance with the no worldly pursuits tenet of Pentecostalism, she had abandoned dance. I think she found a job in an office instead. Something clicked, or rather, erupted in my head. Her happiness with her decision gave me pause as I questioned whether or not theatrical studies were in sync with my new lifestyle. Should I be a theater major? was my internal question. My mind fought the possibility of God requiring me to give up drama to serve Him more perfectly. Then again, I was determined to walk according to the Master’s plan, whatever that might be.

  The night my congregation was expected for service, my friend’s pastor announced that an emergency had forced the saints from Connecticut to forego the service, leaving me without transportation back to school. I had five dollars. When it was time to collect the church offering, I put all of my money in seed money, in Apostolic parlance. It was not enough to get home. I said a prayer in my head, asking for the situation to work favorably for me.

  At the end of the service, after greeting Bishop Wilson, I explained my quandary. “I’ll take you back to Connecticut, daughter,” he assured me. I knew him fairly well, having ridden in Dee Dee’s car with him on our road trip to Tennessee during my Christmas break in 1979.

  It was the end of the semester. When I came home from Massachusetts, I had a few days to write a paper for each of the two English classes I was taking. My mind whirled with thoughts of whether or not studying theater lined up with salvation, I got no schoolwork accomplished. The instructors granted me incompletes for each of those classes.

  I planned to go home briefly for the Christmas holiday before returning to spend the second half of my vacation with the saints. I would stay with my pastor and his family. On the Friday before Christmas, one of the brothers came to drive me from Middletown to New Britain. I only needed to pack my clothes. Instead, an unknown inner force compelled me to pack up my apartment, including the pots, pans and dishes. Because it took extra time to load everything in the car, we were late for church.

  As often happened, in deference to my dramatic flair, I was called forward to do a reading. Rather than read a religious poem, as usual, I chose the ‘measure him right’ speech from A Raisin in the Sun, reading with an accusatory tone.

  At Sunday morning service, I grabbed one of the tambourines from a pew and played it during testimony service. Never competent with a tambourine before, it seemed I had suddenly become a skilled percussionist. And when the preacher delivered the morning message, I recorded as much of it as I could in long hand, like a stenographer would, not wanting to miss the extraordinary message I believed the Lord was communicating directly to me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.”

  —SYLVIA PLATH (THE BELL JAR)

  THE NEXT DAY, Monday, December 22, 1980, I had a train to catch. It was exactly one week after my twenty-first birthday. That day, I had called Mama to thank her for being a terrifically supportive mother. Since returning from my trip to Massachusetts, my speech had become schmaltzy and even slightly maudlin. I outdid myself as I praised her.

  When one of the brothers arrived to drive me to the train, I was not ready, having unnecessarily pulled things from my suitcase. I grabbed the sack of presents I bought for my siblings—new bibles—along with the suitcase I hurriedly repacked. By the time we arrived at the Berlin station, the train was pulling away. My driver told me not to worry, he was going to drive to the next station. I would catch that train home. Grabbing the steering wheel, he sped away from the station with the determination of a NASCAR driver. We arrived in Meriden just before the train pulled up and I was able to board safely. My escort was visibly relieved.

  Having missed breakfast, I went to the café car to purchase a hot ham and cheese sandwich. For the holidays, I supposed, there were cute little baskets filled with meats, cheeses and crackers available. I bought one along with my sandwich, chips, and Sprite. I returned to my seat to eat my meal. What will I do with the snacks in this basket? I wondered. I decided to pass them out to strangers seated in my railcar. I had to say something as I proffered each treat. In the holiday spirit, I settled on, “If you meet me and forget me you have lost nothing. If you meet Jesus and forget him, you have lost everything.” I had seen it written on a card. People looked at me quizzically, but smiled and accepted the snacks, anyway. As I made my way through the car, I was assisted by a six-year-old girl who asked permission from her mother. She held the basket from which I pulled the gifts.

  Proud of my ability to spread cheer, I returned to the café car for another basket of snacks. The little girl wanted to help me again. This time, her mother refused her request, having processed the erratic quality of my behavior. They got off the train in New York. For the rest of the trip home, I chatted with an older African-American gentleman who was traveling to Washington, D.C. for the holiday. I changed seats to sit next to him after spying him in the car. Noticing the point on my pencil was broken, I challenged him to sharpen it without a pencil sharpener. He did it using a pen knife.

  I took a cab home from the train station and spent several days with my family before returning to New Britain. Although my brain has blocked my memory of that visit, I remember my behavior being erratic. Many years later, I asked Mama how she had allowed me to return to Connecticut in such an exaggerated mood. She remembered asking me to remain in Baltimore, but she believed, as an adult, I was free to make my own decisions.

  I returned to New Britain in a clearly hypomanic state. At the time, the people I was around had no understanding of my behavior. They were surprised my family allowed me to return. I arrived in the evening. After twenty-four hours at her house, my pastor’s wife confronted me. My behavior was scaring her. She told me, “I am not going to allow you to disrupt my household.” I told her I would leave.

  My pastor, who I had never seen come upstairs in my many overnight stays at their home, came upstairs to calm me. All I retained from his admonition was the scripture, “A man’s gift will make room for him and bring him before great men.”

  Adamant about leaving, I convinced one of the brothers from church to drive me to Leslie’s house in Middletown. She was surprised to see me. Good friends in our early Wesleyan years, we had very little contact since my New Born transition. This was my first visit to this residence. I
am not sure how I knew where she lived. When I arrived, she had me sit down at her kitchen table and made me a cup of hot tea. Calm, balanced Leslie appeared troubled by my exaggerated, irritable mood. Her mother, Mrs. Jones, a psychologist, sat with us in the kitchen. She was visiting her daughter for the holidays.

  The next thing I remember is being in the emergency room at Middlesex Memorial Hospital in Middletown. Then my father arrived. He later told me he believed someone from the University called with details of my location. He arrived by train, planning to take me home. When he came into the room, I was telling him how I had found Hemingway’s clean, well-lighted place, insisting he concur. I also shared I was engaged to one of Penny’s brothers. Not so. He and I had a discussion about the Quran just before Christmas, making him as good a candidate as any for the boyfriend/husband role, a staple in my manic improvisations. A doctor talked to me and tested my reflexes in my father’s presence. I had become physically stronger than usual and was very energetic, nearly bouncing around the examining room where I had been corralled.

  My father petitioned the doctor to sedate me enough for him to get me home. The psychiatrist informed my dad I was suffering with manic-depression, now termed bipolar disorder. I was too sick to travel. In my mental state, I posed a threat to myself and others. Two doctors would be signing me into the state psychiatric facility for observation and treatment. My father was powerless; there was nothing he could do.