Raising Myself Read online

  To my mother’s horror, I never met a person I didn’t immediately begin talking to—whether it was the people who passed by our house or people on the bus. Like the time I walked over and got in the lap of an old black man on a trip downtown on the bus. My mother had a Southern upbringing, which meant she was prejudiced—plain and simple. She thought that black people, and brown people for that matter, were beneath her.

  So it was bad enough that I talked to a black man—a “Negro,” as my mother said—but when I got in his lap, she was mortified. She got up, jerked me off his lap, and pushed me as far away from him as she could get.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered harshly. She was so angry I could see the veins on her forehead pulsating. “Don’t you ever, ever do that again!”

  When I got home, she explained to me that I shouldn’t talk to Negroes. And I should certainly not ever get in a Negro’s lap.

  “Why would you do such a thing?” she implored, shaking her head in exasperation.

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell her I didn’t understand what was wrong with Negroes. I couldn’t explain that the man had smiled at me and that’s why I had gone over to him in the first place, or that I’d had especially fond feelings for black men ever since I’d watched Walt Disney’s Song of the South.

  Although my mother scolded me for getting in the black man’s lap, she told this story over and over to other people with an air of pride in her voice, just like when she told the story of me riding my tricycle all the way home from the babysitter’s house. Even though she had spanked me for doing that, she also laughed about it, almost boasted. It was like she was giving me one message—“Don’t be so bold”—but there was another message underneath that one: she secretly enjoyed my bravado and boldness.

  chapter 4

  My relationship with my mother was always a strange one—an odd mixture of love and hate, hero worship and disdain. She was all I had and so she got it all—all my love, all my hatred, all my neediness, all my rebellion.

  Thank God for Ruby. I went back and forth between my mother and Ruby like some kids go between divorced parents. Ruby was fire—all warmth and passion and smoldering coals. Momma was ice, so cold you could get burned if you got too close.

  There was a lushness about Ruby, from her thick mane of red hair and pillow-soft arms and bosom to her rounded hips and behind. She was solid, like a strong oak tree that had stood the test of time and bad weather. And a mixture of exotic scents surrounded her: the smell of incense, dog smells from Muffet, and the musky smell of the stacks and stacks of old books that lined her bookcases.

  My mother was more austere and refined, with hard edges instead of curves. She always seemed in control and yet she was fragile at the same time, like a brittle tree that could snap in the wind. When she was getting ready for work, she smelled of perfume and bath soap, but on her days off she smelled of cigarettes and beer.

  Ruby was what I would consider to be a full person, a person with many dimensions. I think this is one of the many reasons I identified with her so much: I, too, had many sides to me. My mother had always told me that I was like the Bible story of Joseph with the coat of many colors because I changed depending upon whom I was around. What my mother didn’t understand was that I wasn’t changing my personality to mimic someone else or to please someone, the way she accused me of doing; it was that I had so many facets to my personality that different sides of me would blossom depending upon whom I was with. If I was with a quiet person, the quiet side of me would emerge, whereas if I was with a silly, fun-loving person, the clown in me sprang out.

  One late afternoon in August, I was playing a kind of make-believe hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of the court when I saw Margaret, a nice lady who lived nearby, coming my way.

  “Hi!” I half shouted.

  “Hello, how are you today?” Margaret replied, smiling sweetly at me. I could tell she liked me by the gentle way she spoke to me.

  “Fine,” I said, returning her smile.

  “What was your name again?” Margaret asked, smiling broadly at me.

  “Jenny,” I said. That was my name for that day.

  Just then Momma walked up to us.

  “Hello,” Margaret said, “are you this child’s mother?”

  “Why, yes. Can I help you?” Momma replied, all suspicion.

  “Well, she’s just so adorable. What is her name? She tells me a different one every time I see her,” Margaret said with a chuckle.

  Momma reached out and grabbed my arm. “Why are you always lying?”

  I looked down at the sidewalk in shame.

  Margaret tried to save me. “Oh, please . . . I didn’t mean to get her in trouble. I think it’s cute. She’s such an imaginative child. I always hear her talking to make-believe playmates. She must be so lonely playing alone all the time. It’s too bad there aren’t any other children in the neighborhood.”

  But nothing Margaret said could save me. Momma took me by the arm and yanked me down the walk toward our apartment.

  “Why are you always causing trouble?” she scolded.

  Like me, Ruby was a different person depending upon her mood. She could be wild and crazy, as she was when we went on our Magic Carpet rides, or she could be quiet and serious, like when we spent the afternoon “holed up” in her tiny, dark apartment. Whatever Ruby was doing, she did it all the way. The same thing could be said about me.

  Both my mother and Ruby worked at night: Ruby owned a liquor store called The Little Brown Jug and my mother was working at Thrifty Drugs in downtown Bakersfield. They usually had different days off, but sometimes there were days when they were both at home at the same time. My mother spent most of that time sleeping, so I would get bored and go over to Ruby’s.

  On our “holed up” days, Ruby would lay down the law: “If you’re going to stay, I need you to be quiet because I’m going to read.”

  I knew she meant business, so if I was in a silly mood I’d leave. But if I was in a quiet mood, Ruby’s was a great place to be.

  Even though Ruby’s apartment was a little bigger than the rest of those in the court, it was still small, and it felt even smaller because she had so many books lining the walls. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed full of all kinds of books, but mostly old paperback romance and mystery novels. She kept her curtains and blinds drawn, even during the day, and read by the light of a floor lamp set next to her easy chair. Adding to the darkness of the room were the dozens of African artifacts scattered around, including the African masks that took up any wall space that hadn’t been consumed by bookshelves. The darkness, the mustiness of the books, and the African warriors, elephants, tigers, and masks created an exotic tapestry of experience for me, taking me away from the mundane dullness of my existence into the exciting world of foreign people and places. I felt transformed by the energy in that room.

  Ruby introduced me to many things that would influence me throughout my life, but she gave me two gifts that I will be eternally grateful for. First of all, she set limits and boundaries for me to respect and follow. When she announced that I needed to be quiet if I wanted to stay, I knew she meant it—knew she would not hesitate to ask me to leave if I became noisy or rowdy.

  My mother seldom set limits for me, whether it was how much food I could eat, how late I could stay up, or where I could go. It wasn’t that she was permissive or easy-going; if she didn’t want me to do something, she laid down the law. It was that she just didn’t pay attention to what I did—didn’t care really—and somehow didn’t see the value in setting limits for me. The truth is, my mother’s disapproval was usually enough to keep me in line, because it was so powerful. If I did something she didn’t like, she wouldn’t stop me; she would just stop liking me.

  Ruby’s rules gave me a feeling of security I got nowhere else. It wasn’t until I started school that I experienced this kind of structure and the sense of safety that comes with it.

  Ruby recogni
zed, of course, that I was a kid and wasn’t going to be able to sit still without having something to do. I was four years old at this point, not yet able to read, so she’d hand me a pad and a pencil and told me to draw. This was her second gift. While my mother’s side of the family is artistic, I owe some of my interest and talent in art to Ruby, who gave me permission to experience art as an enjoyable way of passing time.

  Ruby would sit in her tattered old easy chair with the lamplight beaconing down on her book and I would sit crouched nearby on the floor, hovering over a drawing pad. I didn’t have crayons, just a pencil, but the world I created was full of colors and magic. I drew worlds of exotic people and animals, and I drew the ships and airplanes that would take me to see them.

  Hours would pass and then Ruby would say, “Don’t you think it’s time for a snack?”

  That was music to my ears, not only because I loved to eat any time and anywhere, but because we had a ritual around our snack that I loved. Ruby would give me a handful of coins and I’d walk or run to the little store down the street. There I’d buy a can of Vienna sausages and two ice-cold bottles of Coca-Cola, and then I’d run back as fast as my legs could carry me, imagining how the cold, crisp soda would taste, how the bubbles would tickle my mouth. I’d stumble into the apartment and Ruby would get up from her chair and head for the little kitchen, where she’d make us Vienna sausage sandwiches with white bread and lots of mayonnaise—things we didn’t have at my house. Those sandwiches—rich and salty, just like kids like them, washed down by the sweet, bubbly Coca-Cola—felt like love to me.

  After our snack it was “nap time.” I realized later in life that the nap was as much for Ruby as for me. The first time we took a nap together she said, “Do you know how to lie down ‘spoon fashion’?”

  When I said no, she taught me how. She lay on her side and I lay in front of her and sat on her lap as she held me close to her. Love for the starving child.

  Love was not the only thing I was starving for; sometimes I was starving for food too. Making food was always an afterthought for my mother, a chore she had to fulfill because she had a child. Left to herself, she would go all day without eating. On her days off, she started the day with coffee and cigarettes then switched to beer and cigarettes, which she would continue consuming long into the night. Finally, late at night, just before going to bed, she’d cook a greasy, starchy dinner. At that point she would eat too much, shoveling the food down as fast as she could—as if she’d suddenly remembered what food was.

  So during the day, when I would tell my mother I was hungry, she’d look at me blankly, as if she didn’t understand how that could be. Then she’d look in the cupboard for a can of something.

  One hot August day the something she found was creamed corn. She opened the can and poured it into a bowl, not bothering to heat it up.

  I loved creamed corn so I happily took the bowl and started eating it standing up. But the sight of my eating bothered my mother somehow—just as so much of what I did bothered her.

  “Go outside with that,” she scolded.

  Dutifully, I opened the door of our little apartment and sat down on the red front steps. Since it was midafternoon and I hadn’t had anything to eat yet I devoured the whole bowl in no time. Unfortunately, my body didn’t want to accept this offering. I threw up, spewing kernels into the shrubs below. To this day, I hate creamed corn.

  I don’t ever remember having a good relationship with food. It was never just nourishment for me the way it is for some people. It was so scarce—and alternatively so plentiful—that the stage was set for problems. When my mother did give me food it was usually too much too late in the day, causing me to view it as if it was literally a life saver—and then, once I had gobbled up too much, I viewed it as my enemy. Stomach swollen and hurting, I would lie down on the nearest couch, hating myself for eating so much. I would vow to eat less next time, to stop as soon as I became full. But I never knew when the next time would come, and the fear of there never being a next time catapulted me into another eating frenzy when I was fed—the way wild animals devour a dead carcass after a long season of starvation.

  chapter 5

  The fact that I didn’t have a father and had a mother who looked like my grandmother set me apart from other children. After all, I was growing up in the fifties—a time when the nuclear family with a mother, a father, two kids, and a dog was the ideal. But what made my childhood the most unique was that my mother had no idea how to be a mother, which meant I was left pretty much on my own, expected to raise myself.

  She knew nothing about children—what they needed, what they wanted, or who these little creatures were. She expected me to act and think like an adult, and when I didn’t she was at the very least disappointed and more often enraged.

  Momma didn’t seem to have the normal fears mothers have about letting their children out of their sight. From the time I was four years old, I was essentially on my own. I was free to roam the neighborhood looking for someone to talk to or spend time with me.

  Momma spent her days off reading books, taking naps, and talking to Lydia and Kinney on the front lawn of the court. When she was reading or taking a nap, I was supposed to either play quietly or go outside. I usually chose to go outside in hopes of finding Ruby’s door open or someone to play with.

  There was a large empty lot next door to the court and I often played there, running around whinnying and acting like a horse, pretending I was galloping across lush, green fields instead of the dry, lifeless dirt that covered the lot. At the back of the lot there was a tall wooden fence separating it from a neighbor’s backyard.

  One summer day I heard a voice coming from the yard and I called over the fence, “Hello, my name is Beverly. What is your name?”

  “Joey.”

  Thrilled to hear a response, I asked, “How old are you?”

  “I’m five. How old are you?”

  “I’m four and a half. Can you come over to play?”

  I heard a thump and suddenly a boy stuck his head over the fence and jumped down into the lot.

  Joey and I became fast friends, meeting in the lot almost every day for the rest of the summer to play.

  There was a large tractor at the far end of the lot, next to the little store where I’d go to buy Vienna sausages and Coke. The tractor had been there so long that it seemed to be a permanent part of the landscape. Toward the end of that summer, Joey and I noticed a teenage boy sitting on top of the tractor. He was pretending to drive, his hands on the steering wheel, gesturing as if he was turning left, then right. He yelled to us and motioned us over to him. Joey and I ran toward the tractor, happy to be invited into this older boy’s world.

  When we reached the tractor I looked up at the boy, who looked like a giant on top of the huge machine.

  “Hey you kids. Do you want to come up here with me?” he asked. “It’s really neat up here.”

  Joey and I shouted in unison, “Yes!” and the boy pulled us up.

  I liked how the big boy looked. He had bright red hair that seemed to go in all directions. And he had freckles all over his face. I had freckles too and always felt self-conscious because no one else had them.

  Joey and I took turns at the wheel of the tractor. It made me feel like a grown-up to be driving such a huge machine. When I made roaring sounds, mimicking the engine of the tractor, the older boy laughed at me in a friendly way. I felt very powerful up there, high above everyone and everything below. I could tower over everyone and pretend I was the one in charge.

  Then the big boy suggested we go with him to a large bush on the lot. He told us he had a secret playhouse under the bush and he wanted to show it to us. Up until that time, I’d had little contact with teenage boys. The few who had passed me by while I was playing hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of the court weren’t very friendly, and one had been mean to me, saying, “Hey stupid, what are you doing out here all by yourself? Don’t you have any friends?”

 
So when the big boy asked us to go to his secret place I felt special. He led us to a section of the bush where the limbs had been pulled back, providing a sort of entrance. He crouched down and crawled inside. Joey eagerly followed him in. I was the last to enter, pushing aside the limbs of the bush, keeping my head down so I could make my way inside.

  Inside, the bush was completely clear of limbs, making for a large, open space. It looked as if the ground under the trunk had been swept clean of leaves and debris. It was quieter and cooler than it was outside and there was a sharp smell of leaves and wood and dirt. It truly seemed to be a magical place.

  “This is our special place. No one else knows about it,” the big boy whispered to us in a husky voice. Then, lowering his voice even more, he said, “I have a secret to tell you. It’s a secret that only grown-ups know about. But you have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  Joey and I both nodded our heads enthusiastically. “I promise,” we each said.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to show you what adults do when they are married. First, you each need to take off your clothes.”

  My mother often walked around naked inside our little apartment and slept in the nude, so I didn’t think there was anything wrong with being naked in front of others. Besides, I was curious what Joey’s naked body looked like. So, even though I felt a little self-conscious, I slowly began to take off my clothes—first my blouse, then my shorts, then my underwear.

  Joey didn’t seem to be self-conscious at all. He giggled as he shed his clothes.

  I’d never seen a penis before. I thought it looked funny, like the head of a turtle sticking out of its shell. I felt like laughing but I didn’t want to hurt Joey’s feelings.