Early childhood Years

A lot of miles have been traveled to get here.  Life happens for a reason.  And no matter what, it’s good to be here.  Alive and able to tell what happened.  We all have this testimony in us that can explain how we survived and overcame; and are yet surviving and overcoming. 

She remembers yesterday.  And remembers.  And remembers still.  Compare trying to live in today’s light, while constantly thinking about yesterday’s looming shadow.  How the shadow looms.

 Recounting almost every subtlety—natural and spiritual—working simultaneously throughout her life.  Able to tune into the airwaves of both of these realms as each attributed daunting effects on her while growing up from a small child into adulthood.

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She was born July 8, 1965 at Chicago Lying-In Hospital.  She knew very little about her father.  Vaguely recalling grapevine gossip from front porch conversations and from the kitchen table of chatty women, she believes he wore a military uniform.  She is doubtful as to his engaging in any real combat.  He might have been a cook or something like that.  He states some of this personally himself; such as, upon his return of duty in the early, early sixties, he recalls meeting and dating her mom and how this quickly led to marriage.  And how a baby would eventually be born, of course.  A baby girl, ready for the world! 

On the other hand, her mother was not as ready for motherhood, nor did the world care that a new bundle of joy had arrived.  A baby girl was born just the same, with a spirit and a will to live, no matter how broken. 

       ~Life from birth was twenty-four, long hours a day ~

Speaking about it with her father later on in life, after the precious years had fluttered away, her father memorably talked about only the pleasant things he chose to remember.  He exuberantly described the wife of his youth as a very beautiful and smart woman.  He surmised that this was not a shared belief on her part, as his bride did not believe herself to be neither beautiful nor smart.   Low self-esteem. 

Continuing with his dialogue, joyfully reminiscing on lighthearted things, the nickname that he used to call his firstborn baby girl comes up.  He smiles dotingly; explaining how he chose the name “Twinkie” since she ate one of them just about every day.  His claim was that on most days when he came home from work in late afternoon, he would take her out and about with him, doing neighborhood stuff, strolling along to visit frequent hangouts, and that.   Always purposing to buy her a Hostess Twinkie cake before returning home. 

At first glance, to think about it did seem like good times.  Fond memories (for him).  But as she recalls it, in the here and now, this yummy snack food was meant to be used as “comfort food.”  But what had she needed comfort from?  Hmm?  Unfortunately, his little girl knows that answer today.   She needed comfort, in order to survive.  To forget.  Interpretively,

“Mommy didn’t mean it, okay?”

“Okay, mommy didn’t mean it,” parroting.

“That’s my girl.”

“Wattsmagyro,” answers back, mouth full of cake.

~Hushed abuse ~

Rejected by her mother from the beginning; unshielded by her father. He was weak from the beginning, too weak to protect her.  She supposes that he did not know what else to do (besides to show a blind eye) in order to keep this young, growing family together.  Benefit of the doubt says, perhaps he did try.  Perhaps her mother, in a brief paroxysm of humanity, was mentally stable enough to decide that they (three young children by that time) would fare better living someplace else instead of at the hands of her negligence. 

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Listening to her father as he revisits those days ignites flashbacks of her own:  All grown up now, the day that she went away is as fresh a memory as ever:  She was happy and buoyant on this particular day only because they were “going someplace.”  It had to be on the weekend because her grandmother was at home. 

Her grandmother, ever the studious person, had a perfectly beautiful smile (although it was rationed and rarely seen). She was a woman who always worked, it seems.  She started working while in high school through a work program (another grapevine tidbit). Staying current with her career often required that she sometimes had to take this or that class to update her job skills.  So, like other days, books and random papers were spread all over the dinette table.  In another corner of the room, an overlooked piano collected a blanket coating of dust; a nicely suited accompaniment to the dust mites scurrying across the dark, wood flooring.  Add one lone sofa against the wall by the entrance door.  That’s it.  This completes the look. No pictures were up.  No décor existed.  This gave credence to the simplicity implied, such as it was. 

Running around, running around, she was.  Every now and again stopping to catch a quick breath, musing, trying to fix her lips, just right, to make them whistle like grandmother was doing.  Her grandmother went throughout the house whistling and humming and even sporting a little jig on this day.  It was her day off!  Anyhow, this upbeat mood caused a whole quarter to pass from her grandmother’s hand into her little, elated palm to go pick out a piece of fruit at the corner market.  

Gathering her senses in order not to get lost, she skipped along the way to buy the juiciest orange that she could find.  Oh yes, this was going to be a very good day!  And later on, with energy to spare, this cheery child freely ran around the house some more, jumping up and down on that forlorn sofa.  And no one yelled at her!  Not yet! 

She duly remembers peeping (pestering is more like it) in on her mother’s nearly grown, although, younger brothers while they tried to sleep in.  They looked so unseemly.  Yuck! (In toddler speech).  Sprawled in those twin-sized, bunk beds they had obviously outgrown a long time ago. 

With nothing much left to do, this little girl finally ran out of steam, just waiting.  Waiting, waiting, and waiting patiently for her mother to get ready.  So laborious.  Filling time, finding adventures out back in the yard, a bit tricky.  Better not get dirty! 

The time came when it really was time to go.  In all, this day was truly turning out to be the most childlike and normal that she had ever felt or had been allowed to feel.  Her mother, her infant and toddler brothers, and she walked to the bus stop (actually she skipped at times in order to keep pace with her mother).  When the bus came to its stop, they vigorously walked along some more.  They eventually came to a new place where she saw some unfamiliar faces.  She became acquainted (reacquainted) with relatives, namely, her great-grandmother and a few older cousins.

Suspicious, with all of this mingling, however, she dared not take her eyes off of her mother.  Watching intently.  Especially, after she became aware of the two adult women whispering, chatting loudly, followed by more whispering—sinister small talk about greens and cornbread!  All the while, this four year old child was able to discern that she and her brothers were not merely visiting.  When finally their mother left, it was without them.  No hugs.  No goodbye. 

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The letters, H-o-m-e S-w-e-e-t H-o-m-e, neatly framed in needlepoint is the first sighting.  Before an ability to read ever evolved, this young child was intrigued by those letters centered on the warm colored wall above the mantlepiece.  She was unused to seeing things hanging on walls.  This, along with a picture representation of Jesus Christ and another of Michael Jackson posing an afro (thinking that he was her famous cousin) each had a focal wall space designated to them, unlike at her grandmother’s house.  Here there was a piano, too, that nobody played much.  Not as dusty either.  More bunk beds.  Two local markets within walking distance. One this way, the other that way.  It was always to go get greens, never oranges! 

This new place (home) housed plenty of revolving door pets!  Cats.  A dog here and there.  Cats and dogs together.  Back to Cats only. Sometimes goldfish.  Sometimes not.  They usually died from fright every time the water was changed.  Jeez! None of them ever stayed.  They usually got away just as soon as weather permitted.  Smart. 

But whatever the small differences may have been, nothing much changed.  Living in her great-grandmother’s house from here on, this little girl continued to experience rejection.  She quickly learned (or inherently knew) not to speak much.  “Speak when spoken to” was the family motto, making it clear that all adults, in this house, were exempt and children were subject to them.  She adapted and took it all in stride.  Soon found out that any number of great-grandchildren ended up staying there, whenever convenient, whenever other family members would experience personal drama, trauma, and the like.  The understanding is clear now that her great-grandmother rightfully deserved a commendation for all that she endured for a generation.  It had to be stressful on an aged woman to say yes to everyone else’s needs.  Despite these facts, this child did not come to know fairness very well in that household.  She was often the recipient of her guardians’ unspoken turmoil. 

On the brighter side, having a bedroom to call one’s own was a plus (more comfort food). It turned into quite a sanctuary though shared at times.

Some of the other events experienced proved more palatable, making it slightly easier to extract regarding her great-grandfather who worked the second shift until 11 p.m. at International Harvester Company. The grand and great-grand kids would always be allowed to wait up for him to come home from work which was way cool, a thrill (spoken like a child from the 60’s). 

On the weekends, everyone would watch the Creature Feature flicks on television.  At the ripe old age of four?  Yep.  Anyhow, these were the days of Jiffy Pop popcorn.   By the way, could not possibly forget her favorite television personality, Mr. Johnny Carson.  She fondly remembers getting ready for bed on weeknights just in time to catch the beginning monologue.  She could not settle down to rest before hearing the intro from Ed McMahon, “Heeere’s Johnny!”  Always giddy when the host came out, swinging a faux golf club when he approached the mike.  She thought that Johnny Carson had the cutest “baby face.”  Sometimes she sang the very words of that song to him while bashfully looking at the television screen (you know the song).  And if you’re too young to know, you know what you must do to find out in this information age, don’t cha?  Yes, indeed, there were a few good memories to hold onto while young. 

Years passed.  Seeing mother or father was a rare encounter.  The next time that she saw her mother, she was a teenager.  The next time that she saw her father, he was a skid-row prodigy.  So, it was sort of nice to see at least one of them again.  “Dad and daughter,” engaged in a decent, instead of drunken, conversation where he genially filled in some of those vacant years. 

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 Along with those memorable occurrences, there remains an extensive storyline outlining those not so good things which had a role in shaping her young character.   Some very ugly events, covertly placed in the “unmentionables” category, claims a disproportionate part of said times. 

{For the record, please note that the focus is not on unraveling the nightmarish details of the unmentionables.  Due diligence has  been exercised so as to avoid taking up so much space on the pages of this book as it already does on her mind.  Totally recalling, in depth, every archival hurt of her heart would only serve to scathe the people who are a part of the history—the people she has respectfully chosen to forgive whether dead or living.   It is needful, and justifiable, to whitewash the most hurtful and damning aspects of her development and upbringing; realizing now, that the persons involved were never the ones who were truly the enemy.}

Besides, a perusal of the family tree exposes generational fruit rooted to guarantee that this child would carry on its corruptible seed in kind.  For sure, sexual immorality was major.  Other erroneous practices, acting as portals, frequented by the earliest of the family’s generations, sought to produce offspring year after year, generation after generation, with these same graduate tendencies.

 There is no delusion when I tell you that her childhood was ripe with ill-will.  Admittedly, even with the heavy weights borne in her formative years, God was always in the plans.  Yet, without understanding those plans, she would have to feel her way in the dark like most people—mostly without knowing the set purpose. 

        ~A ticking time bomb awaits~

 Circumstances did not stifle the obviousness of God’s presence, even as a little girl. Spiritual intuitions began to stir as far back as age five.  Whenever strange dreams occurred she learned to ask God directly about them.   It seems that she always knew that He was there; that He is Creator of all there is.  And that He, in fact, had not been created at all.  Accountable to no one.  He had always been and always will be. As a child, God had been an “Invisible Friend.”  Some could interpret it to be an imaginary friend, except He is quite real. 

One particular, recurring dream intrigued her as a child:  She clearly saw her own tiny hand in the palm of an adult’s hand.  She could not quite figure out who this adult person was at first.  She could see herself walking, hand in hand, alongside this other person.  They always went either to or from the same place.  She could see the two figures there together, both sitting on pews, wood grain, as she fidgeted with her itchy, cable-knit tights.  She was always formally dressed in little distinctive dresses and such.  The place they visited was a large, open place of solace—a church. 

Wondering for the longest time about the other person.   Who was this person that brought her to and from there?  Who held her tiny little hand?  In any case, that was always the nicest dream (memory) about the nicest place. 

This is one of many instances where God availed Himself as an ever tangible resource and presence while under her great-grandmother’s care, and beyond.  After joining a neighborhood church at the age of eight years old, without prompting (not a family affair), it is from here that she further experiences the entire gamut of spirituality.  Becoming a repentant, Bible-believing C.O.G.I.C., by age thirteen, knew of ministering angels, spoke in tongues, and could attest to a few, select miracles.  A bona fide ‘church girl’ thru and thru.