I TEND TO BLOCK OUT MANY OF MY MEMORIES OF VANCE Street because most of my early years spent there were filled with visions of violence. But I did have one happy experience while living there. When I was about seven years old, Mama wanted to get away from the negative environment for a few days, so we went to visit our grandmother’s sister, Patricia’s and my great-aunt Wilma, who lived on Hill Street, on the west side of the Loray Mill. Hill Street was just a few blocks away from Vance Street, but it was an entirely different world.
Aunt Wilma was a pleasant and kind woman who always had a homemade cake sitting on the table. Her home smelled like someplace people actually wanted to visit.
One day while visiting Aunt Wilma, a bunch of kids were playing outside, so Patricia and I joined them. A lady in the neighborhood gathered some of us kids together and said, “I’m taking my daughter to a movie, and you can come along. But first, you must ask your parents if it is okay for you to go to the movie with us.” Kids scurried in every direction, begging their parents for permission to go to the theater.
Patricia and I didn’t budge. We knew Mama didn’t have the money for a movie ticket. Nevertheless, I wanted to go, so I told the lady that Mama wouldn’t mind if my sister and I went to the movie. We joined the other kids and followed the woman closely. Together we all crossed the busy street and headed up the sidewalk to the theater’s ticket window with our movie money in hand—well, at least the other kids had their money in hand. Patricia and I didn’t have a dime.
The other kids excitedly handed the woman their money, and she purchased their tickets. When she realized Patricia and I had no money, she was a bit irritated. This obviously put her in a jam; she could either buy tickets for Patricia and me or we’d all have to walk back home together without seeing the movie. She had enough wisdom to know that she didn’t dare leave my sister and me outside while she and the other kids went inside to watch the movie.
She eyed us suspiciously as she slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out some money. She handed the money through the small opening at the bottom of the ticket window, and the person inside handed her two tickets, one for me and one for my sister.
We all went inside and sat down in chairs that were like those in our school auditorium, but it was a dimly lit room. Some people were already inside, sitting and eating popcorn and drinking colas while waiting for the show to begin. A beam of light came on from behind us and shined on the white floor-to-ceiling screen hanging in front of us. I couldn’t believe it. This is the biggest television I’ve ever seen, I thought.
I sat there mesmerized, on the edge of my seat the entire show, with my eyes glued to the screen. The man on the screen ran down the streets of Philadelphia and up to the top of some steps, where he began shadowboxing. Children followed him just as we had followed the lady to the theater. The boxer held his fists high above him as if he had already won the fight. Children surrounded him, and the sound of French horns made me believe I could be him.
It was the first time I’d ever been inside a theater to watch a movie and the first time I saw Rocky.
MAMA ENJOYED MOVIES, TOO, I DISCOVERED, BUT HER movies weren’t as inspiring.
Mama had a friend with whom she liked to watch movies. He was a balding old man, twice her age, who looked as though he could be her father, and Mama always acted like a silly little girl every time he was around. In the middle of the day, Mama took us to her friend’s house to visit. Some other men and women were already there. “Sit here on the couch, and do not get up,” Mama instructed. “You better not move,” she warned us. Then Mama and the old man and the others went into a back bedroom.
Patricia and I sat there and looked at each other. We had no food or water and nothing to do. We sat . . . and sat . . . for as long as we could. Like most seven-year-olds, I had an extremely limited ability to sit still. I could hear a staccato sound, almost like a rattlesnake, or a ticking like that of a machine gun firing nonstop in the distance, and I was curious. I wondered what could be making that noise. The sound was coming from the bedroom, where Mama and the others had gone.
Still, Patricia and I waited. After what seemed like hours, I couldn’t sit any longer. I stood up, quietly walked to the front door, and slowly opened it, careful not to make any noise. Although Patricia was only a year older than me, she often played the role of caretaker. “Don’t go outside,” she said fearfully, “or you’ll get in trouble.”
I ignored my sister’s warning and went outside anyway. Once I stepped off the porch, I heard music coming from a few houses down and across the street. I’d never heard this style of music before, but it sounded good. I walked down the street to that house and stood in the road, staring at the people who were dancing on the porch and in the dirt of their front yard. A number of the dancers wore polyester pants and colorful silky shirts, and many of them had a lot of hair on their heads. This was my first experience with black music.
Their bodies were moving in perfect rhythm with the sound belting out of the tall cabinet speakers in the yard. At one point a man leaned forward so low that his Afro haircut nearly touched the ground as he danced. Never before had I seen anyone move like that.
They were dancing to the music of a new group that I later learned was known as The Gap Band. The dancers were having so much fun; I could feel the energy coming from them, and I wanted to be a part of it.
The song finished, and everyone in the yard applauded, laughing out loud, hugging, slapping each other on the back, and wiping sweat from their faces. One of the dancers noticed me staring at them, and for some reason, I got scared.
I thought, Oh, no; Mama’s probably looking for me. I ran back to the old man’s house and up the steps, quietly opening the front door. I walked inside and saw that Patricia was still sitting on the couch right where I’d left her. I noticed immediately that she’d been crying. “You weren’t supposed to leave,” she whispered hoarsely. I could tell she was scared and had been worried about me. She knew better than to cross Mama. “Mama’s going to get you.”
I stood there in the living room for a second, and then, despite Mama’s firm instructions, I walked over to the bedroom door and turned the doorknob. When the door opened, the sunlight illuminated the room, and I saw two reels turning on a film projector that was casting a beam of light onto a sheet hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed. The sheet was a makeshift movie screen, and on it were naked people. There were also naked people in the bed, and one of them was Mama.
“Get out of here!” Mama yelled loudly when she saw me. I quickly backed out of the doorway, toward the couch where Patricia was still sitting. A few minutes later Mama came out half-dressed, clutching some of her clothes to her chest. She was not happy.
“Come on, let’s go!” She nodded toward the door.
Matinee madness was over; it was time to go back to Vance Street.