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“For You will light my lamp, Yahweh.”
Psalm 18:28a
It was a lovely day to sit out in Leroy Park with its chairs and pockets of cultivated flowers here and there. I wasn’t great with plants. I couldn’t tell a rosebush from another plant or identify any flower to save my life. It was not my first time there; the park was full of memories from my childhood. When Pam spent her holidays or weekends with me, we would often come here to play.
There was that one day in 1962 when I was nine years old. I was not as slim as I was, and my elementary school was unisex. It was very common in those days for the boys to tease us girls, and we summoned all our courage to give them back brick for brick. No gender wanted to be on the losing end. But what I remembered about that particular day was that it was the day we received our first taste of racism.
It was a kind of baptism to prepare us for what we might experience in future outside the safety of our homes, the comfort of family and the protection of church. That day I was in this garden along with many of my friends from the neighbourhood of Grange Hill Avenue, where I still lived. There were about eight of us; I still remembered who – some were currently in my class. Sylvia, Evelyn, Cynthia, Inga, Carol, Rosa, Sheila, and Beatrice. I could see us all in my mind’s eye. Me, Inga, and Sylvia were all short and plump back then, but now we were the tallest of the lot. Sadly, Carol pulled out from our school last year as she got into the family way.
No sooner had we girls started playing catch, having a whale of a time, than the boys from the neighbourhood sauntered into the garden. Like us, they were all Black Americans. As we went to Hillary College for Girls, the boys went to Patterson College for Boys. Martin, Ray, Mark, Peter, Chris, and Rafael. None of us would ever forget what happened there that day, August 10, 1962. I, for one, will until my dying day never forget the incident. It took a lot of courage after that day to return to Leroy Park, but my Aunt wanted me to put the incident behind me and cross that bridge of fear. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ she’d said...
I could see it all now, replaying in my mind. I could see the two white police officers who strutted into the garden, and their faces turning to steel as soon as they saw us.
'Vermin,’ one of them muttered under his breath.
‘Do clear out of this garden, you black scum’ the other one said, his attitude cold and stiff. ‘We don’t want noise, trouble and dirt here. Scramble off to your back yards, this moment!’
Like scared rabbits in the presence of an Alsatian dog, we all fled away, some even flying faster than their legs could carry them and falling over and hurting themselves.
Five years later, in Leroy Park, that memory was still as fresh in my mind as if it were yesterday. Racism was a pill too bitter to swallow. Grandma Lilee believed it was not meant to be swallowed at all, by anybody.
Aunt Ruth must have guessed what was going through my mind. We had settled down on one of the green ironwork benches, taking in the fresh breeze of the late afternoon air. ‘So,’ she said, ‘is what happened here back in 1962 worse or better than what you want to tell me now, Marsha Lynne?’
‘Aunty Ruth, that is what I want to find out from you. Did Mom ever mention any conversation she had with Grandma Lilee concerning my school?’
She paused. ‘Yeah... I thought that would be good news for you?’
‘I don’t think so, because it has not yet been mentioned to me.’
‘How did you know about it then, baby?’
I leaned towards her. ‘Aunty, I promise you that I did not eavesdrop, but Mom and Grandma were speaking loudly in the basement. In fact, Grandma Lilee raised her voice. She was very angry. She was shouting at my mother for not moving me away from my current school. I can’t think why!’ I found myself becoming emotional, and I knew I wanted to cry and let out all the bottled-up emotions that kept me so anxious. I did not want to leave my school. Period!
‘Oh, my sweetie pie. My little darling, come here.’ Aunt Ruth moved closer to me and drew me into the comfort of her bosom. Soon my banks of emotion burst and she held me close as I wept. I felt mortified to be behaving as I used to after being scolded by family. Aunt Ruth had always been there as a shock absorber. I was thirteen now. When was I going to grow up? Even ten year olds were deemed ‘adults’ in Black communities everywhere. We were often reminded that our peers in other parts of the world were already married with kids – and here I was, crying like a baby at the thought that I might leave my school. It was a fearful thing to me, and I cried all the more because I knew that where Grandma Lilee was involved, I did not stand a chance. What did she know about my school, though? That was the problem with these so-called overeducated women who were activists. She was not content that I was top of my class in this school. She wanted me to go elsewhere to see if I could still remain top. She wanted me to sacrifice the years I had spent in my elementary and junior high years, and the strong bonds of friendship I’d formed. Why did adults only think of themselves? I am sure racism is behind all this. Lord, when will I ever hear a different tune?
‘Do you feel better now, my darling?’ Aunt Ruth’s soft, low voice gently broke into my reverie. It took effort from me not to start crying again, so I just nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
I heard her voice again. Firmer but subdued. ‘Funny, when I remember that not long ago, you were whistling All Things Bright And Beautiful... when you’ve had these emotions for God knows how long bottled up in your heart. Anyway, why don’t you begin with your school day, or whatever made you happy enough to whistle?’
‘Aunty, it was the thought that I might spend this weekend with you.’
‘Had you forgotten that you were grounded?’
‘No. It is just a ban on seeing Pam and Bella.’
‘No, child. It covers all weekends away from home.’
I shrugged. ‘Huh, didn’t know.’
Aunt Ruth smiled. ‘Not to worry about that. So, what was your best lesson today?’
I put on my thinking mode, wondering what to tell her. How could I let her know that of all my family, it was Granny Lilee I had written about? I was sure she would feel hurt. So I decided to modify it a bit. It was called ‘playing safe’, and not telling lies, as most adults thought. ‘Aunt Ruth, the last lesson was fun as we had to write what we knew about our family history, even dating as far back as the slavery era.’
‘Oh my God! That was sure a fun lesson. Do you have the assignment in your school bag? I’d love to read it.’
‘No, Aunt. It was a German lesson... and you won’t even understand it, anyway.’
‘No worries. But you could still have interpreted it. Do you remember what you wrote?’
‘I guess so, but... Aunty Ruth, when are you going to tell me why Mom and Grandmother were squabbling about my school?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Hmm... well, not unless you promise you are not going to get into a fit and cry all over me again?’
‘I promise.’
She looked at me to let me know she wasn’t fully convinced.
I tried reassuring her. ‘Honestly, Aunty, please tell me. I was just being human. How would you have felt if, like a fish, you were dragged out of the water onto the shore?’
‘Come on baby, it can’t be that bad!’
‘Sure it is. How would you have felt if your life became like that fish?’
‘That is eventual death,’ Aunt Ruth said.
‘I agree, but can you think how else that fish might live?’ I asked seriously, remembering J.P. Clark’s poem... or was it Gabriel Okara who talked of a fish that found itself on shore, belly up, ready to be cooked by the fire?
‘You see, my sweetie, this is what we all want for you. You are a child with a lot of potential. Your Mom tells me that you are ‘president material’! Think of all those times she has had to struggle and argue with your teachers over the wrong grades you are being given. Actually, my main purpose of coming this weekend was to break the news to you!’
‘What news, Aunty?’
‘First tell me about your family history,’ Aunt Ruth demanded, slapping at her left foot. She could not stand sand flies, and I worried that she might suggest waiting until tomorrow to tell me.
I decided to be smart. ‘Aunty Ruth, do you promise to tell me everything after I tell you what I wrote?’
She nodded her head as she scratched her leg, wincing. I knew she would not last, even though she had promised. I gave her a brief summary of what I knew about my ancestors and how they made me feel so proud of my family’s heritage. I was about to use the opportunity to thank her for the huge impact she’d made on my life when she gave her neck a hard punch and jumped up.
‘Aunty!’ I called out, startled.
‘Let’s go. Let’s go, my sweetie,’ she said, hurrying me to my feet. ‘I will not be burger for these sand flies! Goodness! This garden should be fumigated! Even in winter!’
‘But I haven’t felt any bite, Aunty!’
‘Maybe they find my body sweeter than yours. I’m not going to give them the pleasure!’
My disappointment was heavier than a sack of huge sized Onitsha yams from Nigeria! I sat back, feeling so cheated. Why did adults take such liberties with the younger generation? I felt my aunt was not just betraying me but was showing a total lack of regard for my feelings and being very disrespectful. She thought I was just a kid of fourteen. In her home, when I overslept, she would tell me that I was old enough to wake up early, sweep the entire house and prepare a meal for a household of fifteen people! Just the same way Mama thought, too.
‘Baby, you sat down back again. Come on, let’s go!’
‘Aunty Ruth, I AM NOT AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD!’
‘I know. But don’t use that tone on me, Marsha Lynne!’
‘But Aunt, you have just broken your promise to me!’ I lashed out, feeling my anger welling in me.
‘Trust teenagers!’ She gasped in exasperation. ‘So, you expect me to speak to you under this swarm of sand flies? Is it because they are not biting you? Look at my body. See the bumps for yourself.’
I saw three and felt an itch creeping up my arm. We left.
‘I will make it up to you over the weekend, when I come over. We will have time to ourselves – but as you can see, it is getting dark now,’ Aunt Ruth said, trying to soothe me. She tipped my chin so I could look into her eyes. She was five feet three and I was already five feet five. I smiled, and she smiled.
Back home, my mother was back. She wasn’t alone. Uncle Bill, a friend, was having dinner and spending the evening with us. Aunty Ruth told Mom that she brought chicken for her baby and would come over for the weekend. Very soon she was gone.