It was almost summer break. Humidity crept up the nape of my neck. Upstate New York got hot that time of year. I came home from school and walked into complete disarray. Without warning and without so much as an explanation, Mother announced we were moving to her parents’ house in St. Augustine, Florida, just across the Florida/Georgia line. It was nearly the end of fourth grade, but I wouldn’t finish out the year. The bottom of my reality dropped out.
My grandmother, Maryam, and her third husband, Kipper, had moved to St. Augustine, and Mother had made several trips over the past couple of years to visit them. But never once had she mentioned moving there. I stood shell-shocked as she frantically crammed her clothes and toiletries into suitcases. She demanded that we pack our things too. Our father was away for work with the army, and all my brain could think about was when he’d be home. Was he coming with us? I asked Mother, but she didn’t answer. All she’d say is that we were moving because she missed her mother more than she could stand. She looked like a tornado rummaging in the bedroom grabbing anything she could fit into the suitcase.
Mother and Grandmother had a close relationship in the sense that Mother did anything and everything that Grandmother asked. My nine-year-old self didn’t understand what was going on until I saw Grandmother, who had come to New York to help with the move, sitting in the corner of Mother’s bedroom. She peered over the packing, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees. Her presence took up the entire room.
“Gale, I told you this would happen. Now just do as I say, and I’ll make sure you and that nice man you’ve been talking to get more time together. He’s a lawyer, right? How perfectly nice. Surely he has taken you to some nice dinners so far? I just want you to be happy, Gale. Don’t you know that?”
Her voice was a mixture of softness and malevolence, oozing off the tip of her tongue like honey. She had a way with words and a presence that was undeniable. It was like this invisible cloak was wrapped around Mother—a cloak made up of fear and obedience. I knew how it felt.
Grandmother was a sixties flower child. She wore a long tan skirt and a white cotton eyelet crop top with no bra. Her eyes were a cold blue. Her stringy white hair, which she purposely made messy, came just below her shoulders. She wore turquoise knuckle rings, a silver pendant that sat perfectly in the vee of her crop top, several silver bracelets on her right arm, and black boots that tied up to her ankles. Her face was weathered like leather, and she had crinkles around her eyes and mouth from years of smoking. She had a pointed nose and a mole just above her upper lip.
She terrified me.
I dashed past Mother’s bedroom and into the kitchen. My two older sisters were eating snacks at the table. I sat down next to RaeLynne and asked her what was going on. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Whatever Grandmother wants.” She returned quickly to her snack.
Packing went on all night. We could take only what would fit into our bags. Mother made us leave behind all of our stuffed animals, toys, beds, furniture, and everything else. We each buried one or two trinkets deep in the bottom of our bags. But that was it.
The next morning, we filled two station wagons with cats, clothes, food, and all the kids, which by now totaled eight: RaeLynne, Abbeygail, Christian, Jemma, Carolina, Noah, Brinly, and me.
Grandmother was driving one car, and Mother was driving the other.
“I want to sit up front!” RaeLynne shouted. “I’m the oldest.” She looked desperately into Mother’s eyes.
“Abbeygail gets the front seat. I need you in the middle to help with the babies,” Mother retorted. RaeLynne pouted as she climbed into the middle seat, whispering contempt under her breath.
The nineties station wagons had three rows. The third row faced backward. Every one of us hated the third row. It made us carsick. When you added in being next to the cats that peed and pooped in their travel boxes, being back there was downright miserable.
“Laundry Lady,” Mother snarled, “I want you to sit in the very back with the cats.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I lowered my head.
Without distractions, it was a twenty-four-hour drive from New York to Florida. It would take us more than two days.
Grandmother loved her cats more than anything, which is probably why Mother did too. In my eyes, they treated them better than us. Grandmother’s cats got the star treatment, and at any point in time, there were four to seven furry friends roaming her big house. They had their own beds and jeweled collars. They even had special ceramic bowls with their names on them.
The only thing Grandmother spent more money on than her cats was her antiques. When she lived in New York, her house was an old Victorian mansion. It was simply gorgeous. She decorated the entire house—every room—with expensive antiques. Her parlor was her most prized room, and we were forbidden to even step foot in there. When we came over, we weren’t allowed to play or run or do anything but sit on the floor in the den and watch whatever they had on TV.
My step-grandfather was at the bidding of Grandmother. He had his own business as a carpenter and was much nicer to us kids when she wasn’t around, although he never really said much. He let us watch The Last of the Mohicans or Walker, Texas Ranger every time we came over. The Last of the Mohicans is still my favorite movie today. We watched that movie and those TV episodes anytime we were there, which wasn’t very often. And if we left the den—if we so much as got near anything in her house—Grandmother would ban us from coming over for a while. It didn’t take a genius to realize Grandmother didn’t like kids much.
Driving down Interstate 95 with eight children was a scene to behold. Mother, true to her fashion, rationed small portions of Mama Tish’s ice cups and peanut butter sandwiches to stop rumbling tummies and attempts to steal food from her bag when she wasn’t looking. Woe to any child who got caught riffling through Mother’s purse out of hunger!
When we arrived at our home in St. Augustine, Florida, it was hotter than a pepper patch in mid-July—much hotter than upstate New York. We had driven the entire 1,150 miles with ten people and no air-conditioning. I was sure one of us was going to die during our two-day trip.
I climbed out of the station wagon and stood on southern ground for the first time. I realized in that moment that life under this sun was going to be quite different.
Florida was stunningly beautiful. Right away, I noticed the flowers, the palm trees, and the giant oak trees covered in Spanish moss. On my new front lawn stood an oak tree with branches so big you could sit on them. The tree reminded me of the dazzling tall pines I loved in upstate New York. I ran straight for the oak and climbed up. I sat right in the middle of all its glory. The view was spectacular—for about fifteen seconds. That’s all it took before Mother screamed like a banshee.
“You stupid girl, get your butt off that tree and unload this car! Who do you think you are?”
Our new home was a duplex that gave off a musty Southern charm, if there is such a thing. It was the ugliest rose pink, and the side of the house paralleled a dusty alleyway surrounded by pecan trees. Ours was the third house on a street with cracked, uneven sidewalks dotted with trees that were covered with Spanish moss. The rusty screened-in porch was peeling from the bottom up, and cat bowls littered every square inch of it. Even from the outside, it smelled of mildew, but I didn’t say a peep. I knew the house had once belonged to Grandmother before she moved to a better place on the Bayfront, and Mother looked at living here as a gift.
Our part was the bottom half of the duplex, while Mother’s younger stepbrother, my uncle, occupied the top half. As soon as I walked through the door, I noticed filth everywhere. The few pieces of random furniture and the walls were moldy and covered in cat hair. It would take hours to make the place even slightly presentable. I was considered the hired help, and as sure as the sun rises and sets, I would be the one charged with making the filth go away.
After we unloaded the car, Mother ordered me to start cleaning the floors, bathrooms, and kitchen. And so it began.
A group of neighborhood kids had already taken a keen interest in us, and my siblings were gunning to make an introduction. Mother told them to go ahead and play. But not me. I watched out the dingy window as they played manhunt that evening. They’d play with those kids almost every evening after school while we lived there. Every now and then, I got to join.
A week or so later, we started at our new schools. RaeLynne and Abbeygail were in the middle school, which was a few miles away, so they rode the bus. The rest of us—except for Brinly who was still in preschool—attended the elementary school just a few blocks away, and we all walked together. We woke up the babies at 6 a.m. I got them dressed, got myself dressed, and then hit the sidewalk at 7 a.m.
At the student crosswalk, we met the crossing guard, Mr. John, who was the sweetest soul. Every morning and every afternoon, he’d smile and say lovely things like, “Have a great day at school!” and “You kids walk safe.” (He’s still a crossing guard for the elementary school to this day!)
We walked through the school doors and into a sea of kids. Since I was the oldest, I asked the first woman I saw if she would help us get to our classes. She helped, and we settled in to our new reality. At the end of the day, we went to the after-school care program called REC (recreation, education, community) where we met Coach Troy. He had games and snacks, and we took to him instantly. We loved after-school time and hung out with about thirty other kids. When my siblings and I were hungry, which was all the time, Coach always gave us extra snacks, sneaking them to us so the other kids wouldn’t see. He made us feel special—and we loved it.
When the REC time was over, Coach helped me gather up my siblings and our things and walked us to the edge of the field. He helped us get across the street and watched as we headed home. My school was a huge change from what we were all used to. But with my father still not in Florida, it was a relief to have strangers be so kind to me.
While the adults were great, I was singled out in classes. I still wore those gross thick pink glasses and didn’t have nice clothes. I was shy and awkward and didn’t talk much. So, I got the “new girl” treatment from other kids. It was hard going to a new school—with new people and no support from home—but I managed. We all did. Because we had to.
At home, my siblings and I mostly fended for ourselves. Mother was gone all hours of the night. When she was home, my life was consumed with chores and being locked out on the back porch doing laundry.
My shy disposition made it difficult for me to make friends. At home, the saying “children should be seen and not heard” was a genuine demand. In Florida, I didn’t have my sea of pine trees to escape to, and I was outgrowing Bear. I needed to find something to help soothe my anxious mind. RaeLynne had just started singing in school and had a tape recorder. It was her new prized possession. She would lie on our bedroom floor, wait for her favorite songs to play on the radio, and then press the record button. Her cassette tapes were my favorite. She sang everywhere in the house. I loved listening to her sing. I thought maybe I could sing too!
When the coast was clear, I hummed quietly to myself, afraid to be too loud. I decided to patiently wait for my chance when no one was around so I could sing out loud.
They sing to the music of timbrel and lyre;
they make merry to the sound of the pipe.
Job 21:12