Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (12 page)

It took a while but eventually I got out of bed, put on my clothes and walked out the door with my head held high; carrying a promise with me to never get involved with a man who didn't have children of his own.

Six years and several relationships later, I met Ethan. Immediately, we hit it off. Not only was Ethan a gem, he came with his own kid. Jackpot! It was a dream come true—or so I thought. Unfortunately, I was in for a rude awakening when he called one Saturday, about a month after we'd started dating.

“Tee, I'll be over this afternoon with someone I'd like for you to meet.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Someone that I love very much and hope one day you will, too.”

Ah, the moment of truth had arrived. I was about to meet Brian, Ethan's son.

As it turned out, Brian was a handful from day one. The second I opened my door, he zoomed past me, jumped over my couch, did a cartwheel and karate-chopped the air with the plastic sword he carried.With wide-open eyes and mouth, I looked at Ethan.
Oh no, he didn't just jump on
my new couch!

“Boy, sit your butt down and act like you got some sense!” Ethan shouted. “This might be your stepmother one day!”

“Umph,” I mumbled.

So marked the beginning of my life with Brian. He was a typical three-year-old, running, dashing and jumping constantly—something that I was ill-equipped to handle.

As the relationship progressed, and Ethan and I started living with each other, there were times that I wanted to throw in the towel; especially when Brian's mother started dropping him off at our house every weekend.

A couple of hours of dealing with a rowdy three-year-old was one thing, but
every
weekend was a different novel altogether. I tried talking to Ethan, but he was too overjoyed about the time he got to spend with his son. The feeling was mutual as far as Brian was concerned. How was I supposed to fight such a lethal combination?

After some careful strategizing, I decided to speak to Brian's mother. “Look, we have him
every
weekend. Can we please try to work something out so that we can share weekends? You know, you take him one weekend and we'll take him the next?” I asked, with a sugary smile pasted on my face.

Brian's mother smiled back with an equally sugary smile. “I'd love to do that, but I work on the weekends, honey. It's his father's responsibility to keep him when I can't.”

Oh, no, she didn't! Girlfriend played me.
I knew when I had been trumped, so I shut my mouth and vowed revenge.

The fight was on!

Eventually, Ethan and I got married. We decided to spend our honeymoon in New Orleans, and since this included the weekend, Brian's mother was none too happy about the arrangement.
Umm hmmm, things are about
to change
, I thought, as I stared into her defeated face.

For seven heavenly days, Ethan and I enjoyed the sights, food and music that comprised New Orleans. On the trip home, something nagged me the entire time, warning me of things to come. As long as I live, I will never forget the sequence of events that followed.

Seconds after we unloaded the car, Brian's mother called to inform us that she would be right over. When she arrived, she politely marched up to the door with Brian in tow. She plopped him down on the doorstep along with a box, which contained all of Brian's worldly belongings as if she were a mail carrier handing us a parcel.

“Your turn,” she said, as Ethan and I stood on the doorstep looking at her in disbelief. She turned, and without another word, drove off into the sunset.
Girlfriend won.
She blindsided me.

As I tried to adjust to life with Brian in the house, I realized he had a lot of adjusting to do as well. He needed a mother more than ever. Unfortunately, I was not equipped to give him what he needed at the time. Oh, I made sure all of his physical needs were taken care of, but emotionally something held me back. Perhaps it was my fear that he would be taken from me—that his mother would one day reclaim him. Or maybe it was my insecurity of knowing that I was not Brian's mother—she was. Whatever it was, it kept me from giving him the motherly love that he needed.

I'm not exactly sure when things changed, but somewhere along the line I became his mother and he became my son.

One day, I stood in the hallway ironing.

“Let me ask my mom,” I heard Brian tell the neighborhood boy standing at our door.

“Is it okay if I go to Jamal's house?” he asked me.

I was floored. This was the first time I heard him refer to me as his mom. “Yeah, go ahead,” I replied. “And Brian . . .”

“Yes,” he answered.

“You're the only person in this world that has ever called me Mom—I like it.”

He smiled, and so did I.

God has a way of gelling things together, without us ever realizing it. He knew that just because I couldn't physically have children, it didn't mean that I couldn't be a mother. I am humbled that God handpicked me to nurture one of society's most endangered species—an African American child.

As it turns out, I won after all.

T. Rhythm Knight

Single-Mommy Love

I
f you are a parent . . . what you do every day,
what you say and how you act, will do more to
shape the future of America than any other factor.

Marian Wright Edelman

Some time ago during one of my pitiful laments over the guilt I harbored for being a single parent,mymother shook me out of my self-centered sobs and said adamantly, “This is not about you. This is about that little boy who is growing more into a young man each day. You have to pray for him daily, like I do. He'll be all right. He reminds me of Daddy. I know he'll turn out to be a good, strong man.”

It was then that I noticed three distinct likenesses my five-and-a-half-year-old son has to my deceased maternal grandfather: a fair-skinned, round face; a motor-mouth that runs from coast to coast; and an impenetrable dignity stemming far back into our ancestry. I hoped my mother was right and tried to put a rest to my fears.

Then one day, we were at a typical tee-ball practice on the field of the local elementary school playground. Well, not quite
typical
. My son, Paul, the coach's son, Ian, and another little boy were the only ones present and on time.

While we waited for the other five players on the team, the boys played on the slide in the park adjacent to the field.

As an outgoing only child, Paul relished playtime with peers. With twinkles in his dreamy brown eyes, he'd tear away from me in a split second to seek out friendly fun.

His boundless energy and youthful innocence were one of my greatest joys in life.

All seemed well until Ian came running full-speed out of the park across the field, yelling, “I don't want to play with you. You're black!”

I know I didn't just hear what I thought I heard!

The coach and I had been engaged in conversation, and we both turned our heads to watch the scene unfold. Paul sprinted up behind Ian, shouting, “Hey, don't call me a color!”

No such luck. I just heard what I thought I heard.

Paul was the only black child on the team, but I never noted a difference between him and the other children.

“Ian, that's not nice. Apologize to Paul,” his dad insisted.

Ian threw down his ball cap and stomped his feet in the dirt. “But he is black! He has a black mom!”

I could feel myself controlling my breathing; I noted all of the choice words dancing in my head; I was aware of the pain I instantly felt in my heart for both my son and myself. The only comment I made was, “What's wrong with having a black mom, young man?”

While the coach continued to chastise his son about the remark, I watched Paul's reaction. I waited for him to cry into my arms, to pitch a fit or retaliate. I could feel all my years of hurts wrapped up in this moment waiting to see what he does with his first real experience. He stood before Ian, knock-kneed and all, without shedding a tear.

He spoke calmly, but firmly, “I ama hu-man.” His mouth said only those words, but his body posture and his tone said,
See me, respect me and know that I will be counted.

Ian gave Paul the strangest look, maybe a mixture of shock and admiration that Paul didn't whine or try to fight. Without any further prompting, Ian outstretched his hand to Paul and said, “I'm sorry.”

We all could feel his remorse. He realized that he had said something hurtful to a real friend.

Paul lovingly accepted his apology, then looked toward me for the first time since the whole episode had started. He glanced back at Ian expectantly with an unspoken,
Don't you have something to tell my mama?

Ian walked over to me, head bowed. “I'm sorry, Ms. Smith.”

I nodded okay.

Paul marched over to the dugout to retrieve his glove. At first, I thought he was headed for the car to go home. But he jogged to outfield, ready to catch some pitches.

Just that fast, the longest moment in Little League history was over.

Later that evening, I explained to Paul what the “black” race and “white” race meant in simple terms, along with giving some examples of people he knew who were black, white, a combination or another race altogether.

He nodded understanding, but remained quiet.

“I'm proud of you,” I told him, kissing the top of his head. “You were very strong today.”

“Thanks.” He smiled at me. “May I go play a game now?”

“You certainly may.”

Tears began streaming down my face. But they weren't the sorrowful droplets of old. These were the moist, jubilant beads of faith, hope and love. For I know that God would not entrust the life of this child to me without empowering and equipping me with the will to succeed. I am no longer crying because I am a single mom, I'm crying because I get to be his mother, and today I was his student.

Dayciaa C. Smith

The Christmas Sparrows

Recently, while driving in the countryside of northwestern New Jersey, I saw a wonderful and rare sight.

There were at least a dozen bright red cardinals all perched in a large bush. A childhood memory came flooding back to me. “Christmas sparrows,” that was the name Granny gave to these beautiful, red-winged creatures.

The very first time I met Granny, I was about nine years old. I was running home from school, excited to show my art “achievement” to my mother. It was a Halloween decoration, a bat attached to a picture with a pipe cleaner.

As I ran down my street, I tripped and fell on the sidewalk. I tore my pants and had a large scrape on my knee.

Of course, I let out a scream. I looked down at my work of art. My heart sank. The pipe cleaner had come off of the colored construction paper. I was extremely upset. But there in a minute was Granny. “Child, child, what on earth?” she exclaimed. I blurted out that I tripped and fell, and ruined my art work.

“Well now, let's see what we can do to make things better,” she said with an understanding smile. “What's your name?”

“Joey,” I replied as I began to calm down a bit. It was nice to hear a comforting voice.

“Come inside, child. I'll put some medicine on that scrape.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I said as I followed her into her apartment. Granny lived on the first floor of an old apartment in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, just about a block from our old apartment.

There were just a couple of rooms, sparsely furnished, with a few knickknacks, but a lot of pictures. She gently but very quickly applied some dark-looking salve on my wound. “What's that stuff?” I asked.

“Well child, it's an old family cure, handed down from my grandma. I know it smells kinda bad, but it will work real good.” Already I could feel the pain go away. “Whatcha got in your hand?” she asked. “Well, it was supposed to be a Halloween picture for my mom, but it got tore up when I fell,” I stated. “Let's take a look to see what we can do to fix this beautiful picture.” Granny hunted around in a few drawers and produced some colored construction paper.

“Land sakes, this paper is years old, Joey, but I think it'll do the trick.” She made a few drawings of Halloween cats, a big pumpkin and an old witch. Then she let me cut them out. With a little glue and a few finishing touches on the bat—good as new. In fact, it really looked beautiful! I looked up at Granny and she had a big, approving grin. “Child, I have something special for you I think you'd like.” The dear lady brought out a plate full of gingerbread men cookies and a glass of milk. I swear, they were the best cookies I've ever tasted.

All of a sudden, I heard my mother's frantic voice calling my name. Gosh, I had forgotten about the time. I went running outside with Granny close behind. I started to explain, but my mom was still justifiably upset. “Your boy fell here on the sidewalk, but he's okay now,” Granny explained. “I hope he didn't put you out,”my mom replied.