Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (2 page)

THE WONDER YEARS

There is no universal definition of the word love …

… each instance is uniquely defined by its participants.

“The Wonder Years, ages one through twelve” as Wonder Bread reminded us in their television commercials, is all about discovery and definition. As we discover the world around us, we begin to define ourselves-who and what we are-based on our observations and experiences. We also, mistakenly, come to believe that these impressions are written in stone and not subject to change. Big mistake!

IN THE BEGINNING

1956. It was the year that the Supreme Court ruled that segregation on public transportation was unconstitutional. It was also the year that saw the publication of James Baldwin’s novel, Giovanni’s Room. It was the year that Nat King Cole became the first black entertainer to host his own show on national television. All of these events (especially the latter two) would, in some way, prove relevant to me later in life. At the very least, they provided me with a much-needed historical perspective on the world I had been born into. 1956 also held another noteworthy, albeit less publicized, milestone in black American history: my birth.

It was at 6:02 p.m. on Sunday, November 18th that I made my debut into the world. The place was Elizabeth General Hospital in Elizabeth, New Jersey. I wasn’t supposed to be born then. Actually, I wasn’t supposed to be born at all. My mother, who had already given birth to three other children, was convinced that her childbearing days were over; the last thing she wanted was another child. Yet here I am. Years later, when I asked her about the circumstances surrounding my conception, I wasn’t quite prepared for the answer.

“Child, you was an accident. I didn’t want no more children. I’m surprised you didn’t figure that one out yourself!”

After digesting this bit of information and, unsure of how to respond, the best that I could muster was, “Well, yeah, and I guess there really wasn’t anything you could do about it back then,” referring to the fact that in 1956 abortion was not only illegal, but extremely dangerous.

“Well, honestly, I wasn’t all that worried. I had already gotten pregnant by your father once before and I miscarried. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you would take.” This was followed, of course, by a hearty laugh. Then, just to make sure that I wouldn’t be scarred for life by this revelation, she added, “But I’m sure glad you did!”

This recollection, along with a few others, may tend to give an unflattering impression of my mother. Nothing could be further from the truth; she was a wonderful woman. Like any mother, over the years she showed an occasional lack of judgment in some of the things that she said and did, but she always acted out of love. And, more importantly, she possessed the one thing that made her honesty and candor easy to accept: an irrepressible sense of humor. She was never one to take life, or herself, too seriously. She found humor in the most bizarre of situations. I still find myself laughing out loud while recalling the various mishaps and adventures from her life that she shared with me. Like the time she attempted to save some money by buying “bargain” underwear that stretched and lost its shape as she wore them for the first, and last, time. After struggling for the better part of a day to keep the ever-expanding panties on, she finally admitted defeat and allowed them to slip lower and lower down her legs until they finally hit the ground. It didn’t matter to her that she was in the middle of a very busy part of town in the middle of the day. She simply stepped out of them and kept walking, leaving them lying in the middle of a very busy sidewalk.

My mother didn’t believe in sheltering her children from the realities of a harsh world. Whenever an unpleasant topic found its way into our conversations she never avoided it or tried to change the subject; she’d simply inject a touch of humor and continue the conversation at hand, making it more palatable for our young minds. It wasn’t her intention to shock or surprise us, although she often did both. She simply followed her maternal instinct, firmly believing that the better informed we were, the better equipped we would be to handle whatever might come our way. And, offering my own life as proof, I‘d have to say that her decision was a wise one. Unlike most mothers, she regarded her offspring more as “friends” than as “children.”

Born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, my mother was definitely a product of the south. Although she moved to New Jersey at twenty-three years of age and spent the remainder of her life “up north,” her southern roots were never too far from the surface. It lingered in the way that she spoke, the way that she cooked, her outlook on life, but was most evident in the familiar, friendly and warm way that she treated people.

BRANCHES OF THE FAMILY TREE

My parents, James and Ruth, had both been previously married prior to their setting up household together. From their first marriages, my mother had three children: Robert, Annette, and Charles; while my father had two: James Jr. (“Jimmy”) and Joan. I am the only natural child that they had together. Of all the half-siblings, it was my mother’s daughter Annette who played the most prominent role in my life growing up. There were other additions and subtractions to the family along the way, but I’ll let those reveal themselves as my story unfolds.

My mother was born April 2nd 1919, and was the youngest of six children. My father, born May 2nd 1921, in Lacrosse, Virginia, was the youngest of ten children. This made my mother 36 years old at the time of my birth, and my father 34. Being born to middle-aged parents–as this age range was defined in the 1950s–had both positive and negative effects. On the positive side, they were somewhat weary of the whole child-rearing thing, and I got away with things that my older half-siblings never could have. My parents just didn’t have the fight left in them to be the strict disciplinarians that they once were. On the negative side, they had neither the energy nor desire to take part in things that interested me as a child. It was much easier to pass me off to somebody else and have them deal with me, usually one of my older half-siblings. However, since they were better off financially by the time that I came along, they were able to give me a lot of “stuff” to make up for this lack of constant attention. As a result, I always seemed to have the best toys of any kid on the block. It was a trade-off, but one that I really didn’t mind.

The other drawbacks of being born to middle-aged parents weren’t noticeable until I reached an age where I began forming friendships outside of the family. Most notably, the fact that while most of my friends had grandparents, I didn’t. Well, technically I did, it’s just that both sets had died by the time I was born. I always felt cheated by this. Also, because my mother’s oldest son, Robert, had married and started a family by the time of my birth, I was born an uncle! As I got older and my friends excitedly became aunts and uncles for the first time, their fascination was lost on me. Been there, done that.

Both of my parents worked full-time at the time of my birth. Miss Southers, an elderly woman who lived upstairs, was both landlady and babysitter to my parents. My earliest memories of day-to-day life consist of waking up in the morning, being fed and dressed by my mother, and then sent upstairs to spend the day with Miss Southers. Armed with toys and food (I was a picky eater–how ironic). I’d trek upstairs to the second floor of the house and be greeted with, “And how’s my Mikey today?” To this day Miss Southers is the only person that I can remember who called me “Mikey” on a regular basis. Oddly enough, I remember traipsing up that flight of stairs in the morning and rushing back down in the evening when my mother returned home from work, but I remember almost nothing of what transpired during the time in between. I must have napped a lot.

CHURCH

One day, I must have been three or four years old, I remember my mother dressing me, gathering up a few of my toys, and heading out of the house. We began walking in the direction of downtown Elizabeth. I loved going downtown because that’s where all of the shops and stores were located. For me, a trip downtown almost always meant a new toy–and eating lunch at Woolworth’s. But when we got to the end of the block, instead of crossing the street and continuing straight into town, my mother turned and began climbing the steps of Union Baptist Church. Although Union Baptist was a typical modest-sized brick church, complete with a steeple and bell tower, it seemed huge from my toddler perspective, especially the large stone steps that led up to its front door. I always detoured up and down those steps whenever we passed it. It was a childhood ritual of mine. Oddly enough, though I’d climbed those steps each time we passed the church, I had never actually been inside. Mine wasn’t a family of churchgoers. Unlike many of my playmates, I didn’t attend Sunday school, or any other kind of church service for that matter, while growing up. Years later, I brought this up to my mother.

“My mother was a holy-roller and she practically lived in the church,” she explained. “I had it shoved down my throat almost every day of the week. I promised myself I’d never do that to my children. If they wanted to go to church, fine. But, I wasn’t gonna force it on ‘em.”

When we stepped inside Union Baptist, I saw that the place was packed. I remember people turning to look at us when we walked in, probably because my mother was usually operating on “CP time” (for those unfamiliar with this euphemism, let’s just say it means “we were late”). She found a place for us in one of the pews at the rear of the church. As my toys kept me well occupied and oblivious to what was happening around me, I’m not sure how long it was before my mother scooped me up in one arm, my toy cars in the other, and stood up. I noticed that everyone else was standing up too, so I figured that whatever we had come here for was over and we were about to leave. However, when my mother stepped out of the pew, instead of heading for the door at the back of the church where we had entered, she started walking in the opposite direction towards the altar. I could see people at the front of the church forming a line. We joined the others, and when it was our turn at the front of the line, I glanced over at my mother who was now looking down. So, of course, I looked in that same direction to see what it was that had attracted her attention. What I saw was an image that stayed with me for many years to come. There, with her eyes closed, arms folded across her chest, and shoved into a large rectangular box was Miss Southers! I freaked out! I screamed and began crying hysterically.

I think back to that scene today and wonder why I reacted the way I did. At that age, what did I know about what it meant to be dead? And why did it scare me so? I believe it was something more than Miss Southers’ flat smile and cold appearance that brought about my reaction. Perhaps there was an early intuition that, no matter how hard I fought against it, death was to be a prominent part of my life–and I was helpless to stop it. How do you escape what’s been pre-destined? You don’t. Death, dying, funerals, memorials, have all been a recurring motif in the decorating scheme of my life. I mean, hey, my parents met at a funeral! My mother’s older sister, Florence, was married to my father’s older brother, Major, who passed away in 1951. Both of my parents attended the funeral, were introduced to each other, and the rest, as they say, is history. How romantic is that?

On a somewhat similar note, I understand that I was able to see ghosts as a child. This, according to my mother; I really don’t remember. She said it began with me often asking her about people who weren’t there. “Who is that bubble-nosed man that keeps looking at me?” or “Who are those old fashioned people that keep walking around my bed at night?” These questions were followed a few years later by stories about my “other” father. When questioned further, I would simply say, “You know, the one who rode a horse and was a cowboy back in the olden days.” To be honest, I don’t remember these things, but I see no reason for my mother to have lied about it. She also shared with me her recollection of the day that I came into the house and announced that I had just seen Miss Southers in our backyard–shortly after her death. Not wanting to freak me out by saying that was impossible, she instead asked me “Did she say anything to you?”

“No,” I replied, “she just stood there and looked at me.”

You’re welcome to draw your own conclusions.

MORE THAN A SISTER

When I was born my mother’s daughter, Annette, lived with us. She soon married and moved to Philadelphia, but for the first two years of my life she was a constant and loving fixture in our home. Most babies’ first words are “ma-ma” or “da-da.” Not mine. According to my mother, the first recognizable name that I uttered was “Annette.” The story, as I heard it, was that as Annette passed my crib one morning as she was preparing for work. I sat up and smiled. She smiled back and said, “Good morning, little man,” to which I responded, plain as day, “Annette.” She went running to my mother to tell her what had happened. My mother, of course, didn’t believe her. Annette dragged my mother to my crib and cooed “What did you just say, little man?” Again, just as clearly as the first time, I repeated, “Annette.” I like to think of myself as a baby prodigy.

Annette was a major influence on me during my wonder years. Even after she married and had her first child, Martine (“Tina”), she was no stranger to our home. Our relationship wasn’t the least bit affected by the changes in her life. She loved me as if I was her own child and, in many ways, I was. With her three children being roughly the same as me growing up–Tina only three years my junior–that’s probably why I considered them more like siblings than nieces and nephews.