Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (5 page)

The next summer, Peggy, the daughter of one of my mother’s childhood friends, came to stay with us for a few weeks. Peggy was five years older than me and, like so many others before and after, she grew into a sister-figure to me. Apparently, my mother’s marital situation was common knowledge in Peggy’s household back in Georgia, and she had no problem telling me in one of our conversations, “You know your mama and daddy ain’t married, don’t you?”

Well, here it was, confirmation at last. Finally, somebody had put it into words. Playing it cool, I casually replied, “Of course I know, doesn’t everybody?” (Except their own son!) Great…so, now it’s official. I can add “bastard” to that list of words that define who and what I am. I’m quite grateful that so many people outside of my immediate family were willing to share such vital information with me over the years; it kept me from being too ignorant about my background. I don’t hold to that old cliché about ignorance being bliss. That summer of Peggy’s first visit, I learned a lot. Just days earlier, Peggy had taken me aside and, in a somewhat related revelation, told me what the song “Love Child” by Diana Ross and the Supremes was really about. It was a true time of enlightenment.

SPIRITUAL CONSULTATION

When I was ten or eleven, some noticeable changes began occurring in our household. First of all, I was spending a lot less time with my father and more time with my mother. This was a bit strange, as I had been a “daddy’s boy” for the early part of my life. My father just seemed to be around a lot less. And more and more when I would ask to go with him, he declined with a “not this time, you can go with me tomorrow” or “I would take you, but I don’t know what time I’ll be coming back.” Being a kid, I didn’t question this; I just assumed that he had some “grown-up” things to do. Another change at home was an increase of arguing and fighting between my parents. Not that this bickering was anything new, but it was definitely becoming more frequent and intense.

While I continued my obsession with Batman, my mother developed an obsession of her own, the Ouija Board. At first, it was when her sister, Florence, would visit that the Ouija Board would be taken out. And since Aunt Florence worked nearby at the time, that was quite often. But more and more, my mother began playing with the board alone. I later found out that she had taken to asking the Ouija Board questions about my father. Things like, “Where is he?” “Who is he with?” and “What are they doing?” Now, whether she got her information from the spirits of the Ouija Board, or from somewhere else, my mother soon discovered that there was, just as she suspected, another woman in my father’s life.

A ROAD TRIP

One day I came home from school to find my mother alone in the living room sitting in front of the Ouija Board laid out on the coffee table. She had both hands on the little white planchette and it was slowly moving back and forth across the board, stopping occasionally on random letters spelling out some message from the spirits of the board. Without bothering to look up, she said to me, “Go change out of your school clothes; we’re going for a ride.” I quickly ran up to my room, threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and rushed back downstairs to find my mother standing at the door, car keys in hand, waiting for me. The Ouija Board was still laid out on the table.

“Where we going?” I asked.

“Just for a ride.”

This was fine with me as I wasn’t in the mood to tackle my homework just yet anyway. Besides, if I played my cards right, I could probably get her to stop at McDonalds. I was already well into a serious and long lasting love affair with fast food.

Within minutes, we were speeding down the highway, radio blasting, on our way to destinations unknown. At first, I thought we were going somewhere in Elizabeth, as that was the direction in which we were headed. However, when we reached Elizabeth, my mother made no effort to turn off the highway; she just kept driving full speed ahead. Well, I guessed that meant we were going to Newark, which was another 10-15 minutes further north. Maybe we were going to visit Aunt Evelyn, my mother’s oldest sister? Well, we ended up in Newark all right, but not at Aunt Evelyn’s house; not at any place that I recognized. After making a number of turns and going down unfamiliar streets, she finally pulled over to the curb and stopped the car. Without shutting off the engine, my mother reached across me, opened the passenger door of the car, and said, “Go meet your father’s girlfriend.”

“What?” I asked, not quite sure what she was talking about.

“Go…meet…your…father’s…girlfriend,” she repeated, accentuating each word.

I looked out of my passenger side window and saw my father standing on the porch of the house that we just had pulled up in front of. He was laughing and talking with a woman that I had never seen before. Not sure of all that was happening, yet not wanting to disobey direct orders, I stepped out of the car. My father and the woman both turned to look at me, but neither of them said anything. I noticed a rather odd look on my father’s face that I couldn’t quite interpret. After a moment, the woman greeted me, “Hi, Michael.” This completely threw me. “How does she know my name? I’ve never seen her in my life!” At this point, I hear the car door close behind me, and I turn around just in time to see my mother put the car in drive and take off down the street.

Seeing that my mother had just left me standing there alone at the curb, my father said his good-byes to the woman and stepped down off the porch and walked over to where I was standing. “Come on, let’s go. I’m parked down the street.” Together we walked to his car parked a block away–a lame attempt to keep his whereabouts a secret, I guess–and got in. Neither of us spoke, at first. About five minutes into the ride home, and just when the silence was about to become unbearable, he turns to me and says “Michael, now’s as good a time as any for you to know. Every man has a woman on the side.”

My first thought was, “That’s not true. I know a lot of husbands who don’t have other women on the side. As a matter-of-fact, when I grow up, I’m going to be one of those husbands.” Those words never left my lips, though. I didn’t say anything at all; I didn’t even look at him. This was all just a bit too weird. Suddenly it became clear to me that my mother was right and that the woman on the porch was, in fact, my father’s girlfriend. I remember thinking, “Well, at least he’s consistent in his taste for women.” Bonnie–as I later learned her name was–had many of the same physical characteristics as my mother.

Aware that there wasn’t going to be much further conversation during this particular ride home, I reached down and turned on the car radio, hoping to ease the tension in the air.

“I can’t see my lovin’ nobody but you

For all my life

When you’re with me, baby, the skies’ll be blue

For all my life…”

How appropriate. “Happy Together” by the Turtles was playing. I remember thinking, “Boy, if this was a scene in a movie there couldn’t be a better song for the soundtrack.”

When we arrived back at our house, I got out of the car and closed the door. Now it was my father’s turn to drive off and leave me standing alone at the curb. At least this time the curb I was left standing at was in front of our house in Rahway, not some strange neighborhood in Newark. It wasn’t until the next evening that I saw him again; he didn’t come home that night. And it wasn’t until years later that our relationship recovered from that day’s events.

PLAYING THE RACE CARD

What scares us the most? That’s easy–the things that we’re most uncomfortable with; things we’d rather not deal with. Topics and issues that we wish would just disappear, that we could sweep under the carpet and forget about. For me, race–my own race, in particular–topped my list of scary subjects.

I never got used to the question, “What are you?” Interpretation: “Are you Black? (…’cause you certainly don’t look it!)” Or, “Are you White? (…and, if so, how come your mother is so dark-skinned? Are you adopted?)” The older I got, and the more I was asked, the more repugnant the question became. I wanted to scream, “First of all, why does it even matter?! Second, it’s none of your DAMN business! How would you like it if people kept asking you the same stupid question all the time?”

Black people who don’t look black still remain one of the great un-addressed issues of our society. It wasn’t until 2003 that I heard the topic addressed in a public forum, and that was on a daytime talk show. Now, however, thanks to the prevalence of a thing called “political correctness” it’s not often that I have to deal with questions regarding my ethnic background, even though there are still those whom, I know, are dying to ask. Yes, some people still have a problem categorizing me, but at least I’m now able to recognize that it’s their issue, not mine.

There was a time when my response to “What are you?” was to come back with another question.

“What do you think I am?” And whatever answer I got from the person questioning me, I went along with. It was the easy way out. Later, I began adding attitude to my response…

“And why do you want to know?”

All of this was, of course, in the days before I learned that no personal question is asked without an agenda–a hidden motivation on the part of the person doing the asking. When you counter any personal question with, “Why do you want to know?” and the reply is, “Just curious,” “I was just wondering,” or the ubiquitous, “No reason” then it’s time to get out your wading boots because, baby, you’re stepping into some deep BS!

As a child, I wanted desperately to be black. Not black as in “negro” or “colored,” I already was that; I mean black as in the actual color of my skin. Or to at least have skin dark enough so that there would be no question as to what race of people I belonged to. I hated the fact that, outside of my father, most of my relations had darker skin than I did. And it didn’t stop there, I wanted nappy hair too! I hated it when people made a big deal over the fact that, when it came to hair, I had “the good stuff.”

When you’re a child growing up, you want to be like everybody else. You want to fit in. You haven’t yet learned the beauty of being unique. As I’ve said before, growing up is about finding out who you are. When the answers are not clear-cut, things become problematic. Whenever you find yourself on the borderline–straddling the fence–of an issue that most people use as a measuring tool in identifying who they are, you’re bound to be confused about it. On the positive side, because you’re forced to do some extra work, you tend to reap the benefit of turning out a better person for it. Because I so hated being questioned about my race growing up, the older I got, the less importance the race of others held for me. I can honestly say that, as an adult, I have never judged a person based on the color of their skin or their ethnicity. I’ve had friends, acquaintances and lovers of every ethnic and racial background. If I liked what they offered as a person, they were in. Who they were, not what they were, became the deciding factor in whether or not I chose to share a part of my life’s journey with them.

I feel uniquely positioned to have such strong opinions when it comes to issues of race and race relations. Yes, I’ve had to deal with my fair share of prejudice in my lifetime. Not exclusively from people outside of my race, but from those within, as well. As a child, because I was light-skinned, because I didn’t limit my friendship solely to black kids, and because I had interests that most kids on my block didn’t, I was accused of being a “Tom.” When some of my black friends found out that I also had white friends, they would ask “How can you be my friend when you’re their friend too?” If only I’d had the intelligence back then to say, “Gee, I don’t know. I guess I’m just not into placing limitations on myself. Maybe you could show me how to shrink my mind to make it as small and narrow as yours?”

When you hear the term “racism in America” what comes to mind? Men wearing white sheets with eyeholes cut into them? Little black kids being escorted to school by policemen? Black men hanging from trees? The images that most likely come to mind are of blacks being discriminated against by whites. But let me tell you something; in my experience black people are just as racist–if not more so–than white people. Fact: I have never heard a white friend of mine use the word “nigger” (or “spic,” or “chink,” or “pollack,” or any other racial epithet) in my presence. Yet I often hear my black friends and acquaintances using similar words when describing others and think nothing of it. And we’re talking adults here! Grown people with jobs and families! On occasion when I’ve chosen to bring it to their attention, they play it off, saying, “Yeah, well, that’s how they talk about us behind our backs.” To them I say, “Wake up and smell what it is you’re passing on to your children!”

I’m also of an age that I have personally witnessed the tail end of an ugly period of race relations in this country. Not so much living in New Jersey, but certainly on visits to my mother’s home state of Georgia. I remember going into a Woolworth’s in downtown Atlanta one day and asking my mother if we could stop at the lunch counter and have a hot dog and soda. Since this was our routine when we went to the Woolworth’s back in New Jersey, I was surprised when she gave some excuse about not having enough money with her. As cost was never an issue at home in New Jersey, I knew that something was up. “I’ll make you as many hot dogs as you want when we got back to Annie’s house.” Annie was her friend with whom we always stayed during our visits to Atlanta. After leaving the store, she explained to me, although I still didn’t quite understand why, that “colored people can’t sit and eat at Woolworth’s in Georgia.” And, with her typical “softening the blow” tactic, she added, “And we’re better off. You know these people down here don’t know how to cook food the way that we like it.”

Later that night, as she recounted to Annie what had happened, I eavesdropped from the next room. When telling Annie the story, my mother added something that she had conveniently left out when speaking with me earlier that day. I heard her say to Annie, “I didn’t tell him that they would have served him if he’d been there with his father (who, under most circumstances, could pass for white) and not with me.”

As time passed, I came to better understand the racial atmosphere in our country at that time, particularly in the south. What I remember most about that experience is how badly I felt for my mother. I just couldn’t grasp the reasoning behind the mindset that made it possible to dislike, mistreat, and even hate someone simply because of how they looked. I personalized the situation, spending too many hours wondering how people who didn’t even know my mother would be mean to her for no apparent reason. This was my first realization that grown-ups didn’t necessarily have it as easy as I imagined they did. It was also when another word was added to the list of those defining the person that I was becoming. That new word was “compassion.”

WHO’S THE BABY DADDY?

I swear, despite the fact of my writing this book and sharing my family history, I have no interest in investigating my family tree. Personal experience has shown me that it would be a big waste of time anyway. What the linear progression on a piece of paper would indicate, and what is the truth, would be two entirely different things in many instances. There are so many cases where somebody’s daddy isn’t really his or her daddy–despite what the birth certificate says–that I can hardly keep count. So many secrets, so many skeletons in so many closets. Why bother? Besides, since many of us carry our “slave” names–my paternal grandfather was named after a plantation owner–genealogy searches often prove to be difficult. Briefly looking into my own “roots,” I’ve discovered that I am likely a descendant of the Anglo-Saxon (i.e., white) Boyd’s of Scotland. Seems that one branch of that clan settled in Virginia and quickly became land and slave owners. Well, it wasn’t long before the master of the house began having his way with the young female slaves, and quicker than you could say “mulatto,” the Boyd lineage began to lose its shine.

A NEW SIBLING

“We’re going to meet your new sister.”

When my mother told me this, I wasn’t shocked or surprised. Why should I be? It seemed that every time I turned around, I was meeting some new relative that had just arrived on the scene from out of nowhere. A cousin here, an aunt or uncle there, so another sister didn’t strike me as odd. And by this point, I’d given up on trying to figure out the “whys” and “hows” of each and every situation that came up in our family; too confusing. So, okay, here’s this new sister–bring her on! I accepted this the same way that I accepted everything else that happened in our family: without question. The one thing that I did ask was, “Ma, how come you never told me I had another sister before?” Her answer? “Child, I didn’t know about her myself until a few months ago.”

It was in the summer of 1964 that I met Carolyn. She was sixteen years old, and I was seven. She was the “love child” (thank you, Peggy!) between my father and a woman that he knew from “down home.” And if you do the math, you’ll see that she was conceived sometime during his first marriage. It was my father who initiated the search for this sibling. Knowing him, it was probably because he felt guilty about ignoring a child that he had fathered. Though he certainly had his faults, my father also had a conscience and always tried to do the right thing. That’s one of the things I’ll always respect him for. As it happens, my new sister and her family lived in Philadelphia. How convenient! That’s where Annette lived too; I could now visit two sisters in one trip.

We were both happy, Carolyn and I, to have found each other. She was happy to discover this cute little brother, and I was happy to have this new older sister. We were both “fair complexioned,” as light-skinned blacks were referred to at the time. This was important to me, considering all the drama that I put myself through over not being as dark-skinned as most of my other relations. Second, she was just so damn nice! She was just like the big sisters you saw on television. There was also the newness of it all. Sure, I loved Annette dearly, but she had been around since I was born; Carolyn, on the other hand, was a novelty. And speaking of Annette, the two of them hit it off and became good friends. Even though not related by blood, and on opposite ends of the “color-ed” spectrum, they often introduced themselves to others as sisters.

Carolyn lived as I had, as an only child. Although that certainly has its benefits, it can often be a lonely existence. When she found out that she had siblings, she was ecstatic and anxious to meet and get to know them. I was much younger, so our bonding was a “big sister/little brother” thing. Carolyn was most anxious to meet Joan, my father’s daughter with his first wife. In her mind, this was the relationship that had the most potential. Joan, on the other hand, couldn’t have been less interested in a relationship with Carolyn. She pretty much brushed off Carolyn’s attempts at any kind of friendship. I guess the last thing Joan wanted was a new sister in her life and, sadly, to this day they still don’t have much of a relationship.

In Joan’s defense, I have to say that I understand where she was coming from. Here’s a girl whose father had, essentially, deserted her. Had I been in her position, I would have had a hard time welcoming another sibling with open arms too–especially one from a different mother. I would have seen it, as I’m sure she did, as a slap in the face of my own mother. His leaving his family like he did had set the stage for some major jealousy and resentment. Although Joan and I have a very good relationship today, I know that there were issues and obstacles for her to overcome with me, as well. I think the fact that I was a baby when our lives intersected made a big difference in how things turned out. Carolyn, on the other hand, was on the verge of womanhood.

Speaking of which, when Carolyn came into our lives it was, literally, during the time of her “becoming a woman,” if you know what I mean. I remember one day that we had all made plans to go to an amusement park (Carolyn, Annette and her kids, and me). We all slept at Annette’s the night before so that we could get an early start the next morning. I barely slept with all the excitement over the trip. However, Carolyn woke up sick and the excursion was put on hold, which I was none too pleased about. That morning, adding insult to injury, Annette asked me to go the store to get something that Carolyn needed. Still pissed off and disappointed about the abrupt change of plans, I reluctantly agreed. “Okay, what am I getting?”

“Sanitary napkins.”

“Sanitary napkins? You got a whole roll of paper towels next to the sink. Can’t you use them?” See, I was lazy and didn’t want to have to make an unnecessary trip to the store.

“No. Sanitary napkins aren’t the same as regular napkins.”

“What’s different about ‘em?”

“It’s a long story. Do you want me to write it down for you? Or can you remember?”

“I can remember. But what’s different about ‘em? Do they look different from regular napkins?”

“Here, here’s the money.”

“But if I don’t know what they look like, how do I know what to get?”

“Just ask Mr. Grimes, the owner of the store, and he’ll know what to give you.”

This went on and on, me asking questions and Annette sidestepping each one until I gave in and left without getting a straight answer from her. I went to the store, got the damn sanitary napkins, and brought them back. I knew there had to be some reason for all the secrecy surrounding these things, so I tried to get some information by reading the box on the way back. I still couldn’t figure out what the damn things were for. But remember Peggy? The girl from Georgia who told me that my parents weren’t married? On her next visit to New Jersey, she gave me the “411” on sanitary napkins. That girl was a wealth of information!

A HOME OF OUR OWN

In 1966, my parents finally bought a home of their own. No more paying rent; my parents were now homeowners. The new home was also in Rahway. A single-family house on a corner lot, directly across the street from a park with a playground; it was perfect. We moved in the summer before I entered fifth grade. It was a time of new beginnings and many new friends, some of whom turned out to be life-long.

One of the benefits for my mother, who loved throwing parties, was that she could now entertain in a much more lavish way than she had been able to before. More space inside, a large yard out back for cookouts, and extra bedrooms for sleeping over; eventually, she even had the basement and attic finished. And sure enough, those spare rooms got used. We always seemed to have people visiting, including relatives and friends of my parents that they had grown up with. I loved sitting around eavesdropping on their grown-up conversations. Hearing them talk about their lives, especially what they were like when they were younger, fascinated me. And quite often I picked up some juicy bits of gossip about various branches of the family tree too. There was always laughter and good times at our house whenever we had company.