One Crazy Summer
by Rita Williams-Garcia
For the late Churne Lloyd,
and especially for
Maryhana, Kamau, Ife, and Oni
Good thing the plane had seat belts and we’d been strapped in tight before takeoff. Without them, that last jolt would have been enough to throw Vonetta into orbit and Fern across the aisle. Still, I anchored myself and my sisters best as I could to brace us for whatever came next. Those clouds weren’t through with us yet and dealt another Cassius Clay–left–and–a–right jab to the body of our Boeing 727.
Vonetta shrieked, then stuck her thumb in her mouth. Fern bit down on Miss Patty Cake’s pink plastic arm. I kept my whimper to myself. It was bad enough my insides squeezed in and stretched out like a monkey grinder’s accordion—no need to let anyone know how frightened I was.
I took a breath so, when my mouth finally opened, I’d sound like myself and not like some scared rabbit. “It’s just the clouds bumping,” I told my sisters. “Like they bumped over Detroit and Chicago and Denver.”
Vonetta pulled her thumb out of her mouth and put her head in her lap. Fern held on to Miss Patty Cake. They listened to me.
“We push our way up in the clouds; the clouds get mad and push back. Like you and Fern fighting over red and gold crayons.” I didn’t know about clouds fighting and pushing for a fact, but I had to tell my sisters something. As long as Vonetta kept her fear to one shriek and Fern kept hers to biting Miss Patty Cake, I kept on spinning straw, making everything all right. That’s mainly what I do. Keep Vonetta and Fern in line. The last thing Pa and Big Ma wanted to hear was how we made a grand Negro spectacle of ourselves thirty thousand feet up in the air around all these white people.
“You know how Papa is,” I told them. “No way he’d put us on a plane if it were dangerous.”
They halfway believed me. Just as I had that soft plastic arm out of Fern’s mouth, those Cassius Clay–fighting clouds threw our 727 another jab.
Big Ma—that’s Pa’s mother—still says Cassius Clay. Pa says Muhammad Ali or just Ali. I slide back and forth from Cassius Clay to Muhammad Ali. Whatever picture comes to mind. With Cassius Clay you hear the clash of fists, like
the plane getting jabbed and punched. With Muhammad Ali you see a mighty mountain, greater than Everest, and can’t no one knock down a mountain.
All the way to the airport, Pa had tried to act like he was dropping off three sacks of wash at the Laundromat. I’d seen through Pa. He’s no Vonetta, putting on performances. He has only one or two faces, nothing hidden, nothing exaggerated. Even though it had been his idea that we fly out to Oakland to see Cecile, Pa’d never once said how exciting our trip would be. He just said that seeing Cecile was something whose time had come. That it had to be done. Just because he decided it was time for us to see her didn’t mean he wanted us to go.
My sisters and I had stayed up practically all night California dreaming about what seemed like the other side of the world. We saw ourselves riding wild waves on surfboards, picking oranges and apples off fruit trees, filling our autograph books with signatures from movie stars we’d see in soda shops. Even better, we saw ourselves going to Disneyland.
We had watched airplanes lift up and fly off into blue sky as we neared the airport. Every time another airliner flew overhead, leaving a trail of white and gray smoke, Big Ma fanned herself and asked, “Jesus, why?”
Big Ma had kept quiet long enough. Once inside the terminal, she let it all hang out. She told Pa, “I don’t mind saying it, but this isn’t right. Coming out to Idlewild and
putting these girls on a plane so Cecile can see what she left behind. If she wants to see, let her get on an airplane and fly out to New York.”
Big Ma doesn’t care if President Kennedy’s face is on the half-dollar or if the airport is now officially named after him. She calls the airport by its old name, Idlewild. Don’t get me wrong. Big Ma was as mad and sad as anyone when they killed the president. It’s change she has no pity on. However things are stamped in Big Ma’s mind is how they will be, now and forever. Idlewild will never be JFK. Cassius Clay will never be Muhammad Ali. Cecile will never be anything other than Cecile.
I can’t say I blamed Big Ma for feeling the way she did. I certainly didn’t forgive Cecile.
When Cecile left, Fern wasn’t on the bottle. Vonetta could walk but wanted to be picked up. I was four going on five. Pa wasn’t sick, but he wasn’t doing well, either. That was when Big Ma came up from Alabama to see about us.
Even though Big Ma read her Scripture daily, she hadn’t considered forgiveness where Cecile was concerned. Cecile wasn’t what the Bible meant when it spoke of love and forgiveness. Only judgment, and believe me, Big Ma had plenty of judgment for Cecile. So even if Cecile showed up on Papa’s welcome mat, Big Ma wouldn’t swing the front door open.
That was why Pa had put us on a plane to Oakland.
Either Cecile wouldn’t come back to Brooklyn or she wasn’t welcome. Honestly, I don’t think Pa could choose between Big Ma and Cecile even after Cecile left him. And us. Even after Cecile proved Big Ma right.
“How can you send them to Oakland? Oakland’s nothing but a boiling pot of trouble cooking. All them riots.”
Pa has a respectful way of ignoring Big Ma. I wanted to smile. He’s good at it.
A shrill voice had announced the departing flight to Oakland. All three of us had butterflies. Our first airplane ride. Way up above Brooklyn. Above New York. Above the world! Although I could at least keep still, Vonetta and Fern stamped their feet like holy rollers at a revival meeting.
Big Ma had grabbed them by the first scruff of fabric she could get ahold of, bent down, and told them to “act right.” There weren’t too many of “us” in the waiting area, and too many of “them” were staring.
I’d taken a quick count out of habit. Vonetta, Fern, and I were the only Negro children. There were two soldier boys in green uniforms who didn’t look any older than Uncle Darnell—high school cap and gown one day, army boots and basic training four days later. Two teenage girls with Afros. Maybe they were college students. And one lady dressed like Jackie Kennedy, carrying a small oval suitcase.
Big Ma had also scouted around the waiting room. I
knew she worried that we’d be mistreated in some way and sought out a grown, brown face to look out for us. Big Ma turned her nose up at the college girls with Afros in favor of the Negro lady in the square sunglasses and snappy suit toting the equally snappy oval bag. Big Ma made eye contact with her. When we lined up, she’d told the Negro Jackie Kennedy, “These my grandbabies. You look out for them, y’hear.” The snappy Negro lady had been nice enough to smile but hadn’t returned the look that Big Ma expected—and Big Ma had expected the look Negro people silently pass each other. She’d expected this stranger to say, as if she were a neighbor, “They’re as good as my own. I’ll make sure they don’t misbehave or be an embarrassment to the Negro race.” A blank movie-star smile had been all she passed to Big Ma. That lady had only been looking out for her plane seat.
Papa had already given me a paper with the phone number to our house, which I knew by heart, and the phone number to his job. He had already told me that his job number was for emergencies only and not for “how you doing” chats. Last night he had also given me an envelope with two hundred dollars in ten-and twenty-dollar bills to put in my suitcase. Instead, I’d folded the bills and stuffed them in my tennis shoe before we left Herkimer Street. Walking on that mound of money felt weird at first, but at least I knew the money was safe.
Papa had kissed Vonetta and Fern and told me to look
after my sisters. Even though looking after them would have been nothing new, I kissed him and said, “I will, Papa.”
When the line to the ticket taker had begun to move, Big Ma had gotten teary and mushed us up in her loose-fitting, violet and green muumuu dress. “Better come on and get some loving now…” She hadn’t had to finish the rest about how this might be the last time in a long while for kissing and hugging. A flash of memory told me Cecile wasn’t one for kissing and hugging.
I had a lot of those memories clicking before me like projector slides in the dark. Lots of pictures, smells, and sounds flashing in and out. Mostly about Cecile, all going way, way back. And what I didn’t remember clearly, Uncle Darnell always filled in. At least Uncle Darnell remembers Cecile kindly.
I glanced at my Timex. Among the three of us, I was the only one responsible enough to keep and wear a wristwatch. Vonetta let a girl “see hers” and never got it back. Fern was still learning to tell time, so I kept hers in my drawer until she was ready to wear it.
Six and a half hours had passed since we’d hugged Big Ma and kissed Pa at John F. Kennedy Airport. The clouds had made peace with our Boeing 727. It was safe to breathe. I stretched as far as my legs could go.
With these long legs I’m taken for twelve or thirteen, even a little older. No one ever guesses eleven going on twelve on their first try. More than my long legs, I’m sure it’s my plain face that throws them off. Not plain as in
homely plain, but
even
plain. Steady. I’m not nine or seven and given to squealing or oohing like Vonetta and Fern. I just let my plain face and plain words speak for me. That way, no one ever says, “Huh?” to me. They know exactly what I mean.
We were long gone from thick, white clouds, the plane steadily climbing down. The intercom crackled, and the pilot made an announcement about the descent and altitude and that we would be landing in ten minutes. I let all of that pass by until he said, “…and to your left as we circle the bay is the Golden Gate Bridge.”
I was now a liar! A stone-faced liar. I wanted to squeal and ooh like a seven-year-old meeting Tinker Bell. I had read about the Golden Gate Bridge in class. The California gold rush. The Chinese immigrants building the railroads connecting east to west. It wasn’t every day you saw a live picture of what you read about in your textbook. I wanted to look down from above the world and see the Golden Gate Bridge.
Being stuck in the middle seat, I was mad at myself. Of the three of us, I was the first to board the 727. Why hadn’t I taken the window seat when I’d had my chance?
Instead of the squeal I knew wouldn’t come out of me in the first place, I sighed. No use crying about it now. The truth was, one pout from either Vonetta or Fern and I would have given up the window seat.
This was the only way it could be: Vonetta and Fern on
either side and me in between them. Six and a half hours was too long a time to have Vonetta and Fern strapped side by side picking at each other. We would have been the grand Negro spectacle that Big Ma had scolded us against becoming when we were back in Brooklyn.
Still, the Golden Gate Bridge was getting away from me. I figured at least one of us should see it. And that should be the one who read about it in class.
“Look, Vonetta. Look down at the bridge!”
Vonetta stayed tight to her stubborn curl, her chin in her lap. “I’m not looking.”
I turned to my right and got a mouthful of hair and barrettes. Fern had leaned over from her aisle seat. “I wanna see. Make her switch.” To Fern, the Golden Gate Bridge sounded like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She halfway believed in things not true and didn’t know where fairy tales ended. No use spoiling it for her. She’d figure things out soon enough.
Fern was wriggling out of her seat belt and climbing on me to get a glimpse. This was how it was at home. Why should a thousand feet up in the air make any difference? “Sit back, Fern,” I said in my plain, firm voice. “We’re getting ready to land.”
She pouted but sat back down. I tightened her seat belt. Vonetta’s face stayed in her lap. That was just pitiful.
“Go look down, Vonetta,” I said. “Before you miss it.”
Vonetta refused to pry her chin from her lap. She stuck
her thumb back in her mouth and closed her eyes.
I wasn’t worried about Vonetta. Once we got on the ground, she’d be her showy self again and this fraidycat episode would be long faded.
As we continued to circle the bay above the Golden Gate Bridge, I felt like I was being teased for the simple act of wanting. Each time the plane curved around I knew in my heart it would be my last chance and the bridge was singing, “Na-na-na-na-na. You can’t see me.”
Now, I had to see the bridge. How many times would I be this high up and have a sight as spectacular as the Golden Gate Bridge right underneath me? I loosened my seat belt, lifted myself, and leaned over Vonetta’s head and shoulders to get a look out of the oval window. I pressed against Vonetta. Just a little. Not enough to cause a stir. But Vonetta and Fern, who was now angry, both hollered, “Delphine!” as loud as they could.
Heads turned our way. A stewardess rushed to our row. “Sit in your seat, missy,” she scolded me. “We’re getting ready to land.”
Even though there were only eight Negroes on board, counting my sisters and me, I had managed to disgrace the entire Negro race, judging by the head shaking and
tsk-tsk
ing going on around us. I shifted my behind into my seat and tightened my seat belt. But not before I had seen orange steel poking through thick ground clouds below. Smog.
There was no time to savor my victory or feel my shame. The plane went roaring down farther and farther. Vonetta held on to my left arm, and Fern, with Miss Patty Cake, grabbed my right. I dug into the armrests and prayed the pilot had done this before.
The plane bounced off the ground as soon as we hit land. It kept bouncing and surging forward until the bouncing smoothed out and we were rolling against the ground, nice and steady.
I took a deep breath so I’d sound like myself when I started telling Vonetta and Fern what to do. The main thing was we were on the ground. We were in Oakland.