The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir (12 page)

This spirit
of connectedness is something I hadn’t experienced until I moved in with the
Daniels.  When I lived with my mother, I was at the mercy of the world when I
walked out the front door.  Whether I was going to school, walking to Aunt
Katie’s or to the candy store, I was fair game until I made it back to the
safety of my house.  But in the Black community, no such singleness existed.  I
learned very quickly that when I rounded the corner at the end of the block and
Erma Lee could no longer see me, I was still being watched.  Where her eyes
ended, another’s would begin.

The Daniels
lived in a neighborhood where people owned their homes.  Most families had at
least one car, but many had two.  The streets were quiet, the lawns
well-maintained.  Most homes had two parents.  The fathers had good jobs in the
steel mills or with the railroad, and the mothers were stay-at-home moms who
had dinner on the table every evening, and it was these moms, perched in
windows and on screened porches, from which there was no hiding.

It wasn’t
unusual to be questioned while walking down the street, “Your mama know you got
all that make up on your face, lookin’ like a Jezebel?  I’m callin’ her right
now!”   Getting in trouble away from home was one thing, but having the
information make it back to the house was the absolute worst.  I always knew
when “news” had beaten me home because when I rounded the corner, Erma Lee
would be waiting for me on the front porch. 

To
understand the depth of this involvement is to understand the relationships the
people in the community had with each other.  In middle school one afternoon,
my locker jammed and I was late for class.  My math teacher Mr. Trevino walked
up behind me, tapped his watch, and said, “You’re late, Miss Stephan!”  As he
saw me struggling with my locker, I thought his stating the obvious was
incredibly ridiculous… and I told him so in very unsavory language.  Later that
day, I was called to the office and given a suspension notice. 

By the end
of the day, I had been scolded by Miss Gibbs, who lived next door, Erma Lee’s
cousin RL and his wife Irene, who lived across the street, and the pastor’s
wife Mother Taliefero, who demanded, “I want to see you in tarrying service
[5]
because obviously you done backslid.”  Because Erma Lee had spread the word
amongst the church congregants, they’d begun calling, in succession, to ask,
“How in the world did you fix your mouth to say such a thing?”  And to remind
me that, “Christian girls don’t use such ungodly language.” 

The rebuke
wasn’t limited to my family, church, and neighborhood.  At a routine doctor
visit, Dr. Manley walked in the exam room, glared at me over the rim of his
glasses and said, “I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard it!”  I kept quiet
because I knew from experience that Dr. Manley would take my words and mangle
them like scrap metal. 

This was the
same Dr. Manley that required me to bring each of my report cards for his
review, and he would examine them as if he were examining a patient, “Uh huh…
uh huh…” and when he’d get to a grade that wasn’t an
A
, he’d let out a
low growl “Hmmmm!  How do you expect to be a doctor if you’re getting
D
s
in math?” 

“I never
said I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Oh, so
you’re dropping out of college before you even start?”

“That’s not
what I said.”

“That’s what
you meant.”

“No, it’s
not.”

“So now
you’re calling me a liar?”

There was no
winning with Dr. Manley, so when he started in about the incident with Mr.
Trevino, I just sat quietly.  “Is that what you do, go around cursing out the
teachers?”

“No, Sir.”

He
tag-teamed himself as he examined me.  “deep breath...  what college will want
you with that on your record…  breathe out…  are you going to curse the poor
college teachers too… swallow… are you going to jump on me, do I  need a
restraining order… lift your chin!” 

Although I
wanted to explain the situation to Dr. Manley, I didn’t bother because I knew
it would’ve ended badly and then Erma Lee would’ve been waiting for me on the
front porch. 

This was the
nature of the community.  People looked out for others, and they especially
looked out for the children.  For the Daniels, this commitment was further
strengthened by their faith.  God was the bedrock of their existence.  As such,
and much to my chagrin, we practically lived at the church.

Sunday

9:30—Sunday
School

12 Noon—Morning
Service

4
pm—Afternoon Auxiliary Service

7 pm—Bible
Class

Tuesday      

7 pm—Prayer
& Tarrying Service

Wednesday

12
Noon—Noonday Prayer / Visit Sick & Shut-ins

8
pm—Mid-week Service

Thursday

7 pm—Choir
Rehearsal

Friday

6:30
pm—Sunday School Teachers’ Meeting

8 pm—Bible
Class

Saturday

12
Noon—Church Cleaning (on rotation)

7 pm—Young
People’s Service

We were at
church every day of the week, save Monday.  Paw-paw was the Sunday school
Assistant Superintendent and one of the church deacons.  Erma Lee was a
deaconess, taught Sunday school, sang in the choir, was on the Missionary
Board, and served on the Baptism Committee.  Because they were so involved, we
were at church for all meetings in addition to regular services.

The Daniels
attended a Pentecostal church, and the difference between it and the Church of
the Nazarene that I was accustomed to was like night and day.  It was
impossible to sit through a praise and worship service and not be moved.  There
were no hymnals.  Sometimes, there were no musicians.  But the piano and drums
were no match for spoons and a washboard, and for rhythm nothing beat the sound
of Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shoes on a hardwood floor.  The way they sang, moaned,
and clapped their hands was like nothing I’d seen or heard, but I liked it; I
felt at home in it. 

Then they’d
take turns telling what God had done for them even though what He’d done wasn’t
what most would consider newsworthy.  The simple fact that they’d woken up that
morning and had the ability to open their mouths and say
Thank you
was
enough to bring the house down.  Services were interactive, animated, and
driven by call and response.  As usual, I wondered if my White family knew
anything about this kind of church, but many years later while visiting my Aunt
Jean, I was pleasantly surprised by a story she told me. 

As we
chatted, Aunt Jean got up, disappeared into the back room and returned with a
box.  “I found these, and I think you should have them,” she said.  She handed
me three certificates from the box.  The parchment paper had long since
yellowed, and the pink and yellow floral decorations were faded. “These were
your mother’s,” she said.  “They’re from Vacation Bible School.”  A little
surprised at seeing the name of the church, I asked, “You guys grew up in a
Pentecostal church?”  My aunt, the oldest of the three girls, my mother being
the youngest, laughed and said, “Oh yeah, let me tell you about that.” 

We went
to the Baptist church.  This particular summer, the three of us walked down to
the church for VBS like we did every summer.  When we arrived, your mother kept
walking, and she marched herself right down to the Pentecostal church at the
end of the block.  Betty and I ran back home to tell Mama that Sue had gone
down to the Pentecostal church.  Mama leaned out the door and looked down that
way, and then she gave a dismissive wave and said, “Let her go.”  So from then
on, Betty and I went to the Baptist church, and your mother went to the
Pentecostal church.

“How old was
she?”  I asked.

“Five.” 

Pentecostals
love church.  Although I enjoyed church, once or twice a week would’ve been
plenty.  However, there were some things I enjoyed immensely.  Because Erma Lee
was a deaconess, she was in charge of preparing the Lord’s Supper as well as
the bottles of holy oil that were given to the church members at watch
service.  The oil was prepared at home.

She would
purchase a case of three-ounce glass medicine bottles with screw-on caps from
Steve’s Pharmacy and several large bottles of olive oil.  Before preparation
could begin, the TV was turned off and the phone removed from the cradle. 
Initially, I could only observe, but by the time I was 10 and had been
baptized, I became her official assistant.  We washed our hands and prayed. 
Then we laid the bottles out on a new linen cloth.  Erma Lee would pray over
the large bottles of oil before beginning the process of filling the small
bottles.  Because it was imperative that none of the oil spilled, only
she
filled the bottles; I capped them and placed them back in the case.  If
anything fell on the floor, it was discarded.  There was no idle chatter.  On
many occasions, Erma Lee’s cheeks were wet with tears from start to finish.

Later at the
church, after foot washing and Communion, the small bottles of blessed oil were
given to the members for their personal use.  Although I assisted with the oil,
Erma Lee would not let me assist with any part of the Communion.  But I watched
as she gathered the leftover Elements from the serving trays.  The bread was
placed on paper towels and the wine was poured over it.  The towels were then
rolled into a ball and left to dry in the church kitchen.  The following week,
Erma Lee would burn the Elements and cast any ashes into the wind.  Communion
was administered usually three times a year: New Year’s Eve, Easter, &
Pentecost Sunday.  The oil was distributed only at the New Year’s Eve watch
service.  I still have my original bottle that Erma Lee and I filled. 

Just last
year while visiting Aunt Betty, she said, as we struck out to do some Saturday
morning running around, “It’s my month to set up Communion, so let’s swing by
the church and get it ready for tomorrow.”  So there I was at a small roadside
church in Possum Grape, Arkansas, helping Aunt Betty prepare the Communion
trays.  I wanted to look toward heaven and shout to Erma Lee, “Look at me,
Mama!”

When we
weren’t at church, Erma Lee would often hold mini services at home.  We
children would act as both congregants and participants.  She had an old
reel-to-reel she used to record these services.  She’d pick one of us to give
the opening prayer, another to read a scripture, another to give a testimony
about something wonderful God had done, and another to sing a solo.  She
herself would always sing her favorite song,
Jesus [Build] a Fence All
Around Me Every Day.
 

During one
of these home services, her grandson Snoopy, around three years old at the
time, stood up and sang “Jungle Boogie” by Kool & the Gang.  She let him
sing uninterrupted and afterwards used the song as the basis for her sermon. 
Speaking into the handheld microphone attached to the recorder, she said, “We
thank God for all the wonderful words that have gone forth this e’ening. 
Brother Snoopy blessed us with the song
Get Down, Get Down. 
What does
that tell us, chilluns?  It tells us we must Get Down for Jesus.”

As we grew
older, Erma Lee fell out of the practice of having home services.  But when the
foster children grew up and had children of their own, she resumed it.  I have
a cassette tape of one of these home services dated November 3, 1989, on which
Erma Lee introduces “…my granddaughter who will render for us a solo.”  The
next voice is that of my eight-year-old Nicole singing,
I Might as Well
Think Big
. 

Erma Lee was
devout, and she expected that same devotion from us.  But for all of her
austerity, she was surprisingly tolerant, and she had good cause to be.  She
was a firecracker, short-tempered, and not one for holding her tongue.  She was
tolerant because she herself sought God’s tolerance and forgiveness.

And there
was another side to Erma Lee, much deeper than her feisty character.  She had a
past, but unlike many, she wasn’t ashamed of it.  Actually, it was one of the
first stories she told me about herself when I had asked her why we had to go
to church so much.

“Don’t you
like going to church?”  She asked.

“Not all the
time.”

“Have you
give your life to the Lord?”

I didn’t
even know what that meant. What I knew about God I’d learned at the Church of
the Nazarene where I’d gone with Aunt Katie. 

Every Sunday
when Pastor Walworth would give his sermon, I would sit transfixed, not by
anything he said, but by the two massive and colorful stained-glass windows
behind the pulpit.  The one on the left was of Jesus kneeling before a huge
stone in the Garden of Gethsemane.  The one on the right was of Jesus and a few
lambs, one of which He held close to His bosom.  This was the God I knew.  He’s
the One I talked to, and even though He didn’t talk back, I knew that He
listened and that He
liked
me, but I’d never heard of people giving
their lives to Him.  “You gotta confess the Lord with your mouth, be baptized,
and ask God to fill you with the Holy Ghost,” she said.  I’m sure salvation was
discussed at the Church of the Nazarene, but I have very little, if any,
knowledge of what was said over the pulpit.  I have one prevailing legacy with
the Church of the Nazarene, and it has nothing to do with salvation.