You Don't Know Crazy
My Life Before, During, After, Above and Beyond Mental Illness
Wambui Bahati
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2009 by Wambui Bahati
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***
All content in this book is commentary or opinion. This book is not a book that gives, or attempts to give medical advice. THIS BOOK IS NOT DESIGNED TO, AND DOES NOT PROVIDE MEDICAL ADVICE. The information in this book is provided for educational, motivational and inspirational purposes only. It is not intended as a substitute for professional advice of any kind.
Dedication
To my mother and father
Eva Athenia Davis Washington
and
John Louis Washington
Acknowledgments
I am grateful for everyone who helped make this book a reality. I thank all of you who believed in me when I couldn't, or (I suppose I should say) wouldn't believe in myself. I thank my spiritually beautiful daughters, Marie and Julie Blondina, for raising me to be the fine person that I am today. I thank them for their unwavering love, immeasurable support for this book and all of my projects, and their brilliant sense of humor.
I thank my mother and father, to whom this book is dedicated. I thank my sister Roberta, my brothers Joel and Justin, my aunt Thelma and my favorite ex-husband, Tony Blondina. I cannot tell my story without also telling part of their stories.
I thank my friend Kerry Nesbit for insightful feedback and countless hours of tedious editing of the original draft. I thank Bill and Grace Liberman, who provided a watchful eye and loving care for my children when I was not around to do so. I appreciate all of the kindness and support they have shown me and for letting me know they were there to help me in any way they could. I thank Cathie Holcombe for the endless support she has given me and my family and for not giving up on me when I gave her good cause to do so. I thank Tom Murray for not only being an extraordinary son-in-law, but for his kind, generous and immeasurable help and support for this book.
I thank Elaine Purple, Beth Melcher and The National Alliance on Mental Illness (Guilford County and North Carolina) for believing in the power of my story. I thank the numerous mental health associations, affiliates, clubhouses, treatment centers, conferences and conventions that not only showered me with love and hospitality; but also allowed me to share my story and encouraged me to get it on paper. I thank all my friends, acquaintances and others who never walked away or hung up the phone as I continuously (for nearly 10 years) talked about "the book . . . the book . . . the book."
A big shout out to Frances McNair, Deborah Shanks, The Greensboro Playwrights Forum, the Greensboro Dudley High School Class of ‘68, Mary Annecelli, Dr. Ridgely Abdul Mu'min, Eric Krebs, Jim Janek, Luis Montero, Tom Mallow, Sandra Carlson, Beverly Wideman, Lucy and Carroll Teeter, Vanessa Brown and Brenda and Hillary (from DC), Nancy, Janice Wise and dear Janet Werner.
Girl, You Better Straighten Yo' Hair
PART TWO - Lessons I Learned Along the Way
Establish a Spiritual Relationship
Stop Trying To Please Everybody
Explore Pure Essential Oils and Aromatherapy
Build a Friendly Relationship with Money
Prologue
The following is a letter I received from a Social Security Administrative Law Judge in February 1995.
ISSUES
The issues in this case are whether the claimant is under a disability as defined by the Social Security Act and if so, when her disability commenced, the duration of the disability, and whether the insured status requirements of the Act are met for the purpose of entitlement to a period of disability and disability insurance benefits.
EVALUATION OF THE EVIDENCE
After a thorough evaluation of the entire record, it is concluded that the claimant has been disabled since July 12, 1991, and met the insured status requirements of the Social Security Act on that date and thereafter, through the date of this decision.
The claimant has a bipolar disorder and a personality disorder, which are considered to be "severe" under the Social Security Regulations.
The medical evidence of record reveals that the claimant has a diagnosed impairment due to a bipolar disorder, with a history of episodic periods manifested by the full symptomatic picture of both manic and depressive syndromes.
She also has a diagnosed impairment due to a personality disorder, characterized by inflexible and maladaptive personality traits which cause significant impairment in social and occupational functioning. This impairment is evidenced by intense and unstable interpersonal relationships and impulsive and damaging behavior.
The claimant has a long history of psychiatric hospitalizations and long term outpatient psychiatric treatment with counseling and medication. In spite of this treatment, the claimant continues to experience regular relapses.
Most recently, she was hospitalized for diagnoses of Bipolar Disorder II, Depression, and Personality Disorder. (Ex. 40) xxx xxxxx, M.D., performed a D.D.S. psychiatric evaluation on December 30, 1994, and diagnosed the claimant as having Bipolar cyclic (disorder) with a history of psychosis and a Borderline Personality Disorder. (Ex. 42)
Dr. xxxxx completed a Medical Assessment of Ability to Do Work-Related Activities (Mental) form, on which he indicated that the claimant had from very good to no ability to make occupational, performance, and personal-occupational adjustments, depending on illness and decompensation.
He noted that the claimant experienced frequent decompensation with at least 9 long term psychiatric admissions.
The claimant is disabled within the meaning of the Social Security Act and Regulations because she meets Listing 12.04.
* * *
I, the claimant, was successfully branded disabled and awarded disability insurance. Isn't that a strange term—awarded. It didn't feel like an award to me. I was compensated, drugged, and institutionalized and my life revolved around mental hospitals, therapy, court hearings, and the social security office. And I hated everything about all of it.
Introduction
It is estimated that more than 54 million Americans are diagnosed with a mental disorder in any given year. Of this number, more than two million are diagnosed with bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness. I am familiar with this so-called disease. In 1993, at the age of 43, I received a medical diagnosis that officially placed me among the two million with bipolar disorder.
I know there are many who cannot speak openly about their mental health issues. Our society accepts many things these days—but mental illness still carries a stigma. I was able to speak openly because I didn't have a job, so I couldn't be fired. I didn't own any property where the neighbors could ostracize me. No one in my family was running for public office. I was sure that I had already been to hell and back, so I had nothing to lose by speaking about my experience with mental illness.
Wow! When I think of my life, as it was 15 or 20 years ago—when I think of the years when I was experiencing mental illness and how I was living and thinking then, it's as if I'm thinking of someone else. I'm no longer that same person. Who was that person?
* * *
If you are reading this book because you saw one of my performances, I thank you for coming to see me. It is an honor for me to tell my story—live and in person. Performing is one of my greatest joys. The desire to perform put me on the path to recovery. I remembered something that I loved to do and I found a way to do it.
As I travel around the United States telling my story, as I speak to mental health care consumers, their families and others, I am repeatedly asked two questions: 1) "What are some of the details of your story you're not telling because of time constraints?" and 2) "What did you do to turn your life around?" This book addresses both of these questions.
Because we are all different, not all of my answers may work for you or your loved ones. However, I can assure you that just looking for answers and taking control of your situation will change your life. I hope that I will, at the very least, persuade you to take charge and assume responsibility for your own life.
When I was at my lowest, I challenged myself to look at my lifestyle, mental attitude, and my will to live a good life. I'm here today in front of you in the words on this page to tell you that lifestyle changes restored my health.
I know that the specific steps I took may not be the specific steps you should take, but I am sure that positive, healthy lifestyle changes will help you (or anyone for that matter). Even if you still need traditional treatments, you will be far better off for asking questions, examining options, investigating alternative and natural therapies and taking control of your health.
I know there are people born with certain developmental issues and others who may have suffered a physical trauma that may not allow them to take full charge of their lives at this time. However, if you can read the words in this book and understand them, then I believe you can recover and heal your life—mind, body, soul and spirit. You have the power to ‘rise above' (I did not say cure) any mental, physical or emotional challenges you have and have a joyful, peaceful and healthy life.
* * *
I know there may be some who are reading this and thinking I hope she doesn't start with that ‘love yourself, you have the power, you are magnificent, be grateful and get over it' crap. Or you may be thinking, ‘I hope she's not going to tell me how we all create our own reality and that I created my life and everything in it; therefore, I created this life situation and all my life pain that I hate.'
I'm not going to start with any of that stuff. I'm going to start by sharing my story. I'm going to start by telling all of you that I was where some of you may be today. There was a time when I was angry and frustrated, depressed, and financially and spiritually broke. I remember the day I threw a book entitled Faith In The Valley by Iyanla Vanzant across my living room at the wall. I shouted to no one there, "I don't need any positive quotes and inspirational messages! I need some food. I need a decent place to live! I need some money!"
I'm going to share with you how I rewrote the script for my life. Part of it involved tearing out pages filled with drama—that for the longest time I thought was not only important, but also necessary. Sounds funny to get rid of drama in a script. Well, drama is great for the theater, however, in real life, drama is a drain, a drag, and stressful. Drama and being a "Drama Queen" are highly overrated.
I had to fire some of the actors in my life story and rewrite my script so that I was the star. I realized I could have more control over the scenes than I thought possible. I also realized that if I did not become the producer of my own life show, someone else would produce it for me. If I did not take charge of my script, I would continue to re-act instead of act. (No pun intended). I decided I would be the one who would have the final say about my life script. I eventually found out what part a positive quote and an inspirational message can play in rewriting one's life script.
My periods of mental instability were severe. They threatened my happiness, my family, and my life. My life was a disaster. I had doctors diagnosing me with all kinds of things. For a long time, I wasn't even sure I wanted my life. In fact, many times I was sure that I didn't, and I tried to end it.
However, at the last minute, someone would always save me from myself. Once, a doctor told me he didn't know how I could still be alive. He said, "When they brought you into the hospital, there was nothing we could do. I didn't do a thing." He told me to thank God. God was why I was alive.
I'll tell you the whole story later in the book, but I want to skip to the good part right now. I'm ok! And I have been for years. With a lot of work and reading and learning and trial and error, I pulled myself back from the brink. I am living proof that you can dig yourself out of an emotional hole and come back out into the light. It was sometimes challenging work, but it was worth it and I'm going to tell you how I did it, why I did it, and why it was worth it.
* * *
You might be wondering why I'm qualified to write a book about mental health issues. I will admit that I have been timid about sharing my story and discussing mental health because I'm not a doctor. However, as I have been reminded so often, I am a former patient. I know what it's like to be shackled and put in a sheriff's van and driven to a state mental hospital when I was not violent and my only crime was depression.
I know what it feels like when your own doctor and other caretakers will not even look at you when they speak to you, and how they can have a conversation about you while you are in the room as if you are not even there. Or, worse yet, assume that somehow my identity has merged with theirs. "How are we doing today?" "Did we sleep okay?" "Do you think we're about ready to go home?"
I know what it's like to hear mental health hospital staff say to each other—loud enough for patients to hear, "Why do they call 911 when they feel like killing themselves? Why don't they just die? Why do they call 911 and come here and get on our nerves?" I know what it's like to witness horrific scenes in a mental hospital and keep quiet because to tell someone would mean I would first have to admit that I was a mental patient and then of course it would be my word, a person with mental illness, against a normal hospital worker's word.
I know what it feels like to be admitted into a hospital, shown to my room and told to unpack only to have someone from hospital administration say, "You're going to have to leave. We just checked, and your insurance is not accepted at this hospital."
I know what it's like to have to take four medications for behavioral and emotional problems, and eight medications to control the emotional and physical side effects caused by the first four medications. I know what it feels like to take a whole bottle of antidepressants with a bottle of scotch on a sunny day in October and wake up in the psychiatric ward of DC General Hospital. I know what it feels like to not eat or sleep for five days in a row. I also know what it's like to sleep for five days straight.
I know what it feels like to cry uncontrollably for no visible reason. I know what it's like to keep telling my story over and over and over again to a new therapist because the staff at my outpatient clinic keeps changing. I know what it feels like to make a key chain during in-patient arts and crafts and feel so proud because I cut out the flower and glued it to a block of wood all by myself.
I remember that day. I was in a state hospital in North Carolina. These two young college women had come in to have art therapy with us. I assumed they had come because of some college requirement. I had never seen them before.
I liked them because they were friendly, their voices were soothing and they looked at us and listened to what we had to say as if it really mattered. One of them asked, "Is anyone interested in making a key chain?" I was like a five year old.
"I would like to make a key chain."
I sat down at a table that was covered with colorful pages from magazines, a few bottles of Elmer's glue and a few pairs of tiny round-tipped scissors like the children use in kindergarten. I found a page with a pink flower that intrigued me. When I was on a lot of medication, it was sometimes hard to keep my hands from shaking. So, this was going to be a bit of a challenge.
I slowly and carefully cut around the petals of that flower. I felt hypnotized by the flower and edging the scissors around ever so gently so as not to snip a petal too closely. I barely allowed myself to breathe. I wanted it to be perfect.
"Very nice." One of the college students said when she saw my flower all cut out. "Would you like to glue it to this piece of wood now?"
I was ready for that task too. I concentrated. The idea was to use just the right amount of glue. Too much and the whole thing would look tacky and be ruined. I held my breath. Positioning the flower just right was very important. I had to work quickly. I didn't want the glue to dry before I had it in just the right position.
When I was finished gluing, one of the students put a tiny chain through the hole in the wood and fastened it. She held it up so that the others could see. "What about this one? This is also a very beautiful key chain." If I were ever to win an Academy Award, I cannot imagine feeling any prouder.
I lived through mental illness and now I tell my story to patients and professionals around the country. I am qualified to talk about mental illness because I lived it. I believe my opinion counts and yours does too.
* * *
I do not take mental health lightly, and in no way do I discount the many honorable mental health professionals out there, or anyone who may be dealing with mental health issues at this time. I just want to expand the conversation to include everyone and to include all parts of us—our whole bodies, our minds, and our spirits.
Each of us has been born with the challenge of remaining balanced and sane in an insane and unbalanced world. We live in a world of wars, hunger, inequitable laws, unenforceable laws, laws written on our behalf that we cannot interpret without paying for a lawyer's help, an artificial calendar and manufactured time, devitalized food, impure water, prejudice, fear and anger. Wow! How does anyone remain sane, whole, happy and disease-free?
I'm not going to focus on the stigma of mental health, or why we don't have better mental health coverage, or whether or not psychiatry is art or science. I know that as I'm writing this book, laws and systems are being put in place to deny us, or block us from having a say in the type of mental health treatments we receive. This makes it even more important for each of us to understand who we are, what we are capable of, and how innately powerful we are.
I want to focus on what we can do for ourselves. I want to focus on our individual talents and strengths and all that we have control over. Remember: do not get caught up in worrying about what is wrong with your life, the system, or the world. Focus on what is right in your life and the one thing that you can control—YOURSELF.
* * *
I have wanted to write this book for a long time. At first I wasn't sure if I could do it—that is tell my story—and tell the truth. I know I'm totally exposing myself. This book is an example of being totally honest with you and myself—totally open and vulnerable. I was afraid of what the doctors might say, what the pharmaceutical companies might say, what my ex-husbands might say, what my neighbors might say and what you might say. Well, I grew past that.
Now, here is my story:
PART ONE - My Story
It's a bit like a musical I was in, The Wiz, which is an African American stage version of The Wizard of Oz. Like Dorothy, the lead character, I had to travel a long road and face many challenges before I learned enough to appreciate my life and how to not just survive, but live. And like Dorothy, the greatest lesson I would learn is that I too had the silver slippers (in The Wiz they were silver), the power—the whole time, and did not realize it. I was busy searching for answers everywhere except within me.
Down Home
Life started out good for me. I had a mama, a daddy, two brothers, and a sister. My sister Roberta was the oldest. I made my entrance two years after Roberta. My mother says, before I was born, she thought she could predict whether I was going to be a boy or a girl. She predicted I would be a boy. She also thought I would be her last child. Therefore, she decided to name me after my father. I was to be John Louis Washington, Jr.
After my birth at 7:51 on the morning of January 26th 1950, it was confirmed that I was a girl. However, my mother decided to just go ahead and name me John Washington anyway. She did change my middle name to Ann. My official birth records said, ‘Child's Name: John Ann Washington.'
My brother Joel followed two years after me. My brother Justin arrived five years after Joel. We lived in a small, two-bedroom house in Greensboro, North Carolina. Greensboro is in the northeastern part of the state of North Carolina, close to the Virginia border and a few hours south of Washington, DC.
The year I was born, 1950, the price of a new car was around $1,750 and the average price of a new house was about $14,500. A loaf of bread was 14¢ and milk was 82¢ a gallon. A first class stamp was 3¢ and the minimum wage was 75¢ per hour.
This is also the year the president of the United States, Harry S. Truman, ordered the construction of the hydrogen bomb. Television was still a relatively new invention. A new table model would have cost about $200, which was a lot of money for my family. My family would not own a TV until a few years later. We also did not own a car at this time.
I have only two memories of my life between birth and first grade—and even first grade is sketchy. I remember going with my family to visit one of my father's relatives in South Carolina and singing a song for whomever the woman was we visited.
The other memory is of me at Sunday school. I don't know what happened, but I started to cry and I couldn't stop. I wanted my mama. The Sunday school teacher tried to calm me down and after she realized that was not going to happen, she left the room and came back with my mama.
I wanted my mother to hug me, but instead she took me outside and said she would spank me if I did not stop crying. I managed to stop crying before she found a twig.
During my elementary grades, I have some uncomfortable memories of standing by a picture window in our living room waiting for my mama to come home from her "day work," cleaning up white people's houses. I could see the bus stop from that window. She'd get off the bus with a bag of groceries in one arm and a pocketbook thrown over the other. I was always happy to see her come home.
If you had to sum my mother up in one word, the word would be proud. Yes, she was self-righteous and self-important. This was my mother's answer to surviving life's uncertain journey. I thought my mother was beautiful and when I was young, I wanted to be like her.
I didn't mind my mother doing the cleaning part of her jobs, but I hated that she took care of those white children too. After all, she was my mother and I wanted her to only take care of us—me, my sister Roberta, and my two younger brothers, Joel and Justin.
I don't have many memories of Justin and Joel when we were young children. I do remember having fun with them riding our bikes, skating and playing one-two-three red light. Nevertheless, I was mostly into what was referred to, as ‘girl stuff' like dolls, sewing and making mud pies outside. They were into marbles, cowboys, go-carts and miniature army men.
Roberta amazed me with her ability to focus on a television show, concentrate on an algebra problem, draw, and carry on a funny conversation with me—all at the same time. Roberta and I got good grades in school. However, for her, it came easier.
I never liked having a lot of rules to follow. Therefore, for that reason school was not particularly enjoyable to me. However, knowing there were no options, I decided to make the best of it.
Joel was smart and clever but didn't get the grades in school that Roberta and I got. My mother and his teachers held this against him. He was often punished when he got a low grade in a subject. To this day, I do not understand why people will not accept that we are all different and have different talents. We all process information in different ways. Why are we so eager to fit everyone in the same box?
When Joel was about 10 or 11, he had a newspaper route. On Friday evenings, I would go with him to deliver the papers and help collect the money from the customers. I felt so happy and carefree on those evenings. We laughed a lot at how poor my newspaper throwing skills were. I was proud and happy that he was making money.
Justin was about eight years younger than I was. Most of my memories of him are of a baby. I don't remember who took care of Justin while my mama was working. A few times, I stayed home from school to watch him. In general, I mostly have memories of my brothers always being in trouble with my mother for not doing their homework, breaking something in the house, or being caught in some lie about their homework or breaking something in the house.
Both of my parents worked hard, taught us right from wrong, and did what they could to instill a sense of dignity in us. Although we were not a huggy, kissy family, there was plenty of love in our home.
God and Me
Church was important to my family and me when I was growing up. Next to school, church was my biggest social outlet. People in my community did two main things. They went to work and they went to church. When my friends and I met someone new, it wasn't a question of, "Do you go to church?" The question was, "What church do you go to?"
There was an element of surprise or even disdain for anyone who might answer, "I don't go to church." That was not an acceptable answer. How could anyone not know or believe that Jesus died for their sins?
Many of my school friends also went to my church. By the time I was ten, I liked Sunday school and church. I believed in Jesus. I believed in God. I believed in the church. I believed in religion. I believed in the Bible. I believed in the Bible stories. I believed because I was afraid not to believe.
From my Bible lessons, I understood that God could be angered easily and he was into revenge. I believed God was a powerful spirit that looked like a giant man with a long beard. I assumed he hung out somewhere above the clouds. I was too afraid to ask questions about church because I was afraid God might get angry with me. Therefore, I didn't want to take any chances on upsetting God by asking the wrong questions.
One of the things that puzzled me the most is how, on the one hand, I heard God was loving and forgiving, but on the other hand, if you angered him, he could punish you by sending you to a fiery hell where you would burn for the rest of eternity.
I didn't understand how this powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing being could allow bad things to happen. How could he allow little babies to die? How could he allow somebody's parents to die? How could he allow someone's house to burn down?
Some of my friends told me the only music they were allowed to listen to on Sundays was gospel or religious music, and they were not allowed to dance on Sundays. My mother allowed us to listen to regular radio music and even dance on Sundays if we wanted to. However, I wasn't sure I wanted to have fun on Sunday.
I didn't know if that was one of the things that God liked or not. I was never sure exactly what God's rules were. I knew about the Ten Commandments, but outside of that, different individuals seemed to have their own unwritten rules about what was a sin and what wasn't. I found this confusing and frustrating. Eventually, I just went with the flow. I didn't ask questions about any of this because I didn't want to make God—or other people—upset with me.
People got dressed up to go to my church. For some of us, church was the only reason to buy pretty and fancy clothes. I don't know if it was or not, but I got the impression that for a woman to show up at church without a hat was a sin. At our church, the women wore stunning, colorful hats with veils or lace or flowers or bows or sequins or beads or all of the above.
We would start getting ready for church on the Saturday night before. My father hardly ever went to church with us. I assumed it was because he worked the late shift at the post office. He didn't get off work until midnight and then had to be back again by three in the afternoon. In our house, each of us would decide on what we would wear to church the next day.
My mother would make sure my sister, brothers and I took a bath. She would straighten Roberta's and my hair with the hot comb. On some occasions, she would set our hair with rollers so that we would have curls for church. Usually, for school, we just had braids or a ponytail. I always looked forward to the times when I got to have curly hair.
For a while, Roberta and I wore identical outfits to church. The only difference would be the color and size. Perhaps Roberta's would be baby blue and mine would be pink or vice versa. I liked that. Roberta didn't think it was cool to be dressing exactly like her younger sister. So, that didn't last very long.
The women wore various colored gloves to match their outfits. Before we were teenagers, my sister and I wore white gloves, shiny black patent leather shoes and crinoline slips underneath our dresses. My mother would starch the crinoline slips until they literally stood up by themselves. When we put our dresses over the slips, our dresses would stand out far from our bodies. I felt like a princess.
My favorite holidays were Christmas and Easter and I always looked forward to the programs that the church would have. By the time I was in Junior High School, I even looked forward to participating in them. I loved the Christmas story about Jesus' birth and I used to imagine how Mary and Joseph must have felt when they were turned away from the inn. By the time I was in high school, I was really interested in how the immaculate conception occurred. But, I didn't dare ask.
I don't remember how old I was when I found out Santa Claus was a fantasy. I was really angry with my parents and every other adult who'd led me to believe Santa actually stopped by my house while I was sleeping and delivered my presents—and who thought it was cute that I should sit on some fat, hairy man's lap and tell my deepest desires to him. I never fully trusted adults after that. I figured if they could have every child believing this, they had the ability to make us believe anything they wanted us to—true or not.
I have pleasant memories of church. And although there were many aspects that I didn't understand and even found frightening, I did find comfort in believing that Jesus and God would protect me—if I didn't sin. I was always trying to toe the line—trying to be the good Christian—trying to be a good child of God.
Segregation
Oh there was that one thing—segregation. Segregation interfered with my joy and threatened to end my dreams and diminished my self-esteem. Segregation—and the Jim Crow laws, forced me to ride in the back of the bus and go through the side door of the one movie theater that would let me in, and always reminded me that I was a second-class citizen.
I was about six the day I became fully aware of racial differences. Up until that time, I just accepted everything around me as normal. But on this particular day, I was downtown with my mother. It was summer and awfully hot. I don't remember what store we were in, but I recall the fanciest water fountain I'd ever seen. In fact, I don't think that I even knew it was a water fountain until I saw other people drinking from it.
Most water fountains that I had encountered looked more or less like a toilet. But this one was different. It was taller and shiny. I was on my tip toes and the water was just touching my lips when I felt my mother grab my arm and yank me away from the fountain. She hurt my arm and I was totally confused. What had I done wrong? My mother yelled at me, "Didn't you see the sign?" I thought my mother had lost her mind. What is wrong with her? What is she talking about? Why is she yelling at me?
"You see this sign?" My mother pointed to a sign about a foot above the water cooler. "It says ‘White Only'. This is not for you. If it doesn't say ‘Colored', it's not for you!" I got it. I understood. If it doesn't say Colored, it's not for me. My mother pulled me out of the store. She was much calmer after we left the store. In fact, her whole attitude changed. She bought me a doughnut and we went home and never spoke of that incident again.
Even as a child, I started to understand that my mother had to put on a show in that store. My mother didn't care that I had drank from that water fountain. It would be a few years later before I realized how necessary it was for her to act the part of the ‘outraged Colored mother'. She needed to play that part so that all of the outraged white people looking at me and her would not have to play the part of ‘outraged white people' that day. They could relax knowing that this Colored mother had put her Colored child in her place and they wouldn't have to do it.
My mother was not only an extremely proud woman; she was, at times, a very defiant woman. She didn't take no ‘mess' from any one—especially white people. My mother taught us not to talk back and she kept us in line, but she was quick to put people in their place herself if she felt she was being disrespected.
On one occasion, before my mother started working as a nurse's aide and was still cleaning up different white people's houses, my mother went to work for a new family. My mother says that she was not allowed to use the vacuum cleaner and the lady didn't even have a dust pan. She said the lady would come around every half hour asking, "What have you done today, Eva?"
When it was time to go home, it was customary for the domestic help to sit in the back seat of the car. My mother got in the front seat next to the woman. The woman, all flustered, said, "Now, Eva, you gon' have to get in the back seat." My mother said "No, I don't have to get in the back seat. I'm gon' ride up here with you from now own." And Mama didn't budge from that seat. When the woman dropped my mother off at the bus stop she said, "I'll pick you up at the same time tomorrow morning. We have a lot of work to do." My mother said, "You won't pick me up because I won't be here."
"When will I see you again Eva?"
"Never!"
And my mother never went back to that lady. My mother in later years would say, "Rosa Parks was not the first Colored woman to ever refuse to give up her seat. It just happened that it made the news that day when she did it."
My mother eventually had two favorite families that she liked working for. They were the Gerald family and Dr. Lusk and his family. Both of these families had children. Sometimes I feel like these white children are my brothers and sisters. They just lived in a bigger, fancier house and had more money. But didn't we share the same mother?
They ate food that my mother cooked for them just like she cooked it for us. She wiped their noses and she wiped ours. She would bring home books that they had read and didn't want anymore and we would read them. So, we read the same things and even wore some of the same clothes sometimes. They were the white brothers and sisters I never knew whose lives were influenced in some part by my mother.
I knew that racially, things were not fair. I didn't understand why we were considered not as good as—or not as worthy as white people. I learned that there were people who hated me, hated my mother, and hated my father and friends just because we had brown skin.
They didn't want us in their schools and playgrounds and didn't want to sit next to us in the movies. There were those who treated us with less respect than they would treat a stray dog. I couldn't think about it. I filed these feelings and these thoughts away somewhere. I don't know where. I didn't care at the time. I just couldn't think about these things and get up in the morning and go to school and have fun.
I suppose the most painful time was when I would watch white children play on a certain swing set or some other interesting piece of play equipment in a park. It looked like they were having fun and I wanted to try it too. But I knew I was not allowed to play on it or go in that playground. I tried not to think about the situation. To do so would be too painful and I felt there wasn't anything we could do about it. It was the way things were and I—we all just lived with it.
Daddy
Daddy. Ah! My daddy was a genius. At least I thought he was. He was so smart about everything. He read a lot. In fact, after his death, I found out his book collection contained many of the books that I discovered during my journey to reclaim my life. Many of the books we found in his room were timeless self-help and spiritually enlightening books. He was also a writer.
Justin saved several published books that had my daddy's poems and song lyrics in them. He was quite the romantic. Here are two poems I found in a book published in 1945 entitled Songwriters and Poets of America:
WHEN THE BELLS OF FREEDOM RING
Oh! How glad we will be
When the world is all free
And our boys return home
Never again to roam.
When the bells of freedom ring
Our boys will come marching home
Never again to roam;
When the bells of freedom ring
Empty arms will then fill
And lonely hearts will thrill;
Joyful songs we will sing–
When, the bells of freedom ring!
UNDER A SKY OF BLUE
When the gray skies turn to blue
And I'm cuddling close to you,
Sharing love without measure–
That is my greatest pleasure;
Under a sky of blue,
Just you and I;
Under a sky of blue,
With love that'll never die.
This is really sublime–
Although I haven't a dime.
Under a sky of blue,
We are riding high.
If this isn't romance,
Then I haven't a chance.
But I'm well pleased,
Lying here in the breeze–
Under a sky of blue
With lovely you.
My father's bio in the back of the book reads:
John L. Washington is serving with the U.S. Army. He has been writing for four years and has had his work published in another national poetry anthology. He is the author of one published song and has lyrics for 20 others ready for the consideration of music publishers. Address: Co, I 368 inf., APO 93, San Francisco, California.
When I was about 11 or 12, I remember seeing a 78 rpm record down in our basement with my father's name on the label right beside where it said "lyrics by." As I sit here writing this, my eyes fill with tears because I miss my father so. And because I now realize how much I am like my father. He used to spend hours in his room playing with the latest technical gadgets. I do that same thing today. In the 70s, my daddy owned one of the first Radio Shack personal computers when hardly anyone knew what a personal computer was.
There weren't a lot of computer programs back then. My father created a program that would create and print mailing lists. The ability to print mailing lists in your own home was unheard of at that time. Some of the neighbors would ask him to print their Christmas card lists. If he were still alive, he would be as fascinated as I am with the advances that have been made in computer and digital technology. I would love to show him the new iPhone.
My father could fix anything electrical. People would drop off their old broken radios and televisions at our house and my father would fix them up just like new. He studied engineering for a short while at the Greensboro‘s North Carolina Agricultural and Technical College, which is now known as A&T State University. However, he had to leave school for financial reasons after I was born. He always talked about having his own business. My mother wanted him to have a good job with benefits, save his money, and support his family—and pay his bills on time.
I wish I'd known him better. My father had an enormous sense of humor and could be very funny. I don't know where he came up with some of the jokes he used to tell. He could do 10 minutes of funny stories just about things on the Camels cigarette pack.
Yes, my father was a Camels man. No filters for him. I hardly ever recall seeing my father without a cigarette in his hand. While he was a man who could tell us funny stories and make everybody fall on the floor laughing, there were moments when he was extremely sad. He didn't talk much at those times.
As a child, I knew he had pain—emotional pain. But as a child, I did not understand emotional pain. So, I did not understand why he needed to drink alcohol. I didn't understand why he needed to drink so much alcohol that he could sometimes miss paying the light bill or other bills—or all the bills. I didn't understand that then.
I didn't understand then, and even now I can't fully appreciate how it must have felt to be a black man in the segregated South. How must it have felt to be an intelligent, hard-working man who served his country in the Army but who, like the rest of us, could not walk through the front door or use the bathroom in most establishments?
I can't imagine how it must feel, when you're struggling to make ends meet, to have your wife go to work for wealthy white people and hear her talking about the new car or the new washing machine that the man she works for bought for his family. Or, to hear your wife say, "I'm going to have to work late tonight because the family I work for is having a really fancy dinner party." And know that your children are excited about this because it means she'll bring home whatever fancy food is left over.
My happiest memories with my father are listening to Louis Prima and Pearl Bailey albums and watching The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday evenings. It was a big event when we knew somebody ‘Colored' was going to be on television. I remember receiving a Sunday night phone call and before the person on the other end would even say their name, they'd say, "There's some Colored people on TV."
I never mourned my father's death. At the time of his death he was in such pain. He died from lung cancer and complications of alcoholism. At the time of his death I was struggling with my own emotional and financial pain. I'm grateful that my two daughters got to meet him and know him as well as they could, and vice versa. When we found out he was terminally ill, I was in my late 30s, and by then had dealt with my own emotional pain long enough to realize that all these years my father had medicated himself with alcohol to relieve his emotional pain.
My father's friends and our neighbors used to call him "say-nothing-Wash" because, in general, he was very quiet and a loner. He would speak to you if you spoke to him and he was friendly. However, he didn't talk much and seemed uncomfortable around people unless he'd been drinking or wanted to impress one of us kids with one of his standup comedy routines.
One day, when I was in the fifth grade, after we came home from school, my sister had to call my mama at work, who called the doctor, who called the police. Two policemen came to our house and stood outside my father's bedroom door. It seems my sister had heard what sounded like a gun shot, and she couldn't get my father to open the door.
The policemen said they wouldn't hurt him and they didn't. One policeman said to him, "Mr. Washington, just give us the gun." Eventually, my father opened the door and gave the officer the gun. I saw the officer give my daddy some money. And, that was the end of that. Eventually, my father patched up the bullet hole. We never spoke of the incident again until I added a short scene about it in my show Balancing Act - The Musical.
When my father died, on February 17, 1989, I was actually happy that he was no longer in pain. The U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs (V.A.) issued my father/our family a burial flag on the occasion of his death in commemoration of his service to his country. Yet, at the time of his death, my father was still not a free man in his own country. And, when my father died, I wished that I could go with him because I wanted to alleviate my pain too. I was 39 at the time of his death and was constantly in and out of psychiatric hospitals.
Summer Time
Despite my father's drinking and segregation, my childhood was, for the most part, fun and good.
We didn't have any cousins or extended family in Greensboro. I looked forward to taking trips to Goldsboro where my mother was born. We would stay with my grandparents and my Aunt Thelma and visit a never-ending list of other relatives and family friends.
Grandma Beady's parents had been born slaves. By the time she was born, slavery had ended and her parents were sharecroppers or tenant farmers who gave a part of each crop back as rent. Beady married Walter Davis. Beady and Walter had two daughters. Their first born was named Thelma and the second and last child was named Eva. Eva is my mother. Grandma Beady was tall and rail-thin. She had high cheekbones, smooth skin and was gorgeous.
One of my most special memories was watching Grandma Beady, Aunt Thelma and my mother getting dressed for church. They were dignified, strong, beautiful, stubborn, and incredibly stylish. They made their own clothes, styled their own hair and wore red lipstick. To this day, I buy and wear only red lipstick. To me lipstick is not lipstick if it's not red.
They smelled good too. They would gently spray me and my sister Roberta with cologne before leaving for church. For the longest time, I thought the name for perfume and cologne was "to a wild rose." It turns out that was just the name of the Avon cologne that my mother always bought. Before church or any other special occasion she would ask, "Do you want a little ‘to a wild rose'?" So, I thought anything that sprayed and smelled good was called "to a wild rose."
Me and my next door neighbor in Greensboro, Deborah, would sometimes play a game where we would put powdered Nestle Chocolate down in our gums and pretend we were dipping snuff like my grandma Beady and Aunt Thelma did. Snuff was a powdered tobacco that was held in the mouth, usually in the lower lip, rather than smoked. The person would have to spit at intervals in order not to swallow the tobacco. I don't remember Beady smiling a lot. She could be moody and was often angry with my grandfather. To this day I don't know why she was so angry with him.
My grandfather was round compared to my grandmother. He had jet black skin. He was extremely intelligent about world politics and mechanical things. I don't know how he knew what he knew. He would come home from his job covered with thick black grease. I think he fixed tractors and other heavy-duty machines. When he walked through the back door, I remember grandma Beady angrily saying to him, "Don't sit down on my furniture until you change your clothes and don't touch anything." He was quiet, but once you got him talking he could talk on and on. He seemed to know everybody and their "kin folks" for miles around.
We all loved going to our grandma's. She didn't give us a lot of chores to do. In the evenings, she would give my Aunt Thelma money and tell her to take us to Williams Street to Wayne Dairy to get ice cream. My favorite was butter pecan. On about our second day there, she'd give Aunt Thelma money to take us downtown to Kresses dime store or Woolworth's to get us a toy of our choice so we would have something to entertain ourselves with during our stay.
I would usually choose a ric rac—the paddle with the ball attached by a long elastic or a set of ball and jacks. A slick linoleum covered the long hallway that literally went straight from the front door to the back door of the house. The linoleum was great for throwing and picking up jacks because it was so smooth. We'd also get a shopping trip to a fabric store. Roberta and I would get to pick out a few pieces of fabric to take home for my Aunt Thelma to make us shorts and play clothes for the summer, or dresses for the coming school year or church.
My Grandma Beady fed us. I can taste the fresh corn on the cob and black-eyed peas and chicken fried up in lard. When she wanted a chicken for dinner, she would just walk right out into her back yard and chose one of the many that were there. She would wring that chicken's neck like it was a rag doll. Then she'd put it in a big pot of hot water and pick the feathers off. I didn't like eating those chickens. I wanted store bought chicken. She had a huge garden with all kinds of vegetables and a pecan tree.
Just as it got dark, we'd go out to catch lightening bugs. Sometimes we'd use our bare hands and then other times we'd catch them with a jar and a lid. My brother Joel would put holes in his jar lids so, according to him, the lighting bugs could breathe and stay alive longer.
In the living room was Grandma's rocker chair. It sat across the room from the TV. The TV was on a low table underneath the front window. This allowed her to have the best of both worlds. She could watch the news and her soap operas and never miss anything that was happening on Greenleaf Street.
When Grandma was not in the living room, my sister, brothers and I had a lot of fun sitting, relaxing and climbing all over that chair. However, the minute we heard her coming we would immediately move to another seat. That was Grandma's chair and we never forgot that. She kept bags of candy underneath that chair. We also knew not to touch that candy. I'm sure we found that out the hard way. I'm sure one of us thought it would be a good idea to help ourselves to that candy at some time or another. And, I'm sure she let us know in no uncertain terms that it wasn't a good idea.
In the evenings, she'd take out a cigar box with her comb and hair rollers from underneath that same chair. She'd carefully part her soft graying hair into small sections and wind each section on a small hair roller. Her fingers worked like magic. She didn't even need a mirror. We'd all sit looking at her anticipating the question we loved to hear. She'd finish her hair and put the cigar box back underneath the chair; she'd pull out a bag of candy and ask, "Do y'all want some candy?" Yes we wanted some candy!
My grandma had the most luxuriously soft bed. She made the bedspread and quilts by hand. The bedspread was white and fluffy. I liked looking at the quilts that she and my aunt made. I'd make a game of picking out the fabric patches that were the same as my clothes made from the same fabric. I would melt in that bed. Sleep came so easily there. However, like her chair, I was reminded that it was not my bed and would quickly be transported to the room where me and my sister and brothers slept.
My grandparents and Aunt Thelma had a dog named Spot. I never cared much for Spot. I would never have hurt him or anything. I just was not interested in Spot—or any dog for that matter. So, I kept out of his way and he kept out of mine. Interestingly enough, to this very day, some fifty years later, I feel the exact same way about dogs. Keep them out of my way and I'll stay out of theirs.
My Grandma's house was right across the street from Scott's Barbecue. The barbecue was so-o-o good. Almost as good as Beady's homemade pork crackling. It wasn't until I was an adult that I found out Scott's Barbecue had tables inside and that Mr. Scott was a black man. We always got our barbecue from the small takeout window outside of the store because black people where not allowed to eat inside.
As summer would come to an end, either my grandfather would drive us, or we would take the train back to Greensboro. I also have happy memories of the last hot days before fall arrived in Greensboro, ice cream trucks, and chilidogs at the local Woolworth's. Though it was a shame we couldn't sit and eat our chilidogs like white people did. The Woolworth's lunch counter was a "whites" only counter.