Single Mom

by Omar Tyree

  My mother repeated, “Brock is a good man.”

  She didn’t seem to get it. It wasn’t that simple. Or was it? Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe it was that simple. Brock was a good man who had asked to marry me, so I should accept his proposal and see how long he could be good. Or maybe he couldn’t be good all the time. Then how would I deal with the change? That’s what I was afraid of. Or how would he deal with my change? In either case, I had too many thoughts on my mind to carry on a sane conversation with my mother after two o’clock in the morning.

  I said, “Mom, I’m sorry I bothered you so late at night. I guess I’ll try and go on back to bed now.”

  “If you could, you would have already been asleep,” she said. And she was right, but I didn’t know what else to say to her without sparking an argument.

  “Do you think that women have changed that much from when you were growing up?” I asked her.

  “Yes, they’ve changed. Women are more concerned about what a man can do for them instead of what they can do for a man. When I married your father, I wanted to make a good home.”

  I stopped her and said, “Mom, was it really that simple? Because I can’t see you living just to make a good home for a man.”

  “I guess you don’t need me to answer your question then,” she snapped. “You have your own answers. So what is it that you want? You women sure don’t seem to be getting it. I hear more women complaining now than I ever did when I was a young woman.”

  “That’s because you kept it all bottled up inside of yourself, Mom. I mean, you just told me what you went through with Dad, two months ago.”

  “But I didn’t tell the world and get up here and start fussin’ and fightin’ with him on some talk show!” My mother was raising her voice.

  I just couldn’t do it. I said, “Mom, I’m gonna have to hang up, because women who are on these talk shows have some serious problems that need to be worked out.”

  “You think we didn’t have any problems?” she asked me. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. You ain’t even lived long enough to see it. If you want to hear some stories, I’ll tell you some stories. That’s what’s wrong with so many of these girls now, they think they’re the only ones who go through anything. Then they want to talk about what they do, and how much they make, and how they don’t need nobody. Well, it sure doesn’t sound like they’re happy. Even that Oprah Winfrey couldn’t get that skinny, long-headed man of hers to marry her. And I’ve heard some things about his family too. So who is perfect? Who can throw the first stone? You tell me!” she shouted.

  “We were much stronger than this generation because we understood what was more important—our families. And we wouldn’t throw that away for some whore out there on the street that ain’t got a family to spit on. So don’t tell me what I don’t know, because I know plenty!”

  Cheron woke up and started crying. That was my final cue to hang up the phone. And when I did, I still didn’t get any sleep.

  When I hung up, I said to myself, “They didn’t have AIDS back then, men took care of their responsibility, houses were easier to buy …” and on and on. My mother and I could have argued all night long on the subject, and at the end of the conversation, I still had a broken family, and she still had a dysfunctional family with pain that had extended to the grandchildren.

  I just didn’t know where to turn. I clicked on my light and looked at that three-circled ring again. Boy was it beautiful! I was just concerned about it being forbidden fruit. I didn’t want to rush into anything that I would regret. Maybe it was just my own selfishness, but I had gotten so used to my own space and my own set of responsibilities that I was terrified of having to share. I felt as if I would lose myself and become dependent upon someone else, and I could not afford that, so I resisted long-term arrangements. I knew that I could always count on myself, but I needed to learn how to count on others. I just had to convince myself that it was a reasonable thing to do.

  After thinking over that long weekend, I was more than halfway there to giving Brock an answer to his pressing question. However, when Camellia and I met at Fletcher Elementary School for Black History Month that Monday morning, my answer became solidified.

  I was in the wrong state of mind to lecture any schoolkids, so I planned on letting Camellia take the lead. She was used to leading discussions anyway. She had been hounding me all that weekend to find out what had happened between Brock and me on Friday night. It was as if she could sense that something extra had occurred. But I blew the conversation off until she finally left me alone about it. I wasn’t ready to reveal anything until I had a definite answer.

  The teachers introduced us to several classes of fourth- and fifth-grade girls inside of their auditorium. The first thing I thought was, Where are the boys?

  Fletcher Elementary was a predominantly black school in the heart of the South Side. It wasn’t a school filled with poor kids, because many of the students were middle class. Fletcher was chosen as one of the experimental schools in Chicago where they had magnet programs for accelerated youth. I sat and stared out at the many shades of brown, with ponytails, braids, and cornrows. Some of them looked as confused as I was, while others looked as excited as Camellia. I began to smile. I was thinking that it was funny how life continues on with the same types of personalities over and over again.

  “Class, I would like to introduce our two guests this morning and talk about the continued legacy of strong black women in the African-American community,” the teacher leading the event began. She was a lighter-brown sister with light eyes wearing African garb. I wondered if she dressed like that every day. It wasn’t a judgment call, I was just curious.

  She went on to introduce Camellia and me as two longtime friends and successful single mothers, who had both received college degrees and went on to form the Single Mothers’ Organization to help others in their struggle for moral support, education, family, and economics.

  After our introductions, Camellia began to talk about her job as a social worker for the city government, then I explained what I did as an insurance saleswoman and financial planner. Next, Camellia began to ask some of the girls what they wanted to do, and they were eager to raise their hands.

  “I want to be a lawyer.”

  “I want to be a schoolteacher.”

  “I want to make movies and dance in plays and stuff.”

  “I want to be a basketball player, because I can beat my brother in basketball now. They have a girls’ team that I’m going out for this summer.”

  I smiled at that one. Professional women’s basketball had just started a few years ago, and the idea of professional women’s sports was definitely taking off.

  Camellia asked, “Okay, now do any of you know what you have to do to succeed at what you would like to become?”

  That’s when things really got interesting.

  “Do your homework.”

  “Get all A’s and B’s.”

  “Don’t do drugs.”

  “And don’t have no babies.”

  The entire auditorium began to burst out laughing after that last comment. I hated being judgmental, but the little girl who said it looked like a prime suspect for early pregnancy. She was a hyper child who was quick to get an attitude when she wasn’t immediately called on for her input. Everyone couldn’t be called at the same time. Before she was called on, I stood there and watched her huff and puff like a miniature dragon. She was the kind of hardheaded, smart-mouthed girl who was quick to run right into trouble. In fact, the little girl’s attitude reminded me of my sister.

  I broke in and asked her, “And what would you like to become when you get older?”

  “A police officer,” she answered, “because I want to lock up all these boys that be out here causing trouble all the time. Like this boy named Damen, he lives on my block, and he needs to be locked up.”

  The auditorium broke out laughing again, but the scene wasn’t funny to me. This little girl was also a c
lass clown, and slightly overweight. I began to wonder about her family background. I could already see it. She had a young, single mother, had been around plenty of terrible men, probably had brothers and sisters from different fathers, and her mother was just as trifling as she was. Damn, I hated being judgmental, but I had been around her type far too long not to know!

  I looked at Camellia, and she read my mind. Then I let her take control of the discussion before I got too excited in there.

  “Okay, how else do we get ahead?” Camellia asked them.

  “Education.”

  “And what does an education do for us?”

  A well-behaved girl with a long ponytail was dying to answer. She was all up on her toes with her hand up high. When she was called on, she stood up and said, “You get a better job and make a lot of money, and then you don’t have to have a husband to give you anything, and you don’t stay at home and wait for him to come from work.”

  I sat there, shook my head, and read her, too. Her mother was a middle-class, single mom who was educated with only one child. Her mother was also pissed at her daughter’s father for not doing what he was supposed to do. I’m sorry, but stereotyping was a way of life. There was just no way of getting around it.

  I was tempted to break in again and ask the teachers why the boys were not included, because I could see the direction in which the discussion was headed.

  Camellia struck the match when she went on to ask, “Why do you think it’s important for women to have their own incomes?”

  “Because boys are stingy,” one of the girls yelled.

  All of a sudden, they all started yelling out before they were called on.

  “I don’t want to ask them for anything anyway.”

  “They give you babies and then they don’t want to pay for it.”

  “They don’t buy the babies milk or anything.”

  “And then they always in your face, asking you for stuff.”

  The class clown screamed out, “And they always want to do it to you,” for another laugh.

  The head teacher broke in and said, “Wait a minute, young lady! You watch what you say!”

  The girl’s classroom teacher led her out of the auditorium. I wondered how long the girl would last in that school before they politely sent her somewhere else. I looked at Camellia to see how she was going to respond to all of that. I could tell that the head teacher didn’t like it. I read her too, and something told me that she was happily married. She had a certain levelheadedness about her that was dominant in sisters who had either a balanced social life or no children. Because once you have children and mix it with an unbalanced social life, your emotions easily run hot and cold from one day to the next.

  I forced myself to remember the teacher’s name, Mrs. Debra Clarke. Since I was not focused that morning, I was only halfway listening when she introduced herself to us.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized to Camellia and me. Once the girls quieted down, Camellia started up again.

  “The reason it’s important for women to have their own incomes,” she stated—I was interested in her answer myself—“is so that we can be productive members of a household. In some situations, women are forced to work, but it should not be in opposition to our men. Specifically, in the African-American culture, the women have always worked, because we couldn’t afford not to. Therefore, we are used to working and not just being housewives.”

  Mrs. Clarke nodded her head and could not hide her agreement. “That’s right,” she said. In fact, she said it twice to make sure the girls heard her. “That’s right.”

  Camellia added, “It is very hard for anyone to raise a family in present-day America with only one income. And even if the second member of the family does stay at home, at least the family doesn’t have to pay extra money for day care.

  “Statistics say, in the African-American community, that even with success stories like myself and Denise’s, the average single mother is forced to live below the poverty line.

  “Because of a lack of education, African-American women earn the lowest income while having the highest percentage of working mothers in the country, with no or little help from their children’s fathers,” she added.

  “Furthermore, the children do not receive the proper emotional balance that they should receive from a mother and a father.”

  I looked over to see if Camellia was okay. She seemed to be getting emotional in her discussion. That was unusual for her. Mrs. Clarke looked a bit concerned herself. Camellia was emitting more raw energy than she needed to.

  As far as the percentage of working mothers was concerned, I do believe that Asian mothers had us beat, with Latina mothers not far behind. However, Asian fathers were definitely there to help out, where Latina mothers were not much better off than we were, with plenty of absentee fathers. I knew or met enough of them through my secretary Elmira to know.

  I stood up to take over before my good friend suffered a stroke or a heart attack. I said, “It seems that we need to begin doing more to educate our young men and our young women on how to keep a productive family together. It’s obviously no longer feasible for us to think as individuals. And so, although it’s important that we as women do get our educations, and don’t have kids before we are ready, and do earn an income that works for our specific needs, I reiterate what was said earlier, in that we do not do this in opposition to our men, because ultimately, it takes at least two adults to make a family. Since the men are definitely a part of making babies, they should also be a part of raising them and/or providing for them.”

  When we closed out the discussion that morning, Camellia was still in an emotional haze.

  “Are you okay, sister?” Mrs. Clarke asked her.

  Camellia nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay. I didn’t get a chance to eat this morning. This diet thing can get to you sometimes.”

  I looked at Camellia and knew that we had to talk. She wasn’t going to put me off anymore. And I wasn’t going to blow her off about my marriage proposal either.

  “Well, I want to thank you sisters for coming out again, and I also think you’re right; we do need to start including the boys in these discussions,” she said specifically to me.

  I said, “Yeah, because I had two boys for men, and both of them have a story to tell.” It was no use in me being hush-hush about it. The truth was the truth, and I had been dealing with it for close to sixteen years.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how is your marriage?” I asked her. I just had to know.

  “Oh, we’re making it. And I don’t mind talking about it at all.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “A boy and a girl; six and four.”

  Mrs. Clarke looked around our age. “Are you around thirty-three?” I asked her. I took two years off.

  She smiled. “I turn thirty-two in November.”

  I smiled back. “I turn thirty-five in April. My sons are turning sixteen and thirteen.”

  “Mmm,” she grunted.

  Camellia added, “I turn thirty-six in July. My girl and boy are turning seventeen and fourteen.”

  We exchanged more small talk about children and motherhood before Camellia and I said our good-byes and headed out the door to our cars. I followed Camellia to hers. She had gotten a better spot because she arrived earlier.

  “My car is right around the corner,” I told her. “You mind giving me a ride?” I really wanted to talk to her.

  She took a deep breath and said, “No problem.”

  I didn’t ask Camellia much until we made it inside of her car. Chicago wasn’t the kind of city to talk outside in February. I wanted to warm up inside of her car first.

  Camellia turned on the ignition and heat and rubbed her hands together in front of the wheel.

  “You really went off in there,” I commented with a smile. I wanted to ease into things.

  “You think we’re making any ground with SMO?” she suddenly asked me. “It start
ed off as a good idea, but now it seems like a welfare program. We just get more and more women who put themselves in worse situations than they were already in. I’m starting to feel the same way you used to feel. I mean, after we’ve discussed everything that we need to discuss, what’s the use if we’re still going to be single mothers? It’s just like welfare, a continuous cycle.”

  I just let her talk. She seemed ready for it.

  She said, “I thought about calling my kids’ father this weekend, just to see what he had to say for himself.”

  I couldn’t let that opportunity pass me by. I asked, “Why didn’t you?”

  Camellia nodded and answered, “I am. I’m planning on tracking his ass down if I have to. But if he’s so screwed up that he can’t offer any help, and I’m not talking about the money, because he doesn’t have any, just his input and concern, then I’m gonna have to find some other way for a man’s presence.

  “I mean, this thing is just not working,” she told me. “Monica and Levonne have been suffering for years with all the things that I’ve been running and doing. That’s probably why everyone has become so separated in society now; we’re all doing too damn much and not taking care of the most important things. I can’t be in a million places, and I can’t be a million different things.”

  I smiled and put my hand on my friend’s shoulder. “I got your back, girl,” I told her. “This has been very hard, for all six of us,” I said, including our children. “I came to that same conclusion. We have to stop acting like these superwomen they have us cracked up to be, because we’re getting broken down from every angle.”

  Camellia took another deep breath and shook her head. “So where do we go from here, Denise? Is this something we need to look forward to from all of our families now? Can we change the damn world somehow? I mean, what do we do? How do we change the cycle?”