4
One Kind of Grace
With so few role models and symbols of success available as I grew up, I gathered tiny drops of incentive whenever they came my way. In time, the city of East St. Louis broke ground on a project that made the task a little bit easier.
The dump trucks, cement mixers and bulldozers carrying hard-hatted workmen rolled through our neighborhood early one summer morning in the late 1960s. They clustered at the corner of 15th and Piggott and began digging at the entrance to Lincoln Park.
As I watched them, I recalled how, after school, on weekends and during summers, that grassy tract across the street from my house had beckoned my friends and me. We romped across it while playing tag and turning backflips. When we were exhausted or just bored, we stretched out on it and studied the clouds in the sky. And we ran through it on our way to the swimming pool and the sandbox. Farther back, near 17th Street, was a baseball diamond and another grassy field, bordered by a round cinder track.
We were sorry to lose our playground. But when the construction crew began pouring the foundation and assembling the skeleton of a big building, our mourning ended and we began speculating on the project's purpose.
The structure became an obsession to me. I was six years old. As the building took shape over the months, I sat on my porch railing and gazed across the street, lost in my daydreams. I tried to guess what it was going to be. We were intrigued by the dome-shaped structure in the center of the two square ones. We'd never seen anything like it.
Occasionally, a group of us ventured over to the site and stood bright-eyed with our faces pressed to the fence, watching the construction crew's every move and jabbering away.
“You think it's a place to play?” I asked.
“I think it's a theater,” someone responded.
“Maybe a skating rink,” another voice suggested.
“Can you skate?” another asked.
Once the cinder block exterior was complete, the crew put the finishing touches on the interior. Before the complex opened in 1969, a security guard kept watch outside to deter the local vandals. Weary of our persistent questions about what was inside, he let us in one day for a sneak peek.
It was more fantastic than anything I imagined. It was big, beautiful, air-conditioned and, best of all, free of charge. It smelled of new wood, fresh paint and varnish. The windows, the glass, the walls and the rest rooms were shiny and clean. The guard said they were going to name it the Mary E. Brown Community Center, after a woman from our city who had made contributions to the community.
During our quick tour, we discovered to our delight that the domed part was the recreation area. It featured a basketball court and bleachers. A library and rooms for arts and crafts, dancing and meetings occupied one of the square-shaped buildings adjacent to the dome. Administrative offices would fill the other one. The three buildings were connected by big glass double doors.
All the kids from the neighborhood spent time at the Center, but I practically lived there. On summer and Saturday mornings, I woke up at first light and got my two sisters out of bed, anxious to be across the street. Because of my mother's rule about my sisters and me going and coming together, I had to bribe Debra to accompany me in the mornings and to stay at the Community Center until closing time. The price of her cooperation typically was either a candy bar or a dime, which I gladly paid. Angie was much more agreeable, doing whatever I asked.
We dressed and perched on the Center's front steps to await the arrival of Tyrone Cavitt and Percy Harris, the recreation directors. They unlocked the double doors and we followed them inside. I helped them erect the Ping-Pong tables and then laid out the balls and paddles. Initially, I did it for free, but eventually they paid me a few dollars to help them set up every morning and clean up every night.
The Community Center provided the closest thing to culture in East St. Louis. To see the ballet or a Broadway show, or to hear symphony orchestras and Jackson 5 concerts, we had to pay a lot of money for tickets and make the twenty-mile trek across the state line and the Poplar Street Bridge into St. Louis.
The Center revealed a whole new world to me, teaching me things I wouldn't have learned otherwise. I was a human sponge, soaking up as much as I could. Every day at story time, I sat on the floor and listened to an adult read the story of Black Beauty or Rapunzel. I made black ashtrays and green planters in ceramics class and cotton-candy-colored Styrofoam waste baskets from egg cartons in crafts class. Much of my handiwork became Christmas and birthday presents for Momma.
I attended lectures on all kinds of subjects. One night an official from the Nation of Islam headquarters in Chicago spoke. He wore a dark suit, stiff white shirt and a bow tie and spoke forcefully about the evils of eating pork and the benefits of the Muslim faith. He taught us some Muslim expressions and passed around copies of the Muhammad Speaks newspaper. Afterward, he circulated a sheet of paper and asked everyone to list their name, address and phone number if they wanted more information. I was fascinated by what he said and wanted to know more. So, I signed the list.
The next day, as my mother mopped the floor and hummed the words to a Teddy Pendergrass song playing on the stereo, someone knocked on the front door. It was the same man who'd spoken the night before at the Community Center, dressed in the same suit and bow tie. He started telling Momma what a nice little girl I was and how happy they'd be to have me join the faith. As he talked, Momma became more and more agitated. He was the latest in a long line of people who'd called our house or appeared at the front door to follow up on some interest I'd expressed at the Center. She interrupted him when he started explaining the daily prayer schedule, politely explaining that I'd been baptized in the Baptist Church and wouldn't be joining the Muslims. After shutting the door, she told me if I didn't stop putting our address and phone number on every Center list that was passed around, she'd make me stay home.
She didn't object when I signed up for modern dance class, however. She and everyone else seemed to think I was clumsy and could use some grace. I was always tripping or stumbling over something. One winter morning I'd pranced out of the house, slipped on the ice-covered sidewalk and landed on my butt as the school bus approached our house. It wasn't really clumsiness—just a case of being too eager to show off. Someone had just given me a pair of black leather boots and I was so intent on modeling them for everyone, I forgot about the ice. The kids all had a good laugh while I died of embarrassment.
I thought dance lessons would improve my coordination. I loved to dance, but could never get the hang of the popular dance steps as fast as Al and Debra. Al was the best dancer in school and won every contest he entered. He could mimic Michael Jackson and James Brown. But Elvis Presley was his favorite and his specialty. After the dances, with the guitar he got for Christmas slung over his shoulder, he did his Elvis routine while people threw him money. The girls screamed and swooned as he strummed the strings, gyrated his hips and spun around the floor, singing the words, “You ain't nothin' but a hound dog.”
The dance classes turned out to be one of the most enriching experiences of my childhood. Our teacher, Mr. Wilson, was a devotee of the Katherine Dunham technique. Ms. Dunham is an internationally renowned dancer and choreographer whose style incorporates elements of African and Caribbean folk cultures. She was one of the first African-Americans to have a professional, touring dance company. Alvin Ailey and Debbie Allen studied her technique. On Saturdays, our class met at the Dunham Center, instead of the Community Center.
Ms. Dunham and Josephine Baker were famous, successful women whom girls in East St. Louis could relate to, because they were from our hometown. I read about how they performed all over the world and lived glamorously. Josephine Baker resided in Paris. But Ms. Dunham continued to live in East St. Louis, which gave me a sense of pride.
When she was in town, she came to our Saturday classes and talked to us about dancing and self-expression. She was an exotic, elegant woman. Her dresses were loo
se, long and flowing and made of colorful fabrics. She wore the most beautiful scarves tied around her head. Her voice was soft. Her diction was perfect. As she spoke, her expressive hands moved gently through the air, decorating each phrase. I sat cross-legged on the floor in my leotard, looking up at her, mesmerized and hanging on every breath she took. Those were thrilling moments.
Ms. Dunham was my first truly accessible role model—a woman I was able to admire up close and in person. She still lives in East St. Louis, and over the years she and I have become close friends. She writes to me from time to time when she's traveling, and I visit her when I'm at home.
The Dunham method influenced not just how I danced, but how I carried myself. Mr. Wilson said that Dunham dancers had a distinctive elegance. “They don't walk, they glide,” he explained. “To be a true Dunham dancer, you must point your toes, hold your heads up and your stomachs in.”
I took him seriously. At home in the mirror, I practiced walking just as Mr. Wilson had shown us. He was challenging me to learn something that would help me improve myself. I wanted to meet that challenge.
Unlike the bus stop, the hustle and the other dances we did to the music on the radio, the more classical dance movements Mr. Wilson taught us came easily to me. “You have talent,” he told me after class one day. “Your legs are long and powerful. That's what a good dancer needs.” His words made my heart leap.
“Could I be a Broadway dancer?” I asked.
“Yes, if you keep practicing and taking classes,” he said.
No one had ever complimented me for having long legs. With Daddy and Al constantly teasing me about being tall and skinny, I had become self-conscious about my height. But Mr. Wilson made me proud of my body. I now thought of my long legs as an asset. A powerful asset.
Because of Mr. Wilson's encouraging words, I began fantasizing about being a performer on Broadway or an actress. I liked glamour as much as any other little girl. And I thought entertainers were the most glamorous people of all. I started imagining myself dancing on stage in a glittery costume under bright lights. For a while, I believed I might be discovered, too. As silly as it sounds, I had this idea that someone from Hollywood puts hidden cameras in houses and that's how stars are discovered. And so I stood in front of the big mirror in my parents' room for hours at a stretch, putting on a show—mimicking scenes from TV shows, doing voice imitations and rehearsing my dance routines—just in case the talent scouts were watching.
Although dancing was just a hobby to me, I probably would have continued taking lessons if Mr. Wilson hadn't died. He was shot to death, allegedly during an argument over drugs. After the incident, the classes stopped and so did my interest in dance.
Losing Mr. Wilson as a mentor shattered me. I admired him a lot. He was the first adult, other than my parents, who took an interest in me and tried to help me develop my talents. The news about his murder and the fact that drugs might have been involved devastated me. I didn't know what to believe in after his death. He and other adults who gave speeches at the Community Center talked to us about doing the right things, not taking drugs and staying out of trouble. To find out that this man—whom I associated so strongly with dancing—might have been involved in drugs, soured me on dance as an ambition.
5
Seeking an Identity
Without dancing, I was adrift. I wandered around the Community Center for weeks, looking for something that sparked my interest, something in which I could excel.
While I searched, I diverted a portion of my considerable energy to cheerleading for the boys' basketball and football teams. I was captain of the squad, which also included my sisters, Debra and Angie; my neighbor Kim Cole and a few other girls. I was pretty bossy, expecting the others to perform to perfection the routines I made up. Everyone obeyed me except Debra. She either ignored my orders or talked back. I expelled her from the squad several times.
My two sisters are a study in contrasts. Debra has always been strong-willed and outspoken, very much like my father. She must do things her way. In school, Debra was the eye of the hurricane. A social butterfly with tons of friends and charm, she loved going to dances and being the life of the party. But there was also a mischievous, troublemaking streak to her personality. If she were a soap opera character, Susan Lucci would play the part.
I remember the day she single-handedly started a major ruckus at school. She went to the boyfriend of one of her girlfriends and told him the girl was messing around with another guy behind his back. She did this to her own girlfriend! The two boys fought about it and the girl wanted to kill Debra. I asked her how she could do something like that. She just thought it was great fun.
Angie, on the other hand, was shy and introverted. Growing up, she had a habit of gnawing the skin on the side of her hand when she was nervous. At parties, while Debra and Al held center stage, Angie hid on the sidelines, a real wallflower. She was so cooperative, acquiescing to anything anyone suggested. Left to her own devices, Angie probably wouldn't have spent much time at the Community Center. She would have been content to stay at home. Angie wasn't the baby of the family, yet she held tightest to my mother's apron strings.
Both of my sisters were good athletes. Each were standouts on their respective junior high basketball teams. But only Debra continued playing sports in high school. She was on the Lincoln basketball team when we won the state girls' championship. She also ran track and played volleyball. She eventually attended Arkansas State on a volleyball scholarship. Angie was a late bloomer who made the dean's list at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville before dropping out to start working. Debra has two children, Antoinette and Anthony. Angie has a daughter, Sherrell.
As a cheerleader, I was a real “jumping Jackie,” if you'll pardon the pun. The dance exercises—knee bends, squats and stretches—made my legs stronger. When the others were breathing heavily and slowing down, I was still jumping and kicking. My favorite stunt was to jump up in the air into a spread eagle, touch my toes, and land on the ground in a split, while the others did a less daring jump and slid into a split. The people in the bleachers cheered and applauded every time we did it.
Our sponsor, Mrs. Johnson, disapproved of it, though. She thought it was vulgar and dangerous. “You girls are going to hurt something doing that routine,” she said, frowning and shaking her head every time I went up in the air. She didn't like our dances, either. I overheard her tell another woman that she knew I was going to get pregnant before I finished high school because I was so “fast.” “Fast” was to girls what “mannish” was to boys. It was a derogatory term, used to describe girls who liked to show off and flirt and who often did end up pregnant before graduating.
“The nerve of her!” I told my mother after repeating what I'd heard. I wasn't showing off or flirting or doing anything bad. Of course, I was happy that the crowd enjoyed my performance. But I danced and cheered because I enjoyed it and felt I was good at it. I didn't understand why an adult would criticize me for that.
“Don't pay any attention to it. That's just the way some people are,” my mother comforted. But I've never had an easy time ignoring negative comments—particularly unjustified ones. I've always been sensitive to them, allowing them to upset me more than they should.
Looking back on it, all the time I was cheerleading, I never considered it a marketable skill. Cheerleaders were just cheerleaders. Cheerleading scholarships, which many colleges now offer, were unheard of then. And we didn't have a Paula Abdul, the L.A. Lakers' cheerleader who became a dancer, choreographer and singing star, to emulate. It just goes to show how much times and attitudes have changed. And it illustrates the power of role models. Had I known I could possibly parlay cheerleading into a career in entertainment, my occupational arena might have been a theater stage rather than a track oval.
One day, in 1972, when I was ten, a sign-up sheet for girls' track appeared on the bulletin board at the Community Center. “If my legs are strong enough for dancing and jum
ping, maybe I can run fast, too,” I thought to myself. I printed my name on the first line.
A bunch of girls, including Debra, Angie and me, showed up for the track team on a sunny afternoon in late May. We were dressed in T-shirts and shorts and we squinted and cupped our hands over our eyes to shield them from the sun as we looked up at our coach, Percy Harris. He explained that practice would be held every afternoon and that we had to run around the cinder track behind the Center to prepare for our races. He pointed to the area.
“All the way around there?” one girl said after she turned around to see where his finger was pointing. She turned back to Percy wearing a frown. “It's hot out here!”
“That's far!” another complained.
It did look like an awfully big circle, which grew wider as we got closer to it. But I kept my thoughts to myself. Momma and Daddy told us never to talk while adults were speaking. Besides, I wanted to see if I could make it all the way around. I was ready to run.
That circular track, which still exists at the back of Lincoln Park and became a fixture of my teenage years, is unconventional. It measures about 550 yards around, roughly a third of a mile. A standard track is oval-shaped and measures 400 meters, a quarter-mile. Those of us who completed the lap were panting hard by the time we reached the end. We bent over and put our hands on our knees when we finished. The other girls had stopped running and were walking. Percy said we had to run around two more times without stopping to get in a mile workout. Some of the girls mumbled and rolled their eyes. I took off around the track.
Each day, fewer and fewer girls showed up until finally the track team consisted of the three Joyner girls, two of whom were there under protest. At that point, Percy gave up the idea of forming a team. But I wanted to continue running, so he introduced me to George Ward, who coached a half-dozen girls at Franklin Elementary and brought them to Lincoln Park in the summer to practice.
A Kind of Grace Page 5