by Gwen Carr
In our neighborhood, we were surrounded by all types of people, from all over the world. None of us had a lot of money, but we did have our unique heritage, and we all cherished it like gold. There were the Irish, Italians, Germans, and of course Black folks. It was very much a melting pot and a good way to learn about different cultures by going to school with the other children. We were all neighbors and tried to treat each other with respect. While people were proud of their heritage and didn’t hide it, out on the streets we were the same. We were a family. Grownups looked out for each other, and children were raised to respect the adults.
That doesn’t mean things were perfect by any means. There would, of course, be fights and arguments, but they would usually blow over. Some of the boys would fight in the street occasionally, settling some type of disagreement. My grandmother would get very upset. “Those boys need to stop that before it gets out of hand,” she would say. I told her, “It’s OK, Grandma. They will act foolish and when it’s over they will be friends again.” She still didn’t like it, especially if there was a Black boy fighting a White one. When she was growing up, she was always worried that the Black kid would be the one in trouble. I could tell that it really upset her.
My parents were from the South and very proud of their roots. Daddy grew up on a farm in Sparta, Georgia. He didn’t get past the third grade because his family needed him to work, and that left little time for school. My mother was from Greensboro, North Carolina, and she grew up with a love of cooking. People from all over our Brooklyn neighborhood would ask what we were having for supper each night. They loved hearing about the southern dishes Mama would cook, hoping to get invited over for a meal, which they often were.
Our frequent block parties were about fellowship and fun. The mothers would bring covered dishes for the others to try as the kids played stickball or splashed water on each other under the hot August sun. We didn’t realize that things were so different in other parts of the country. Of course, as people of color, we heard about the civil rights movement and what was happening in the South, but in our community, discrimination and racial intolerance wasn’t a big issue, at least to me. I’m sure Mama and Daddy saw things differently, but as a child I felt happy and secure.
People often talk about their past in such glowing terms and carry on about how simple things were back then, and I do understand why that happens. In our complex world today, we deal with so much technology—the internet, cell phones, GPS tracking—it’s everywhere. It has taken over our homes, our cars, and our lives. These conveniences certainly make life easier in some ways, but in others I’m not so sure.
In our neighborhood, the outside was our internet and shouting down the block usually worked better than any phone ever could. I would keep my treasures—a few pennies and some cheap trinkets—in an old cigar box that I’d found on the sidewalk. I also really liked playing with paper dolls. We couldn’t afford the fancy books of perforated clothes with folding tabs that held them on the doll, so I would cut out my own from old newspapers or magazines. Sometimes Vernice and I would go to the five-and-ten store to look at the shiny toys, hoping we could buy something brand new one day.
On special occasions, we’d go on an errand with Mama and even take the bus. I loved the clanging sounds as I dropped the three nickels into the metal box and carefully walked down the aisle, climbing on the seat by Mama. Then, especially during the summer when everyone was outside, I would crawl over Mama’s lap and press my face against the window, fascinated by the scenes playing out all over the city. I loved seeing other families talking and laughing, all hoping to catch a mild breeze to provide some relief from the punishing heat that arose from the asphalt. No one had air-conditioning, so during the day the houses and apartments were like ovens, trapping the heat inside, noisy metal fans working overtime but providing only minimal relief.
We lived in the same general neighborhood throughout my childhood, so we had lots of friends and family in the area. Our extended family continued to grow, so we felt at home no matter whose house we went to. Most of us lived on Warren Street, and there were always other kids to play with and a gathering happening every weekend. It seemed like someone was always cooking something on a grill, sending spicy aromas all over the neighborhood. I felt fortunate that we had such a good life. We struggled to pay the bills from time to time just like everyone else, but with family to lean on, we always managed. In 1967, I graduated from John Adams High School in Queens located near an area called Ozone Park. The school, built in 1927, was a beautiful three-story building with the cafeteria in the basement. Just like the neighborhoods around there, the student population was very diverse, with all races blending together, all waiting for the bell to ring at the end of the day so we could get outside.
I was always a pretty good student, usually As and Bs, especially in math. I liked reading and studying, and it came easy for me, so I didn’t have to work at it like some of the other kids did. It was exciting to learn about other places around the country. I’d imagine what it would be like to live somewhere else, but then I’d think I was being silly: I’d never leave all my family here in South Brooklyn. Not only that, but I’d also met a boy named Bernard Garner during my senior year, and I was in love.
He had gone to Westinghouse High School in Brooklyn and was a few years older than me. However, things were a little complicated at first because he already had three children. I was eighteen when we got involved, and it was a package deal; I had an instant family. I hadn’t expected to have children around so quickly, but it seemed to work out perfectly. Bernard’s ex was very understanding, so the kids were a part of our life from day one. There were two girls (Lorraine Margaret and Ella Lynette) and a boy (Elliott Bernard), all under ten years old. Soon they were my stepchildren, and it was a role that I was born to fill. Being a mother and taking care of those kids just came naturally to me. Motherhood fit me like a glove. I took right to it.
Bernard and his first wife had gotten married very young, ages fifteen and sixteen. She had gotten pregnant, and their parents insisted on it. The union lasted about five years. I was happy to help raise those three children, and they were at our house every weekend. Today, they have children of their own who consider me their grandmother, just as if they were my own grandbabies. People I knew from way back know I’m not the natural grandmother, but others don’t realize I’m the “stepgrandmother.” They just consider me “Grandma.” That’s how close I became with those children and their mother. I treated them really well and they always respected me, even though their mother was still alive. She and I maintained a good relationship and never had any real problems.
That was probably because when she and Bernard decided to go their separate ways, there was no harshness. She had chosen to be with someone else, and he wanted to be with me. We always got along, and she would call me to say, “I want to bring the children over for the weekend. Is it OK?” She would call me instead of calling him. Of course, I always said, “Sure.”
Even now, her sisters and brothers, many of whom live in Washington, DC, will call to ask me if I can visit when I’m in town. They tell me, “Our sister always said you were a great person. She couldn’t have found a better stepmother for the children.” A lot of people thought that was an unusual relationship, but that’s just the way it developed. It wasn’t by accident, though. I was dedicated to making my new family work, just as I had learned from my parents. At the end of the day, family was all you had to rely on, so you’d better have a strong foundation.
When my own children were born, the stepchildren used to tease my kids and say, “Oh, she was our mother before she was your mother.” They really loved each other and always called each other brother and sister. Bernard’s first wife had two other children, and those children were close with my children as well. Bernard’s sisters Hazel, Frieda, Constance, and Edna were also around, so it was like one big family. I was really proud that it happened like that. Often, there was a lot of dy
sfunction with extended families, but not with us.
While I loved those children so much, I was very excited when my first child was born on September 15, 1970, in Long Island College Hospital in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn. Since the other children were getting older, it was wonderful to have a newborn of my own to raise. I had been around plenty of babies growing up, but it’s true that when you have one of your own, it’s so special. All those feelings I had wondered about came true many times over. I couldn’t believe this little one would be dependent on me to protect him from harm. It was a responsibility I took very seriously. I often whispered to him, “I’ll never let anything happen to you, little man.” Bernard’s first son already had his name, so we changed it up. We named him Eric Bernard Garner.
I first noticed Eric’s asthma when he was about seven months old. He was my firstborn, so I wasn’t sure if I was being overprotective, but I could tell he was having trouble breathing. It was cute at the beginning, how he would purse his lips together as he stared at me with those big brown eyes. It almost looked like he was trying to speak. Then I guess that mother’s intuition kicked in because something didn’t feel right. He would gasp for air constantly. It wasn’t a slow, steady breathing pattern. Instead, it was like he was gulping for air, as if he had just come from being underwater. I told my husband something was wrong. We took him to the hospital right away.
Sure enough, the doctor agreed that there was an issue. Not only that, but he also informed me that my little Eric had to stay in the hospital. “We need to monitor him,” he told me. I couldn’t fathom leaving my baby there. At that time, visitors were only allowed during posted hours. There was no option to stay overnight and camp out beside my baby. I had to leave him there and go home with no idea of how long he would have to stay. It reminded me of the times I’d pass by Cumberland Hospital and think about the helpless newborns inside.
Every night when I left the hospital after visiting hours and got in bed, I would toss and turn. I just couldn’t sleep. It felt like a part of me was missing. After a long labor and several months of doting on my sweet baby, there was now a void, an emptiness, and it was tearing me apart. I had promised him that I would keep him safe, and it felt like I was failing. At night when the house was still, I would instinctively twitch every time there was a creak or settling noise. I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax until Eric was back at home.
The diagnosis indicated that he had an upper respiratory infection and would require more treatment and monitoring. In fact, they ended up keeping him there for almost five months. I couldn’t believe he had to be there that long, but the doctors wanted to make sure he was able to breathe unassisted, which I understood, but I wasn’t happy about it. I went there every single day and worked it into my routine. Any time they had visitors’ hours, I was there. There was a backyard area where the sick children were allowed to play and have visitors if they were feeling up to it. Of course, my husband, parents, and other family members came as well, but I didn’t miss a single day. I couldn’t. I knew it was important to bond with my child while he was young, so those few hours we spent together each day in the garden were very precious to me.
My little boy looked so vulnerable in that special crib where they monitored him constantly, but I was sure that any day now they would let him come home. They just kept saying, “Not yet, Gwen. Not yet.” In September 1971 I told the doctor, “You know his birthday is on the 15th. We want to have a party for him at home. You have to let me take him. It’s his first birthday. Please?” He thought for a minute and said, “OK, Gwen, you can take him home for the weekend for his birthday. Then I want to see you back here on Monday.” I was so happy and excited that I would have agreed to anything. “Yes, of course,” I said, as my mind raced. My baby would be coming home!
It was so interesting watching Eric as we made our way out of the hospital. His little eyes popped open wide at all of the city noises—the cars, trucks, sirens. It was so new to him and a big change from the controlled environment of that tiny crib. I can’t describe how complete I felt with him at home. When all of the family came over for his first birthday party, I was so happy that I could barely focus on the festivities. My baby had come back, and the whole family was there to celebrate.
Any milestone event like a first birthday gave our family yet another reason to come together and celebrate. So when I found out my baby was coming home, I wasted no time decorating and coordinating his party. We had such a fun day celebrating Eric and his health. Despite that asthma, he was out of the hospital on his birthday and smearing cake all over his face as we all watched and laughed. I couldn’t have been happier.
That Monday, as promised, I did take him back, but he only ended up staying a week or so longer until he was ready to come home for good. We were provided with a breathing machine that he needed to use daily, and the doctor told me there would be a lot of restrictions. Also, as Eric got older, if he didn’t improve dramatically, he might have to go to a special school or even be homeschooled. He probably wouldn’t be able to play sports, either. I nodded slowly as the doctor gave us this news. I was ready to do whatever I had to do to keep my boy healthy.
By the time he was around three years old, Eric seemed to have improved a great deal. He even went to school—first at Head Start in October 1973, then to Bethel Daycare. Once he started attending elementary school at PS 32 in 1976, his condition was almost unnoticeable. He would have an attack every now and then, but for the most part his breathing seemed under control. He was even able to eventually play sports and run around like the other children. Still, I was cautious, and when he was at school I asked the teachers about him to make sure he wasn’t overdoing it. Everyone assured me that he was fine. The doctor was amazed by his recovery and said he’d never seen anything quite like it. It was a miracle. Eric could breathe.
That was a big relief for me because two years after Eric was born, I had another son named Emery. With a toddler and an infant along with the stepchildren, I sure did have my hands full, but it was a good feeling. Bernard was working hard to provide for us, and I worked too when I could. Fortunately, Emery did not have any immediate health issues, so while he was very little I was able to watch Eric start to become his own person.
Eric learned how to love and share with other people as a small child. He was very personable and trusting. He would always go along with the ideas of other kids because he was so friendly he thought everyone was that way. I used to tell him, “Eric, everybody’s not your friend.” On many occasions he would bring a kid home from school. “Ma, they wanted to beat my friend up, so I brought him home. He’s going to eat dinner with us.” That was just the type of person he was. If he found out that someone had betrayed him, he would be heartbroken and wouldn’t want to speak to them. I did my best to educate him and teach him about how the world worked. I’d say, “Things like that happen.” He’d say, “No, he was supposed to be my friend.” It was just inconceivable to him that a person could betray his trust. Since he was so loyal and trusting, he thought everyone was. There were some things he had to learn on his own.
One thing that was undeniable was his love of other people. He had the ability to connect with almost anyone. He especially looked forward to holidays, particularly Christmas. Christmas was the most magical time of year for him. As a child, he couldn’t wait to see which toys he got. “I know we got something great,” he would tell the other kids. I would never let them see anything before the big day. I was very careful to make it special, like my mother had done with us. On Christmas morning, all of their little eyes would light up, and I would grab my Instamatic camera, taking picture after picture as the square flash on top twirled until it burned out.
The kids just loved the spirit of being around each other, and we never missed a family gathering. I remember there was one cookout that Eric missed because he was in the hospital for his asthma. Everyone asked, “Where is Eric? Eric’s not coming?” He was always the life of the
party, so they looked forward to seeing him. He always wanted everyone to be happy.
For being such a skinny child, Eric was always a big eater. He wanted to get his share, but he would make sure everyone else had some, too. My mother used to say, “I’d rather clothe him than feed him.” Speaking of my mother, those kids sure did love to go stay with their grandparents. Eric would tell me, “We love to go over to Grandma’s house because it’s like a big campout. She lets us all sleep in the living room and she puts sheets up like tents and even brings us food in there. We love that!” He was so excited describing it all to me. My mother was always coming up with things like that to keep them entertained. I can tell you she never did that for us when we were little, but I was learning that grandchildren are special and spoiling them is part of the fun.
They used to always say that Grandma loved Eric the best. I said, “Why do you all say that? She treats you all very well and lets all of you come over at the same time.” They’d say, “Yeah, but you can just tell Eric is her favorite.” All the other kids in the family said that, too, but I couldn’t see it. To me, she treated them the same, but they were adamant about it. They were mostly just kidding around because there was love enough for all of them.
On September 28, 1975, I finally had a girl, and I named her Ellisha, keeping with the theme of starting their names with the letter E. Being around the boys for four years, it was fun to have a little girl I could dote on. With my parents and Bernard’s as well, we had plenty of help and support. Our little family was making its way in the world. By the time I was twenty-six, we had two adorable boys and now the baby girl I’d always wanted. Watching her grow and change was so exciting for me. To see her little personality start to emerge, I just couldn’t imagine anything better. The boys had become very close and pitched in to help take care of their little sister.