When the time came for the baby’s birth, I was in labor thirty-six hours. No one had told me what would happen during childbirth. The medical staff sent a special doctor down to help as I was having such difficulty. At one point, they called Mother to stand by to fly in to see me. I heard their hopeless whispers and prayed aloud around the clock through my awful pain.
After the birth, when the nurse came to bring my baby to me, she insisted on rereading both our tags because she thought she had the wrong mom. My daughter, Kellie, had green eyes and a porcelain complexion with reddish-brown hair. She said, “You can’t be Melba Joy Beals, can you?” When I replied I was, she reluctantly handed me my baby.
Just before we left the hospital, the doctor took us aside and said, “If you are to remain healthy, do not have any more children for at least the next five years. To be frank, Mrs. Beals, I am not sure you should ever have any more children. There is a rumor afoot for whatever reason that black women are built in such a way that they find it easier to birth children. Mr. Beals, this black woman is not one of them; she almost died. You almost lost her. Please, do not get pregnant. Do not come back here.”
From birth, my baby, Kellie, was a delight. Like her father, she was quiet but alert and sweet in her behavior. For a time, we lived in the same bliss that we had in our early months of marriage. Now I had what I always wanted—a family. I felt safe and protected. We lived in the Haight-Ashbury district, where we were deep in the revolution of the ’60s. Social change was moving forward and boiling right in front of me.
A year passed, and being a wife and mother was just not enough for me. Although I attended church and prayed day and night, I felt restless and devalued. I could not handle the day-to-day routine of being isolated from friends with no projects, no homework, and no educational goals. I felt as though I were visiting a strange planet and not comfortable with anything around me. I loved my daughter, I loved and adored my husband, but it was not enough. I pleaded with my husband to allow me to go back to school to complete my bachelor’s degree.
I began taking classes, and the more I focused on my education and new opportunities for women in society, the more I knew something needed to change. I believed I could be a good wife and mother and an educated, productive person at the same time. I wanted to have a career; I wanted to go to work each day. I wanted to march and challenge the rules that had governed women and wives up until then.
The more I talked about my need to have a career, the angrier my husband became. Jay wanted me to focus on improving my dinner recipes, folding the clothes more carefully, and exercising to keep the weight off. Above all else, he wanted me pregnant and more children, a male heir to carry on his military obsession.
Eventually, our conflict led to unhappy days and miserable evenings. I would come home from school excited about Kant’s theories of philosophy, and Jay would watch television and ask me to please be quiet and get him a sandwich.
I tried hard to be the wife he wanted because I loved him, and I wanted to keep my family together. Daily I asked God to make me a good wife and to change Jay’s vision into whatever it took for him to see me as a good wife. However, the more I did what he wanted, the more I felt I was shedding Melba and becoming someone I didn’t know. Each week, Mother called to admonish me for not completing my college degree. She said, “Education lasts forever, but husbands are temporary.”
I was watching the news seeing the march on Washington and the other civil rights actions going on. I wanted to join my colleagues, but instead I was home trying to conform to the duties that Jay felt were necessary in order to be a perfect wife. This man who in the beginning was my rescuer, my comfort, my joy, and my peace now seemed like my jailer.
I felt enslaved within the confines of his definition of marriage. I had no role model and no one to help me sort through my feelings. Of course, I had Sunday church people to talk with, but I could not tell all my secrets to strangers so I felt alone and confused. I prayed hard to God because I did not want to lose my family, and I could not lose myself.
Against Jay’s desires, I went back to work at my job with the federal government. I remember coming home one day to find my baby gone, everything gone including the garbage. Just as I stretched out on the floor screaming, the phone rang. “I decided we needed to move. Let me give you our new address.” Jay had moved us to another apartment. I was astounded that he would make such a decision without consulting me.
My first reaction was to call the minister of our church. I met with him the following day. He said that our conflict was one faced by many couples in these times of change. It was about the surrender of ego. My ego was in its infancy and growing while his was over the top. We needed to ask God for guidance to have a Christian marriage.
At the next meeting, Jay was present, and the minister tried to explain to him that I was not the same as when we came together. Then, I was very weak and worn down by my experiences in Little Rock and all the change since. He congratulated Jay for his kindness and told him that by his love and nurturing, he had refreshed my spirit and healed the wounds from that era of my life.
The minister then said, “This was your assigned task from God. You have shown Melba that all white people are not walking around with guns, ropes, and white sheets waiting to hang her. You have shown her genuine love and caring, and she understands that. You have to understand her work is not done here, and God will have more assignments for her as His warrior. You need to ask yourself how you will support her as she follows God’s path.”
He said things to Jay like it wouldn’t be unusual to see me take part in the marches that were going on. That was when Jay hit the ceiling. He said, “Never. She needs to be home taking care of Kellie.”
The conflict and the weekly calls from Mother urging me to work and educate myself while Jay demanded I get pregnant caused my health to deteriorate. By year three, I had bleeding ulcers and was hospitalized twice. My doctor, Dr. Zenbaum, said, “You must stop this damage to your intestines. You can’t marry or have a day-to-day relationship with everybody you love.”
When our daughter was three, Jay became insistent that I get pregnant. He wanted a son. When I told him I didn’t think we were ready, he began pleading. Now in the fourth year of our marriage, in order to satisfy his wishes and my obsession to keep the marriage going, I became pregnant against the advice of my doctor. Nine months into the pregnancy, just as I began buying boy baby clothing, I was sent to the hospital to be seen immediately by a specialist.
Almost hysterical, I called my church pastor for prayer and prayed hard for my baby to live. The baby died.
Jay was wonderful, sympathetic, and caring, but I felt devastated, and the look on his face told me he was as well. Right away he suggested that we wait a few months and try again. I knew for certain I would follow doctor’s orders and never ever become pregnant again. The loss of my son took a toll on my mind and body.
Although I was determined to hold my marriage together, the tension was also beginning to profoundly affect our daughter. She began stuttering and fretting, and my bleeding ulcers had not stopped. I consulted with the minister again, and he agreed that we needed some time of separation. We’d been married for six years, but I would have to leave Jay for my health and for the sake of my daughter. I sat Jay down and tried to reason with him, but he was furious. Once more I saw the minister, and he agreed with me that we would need to separate for a time.
I prayed night and day. Leaving Jay broke my heart. I had hoped we would be together forever. At that time, it was only my belief in the Lord Jesus that kept me sane. I was so lonely and frightened in the big city of San Francisco by myself with my baby that I even considered returning to Jay. I would tell him I’d do anything to be together. Ultimately, I couldn’t do that because he wasn’t going to change without a miracle.
Rather than any racial divide, it was our cultural differences and expectations that led to our divorce. I never felt any prejudice from Jay except
against a housewife who was not longing to try new recipes, fold underwear, and fill and replace ice cube trays. We began the process of divorce, both of us sad as we declared that we loved each other.
While it is true that our daughter resembled the profile of Jay’s family—green eyes, reddish-brown hair, and freckles—her appearance did not reduce my love for her. She was my baby, and I wanted custody of my baby. Jay wanted sole custody himself. I had not a dime. His parents had many resources. It appeared for a time that I would lose her. He was getting out of the army and moving home in another state. I believed if he took her, I would never see her. Once again, I began to pray as Grandmother had taught me. I kept the faith that as I was her mother, I deserved to have her live with me. Even though there seemed no way out for me, I had faith God would rescue me.
During the months that passed, I sustained myself with faith and kept busy with continued classes. I also began to recall Grandmother’s notion that God has a plan for each of us. It is up to us to conform and comply. I felt more comfortable pursuing an education, knowing I would be of service.
A law professor at my university stopped me and asked why my grades were dropping and why I appeared so sad. I told him I was getting a divorce. He said, based on what he knew of me and my involvement in the Little Rock integration, he would represent me without payment, and he did. I walked out of court with an order for full custody for myself and visitation rights for Jay.
Not a day goes by that I do not think about the son I lost. Christopher is the chosen name we gave to him. Thirty years later, I was seated on the couch watching the news. The announcer presented a photo of a three-year-old boy available for adoption who resembled my daughter and what I imagined my son would have looked like. I telephoned the station to ask about the child’s availability, and I was told that at age fifty I was too old to adopt him. I replied that they could not tell me that—and to send me the papers. My petition won over one hundred other inquiries.
Yes, I do often think of my ex-husband, Jay, and whether I would have preferred to have spent my life with him as a housewife. The answer is no. Had I stayed married, I would be a very different Melba.
I am the Melba God intended me to be. As Grandmother had pointed out, I used to the best of my ability the great mental capacity God had taken extra measures to ensure I had. Today, I see Jay as a gift of God, a bridge that helped repair my soul. He taught me without a doubt to trust and rid myself of any remaining vindictive thoughts. Like my white parents before him, he taught me that white is a state of mind and my freedom is up to me to choose.
I have the most positive and loving thoughts about Jay because the gift he left behind of a beautiful, charming, intelligent, and loving daughter has been mine to enjoy through all these years.
Mistakes and struggles are part of our human journey. The key is to forgive and pick ourselves up with the faith that life will improve because of lessons learned from our mistakes.
Nine
Single Parenthood
After the divorce, my daughter had to adjust to many changes in our lifestyle. Above all else, she missed her father because he had been a wonderful parent, playmate, and friend. She was also upset because I was forced to give up our lovely home that we had shared with her dad and move to low-income housing in the Sunnydale Housing Project. I would learn this project was an incubator for some members of the flamboyant and controversial Black Panthers.
It was 1969, a time when the Black Panthers based in Oakland, California, were growing in numbers and pressing their demands for equality. Newspapers across the United States reported on their actions. It was an environment I would later deem too dangerous for a single mother and her daughter. But back then, I didn’t know any better. I was doing my best. I considered our new living arrangement as a bridge—a temporary home because we were on the waiting list for San Francisco State University student housing. Our income was severely limited while I struggled to complete a college degree that would result in a good job and elevate our lifestyle.
About six months into our stay at Sunnydale, Kellie was still going to the metal mail slot in our front door each day, pushing it open with a pencil and peeking through it, in hopes of getting a letter from her dad. She would sometimes linger there peering out at the kids playing on our sidewalk because I never allowed her to go outside.
I felt fragile and afraid of life. I realized I was in a precarious situation in every way—financially, physically, and mentally. Kellie had (at age five) grown old enough to miss her dad and to face reality while still hoping Jay would be back.
Our life in the Sunnydale Housing Project was far from the comfortable middle-class one we had shared in our home on a sunny, pristine street. Gone were the well-mannered children she could play with outside each day. We no longer had friendly, protective, religious neighbors or our cozy sense of safety and late-evening family events. Sunnydale was an experience that would teach us to deal with life on its most primitive terms. Most of the people who lived there were on welfare. As I would learn later, many were living at the edge of society, having existed in extreme poverty most of their lives.
Take, for example, the two men who came every Saturday with what appeared to be a vegetable truck. The back of the truck was lined with wooden crates filled with lovely apples, oranges, peaches, collard greens, string beans, and many other fruits and vegetables. However, when I approached the truck, it became evident it was anything but a neighborhood vegetable vendor.
The driver lifted one of the vegetable crates and beneath was every possible line of watches, silverware, telephones, and so on that you could ever want or need. His partner, one of the most elegantly dressed people I’d ever seen, said, “If you don’t see what you want here, Missy, we can always get it for you. For instance, you see a dress you want at Macy’s, mark down the rack, size, color, and specific location, and we’ll have it for you by Wednesday, for a price of course.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
Unhinged by his offer, I grabbed Kellie’s hand and pulled her close to me. He said, “We are not limited by what’s here,” and continued, “If you need a car, furniture, let me know what you need. The big stuff comes by ship twice a month.” This tall, slender white man resembled a priest while his black partner reminded me of my Little Rock minister. Both were well spoken and well dressed.
“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” As I rushed away, I knew I would never go near that truck again.
Because of my growing awareness that the Sunnydale project was an unsafe place for us to live, Kellie and I began to go out less and less often. We went out early in the morning to go to school and were back home by 4:00 p.m. At first, we didn’t have a car and had to ride eight buses a day—two to drop Kellie off at school and two more for me to go to San Francisco State for classes and then four on the return trip. When I explained that to my mother, she said she had heard that Sunnydale was indeed dangerous and would try to get us a vehicle so we could be safer until we moved.
Both Kellie and I missed Jay. We spoke about him often, while I tried to demonstrate a calm voice for her and to build our new lives. I yearned to hear from Jay; any word would have been comforting. I found myself going through a period in which I could not take his toothbrush out of the toothbrush holder; I hung on to any small thing he had left behind. I asked myself over and over again if I had done the wrong thing by getting a divorce. Should I have been the kind of wife he wanted me to be? Should I have done whatever it took to remain in his protective cocoon, even though relinquishing a slice of myself each day I pretended? It had felt so safe—to be with him felt so good, so hopeful.
God bless television because it was Kellie’s babysitter while I studied to finish my bachelor’s degree. Our one big adventure each week was a trip to church, where I became a full participant and Kellie became a full-fledged member in the kiddie Sunday school. Sundays were our days off, our escape from our ghetto housing scene into the middle-class world w
e had come from. Once again, it took eight buses for our journey. We left at 9:00 in the morning and did not get home before 4:30 that afternoon. On the way home, we always stopped for lunch with just enough money to divide one hamburger and one orange drink. That was our once-a-week splurge.
Our budget did not allow more than that one splurge. Sometimes I had little money left over after rent and bills. In one particularly lean month, we ate spaghetti thirty days in a row. For me, it was a signal of my desperation; for Kellie, it was a period of excitement as spaghetti was her favorite food. I told her it was a big blessing because God thought we were doing well. I prayed for an answer. I was offered a job grading papers for a professor.
On one afternoon while I was deep in study upstairs and Kellie was downstairs watching television, I heard the slam of the metal cover to our mail slot. It always signaled the time when she would race to the door to look out and then collect the mail. I had pondered how I could break Kellie of the habit of pining for a letter from her dad. She would explain his actions by saying, “Daddy doesn’t have a pencil” or “Daddy doesn’t have a stamp.” I knew for certain that wasn’t the case, but if it temporarily satisfied her need, I did not tell her otherwise.
Suddenly, I was struck by a panicked thought that she should not be in that place at that time. Something was really wrong! Was I overreacting, but to what? Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, but I remembered what Grandmother had said: “God is always on your side. He is as close as your skin if you only listen.” I called Kellie, “Let me read you a story.” Her favorite was Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
I called out to her again. “Kellie, if you hurry, I’ll read you two stories. I’ll read Dr. Seuss.” I heard the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. “Meatballs, Mommy, read Meatballs and Elephant.”
I Will Not Fear Page 8