by Tena Clark
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This book is dedicated to the memory of three people who shaped my early years:
To my mother, who was one of the most courageous, beautiful people I’ve ever known, and who gave me the love and courage to be who I am. You were my best friend. I miss you so much, Mama.
To Virgie Chapman, who helped raise me and taught me the meaning of faith, simplicity, and unconditional love.
And to my father, who was a complicated man to the core, but who loved me. I love you, Daddy, and I always will.
Prologue
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Where I grew up, girls like me knew our place. We were expected to smile politely and keep our white-gloved hands folded neatly in our laps when we sat in church. We spoke only when spoken to. We said: “Yes, sir,” and “No, thank you, ma’am,” and “Why yes, some sweet tea would be just fine.” Back talk was not an option. We did not ask: “Why?” We did not say: “That doesn’t seem fair.” We were expected to wear stiff, pressed dresses even under the blazing Mississippi sun, and to have perfectly curled hair and lightly powdered faces in the drenching humidity. As we grew up, we understood that stepping off the prescribed path in any way meant risking it all, and probably losing.
Where I’m from, men like my father—rich, Cadillac-driving, Klan-sympathizing men—made the money. Women like my mother—beautiful, charming, educated only in how to entertain—ran the houses. If these women had any dreams beyond tending to their husbands, babies, and barbeques, they kept those thoughts to themselves.
Black maids, like the two women who tended to me—first, Viola; then Virgie—raised the white children they cared for but were not allowed to sit at the family table, drink from the family’s cups, or ride in the front seat of their cars.
Black men and children were still called “boy,” as in “What are you starin’ at, boy?” And “nigger,” as in, “I’m gonna need a few more niggers to pick my pecans this year.” If you recoiled from the word, if it made your stomach clench and your insides boil, you were considered a “nigger lover,” a dangerous insult. And if word of your sympathies spread, your family feared waking in the middle of the night to a burning cross on the lawn, or a brick thrown through the dining room window during supper.
If your glamorous, tortured wife became an alcoholic, like my mother did, you sent her away to the state mental hospital in a straitjacket to dry out. If your husband was a notorious skirt-chaser, like my father was, you might pull your .38 Colt out at the dinner table and chase him around the house, threatening to kill him right then and there, but only after your dinner guests had left for the evening.
And if you were a lesbian, before you even knew there was a word for the feelings you had had for as long as you could remember, you suppressed this fundamental part of yourself for as long as you possibly could. You lived a lie. You kissed boys and wore their fraternity pins, curled your hair, entered beauty pageants, joined a sorority. You and your friends talked about wedding cakes, honeymoons, and how many babies you wanted, just like you were supposed to. Because that’s what good girls did.
Appearances mattered above all. “That’s just the way it is” and “Let it be” were common refrains.
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Growing up in Waynesboro, Mississippi, in the heart of the Jim Crow Deep South, I never thought there was any other way than the way it had always been. No one I knew ever ventured farther north than Memphis or maybe Nashville, and that was just fine with them.
My roots ran deep into the red earth; the land felt as much a part of me as my limbs, my heart. I hated it with a fury. I loved it with an all-consuming passion. This is the great paradox of the South. It’s a savage place, a complicated place, and yet it still burrows into you, like the fangs of one of the water moccasins I used to hunt as a young girl down on the Chickasawhay River behind our farm. There’s venom in the soil. But there’s an alluring beauty in it as well.
For a time, I assumed I had no choice but to stay on the straight and narrow path that had been laid out for me since birth. I’d wear the pressed dresses, the curled hair, the pin. I’d hold my tongue. I’d mind my manners. I’d play the clarinet and the piano even though I longed to play the drums. I’d marry a man exactly like my father, even though I was attracted to girls from the time I was four or five, when I first laid eyes upon a majorette in her green sequined leotard and white tassled boots. I’d be a charming and gracious hostess. I’d have the children, the impeccable house. Maybe I’d even have the black maid to raise my children and a staff of black men to pick the pecans and cut the lawn. I’d pass out finger sandwiches and pour sweet tea. And the cycle would continue.
Or maybe I’d find out I was stronger than I thought I was. And the cycle—at least for me—would end.
Chapter One
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The Last Birthday
Mama left for good on December 19, 1963. My tenth birthday.
“Aloha, baby,” she said to me before driving away.
Even before Mama decided she’d had enough, I’d been heavy with sadness. President Kennedy had been killed in Dallas the month before and like most of the country, I was still in shock. And I was scared. What did it mean that the president of the United States could be gunned down? I didn’t know the answer, but I was afraid to be asking it.
At least I had my upcoming birthday to distract me. For weeks, I’d been busy with my birthday plans, carefully choosing the guest list and games for my first-ever pallet party, which is what we called sleepovers back then. We’d start with Pin the Tail on the Donkey, then move on to Hide-and-Seek, and before bed we’d try to scare one another senseless with ghost stories told while huddled under blankets with flashlights held under our chins, turning our faces into ghoulish shadows. In fact, I had a mischievous streak and loved scaring the crap out of my friends, especially my younger cousin Rita Faye.
After adding and crossing off names on the guest list, I had come up with the perfect group of twelve girls, and I spent hours sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, handwriting each invitation and addressing the envelopes, drawing little stars and hearts in the corners. When I dropped the invitations in the mailbox at the end of our long dirt driveway, my insides fluttered with nerves. So many things could go wrong. An endless number of things, it seemed, and high on the list was Mama, whose drinking had grown steadily worse in the last year, and most days she was passed out on the couch or in bed before dinner.
When my birthday arrived, I woke before sunrise and tiptoed down the hall in my pajamas, the yellow-and-blue-striped linoleum cold under my bare feet. Virgie was at the house earlier than usual in order to prepare for the party, and she stood at the kitchen sink in her blue work blouse and pants; she would change into a stiff white uniform and white stockings before the girls and their mothers arrived in the afternoon. She was humming one of her favorite gospel hymns, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” which she and I had seen Mahalia Jackson sing on the television a few months before. Virgie had been grief-stricken by President Kennedy’s murder just the month before; one day I saw her silently weeping as she went about her work. I had never seen her cry, and it saddened and unnerved me even more than the faraway events I didn’t understand. This morning’s hymn was the first time I’d heard her hum in weeks.
I hung back in the doorframe and listened. The day was off to a promising start.
She turned when she heard the telltale creak of the floorboards and her face practically broke in half with a rare smile. She had a mouthful of crazy, crooked teeth that went in all directions, and I think they must have embarrassed her because she almost never showed those teeth the light of day. So when she did smile, it felt like she was giving a special gift, and that morning it was for me.
“Well, here be my beautiful baby girl!” Even though I knew she had nine children of her own at home, I felt like I was her baby girl.
I ran and flung myself into her open arms. Virgie was tall, almost as tall as Mama, but I was born small and on the short side, just like my daddy, so when I hugged Virgie, my head squashed right into her belly. I wrapped my arms around her thick middle and tried, as I always did, to get my fingers to touch on the other side—but I never could, not quite.
She pulled away gently so that she could look into my eyes, and asked, “Now, you tell me, baby girl, what you be wantin’ fo’ yo’ special birfday breakfast?”
“Oh, Virgie, I’m way too nervous to eat!” I protested, but even so, I reached out and grabbed a biscuit, hot from the oven, and broke off a piece to nibble on. I knew Virgie wouldn’t let me go without at least a bite of her biscuits for breakfast, even if I refused the gravy. Besides, I wanted to save room for my birthday cake. Mrs. Williams made the best cakes in town, and mine was always special-ordered—red velvet cake with little Christmas trees and tiny wrapped gifts and Santas fashioned into the thick white frosting.
Virgie sent me off to get dressed for school, and I skipped out of the kitchen and down the long hall to my bedroom, lifting the front of my pajama top so I wouldn’t spill any crumbs on her spotless floor.
Later that afternoon, after school, I raced to my room, pulling my dress up and over my head so I could put on my favorite overalls and the new Bobbie Brooks plaid shirt Mama had bought me for the party. Then I started back down the hall to the kitchen, too nervous to wait alone in my room for the party to begin.
As I passed the open door of my mother and father’s bedroom, I looked in and saw perhaps the only gift Daddy had ever given Mama that she truly cherished: a light pink jewelry box with a ballerina that spun on a spindle to a delicate piano tune, Chopin’s “Polonaise in A-flat Major.” I loved that the box and its music always seemed to make Mama happy. Not much else did. No matter her mood, no matter her state, the music always made her smile. Peeking around the door to make sure no one was in the room, I walked over to her bureau and picked it up. As I lifted the lid, the familiar, sweet song filled the room. I listened for a few moments, the music making me smile too, just like Mama, then I carefully closed the lid and put the box on the bureau, where it belonged.
In the kitchen, Virgie and Beulah Mae, who worked across the dirt road for my sister Georgia and had come over to help with the party, were busy at the counter putting up fresh-off-the-cob creamed corn. Virgie immediately put me to work, pulling a footstool over to the stove and handing me a spoon so I could stir the roasting corn in the cast-iron skillet.
I stood on my stool at the stove, stirring and daydreaming as Virgie occasionally reached around me to add a dash of heavy cream or a pinch of salt or a shake of sugar to the skillet. I thought about my list of friends and what each might give me for my birthday. Because it was a sleepover party, the other girls would be dressed, as I was, in their after-school play clothes rather than in stiff dresses with petticoats and matching ribbons in their hair. Everyone knew that I was the class tomboy—I was always playing cops and robbers and cowboys and Indians and climbing trees with Burke, my best friend, and the boys at recess—but at least I wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb at my own party. I hated it when my mother dressed me in taffeta and crinoline and curled my hair into long tendrils so I would look like all the other girls. I’d stare in the mirror and barely recognize my own face. And when she put me in pint-size antebellum ball gowns and little white gloves, I definitely didn’t recognize my own body. It was as if she hoped that the crinoline and the curls and the Bo Peep hat and white gloves would somehow make me an adorable little Southern belle from the outside in. So far, it hadn’t worked.
I stood between Virgie and Beulah Mae, all of us shoulder to shoulder, me stirring while they cut, seasoned, and then scooped the roasted corn into glass Ball jars. I leaned slightly against Virgie, something I did as often as I could, partly for balance and partly for comfort, reassured by her calm and steady presence. I drank in the stillness, feeling it spread through me like warm milk, my eyes getting heavy with sleep.
Then a scream shattered the air. Virgie grabbed me to keep me from toppling off the stool.
“That’s it! That’s it! That’s IT!”
Mama’s voice was thick with booze. It shook the house and tumbled down the hall toward us in the kitchen.
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear or go deaf or both. Oh no, I thought, not today. No, no, no. Please, Mama, not today. Not on my birthday. I had done a fair share of praying that the birthday would go smoothly, but I feared I must not have done enough. I dropped the wooden spoon, opening my eyes to watch it disappear into the milky, yellow kernels.
“I will not, I CANNOT spend one more night in this house,” she yelled. “I am LEAVING!” The last word was a scream unlike any I’d ever heard and it echoed against the wood paneling of the narrow hallway.
Virgie and Beulah Mae stared at each other for a moment, then Virgie grabbed me by the waist and in one smooth motion whisked me off the stool and put my feet firmly on the floor. Her strong hands lingered on my shoulders, holding on. I knew she wanted to protect me from what was coming, but it was too late—there was nowhere for me to hide and no way for her to stop the power of Mama’s hurricane.
“Nows you stay put, baby girl, hear?” she whispered above me, giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze. I nodded, feeling her thick body against the back of my head.
The house erupted. Mama yelled at Daddy. Daddy yelled back at her. Somewhere, we heard a bottle smash to the floor. A chair screeched across hard wood. A door slammed.
“You’re always imagining things, V-V-Vivian,” my father yelled. My daddy stuttered, particularly when he was angry or nervous, and this time I could hear he was very, very nervous. “N-n-n-nothing is happening with that woman! I s-s-s-swear!”
“SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!” Mama screamed. “Lamar Clark, if you tell me one more lie I’ll kill you. Right here and right now. I will SHOOT you dead, you lyin’, cheatin’ sonofaBITCH.”
She rushed into the kitchen with her arms full of clothes and with Daddy on her heels, her face flushed and her cheeks damp. She shifted the clothes in order to open the kitchen door with a free hand and then kicked open the screen door to where her Cadillac sat parked under the carport. Peeking around the corner of the counter, I saw her throw her armload of clothes into the backseat, then come back into the house and hurry past us down the hall to the bedroom. Back and forth, Mama and Daddy stomped through the house screaming at each other. Virgie, Beulah Mae, and I watched the action with our heads pivoting like we were at a tennis match. Nobody dared move.
“V-V-V-Vivian! Stop this right now!” Daddy said, but by this time he might as well have been talking to a skewered bull. There was no calming her down. Even I could see she was way past that point.
“I said SHUT UP, you sonofabitch! NO MORE!” she screamed as she ran through the kitchen and out to her car, throwing another armload into the backseat—fur coats and sweaters, dresses and slips, bras and panties, makeup and hairnets.
I caught a glimpse of my mother’s wild eyes and could see that her rage and the bourbon had taken over. She had one thing and one thing only on her mind: escape. She had driven off like this before, usually in a drunken uproar, sometimes with her sister, my aunt Jean, her regular drinking buddy, or as we in the South called them, her runnin’ buddy. And boy, did they love to run around town and
raise hell and a lot of eyebrows. Daddy would call his friends in the sheriff’s office and they would find Mama weaving through town, pull her over, and bring her back to sleep it off. But this time felt different.
Standing between Virgie and Beulah Mae, I suddenly remembered: It was my birthday. My guests would be arriving in less than an hour. With their mothers. Desperate to stop Mama, I ran out to where she and Daddy stood by her car fuming at each other and taking great gasping breaths like stallions facing off in the paddock.
“Mama!” I begged. “It’s my birthday. You can’t go. Please, not today!”
She stopped, her mascara cutting thin, black trails through the powder on her cheeks, her hair wild around her face. She blinked, as if trying to remember exactly who I was.
“It’s my birthday,” I said again. “Please, Mama. You can’t leave.”
I saw her head start to move and then slowly turn side to side in a drunken, loopy No. She wiped at her nose and cheeks with the back of her hand, leaving a thin trail of mucus on her face.
I looked down at my feet and there was the pink music box. It had fallen from one of her piles and the lid was off its hinge and one of the legs was missing. I picked it up and held it out to Mama, but she didn’t reach for it.
“See, see?” I said, opening the lid and shoving it at her as the notes began to echo through the chill of the late afternoon. “It’s your favorite song, Mama.”
As the music played, I saw fresh tears fill her eyes. I had watched her sober up fast before, but never this fast. I had a hot, hopeful rush of relief that I had done it. I had stopped her from leaving and saved the day. My day.
She looked at me then, finally seeing me, and took the box from my hands, gently shutting the lid. She reached out her hand and brushed my cheek with her fingertips.