The reverend always began his sermon speaking very slowly and quietly. It was like he was lulling us all into a false state of comfort. He preached about the wonders of God’s love and the importance of attending church regularly. But then, all of a sudden, he changed tempo and began preaching “hellfire and brimstone,” warning us that all sinners go to hell and experience eternal damnation but those who repent will have ever-lasting life. The louder he spoke, the louder the organ music became. People began hopping to their feet, clapping their hands, raising their arms toward the heavens, and swaying with the music. I loved this part—I loved to dance and sing—so I gladly joined in on the celebration, clapping my hands, singing at the top of my lungs, and dancing up and down the aisles.
Then the shouting would begin: “Hallelujah!” “Amen!” “Praise the Lord!” I took this opportunity to yell as loud as I could right along with the rest of people, thrilled to know that no one was going to reprimand me and tell me to keep quiet.
By the time the preacher was finished, the crowd had worked itself into a frenzy.
Some people were crying hysterically, some hopping around in circles screaming. Then—thud—someone (usually one of the women in the first row) would collapse on the floor. Everyone seemed to have their own particular way of collapsing. Some went to their knees first, others looked like they were falling in slow motion, and still others fainted in a dead drop, falling straight down to the floor. They gyrated around on the floor or wriggled and writhed like someone having a seizure. This is when the “speaking in tongues” would begin. They sounded like they were talking or shouting in a foreign language. Speaking in tongues meant you were possessed by the Holy Ghost, which was the best thing that could happen to you.
While I loved the singing, dancing, and shouting, the gyrating on the floor and speaking in tongues scared me. I knew these people were supposed to be blessed by the Holy Ghost, but to me it felt like they were possessed by something or someone far scarier—like the devil. I tried not to look too long at the people having seizures and speaking gobbledygook because I was afraid they had the power to put me under their spell.
The preacher’s “hellfire and brimstone” sermons put the fear of God in me. My Sundays at Mrs. Jones’s church, together with my mother’s constant lectures about being “good,” pretty much kept me in line. And even though Momma thought Mrs. Jones was a religious fanatic and the things that happened in her church were weird, she liked the fact that she had so many rules and kept such a tight rein on me.
From Momma, I heard the same message every day: “You be a good girl today.”
One Saturday, after I’d been with Mrs. Jones for about a year, Momma dropped me off at her house and repeated her refrain: “Now you be good today for Mrs. Jones.”
I looked up at her and said, “Momma, I have to be good for Mrs. Jones. I have to be good at church. I have to be good for my teachers. I have to be good for you. When can I be bad?”
This amused Momma to no end. She laughed out loud and looked at me like she was pleased I had asked that question. She apparently didn’t realize how serious I was.
She even replayed what I’d said to her friends more than once in the weeks that followed, laughing her heartfelt laugh each time. She thought it was cute.
On the one hand, I was happy whenever my mother laughed at anything I said or did. But it was also confusing. She seemed to be proud of me when I said things she thought were “precocious” and “cute,” but then she’d turn around and criticize me for being “too precocious” when I said or did something she didn’t like.
The only place where I didn’t have to worry about being good was Pam’s house. There, alone with Pam in her bedroom, I felt accepted and loved for who I was. I didn’t have to worry about making her angry, like I did with my mother, and I didn’t have to worry about doing something that would send me to Hell, like I did when I was at Mrs. Jones’s house. I didn’t have to worry about impressing her, like I did my teachers. In fact, I didn’t have to worry about anything. I could just let my imagination run wild as we played with her dolls, dollhouses, stuffed animals, and other toys. If I got carried away and started making noises, I didn’t have to worry about “quieting down.” If I started giggling to the point where I was rolling around on the floor, I had no one there to tell me to not get “carried away.” Instead I was met with sweet smiles when I looked up from my playing, and looks of approval and even appreciation when I came up with some crazy idea about what we could do.
I always left Pam’s house feeling renewed and strong, able to go back and face the criticism and disapproval of my mother. No one could touch me when I was buoyed up from Pam’s warm smile.
To my mother, being good meant many things. It meant being quiet while she took a nap. It meant not talking back. It meant not bothering her while she sat for hours talking to her friends. But mostly it meant not embarrassing her.
One day when I was in the second grade, I woke her up from her afternoon nap to tell her I was going over to Ruby’s. She turned over and issued her usual warning to “be good” before closing her eyes again.
I spent that afternoon with Ruby, sitting quietly on the floor of her dark apartment, drawing pictures while she read her mystery novel. I was soaking up the richness of the smell of leather and old books, looking up periodically to stare at the mysterious gargoyles and the line of carved elephants making their way across Ruby’s bookshelves.
As was our custom, after a few hours of this, Ruby looked up from her book and said, “Don’t you think it’s time for a snack?”
I shot up off the floor and put my hand out for the coins that would pay for two Coca-Colas and a can of Vienna sausages, then ran out the back door, across the large, empty lot, and down the street to the little market. Inside, I grabbed the Cokes and the tiny tin of salty little wieners and paid hastily at the counter. As I rushed back to Ruby’s, I could almost taste the combination of the salty sausages and soft white bread slathered in mayonnaise. I could feel the delicious clink of the cold bottle of Coke against my teeth. I couldn’t wait to get back to Ruby’s, so I decided to come in through the court’s front entrance, a more direct route.
I was immediately confronted by a small group of people gathered around our little yard. They all turned in my direction—including my mother, who was clearly upset.
“Where have you been, young lady?” she called to me. “I’ve been worried sick. The whole neighborhood has been out looking for you. I even called Mr. Delis to drive around in his car.”
I looked through the crowd and sure enough, there was Pam’s father, looking out of place among the neighborhood housewives.
“I was at Ruby’s, Momma!” I wailed.
The crowd quickly dispersed as my mother thanked everyone for helping her. Then there was only Mr. Delis left in our yard. Momma apologized profusely for wasting his valuable time, yanked my arm, and told me to do the same.
“I’m sorry you had to go look for me, Mr. Delis,” I said through my tears. I knew my mother had been shamed by the experience, and I in turn felt humiliated. I also knew that once again I was in trouble, and once again I didn’t really understand why. I’d told Momma I was going to Ruby’s, but it was clear she didn’t remember—and it was all my fault. Again.
Momma pushed me into the house and sat me down hard on the couch.
“How dare you humiliate me in front of all those people. Don’t you ever, ever leave this house again without telling me where you are going.”
I looked up at her and dared to look into her eyes. “But Momma, I told you I was going to Ruby’s—”
She slapped me hard across the face. “Don’t you lie to me, young lady. I won’t have it.”
My face stung, causing my eyes to flood with tears. This time I didn’t look up. “But Momma, I did tell you. Don’t you remember?”
“You did no such thing. I would have remembered if you had. Stop lying.” Her voice was taking on the hysterical tone that sig
naled an impending full-on verbal assault—or, worse yet, the dreaded silent treatment. I kept quiet.
It wasn’t until a couple of days later, when my mother could once again afford to speak to me, that I was able to explain to her that I had woken her up to tell her I was going to Ruby’s.
She never told me she believed me and she never apologized for calling me a liar or for hitting me. But she did impress upon me that in the future I should leave a note instead of waking her up from a nap.
That was the closest I had ever gotten to hearing my mother take responsibility for anything she had done wrong. But as usual, I was left feeling confused. Why hadn’t my mother checked with Ruby first before getting the whole neighborhood in an uproar looking for a missing child? She knew I went over to Ruby’s all the time; even if she didn’t remember me telling her I was going there, it only made sense that she’d check with her first. Why hadn’t she?
chapter 8
I was a liar—at least as far as my mother was concerned. Looking back on it now, I probably didn’t lie any more than other children. But my mother didn’t understand children, their behavior, or their psychology. She couldn’t distinguish between what was normal and what was aberrant. All she knew was how she wanted me to behave, and when I didn’t behave in the required way, I was bad—all bad. When it came to me, she wanted perfection, even though anyone who has ever been around kids knows that isn’t possible. And she seemed to lack the ability to empathize with me, to try to figure out why I might behave as I did.
One evening, after my mother had picked me up from Mrs. Jones’s house and she was sitting drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, I said to her, “You’re going to hell, Momma.”
She looked at me in horror. “What do you mean? Why are you saying that?”
“Mrs. Jones told me,” I answered brightly. “She said you were going to hell because you drink and smoke and wear makeup.”
Now, technically, Mrs. Jones had never told me that my mother was a bad woman because she drank, smoked, and wore makeup. She hadn’t told me my mother was going to hell. But she didn’t have to. She’d told me that anyone who did these things was a bad person and was going to hell.
Momma, being the proud woman she was, became indignant. How dare her daughter’s babysitter say these things about her! The next day, instead of dropping me off at Mrs. Jones’s house, she marched into her living room with me in tow and confronted her.
Momma sat me down on the piano bench. It was a place I normally loved to sit and pretend to play, but on this day I felt uncomfortable sitting there—I felt too exposed, as if I were on trial. I was immobilized with fear.
“Tell Mrs. Jones what you told me,” my mother insisted.
“Uh, well . . . that you were going to hell because you smoke and drink and wear makeup,” I stammered.
“I did no such thing. I would never say that!” Mrs. Jones declared. “Why would you say such a thing, Beverly?” She looked at me with a bewildered look on her face.
I didn’t know what to say. I knew Mrs. Jones felt strongly that people who did those things were bad, so I didn’t understand why she didn’t admit it to my mother. “I don’t know . . .” I muttered, holding my head down in shame.
My mother glared at me. “So you lied? You made the whole thing up?”
I felt cornered. And confused. I knew I hadn’t made it up. But I didn’t know how to explain myself. I remembered all those times Mrs. Jones had lectured me about not smoking and drinking and dancing and wearing makeup. She’d even made me sign a contract promising I wouldn’t do those things when I grew up.
My mother wasn’t going to give up. “Why would you say such a thing? What made you do this?”
I couldn’t explain myself and I didn’t want to get Mrs. Jones in trouble with my mother. So I simply looked down at the rug, completely mortified. I imagined myself melting into the rug. Out of sight and out of danger.
Now Momma was apologizing to Mrs. Jones. “I am so sorry for this. I’m sorry I believed a word she said. I should have known. She’s such a liar. Of course this means I can’t have you babysit her anymore. It wouldn’t be right. I’m terribly sorry.”
Mrs. Jones didn’t say a word.
With that, Momma jerked me up off the piano bench and pushed me out the door. I heard Mrs. Jones muttering something about how sorry she was too. She didn’t think it would come to this. She liked babysitting me.
Today, of course, I understand what happened. I must have felt terribly conflicted about what I was learning from Mrs. Jones and the person my mother was. I was likely worried about my mother’s soul—afraid she was going to hell. Perhaps I was even trying to stop her from drinking, smoking, and wearing makeup, so she wouldn’t go to hell. But a child cannot recognize the nuances of adult messages. I guess Mrs. Jones expected me to absorb everything she was saying about what made people bad without becoming confused about the fact that my mother was doing these same “forbidden” things. To Momma, it must have seemed like I was just trying to make trouble. It must have seemed like I was just a liar.
In third grade, I proved to my mother that she was right all along: I became a real liar.
Principal Marshall stood before an assembly of students, teachers, and parents and said into the microphone, “And now it gives me great pleasure to announce the winner of our Father’s Day essay contest: Beverly Engel. Beverly, would you come up here please?”
I stumbled onto the stage in my heavy brown shoes as the audience applauded. Principal Marshall handed me a shiny blue ribbon and the audience once again clapped politely.
“Beverly, would you be so kind as to read your essay to us?”
Like a little robot, I turned to face the audience and lifted my essay almost up to my face. I began to read in a voice that was almost a shout, “My Daddy the War Hero.”
Miss Simmons, my third grade teacher, beamed with pride.
I finished reading and then sheepishly looked up from my paper. I fingered the blue ribbon I held in my hand for comfort. The audience applauded enthusiastically and looked at one another and smiled. I caught the eye of one of the few fathers in the audience. He nodded and smiled broadly at me. I smiled back and walked off the stage, a little skip to my step.
As I approached my mother, who was still sitting in the audience, I noticed she wasn’t looking at me with pride. Instead, she was scowling at me. As I sat down in my seat next to her, she scolded me in a loud whisper, “How could you humiliate me like this? If I’d have known that this stupid essay you made such a fuss about was a complete lie, I wouldn’t have bothered to come to this stupid assembly.”
As soon as the assembly ended, I felt my mother’s hand tighten on my arm. She dragged me out of the auditorium, and suddenly, I heard her voice again. It sounded polite and cordial, but there was an undercurrent of anger that I recognized. I looked up to see Miss Simmons standing at the end of the aisle.
“Mrs. Engel, you must be so proud of your daughter,” Miss Simmons said cheerfully, giving me a big smile. “Wasn’t that a fine essay she—”
“Miss Simmons, may I speak to you a moment?” It was more of a demand than a question. “Miss Simmons, Beverly lied to everyone in that auditorium just now. Her father isn’t a war hero. In fact, she’s never even met her father. She made the whole thing up.”
Miss Simmons’s mouth opened in surprise. She looked at me with a quizzical look on her face, her eyebrows arching upward like a question mark. I dropped my head in shame.
“Oh, Mrs. Engel,” she said. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? The point of the contest was to honor the students’ fathers for Father’s Day. Beverly wrote a fine essay about a wonderful father. It was the spirit of the essay that was important, and the writing.”
For just an instant, I felt hopeful. Miss Simmons was making some good points.
“Well, it certainly matters to me. Beverly, I want you to apologize to Miss Simmons for lying and for deceiving her and the entire school.”
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I shuffled my feet back and forth and kept my gaze cast to the floor.
“And look at her when you do it,” she insisted as she pulled at my short hair, forcing my neck back.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Miss Simmons.” My lower lip trembled and my eyes filled with tears.
“I accept your apology, Beverly,” Miss Simmons said softly.
My mother lifted up her chin and straightened her shoulders. “And I think you need to give back your prize.”
I looked up at my mother’s face for the first time. “But Momma—”
“Just do as I say.”
I looked at the blue ribbon with the words first prize written on it and let my fingers feel the satin finish for the last time. Then I handed it to my teacher.
Miss Simmons reached out her hand and reluctantly took the blue ribbon from me. She looked sad and smiled at me weakly, as if to reassure me in some way.
I knew it was wrong to lie. But when the teacher told me to write an essay about my father for Father’s Day, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know anything about my father. So I made one up. I was used to playing alone and making up fantasy worlds in my head to entertain myself. Sometimes, I created a jungle scene from the little patch of scrawny trees and tall grasses in the front of the court. Other times, I’d sit on the tree stump at the side of the court and transport myself onto the high seas, a sea captain bravely directing my sailors to forge ahead. And so I guess I’d used my imagination to make up a father in my head. My father, the war hero.
chapter 9
I saw The Wizard of Oz for the first time when I was eight years old at a neighbor’s house. I adored Glenda, the Good Witch of the North, and detested and feared the Wicked Witch of the West. In some ways, the movie reminded me of the drama that was going on in my own home.
Raising Myself Page 5