Yesterday, I Cried

by IYANLA VANZANT

“What do you want to do when you leave here, Rhonda?”

  “Why? Does it matter?” she shot back at him.

  “Of course it matters. You are young and beautiful. You have three children to raise. You matter, Rhonda, and don’t allow anyone to tell you that you don’t.” His words were so gentle and sincere, Rhonda knew that he meant what he was saying.

  “I want to find myself, my real self. And I want to raise my children in a better way than I was raised.”

  “Both of these things matter,” Dr. Miller said, “they matter a lot.”

  Rhonda didn’t know how she knew, but she knew that Dr. Miller had just given her the answer to her prayers. Find your real self and raise your children in a different way. Not just different. Better. When she stood up, Dr. Miller was in the middle of a sentence. She stared at him for several seconds before saying calmly, “Thank you, Dr. Miller,” and leaving the room. Three days later, he discharged her from the hospital.

  Thank goodness for people who change their minds. Gary had paid the rent on Rhonda’s old apartment, preventing the landlord from throwing her belongings out on the curb. When she arrived at her apartment, she found Lady, the dog, standing at the door. You could see her ribs through the matted, gray coat. It looked as if she had not eaten since Rhonda left. The apartment had a foul odor. All of the utility services had been disconnected. There was no sign that John had been there. The sight, the smell, the awesomeness of the task before her, weakened Rhonda’s knees. Her mind felt cloudy again. Before the first tear rolled down her cheek, a voice filled her mind and the room. Stop! Do not be afraid. Do not panic. You will be shown what to do. You will be told what to say. Rhonda froze. She had already lost her mind, then found a piece of it again. Was she losing it again? Feed Lady and go to your mother-in-law’s house. John and your baby will be there. Without questioning what she was hearing, she left the apartment.

  It seemed like only a matter of minutes had passed before Rhonda found herself standing ten miles away on the other side of town, ringing Mildred’s doorbell. When she opened the door, Rhonda stepped inside quickly, just in case Mildred tried to keep her out. “When did you get out of the loony bin?” Mildred said snidely. Rhonda walked inside the house without responding. She went directly into the living room. Neither John nor Nisa was there, but she knew her spirit had not misled her. Mildred followed her, mumbling about b——s and crazy people. There was no sign of John or the baby. When Rhonda spun around without saying a word, Mildred jumped. She really must have thought Rhonda was crazy. Rhonda knew she wasn’t. For the first time in her life, she was standing up for herself. She would not cry or run away. She meant business, and somehow, Mildred knew it, too.

  “He ain’t here,” Mildred said before Rhonda could ask the question. Rhonda stared directly into Mildred’s eyes and spoke so calmly it was frightening.

  “Call him. Tell him I’m here and I want to see my baby.” Mildred could sense Rhonda’s new resolve and moved quickly to the telephone to make the call. Rhonda’s eyes never left her as she talked. Once she hung up, Rhonda left her standing there, walked into the living room, and sat down in a ragged, overstuffed chair.

  Rhonda sat without moving a muscle, her back erect. She never opened her mouth. She stared at the wall and remembered the promises she had made to her children in the letters she wrote. She sat there for thirty minutes, waiting for John to arrive. It made Mildred very nervous.

  In the middle of a thought, Rhonda felt something move through her body. It seemed as if a light were covering her. Again she heard the voice. Dr. Miller would not like this, she thought. The voice said, You have left me for darkness. Why? Rhonda closed her eyes, remembering her Snapper Five prayer/mantra: “Please, God. Please help me.” She could feel her body start to vibrate. She wondered—but didn’t really care—if Mildred were watching her. Then a buzzing started in her head. Even with her eyes closed, Rhonda could see. She saw herself falling from a cliff. Her stomach did a quick flip. Her body felt a jolt as though she had been electrocuted. When she heard the doorbell ring, she jumped to her feet.

  John walked in holding Nisa, who was hidden within the folds of her blanket. When their eyes met, Rhonda stood and extended her arms to receive her baby. John backed away from her. She sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the room, facing her. Rhonda diverted her eyes momentarily to make sure Mildred wasn’t getting ready to attack her from behind. Mildred always got bolder and more aggressive when John was around. When she turned back to face John, she noticed a young woman standing in the doorway, holding the baby’s bag. The room was still and silent. Each second seemed to take an hour to pass. Rhonda calmly returned her gaze to John.

  “Can I please have my baby?”

  John ignored her. He began to unwrap the blanket from around the baby. Rhonda could hear her heart pounding in her head. She could feel it pounding in her feet. The blanket was one that Nett had crocheted for Damon five years earlier.

  Finally John looked over at Rhonda. He began to shout obscenities at her, telling her what he would and would not do.

  Rhonda remained calm. The voice guided her: Do not panic. You will be told what to say. Speak your words with power and authority. When Rhonda spoke, she felt the calmness beginning to dissipate.

  “Please, John. Give me the baby. Let me hold her. I’m not going anywhere with her.” Too many words, too fast. It sounded like the plea of an anguished mother crying out for her child. John was not moved. Mildred was.

  “Give her the baby, Johnnie,” she ordered. “Don’t be stupid.” The baby was now fully exposed. John clutched Nisa to his chest and raised his voice.

  “You don’t know her. She’s crazy. Don’t tell me what to do! I ain’t givin’ that b——my baby!” The voice guided. Be still! Suddenly, John jumped to his feet and lunged at Rhonda, screaming, “Who you lookin’ at? Who are you lookin’ at?”

  Rhonda didn’t move. She was praying. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil …”

  John was trying to frighten her, to make her cower and cry. It was a tactic that had always worked. Until today. Rhonda was willing to do whatever it took to get her baby from the man who was holding her. He wasn’t John any longer. He wasn’t the man who had beaten Rhonda when she was pregnant with the very baby he now clutched to his chest. No longer was he six feet two inches tall. He was no longer a monster. He was a frightened little six-year-old boy who was insisting on having his way. Rhonda could see it in his eyes. She heard it in his words, and she was not going to terrorize a frightened child. She sat down and looked at the young woman, who was still standing in the doorway.

  Rhonda didn’t remember who spoke first, but she remembered the conversation. Rhonda had done so many things to make John beat her, he said. John had lied about getting the apartment, she said. Rhonda had called the police on him, and they went to his job and embarrassed him. Her mother was always nasty to him. His mother was nasty to her. When it seemed they were getting nowhere, Mildred jumped up from the sofa, ripped her wig off her head, and threw it on the floor.

  “I am sick of this s——! Give her that damn baby so she can get the hell out of my house!”

  When Mildred’s dog saw the wig slide across the middle of the floor, he attacked it. He grabbed it between his teeth and wrestled it across the room.

  “Johnnie, get my wig from that dog. I’ve got to wear it to work tomorrow.”

  John tried to take the wig away from the dog. The dog could not be persuaded. Still holding the baby, John grabbed one side of the wig. The dog still had the other side in his teeth. John pulled on his side, the dog pulled against John’s grip. John started wrestling with the dog, which was wrestling with the wig. Somehow, in the middle of it all, the baby was transferred from John’s arms to Rhonda’s arms. By the time the wig was free, Rhonda was sitting in the chair, kissing Nisa’s face. She smelled clean. When John realized what he had done, he plopped down in his chair and threw the wig at h
is mother.

  Rhonda turned her attention to the young woman, who had now taken a seat. She had been twisting and turning in her chair like a spectator at a tennis match, trying to follow the words that Rhonda and John were volleying between them. Rhonda spoke to her in a soothing voice.

  “What could a man say to you that would make you think it was all right to take him in with a six-week-old baby?”

  The woman squirmed in her seat. She looked at Rhonda, then at John. She wasn’t sure if she should respond. When Rhonda repeated the question, one word at a time, the woman blurted out an answer.

  “He told me you left him. We have been together for almost six months. I have a son, too! I know how to take care of a baby. I love John.” Rhonda ignored what the woman had said.

  “How old are you?” Rhonda asked her.

  “Twenty-one,” she answered proudly.

  “Thank you,” Rhonda said. “The baby looks clean and very well cared for.”

  John told Rhonda he was leaving her and taking the baby with him. Rhonda kept kissing Nisa’s face. Lots of kisses. Lots of kisses. Babies need lots of kisses.

  When Rhonda stood up with the baby in her arms, everyone else in the room stood up, too. They seemed to be positioning themselves for attack in the event she started toward the door. She didn’t. Instead, she walked over to John and placed the baby in his arms.

  “I’m going now. I’m going home to clean up a little bit. I should be finished by seven. By eight o’clock tonight, I expect to have my baby home in her bed.” She kissed the baby one last time, turned, and walked out the door. Before she knew it, she was back at home. It was 2:30 in the afternoon.

  Lady greeted her at the door, obviously feeling a lot better now that she’d eaten. There were piles of dog crap in every room. Rhonda dug around in the boxes and found her rubber gloves and cleaning supplies. On her hands and knees, she cleaned up crap and prayed. She cleaned and sang, “Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me around.” As she put fresh sheets on her bed, which was the mattress on the floor, she heard the voice again. Be still and know! She did know, she really did.

  Mothers are very important to children. They provide the lifeblood, the mind energy, and the “soul food” that every child needs in order to flourish. Fathers show us how to survive. Mothers teach us how to blossom and flourish. The mother must teach, nurture, guide, and provide the spiritual support system that the soul requires to unfold. When a child does not have a mother, some portion of the mind, the soul, and the life of the child remains in a constant state of yearning and want. What the child wants is to be fed and loved in a way that only a mother can love. Only a mother can bring forth the grace, mercy, beauty, and gentleness of the spirit. The spirit of God. The spirit of mothering energy is present in every woman. Whether she knows it or not, a woman is a mother, simply by virtue of the fact that she is a woman. Some fathers are able to mother. Others, like Rhonda’s, are not.

  When a woman does not know she is a mother, or how to mother, the children around her become lost. She is not sensitive to them or their needs. Her words are spoken harshly. Her actions are abrupt and abrasive. She is authoritarian. She knows the rules of mothering but not the grace. The grace of the mother’s love will break the rules, when it is necessary, in order to nourish a child. In the face of an authoritarian mother, a child’s growth is stunted. When a child has an unfolded heart, it is too difficult, too painful for her to express how she feels, or what she needs. Unexpressed feelings and needs lead to anger and fear.

  When a woman has not touched the part of her spirit that is God, she cannot offer God to her children. She cannot give love, perhaps because she has not received love. She follows the rules that say that love, loving, and the mercy of love are weaknesses. When a woman with a closed heart is placed in the role of a mother, she can’t be anything but weak.

  The women in Rhonda’s life had nourished her with closed hearts. They didn’t know it, but Rhonda felt it. All of her life, she felt like a motherless child. She had not been watered by grace, pruned by mercy, or tilled by love. Rhonda had been taught the rules of mothering. She had not been taught how to temper them gracefully. She had been taught how to be strong. She had not been taught the gentle, graceful strength of meekness. Rhonda had heard that the meek shall inherit the earth, but she could not figure out how they would do it. How she would do it. She was a stunted child who had not yet touched the woman, the mother, or the essence of God in her spirit. She had not been taught how to do it, but she was willing.

  At 4:30, she walked to the pay telephone at the corner to call Daddy’s house. It felt so good to talk to Damon. Gemmia wouldn’t talk; she just cried. Rhonda asked her father if he would bring the children over in the morning. He said he would, and he told her about an empty apartment on the top floor of his apartment building. It was small, he said, but affordable. Daddy agreed to talk to the landlord.

  By the time Rhonda walked back into her apartment, it was exactly five o’clock. She lay down across the mattress. At five minutes to eight, the doorbell rang. Walking toward the door, she could see John’s shadow through the lace curtains. She took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. Rhonda could feel the calm energy that had pierced her body earlier in the day leave her. Her heart began to pound. Her knees grew weak.

  By eight o’clock, John was gone, and Nisa was asleep in her mother’s arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  What’s the Lesson When You Learn the Lesson, Then Forget It?

  For the rest of my life there are two days that will never again trouble me. The first day is yesterday with all its blunders and tears, its follies and defeats. Yesterday has passed away, beyond my control forever. The other day is tomorrow with its pitfalls and threats, its dangers and mystery. Until the sun rises again, I have no stake in tomorrow, for it is still unborn.

  Og Mandino, in The Return of the Ragpicker

  RHONDA DID HER BEST to like her newfound stepmother, brothers, and sisters. She was surprised to find that they already knew Grandma and Ray. The boys and girls were excited to finally meet their “big sister” and even more excited that she was their neighbor. Whenever they heard Rhonda and her children leaving their fourth-floor apartment, they would open the door of their first-floor apartment just to say hi. Rhonda did her best to be nice to them, but the fact that they even existed made her furious.

  Her new apartment wasn’t just tiny, she was sure it was the place that had given birth to claustrophobia. The front door opened into the bathroom and blocked the doorway that led to the children’s room. You could turn around in the kitchen, if you did it slowly. The living room was a perfect little box. It had two windows that overlooked the alley behind the building. The first thing Rhonda did was check to make sure there were no dogs in the alley. There was one. When you stepped out of the living room, you were in the bedroom. The only place you could go in the bedroom was onto the bed, which was pushed up against the dresser. The best thing about the apartment was that there were never any BVDs hanging in the bathroom. Rhonda and the children shared the apartment without benefit of male companionship.

  It took about a year for Rhonda to get settled in and to realize that she could not raise three children on a $229 check. What didn’t go for rent went to feed her three growing youngsters. The little that was left went toward clothing, utility bills, and to cover dire necessities. Nett helped out when she could, but she was a bit miffed that her grandchildren were living in the same building as Daddy and “that woman.” John had made it very clear that he wasn’t giving Rhonda any assistance unless she had sex with him. Rhonda’s brother, Ray, was good for a few dollars on Fridays, when he got paid, but Rhonda would have to get to him before he got high. Occasionally, through a temporary agency, Rhonda got work that she did not report to her welfare caseworker. As the children grew, the apartment got smaller and smaller. She thought about moving, but the money just wasn’t there.

  When you are in trouble, it is hard to believe that
you are being prepared for something better. It is hard to see that the desperation you feel in the pit of your stomach is making you stronger. There is no way to tell that the fear you experience, when the bills are late or the refrigerator is empty, makes you a wiser, more prudent decision maker. When you are in trouble, you feel weak and numb. It is hard to think. It is like waiting for the axe to fall. But because there are so many axes hanging over you, you are not sure which way to duck. Rhonda was beginning to doubt herself. She felt weak, on her way to numbness. She was tired of dodging axes. She could not see her way out of the trouble she was in. Money trouble. Mothering trouble. Rotten-man trouble. John was calling her every day, gnawing away at her resolve to build a better life. It was a bit much for a twenty-three-year-old.

  Rhonda eventually married the trouble. She and John exchanged rings and vows in a private ceremony between themselves. Although she was still technically married to Curtis, it was important to her that John wanted to marry her. It worked for almost two years. Then the trouble got stirred up all over again.

  John and Rhonda didn’t fight. He beat her up. Period. He had stopped slapping her. Now, he would punch her. While she was down from a punch, he would straddle her, choke her, and, if she tried to get away, he would kick her. Most of the time he beat her for spending money. Rhonda liked to spend money. It made her feel good. She spent money on clothing and shoes for herself and the children. While Rhonda was out shopping, John was spending his time with other women. When he came home and discovered the things Rhonda had bought, he would beat her.

  Shopping wasn’t John’s only excuse for beating Rhonda. He beat her because it was Tuesday. He beat her because the moon was full. He beat her if there wasn’t enough to eat. He beat her if he didn’t like what she had prepared to eat. Slapping, punching, choking, and kicking Rhonda was the way in which John communicated what he wanted her to do and not do. The only thing worse than the actual beatings was the knowledge that if she did not figure out what he was trying to communicate to her, she would get beaten again.