One Day She'll Darken

by Fauna Hodel

  At about two in the morning, the same nurse found Fauna sitting silently, staring at a single candle that glowed in the dimly lit chapel. “Mrs. Sharp,” whispered the nurse, “It’s your mother. She passed away a few minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

  Fauna didn’t look up. She nodded. The nurse stayed with her a couple of minutes, then vanished in silence. Patta said a final prayer for her mother, without tears, without emotion. In her mind, she heard the nurse say the hospital would no longer take care of Jimmie.

  There were so many things to be done. Momma needed a new dress, everyone had to be called and told of the news, funeral arrangements had to be made, limousines had to be reserved, someone had to take care of Yvette. The casket! Momma had the good sense to take care of that on her own; she needed to find Roxy to find out which one. There were so many details to be taken care of. Who would give her eulogy? What would they say? What about food? I’ll have to call Aunt Dolly and Aunt Rosie. Her mind raced, trying to decide what to do first.

  She rushed from the chapel and found the nearest phone. She searched frantically through the Yellow Pages for the mortician. “There! There he is! Rodgers Funeral Home.” She called and let the phone ring until someone finally answered.

  “Hello?” the voice on the other end sounded very groggy. She knew it was late, but this was too important. It had to be done—now!

  “Hello. I’m sorry to call so late. . . .”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Mrs. Sharp, Fauna Sharp. My mother is Jimmie Lee Faison. I’m here at the hospital. I want to know if you picked her up yet.”

  “Picked her up? What are you talking about?”

  “My mother. She died. I want to know if you picked up her body.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who she is.”

  “She’s black. And very, very pretty, but she’s lost a lot of weight recently. . . .”

  Suddenly, someone jerked the phone out of Fauna’s hand. She was startled and confused. She thought she was alone. Quickly she turned. It was the nurse, who held the phone close to her breast.

  It’s O.K., I’ll take care of this,” said the nurse, as Fauna began to cry. “Why don’t you go home and try to get some sleep.”

  “But there’s so much to do!” she said.

  “Don’t worry. Just go home. There’s nothing you can do now.”

  When she realized the time and where she was, Fauna felt foolish. She apologized and left the hospital.

  It was November 12, 1976. A phone call from Aunt Rosie woke her early. The hospital had called Rosie and she phoned everyone. She was on her way over, she told Fauna. Jimmie had been dead only a few hours. Fauna put on the coffee and took a shower, trying to invigorate herself for the long emotional ordeal that lay ahead of her. Alone for the first time without Momma, she prayed for the strength to go on.

  Aunt Rosie entered with tears in her eyes and threw her arms around Fauna. Then she said, “I’m sorry, Patta. She’s with the Lord now; she’s finally at peace.”

  Rosie stepped back, “Her remains are at the funeral home. I spoke with them this morning. They want you to go down sometime later on today to sign some papers and make sure she looks okay.”

  “Oh God,” Fauna said dreadfully.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be all right. Take her favorite dress with you, and the wig—don’t forget the wig. You know she’d never want to be seen unless she was as pretty as she could be.”

  “I want to call Reverend Mayfield for the eulogy.”

  “But I’ve already spoken with Reverend Webb!” Rosie said.

  “That’s okay. He’ll understand. Mayfield and Momma are two of a kind. It’s better that way.”

  During the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, relatives and close friends stopped by. They brought food and liquor and sat somberly, occasionally telling anecdotes that often turned into outrageous stories about Jimmie. Fauna knew most of them, but there were some stories about her early childhood that made her love Momma even more.

  About eight o’clock that evening, she left everyone to go down to the mortician’s. They were expecting her. They talked for a while and then they brought her into where Jimmie was, lying peacefully in her favorite casket. Her body looked so scrawny, yet somehow her persona was larger in death than it had been in life. Fauna stepped before the casket and placed Momma’s wig on her brown head, fixing it so that she could look beautiful for her public. She was still Pretty Jimmie. She kissed her softly on the forehead, waiting ever so patiently for her to move, or perhaps smile at her, but all was motionless. She placed a single red rose in the cold, clasped hands and stood silently meditating, hoping that wherever Momma was, she would hear her prayers and she would know that she loved her.

  When she returned to the house an hour or so later, she went directly to her room and opened her diary for the last time. She wrote:

  Flowers of Remembrance

  A Rose for your hand

  A Flower for your heart

  When we meet again

  Will you

  Remember it was

  I who cherished you . . .

  The Rose I placed

  With you

  Will wither

  And fade with you —

  But when you rise

  The message of

  The Rose will

  Direct you to me.

  On the day that Jimmie’s body was to be viewed for the last time, the church was only half-filled with close friends and relatives. Reverend Mayfield escorted Fauna in and took his place at the pulpit. He was Jimmie’s close friend and as he spoke, Fauna’s mind wandered off, remembering all the sad times and good times. The service was short, but Reverend Mayfield preached from his heart.

  He was her friend; he was her companion. He told all who were there to “be not quick to judge, for all have sinned. She was mocked for her drink, but don’t be too quick—for sin is sin—and only God can judge whose sin is worse.”

  There were cries from mourners, some of whom only knew her as a kindly and generous pretty black lady. Afterward, outside, there were again condolences. An hour later, her body was taken to Mountain View Cemetery. Aunt Rosie suggested that Fauna go back to the house rather than stand outside the church. Fauna agreed, and the driver took her home, leaving everyone to go on to the cemetery without her. She would meet them later.

  She walked into Jimmie’s house for the last time and looked over Momma’s few meager possessions. Not much to account for in a life that had lasted more than fifty-seven years. In a few weeks, no one will remember her, Fauna thought. No one will care that she even lived, no one except me. She sat down at the table and opened the guest book from the funeral home where Jimmie’s friends had entered their names. She looked over them one at a time, picturing each face and each voice.

  At the end of the small book there was a page titled “Biographical Notes.” She picked up a pen and wrote the last note:

  To Jimmie,

  My Precious Mother —

  Oh how I love you! Though we battled, and yes, even cried together, I know you’re my mother, and that has made it all worthwhile.

  Momma, I’ll meet you again when times are bliss. And oh, how we’ll rejoice! Because God will have given us eternal peace.

  I sent you roses while you still lived. I bid you off to a final resting place. You look so contented. At last you’ve found a place where you fit.

  Your Pat

  Fauna Nov. 14, 1976

  She hadn’t realized how much time had gone by until she heard a knock on the door. When she opened it, there stood the tall, distinguished chauffeur dressed in a black suit, with his cap pulled down covering his eyes, ready to escort her to the waiting limousine. “It’s time to go, Mrs. Sharp,” he said. His voice sounded familiar. She looked up at him and for just a second, thought she recognized something familiar in his face. She gently closed the book and said, “Yes, I’m ready.”

  The End

  EPILOG
UE

  by Fauna Hodel

  My biological mother chose to have me raised by African-Americans, or Negroes, as they were called in the early 1950s. It was unusual and dangerous for my momma to be in the custody of a white child. The thing is—I didn’t know I was white; I believed what was printed on my birth certificate—that my father was a Negro. I defended my black existence with that important piece of paper. It was what defined me when I was younger. Though I soon began to realize that I was caught between two worlds. I lived in a constant struggle to balance between these worlds. In reality, I was balancing four worlds, the two worlds of black and white and two of my own worlds. My own worlds were those of my real life with my momma, and that secret and imaginary world that had me meeting, loving, and knowing my natural mother. However, my real world dominated my life. A world where I was being raised in a life of poverty, settled in the African American culture, and surrounded by people such as Big Momma, my aunts, the church, and other family and friends who embraced me and loved me even though I was white. A world where prejudice was a part of my daily life. . . . A world where I was being raised by a woman who complained about bigotry yet had learned to be prejudiced herself. . . . A world where the question of who I really was haunted me daily.

  From about the age of eight, I had a mission. It all started with a film I saw with Momma in 1959, Imitation of Life, which still haunts me to this day. I found the anger expressed by the main character, Sarah Jane, because she was black, unbearable. She separated herself from her mother and denied her heritage. She had broken her mother’s heart. As Mahalia Jackson sang during the mother’s funeral, I vowed I would grow up and do something about the cruelty people heaped on one another because of the color of another’s skin. I clearly remember the dirty looks given to me by the theatergoers when I called my mama ‘Momma.’ After the movie, I noticed that even the mean-faced people were sobbing. It was evident that their hearts had been touched. Yes, I thought, I would one day grow up and make a picture that would soften cruel people’s hearts. I remember my Momma and I sitting in our seats for a long while after the movie—just taking in the message. When we both stopped crying, Momma looked at me and asked if I would ever leave her. I replied, “Momma I will never leave you.”

  Since the time my momma took me in, my momma knew I was not a mixed child and told me so. She would say, “You ain’t mixed, child.” Yet, people would say that she just needed to wait awhile for my skin to darken to show that I did, indeed, possess black blood. However, that was never to happen. While it certainly can be said that Jimmie Lee made mistakes as a mother, she loved me as best she could, sacrificed for me, protected me, and always did what she thought was best on my behalf. I loved her. However, my presence added to her experiences in the prejudiced world and served to help her bitterness thrive.

  My momma really died from a crushed heart; her rage was her destruction. She resented the prejudice she experienced due to her color. It had all started in Mississippi after the death of her father. She was no longer pretty Jimmie, her daddy’s pride and joy, but merely the white folks’ slave. She had deep anger pent up and spilling out on a daily basis. Anyone and everyone in her path could be a target of her misplaced ire.

  At a young age, I was aware; I understood my momma’s soul even before I understood her rages. I wanted to make Momma a princess and give her a castle so she could be a prima donna. I did not get that chance.

  My momma died in 1976, and I can honestly say that I have never abandoned her or my childhood mission. She is still just as much a part of my life as she was all those years ago. Her dying would take me many years to process. This personal tragedy was the hardest thing I have ever experienced. Momma’s reaching out to me on her deathbed while I held her fragile body absolutely devastated me. She died a broken woman. It was immediately after her passing that I faced my biggest failure—she had died before I could fix her. From childhood, I had committed myself to her well-being. I made it my job to make her happy, keep her from drinking, and have her accept my love. A job, sadly, I could not totally fulfill. For over a year after her death, I suffered insomnia.

  For as long as I can remember, I was writing my feelings in journals mostly through poems. I saved these scraps of paper, carried them with me, and told people one day I would publish a book and make a film that would touch the hearts of others.

  Years later, as I stood on the corner of Virginia Street, in Reno, Nevada watching the filming of the movie about my life, in my mind’s eye I saw my momma dancing up and down that street. I also saw my precious Homer grinning from ear to ear. My momma was finally somebody special. But she had always been special to me. While I lived with her fire and ice . . . she loved me and sacrificed for me. I feel blessed to also have been surrounded by extended family who shared their love. Plus, I had a few strong romantic relationships that also gave me the love I so desired. As I grew into my teens, I became more independent and perpetuated the cycle of generational teen pregnancy with the birth of my precious daughter, Yvette. From the time I was a little girl, I had dreamed of finding my real mother and learning where I came from. Now, as a young mother, with a very sick momma and mortality becoming a daily thought, I had to chase that dream into reality. This, I did.

  Yet, words cannot even begin to explain the intensity of my first encounter with my natural mother, Tamar, in 1974. The revelations uncovered at that meeting still unnerve me. Momma had raised me to have compassion for my real ‘mom.’ She always made sure I understood that Tamar had been forced to give me away because of my ‘supposed’ mixed blood. She made Tamar’s parents the villains. While I truly had empathy for Tamar, nothing would shield me from the shock of what she told me about her life, her father, and her mother.

  My earlier meetings with Tamar’s mother, Dorothy, sowed seeds of distrust toward Tamar. It would take me over twenty years before I would allow her into my heart. Because Momma had put me through so much, I felt I had to handle Tamar with kid gloves. The contrast between bizarre stories told to me by Tamar, and the fantasies I created about my ‘real’ mother would confuse me. Yet somehow, I managed to accept them for what they were, in their time and in their place.

  I have to say that at times I identified with the real and unreal. For example, sometimes I felt like the fictional Nancy Drew, uncovering clues and facts about my real family, yet at other times I felt like Erin Brockovich, stumbling onto a much bigger and scarier picture than I imagined . . . a picture that threatened the very essence of my being. As I gathered more facts, and as the drama surrounding my conception, birth family, and subsequent life continued to unfold, I just knew I had to create a film. I felt it must be done if only to blow everyone up larger than life, dissect, and remodel them in order to attempt to figure out what this all meant to my purpose in life.

  One important milestone I reached was that during my years with Bill Sharp, I let go of my need to be accepted as black. Billy reached deep into my psyche and helped me remove the color barriers in my head—it was about then I started to identify with the human race. It was then I also started to really think about the future. I felt a great need to spread the message of kindness.

  When Yvette and I met Tamar in 1974, I fell in love with Hawaii. I loved the way we were embraced and bathed in the Aloha spirit. Hawaii was just the place for my daughter and I. It felt like a good fit. So, I moved to Hawaii while pregnant with my second child to ensure that my baby would not be raised in the racial strife of the continental United States.

  Tamar’s brother, my uncle, Steve Hodel, a homicide detective, chronicled his investigation into the mysterious mutilation and murder of Angeleno, Elizabeth Short, in his best selling book, The Black Dahlia Avenger. He not only confirms what Tamar had told me years earlier, that my grandfather was capable of anything, but also uncovers how powerful a man he was; powerful enough to prevent the completion and release of the film I had created that would have further blackened his reputation.

  I will release a fi
lm and documentary based on my life. I am also interested in helping people in other ways. My big dream is to start a philanthropy center in Los Angeles and Hawaii that can help those in need, especially abused children. In the meantime, I pray that the release of this book will strike hope in the hearts of the readers who have encountered prejudice, bigotry, or racial strife. I further pray that my book has a strong impact on the reader and can serve as a learning tool on how to deal with cruelty and the injustice of racial prejudice. My ultimate goal through all of my endeavors is to point people to oneness and remind them that we are all one human family and to emphasize the importance of kindness. I have learned that my inner compass guides me in my belief of angels and points me in the direction of kindness and love for all I encounter. Life is precious and we are here to be the best person we can be and to live life fully. My daughters, Yvette and Rasha represent the color of love and are my driving force and . . . indeed . . . I am so blessed.

  FULFILLING OUR DESTINY

  by Tamar Hodel

  When you were taken from me in 1951 . . . The beautiful Lady Nada visited me at St. Elizabeth’s Home for Unwed Mothers telling me “that you would be watched over and taken care of” . . . and even though I wasn’t even allowed to hold you, plus being told by my mother that “I must never try to find you or contact you in any way “ . . . I sensed that you were being watched over by Angels

  All that was to unfold in our future however was erased from my conscious mind. When we were reunited in 1972 . . . (how astounding and miraculous that was!). On the way to the Honolulu Airport to meet your plane I felt that something very big and intense was about to happen . . . and of course, indeed it was. :-)

  At the house in Lanikai you asked me why you were given away and I revealed the events so familiar to me, but of course shocking to you (and most others)—the saga of “Dr. George Hill Hodel,” “The Incest Trial in 1949,” our family and the consequences of telling the truth.