Category: Writers Block
Here I am again. I’m 26 and just climbing out of another imploded relationship. She wasn’t a bad person. Sure, some of our darker times involved a kitchen knife, screaming matches and a few 911calls. But she wasn’t in this crazy maze all by herself. Our love was marked by multiple hysterical break-ups and tearful reunions. This time, however, I got a wake-up call in the form of a question from a friend: “Do you want to be sitting in this restaurant five years from now telling this same story to me again?”
My answer to that question was “I ain’t got the time.” And that question provoked a host of other questions: “What am I doing wrong in all my relationships? “Will I ever find stability, and if I do, will I keep it?” and finally, “Is my perception of love all wrong?”
Through a program called “The Alpha Course” at my new church, and the counsel of friends, I set out to find a new definition of love. I committed myself to prayer and focusing on God, each day asking Him to heal my brokenness and prepare me for a healthy relationship which would honor Him. As much as I longed for a loving relationship with the “right” woman, I was willing to follow the path God set for me. I submitted to His will, and asked Him to make me the man of God I was born to be. Shortly after this, however, I did what I normally do. I jumped into still another relationship. I justified my actions by reasoning that dating this spiritually and emotionally healthy woman must surely be God’s will. But like a parent who yanks their toddler away from a hot stove, my God pulled me out of the relationship so that I would focus on Him and all He needed to teach me. I believe that God has been “taking me back” to my childhood, to help me understand why I view love in a distorted way.
My scrambled view of love was a product of being parented by a hard shelled grandmother and way too many sappy sitcoms. I was eight years old. The state had placed my siblings and me with our grandmother, due to our mother’s addictions to crack, cocaine, and heroin. My father had walked out when I was still in the hospital. “I didn’t produce this blind f****r, he had said, “I produce perfect children.”
Besides the three of us, Grandma was raising my cousin, whose mom was also an addict, and Grandma’s own youngest child, just six years older than me. Though she had raised her own children with spiritual morals and strong family values, four of her five older children were in active addiction by the time we moved into her home. I believe her interactions with us were affected by her own personal pain. She struggled with guilt, bitterness and depression. She blamed herself, at times, for her adult children’s behavior. She also thought that her time for raising children was almost over when four more were essentially dropped on her doorstep. And then, after all, she was married to Granddad.
Granddad made Grandma look positively chipper. Granddad was an early riser. He’d get up at 4:00 every morning (even on weekends), waking everyone else in the process. He was a hard working man. He worked long days at construction, proud that he was the highest paid black man in the company. Besides being a hard-working man, Granddad was also just a hard man. If he had a chance to go to Heaven, he’d find a speck of dust on the knob of the Pearly Gates. The only interaction he had with us was the daily litany of what we had failed to do. Grandma was not exempt from this litany. He also blamed her for the actions of their adult children. The demands of raising five kids, dealing with Granddad’s tirades and her own inner pain, left little time for sentimental displays of love. Deprived of my mother’s presence and my grandma’s physical affection, I turned to Claire Huxtabel, Vivian Banks and Harriet Winslow- my favorite TV moms.
On that day, that life-changing day, when I was eight, Grandma was washing turnip greens. Twice a month, Grandma made greens. Besides what she made for our regular Monday meal, Grandma cooked and froze enough greens for the next two weeks. She made so many greens that she had to wash them in the bathtub. (FYI, Vivian Banks did NOT wash greens in the bathtub.) I was realizing more and more that our family was different than our TV counterparts. The TV moms hugged their kids regularly. They told their children that they loved them in every episode. And TV Grandmas were even nicer than TV moms! They were always wielding their big pocketbooks stuffed with candy and dollar bills. I had decided that I would just come right out and ask Grandma the question that had been niggling at the back of my mind with each sitcom I watched. Something wasn’t right. Grandma didn’t do the things that the TV moms did. I had to screw up my courage to ask Grandma “Jovan’s Big Question”. She wasn’t mean, but she was pretty impatient. And I knew whatever answer she gave me, it would be the truth. Did I wanna know the truth? I hoped for a sitcom answer that would create my happy ending. The theme song would soar; the studio audience would say “aaaww” and the credits would roll.
I had just finished watching one of my shows. Grandma had already started cooking the greens we’d be having for dinner. I could smell them. And I could smell the black eyed peas too, and chicken frying. I stood in the doorway of the bathroom. She was sitting on the side of the bathtub, wearing blue sweat pants with a white stripe, a yellow t-shirt and black flip flops with white socks. (Claire Huxtabel did NOT wear sweatpants.) She wore some sort of brace thing on her hand that was supposed to help her arthritis and a kind of soft neck brace as well. Her tired eyes were focused on the task of cleaning the greens. She moved with a precise rhythm, tired as she was, humming along with the sound of Muddy Waters singing on the radio in the kitchen. “Could be a spoonful of diamonds, could be a spoonful of gold. Just a little spoon of your precious love can satisfy my soul.”
I watched her for a few more minutes. Though she wore sweatpants and flip flops, Grandma was wearing all her jewelry, which she also slept in. “If anybody’s gonna steal my jewelry, they’re gonna have to take it off me first.” I looked at my Grandma, imagining the reassuring words Harriet Winslow might bestow on an insecure loved one. But Willie Lacy was NOT Harriet Winslow. I don’t know if she saw me or just sensed that I was there. “What, Jovan?” (Harriet never said “What, Eddie?” in that impatient way.) There was no going back now. “Granny,” I stammered, “can I ask you a question?” At this point, Harriet would have put down her greens and walked Eddie to the kitchen. (If I was going to sit it would have to be on the toilet). But Willie Lacy, not being Harriet Winslow, did not get up. “What?” she asked. She seemed so tired. “Granny,” I said, “do you love me?” She looked up from the greens, with an expression that said “this colored boy gotta be out his mind to ask me such a stupid question” and quite matter-of-factly said, “Boy, what do you think? You ate today, didn’t you?” and turned back to the greens. The theme song did not soar. Or maybe, in a way, it did. Now BB King was singing “Stormy Monday”, (which I always heard as “Stony Monday”.) The studio audience did not say “aaaww”. The credits did not roll. As my grandma bent over the bathtub full of greens that would fortify our dinners for the next two weeks, the best that this colored boy could hope for was a “to be continued”.
wow, this is really interesting. Is this a true story or is it something you came up with? its really good though.
This is a true story. I had to write a paper for college.
seems like the story got cut off, as the last sentence says "to be continued".
hmm.. very interesting and well written. :)
Very very interesting!
and, to happy heart, I viewed the, "to be continued," line as...well, I'm not sure how exactly to explain it..but it was a closing to the story he was telling.
I can feel the saddness of a child in this. Most of all..I can feel the hope.the longing for a sit calm moment. This really was very touching and I appreciate you sharing this with us.
I think the, "to be continued," for me, what I got out of it was that the hope was still there..as well as the longing. the waiting for that moment.
Thank you for sharing this piece with us.
I didn't take "to be continued" the way others described, and still disagree.