Yesterday, I Cried Read online

  Dear God:

  Please bring me this lesson gently and lovingly. Please let me see and understand what is really going on, and give me the courage to do whatever is necessary. Remind me of what I have forgotten. Inform me of your will for my own spiritual progress and the good of all others involved. I am ready and willing to know the truth.

  Don’t ask if you really don’t want to know. The minute I closed my eyes, I saw her. She was six. No, she was nine. No. She was twenty-one, bent over in pain, covering her swollen black-and-blue eyes. She was terrified. She was kicking and screaming. She was trying to get away. From whom? What was she running from now? No. She was fighting back. She was angry. I was having trouble breathing. No. She was having trouble breathing. She was dead. No. She was alive, fighting for her life. I was the object of her attack. I squeezed my eyes shut. My teeth were clenched. My fists were clenched. I was waiting for the blow. Before it came, I could feel the pain, the fear, and the terror. I could feel the scream rise up in my body. The memory of another bathtub at another time. Other blows, brutal blows, at other times. The reasons for the blows still a mystery. A history of not wanting to live. Rhonda’s history.

  Iyanla’s heart was pounding, her mind racing. The crap was rushing to the surface. Oh God! This is too hard! Do it now! Do it right now! With that thought in mind, I buried my face in the warm wet washcloth and cried for Rhonda. I hoped it would be for the very last time. But I had to remember.

  CHAPTER TWO

  What’s the Lesson When You Are an Unwanted, Neglected, and Abused Child?

  When you meet anyone, remember it is a holy encounter. As you treat them you will treat yourself. As you think of them you will think of yourself. Never forget this, for in them you will find yourself or lose your Self.

  A Course in Miracles

  LIKE EVERYONE ELSE’S IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD, Rhonda’s house had a “front room.” It didn’t matter that the room was in the back of the house. The front room was the code name for where you kept the “good stuff.” Having a house or an apartment that was big enough to contain a room full of good stuff was a good thing. Rhonda remembers the forbidden front room being full of plastic-covered furniture, knick-knacks and whatnots, and the Christmas candy (which also served as the Easter candy, the Thanksgiving candy, and the Halloween candy). On this particular day, the front room was full of people.

  Everyone that Rhonda had come to know as family, friends, or acquaintances from the neighborhood was in the front room. The mailman, milkman, and fish man were all there. It wasn’t so much that they were in the room; it was that they were eating in the front room! No one ever ate in the front room, particularly not the children. Rhonda had learned from experience that when you entered the front room you walked stiffly, keeping both hands at your sides, allowing only your eyes to move around. This was the only way to keep from breaking something. But on this day, people were sitting on the plastic-covered furniture, eating mounds of food from paper plates. Rhonda knew that this was not a normal kind of celebration.

  The doorbell rang constantly, announcing groups of people bearing covered platters of food. The men all wore suits, and most of the ladies wore hats. Everyone wore black, except the church mothers, who were also there. Some of the children from Sunday school were there, too. The people, the food, the excitement, and the suspense of not knowing what was really going on were somewhat overwhelming. As little Rhonda moved through the room, listening and watching, everyone she passed reached down or over to pat her on the head, almost sympathetically. She didn’t know why they were patting her, and no one bothered to explain. Rhonda hoped that if she was gracious and smiled politely after each pat, she might be rewarded with a big piece of the big chocolate cake that was calling out to her from the kitchen. Unfortunately, between her and the cake stood Grandma. To Rhonda, Grandma always seemed larger than life. Today, she really was. Grandma was standing at the door, greeting a group of people who had just arrived. Grandma actually let the people hug her. Nobody ever hugged Grandma. Never! Except Rhonda’s brother, Ray. And Grandma was wearing her pearls. The pearls she only wore to church. Hugging, pearls, eating in the front room! This was serious. Very serious.

  “Grandma?” Rhonda called out in her sweetest voice. She looked right past Grandma to the chocolate cake that was now winking at her from the kitchen table.

  “Go sit down, and don’t get yourself dirty!” Grandma barked, before Rhonda could complete her question.

  Rhonda knew by the tone of her voice that Grandma meant business. She also knew that Grandma wasn’t about to risk letting Rhonda get icing all over her new clothes. Grandma had dressed her in a brand-new dress and a brand-new slip, brand-new panties and socks, with ruffles, of course. One look at Grandma’s face, and Rhonda knew she had better turn on the heels of her new shoes before she got into trouble. Even though no one had told her so, Rhonda knew she had done really well so far that day. Before she could get back to the front room with all the grown-ups dressed in black and the plates of food, somebody yelled out, “The car is here!” Without warning, Rhonda was being buttoned into her good gray coat with the fur collar and the matching muff. Then she was whisked off, down four flights of stairs and onto the front steps of the building. There was a big black car waiting at the curb. Grandma, Rhonda, her brother, Ray, and Daddy got into the car. When the big black car pulled away from the curb, there was already a line of other cars waiting to follow it. Rhonda remembers playing with the handle on the inside of the rear door of the car. And she remembers getting slapped for it. That’s where her memory of the events of that day ends.

  It was many, many years later before someone had the decency to explain to Rhonda that the reason all the people had come to the house, eaten in the front room, and patted her on the head was because her mother had died. She didn’t remember the funeral, barely remembered her mother; yet somehow, she’d kept a flower from her mother’s casket. Her dead mother’s casket. She kept it in a Bible that she had won at Sunday school for memorizing and reciting, in order, the sixty-six books of the Bible. She remembered winning the Bible more than the flower in the Bible, because the day she won it, Grandma almost smiled at her. Not quite, but almost.

  Grandma, Rhonda, and Rhonda’s brother, Ray, lived in a four-story walkup on a busy street in Brooklyn, New York. Although Daddy was supposed to be living there with them, he actually just stopped by every now and then. Daddy was a numbers runner. He was one of the biggest numbers runners in the neighborhood. Rhonda could count on seeing him at least twice a day; once when he came to figure up his morning numbers sheet, and again when he came to figure up his evening numbers sheet. The rest of the time, Daddy left Rhonda alone with Grandma.

  Grandma, Daddy’s mother, was a big lady, five feet, ten inches tall, with a large, solid frame. Grandma had a beautiful full head of salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled features and deepset eyes. Grandma never wore fancy or stylish clothes, but she would put on a little shiny pink lipstick when she was going to church. There was something about Grandma’s face that was soft and strikingly beautiful in a cold and distant way. If you looked at her quickly, before she opened her mouth to speak, you would almost believe that Grandma was gentle, loving, and nurturing. It was this side of Grandma that Rhonda remembers only vaguely.

  What Rhonda remembers clearly and will never forget about Grandma is her large breasts, big feet, and her huge, gnarled hands. On the days when she didn’t appear strikingly beautiful, Grandma was wickedly mean. She’d squint those beady, intense little eyes as she hissed or screamed a command, letting Rhonda know it was time to get out of the way.

  Rhonda used to run from Grandma, but she always came to a screeching halt at the door that led to the front room. Rather than run in there and risk breaking something, she would turn, head for the bedroom, and dive under the bed. Rhonda had enough sense to know that she had to do everything in her power to get away when Grandma was upset. She had to first tire her out. If she didn’t, the power and str
ength of those huge hands would leave a lasting impression on some part of Rhonda’s anatomy. If she could get away for just a few minutes, giving Grandma time to calm down, she would have a chance of surviving. As children, we learn a great deal about our ability to survive and get by in life by the way we are treated. It is ultimately our ability to withstand or understand the treatment we receive as children that determines what we think about ourselves as adults.

  When Grandma wasn’t being cruel, mean, angry, or violent, she was, at best, cool. Grandma never showed emotion, unless Rhonda’s brother was somehow involved in the situation. She hardly ever smiled unless she was smiling at Rhonda’s brother. She would laugh at Jack Benny or Amos and Andy on television, but that didn’t really count. The only way for you to know that she was pleased, not angry with you, was when she would stare, poker-faced, in your direction and nod her head in the “yes” gesture. Grandma was Rhonda’s primary caretaker after her mother’s death. In a very cold and overt way, Grandma taught Rhonda her first lessons about mothers and mothering, as well as almost everything she believed to be true about herself.

  Like most women of her era and race, Grandma earned her money as a domestic worker. Back then it was called “days work.” It was hard, grueling work, for which Grandma was paid very little. She earned more as a cook than she did as a cleaning lady, but work as a cook required more hours away from home.

  There were special days when Grandma would take Rhonda to work with her. On those days, Grandma taught Rhonda everything she knew about cooking, cleaning, and ironing. And although no one ever told her so, Rhonda knew she had learned very well. She knew it because if she ever made a mistake in the “Madam’s” house, or with the “Madam’s” clothes, the wrath of Grandma’s hands or mouth would come crashing down on her.

  When your primary caretaker is distant and aloof, it can be very confusing. You don’t know whether to try and please her, or be desperately afraid of what will happen if you don’t please her. When your primary caretaker is violent, you know that if you do the wrong thing, or say the wrong thing at the wrong time, in the wrong way, you could get slapped, pinched, screamed at, or punched. When your primary caretaker is violent, and you are confused, you live in fear. Many children learn to live in fear as a result of doing the wrong thing. It is a fear that they keep to themselves. They dare not tell anyone, because that would be the wrong thing to do—to say you are afraid, or to admit you have done a wrong thing. Few children learn to do the right thing on their own. Most children learn about doing the wrong thing, in confusing and violent ways. Rhonda was one of those children.

  Grandma was not good at explaining to Rhonda how to do things the right way, the way that would please her. But she was very good at letting Rhonda know what would happen if she ever told what Grandma did to her when she was not pleased. Big lesson here: grin and bear your grief. Suffer in silence. Grandma said that silent suffering was good for the soul. Grandma would say, “You are not supposed to complain about the hand you are dealt by the Lord.” Grandma loved the Lord, and she loved church. She was a church lady. A big-time church lady.

  Every Sunday morning, Grandma would wake Rhonda up, scrub her clean, and dress her for church. After she was dressed, her hair combed, and her face smeared with Vaseline, Rhonda would sit on the edge of the bed and watch Grandma get ready for church. Rhonda loved watching Grandma get ready for church. It was a ritual. A womanhood ritual. By watching, Rhonda learned a great deal about the anatomy of a woman’s body—and about the one thing strong enough to oppose Grandma.

  After bathing and putting Vaseline on her body, Grandma had to put on her girdle. The girdle was a huge, stiff, white thing. It had shiny panels on either side of the lace panel that ran up the front. It also had legs. At the bottom of each leg were thick elastic bands with little hanging hooks for attaching stockings. Grandma didn’t wear the pretty, sheer stockings Rhonda had seen on other ladies. Hers were heavy and coarse. Watching Grandma trying to get into the girdle was the most interesting thing about the ritual. It posed the greatest opposition to Grandma as she wiggled, twisted, pushed, and pulled her body into it. It was quite a sight. Grandma’s breasts would swing from side to side, making a slapping sound against her skin. She would sweat, grunt, and struggle, but the girdle would hold firmly, refusing to cooperate. If she was rushing and hadn’t dried herself completely, Grandma would have to jump up and down, pushing and pulling pieces of her flesh into the stubborn elastic compartment. There were days when it appeared as if the girdle would win. Rhonda always rooted for the girdle. But in the end, with the love of the Lord motivating her, Grandma always subdued her spandex opponent.

  With the girdle defeated, she’d then put on her stiff, white uniform, hook her thick, white stockings to the girdle legs, put on her white shoes, and spray a little drugstore cologne on her neck. If Rhonda had been particularly still and quiet, Grandma would spray a little cologne on her, too. Together, they would walk stiffly down the block to the A train, then ride uptown to church.

  Rhonda guessed that Grandma spent so much time in church because she was always so angry. Angry with Rhonda, angry with Daddy. Grandma was angry at the world. Sometimes she would even get angry at food and throw it around in the kitchen. Rhonda had seen her slamming a chicken into the sink and cursing to herself. Although church ladies weren’t supposed to curse, Grandma had a pretty impressive vocabulary when the other church ladies weren’t around. Her son, Rhonda’s daddy, seemed to evoke the greatest anger in Grandma. “You and your daddy are cut from the same bolt of cloth. Ain’t neither one of you ever gonna be s——t!” Whenever Grandma started down this path, Rhonda always knew where she would end up. “Neither one of you is worth the time it took to make you, and I am sick to death of both of you.” It was like a daily mantra. Each time she heard it, Rhonda wondered if her daddy felt the same way about her that Grandma did. She also wondered if her daddy knew that she loved him no matter what Grandma said. Loving Daddy was an act of silent defiance. The only kind Rhonda could get away with.

  Grandma was what they called a prayer warrior at church. For some reason, people believed that Grandma’s prayers were stronger and got through to God quicker than their own. Whenever someone was in need of prayer, for their family, for a financial matter, a wayward husband, or any kind of illness, they would call on Grandma. She would sit with them at the kitchen window, listen to their story, and then write a “prescription” on a piece of brown paper. Even some family members who knew that Grandma was crazy would come to see her when they were desperate or in trouble. They all said that she had a gift. They also knew that she could pray for you or against you. It was the latter of which they were most afraid.

  Praying was a skill that Grandma passed on to Rhonda. She put a great deal of time, energy, and effort into the prayer sessions she designed to teach Rhonda the mechanics of prayer, when to pray, what to pray for, how to pray for other people, and what to do while waiting for the evidence that a prayer had been answered. And with the same intensity she put into imparting the rigors of prayer, Grandma gave Rhonda a very good reason to pray.

  There was hardly a morning that Rhonda didn’t wake up to find Grandma sitting at the window, praying. Before sunrise, Grandma would sit with the open Bible in her lap, rocking back and forth on the kitchen chair, praying and singing hymns. Rhonda’s memories of chicken frying in the pan and fresh rolls baking in the oven were colored with memories of Grandma singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” and “Jesus, Keep Me Near the Cross.” Those were the same songs that Rhonda used to sing to herself when Grandma was angry and giving her a “healing” bath.

  Grandma was the reason Rhonda learned to pray about soap. She prayed that God, or the appropriate saint in charge, would let Grandma know that using store-bought soap was not a sin. Grandma made her own soap. It was brown, odorless, and contained a variety of sticks, leaves, and pebbles that were quite abrasive to the skin. Rhonda prayed for the day s
he could use a bar of the sweet-smelling soap that she would see in the supermarket. The kind that left a scent on your body that you could smell as you moved around the house. “Buying soap when you can make your own is a waste of money. Wasting money,” Grandma said, “is a sin!” Besides that, they both knew that Grandma’s soap caused a lot more pain when Grandma gave Rhonda one of her special healing baths.

  Healing requires a special approach to the problem presented before you. On the days when Grandma was particularly angry, and Rhonda had done something that particularly annoyed her, Grandma would resort to what she called “a healing.” Rhonda would be stripped naked and made to stand in the tub. Grandma would take the special scrub brush from behind the bathroom sink, then douse Rhonda with a pot of cold water. Using the homemade soap, Grandma would scrub Rhonda’s small body from head to toe, including her face. She would scrub and pray, scrub and sing. Grandma would scrub until she saw blood.

  “I’m gonna scrub the devil out you!” she’d say. “I’m gonna wash this devil spirit away!” Then she’d begin to pray. The more she prayed, the harder she scrubbed. The harder she scrubbed, the more Rhonda whimpered. The more Rhonda whimpered, the louder Grandma sang. “Pleading the blood of Jesus! I’m pleading the blood to wash away your sins!” It was a ritual between Grandma and Rhonda, and it never stopped until Rhonda prayed out loud, “Please, God! Tell Grandma I’m sorry!” Sometimes, if Rhonda prayed loud enough or fast enough, Grandma would take pity on her. Most of the time, however, Grandma kept scrubbing and praying and singing until she saw the red of Rhonda’s blood mixed in with the lather from the brown soap.