Yesterday, I Cried Read online

  When the bath was over, Grandma would rub Rhonda down in mutton tallow, a thick yellow substance made from the inside of a lamb’s skin. Over time, Rhonda figured out that using mutton tallow was Grandma’s attempt to hide the scars and bruises from the brush. Grandma called it “waterproofing.” “It’s gonna rain today, and you don’t want to catch a cold.” She would then smear the tallow all over Rhonda’s body while she hummed her favorite hymns. Though Rhonda would be sore and battered from the bath, she was glad to have somebody touch her in a somewhat gentle manner. The gentleness with which the foul smelling mutton tallow was applied to her battered body was an answer to at least one of Rhonda’s prayers.

  Dear God:

  Please let the rain wash away the pain.

  It is a fact of life that grandmothers know everything. And Rhonda’s grandma was no exception. She was mean as hell, but she sure knew a lot. Grandma knew most about herbs. Over the years, Rhonda watched her use them in the most amazing ways. She knew how to mix them, how to cook them, how to rub them on various parts of the body, and which ones you could use or not use to make tea. At the time, Rhonda didn’t know that Grandma was a Native American of Cherokee and Blackfoot heritage. But she learned more about Grandma and what she knew about herbs and healing when they went to Grandma’s hometown of Smithfield, Virginia, to save Aunt Mattie’s life.

  Rhonda awoke one morning to find Grandma sitting in her chair at the kitchen window. This morning, there was something different. The sounds were different. There was the sound of the chair creaking as it struggled under Grandma’s weight. That was different. Then there were the haunting grunting and moaning sounds spilling out of Grandma’s mouth.

  Grandma was so engrossed in what she was feeling and doing, she didn’t even look at Rhonda when she passed by on the way to the bathroom. She didn’t even ask Rhonda if she had her slippers on. Rhonda stood frozen in the doorway for a long time, watching her grandmother tremble, moan, and cry. In the early morning sunlight, Rhonda could see tears rolling down her grandmother’s face. That, too, was different. Grandma’s prayer time was usually her most peaceful time. Grandma crying? This was amazingly different! No. This was a problem! Grandma never cried. Never! Just as Rhonda was beginning to panic, Grandma’s eyes flew open, and she turned to face the frightened child.

  “Do you have your slippers on?” Rhonda’s panic shifted into disbelief. A few minutes ago Grandma was in a trance of some kind, and now she was yelling! Her tears had seemed to dry instantly, though she never wiped her face. Now, Rhonda was crying. Her nose and eyes were running, but she managed to answer, “Yes.” Grandma got up, closed her Bible, and moved her chair, all in one swift movement. “Hurry now, go on to the bathroom. We’ve got to catch the bus to Virginia.”

  Rhonda loved to go to Virginia, though she’d never mention it out loud. Grandma’s oldest brother, Uncle Jimmy, lived in Smithfield. He and his wife, Aunt Mattie, ran a successful bootlegging operation from a small green house on a very dusty road. Aunt Mattie was a wonderful cook, and each time they went to visit, Rhonda knew she’d have hot rolls, grits, and steak and gravy for breakfast. She also knew that, with any kind of luck, Aunt Mattie would give her some sweet-smelling Avon soap and lotion to bring home.

  Grandma packed the satchel in record time. Before Rhonda knew it, she and Grandma were on a Greyhound bus, holding greasy brown paper bags on their laps. The bags were filled with fried chicken parts and white bread wrapped in wax paper. The chicken was the sustenance that would take them from New York’s Port Authority to the dank and dusty Smithfield, Virginia, bus depot. The chicken would be Rhonda’s only source of company during the ten and a half hours of Grandma’s silence.

  Grandma and Rhonda stepped off the bus and into a yellow taxicab. Instinctively, Rhonda knew something was wrong. Grandma always said, “Taxicab riding is for rich folks, pregnant women, and sinners.” Grandma sitting stoically silent in the back of a taxi meant that something was very wrong—or that Grandma had finally gone public about her own sinful ways.

  When they arrived, Grandma pushed, pulled, and dragged Rhonda out of the taxi. The driver yelled at them for not shutting the car door, but Grandma was already on the porch and announcing her arrival. Uncle Jimmy was standing on the screened-in porch, staring at but not seeing them. His speech sounded mechanical. He said something about dying and a coma. He was talking about his wife, Aunt Mattie. She had suffered a diabetic stroke. Her doctor had insisted that she be taken to the white folks’ hospital on the other side of the county. Colored people could only visit on Saturday. This was Tuesday.

  Rhonda learned a great deal over the next four days, which proved to be very suspenseful. Later on in her life, what she learned would prove very helpful. Grandma began each day with a ritual of sorts. She would walk through every room in the house, lighting candles and incense. With that done, she would return to each room to pray and sing. Of Aunt Mattie, she said, “I’ve got to call her spirit back home.” She said barely a word to Rhonda or Uncle Jimmy. And, much to Rhonda’s dismay, she did very little cooking.

  Uncle Jimmy stayed on the porch, rocking in his chair. If you didn’t know any better, you would think that he was staring out into the woods that surrounded the house. But Rhonda knew that he was silently staring at Aunt Mattie’s empty chair that sat directly across from his. Sometimes Rhonda would stand next to him and pat his shoulder in an effort to comfort him. He never responded. He just stared. Rhonda, a big-city kid left on her own in the Deep South, decided it best to keep company with the pigs and chickens.

  When night fell, the suspense began. Just about the time it turned dark, Grandma would take Rhonda into the woods to pick herbs. When you’re a big-city kid, walking in the woods at night can be a terrifying experience. When the grandmother with whom you are walking in the woods at night talks to the bushes before she picks their branches, terror is a more apt description. Rhonda hung onto Grandma’s skirt every step of the way, but she knew that if one of those bushes answered Grandma’s questions, Grandma would be on her own.

  Rhonda was always relieved when she saw the porch lights that provided a beacon back to the house, where Grandma ritualistically prepared the collected herbs. Grandma carefully laid each bundle out before her on the porch. It was an unspoken signal for Uncle Jimmy to go inside. Silently, Grandma would pick up a bundle of herbs and pray over it. The prayers eventually gave way to the humming of a hymn, which continued until each leaf from every stem in the bunch had been picked and placed in a large metal washtub. Rhonda watched silently, resisting the urge to sing out loud when Grandma hummed her favorite hymns. When all of the leaves had been removed from the branches, Grandma covered the washtub with a white towel and motioned Rhonda into the house and to bed.

  Grandma’s pounding the leaves in the washtub with a large rock woke Rhonda before sunrise. Standing barefoot on the porch, Rhonda would watch Grandma pound, pray, and add water to the tub, transforming the dry leaves into a slimy green concoction. By the time Grandma saw Rhonda and ordered her into her slippers, she would have added a pile of Aunt Mattie’s clothes to the concoction. Through the tiny screened window on the back porch, Grandma would watch Rhonda mount the milk crate in the bathroom, where she would stand to wash her face and the “tight places” on her body. On the back porch, Grandma put the clothes and the green concoction into the wringer washer. Eating biscuits and bacon, and drinking milk fresh from the cow, Rhonda watched out of the kitchen window as Grandma hung Aunt Mattie’s clothes on the outdoor line. Rhonda knew that by noon the clothes would be dry and ready to be ironed.

  It was “women’s work,” Grandma said. “You’ve got to know how to stay focused long enough, and how to pray hard enough, to bring healing into any place and any situation.” Grandma said, “Women’s work goes beyond faith. Faith is what you need when you don’t have discipline, and when you don’t know. When you know, you do the work, and you don’t need faith.”

  During that trip to Virginia, Rhon
da began to see Grandma in a completely different light. The cruel, violent, angry woman that Rhonda knew from back home had given way to a focused, disciplined, and compassionate human being. Rhonda didn’t understand what was really going on, but she knew it was sacred. She had never before seen Grandma in this light. She liked it. She liked the way it felt. She prayed that it would last. Rhonda also learned something new about herself. She learned that she could do the right thing.

  Saturday finally came. Grandma washed Rhonda’s body with Aunt Mattie’s Avon soap and let her put some sweet-smelling lotion on herself. After Rhonda was dressed, Grandma didn’t even tell her where to sit, so she stood quietly on the porch. It was when she was in the backseat of Uncle Jimmy’s big blue Caddy that Rhonda realized she had received the answer to another prayer. She could smell the scent of the store-bought soap and lotion rising off her body as Uncle Jimmy tore down the dusty country road, headed for the hospital. Rhonda fiddled with her patent-leather purse and the handle on the back door that controlled the car window. She knew she was pushing her luck, but there were moments when she sang, out loud. Neither Grandma nor Uncle Jimmy said a word to Rhonda or to each other for the entire ride.

  When they arrived in Newport News, Grandma gave Rhonda a dollar and told her to get herself some ice cream. She asked the lady in the store if she would keep an eye on Rhonda for a little while. The man behind the counter gave Rhonda a big bowl of ice cream and a huge pile of napkins. He gave her a little extra when she told him she had come from New York. Before she could get herself situated in the seat and enjoy her treat, Rhonda looked up and saw Grandma, followed by Uncle Jimmy, and Uncle Jimmy, followed by Aunt Mattie, heading her way. Rhonda thought that Aunt Mattie was dead, or dying, or something, but looking at the slight smile on Grandma’s face, she realized that the “women’s work” that she and Grandma had done had been successful.

  Things were back to normal. Every five words or so, Grandma would remind Rhonda, “Don’t mess up your clothes”; “Take your time”; “Use your napkin.” And on the ride back to the house, Grandma issued at least fifty don’t-do-thats and leave-that-alones. Back in New York, Rhonda learned more details about the trip to Smithfield. Grandma told Daddy, the neighbors, and all the church ladies about how prayer had saved Aunt Mattie. She didn’t tell them about the herbs or the washing and ironing of the clothes. And far be it from Rhonda to say anything to anybody about anything.

  Grandma must have been really pleased with God for saving Aunt Mattie, because no matter what Rhonda did, she didn’t get a healing bath for a very long time. They also spent much more time in church. The Sunday morning ritual spilled over into Wednesday and Friday nights. Grandma belonged to the Holiness church, complete with tambourines, drums, and people passing out on the floor. Grandma would spend her time with the other church ladies, cooking and praying, praising and shouting. Rhonda was never quite sure why people shouted, but once they did, they got to sit up front in the church.

  After the time Grandma shouted, they always got to sit in the front row. It had happened so fast, Rhonda could hardly catch her breath or figure out what was going on. The Reverend was preaching, the organist and guitarist were playing, the choir was singing, and people were moaning and rocking. Then the Reverend started singing and swinging his tie over his head. People were up on their feet, waving their hands and slapping tambourines against their hips. The drums were beating out a ferocious tempo.

  One minute Grandma was sitting there, her normal, cool self, and the next minute she was up on one foot, dancing, screaming, and waving her hands wildly in the air. As she shouted, she lost pieces of her clothing and her pearls. The church ladies in their white uniforms caught Grandma before she fell, convulsing, to the floor. Rhonda had seen it happen to other people, at other times, but to see it happen to Grandma was frightening. The church mothers came running from everywhere. They laid Grandma on the floor between the pews and covered her with a white blanket while her body calmed from spasmodic jerks to a mild trembling. According to every television program Rhonda had ever seen, a body on the floor, covered in white, meant death. Rhonda watched and waited for Grandma’s body to stop moving, realizing that once it did, she would never have to take another healing bath. But also realizing that if it did, she might never have another decent meal.

  Rhonda learned about spirituality and things of a spiritual nature under a cloud of suspense and fear. The same is true for so many children. Most children get religion. They are sent to church. They are told Bible stories. They learn the rudiments and regimens of religious practice. They are definitely taught that they are sinners. They are taught what not to do. They are also taught that if they commit the forbidden acts, God will get them. Children like Rhonda are taught about a cruel and punishing God. A God who is displeased with you and most of what you do unless you follow certain “prescriptions.” Few children are taught that they are not separate from God, or that it is possible to develop an intimate relationship with God. They believe, like the adults who teach or do not teach them, that God is somewhere “out there,” separate and apart from you, waiting for you to make the wrong move.

  Rhonda couldn’t seem to follow the prescriptions that would please God or Grandma. She wanted to. She really tried to. But the fact that she was always being punished, beaten, or bathed confirmed for her all that she had heard in church—she was a wretched sinner, destined to go to hell. Without an explanation from Grandma, or Daddy, or anyone else, she, like so many children, was left to her own perceptions and understandings.

  Rhonda figured out very early in life that she was bad, and that something bad was going to happen to her. When Grandma started shouting in church, for a brief moment, Rhonda thought that something bad was happening to Grandma, too. But when Grandma didn’t die, Rhonda remembered that Grandma was a saint, according to the church. Grandma, who prayed just before she cursed, or as she scrubbed Rhonda until she was bloody. The same Grandma who berated her son, and who reserved lipstick wearing for Sundays, was not a sinner. She was a woman bound and determined to do God’s work. And without any additional information, Rhonda thought it was Grandma’s job to save her from hell.

  Rhonda’s family wasn’t big, but they all got together on Thanksgiving and Christmas. They had birthday parties; they went together to Aunt Dora and Uncle Lowell’s house in Atlantic City, and to Uncle Jimmy’s farm in the summer. Rhonda figured that they all knew the family secret—that she was bad and destined for hell. Rhonda also concluded that was the reason no one ever came to her defense when she was being pinched, slapped, or beaten in their presence. Bad children expect bad things to happen to them. They expect to be punished. Instead of defending her, people winked conspiratorially, nodded knowingly, and secretly shoved money in Rhonda’s pockets. Rhonda wondered if they knew about the baths. She wondered if they knew about the times when Grandma locked her in the closet when she went to work. Did they know that in Grandma’s care, Rhonda’s life was in danger? Did they know but were too afraid to care? Or did they know and just not care?

  Where do children learn about God or love or life if not through the actions of those entrusted with their care? How do children learn to distinguish between loving acts, done to guide and protect the child, and those committed in mindless rage or misguided authority? From whom, and under what circumstances, do children learn to distinguish the difference between a loving hurt and hurts caused by lovelessness? And why do the adults raising children believe that love has to hurt in order to be love?

  Rhonda, like so many children, learned about love through pain, abusive, negligently inflicted, and unnecessary pain. She learned about God in the midst of fear. She learned to expect pain as an ingredient of being loved. She learned that people who claim to love you can cause, and will ignore, your pain. Rhonda learned through the actions of her “loved ones” to expect that an act of love would be preceded by the imposition of pain. None of this was ever explained to her. She learned it all by watching and li
stening, and by experiencing the pain. Rhonda learned that if you do the wrong thing, those who love you will hurt you. And no matter how badly you hurt, or what you have done, if you bear the pain of love silently, you can hope against hope that someone will, one day, love you enough to hurt you again.

  The water in the tub was beginning to feel a little cool against my body, but I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t move. There is no way to think about Grandma without thinking about Rhonda’s Daddy, Grandma’s son.

  CHAPTER THREE

  What’s the Lesson When You Do Not Realize That You Are a Teacher?

  A prophet is not without honour, but in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house.

  Mark 6:4

  ALL LITTLE GIRLS WANT TO BE LOVED and protected and praised by their daddies. A daddy is a hero to his little girl even when the rest of the world thinks he is a bum. In a little girl’s eyes, Daddy can do no wrong, unless he does something to hurt Mommy. But when there is no Mommy, Daddy can do no wrong, no matter how much wrong he does. No little girl wants to disappoint her daddy. She will find a way, something to do, that she hopes will make him smile. And perhaps, if she has done a really good job, he will swoop her up in his arms as a sign of how wonderful he thinks she is. I’m telling you, it would make a little girl’s day and, possibly, a big difference in her life. Love, protection, praise, and swooping from a daddy are elements essential to the tender, budding psyche of all little girls.