Mom and Me

Bettye Ann Childress was born in Cleveland to John and Osceola Childress. Both parents came from the South and settled North as part of the Great Migration. Until the Great Migration, most African-Americans lived in the rural South. The Great Migration started after World War I and lasted into the 60s. During this time, Blacks left the South to escape Jim Crow (segregation) and to find a better life.

Grandpa was recruited to work at a steel mill in Cleveland. Legend has it, he got off the train in Cleveland, threw on his Indians baseball hat and a lifetime love affair was born.

Bettye was two years older than her little brother, John (otherwise known as Buzz). They grew up in the same house on 142nd St where I would visit my grandmother. When they grew up, the neighborhood was primarily Jewish, like the neighborhood I would later grow up in.

I don’t have as many stories about my mother’s young life in Cleveland as I do about my dad’s upbringing in Cataula, Georgia. I think it is safe to say that it was a lot less dramatic. The stories I do have are funny. I wish I could tell them in the exact way that mom could. The woman had wicked comedic timing and did great voices. I would beg her to retell the same stories and die laughing every time.

Most of them involve her early, and unsuccessful, attempts at cooking. She once made a pumpkin pie so soupy, she had to walk home with it one precarious step at a time. Luckily, Gram was able to salvage it. Then, there was the time that she got detention because boys were throwing her hard biscuits in the library. She was not throwing the rock-like biscuits, but she did make them in Home Ec (for the young’uns, Home Economics – or Home Ec – was a course that boys and girls took that taught them the basics of cooking and other important life skills).

After high school, she attended Morgan State University in Maryland. While there she pledged a sorority, and found her voice through protests (although I am certain she never lost it).

Years later, my Uncle Buzz was watching a Black History Month special. As they were talking about lunch counter sit-ins, they showed footage of students getting hauled off in a patty wagon. He saw his sister! My mother was the first person thrown in the van. Now that was a college experience!

What I Don’t Know

I don’t have courtship stories or wedding stories. I can’t get those from my father, and I only had my mom for 15 years (and the last year and a half she was dying). So, I really don’t know much about my parents as people.

If my mom had lived, I am sure we would have become best friends and a lot of those gaps would have been filled. But I have gotten use to a lot of holes.

What I Do Know

I know my parents as, well, parents. I know them as parents from a perspective of a child and later as an adult using a more mature filter on childhood recollections. I also know more than I should know, as most only children can attest. There was lots of infidelity from my father. There were tons of hurt feelings. Honestly, I don’t know if they would have stayed married if Mom had lived.

I haven’t been married and this is a big reason why. I refuse to be crying alone while my husband cheats. I wish I could say this was just parents’ relationship, but it wasn’t. I’ve seen it played out in my family, friends’ families and many more. I have seen a few happy marriages, but it seems like a lot of marriages are just built on living separate lives of quiet desperation … and living a life like that is completely unacceptable to me.

When I look at my parents as spouses, if I am being completely honest, I hope they didn’t make it. I hope my mother would have had the strength to do what she needed to do for herself. I would like to think that Mom would have got fed up with the philandering and left. I hope she would have realized that she deserved better and that she could do better.

My parents as spouses? Not too sure. My parents as parents? They hit it out of the park. They gave me an unbelievable childhood filled with love, laughter and good memories.

They put up with out-of-tune singing, what I thought was amazing dancing, bad impressions and, who can forget, my attempt at being Spiderman (standing on top of the bar, taping a piece of string to my palm and the other to the ceiling then jumping off the bar).

They loved their strange, goofy and overly imaginative daughter very much and filled with her own quirks and craziness, I think my mom got me.

Extra Teacher

I come from a generation where we, black kids, were told by our parents, that if we wanted to succeed, we had to be twice as good as any white kid. This is the reality that our parents lived in.

So, my parents kept their expectations very high. I remember getting 96% on a test. Proudly, I showed it to mom. She looked at it and asked, “What did you miss?” Good was never good enough. I could and should do better, put in more effort, and work harder. Believe me, my therapist and I have talked at length about this.

The need to be the best became evident during family dinners. If I mumbled while answering a question, Mom would stop and respond by over-enunciating every word as she said, “Karyn, when you speak… Make sure you enunciate each and every word, so that people will understand what you are saying.” I called this voice extra teacher.

I would get extra teacher when I mumbled, when I got in trouble, when I got on her last nerve. It must have worked though because people are always impressed with my voice and diction. It would annoy my mom when people ‘complimented’ me on my speech. She would say, “Of course she speaks well, how else would you expect her to speak?”

On too many occasions, I’ve received the compliment that I don’t sound black at all. I sound literate and intelligent, which I am. Literacy and intelligence have nothing to do with race.

Going to college was a given. In fact, we would pass gas stations, see a full-service attendant, and mom would point and tell me that was my future if I didn’t go to college. It would have been a short-lived future though, considering that full service, you know where a gas station attendant pumps the gas for you (and cleans your windshield!), would be out of service 10 years later … unless you are in New Jersey.

My school was predominately Jewish. My neighborhood was primarily black. So, I was insulated from racism to an extent. Mom knew one day I would encounter it, so she prepared me. She told me if anyone ever called me the n-word, to look over my left shoulder and then my right. I should ask the person who said the offending word, who they were talking to. I was to educate them that a n****r is an ignorant person; therefore, they couldn’t be talking to me.

The over-the-should looks were used by my mom regularly. Not in reference to racist taunts, but when encountering a slightly disrespectful child. If I ever had a little too much tone in my voice or answered her with an exasperated “What?” (or any “What” really), I would get the over the shoulder glances followed by a question that needed no answer. “Who are you talking to?” she’d say. I would answer by repeating my statement with a significant vocal adjustment.

Mom demanded respect and she got it. She knew how to get her point across without raising her voice, screaming, or shouting. She could let you know exactly where you stood without curse words, insults, or name calling. So, yes, she’d get extra teacher with other people, and it worked.

She got extra teacher at the end of 8th grade when I wasn’t recommended for Honors high school classes. I wasn’t at that meeting, but I know Extra Teacher showed up because, after that meeting, I was officially in the Honors program. Mom was right, I did well but I wouldn’t have even had the opportunity if E.T. didn’t show up.

To paraphrase James Brown, Mama didn’t take no mess! But she wasn’t all business, she was funny. Every comedian knows that funny is more than the joke you tell. It’s the way you tell it. It is eliminating the extra and keeping the joke or story filled with the important facts. How many times have you heard a person tell a story, that could have been funny, if they didn’t get mired in extraneous details? Who cares what color the umbrella was or whether they were serving sweet tea or lemonade?

Mom had amazing comic timing. She also did voices. She saw the humor in everything.

I think parents get a perverse pleasure out of embarrassing their children, Mom was no exception. She would dance and sing (at home and in public) and I would cringe. It might have been okay if she could sing, but … When she would sing at home, Dad and I would laugh and ask, “What did you say?” Mom would pout and say “I was singing” then we’d apologize.

More than Grounding

By high school, I was organized and neat, as a kid my idea of ‘cleaning’ my room involved taking everything visible and stuffing it under my twin beds. This was not acceptable and the fact that I continued to do it probably speaks volumes about me. My Mom would ‘inspect’ my room. The first thing she’d do is look under the bed. Duh! Then I’d have to take everything out and clean up. Thus, prompting this great mom-ism “If you don’t have time to do it right, when are you going to have time to do it again.” And I would have to do it again. And of course, after I cleaned, I was grounded.

During this time, I would hear the doorbell ring. It was Stephen and Michael asking if I could come outside and play. All my mom had to say was “No, she can’t come out right now.” But that would be too easy and not nearly embarrassing enough. Instead, she would say, “No, Karyn can’t come out. In fact, she won’t be out for the rest of the week. I told her to clean up her room, not cram everything under her bed. So, she’s grounded and will be for the rest of the week. Thanks for coming by though. I’m sure she would have enjoyed playing with you two.”

I’m listening to this whole exchange and I’m cringing because I knew what was going to happen next. Stephen and Michael were going to tease me mercilessly about being grounded. My mother gave them all the ammunition they needed. Of course, this would spread pass the twins and I’d be getting harassed by other kids on my street too.

Mom of the Year? Probably Not

Mom had taught me how to defend myself, not by fighting but with words. When I started first grade, I would get harassed on the bus for being the ‘new kid’.

I told my mom. Here’s what she didn’t do. She didn’t call any parents. She didn’t yank me off the bus. There were no concerned parent-teacher meetings. Instead, she sat me down and asked who was bothering me. She was able to give me a comeback for each kid. The harassment stopped shortly after that. And I handled it. Mom was a working mother, a teacher who visited homes and checked up on her kids. While my parents always made parent-teacher conferences, my mother did not have the desire or the patience to talk to a bunch of parents, especially about something she felt her daughter could handle herself. So, she taught me how to fend for myself. Something I’ve relied on since.

It strikes me as funny now because moms do so much for their kids that they lose themselves in the process. My mom never lost herself. I came home excited about being a Girl Scout once. That excitement was short-lived. Mom said I couldn’t be a Girl Scout because she wasn’t selling cookies. I assured her that I would sell my own cookies, but she wouldn’t budge.

Years later, as an adult, when co-workers dropped by my cube armed with order forms or when I would walk into Walmart deftly bypassing the girls and their mothers hocking cookies, I understood exactly what Mom was talking about. If I had a daughter, she wouldn’t be a Girl Scout either.

I was a latch key kid. I played outside all day long. I rode a bike without a helmet. I ate sugary cereal for breakfast while watching violent cartoons. By today’s standards my mom would have been considered a crappy parent. But I thought she was amazing. I still think she was amazing. I was raised in an earlier era and I don’t think it is right to judge everyone based on today’s standards. Even knowing how the story would end, if I had a choice, I’d pick the same parents, mom and dad.

Period Pampering

It was a school day. I was in 5th grade. Yes, all the 5th grade girls had gone to Mrs. Macher’s class to learn about sex and feminine hygiene (the boys went to Mr. Williams). I knew about periods, but I also knew it would be several years before I had to deal with pads, tampons, cramps and all that menstrual mess.

I was wrong.

I was about to run for the bus when I felt kinda wet. I ran to the bathroom again. What I saw horrified me. Why was I bleeding? What was happening? Had I hurt myself? It was certainly too soon, way too soon for Menstrual Madness!

I ran downstairs to my mom in hysterics. She calmly smiled, hugged me, and told me proudly, “You’re a woman now.”

Ummm, no. I am a 5th grader, just like I was five minutes ago. Womanhood doesn’t start in the 5th grade. I was still upset I wasn’t getting Easter baskets anymore. I had just heard of this thing called ‘French kissing’ and it seems completely disgusting that some guy would put his slimy tongue in my mouth. How could I, right at this moment, be a woman?? I didn’t even have boobs!

I missed the bus. Mom took me upstairs and showed me this huge paper horse saddle called a sanitary pad. This wasn’t even 1980, so it wasn’t fitted. It didn’t even an adhesive strip to keep it in place. Pretty much, compared to now, it was the Flintstones era of feminine hygiene.

Luckily, through the fifth and sixth grade, menstruation wasn’t frequent. By 7th grade, I was getting boobs, hips and regular periods. With those periods came killer cramps. Every month, I was in the nurse’s office. She’d call my mom, who’d come pick me up.

Sometimes we’d stop for soup. Once I got home there was a heating pad, hot lemony tea and lots of pain killers. In fact, eventually, I had 800 mg of Ibuprofen prescribed for me. Mom would check on me often. She felt my pain because she had suffered from killer cramps herself.

Killer cramps didn’t stop until I got on the pill. In fact, I got on the pill, not because I was sexually active but because I needed the reign of the Crippling Cramps to end. Fortunately, they did.

Low and Sexy

My ‘play’ cousins, Stephen and Michael lived across the street. Their mother, my Aunt BJ, was the most beautiful woman I knew (think young Chaka Khan). She had the cutest, squeakiest voice and, get this, she never got older. Every year on her birthday, I’d ask how old she was. She was always 25. It was fascinating. How come my mother got older and Aunt BJ didn’t? I asked my mom once and she just shook her head and rolled her eyes.

I was bored at home one day. I wore a half slip on my head to mimic long hair. I sashayed into the kitchen while mom was cooking dinner. She did a double take and asked what I was doing. I responded in my best high-pitched, squeaky voice, “I’m Aunt Beeeeee Jay!”

My mother looked at me so sternly that I thought I was in trouble. Then, she turned down the food and sat down at the kitchen table. I sat next to her, slightly afraid. She looked me dead in my eyes and with a low and sultry voice she said, “Karyn, if you want to get a man’s attention, don’t go high and squeaky, go low and sexy.” She said it with a glint in her eye and a roll of her shoulders. I was impressed.

So, I did my best low voice and responded with a shoulder roll and said, “Low and sexy.” The pupil was learning, and the teacher returned my voice with hers and said, “Yes, like Lauren Bacall, low and sexy.” I didn’t know who that lady was, but I knew low and sexy. So, Mom and I sat there for several minutes being low and sexy. It was a lesson I’ll never forget. Okay, I did forget for a minute in high school when I went through my Valley Girl phase. Yeah, I was a black valley girl in Cleveland, Ohio.

Cop Tales

This story encapsulates who we both were. We were on the way home, about to turn into our neighborhood. Mom was always speeding, and this day was no exception. What made this day different, were the flashing lights and loud siren behind us.

The cop approached the car and asked the standard, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” as if this is the time for a quiz.

My mom not wanting the fine or the insurance points, told an elaborate tale about how sick I was. We were on our way back from the doctor and she was desperate to get her sick child home and we were right around the corner.

This might have worked, had I known the plan. I mean, I could play sick – mastering stomach aches, crying out in pain. It could have been an award-winning performance.

Instead, I sat there watching this whole exchange, enraptured by the tale Mom was telling. She was good. Except there was a problem. Who was this ‘sick’ child they were speaking of? It wasn’t me. This was my opportunity to play the robust and healthy child.

“I’m not sick,” I blurted.

My mom shot me a look that said, “What???” I immediately realized that I should have kept my mouth shut. In fact, I started to feel kind of sick.

I don’t remember if Mom got a ticket or not. But believe the animated storyteller and outspoken activist was raising a child in her own dramatic image.