Childhood Memories Covered in Dust
My memories of my childhood feature me as a boy who wore glasses. Which is weird, because I didn’t start wearing them until I was in my second year of college. The image of what I looked like between the ages of four and nine is like Egghead Jr., the baby chick who made guest appearances in the Foghorn Leghorn Looney Tunes cartoons. When I see Egghead Jr., I see myself—a shy boy studying those around me. Plotting the day I could live the life I believed I was meant to enjoy.
Reading Wame M. Molefhe’s book, Go Tell The Sun, a beautiful collection of stories that capture the author’s country of Botswana, I realised my childhood is covered in dust. Not because I don’t think about those years occasionally. It’s more that when I left Phoenix, Arizona for college, I was determined to blank them out. If I’d had the means, I would’ve moved to the other side of the planet. The last thing I expected was to find strength in eighteen years woven with sadness, disappointment, anger, and fear.
My earliest memory is seeing my grandmother propped against the narrow white gas stove in my aunt’s kitchen. She stared ahead with a slight smile. A light-skinned, heavyset woman with long dark hair worn in two braids that fell across her large bosom. I loved the feel of her plushy skin when she’d wrap her arms around me. Assuming she wanted to play, I was delighted she was on the floor.
“One of my favourite memories of being with Mama is the two of us sitting in a dark orange circular booth in a diner on a Saturday morning.”
When I shared this with my mother twenty-five years later, her eyes widened with horror and sadness. “Who told you that?”
“No one. I remember it. Even though she looked serene, she wouldn’t play with me. I was confused.”
“That was the night she had a stroke.”
“Oh… When was that?”
“Just after Christmas 1972.”
I was a month shy of three years old. Suddenly, the other details from that night made sense. Standing on the patterned sofa and looking out the window at two tall white firemen walking across my aunt’s front lawn. My grandmother died when I was young. I knew that. But I never thought to ask about the date.
My mother wasn’t a hugger. At least, not with me. So, I didn’t put my arm around her shoulders to comfort her. Instead, we allowed an awkward silence to share the space with us.
One of my favourite memories of being with Mama is the two of us sitting in a dark orange circular booth in a diner on a Saturday morning. She smiled down at me as I went between sharing my week at the babysitter and shovelling forkfuls of pancakes into my mouth. Mama reminded me to focus on chewing so as not to choke. I was content. My mother wanted to hear what I thought about life as a four-year-old.
I never knew what she did there, but my mother worked at the Revlon Manufacturing Plant. Each morning, she dropped me off at Mrs Sledge in South Phoenix. Mrs Sledge was a dark-skinned, middle-aged woman who lived with her husband and their two youngest children, several years older than me. I didn’t like her or their kids. Mrs Sledge always looked at me as if she was picking me apart.
Mama made the best pancakes. Still, I liked it more when we went out for them. Even though it was just the two of us, she felt more like she was mine when we were out. I was proud; sitting across from her wearing make-up and a fluffy afro wig. She looked pretty. People commented on how much I looked like her.
I don’t remember the name of the diner. But the decor was various shades of browns, yellows, and oranges. It’s no longer there. Even so, each time I visit Phoenix, I make sure to look west when I drive through the intersection of 24th Street and Thomas Road. A place that reminds me of the love my mother and I shared that day.
“In my dreams, my mother looks like the woman I remember in her late twenties and early thirties.”
My second favourite memory is Mama’s thirty-first birthday on 31 October 1978. I was determined to make her a special gift. When the last bell rang at Martin Luther King, Jr. Elementary School, I didn’t join the other kids who went to Mrs Sledge. I stayed behind and asked Ms Brown, my third-grade teacher, to help me make a gift for my mother. She agreed.
Ms Brown was an unmarried middle-aged woman with a short afro. She always wore creased bright polyester pants, blouses with big flowers, and reading glasses that hung around her neck on a gold chain. Most of the kids in the class were afraid of her. I wasn’t. We had a bond. I was her smartest student. Her small house was down the road from the school. When the season changed from late summer to autumn, I was tasked with picking up her keys and opening the classroom. Ms Brown didn’t want us to stand out in the cold.
What Ms Brown and I created for my mother was a masterpiece. It started with a brown kraft paper cone that we covered in bright green tissue paper leaves she helped me cut. When that part was done, we crafted flowers using red tissue paper and dark green pipe cleaners.
When we finished, I looked up at the big clock above the green chalkboard. It was four-thirty. I need to go. Mama would be picking me up from Mrs Sledge at five. Grabbing my books, I thanked Ms Brown and raced out of the classroom.
As I moved towards the black iron gate that surrounded the school, my mother’s 1973 burgundy Buick Regal with the black vinyl top careened into the parking lot and stopped several feet in front of me. I was so excited to see her. She jumped out just as I ran up to her door.
“Boy, what are still doing at school? You scared the life out of us. Mrs Sledge called to tell me no one knew where you were.”
Ms Brown came up behind me just as I handed Mama her gift. “Happy Birthday,” I screamed.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know Erick hadn’t let you all know where he was.”
“It’s okay. I’m just happy he’s alright.”
Moving around the front of the car, I opened the passenger door and hopped in. My mother got in, turned the ignition, and pulled the column shift down to reverse. As we moved backwards, I leaned out the window and thanked Ms Brown again. She waved, and we drove north home.
“Thank you for the gift, Erick,” Mama said. “It’s beautiful.”
My gift was a centrepiece on our coffee table until the following summer. After marrying my stepfather, Mama placed it above a kitchen cabinet. It hurt each time I looked up at it. She never told me why it had to move out of sight.
In my dreams, my mother looks like the woman I remember in her late twenties and early thirties. Not the one who married and had more children. The person who lost the sparkle in her eyes. Who continued to insist I do well in school, while not wanting to hear about my days.
The first seven years of living, I knew nothing about my father. The day I gathered the courage to ask about him, my mother was driving eastbound on the I-10 highway. Everyone in class talked about a mother and a father. I had no answer when asked about mine. I needed to know.
“Your father and I met when he was stationed at Luke Air Force Base. I’m sorry, but I never told him about you. But I’m happy you’re in my life. Don’t worry. You will meet him one day.”
In 1979, I lost my mother when she married my stepfather. Fearing his rage, she interacted with me only when it was time to get me off to school, check my report card at the end of each term, or silently express disappointment that I wasn’t like other boys. I cared most about reading, being a good student, and keeping clear of my stepfather’s temper. For the next nine years, I kept to myself when I was in the house.
In my late twenties, I learned how to live in the present. Working through resentments I held on to for years. Reading Wame’s book, I want to revisit that period of my life. To sift through my mother’s emotional neglect and my stepfather’s abuse. I am ready to rediscover my happy childhood memories. They’re there. And I want to celebrate them.
