While I Run This Race
a memoir
by Pocahontas Gertler
Copyright 2011 Pocahontas Gertler. All rights reserved.
Smashwords edition.
Production and publishing services provided by Combustoica, a prose project of About Comics. www.Combustoica.com
Guide My Feet While I Run This Race
(African American Spiritual)
Guide my feet while I run this race.
Guide my feet while I run this race.
Guide my feet while I run this race,
for I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Hold my hand while I run this race.
Hold my hand while I run this race.
Hold my hand while I run this race,
for I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Stand by me while I run this race.
Stand by me while I run this race.
Stand by me while I run this race,
for I don’t want to run this race in vain!
I’m your child while I run this race.
I’m your child while I run this race.
I’m your child while I run this race,
for I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Search my heart while I run this race.
Search my heart while I run this race.
Search my heart while I run this race,
for I don’t want to run this race in vain!
Guide my feet while I run this race.
Guide my feet while I run this race.
Guide my feet while I run this race,
for I don’t want to run this race in vain!
WHILE I RUN THIS RACE
Who among us has ever truly unraveled the great mystery of life? Wise men and fools have all had their turn at it with treatises, sermons, fables, metaphors, similes and more in an effort to capture the essence of what life is and how to live it with purpose, meaning, fulfillment and success. Life has been described as many things, including a journey, a test, an adventure, a puzzle, a three ring circus and even as a box of chocolates by Forrest Gump.
I leave it to minds much greater and much more intellectual, philosophical and spiritual than mine to wrestle with these complex comparisons and similarities and to debate their accuracy. Through the years and sometimes from day to day, one description seems more appealing to me than some of the others. A race is often cited as a metaphor for life. Today, that imagery resonates deeply with me, perhaps because I know that I am approaching the finish line, at least I am much closer to it than I used to be.
The African American spiritual, “Guide My Feet While I Run This Race” has always served to remind me to seek the guidance of the Creator in all things so that indeed I do not run this race in vain. It has been said that life is a marathon, not a sprint. I have had to learn to pace myself, to persist and to endure; to develop strategies, to keep going, to avoid false starts, to stay the course, to always do my personal best and to keep my eyes on the prize.
It is also said that the race is not to the swift but to those who endure to the end. Though the wording is not exact, the thought has a Biblical basis and any number of passages in the Scriptures encourage us to endure, to remain faithful to God that we might win the race; that we might capture the victor’s cup or be awarded the crown in triumph and humility.
Even as children, we learn the moral of Aesop’s fable of the tortoise and the hare. We are told not to give up, not to quit because the slow and steady pace wins in the end.
I have run this race for more than seven decades and although I’m not as fast as I once was, I am still plodding along. I have competed against many adversaries including poverty, ignorance, illness, abuse, persecution, sexism, bigotry, intolerance and racism. Clearing each hurdle and defeating each opponent served to make me stronger and more determined to keep on running toward peace, justice, harmony, wholeness, unity and love for all humanity. My life is my marathon, my fervent prayer of gratitude to the Creator.
May He continue to “guide my feet while I run this race”.
PREFACE
I write this not as a word for word, true and accurate account of my life but rather as snapshots that capture the essence of some of the pivotal people and events as I remember them more than three quarters of a century later. Thus I will allow myself the latitude of changing some names and places to protect both the innocent and the guilty while keeping my story authentic and relating it with integrity and with far more truth than fiction.
Terminology and ethnic designations that would have been considered proper and acceptable in the historical context of the day may well be deemed politically incorrect or even insulting and demeaning in modern times. I use these terms as they applied to the time period in which they were commonly used.
African Americans were referred to as colored people and as Negroes in polite society, as opposed to the demeaning terminology and ethnic slurs often hurled by racists or used by others steeped in ignorance and bigotry. Native Americans were generally referred to as Indians or by tribal affiliation but there were those who freely used epithets like savages, heathens or redskins when addressing or alluding to American Indian people. Native people were sometimes categorized as “colored” especially those who intermarried with Negroes.
Recollections of my very earliest experiences were obviously conveyed to me by others but my own memories soon intersected the telling and retelling of the second-hand stories and the combined interpretations became a very personal part of my own psyche and saga.
I write, therefore, for my own enjoyment and satisfaction with the hope that someday, my descendants and others may read and discover some new and interesting insight or information about their predecessor, Pocahontas Little Dove Gertler. Could it be that some sin confessed or some blunder made might serve to deter others from a similar fate? Perhaps some bit of wit or wisdom, perchance some act of courage or kindness related here, might help to guide and inspire or engage and amuse those who come after.
The relating of more recent events will doubtless be less flawed by lapses of memory or by faulty recall. It is my hope that with age has come deeper insights revealing the crux of many lessons learned and evidence of growth achieved through the varied experiences along life’s journey.
The good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly and the mundane have all served to make me who I am. In the words of an old gospel song, “I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey now”.
INTRODUCTION
The voices of the dead were silent as my grandmother and I walked along the path just outside Laurel Grove Cemetery. The grass was freshly mowed and offensive weeds and brush were neatly sheared. Clearly, the white folks had the means, the resources and the will to provide a fitting resting place for their dead, contrary to those who operated the segregated cemetery located in the part of town designated for non-whites. Its unkempt, overgrown plots strewn with weeds and with mostly unmarked graves were a study in contrast to the pristine setting of the white cemetery.
The black wrought iron gates marking the entrance to Laurel Grove Cemetery were closed and locked but we could see inside quite clearly through the bars. In thoughtful observation, with a far away look in her eyes, my grandmother murmured, “Even in death, they separate themselves from us colored people. Their stately mansions and imposing monuments cannot buy them entrance into God’s kingdom where the first shall be last and the humble shall be exalted.”
A squirrel skittered across a marble gravestone and a bird sang sweetly in a tree overhanging a granite angel perched protectively on a monument, keeping quiet vigil over what appeared to be the grave of a small child. I wondered if one of the first words that child had learned to say was “nigger”. At a very tender age, white children were taught to demean us and at eight years of age, I had already experienced the sting of their scorn. Still, I felt compassion for the little one buried beneath the earth and I prayed for the happy repose of its soul.
The green, velvety grass was lush beneath our feet as we made our way slowly around the perimeter of the graveyard, pausing to examine the exquisite plants and flowers so sculptured and groomed that they hardly looked real. Grandmother said they were not like the wild things that grew on her reservation where the Great Creator allowed their natural beauty to unfold. Here at this all white cemetery bordering the ghetto, the live green plants and colorful flowers were as close to nature as we could get within the confines of the city. I wondered if Paradise looked anything like this little piece of heaven on earth where azaleas, rhododendron and other shrubs and flowers in a splendiferous profusion of hues spread their scent on the warm, gentle breezes. The soft winds caressed my cheeks with the delicacy of the wings of a cherub. The sun was low in the almost cloudless western sky and a few wispy, bronzy pink clouds scattered overhead like celestial feathers getting ready to cover the earth with a downy blanket of soft twilight.
There were no woods or parks nearby to enjoy in the dirt and cement jungle of the colored part of Savannah where we lived; just urban squalor, noise and the dreary gray shacks and tenement houses that dotted the landscape for miles around. Only the white people were allowed to enjoy the lovely city parks.
Grandmother and I would often steal away in the cool of the late afternoon and early evening to enjoy the quiet and serenity among the dead. Most Indians avoided the places of the dead but Grandmother said that the living were more likely to harm or endanger you than were the dead. She had no fear of enjoying the beauty and solitude of nature in the cemetery. There were no guards visible so no one harassed the short, chubby old Indian woman and her petite, brown granddaughter.
Grandmother stared at the places where the dead white people lay in quiet repose and she no longer felt threatened by those who had chased her people off their land and confiscated it. The people were dead and gone who had stolen her name and forcefully dragged her off to the Indian boarding school, far away from her family, attempting to mold her into a little imitation white person. There was no reason to fear them as they could no longer hurt her.
“We must forgive them,” she said. “They didn’t know any better. They were weak and greedy and were not enlightened by the Creator. Maybe now, they know the truth in the Spirit World.”
“All whites are not bad,” she continued. “Some have been friends and allies of Indian people. Others are simply misguided and misled and do not know the Red Road. They are taught to believe that they are better than we are. They are taught that our beliefs are heathen and that our names are pagan. Some learn better and become true messengers of peace and brotherhood. Others cling to their evil beliefs and never learn the truth. We must not carry hate in our hearts for them but rather pity them and forgive them because all creatures are our brothers. It is the law of the Great Creator to forgive our enemies. It is The Great Law of Peace.”
Then, Grandmother turned her sun bronzed face to me. Her eyes were creased at the corners with the lines of aging but twinkled when she smiled. There was a sound of pure love in her voice. “You are my namesake, Pocahontas!” she said. “The whites renamed me, calling me Viola but Pocahontas is my original name, meaning ‘playful one’. You are Pocahontas Little Dove, playful and tenderhearted. Wherever you walk, you leave footprints of kindness and love. Never lose your tender heart and your playful spirit. You are a child of peace.”
My grandmother had always seemed to be in tune with my highly sensitive nature. She frequently reminded my parents that I must be handled more gently and did not require the harsher discipline that some children appeared to need.
Through the years, Grandmother Viola and I took many walks around the white cemetery after she came to live with us in Savannah. She told me many stories about her Cherokee Indian people and about the Tuscarora Indian relatives on my grandfather’s side of the family. She also taught me to do simple beading and to knit and crochet. I never did become very skilled at these as I was far more prone to read books or to write stories and poems. Together, Grandmother and I made dolls from grass and from corn husks. I loved grooming the corn silk hair of my husk dolls and I created elaborate hair styles for my grass dolls, braiding and styling the grass roots.
I quickly learned to play the string games with which Indian children entertained themselves. Grandmother and I sang songs together and I loved listening to her stories. She was proud to be an American Indian and wanted me to proudly acknowledge both the Negro and the Indian parts of my heritage. I treasured our special times together as I began to learn and to embrace the totality of my blended heritage.
One summer, I traveled on the train with Grandmother to North Carolina to bury her sister. I saw Cherokee and Tuscarora relatives, many of whom I had never met, as they gathered for the funeral. The raven haired women looked so much like my mother that it was almost as though someone had duplicated them using the magic of a mysterious copying machine. Cherokee and Tuscarora societies are matrilineal, that is, the child’s primary identity is through the mother’s blood line. I am my mother’s daughter.
Surrounded by such love and acceptance, I felt unadulterated joy while being embraced in this warm cocoon by so many aunts, uncles and cousins. The older women sat on the floor with their legs folded under them and pulled me onto their soft, cushioned laps. As they cooed and cuddled me, it felt to me like the warm embrace of Mother Earth made flesh.
“You are one of us,” they repeated. “Always remember, you have our blood. You are Indian. You are Cherokee. You are Tuscarora.”
Not too many years would pass before Grandmother would be laid to rest beside her beloved sister. When she went to the Spirit World, I knew that a part of Grandmother would always be with me to guide and inspire me through difficult times, to comfort and cheer me in sorrow, to celebrate with me in times of joy and to remind me to dance and laugh and sing. Above all, Grandmother still reminds me to revere Mother Earth, to love the Creator and to love my neighbor as myself.
Many moons have passed since Grandmother and her beloved relatives crossed over to the Spirit World but I have always remembered, I am one of them. I have their blood. I am Indian. I am Cherokee. I am Tuscarora. I am African American.
BUT YOU DON’T LOOK INDIAN
“But you don’t look Indian!” exclaimed the stooped, silver haired octogenarian as she peered curiously up at me over her tea cup. Indeed I do not look Indian according to the old stereotype of the Indian of the Plains with light skin, a Roman nose and distinctive regalia. The Shabbat evening service had just ended at the synagogue. Members of the congregation stood at oneg cheerfully greeting each other with the words, “Shabbat shalom”, literally meaning Sabbath peace, as they partook of the blessed wine and the bread called challah. This was not the time or the place to go into an explanation of my heritage, and the dear woman’s hearing impairment probably would not have permitted her to absorb what seemed a foreign concept.
A Black Indian! It must have been a bit curious and confusing for this devout Jewish woman of eastern European ancestry. It certainly was not the first time that this response had come from various sources upon hearing my name and certainly not surprising considering my dark skin color and African American appearance. Both heritages make me who I am and with integrity, I choose to honor both, Black and Indian. To honor one does not in any way diminish the other. Society labels us by appearance even if that means denying entire parts of ourselves. I clearly stood out in this gathering of predominantly white skinned, Jewish Americans.
My husband, Gene, is Jewish by birth. We have been members of the synagogue since the summer of 1998 when we retired and relocated to Prescott, Arizona from our home in southern New Jersey. Newcomers and some old timers are still not quite comfortable with who we are, how we came to be here and just where we fit into the scheme of things.
After I joined the synagogue women’s group called Sisterhood, I was invited to give an informal talk which allowed me to include information about segments of my journey as an African American/Native American woman. This talk barely scratched the surface of the story that began for me on a winter night under rainy, cold, dark mid-January skies in the year 1933. The journey began with a slap on my small, brown rear and I took my first breath and emitted lusty cries in the maternity wing of the ghetto’s Charity Hospital in Savannah, Georgia.
I, Pocahontas Little Dove, rested my head upon the breast of Mother Earth on the wintry Friday evening of January 13, 1933, my arrival going largely unnoticed except by my family and those closest to us. It was the time of the Wolf Moon, so named by the Cherokee Indians because of the wolves who foraged for food under the light of the pale January moon.
According to the plan of Uneqwa (the Great Creator), the timing of my birth seemed appropriate considering my lineage and maternal heritage. Since most Indian cultures are matrilineal, the child’s primary identity is through the mother’s blood line. My maternal grandmother was born of the Wolf Clan of the Eastern Band Cherokee Nation of North Carolina, hence, my birth under the Wolf Moon seemed especially significant. My maternal grandfather was born of the Bear Clan of the Tuscarora Indian Nation. The bear and the wolf are powerful totems and I use them in the decor of our home and in the jewelry that I wear to remind me of who I am and to surround me and mine with an aura of good medicine, well being, strength and healing.
My father’s African American lineage cannot be easily traced because most of the African ancestors were brought to this country on slave ships. Heritages and names were lost through the dehumanizing system of slavery, most never to be found or reclaimed. Researchers continue to uncover significant documentation of the intermarriages and resulting offspring of Black and Indian unions.
Many people are puzzled when they hear the terms Black Indian or African-Native American, and are unaware that we exist. There are millions of Americans with varying degrees of Black and Indian blood, many of whom are simply classified as Black or African-American by our Census Bureau. In recent years, options have been placed on the census forms allowing citizens to check more than one box and officially claim more of who we are. Current research has uncovered more and more scientific and historical evidence regarding the long standing alliances between African Americans and Native Americans and their descendants.
America has not yet come to terms with accepting the reality that people with any degree of African blood would want to acknowledge other parts of themselves, despite the largely accepted one-drop rule. Are we not entitled, as are people of other racial and ethnic groups, to claim all of who we are?
Thus began the journey that would take me on a path known only to God. My destiny would be revealed as I traversed the proverbial road of life over places both rough and smooth, with detours, hills, valleys, plateaus, arid deserts and glorious mountaintops.
After the allotted time, my mother and I were discharged from the hospital to embark upon a voyage to an uncertain fate in uncertain times. As we traveled to our humble home, my parents, Maggie Sea Flower Walls and Samuel David Harden, must have felt somewhat like the Biblical Mary and Joseph taking their babe into an unknown and insecure world, relying upon the grace of God and the kindness of strangers to sustain them.
DREAMS DEFERRED
My mahogany limbs were thin and jerked in my mother’s arms when I was startled by even the slightest unanticipated sound or movement. My mother, Maggie, held me tenderly against her full bronze breast, wondering if she had received adequate nutrition during the pregnancy to produce milk rich enough to nourish me, this fragile child who seemed so highly sensitive to everything around her. Having lost a boy child who did not survive premature birth, Maggie felt especially protective of the small dark bundle in her arms. She gazed upon me with wonder in her eyes, a wonder mixed with fear and worry.
Poverty, hunger and cold were no strangers to my parents but little did they know that these three scourges would become almost daily companions for many years to come. Hunger pangs punctuated many a sleepless night and the bitter cold was painful to bear with too few frayed quilts and blankets for warmth in the unheated, uninsulated, dilapidated houses that we called home. The immediate goal was to survive, one day at a time, with bright hope for a better tomorrow.
Survive we did, even as the family grew. The ill-fitting, hand-me-down shoes and clothing were not always age appropriate or flattering but they kept us warm. The generosity and kindness of neighbors and the charity of the soup kitchen got us through.
Mother was especially cordial and polite to the women servers at the soup kitchen and they in turn would reach to the bottom of the soup kettles and give us more substantial and less watery portions. We children were taught to be polite, clean and well groomed so that the servers would be favorably impressed and give us extra large helpings. Sometimes, my mother brought a quart jar or two which the servers filled with left-over soup for us to take home. This provided us with another meal and Mother added water to the soup in order to stretch it a little farther.
My father’s pride kept him from standing in line at the soup kitchen but my mother was pragmatic enough to know that her children needed nourishment. She was protective and resourceful and did not intend to let us starve if she could do anything to prevent it.
The Great Depression took a heavy toll on the poor in Savannah, Georgia. Maggie’s husband, my father Samuel, was unemployed and doing odd jobs in an effort to keep the rent payments current on our shabby shack of a wood-frame house on Maple Street.
Samuel was tall, handsome, muscular and ebony-skinned. Times were tough for any Negro man in 1933, but he was an optimist and a hard worker. His love for Maggie Sea Flower and her love for him fueled their resolve to build a good life for their family no matter what befell them. They made a striking couple and a strong team with hopes and dreams for a better future. They did not know that what they were up against would kill their dreams as it killed the dreams of so many of their contemporaries. Their dreams too would be deferred, as the poet Langston Hughes described, and wither like a raisin in the sun.
Some remnants of the dream survived and were passed on to me, my siblings and to our generation to be reshaped in a giant step toward realization. We would fulfill parts of the dream, dream bigger dreams, transform them into visions and pass them on to our descendants, refusing to let the dreams die.
MAMA CRIED
There were a number of Indian women who, like my mother, became an integral part of our community with their Negro husbands. The race police didn’t seem to mind since we were all “colored people”, as long as the Indian women didn’t look too white. Their offspring, in various shades of brown, were plentiful and infused the ghetto with hybrid vigor.
The whole color scenario was a complicated affair and added to that complex hierarchy was the hair texture nightmare. Every Negro was familiar with the saying: “If you’re white, you’re alright; if you’re brown, stick around; if you’re black, get back.” It was considered good fortune if one’s skin were light enough to pass the brown paper bag test. That could be tricky considering the tanning capacity of the hot Georgia sun. One might pass the test in winter and fail it miserably in the summer.
I was much darker than a paper bag, though not as dark as Samuel, and Maggie knew that the darker one’s complexion was, the more difficult life would be because of the prejudice and discrimination of the times. She loved her dark brown baby girl, but she wished that I had been born with lighter skin so that life might spare me some of the insults and hurts that were sure to come, not only from white people, but from people of color who had become infused with self-hatred, internalizing the racism and the color coded standards set by whites. Those Negroes who were described by locals as “light, bright and damned near white” were treated with favor when it came to employment, housing and other opportunities, especially if they managed to speak articulately and without a Negro dialect.
Wishing that my silky, black hair would remain curly and not start to kink made Maggie feel guilty but the guilt was assuaged because she was merely wishing for whatever would make my life more tolerable. The “good hair-bad hair” classification pitted even family members against one another. Poverty, dark skin and “bad” hair were a triple threat. Maggie hoped that perhaps I would be gifted with extreme intelligence or blessed with other talents to compensate for the lack of exceptional physical features. I would need to be outstanding in some respect in order to surmount the circumstances of birth, race and economics.
Lost in these troubling thoughts, Maggie gently wiped away her tears which had fallen on my face as she imagined that by some magic, her tears could wash away some of the pigment or at least dilute it to the light color of a brown paper bag.
I opened my dark brown eyes and my plump little lips made a sucking noise followed by soft cooing sounds like those of a mourning dove. Pocahontas Little Dove was the name Maggie had chosen for me, partly because of those sounds and more importantly to honor her own Cherokee mother, Pocahontas.
The name Pocahontas Little Dove would later become associated with my peaceful nature as a child, always striving for conflict resolution; and associated later still with the Dove of Peace. Ultimately, it would become associated with my dedication and involvement in causes relating to peace and social justice. I, the dark child with the uncommon name, was destined to lead an uncommon life.
Many years would pass before I grew to understand the depth and breadth of the damaging and negative effects of racism. The painful struggle to build a healthy self-esteem, the journey toward self-acceptance and a sense of self-worth took time, effort, insight and daring. I finally learned enough to know that it was not I who was flawed but rather that the yardstick by which society measured me was defective. That darned measuring rod was so warped and bent that it would never be capable of measuring my true worth and value.
Perhaps by some methods of measuring success, mine has been a rather ordinary life, unmarked by heroism, fame or great acquisitions of wealth, power and achievement. Yet, the success of a life well lived may not be measured in those terms. Perhaps it is the adherence to the sacred principles of service and giving that are far more important. Believing that trouble lasts only for a season, I have tried never to let temporary setbacks deter me from fulfilling my destiny, however humble. Once, when asked if she ever became discouraged when she could not successfully feed all the world’s hungry, Mother Teresa replied, “I do not pray for success, I ask for faithfulness.” I too have endeavored to be faithful.
Striving to maintain faithfulness and trust, I have followed my own star and sung my own special song. I have listened to the voice within, marched to the different drummer in my own heart, slain personal demons and societal dragons and tried to touch the lives of others with kind and gentle hands. I have survived for lo these many decades despite roadblocks, detours and obstacles deliberately or inadvertently placed in my path. In my resolve and commitment to live with integrity, I have been blessed with a measure of both faithfulness and success. Sometimes, I have paid a great price for that resolve and commitment but if I had to choose all over again, I would gladly pay whatever the cost, not to die with the music still in me.
JESUS, SANTA CLAUS AND OTHER MYSTERIES
Many moons waxed and waned and before long, a few Wolf Moons had passed. I could remember at least parts of the preceding years. The earlier details were filled in with the stories that I heard repeated by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends of the family. Many of these friends were called aunts, uncles and cousins and were embraced as part of the extended family in our close knit community.
I distinctly remember the crib in which I slept as a toddler. I can picture the chipped, vivid blue paint. I wonder now if it might have been lead-based paint. Well, that would perhaps help to explain any limitations in my mental acuity. It was during those days that I came down with an agonizing case of mumps. My mother wrapped my cheeks with a cloth soaked in camphorated oil, bringing it under my chin and tying the cloth on top of my head like a bunny rabbit’s ears. I remember feeling quite ill but I was not a complainer, I’m told. After all, I was the eldest child and early on I understood that I must be a role model for my sister, Bunny, who was eighteen months younger.
Bunny was a beautiful baby. Everyone marveled at her beauty! She had light skin like my mother’s and she did not cry often as they said I did when I was a baby. I had often heard the stories of how dark and ugly I was at birth, compared to Bunny when she was born. Contrary to her happy disposition, I was colicky and fretful. As I grew older, I sometimes worried that my mother would no longer love me now that she had a beautiful light skinned child with a more placid disposition. My strategy for winning and holding my mother’s love was to be extra good and extra helpful. If I caused no trouble and became indispensable to her, I reasoned with my childish mind that she might love me and keep me.
I was almost four years old when my sister Gloria was born on Christmas Eve. Mother went to the hospital in the middle of the night and when Bunny and I awoke the next morning, we were told that Santa Claus had brought us a beautiful baby sister. Now that there were two of them, I would have to try even harder to behave perfectly and to make up for being born ugly.
Santa Claus brought some toys and goodies too, so that helped to ease my worry. I got an organ grinder bank and the monkey tipped his hat and the man beat a drum and clapped the cymbals each time I dropped a coin in the slot. That was fascinating to me and the relatives gave me several pennies to put in my new bank.
While I played with my bank, Bunny set about filling my new flute with sand. I got a mouth full of sand when I tried to play it and she laughed. I couldn’t smack her because I was supposed to be a good role model. Feeling frustrated and upset, I cried instead. In an effort to comfort me, my father told me that they had saved my best gift for last. I had asked Santa for a doll and I was praying this would be it. I tore hungrily into the wrapping and pulled out a box and opened it. Inside was the ugliest doll I had ever seen! It had huge red lips and its skin was as black as coal. It wore a brilliantly patterned, gaudy, sack-like dress that hung from its pot-bellied frame. Its frizzy, kinky hair was tied in sections with a different colored ribbon on each tuft and it looked like Topsy in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”. Enraged, I heaved the ugly doll across the room, breaking off its foot as it struck the wall.
The family reacted with shock as they had never seen me throw such a fit before. I was sure that Santa Claus brought me that doll because he thought it looked like me, black and ugly. He must have thought that this was the kind of doll I deserved. I had prayed for a beautiful, white doll with straight, blond hair. Maybe Jesus didn’t love me after all, I thought, and Santa had brought that ugly doll as unmistakable proof. Already, racism had brainwashed me, created self-hatred and inflicted the insidious wounds of internalized racism upon my young mind.
Through my tears, I tried to explain my upset to my father and aunts. I think my father understood, but my young aunts laughed, adding insult to injury.
When my mother and the new baby came home from the hospital a few days later, I was still withdrawn and sad. When I saw the beautiful new baby, I knew I had better snap out of it and start helping to take care of her and I soon became my old indispensable self. I repressed my secret hurt and hid it deep in my heart.
Something changed for me that day and my role became that of keeping other people happy. I continued to play games where I pretended that my dad’s sister Aunt Dahlia was my little girl and that I was her mother. I was very nurturing and combed her hair and play-acted taking her to Sunday School. We said Bible verses and sang “Yes, Jesus Loves Me” but I wondered if he really did.
I still enjoyed rocking in my very own small, cane rocking chair and when Aunt Dahlia took me to the real Sunday School at the Methodist Church, I wore my black patent leather Mary Jane shoes and carried my black patent leather Lucy Locket purse. I saw Jesus all white and blond in the stained glass windows of the sanctuary, and many thoughts swirled around in my little head as the congregants belted out yet another chorus of “Whiter than snow, Lord, whiter than snow. Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow”.
My innocent, susceptible, young mind was already being bombarded with the myths and subliminal messages that white was right and better. The repetitious lies methodically brainwashed the most vulnerable and perpetuated racism in older folks, passing it down from generation to generation.
Children of whatever race, in times past and in times present, are molded and told whom to emulate, with whom to associate, whom to avoid and how to treat those who are different. They learn which standards of beauty are valued and acceptable and which are devalued and held in disdain. It is taught consciously and unconsciously by word and deed, by example and attitude, by media and by society’s institutions and systemic values, and it is absorbed as easily as oxygen is in breathing. Volumes are filled with revisionist history portraying which cultures and heroes should be emulated, honored and imitated and which cultures and heroes should be trivialized, ridiculed or omitted.
Religion was a double-edged sword. It was used sometimes to reinforce the idea of white superiority with images of a white God/Jesus, white angels, white saints and an abundance of white symbols representing the ideas of good and purity. On the other hand, we were taught that God/Jesus loved everyone and that God created all. That made the concept of brotherhood and equality confusing for the mind of a dark skinned child who could see inequality all around and who had difficulty finding enough positive reinforcement to counter the resounding message that dark or black was bad or dirty.
Religion was an integral part of our upbringing and a mixture of traditions from both sides of the family made for early ecumenical exposure and opportunities for inclusiveness in some respects but for exclusion in others. The contradictions left many questions in my mind that I did not yet have the language to ask.
The spiritual aspects of holidays were emphasized by my parents so our material expectations were not high. We had very little money so we were pleasantly surprised whenever we got anything at all. My parents did the best that they could to make the holidays special with candy treats and whatever else they could afford. Sometimes, there were Christmas presents or new Easter dresses and Easter baskets for us kids but limited finances kept us focused on the sacred rather than on the secular. We were taught all the Bible stories about Jesus’ birth, life, death and resurrection.
A CHILD WITH AN OLD SOUL
During the good periods when Dad found work and we had sufficient food and clothing, life had its warm, fuzzy moments. Dad would sing, teach us songs, tell us stories and bounce us on his knee. He would toss us high into the air and play flying angel. I felt so secure knowing that his strong arms would catch me every single time.
The ancients would say that I appeared to possess an old soul, seeming much wiser than my tender years. I was a keen observer who watched and listened and learned.
As each new sibling expanded our family, I assumed more and more duties and responsibilities in caring for my younger sisters and brothers and for the upkeep of our clean but shabby home. My mother always stressed that cleanliness was next to godliness and that was reinforced throughout my childhood.
By the age of six or seven, I had learned to stand on a wooden Coca-Cola crate at the old wood stove and cook meals as well as any woman could. Starting the fire in the wood stove was a bit risky though and once when I lit the kerosene soaked wood, it flared up singeing the right side of my hair almost to the roots. My guardian angel must surely have been keeping watch over me because the only harm I suffered was a not-yet-fashionable asymmetrical hair style for a while until it grew in. I learned to fix baby formula, bathe and diaper the babies and care for them efficiently. It never occurred to me that these responsibilities were unusual for one so young, acting in the role of a miniature adult.
My mother went to work to supplement the family income and her hours were brutally long and hard. Her former experience as a one-room schoolhouse teacher in rural Georgia did not qualify her for anything other than menial domestic work in the homes of white people in segregated Savannah. Mother said that many of the Jewish people were generally more respectful and nicer to her than were the other white people for whom she worked.
Working from dawn to dusk kept her exhausted. She walked regally, nevertheless, with her spine straight and her head held high despite the daily humiliations to which she was subjected. She was underpaid, overworked and exploited, as were the other women of color.
Having received a good, basic high school education at the boarding school where she excelled academically, my mother was certainly capable of doing other kinds of work had the opportunities been available to her. She was intelligent, sensitive and reached out as a contributor to the community. Members of the community recognized, respected and appreciated her astuteness. She had learned the ancient healing arts from her Cherokee mother, a medicine woman, and these healing skills were greatly valued since few in the community could afford conventional medical care. Who knows what my mother might have become, had she been permitted to realize her potential! Mother nursed the sick, visited the lonely and the elderly, read to the illiterate and wrote letters for them and taught us to do the same as we grew up.
My mother was a beautiful woman and she carried herself with modesty and grace. She dressed for work as neatly and as tastefully as her limited wardrobe would allow. She was never provocative in dress or manner as she wanted to discourage the advances and sexual harassment of her male employers. Feelings of entitlement sometimes led these men to feel that they had the right to disregard the boundaries of women of color and to behave crassly and without common decency. Often it came down to a choice between maintaining one’s job or protecting one’s personal safety and principles. We heard whispered reports from neighbor women of rapes by white employers whose wives were sometimes complicit with the evil misdeeds of their husbands, either too afraid or too uncaring to intervene. From time to time, fair-skinned children were born to the women of color. Everyone knew about the abuses but no one talked about the white fathers except in whispers.
It was terribly frustrating to be relegated to the demeaning way of life in the ghetto with no visible way out and little control over one’s destiny or even over one’s own body. Mothers worried about how to protect their young daughters from rape or from being otherwise abused. The lines began to show in my mother’s pretty face as she worried about the family finances, the work load that I carried at home and the safety of all her children while she was away at work. Quietly spiritual, she relied heavily upon her faith in the Great Creator to sustain her through those difficult times.
I learned to do the mending, the cooking and cleaning, the ironing and whatever other tasks needed attention. The most difficult chore was washing clothes on a washboard in galvanized tubs outdoors. I heated water on the stove but it cooled quickly making doing the laundry a very frigid chore in winter. In the sweltering heat of summer, I placed the laundry tubs beneath a Chinaberry tree in the back yard and took advantage of its cooling shade.
Since I had already missed one year of school in order to babysit my younger siblings, my mother was greatly concerned about my education. She began home schooling me at night after work and on weekends. We used makeshift materials. Grocery bags from the store were converted into writing paper. Books for reading lessons consisted of the Bible, Sears-and-Roebuck catalogs and odds and ends suitable for my mother’s creative and innovative teaching were retrieved from other people’s discards. Food cans, cereal boxes and the like provided supplementary reading and arithmetic material.
OFF TO SCHOOL
Eventually, I enjoyed a brief but happy stint in kindergarten at the neighborhood Episcopal Church. I looked forward daily to seeing the smiling, familiar brown faces of the friendly teachers and children who looked like me. When my mother and I went to kindergarten the very first day, we were taken to a brightly decorated room where small chairs formed a circle in the center. Children and teachers were gaily marching around the room waving small American flags and singing “Three Cheers For The Red, White and Blue”. I remember wondering why they were singing about “three chairs” when I saw at least twenty or more chairs in the room!
Mother left me there assuring me that she would return. I don’t recall feeling too anxious or uncomfortable. I’m told I was always very adaptable. In actuality, I think I learned early on to put on a happy face, to put up a brave front and never let them see me sweat.
Having missed almost a year of regular school, I was quite excited when my mother told me that I was about to be transferred to St. Mary’s Parochial School to enter first grade. I was totally unprepared for the sight of yardstick-wielding nuns in black and dark brown Franciscan habits tied at the waist with thick ropes of white cord. Falling from the waist, the white cords had three carefully tied knots in them. I learned that the knots stood for poverty, chastity and obedience, the vows that the nuns had taken. Giant wooden Rosary beads hung from their waists also. Their black shoes and stockings were sometimes visible beneath their long skirts when the nuns walked briskly or occasionally sat down.
I could see only the white faces and hands of the nuns and I wondered for years whether or not they had hair or if perhaps they shaved their heads. In the sixth grade, I finally saw a tendril of reddish brown hair which had inadvertently escaped from under the veil of our nun. Another nun must have informed her of it for after morning recess, it was safely tucked out of sight beneath her veil. My curiosity had been satisfied and discovering that the nuns had hair humanized them a bit more for us kids who had seen the hair but dared not give any indication that we had caught a glimpse of the forbidden.
That first day of school was unnerving. “What is your name, child?” asked the nun. “Pocahontas? Saints preserve us! That’s a heathen name! We’ll have to give you a good Christian name. Evelyn! Yes, Evelyn suits you just fine.” The young nun with the Irish brogue gave a sigh of relief followed by a satisfied smile at my instantaneous new identity. With that swift, magical shift toward my redemption, she proceeded to enroll me in her first grade class.
The other nuns all agreed that the name Pocahontas was a heathen name and such savage ways must be abandoned for the salvation of our souls. There was no St. Pocahontas after all or any Christian derivative thereof. It was common practice for the nuns to change the names of children without parental consent, and thus, Pocahontas became Evelyn until in adulthood I legally reclaimed my birth name. My neighborhood friend, Frank, instantly became Francis. My friend, Toletha, instantly became Theresa. It all reminded me of Cinderella and the Fairy Godmother’s magic wand. Poof! What power!
The segregated public schools in the ghetto were so poor and inadequate that a parochial school education was the best choice available to us, though that too was segregated. We did not underestimate the advantages of a good, Catholic education so parents and children cheerfully accepted and agreed to abide by the culturally insensitive rules in order to become enrolled. We considered it part of the cost of an education and kept our objections to ourselves. Tuition was nominal and the basic educational foundation was sound.
Religious indoctrination was primary and daily lessons from the Baltimore Catechism preceded reading, writing and arithmetic. As we progressed through the grades, history and geography were added and Latin skills beyond the liturgical Latin used in the Mass were honed. We learned Catholic hymns in both English and Latin, folk songs many of which were Irish, minuets, waltzes and Irish dances. We memorized the Gettysburg Address, The Preamble to the Constitution, The American Creed, The Charge of the Light Brigade and other great historical and literary works. We acted in plays and short musicals written by the nuns.
I later realized that the system of values instilled in us served us well in most cases. I also recognized that we got a pretty solid introduction to a liberal arts education, especially considering that we were disadvantaged children. We were fortunate in ways that I would come to recognize and appreciate more and more as I encountered a diversity of people not so exposed. Over the years, I have felt at a distinct advantage in many ways. On the other hand, I have had to deal with some ambivalent feelings regarding the cultural insensitivity and corporal punishment to which we were subjected. I feel that some of the harsh methods created issues of confused identity and low self-esteem which were sometimes a struggle and difficult to overcome.
When I entered first grade at St. Mary’s Parochial School, writing on lined paper was a new experience for me and my letters, though accurate and neat, sometimes wavered on the page. We had not been able to afford the luxury of lined paper at home. The brown paper grocery bags had been unlined and for some reason, my mother had not drawn lines on them. Nevertheless, I quickly acquired the skill of writing on the lines at school and soon got awards for good penmanship via the Palmer Penmanship Method.
Our first grade class was very large with seventy-five eager little souls crammed into one small room. These were less than ideal conditions and I am sure that some of the rigid regimentation imposed was necessary in order to maintain discipline.
Having been home schooled, I already knew most of the first grade curriculum and I quickly became one of the teacher’s aides, along with my friends, Joseph and Francis. I showed unusual maturity and skill in teaching other first grade students and the nun had mixed feelings about losing me when she skipped Joseph, Francis and me to the second grade after a few weeks.
SQUEEZING LIFE’S LEMONS
Those first few months at St. Mary’s Parochial School were both exhilarating and frightening. I was a keen observer and it did not take long for me to realize that survival skills would be needed, not so much in defense against the other children. That was the easy part. Surviving the nuns was the real challenge. They were terrifying!
Surely, the nuns had good intentions, but many of them seemed terribly misguided and lacking in substantial knowledge of early childhood education and child psychology. The abusive methods of corporal punishment would make modern day educators cringe.
Eventually, I would be able to shed most of the negative memories of discipline and teaching methods bordering on medieval torture and truly appreciate the many positive life lessons learned during those pivotal years. Foundations for a lasting spirituality were laid. Granted, they needed a lot of reworking over time but ultimately blended with my traditional Indian spirituality, my father’s deep Methodist faith and my own eventual, responsible search for truth and meaning in a more mature and integrated way.
An enduring system of values and a work ethic that served me well in the years that followed were established. At home and at school, these lessons were being absorbed and reinforced, along with a discipline that would prove invaluable to a child of color negotiating the tides and swirls of the river of life.
Before St. Mary’s Parochial School, the Methodist Church Sunday School had supplied a fairly happy and comfortable place of learning outside the home. I had already gained a reputation there as an award-winning Bible student and could recite poems and Bible passages, as was customary on Easter and other occasions, better than most in my Sunday School and Vacation Bible School classes.
Even adult Methodist church services were enjoyable, except for the long, often dull sermons. The cacophony of Southern style preaching was a bit disquieting at times, especially the parts about hellfire and damnation, but the less scary drama could be captivating and intriguing. I had an ear for music and a decent voice so I enthusiastically joined in the congregational singing.
As I listened to the selections sung by the choir, I speculated that I might someday become a choir soloist. After all, I felt rather empowered, confident and capable in some respects as a child. The adults in my life had made me feel very special with their extremely high expectations of me. They admired my talent, intelligence, my sense of style and the flair I had for making hand-me-down clothes look good.
The price of this self-image was steep and required a tremendous amount of work and energy in order to continue to win the kind of approval and recognition that I so craved. There was always a lingering shadow of doubt and fear of letting people down, of not being good enough, of feeling like an imposter, of being found out. The ever present need for perfection and pleasing people kept me trying to keep my balance on an emotional tightrope. What if I failed? What if I were not as smart as they thought I was?
I was already becoming a budding workaholic and people pleaser without the maturity to name the conditions psychologically or to understand the serious implications. Needless to say, my young mind lacked the skills and insights to work through these issues in a healthful way. Instead, I sometimes developed coping strategies that increased rather than reduced the stress. With no viable support system and my intense desire not to displease the nuns, my parents and others, the tension became almost unbearable at times. It was rather like walking on a frozen pond and not knowing where the thin places were.
The habit-clad nuns at St. Mary’s School smacked you with a ruler or a cane if you made a mistake or sometimes even if you hesitated too long in giving a correct answer! Their faces were so pale and stern-looking, peeking out from the black and white habits that enveloped them, giving them the appearance of giant penguins. My fear was so palpable at times I could taste it. No one seemed to notice my hidden fear and I was lauded for my confidence and superior performance.
I was a disciplined child and quiet by nature so good conduct was not a problem. The expectations I placed upon myself, my intense need for recognition and approval and the expectations that I thought others had of me created immense pressure. The strangeness of these robed women and their very different church intimidated me. It took a lot of energy to hide the fears and to appear as confident as others thought I was.
I was traumatized by an experience that occurred during Mass when I was a brand new first grader. It was my first time attending Mass. The nun smacked me with a ruler when I stood up at the wrong time by mistake. “You are so stupid!” The nun hissed as she shoved me back into the pew.
I had never been called stupid before and in the presence of the other children, it embarrassed and humiliated me. The memory of this experience was to linger for a long while before it became transforming. At the time, it was excruciating, crushing my spirit and shattering my heart into a thousand pieces. It also made me very angry and my childish mind silently vowed retribution.
I was no shrinking violet but I was highly sensitive. I was precocious enough to figure out that to openly resist these nuns could be fatal, or worse. Fueled by my anger and outrage, a strategy was born. “I’ll show them that I’m not stupid” I resolved. “I’ll be the smartest, most well behaved student they have ever seen, then they’ll have to like me. I’ll show them.” But they didn’t like me. They liked the light skinned children with silky hair better, even if they were not as smart or as well behaved as I was. They liked them even more if they came from comparatively well-to-do families, were well dressed and were Catholic.
I reasoned that though that nun might consider me ugly and stupid, I had it within my power to be neat and well groomed, to develop my character, to radiate an inner beauty and to succeed academically. I would compensate by making the most of what I had and by changing the things that I had the capacity to change.
I was beginning to realize that life is not fair, but I had always been accustomed to doing my best, whatever the circumstances, and so I continued to excel. Gradually, I began to notice a shift in the attitude of the nuns. There was an all out effort to convert me to Catholicism but my parents would not give their consent. Word was spreading that I was a bright child and a well behaved one, not too well dressed, but neat and clean! Most of all, I was exceptional, especially for a Protestant!
The plan had apparently worked. I was being recognized in spite of the fact that I did not fit the profile of the favored among the nuns. I had become a first grade teacher’s aide and the other kids liked and respected me because I helped them without making them feel dumb. Often, I could get through to them more easily than could the nun. My on-the-job training as the eldest sibling at home gave me certain skills and a maturity which paid off handsomely at school.
Joseph and Francis were very bright boys and we bonded as classroom aides and remained friends until we all graduated from ninth grade together. In the interim, I developed a tremendous crush on Joseph but he never suspected it. Neither did anyone else since this was my carefully guarded secret. I shared it with no one.
From the time that Joseph, Francis and I were skipped to the second grade, I already had my eyes on the prize. My intent was to someday become valedictorian of my class. I was following my mother’s and grandmother’s sage advice of squeezing life’s lemons and making lemonade.
WAR AND PEACE
There was a war going on, World War II, and the nuns were very patriotic as well as religious. We saluted the flag and sang The Star Spangled Banner after morning prayers each day. On some days, we bought and sold Holy Childhood stamps to save pagan babies in Africa. They were starving and much worse off than we were so we raised as much money as we could. On other days, school was dismissed early so that we could collect scrap iron and other surplus materials to help the war effort and defeat the Japanese.