A Slice Of My Life

In the beginning took place forty seven years ago in the slums of Newark, New Jersey.  My environment consisted of open lots with mounds of trash, abandoned cars, and mattresses used for trampolines.  On a cold winters day, burning trash and urine filled the air along with the sounds of bums singing the latest Motown hits while passing a bottle of that cheap wine.  I remember having a love for watching television.  My favorite shows were I love Lucy, Jack Lalane, Love American Style and other popular shows of that time.  When I was not watching TV, I would look out the window at the package store across the street.  Fights, shootings, and drug buys were the soap opera of the day and on into the night.
Many say that they have lead interesting lives, but I believe mine is one for the books.   A slice of my life is made up of the some of the events that shaped my character and made me the person I am today.  It is made up of childhood, teenage, and early adult events that shaped my out look towards life and living.
While growing up my father and mother believed in God and that belief carried our family through some hard times as it did many families, but their lack of understanding brought painful circumstances.  They had a problem balancing what they thought was their calling to do missionary work with raising a family in a stable and functioning environment.  We never lived in one place too long.  My mother was a restless soul, so we not only moved frequently, but would just pick up and leave for a visit and end up staying for months.  We missed so many days out of school it caused my brothers and sister and I to be behind in our school lesson.  We developed slow socially and played with each other while our parents locked us in the house.  Though traveling and missing school was fun, I remember visiting relatives and others and not feeling welcome.  Often we lived like we were homeless and when we did settle, we never attended school on a regular basis.  I think my parents did not want us to get used to regular schooling and friends because it would be harder to just leave at a moments notice.  I had a love for school and some time I would do well.  I remember my third grade teacher at Martin Luther King Public School placing colorful stickers on my school work.  My mother would proudly put them up on the wall next to the kitchen door.  I also painfully recollect missing too many days and having to be retained to the third grade.
My father and mother separated for a time and we moved from New Jersey to Wilson, North Carolina.  They got back together and we became a more stable family and I started attending school regularly.  Wilson was a much smaller city in what was known as the big eighties.  There was three high schools in Wilson.  Fike High School, Newly built James Baxter Hunt Jr and Edgar T. Beddingfield.  They were all a buzz because each High School was preparing to graduate the largest senior classes in their schools history.  The class of 1984.  We all knew each other because we were one of the last classes to attend the eighth grade at Charles L. Coon Middle School before being separated at one of the three High Schools.  I attended Hunt, but would end up graduating with Fike's senior class.
Compared to today, the 1980's was a much simpler time.  The mostly African American community I grew up in was very close.  We could not get away with anything!  We were supervised by our teachers who taught or knew our parents and the elders in the neighborhood.  If we got out of line, we would pay the price and Time Out was not the price.  Though they disciplined us, it was because they expected the best from us.  We represented them and our community.  My mother would feed us breakfast, line us up and inspect us before we went off to school.  She made sure we washed and put on clean clothes.  It was stressed to us to make sure we wore clean underwear in case we got hurt and had to go to the hospital.
I often wondered how the elders in the neighborhood knew who we belonged to.  A lady who would pay me to go the store for her called me Faye and Billy's boy.  That was my name.  She would send me to Judge Store for a half a pound of half smokes, some Sweet La La snuff, corn meal and some Hoop Cheese.  Hoop Cheese is cheese cut form a large round mound of cheese.  She would always tell me I could keep the change and that was always fifty cents.  I would get twenty five penny cookies and some Now or Later candy.  As I walked home, I could hear the crackle of the cast iron frying pans and smell pork chops, fried chicken, and hamburger with bread added to stretch it.  Depending on the day, you could smell fish and corn bread or neck bones and rice. In those days fast food was not something we would eat often.  My mother cooked six or seven days a week.  When I came in the house, she would tell me that the lady I went to the store for called and told her how well mannered I was and that I got everything she needed.  I knew someone was always watching and no matter how I behaved, my parents would hear about it.
Sunday night was Soul Night at Roller World Skating Rink.  It was called Soul Night  because it was Black Folk night at the skating rink.  Either we got a ride with a friend or got our parents to drop us off.  It was like a low budget Soul Train that night.  The lights would dim a little and we would start skating.  The DJ would spin the hottest tunes.  I could hold my own, but did not try anything too fancy because it was real easy to fall on your back side.  Kids of all ages were skating and that meant your little brothers and sisters.  I think our parents enjoyed the quiet in the house without us there.  After skating around in circles for four hours, it was time to go home.  No kid was left behind.  Parents would pile as many kids as they could in their cars.  When we got back home, all we had time to do was maybe eat something, wash up, iron school clothes and get to bed.  Yes! Those were fun times.

Misplaced Love

Love is misplaced!  Where is love?  Why can't we find it?  I was looking for love and couldn't find it.  Looked for it in my new car, but it wasn't there.  I abandoned the search after looking under the seats, in the glove box, in the trunk, and under the hood.  Drove to the bank to see if it was there.  Asked the teller to hand me a withdrawal slip and tried to withdraw love form my checking account.  I filled in all of the blanks and placed L.O.V.E In the amount section then gave it to the teller.  She said she was sorry, but there was only money in my checking.  I apologized for wasting her time, bolted from the bank and rushed to my car.  I pulled up to my beautiful home with carefully trimmed grass around a freshly built two story with great room, vaulted ceilings, expensive paintings and old English furnishings.  Leaving nothing to chance, I threw caution to the wind and began turning over lamps, moving furniture, and flipping over rugs.  The longer the search took, the more desperation took over.  The search progressed with the turning over of chairs, pulling the mattresses off the beds, then snatching the cushions from the couches.  Two hours later my home looked like someone had driven a car from the front of the house to the back.  I found myself balled up in the middle of piles of clothes, dishes, and kitchen appliances.  It was so quiet that I could hear a rat pee on cotton and the beating of my heart.  Love finally revealed itself to me while I was laying in the middle of the floor.  It was with me all the time.  While standing in line at the bank, many people were trying to make bogus withdrawals.  We place too much value on material things and the thoughts of others.  If we would look within, we would love ourselves and wouldn't waste time accumulating the things we think will draw people to us.