Lundyn Bridges Read online

  I kept waiting for her to leave so I could turn over. When I awoke the next morning, she was asleep in the bed. I got up slowly and tip toed to the bathroom. As I entered back into the room, I saw Kristen sitting on my bed.

  “Hi!” She smiled.

  I stood frozen in the doorway. I didn’t know what to do. My mind wanted to smile and say hi, but all I could do was cry. Loneliness had defeated me after living in isolation for three weeks and I needed a hug.

  My conversations with the Woodard’s began, the second time with Kristen, then Mrs. Woodard and finally Mr. Woodard. He wasn’t so scary after all, more like a big teddy bear that told corny jokes, and the family indulged him by laughing. I was willing to talk about anything except me. My eleven year old vocabulary was insufficient to even begin trying to explain how I felt. I tucked those feelings away in a place called my past and tried to forget.

  Navigating my new life in Franklin Park was often frightening and always a challenge. However, acclimating to the Woodard’s was not as difficult as I had imagined. Although there was no preparation to my being placed with a Caucasian family, I had a small advantage because, as all African-Americans, I had been entrenched in their culture in my daily living. Still there were some things that I didn’t understand and some things that took getting used to. Kristen played with her hair – running her fingers through it, pulling it back into a pony tail, shaking it out – her hands were always in her hair. I didn’t understand that – I was never permitted to play in my hair. On the rare occasions when Barbara had bothered to comb it, I did my best to make it last, never knowing when she would comb it again. The Woodard’s also stood very close when talking to me. I wanted to back up but never wanted to be rude. At first, I assumed they thought I was hard of hearing. It wasn’t that I wanted them to yell, but, initially, I was uncomfortable with their closeness and didn’t know how to politely ask them to move back. I also didn’t understand why Mom Woodard washed her hair everyday and then would sometimes let it air dry. I remembered Afreeka trying to wash my hair once when we still lived with Barbara. She let it air dry and then couldn’t get a comb through it. She had to re-wash it before she could braid it.

  Sometimes I would get irritated with Kristen always talking about everyone being equal. I didn’t feel equal because there were no parallels. Living with Barbara had endorsed my insecurities and confirmed I was in the have nots.

  Until next time…

  Kathleen challenged me to re-read my journal from the beginning. On the one hand, my past could be paralyzing – on the other hand, it was glaringly apparent the love of the Woodard’s were my reassurance during my quest for identity, the inconsistent and diminishing contact with my siblings, and my anger. In my world of ambiguities, the Woodard’s were my stability. The Woodard’s were also diligent in making sure I could define myself culturally. I had taken piano lessons at the Afro-American Music Institute and learned to play gospel and jazz. Going to see Langston Hughes’ Black Nativity at the University of Pittsburgh's Kuntu Repertoire Theatre became a holiday tradition. I also started collecting postcards by Synthia St. James. Pop Woodard bought my first print, The Color of Love, for my sixteenth birthday.

  I had to read a book each month for school, and the Woodard's made sure that at least half of them were by African-American authors. Sometimes the readings left me with questions I couldn't answer, and I relied on the Woodard's who, when they didn't know, always made sure the information was made available. It was a lesson for all of us; most of the books I found in the library were also new to the Woodard's. Although they had heard of several of the well-known African-American authors like James Baldwin, Richard Wright and Alice Walker, they had not read any of their books. I fell in love with the poetry of Nikki Giovanni and gave a framed copy of For Theresa to Mom Woodard one Mother's Day. BeBe Moore Campbell became one of my favorite authors, and Mom Woodard bought me the hardcover editions of her novels.

  We participated in the Martin Luther King, Jr. Celebration at the church in January and every February I participated in the Black History Program. Initially, my presentations were, like those of the other children, about the most talked about African-Americans – Harriet Tubman, Martin Luther King, Jr., Benjamin Banneker, Frederick Douglass, Thurgood Marshall and Rosa Parks. After my third year, I began to understand the need to teach the congregation about the significant contributions made by African-Americans throughout American history. My presentations in high school included Mary McLeod Bethune, Dr. Mae Jemison, Langston Hughes, George Washington Carver, Dr. Ben Carson, Madame CJ Walker, Otis Boykin, Arthur Ashe, Vivien Thomas and Dr. Patricia Bath. It became important to me that people were familiar with these major contributors to the history of our country. These were also critical lessons in African-American history that were not mentioned in my high school history classes.

  Anything the Woodard's didn’t know about African- American culture was over-compensated for by their love, especially their love for God. The multi-cultural congregation at Christian Tabernacle helped me understand how being a Christian was a life style not dictated by skin color. I grew to love Sunday school, learned to understand the parables in the Bible and memorized several scriptures. Although I had been mad at God for not helping me when I needed Him, the promises in the Bible still intrigued me.

  The thought of being loved by Jesus and walking under His covering kept me yearning to clearly understand the requirements of these promises. It wasn't just love, but unconditional love – it was love that never went away or never stopped. That was the love I needed. As a young child I wasn't sure if the Woodard's could offer that. I always knew I was a foster child, which meant a knock on the door by a caseworker could take me away.

  My experiences at church began to eat away at my anger with God. As much as I felt like an outsider, my church family included me; although I felt unlovable, they loved me. I joined the mime ministry because I liked the silent expression. It helped me, without words, communicate –that's what my poems had been, except mime was words in action. I began looking forward to attending church and would challenge myself to create moves for each of the songs.

  I clearly remember when I began to pray. It was after I found out Afreeka and Romen would be going away. Although the Woodard's promised that my siblings were free to visit, I hadn't come to totally trust them. The pastor had been teaching on mustard seed faith, and I began to pay attention in church. I prayed because I needed to believe Romen, Afreeka and I would always stay connected. That was the first prayer God answered for me.

  February 18, 2005

  Afreeka and Romen surprised me with a visit at our July 4th cook out. Mom Woodard had been busy in the kitchen all morning, Pop Woodard was at his grill, and Kristen kept me occupied with helping re-arrange her room. When the door bell rang I assumed it was someone for the Woodard's. I heard laughing, and when I went downstairs, Romen and Afreeka greeted me. We hugged and all I could do was cry. After introducing my brother and sister to Kristen, my siblings and I retreated to the gazebo in the back yard.

  "I love you, Lundyn." Romen smiled at me. "It's been a while and I've missed saying that."

  "Me, too!"

  "Me, too!" Afreeka said holding my hand.

  "I miss ya'll so much," I said through tears. "I always wanted us to be together."

  "Stop it," Afreeka interrupted me. "I know I was angry when I left." Her voice softened. "I didn't want to leave you." She looked at Romen. "I promised him I would always take care of you."

  "We can't always keep our promises." Romen sat between us. "It's hard to keep our promises right now because so much is out of our control." Romen seemed much older than sixteen. "But love is the promise we can keep and no one can take that away from us. We can always love each other."

  Afreeka began to cry. "This is a good place for you." She squeezed my hand. "These people can take good care of you – much better than I ever could. You behave and stop that silent treatment you always do when you’re angry at
the world."

  By this time we were all crying.

  "I want us all to be together. I keep asking God to let us be together!" My voice was pleading as I held the hands of my older brother and sister. "I don't want us to be separated. I'm so afraid we won't see Rah'Lee and Hustin again."

  "I spoke to my caseworker," Romen said wiping his face. "Mr. & Mrs. Teague will bring the twins to Holy Family for a monthly visit. Mr. & Mrs. Woodard said they will bring you." Romen squeezed my hand. "Afreeka is already there, and I'll just take the bus."

  Afreeka put her head on Romen's shoulder. "Who's gonna take care of you?"

  "I'm okay." Romen stood to face us. "I'm going to be okay. Remember my basketball coach, Mr. Jackson?"

  We both nodded.

  "He's going to take me as a foster kid and help me get into Kiski Prep to play basketball. That way I can go to a good college and get a good job."

  "Kiski Prep?" Afreeka gave him that head cocked to the side look. "Where is that?"

  "Are you going away?" I asked.

  "It’s not that far,” Romen assured us. "You can even come to some of the games, if I get in."

  We sat silently.

  "Look," Romen's voice was firm. "Mommy is not coming back for us. We have to make it for ourselves. We have to look out for each other and hold on to each other the best way we know how. If I make it, I'll make sure we all make it."

  "Is it further than Girls Hope?" Afreeka asked.

  "What's Girls Hope?" I asked looking at Afreeka.

  Romen sat across from us. "Lundyn, we have to do whatever it takes to make it. You gotta believe we'll make it."

  "What's Girls Hope?" I repeated my question, ignoring Romen and looking at Afreeka.

  "It's a school where I can have a chance to make it." Afreeka spoke softly, avoiding eye contact with me and looking at Romen. "I'll be leaving at the end of August."

  I began to cry. "You're all leaving me!"

  Afreeka put her arm around me. "I wish I could have stayed here with you. I told them I would stay away from the cat, but the caseworker said no."

  Romen joined us and sat on the other side of me.

  "Girls Hope is a boarding school that will give me a chance to have a future," Afreeka continued. "It's not that far, and I'll come back to Holy Family for all the visits." Afreeka lifted my chin so our eyes met. "And Mrs. Woodard said I can come here to visit you." She smiled with raised eyebrows waiting for me to smile back at her.

  "It's going to be okay," Romen said. "We have to make sure we stay connected, and we have to promise each other we'll make it."

  Afreeka and I agreed.

  "We also must promise to never take drugs or drink." Romen added.

  Romen extended his right hand, Afreeka covered his hand, and I put my hand on top of hers. Then Romen put his left hand on top.

  "The Bridges children will make it," he said.

  "These Bridges are not falling down. We will be okay."

  I hugged my brother and sister.

  We spent the afternoon with the Woodard's, and it became a memory that engraved itself in my heart. It was the first of many visits. My heart was overwhelmed by the Woodard's kindness to welcome Romen and Afreeka into their home so they could stay connected to my life.

  Romen and Afreeka joined us the following Thanksgiving and the Woodard's gave them an open invitation to join us every year. Kristen and I cried. She never liked being an only child and said how much she enjoyed having everyone at the house when she came home. This was what I imagined family should be like.

  Until next time…

  Chapter 6

  Towards the end of February I began to feel emotionally stronger and empowered through my therapy sessions. My healing was on the inside. The Women's Ministry had also begun a study group on how Satan uses our thoughts to defeat us and how we must maintain control over what we allow our minds to ponder. It was all apropos to my healing. The thoughts of my childhood could be defeating, if I allowed them. I consciously made every effort to focus on the blessings in my life – my relationship with Romen and Afreeka, the Woodard's, my best friend Kiarra, and my budding relationship with Jamel.

  On the last Saturday in February, our class finished a powerful discussion on the sabotaging techniques of Satan and how he uses loneliness to ensnare women. As Kiarra and I walked to our cars in the parking lot, I decided against bringing up Xavier. This lesson seemed to be specifically for Kiarra, and I hoped it would help her see the waving fluorescent flags of danger. For her own well–being she needed to admit the relationship with Xavier was detrimental.

  While we were having lunch the following Tuesday, Kiarra informed me of her plans to spend the weekend at Seven Springs with Xavier. Up until that point, as far as I knew, their meetings were intermittent, and the relationship was being sustained by phone calls.

  "He sent me this diamond tennis bracelet."

  She held out her arm to show me the bracelet. I said nothing.

  "Lundyn, I love him. Why can't you understand that?"

  "Kiarra, he hit you. Why can't you understand that?"

  "Did I blast you for loving Sam?"

  "He never hit me." I bit my bottom lip. My intention was not to be confrontational, but I was beyond frustrated. "How long have you been planning this with him?" My tone was demanding.

  Kiarra wouldn't look at me. "Since Valentine's Day." She answered, looking across the room at nothing in particular. "He said we needed to get back to our true relationship and stop playing the dating game. He cried, Lundyn, and swore he would never hit me again. He just wanted one more chance."

  When she turned to face me, I was staring at her in complete disbelief.

  "I put him off the first two times he asked," she whined. "But he kept calling. And then the picture of me and you in New York – he didn't tear it up – he had it reframed and he sent it to me. The frame says Best Friends."

  There were no words to express my disgust with my best friend. She was beautiful and intelligent. What was I not saying that could get her to see the realities of Xavier? What had she missed in our class? I couldn't finish my lunch – I got up and walked away. I had to digest the information and planned to call Kiarra later that evening, when I wasn't angry.

  Nothing I said mattered to Kiarra. She was determined to give Xavier another chance to seriously hurt or kill her. I made a choice to bow out.

  "I can't watch you do this to yourself," I told her after our forty-five minute heated discussion. "You're my best friend Kiarra. I love you, but I can't do it."

  "So what does that mean?" She was getting angry and her demeanor was spiteful. “Is this the easy way for you to diss me because you now have Jamel?” Her words were cutting.

  "Ki, you know that’s not true. I'll be here, as your best friend, to pick up the pieces."

  Kiarra hung up on me. I cried myself to sleep. The next morning I prayed for her and for my strength. What would I do without my best friend?

  Kiarra and I avoided each other at work. It was painfully awkward merely saying hello or discussing client strategies. I planned to talk to her at Bible Study on Wednesday, but she didn't show up. I called her office on Thursday and left a message inviting her to lunch. She didn't return my call. On Friday I went to her office to confront her only to find she called off.

  Later that evening, I called Mom Woodard to update her on my life. I told her about Jamel and admitted really liking him. I told her about Kiarra and waited for her to tell me what to do.

  "You've got to figure it out, Lundyn. What would you want her to do if the tables were turned?"

  Mom Woodard was trying to be encouraging, but I wanted her to give me the answer. She told me, as she had many times in the past, that I had been planted for a purpose. She encouraged me to read the book of Nehemiah.

  I called Romen and planned a visit so he could meet Jamel. Then I called Jamel. Before I could ask him about the upcoming weekend, I began to cry about Kiarra. He came over. He understood
my friendship with Kiarra and just held me while I cried.

  "Your friendship with Kiarra is admirable." Jamel took a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wiped my tears.

  My life seemed to be spinning out of control – my emotional strings were taut and I found myself unable to write. There was too much current pain. The drive to Erie with Jamel was a welcomed diversion, but my conversation with Romen tainted my temporary respite. Romen told me of his suspicions about Afreeka's drinking. Then he held me while I cried for our sister. He admitted to feeling helpless.

  Jamel held my hand but let me ride in silence back to Pittsburgh. I regretted having asked him to come. He said he understood.

  Kiarra continued to treat me as a casual acquaintance and refused to return my phone calls. My sessions with Francine were insignificant, and for about two weeks I was unable to be therapeutic. I met with Kathleen and admitted my inability to write. She agreed a visit to Naples might be good. I called Mom Woodard on Thursday night and planned a trip for the following weekend.

  The Woodard’s, as always, welcomed me with open arms. Pop Woodard had many questions about Jamel and indicated his desire to meet him – sooner than later. We had a father-daughter talk about relationships, and he wanted to make sure I felt good about being with Jamel. No pretense and no pressure was how he described the makings of a good relationship.

  After dinner, I admitted feeling my life had taken a turn for the worse and was now falling apart. My relationship with Jamel seemed to be the only bright spot, and I felt guilty about continuing to dump on him. I told them the saga of Kiarra and my fears of Xavier seriously hurting her – especially now that he had successfully alienated us from each other.

  "Afreeka’s life is falling apart, too," I said holding my glass with both hands. "She's been drinking. A lot."

  The Woodard's did not respond. I was unsure if they knew or if they just didn't know what to say.

  "Do you think she would have started drinking if we weren’t separated?" Tears began to swell in my eyes. "Every time I think things will get better, something else happens." A tear fell. "When will it get better?"