Lundyn Bridges Read online

  My attempt to write in my journal only resulted in tears as I hugged my pillow. Life was hurting. I thought Jamel understood me, but his comment made it obvious he didn't. My best friend was a fool, and I couldn't help her. Afreeka was in denial about being an alcoholic. I contemplated cancelling my standing Thursday appointment with Kathleen, but went because I needed to talk. Instead of talking about my past, we discussed my current dilemma and the pain I couldn't seem to escape.

  Jamel called Saturday morning and apologized. He came over with my favorite breakfast from McDonald's and confessed the abuse was very difficult for him because he watched his mother go through it.

  "My mother's twin, my Aunt Sheila, almost divorced because of my mother being abused. She was always there for my mother, and we spent so much time at her house we left clothes there. My uncle got tired of it."

  "Did they work it out?"

  "My Uncle Leo loves my Aunt Sheila. He said he had to learn to understand Sheila's love for my mother instead of trying to understand why my mother wouldn't leave." Jamel hugged me. "I love you, and I'm here for you, Lundyn."

  The following week yielded a major breakthrough with Francine. It was partly due to my detachment from her while dealing with my own turmoil. When I went to see Francine she seemed like a nurturing mother reaching out to a hurting child.

  "You must be dealing with some deep crap," she said as I sat on her couch.

  "We're here to talk about you," I reminded her.

  "Oh, stop the professional bull – you ain't been professional in the last month. The pain has been all on your face and in your eyes."

  Francine’s ability to read me was intimidating. Usually I was unnerved – today I didn't care. As I re-focused the conversation on her, she openly admitted how much she appreciated the fact that I had not quit.

  "You hung in there. You must be strong."

  "What about you? Are you strong? Are you willing to hang in there?"

  Francine indicated her willingness to get herself together. "I need to get this right before I die," she said. "I need to make sure I clear some things up with some people, before it's too late."

  I couldn't appreciate Francine's progress because I was so consumed with myself. Everything in my life was facing transition, and I was seeking stability. My therapy sessions would be ending in May, and Kathleen encouraged me to finish my story. The demonstration grant was coming to an end in June, and I needed to begin making some decisions about my future. The only thing I felt sure about was visiting Kristen and Larry in Greece in July.

  My nightly ritual included dinner, scripture reading and my journal. I continued my story at a point of transition – when I started high school.

  March 22, 2005

  In May of 1994, the summer before I started high school, Hustin and Rah'Lee were adopted, and the Teague's immediately began to express concern with the emotional strain on the twins from the monthly visits. It was then that my feeble prayers intensified. Although God had not responded to any of my requests, I begged Him to keep my siblings safe. The pastor had spoken for a month on asking in faith, and since I felt so helpless to do anything, I was forced to rely on the mustard seed faith I had. As it was, the visits were, at best, every other month because something always came up with the Teague's. Romen told me and Afreeka he had a feeling the Teague's would move away from Pittsburgh. I refused to believe him. Although I really didn't like the Teague's, I couldn't believe they would be cruel enough to take Rah'Lee and Hustin away from us.

  Afreeka and I managed to maintain regular contact because the Woodard’s graciously drove me to see her and permitted her to spend weekends and holidays at the house. Romen was now a freshman at Penn State, and our contact was reduced to letters and occasional phone calls.

  In addition to the stress of dealing with the separation from the siblings, Franklin Park High School presented many social issues. As Kristen suggested, I began keeping a journal. Most of my entries were poems because I liked playing with words. I found solace in being able to write the things I felt unable to say. The first poem I wrote was about me.

  Mechanics

  If I were a robot

  I would erase

  all the pain from my memory.

  And if I were a robot

  I wouldn’t have

  a heart to break or tears to cry.

  If I were a robot

  I’d be a conglomeration of stuff.

  My writing was my coping mechanism, and it also allowed me to begin facing some of the pain I was unsuccessful at forgetting. I wrote freely but would hide my journal because I wasn’t ready to share my thoughts. Although I had discovered the power of words, my vocabulary was still inadequate to express my emotions.

  By tenth grade, I became adept at commanding academic acceptance. Lessons in prejudice were from teachers who didn’t welcome me as a student until they were forced to recognize my above average performance. I felt empowered by each ‘A’ I received on my report card, yet I struggled to define myself. I enjoyed the upper middle class world I had been thrust into but missed my siblings and sometimes my mother. This neighborhood was not mine; no one looked like me. As much as I fit in, there were always reminders that I was the outsider. When I met with the guidance counselor about my future goals and possible college choices, he asked how long I would be a foster child with the Woodard’s. My English teacher commented I couldn’t possibly have written my paper and Kristen must have done it for me. And one of my classmates asked me would my hair always be so curly. For Black History Month I wrote a retaliatory poem that made my English teacher, Mrs. Eileen Ackerman, turn red.

  Prejudice

  His great grandfather

  migrated here from Europe

  and then brought me here

  only to deny me humanity.

  Was it because my skin glistened

  in the sun that scorched his?

  His mother

  doesn’t want him

  sitting next to me.

  Is it because she thinks

  I’ll copy his wrong answers?

  He

  will never admit to his friends

  that he really thinks I’m beautiful.

  Is it because

  my eyes aren’t blue?

  I was immediately sent to the administration office. Mrs. Trust, the principal, was only a little taller than me. Her wrinkles had deep creases and her skin was orange from spending too much time at the tanning salon. She demanded I sit while in her office so she could stand over me. Although she asked me several questions, they were rhetorical – she gave no time to answer. I looked her in the eye, hoping she could read my thoughts. I knew her anger was out of guilt. What I couldn’t understand was why she tried so hard to get brown if she didn’t like me because I was black.

  After her five minute tirade, Mrs. Trust demanded I see the counselor, Mr. Hogan. I got up without saying a word and smiled as I strolled down the hall to his office. I would have whistled, but I didn’t know how. We sat in his office staring at each other – he didn’t know what to say to me, and I had nothing to say to him. Mr. Hogan finally asked if I was angry because my mother left me with the Woodard’s. I replied I was only angry with prejudiced people who hated me because I was black and academically superior. Mr. Hogan turned red, too, and then told me to sit in the waiting area. I could hear Mrs. Trust’s footsteps coming quickly down the hall before I could see her. She walked past me into Mr. Hogan’s office and closed the door. Their conversation was a bit muffled, but I clearly overheard her telling Mrs. Woodard I would be suspended if I ever expressed such strong sentiments in her school again.

  Later that evening, Kristen called and applauded me for standing my ground. Mr. Woodard was afraid of any repercussions – like parents not wanting their children to be with me. I assured him I had already crossed that bridge. Mrs. Woodard hugged me and reminded me God sees no color. When I got in trouble that day I thought the Woodard’s would have been angry, however, the
ir expressions when we left the Principal’s office confirmed they had defended me against the teacher's racism. I understood what that meant for them in the Franklin Park community, and it made me realize they really cared for me.

  My poetry became my inner voice while in high school. My increasing vocabulary enabled me to express more feelings, and my poems were more significant than just creativity – they were my self-therapy. I grew tired of feeling like a victim and wanted to feel empowered. I was looking for the magic cure that would alleviate my anger about no one helping my family. During adolescence, my hope was in my dreams, and they were endless. I dreamed of all good things – success, happiness, being in love, and having all the things I never believed would be possible. It was the dreaming that sustained me through the disappointments in life.

  Sad Sweet Dreamer

  There are times

  when dreams confuse me

  because I like to dream

  of things that make me happy

  and sometimes

  what I dream

  seems impossible.

  I was the sad sweet dreamer. All I had was

  dreams – broken, shattered and impossible.

  Until next time…

  In an effort to stay connected to Kiarra, I refused to discuss Xavier. She was determined to be with him, and I was determined he would not alienate her from me. I made her promise to call me after every date. She complied – that was our compromise. She was determined to prove me wrong about Xavier, and I was more determined to keep her alive than to prove I was right.

  Francine continued to be unpredictable – some days she appeared to make progress, and some days she regressed. During one of our more positive sessions she indicated her desire to find her children.

  "I often dream about them," she said smiling. "I wonder what they're doing."

  "I'm sure they think about you, too. It's just natural."

  "I don't want their thoughts to be negative. And I don't want them to think I'm dead."

  "How would you handle their anger?"

  Francine took a deep breath and sighed. "If I were them, I guess I would be angry. I don't know what I'll do. I can't blame them if they don't want to see me." She paused. "What would you say to your mother?"

  "My mother is dead. The question is, what will you say to your children?"

  Francine's manipulative ways were ingrained in the fiber of her being. Talking about her past remained difficult, and she couldn't help taking the focus off of herself. I assumed she was being honest and unconsciously digressed to ask me about Barbara.

  Jamel began his employment search and frequently talked about leaving Pittsburgh. His ultimate goal was to open a college preparatory program for adolescent boys which provided mentoring, tutoring, counseling and internship opportunities.

  "You should think about going south with me."

  "What do you mean?"

  Jamel sat beside me on his couch. "We make a good team."

  "I don't know if counseling is what I want to do," I confessed.

  "Lundyn, what's holding you here in Pittsburgh?"

  "I don't know."

  "I know you don't want to leave Kiarra, but don't you think getting her out of Pittsburgh would be good for her, too?"

  "But what about Romen?"

  "Romen doesn't want you to stay here in Pittsburgh just to be two hours away from him. He has a life, and it's time for you to begin thinking about yours."

  Jamel was right, but thinking about leaving meant making a decision I felt unprepared to make.

  He gently took my hands and held them. "Think about the life you want. Think about what we could have."

  Lost for words, I could only cry.

  Later that evening, I tried to think about my future. It was difficult, and I took out my journal because writing the past seemed easier. The past was done. My future was uncertain.

  March 30, 2005

  In January 1996, my sophomore year in high school, the Teague's relocated taking Rah'Lee and Hustin to Gaithersburg, Maryland. They left no forwarding address, which my caseworker said was within their rights as the adoptive family. I vowed to find my sister and brother, even if I had to write to Montel to help me.

  Afreeka and Romen continued to stay in contact with me, and I cherished every visit. We were there in June when Afreeka graduated from Girl's Hope. The summer of 1996 became my favorite because the Woodard's allowed Afreeka to stay with us until she left for Edinboro University that August. Afreeka worked at Ross Park Mall and Pop Woodard helped her buy a used car. Twice during the summer we drove to Penn State to visit Romen.

  The following year, May 1997, we gathered again when Romen graduated from Penn State.

  "I told you we're going to make it," he said as I hugged him after the ceremony. "Start thinking about college now."

  My senior year, 1998, was a memorable one. I had come to terms with the twins being gone and convinced myself the Teague's would give them a good life. I also held tightly to my conviction to find them when they were eighteen.

  Although I had been accepted at Spelman, University of Chicago, Pitt and Chatham, I remained indecisive about college until March of my senior year. Mom and Pop Woodard encouraged me to go away and promised to remain connected to me and supportive. Kristen called and made a valiant effort to convince me to go away for the experience. They didn't understand the pain of my experience with separation. When I graduated in May, everyone pretended to be happy with my choice to attend Chatham.

  The ritual of the graduation gatherings with my siblings became something to look forward to. When Romen came to my graduation, he brought Nina, his girlfriend. At first, Afreeka and I were reluctant to welcome her. However, she seemed to really like Romen and, most importantly, he seemed to really like her. When he smiled, for the first time in a long time, he seemed happy. He deserved that.

  I entered Chatham College in the fall of 1998. My interest in the Pre-Med program quickly faded, as I realized the potential for a six figure income did not compete with the realities of facing death as a part of my job. Social Work became my new goal and would fill my need to help people. My desire to be whole still loomed outside of me, and I was diligently searching for that external 'thing' which would completely heal me.

  Settling into Chatham was difficult during the first few months. My bedroom had become my comfort zone, and I was suddenly forced to make the cramped space of my new dorm room my home. Although living in Franklin Park helped me develop critical social skills in dealing with diverse people, it had not prepared me for a roommate who was socially inept and void of any thread of etiquette.

  Melissa was an only child from Lancaster, Pennsylvania and she wasn’t happy about having a roommate. I had to constantly remind her that we shared the room. She would leave her clothes on the floor, combed her hair over the sink, never made her bed and watched television all night. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I came in late from studying to find Melissa and her boyfriend asleep, naked, in her bed.

  I woke the Resident Assistant and filed my fifteenth complaint. The following day I was moved to a single room. Although Melissa had been my excuse, I continued to go home almost every weekend, even after I was moved. Being across the city was palatable because I still couldn't fathom being far from the Woodard's. Everyone else in my life was gone, and my emotional attachment to my 'Mom' and 'Dad' made it impossible to go away.

  Until next time…

  Just as I imagined, after my attempt to have an open conversation about her drinking, Afreeka refused to return my calls. Five weeks passed before she called me back. My anger was overshadowed by the fear of my sister giving up on life like our mother. When I mentioned this to Kathleen, she said the best thing I could do for my sister was to stay on my own path of healing.

  "When the situation presents itself, you will need to be ready to help your sister." She sat back in her chair and re-directed the conversation back to my journaling.

  My th
erapy sessions were winding to a close, and my emotions were mixed. It had become so easy to talk with Kathleen, and I would miss that. On the other hand, it was time for me to begin moving forward without any crutches. My life had been complex, but now that I understood two basic elements, I felt empowered to face the challenges that lie ahead. I knew for sure Jesus loved me and was my keeper. 'The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the strength of my salvation, my stronghold. Psalm 18:2' was framed above my bed. I also knew my placement at the Woodard's had been pivotal in the direction of my life – love really does conquer a multitude of sin and hate and shame. So now it was my turn. I needed to do a better job at telling my siblings about Jesus. I needed to seek God's direction on how to help Afreeka and Kiarra. I also needed God to let me know if Jamel was the one for me.

  Part Three

  Moving toward my future

  He who pursues righteousness and love

  finds life,

  prosperity

  and honor.

  Proverbs 21:21

  Chapter 7

  On Tuesday, April 12, 2005, we celebrated Jamel's successful defense of his doctoral degree at Dowe's on Ninth. He surprised me with an airline ticket to Virginia Beach to celebrate the conferring of his Ph.D. in May.

  "I always liked the beach and thought it would be a nice three day retreat."

  "Oh, you just assumed I'd want to go?"

  He sat back and smiled across the table. "Yeah."

  "Well, I guess I better put in for a personal day. Since you already made the arrangements, I'll have to go."

  "When are you going to admit your feelings? Don't you want to go?" His tone was joking but serious.

  I felt put on the spot, and a little angry at myself for being so guarded. He deserved better. "Of course I want to go." I blushed. "I'd be a fool to turn down lying on the beach with such a gorgeous man."

  Jamel was taken aback by my flirtatiousness, and he leaned forward to take my hand. I sat back and smiled at him across the table.