Lundyn Bridges Page 5
Her tone deflated as she began talking about her mother. “My mother always wore a house dress; she didn't know how to keep house, and she couldn't cook. I don’t think she ever liked me. My sister, Maxine, was her favorite. ‘Maxi, come here and read to your Mama’ was her favorite line. ‘Maxi’s going to college, and she’s going to buy me a house in Monroeville’ she used to brag to all of her friends. She treated me like I was invisible. When she talked to me, it was yelling for something. ‘Why can’t you get A’s like Maxi?’ ‘I would ask you to read, but I never see you reading anything.’ ‘If your teacher calls again, I’m going to tell them to put you out.’ Sometimes I did things just to get on her nerves. It’s a damn shame when women birth kids and then don’t like them!”
After my reminder to keep the language clean, Francine rolled her eyes and smirked before continuing.
“For as long as I can remember my dad would meet Miss Jean at the Beer Garden every day after work. I would see them on my way home from school, and they didn’t try to hide. Sometimes, if my dad was facing the window, he would wave. On most Saturday’s he would lie to my mother and tell her he was going out with his friends when he was only going to Miss Jean’s house. She lived across the Larimer Bridge on Paulson Avenue.”
Francine paused again, and I patiently waited. She was finally talking, sharing details of a story which was only briefly noted in her file. This pause was not obstinate; it was as if she was reliving the events, as if she wanted to make sure the sequence was correct, as if she was fighting to control her emotions. “One day when my dad was drunk, he told me he liked being with Miss Jean ‘cause they didn’t argue.” Francine shook her head and sighed at the thought.
My first clue to the puzzle was that emotions made Francine feel extremely vulnerable.
After several deep breaths, Francine continued. “I graduated from high school in June of 1971 and had my first son in July. My dad was mad as hell.”
Instead of interrupting her for using profanity, I let Francine continue speaking.
“My dad wanted me to be like Max and go to college to make something of myself. He knew I hated school. I kept telling him there were other ways to make a living. Anyway, I was taking the baby to see him. Actually, I needed money and knew I could get it because he was probably drunk. As I was standing on the porch, taking the baby out of the umbrella stroller, I could hear them yelling at each other. Miss Jean was screaming at my dad because she wanted him to divorce my mother.”
Francine hesitated and looked over at me, making sure I was listening.
“Then I heard her say it. ‘Sonny, I’ll kill you before I let you go!’”
Francine’s jaws tightened. She picked up her coffee cup from my desk but did not drink from it.
“My heart jumped when I heard glass breaking, and I banged on the door. I was holding the baby wishing I had left him at home. There was no where to put him down. I remember kicking the door. When Miss Jean opened it, I walked past her without speaking. She mumbled something but I ignored her. I don’t remember walking up the steps or down the hallway. My dad was sittin’ in a folding chair in the kitchen drinkin’ his beer. Miss Jean was right behind me. It crossed my mind to turn around and knock her head off with the beer bottle that was on the table. Miss Jean started sweeping the glass as I led my dad by the hand back down the hallway, down the steps and out the front door. I tried to warn him to stay away from her, but he told me it was grown folks business and he could handle it.”
Francine looked over at me again, and I stopped writing. She had tears in her eyes. “I should have done something,” she said shaking her head. She put her cup back on the desk.
“What do you mean?”
“She killed him. Just like she said she would.” Francine looked away.
Her statement shocked me.
“Six months later, on January 4, 1972, she killed him.”
I sat motionless, suddenly unsure of what I should be noting. My first response was to pray. ‘When in doubt and you don’t know what to say, just pray. God already knows all about it.’ The words of the song repeated in my mind, and before I thought about it, I asked Francine if she wanted to pray.
“Prayer ain’t never helped me,” she stated sarcastically, still looking away. “It ain’t never helped me before, and it ain’t gonna help me now.”
Instead of forcing the issue, I brought closure to our session. Francine seemed relieved. I thanked God for that door. Francine had connected some of the fragments giving me a glimpse of her pain and confirming my assumption that she was in bondage to guilt. There was so much more to her story. This piece of information was undoubtedly only the surface. My goal was to get to the core.
My victory with Francine was short lived. On Tuesday we were back to playing the silent game. Francine did not want to talk, but I wasn’t angry. I knew it wasn’t me Francine was avoiding, it was all the pain. I also knew for Francine to be free, she would have to deal with that pain. That first opening with Francine confirmed what Kiarra said when we applied for this internship, “Women who are depressed need a support group, some therapy and a lot of Jesus.”
The remainder of the week was spent finishing her educational goals. Francine wanted a job where she wouldn’t have to deal with people, especially children. She preferred to learn data entry so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. The data entry program at Bidwell Training Center would be intensive because of her limited computer skills, but Francine was intent on pursing it.
Chapter 3
I spent the last weekend of September helping the Woodard’s pack for their move to Florida. My memories in the house were flawless – it was here that I became a person. It was here where my self-worth was validated. It was here where I realized I was loveable, and I had the Woodard’s to thank for that.
While Mom Woodard ordered pizza, I helped Pop Woodard pack the ten framed pictures that were left on the wall in the game room. He didn’t trust them to movers and wanted them to ride in the car – he was afraid they might disappear. There were five pictures framed in black and gold – Exposition Field, Forbes Field, Three Rivers Stadium, Heinz Field and PNC Park. Each picture was noted with the date of the opening and final games – of course, the space to the right of the dash for Heinz Field and PNC Park was still blank. There were also five pictures in gold frames. Three of the pictures were of players – Roberto Clemente, Bill Mazeroski and Willie Stargell. The other two were team pictures – one of the Steelers after they won the Super Bowl in 1978, and it was signed by Franco Harris, Terry Bradshaw, and Lynn Swan. The other was of the Homestead Grays, and it was signed by Satchel Page.
“Pop, did you ever see them play?” I asked referring to the Grays.
He almost looked embarrassed as he answered. “No,” he said shaking his head.
“How did you get the picture autographed?”
“When I was in high school I went to a baseball exhibition. Satchel Page gave a phenomenal presentation on the Negro Baseball League, and I stood in line for over an hour to get this picture autographed.”
Pop put an extra layer of bubble wrap on the picture.
“This one is really special,” he said holding his prized possession. “I hid this in my room until I left home.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid my father would throw it away.”
Mom Woodard came in with two pizzas, and we sat among the neatly stacked boxes in the game room. I had butterflies in my stomach and couldn’t finish my first piece.
“What’s the matter?” Mom Woodard asked when she noticed I wasn’t eating.
“Nothing. I’m fine. Just thinking about the memories in the house.”
I stretched out in the middle of the floor – this house was special because it had been my home. My life dramatically changed for the better when the Woodard’s took me in. They gave me more than a bed, they became my family.
As we reminisced, Pop Woodard explained how my joining the family was an answer t
o a prayer he prayed when he was about my age. He always had a curiosity about African Americans, and as a child he couldn’t understand why white America was so antagonistic toward them solely based on the color of their skin. The more his family sought to indoctrinate him into white supremacy, the more he wanted to know about African Americans. He couldn’t understand why his family was so afraid of people who only wanted equality. What he saw on television was a plea from a group of people for justice and he saw no reason for them not to have it. He wanted answers, but spending his early years in Latrobe with prejudiced parents never afforded him the opportunity to ask questions. Even after moving to Lawrenceville, his father was adamant that he only associate with white kids – ‘pure white’ as his grandfather often reminded him.
This sentiment was also echoed from the pulpit of the church his family attended. Pop said he was always confused by his pastor’s message about helping ‘those people’ who were not welcome to join their church, even though the Bible stated how much God loves everyone. He remembered his pastor urging the congregation to give out of the abundance God had given them during his yearly Christmas appeal to help feed the poor colored people who didn’t know enough to be self-sufficient. During his young adulthood, and as he grew spiritually, those remarks repulsed him. When he joined East Liberty Presbyterian Church, he asked God to eradicate the racism implanted in his heart and to allow him an opportunity to make a difference. He had no idea what God would do and by the time he and Mom Woodard signed up to be emergency foster parents through Christian Tabernacle’s outreach ministry, he had long forgotten his request. About a year after I arrived, Mom Woodard reminded him and he thanked God for answering his prayer.
Pop Woodard was an example of humanity – he was a doer of God’s Word. Helping others was more than giving an offering and sending a check to people you didn’t know. God had blessed him to touch lives and he regretted not being able to share this experience with his mother. He never believed that she hated ‘the coloreds’ as his father referred to African-Americans. Pop Woodard never believed all the lies he was taught – that we were lazy, stupid and inferior in every aspect of our being. He also regretted never being strong enough to confront his father during his life time.
I hugged Pop Woodard and reminded him that the sins of the Klan were not personally his to bear. Humbly I thanked him for opening his home to me and being willing to be a father to an angry little black girl. He was the only dad I had ever known, and I wanted him to know, for sure, how much I appreciated him loving me like his own child. Then I teased him about all the sports trivia he made me commit to memory. His parents celebrated their marriage by going to see the Pirates play on May 25, 1935 where they saw Babe Ruth hit his final career home run and the first homerun at Forbes Field. Pop Woodard’s full name is Earl Forbes Woodard because he was born on June 4, 1940 and that was the first night game at Forbes Field and his father missed it. His repertoire of stories included his father taking him to see the Steelers play at Forbes Field when he was twelve years-old. My birthday, January 6, 1980, was the date of the Steelers fourth AFC Championship – I was forced to share my birthday with this piece of nostalgia.
Pop Woodard loved baseball as much as football. He had been working in the mill for a year when he treated himself to the World Series game in 1960. He vividly recalled when Bill Mazeroski's home run landed in a tree above Yogi Berra's head. He and Mom Woodard went to the first night World Series game on October 13, 1971- Mom Woodard said it was cold and long, Pop Woodard said it was history. In December of 1992, the first time Pop Woodard told me this story, he took me to see Forbes Field’s home plate which was encased in glass in Posvar Hall at the University of Pittsburgh. He shook his head as he explained why the architects should have moved the women’s restroom so home plate could have been in its original position.
Mom Woodard could not stop her tears. She always wanted to give something back and make a difference. She had taken a chance on welcoming Afreeka and I into her home because she didn’t know how everyone would cope with the differences. She said her heart was wrenched for me when Afreeka had to leave, and she wanted me to know how tenaciously she worked to keep me in touch with my siblings. She fought to get the courts to keep the lines of communication open when the twins were adopted, but the adoptive parents had the right to dissolve that. She didn’t want me to be angry and agreed to help me financially when I was ready to find them.
Mom Woodard now knew how to cornrow hair, press hair and put in relaxers. She had a subscription to the Kuntu Theatre and was a lifetime member of the Urban League and NAACP. She knew all about Teenie Harris and had repeatedly watched Wiley Avenue Days and Eyes on the Prize with me. I learned all the words to every hit by Carole King and Barry Manilow as well as B2K and Immature. I spent many evenings singing along with her favorites Nancy Wilson and Barbara Streisand. I had also watched Imitation of Life, The Great Gatsby and Miracle on 34th Street more times than I could count.
The history lessons in the Woodard home were beyond what anyone could learn in a lifetime of school.
I thanked them over and over again. I was a person who was loved and that was more than a color. I didn’t think of myself as being loved by white people, I was blessed to be loved by a mom and dad. We talked until almost midnight and then spent our last night sleeping on air mattresses in the game room.
The movers came at six on Saturday morning. By nine o’clock the house was empty and they were ready to get on the road. Mom and Pop Woodard were driving to Florida and trying to get to South Carolina before it got late. They would spend the night there and finish the drive to Naples on Sunday. I hugged the Woodard’s, keeping a piece of them in my heart. We prayed, and I made them promise to call. As I watched them drive off I realized another chapter in my life had ended. The tears came when I started my car, and I cried all the way to my apartment in Shadyside.
After more tears and a cup of tea, I wrote them a poem in my journal.
Stars
Like the stars in the sky are endless
so are my memories of you.
My life was like the midnight sky
void of everything
I was there but felt invisible.
You are the stars
giving light and showing the way.
You are the stars
illuminating me.
My life is still like the midnight sky,
but it is full of everything
and I no longer feel invisible.
Like the stars in the sky are endless
so are my memories of you
I looked for Kiarra at church on Sunday and found it strange she wasn’t there and hadn’t called. I sent her a text message to call me. After church I called Afreeka because I felt the need to be connected to someone – I was missing the Woodard’s and feeling removed and sullen. It was almost two o’clock and Afreeka was still in bed and said she would call me back. She never called and neither did Kiarra – I spent the rest of my day watching movies.
Monday morning was a crisp fall day. The leaves were changing colors and trying desperately to hang on to the tree limbs. The sunshine made bold streaks through the empty spaces where leaves once hung. I drove to work in silence and let my mind ponder Sunday’s sermon. Fear thou not for I am with thee. Isaiah 41:10. Although life seemed more intimidating, especially now that the Woodard’s were gone, it was a promise I would hold on to.
I stood in the back of the elevator rehearsing for my next meeting with Francine. I wouldn’t look her in eye because I hated feeling like she could read me. Exiting the elevator on the fifth floor, I proceeded down the hall to my office. I needed to prepare my clinical summaries before meeting with Dr. Solis at eight. I also wanted to call Kiarra – I was beginning to worry about her. Francine was standing in front of my door.
“I need to talk to you,” she said humbly.
“You know I meet with Dr. Solis every Monday morning,” I said apologetically. “I didn’t exp
ect to see you until tomorrow, but I can meet with you at nine-thirty.”
“Okay,” she said through a weak smile. “I’ll get something to eat and come back at nine-thirty.” Francine walked away like a child who had just been told they couldn’t go outside to play with their best friend.
Francine’s transition into My Sister’s Keeper was not as difficult as I anticipated; however, she continued to isolate herself and did not feel the need to interact with the other residents. Her social skills became my primary concern for our sessions over the upcoming weeks. Francine’s resistance to group therapy impeded the process of her reaching the goals prescribed by Dr. Solis. I refused to let Francine make me feel like a failure. She was going to have to deal with her secrecy and face those things that shamed her. I reminded myself I was only the bridge to help her get there.
My meeting with Dr. Solis only lasted about thirty minutes. Although she was concerned about my slow progress with Francine, Jelissa’s client had taken off over the weekend, and that was now the priority. I assured Dr. Solis I had not given up on Francine and believed, although her progress was slow, she was coming along.
I stopped in the cafeteria to get coffee and noticed Kiarra sitting by the far window. I made her a cup of raspberry tea and joined her.
“Hey,” I said sitting down across from her. “What’s going on?”
“I broke up with him.” She spoke slightly above a whisper and continued to stare out the window. “I just need to find me. I’m losing me.”
I grabbed her hand. “Are you okay?”