It Stung Like A Jolt Of Lightning As She Slapped Me Into Reality
PART II
[was originally written in 2017 and updated 2018, prior to Part I at the end]
Denise was in isolation to keep the infectious bacteria from spreading. Dr Ashby or Dr Scott came early that morning, and said to my father, “she’s gone”; Denise was only four. Many years later, my mother shared that two children in the neighborhood had died, because they did not have their diphtheria shot. A boy had not had his and my sister was the other. “Nisey”, had gotten one shot, but not the other.
It was a day filled with crisis, but for me at the age of six, I would experience the compression of many days into one seamless moment in time with no beginning or ending. I recalled my mother wrapping Denise in blankets and rushing out the house. She had tried to relieve her pained breathing with steam to open her breathing passages. And after having cried and tried everything to comfort her, she was not getting any better. Her face was crusted with dried mucous; her throat swollen; she could hardly breathe.
I stood there trying to understand the meaning of it all… The doctor told my mother to bring her child to his office immediately and not stop at the hospital. She rushed out of the house in an emergency with her daughter in her arms wrapped in blankets. I didn’t know what to expect, and so, I hoped everything would be fine, and she would return home — not knowing this would be the last time I’d see my beautiful sister alive. I thought we would be visiting her in the hospital, and she would return home. I knew she was real sick, but I had no idea of death, or questioned her return. Time stopped and l held my breath, as if I was under water. No one had the time to explain it to me, and so I buried my tiny seed of faith in the unknown.
I knew nothing not even my emotional state. They told us she had died… I cried. But I still didn’t understand the depth of my own grief, nor the finality of it all. Death was foreign to me. The next few days were spent listlessly going about moodily. A gray silent, still sadness pervaded the neighborhood. No one talked, nor rushed about as the days were still with silence; all movement was measured with conscious intent and no frivolity.
We hurried to get dressed and line up. I paid very little attention to my youngest baby sister, but I followed my older brother closely making sure I was in unison with where he was in dressing. We were all rushing. And for what, I thought with foreboding dread?
The house was packed with my mother’s sisters and family friends. My mother took my hand, as we were led out into the courtyard of our home into the glaring bright sun. It was a sunny, warm, spring day, and I raised my hand to shield my eyes as we exited the cinder block confines into the spotlight. There was immediate silence as kids stopped playing, and watched us with blank stares. I could hear only the movement of stiffly pressed clothes and shoes against the concrete walk. I heard one of my friends call out my name loudly, ”HEY, JERRY!” Instantly, my hand went up to wave, as we were paraded out of the house. My mother gripped my hand tighter and pulled me closer, and then slapped me across the face. She admonished me about how I should act. I was in shock and hurt — I can never forget this moment, it felt like a jolt of lightning as she slapped me into reality and embarrassment. We walked down the gray pavement of the concrete sidewalk and entered into the quiet, dark, coolness of the black limousine car. To a certain extent it woke me.
She was a beautiful brown girl, so pretty; just beautiful. I loved her, she was my little sister. I knew my mother had dressed Sharon Denise in a pretty light blue cotton dress, with a crinoline slip and white gloves. But I could barely see her in the casket, and I imagined she looked like a doll. I thought I would wake into a different reality. The minister preached; constant cries and moans for a small child in a small casket pervaded the sanctuary… we were at the front of the chapel pressed closely together on the pew. It was very, very sad. The old are suppose to die not the young—babies.
I thought my little sister was precious, and I considered her to be my mine. I don’t know if that was because my parents told me that, as a way of controlling sibling jealousy. But I was immensely protective of her. She had small delicate brown hands, thick black hair and the sweetest nature. When it was time to get her hair combed, the flood gates opened and all sorts of convulsive behavior would transpire until it was done. It seemed straightening a little black girls thick coiffured coiled hair is never a peaceful event.
My mother had a large framed print by Cecil Gooding, of a “Black Angel with Children”,
standing in the clouds above earth and a steepled church accompanied by a young black boy and his older sister under her raised winged arm. My mother had gotten the artwork with the purchase of a living room set when a white furniture merchant in neighborhood threw it in. It became a family keepsake, we considered the images to be us. Though the girl depicted was obviously older than the boy, I’d spend countless moments tracing the figures with my fingers, and imagining the angel as my mother, and the girl as my sister. When the time came for us to move from the “Projects” the artwork was the last piece to leave. I ran back into the house to retrieve it off the wall for the new home. My mother said, she hadn’t forgotten it, I thought she had.
That artwork followed us to one house after another, and I watched after it. It followed me to my college dorm rooms, apartments, and my own home– with all its’ childhood fingerprint and scratches, It is the one think I would run into burning flames to save.
I struggled to find memories to reflect upon of my sister. There is not much life squeezed into 4 years; she was here and belonged to us. When I looked at her, I saw myself and I was proud. I was closer to her than my older brother, or youngest baby sister. My baby sister, two years younger than Nisey had light brown eyes, and much lighter skin. She was fretted upon by her aunts, because of her lighter complexion, and light hazel brown eyes, whereas, Nisey and I were brown, and my older brother was the darkest of all which carried its own affliction for him to bear. Being black or brown was not adored upon as a much, but I thought otherwise about Nisey.
I often questioned my father and mother on their recollections of Nisey, in the hope of further materializing her existential presence. Once again, there is not much living in her years to reflect upon, even from still grieving parents. I only recently learned our aunt, who worked for an insurance company arranged the funeral. My own memory seems romanticized and clouded by my own abstract existence.
They drove us to the cemetery in that dark, cool, black limo. I said nothing, as I reflected on the many hurts felt that day. They fretted about finding the gravesite later, because of the circuitous route through the cementery compound. I quietly made mental pictures and triangulated the location. And although, the large tree and fence a few feet from her grave are gone, to this day I still know the exact spot of her unmarked grave. And though the nameplate has faded overtime I still see it.
I didn’t understand it all. This was my first funeral. And as we lived in the projects for many more years, I would often pass Franklin Funeral Home on my way between home and school. My friends and I would often enter into the lobby, or walk by the drive-thru display to see the impeccably dressed, old and young in repose. We’d watch them for signs of movement, wonder about their life and marvel at their finery. For me full of ambivalence, it was a place to step out of the heat of the sun and into a quiet air conditioned space— into a surreal, yet disassociated space, and experience. The last place I would be in the presence of my sister.
At a moment of death, at such young age, your childhood can leave you and never return; it can manifest itself in indifference, ambivalence and introspection, or just frequent moodiness. I only know that moment as it was at that time and not as it was beyond.
There is not much life you can weave into an unfinished tapestry. The treading had only begun. Life is all too short for some and all too forgiving for others. As I travel life’s journey, and look upon brown skin girls, I see my own, and love them with unfulfilled expectations.
And from there I carried within me a seed of hope and faith.
——
PART I {October 2020]
I visited my sister’s gravesite with my mother and younger sister the other day [October 2020]. The revelation that I have a deceased sister may come as a surprise to some. Only a few people will remember her, most of my friends including family will find the revelation of her existence as totally unknown and surprising. The circumstances of her death I will expound upon later. She resides in an unmarked grave in a Newport News cemetery. She died in 1961 and I haven’t been there since her burial, and later in 1964.
Our visit was prompted by my father’s passing in January 2020, and visits to his grave that tortured our collective ambivalence towards visiting her gravesite. We practiced a sort of benign neglect, never wanting to bring up the delicate subject or broach the subject with each other. My mother has buried her grief deep within her soul, where memories can’t remind her, a place she seldom visits without anguish. She left her heart in that place, Pleasant Shade Cemetery. in a small grave that is unmarked and is difficult to find. Where? I didn’t have that problem…
As I drove into the entrance of the cemetery a flood of memories rushed over me. A place I had not seen in too many years. The cemetery hadn’t changed much, except that it seemed to be much smaller than the out-sized imagery ingrained as a child riding through it in 1961. The searing heat was gone, replaced by a bright cool October fall day. The few trees were green, but seemed weighted down by age and decay amongst the many graves. Solitary, solemn, unorganized and over-grown, the graveyard still had a few stalwart shades trees standing as guardians of souls. After so many years the one I was looking for was still there, as a beacon. I recalled having taken refuge from the unbearable sun under the largest tree, just yards away from my sister’s gravesite. During her interment, I purposely snapped a mental picture and triangulated the location into my long term memory, so that I wouldn’t forget it.
That sweeping tree had aged gracefully and looked to be doing just fine, holding its own against the ravages of time, elements and neglected. I was astonished it was still there, as I drove the horseshoe route to reach it. Driving the narrow dirt road which had also stood still in time, and now carried us back 59 years.
I was now in seat of a six year old riding in the somber darkness of a funeral limo. Everything seemed smaller and shorter in distance. The dirt road and headstones in disarray. In a child’s mind things can be distorted— years becomes shorter as you age. I drove the winding road in the mindset of a time capsule.
I had told my sister, who was 2 1/2 at the time of her big sister’s death, and didn’t remember the cemetery how to reach the gravesite. But I came home instead to lead them to the gravesite. We entered the gate and I looked at around 9:00 o’clock for the largest tree. There we would find the unmarked gravesite without any marker other than a tree. I really didn’t expect that the tree would still there, but trees can live through many lifetimes. Now, here I was following footsteps from the past….
When we got to the gravesite there was something that was totally unexpected, headstone. The name on the headstone stopped me in my tracks, it read “BOYD”. My first thoughts were who placed this here, where my sister was… then I looked at the lower portion and for the date and more information. It wasn’t my sisters name. It was for a’Thelma Boyd’ and ‘Roy Boyd’. Now, this was/is totally weird… I don’t know how this occurred, but it is holy serendipitous, by the grace of God, if you will.
[My mother told the plot had been donated by Franklin Funereal Home because she was a child. ]
I believe the burial of ‘Thelma, 1914-1996’ and ‘Roy, 1911-1997’, was orchestrated by the funeral home based on their records of a “Boyd” interred at the location. I believe they recommended the location as a family relationship— there is not one. Or, I can just THANK GOD! (Oct 21, 2020)
[Recently, after posting a reply to a post on Facebook regarding the cleanup and restoration of the Black Cemetery in Newport News, VA, I received the comment (below) from someone that noted the age of my deceased sister, and provided additional comment regarding the location of children being buried near a tree in the Pleasant Shade Cemetery. Although, my initial post was in response to another FB user that identified a relative of her’s, also, named “Boyd” was buried in the cemetery…. these instance with “Boyd” in proximity have no family relationship to mine. It’s just….serendipitous, by the grace of God.] — (Dec 6, 2020)
Fin
JB
But I digress…
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