Raging Love (eBook)

I. TRUTH

Not My Child

My relationship with my father was bad from the day I was born. That’s what my mother told me.

A very small percentage of African Americans are born with white skin. Over time, their skin pigment darkens. It can take weeks or months to reach its natural color. They go from a white baby at birth to a black baby within a few months.

Black eyes, black hair, and white skin; that’s how I was born in March 1952. Just like Alfalfa from Our Gang, my inch-long hair stuck straight up in the air, my skin brilliantly bleached, nothing like that of my parents.

My father, expecting a brown baby that looked like him, was in shock and disbelief. My mother worked at Fort Monmouth Army station where my father was stationed. She was surrounded by white scientists. My father took his first look at me and declared, “That’s not my child.”

He accused my mother of having an affair and left her, just days after I was born. By June, my pigment kicked in and I was brown and the spitting image of my father.

But it was too late, my father’s resentment toward me had begun.

Addie

It took my parents over two years to reconcile.

During that time, my mother went back to work, and I was raised by my grandmother, Adelaide. I called her Addie. She nurtured and cared for me, playing more of the role of mother in my life, than grandmother.

When I was four years old, my father got reassigned to Karlsruhe, Germany. Our family was moving close to 4,000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean. The plan was to go by boat.

It was 1953 and the movie Titanic was popular. The plot, centering around the sinking of a ship in 1912 was talked about for months. I must have overheard discussions of the sinking ship because the idea of traveling by boat terrified me. I didn’t want to go. I also didn’t want to leave Addie.

On the day of our departure, my father walked swiftly and confidently toward the boat with my mother following behind, attempting to corral me. Halfway up the gangplank, I passed out cold and had to be taken to the hospital where I did not wake up for four days.

We all missed the boat. Literally.

My father, still needing to report to base, took a flight to Germany by himself while my mother and I stayed behind, waiting for me to be declared safe and healthy enough to travel.

The military doctors prescribed Phenobarbital, an anti-seizure medicine, while my mother and grandmother spent days coaching me. “An airplane ride will be fun,” they said. “Think of it as a great adventure.” After four days, I was well enough to travel. My mother booked us a flight and we headed overseas to join my father.

It took me a while to settle into life in Germany. I missed Addie. It felt like I had been ripped from my mother’s arms to go live with strangers. Wanting to console me, my parents arranged a phone call back to the States.

In the 1950s, it took thirty minutes for the operator in Germany to connect with the operator in America and then make the connection between you and your desired party. I was five years old the first time we called Addie. My mother said “hello” and handed me the phone.

“Addie?” I said.

“Tip?” she replied, calling me by my nickname.

Instantaneously, we both fainted.

I passed out and had a seizure–like episode where I was unconscious and hospitalized for four days. My grandmother—almost 4,000 miles away—had a massive heart attack and almost died.

The Army doctors continued me on Phenobarbital while administering an electroencephalogram, or EEG, a test that detects abnormalities in brain waves and evaluates the electrical activity of the brain. It can be useful in diagnosing or ruling out brain conditions, especially epilepsy and other seizure disorders.

During the procedure, electrodes consisting of small metal discs with thin wires were pasted onto my scalp. Every time my father was mentioned, my brain waves showed a very rapid rate of activity.

The doctors discovered that I was afraid of my father. He was the cause of my extreme anxiety.

Chocolate Milkshake

The Army was so concerned with the results from the brain wave testing that they threatened to send my mother and me back to the States unless my father improved our relationship. His solution was for the two of us to attend the Berlin World’s Fair. Not wanting to make the seven-hour drive from Karlsruhe, Germany to Berlin alone, he recruited a friend who had a daughter my age.

These two military men indulged us in every way imaginable. We went on every ride and played games all day. Any treats we asked for we were given: cotton candy, taffy, ice cream, and an abundance of chocolate: chocolate bars, chocolate fudge, and multiple servings of chocolate ice cream.

On the final day of our trip, we were driving home in my father’s 1954 Mercury, his pride and joy. At this point, I had a crush on the little girl, and she and I sat in the back seat, staring out our side windows, occasionally stealing a glance and sharing a shy smile.

My smile faded, and my eyes grew as large as saucers when, suddenly, the young girl grabbed her stomach, hunched over at the waist, and started gagging like she was going to throw up. Her father, a young officer in his twenties, turned around and instructed her, “Don’t you dare throw up in this car!”

My father did his best to quickly steer to the side of the road as she continued retching, but before the car rolled to a stop, she leaned over and filled my lap with what looked like a chocolate milkshake.

The little girl, obviously not feeling well, sobbed while her father yelled at her because she disobeyed him and threw up. My father bellowed above them both, “Keep your legs clamped together.”

When the car finally rolled to a stop, my father jumped out, ran around to my side, opened my door, lifted me out of the car, and poured her chocolate vomit out of my lap. He then removed my pants, now covered in vomit, and stuck me back in the car.

We rode the rest of the way home with me sitting in my underwear next to the little girl from my kindergarten class. Two military men, silent and irritated in the front seat, and two five-year-olds, quietly crying in the back. As for my father and me, this was just another crack in our already fractured relationship.

Too Close

Growing up, my mother and I were close. Perhaps too close. She treated me more like her best friend than her child. When I started kindergarten, we began having daily conversations about what I was feeling and thinking. This went on until I was about 15 years old. She constantly shaped how I thought, what I thought about, and what I was doing. My thoughts and feelings always needed correction. She had great influence over who my friends were as well as my career choices. I learned that she was easy to please, simply by being submissive and following her direction. I suffered so much abuse at my father’s hands; I sought love and acceptance from my mother any way that I could.

It wasn’t until later in my life when I was in my mid-thirties that I began to look at my mother more critically. I began to see her as a puppeteer pulling the strings of my young developing mind.

Early on, I was conditioned for two things. One, not to show emotion and two, to only think about what pleased my mother or father and their plan for me.

The frequent punishment from my dad was often a surprise. A quick, painful knuckle rap on the top of my head would leave me instantly distressed and fearful as I fought tears, while I was told sternly, “Don’t you dare cry.”

Whippings were scheduled hours in advance as if to increase the torture with anticipation. Then he hit me, one strike at a time, telling me, “Don’t you dare cry,” ironically, beating me until I did.

My mother would often stand there encouraging me to cry. I fought it and held it in. Eventually it became a game of wills where I would defiantly fight my tears from falling, always to lose in the long run.

Jane

I stood outside Jane’s family home, watching as her father drove away for the last time. Jane was perched in the back seat, her body leaning out the open window. She held onto the car door, staring at me with tears rolling down her face as she waved goodbye, my own tears flowing freely. As the car turned the corner and drove out of sight, uncontrollable sobs escaped from my chest. My best friend had moved away.

Jane had a deep nasal twang when she talked while a high-pitched noise formed her words. She was super cute, the pretty little blonde girl who sounded like a cartoon character. I was the smallest kid in my class, so small that I could not keep up with the boys my age in terms of power and strength. Gravitating toward the girls, they quickly became my best friends. I played whatever they wanted. Most of the time, it was dolls.

Every day, Jane and I played in the courtyard. We rode the swings, swung from the monkey bars, and climbed over the jungle gym. We laid out a blanket and played with her dolls. Other girls would join us, but Jane and I were best friends. I loved Jane. Not in the adult romantic sense of the word, but in the innocent childhood version of friendship that hasn’t learned the difference between like and love.

We attended kindergarten and first grade together while our fathers were stationed in Karlsruhe, Germany. Then one day, her father got reassigned to the States. While my parents explained to me...