Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (30 page)

Reverend Franklin (Aretha Franklin's father) had his church at that time on Hastings and Willis. We had many prayerful and singing good times in that church.

I smiled as I remembered the story Mama had told me about the time she was nursing me on the streetcar, and the conductor was so engrossed looking through his rear view mirror at a large Negro woman nursing a white baby that he missed his switchover. He had to back up the streetcar and reconnect his switch exchange.

And then there was the time she and I were in the ten-cent store, and I loudly cried and acted out for a doll. The store clerk implored my mother to buy the doll for me saying, “I'm sure her mother will be happy to repay you.”

“I
am
hermother,”Mama indignantly answered the clerk.

I tell people all the time, “I'm glad I came through those years.” I reminisce and tell folks things like, “We could sleep all night on Belle Isle, and nobody would bother us.”

And I tell them about the times when Joe Louis was the upcoming champion in the world of heavyweight boxing.

His mother lived in the neighborhood. She was such a nice woman. Most of us didn't have televisions, so when her son Joe was fighting, and it was televised, she would put the TV on the front porch, and we would walk around to her house on McDougall Street to watch the fights. We would all be cheering for the “Brown Bomber”!

When Hudson's department store began to hire colored girls as elevator operators they had to be light-skinned girls. I think part of my mother's healing was her refusal to buy anything from Hudson's.

As I lay spread out on that gurney I relived the aftermath of Pearl Harbor when Detroit's FordMotor Company was hiring more factory workers. I set out one bright, brisk early morning looking for work and I stood in the long line marked “Colored.” When I approached the clerk at the desk he abruptly snapped at me asserting, “We're
not
hiring!”

I was so disappointed; I was counting on that job to help our family make ends meet. Sadly, I turned around and went back home. My minister heard of the incident and encouraged me to go back, but this time he urged me to stand in the line marked “White.” I did, and the response at that window was markedly different. A woman with a handheld apparatus stamped my application with a loud and deliberate motion and announced, “Hired!” I stood there startled and speechless.

Perhaps, it was in that astonishing moment when I realized that another world of opportunities could open for me if I went with the white side of my heritage and was quiet about the colored side. I looked white, so I learned to do what was necessary to survive. My father was white, so I was, indeed, both black
and
white. I was never ashamed of myself or felt like I was “passing.” I was just using my challenging racial mixture to my benefit for a change.

I worked at Ford during the war as a riveter on the wings of the B29 bomber airplanes. Then, after the war, I took a job as a dance instructor at the renowned Arthur Murray Dance Studio. Considered beautiful by society's standards and compared by some to the likes of Rita Hayworth and Susan Hayward, I stood about 5-feet 6-inches tall, a brunette with long, flowing hair and a slender build, with a flair for glamour and style.

At the age of twenty-eight, married with two children, I lay on the table awaiting surgery to remove a lump from my breast, wondering if and praying that this will not be the last chapter of my life.

Somewhere between reminiscing about dancing at the

Elmwood Casino in Canada where my partner and I would waltz out and “take the dance floor,” and being a finalist in Bob Hope's “My Favorite Brunette” contest . . . I remembered nothing more until I awoke from surgery.

What had looked like a tumor was really a milk clot from nursing my babies, and they removed it. I cried with relief and gratitude knowing how blessed I was to continue being with my family. And continue I would!

Today, I am eighty-one years old. I have been on both sides of the shades of black and white. The depth and the richness of being “colored” (it's still hard for me to say “black”) has its roots in my soul. I have accepted and carried my crosses in the light and the dark of it. My spirit reigns free.

I love my mother for giving me birth and life. I'm glad I'm here. I don't care how I got here. Life is a gift no matter who we are, how we got here or what the color of our skin. I rejoice in all the shades of black and white in myself—and in you.

Dorothy Jackson As told to Hattie Mae Pembrook

Moving On from Militancy

I
'm not a feminist. . . . I'm just a proud black
woman.

Queen Latifah

“Hey, white girl! Hey, white girl! Damita, you look just like a white girl,” said Johnny. Johnny was a fourth-grade classmate of mine. It was picture day, and my mother had pressed my hair real straight and made me some “Japanese bangs.” I thought I looked fine, but Johnny said I looked white. My classmates began to laugh at me and make fun of me. I was downright mad.

“No I don't! I'm not white. Just because I'm not a tar baby like you! So there!” I stormed off, and when it was finally time for me to take my picture, I made sure that my hair was a mess. After all, I just did not want to be white. I wanted to look like everyone else in my class.

I had light hair, light eyes and a light complexion. Why me? Everyone else in my family was brown except me. My mocha-colored sister Kathy said that I was adopted! I didn't want to be adopted, either. My mother assured me that I was not adopted and that I was her baby. So there!

I grew up always trying to prove my ethnicity. When I got to high school in Los Angeles I decided to join a militant organization. It was called the Black Youth Alliance. I changed my name to Tamu Impanduzy, Sweetest of the Revolution. My boyfriend was a senior, and he had an African name also. Now I was so black—or so I thought.

We also became involved with a ragtag organization outside of the school. They talked about “offing the pig,” but I knew I wasn't going to “off” anything. I was a nonviolent black girl who happened to look white. I was just sitting in those meetings questioning my commitment to the movement. I didn't think that I had what it takes to be a full-fledged revolutionary. The following events confirmed it.

When I arrived home one day my mother met me at the door. Her face was red and swollen like a big beach ball, and her eyes were bulging like Kermit the Frog! I could have sworn that I saw steam coming out of the top of her head and drool peeking out of the corners of her mouth.

Oh God, what happened to her? What did my siblings do to her?

Well, I quickly found out that it wasn't the other kids that had caused her face to blow up—it was
me
!

The Federal Bureau of Investigation had visited my neighborhood. Can you believe it? Looking for
me
! They asked my neighbors questions about me and about my militant behavior. I couldn't believe it. All I did was wear a big Afro, dashikis, sandals and ethnic jewelry.Well, okay, I did
talk
a lot of mess, but I sure wasn't going to back it up!

And they had visited my mother.

“Who do you think you are? Didn't I raise you to be a law-abiding citizen? You are not Angela Davis, you're Damita Kelly, and you'd better start acting like it! The FBI!

Well, somebody better call the FBI to get me off of you!” my mother ranted. I saw my entire life flash before my eyes, and suddenly looking like a white girl just didn't seem that important.

There was a funeral that day. Tamu Impanduzy was laid to rest. My mother “offed” her! I was told to excuse myself from that organization, press my hair, put on some “American” clothes and get myself some real friends. She informed me that as long as I lived under her roof, I was to answer only to the name “Damita.”

I went to my last meeting to inform the brothers and sisters that I was no longer a member and why. It seemed as though each member had a story similar to mine. One of our new members was a spy. He was actually a member of the FBI and had gotten all of our information and turned it over. This was all too heavy for me. I didn't want to tangle with the FBI—or worse yet with my mother!

Oddly enough, I wasn't that upset about it. In retrospect, it is probably because the “establishment” was never my issue in the first place. My issue was wanting to feel like I belonged. Somehow my mother's lecture and the wake-up call about the direction my life was taking caused me to take another look in the proverbial mirror. This time when I looked in the mirror, I softened my critical eyes and worked on just accepting myself “as is.”

I made a decision then and there to go to college. I even decided I'd try out for the cheerleading squad—a gang with a lighter purpose.

Now, I really don't care that I look white. I know who I am, and I finally know that I have nothing to prove.

Damita Jo Johnson

Never, Ever Give Up

C
ourage allows the successful woman to fail—
and to learn powerful lessons from the failure—so
that in the end, she didn't fail at all.

Maya Angelou

Growing up against the odds in the Brewster projects of Detroit, Michigan, was no day at the beach. Just ask diva Diana Ross and world champion boxer Joe Louis whose lives began there also. Getting into fights was a way of life, and most girls got pregnant before they graduated from high school.

I was often chased home from school by jealous girls yelling, “You think you're so cute.” I was called “Yellow Banana,” and accused of having a white daddy because my skin tone was so light. I would get my hair pulled or get a kick from behind by someone while standing in the lunch line.

When I was in junior high school my family moved into a much nicer neighborhood. I thought things would get better for me socially, but they got worse. Being blessed with a God-given athletic ability and natural good looks, I walked tall with confidence. The boys jockeyed for my attention while the girls hated me. I was the talk of my new school. I was referred to as the tall, light-skinned girl with long hair.

One day after school as I was leaving the girls' locker room, exhausted from an intense track practice, I was attacked by a gang of girls. I literally began fighting for my life. A couple of girls held me down while one girl beat me, another pulled my hair and kicked me, and one began to slice my face, arms, neck, chest and legs with a razor. As she was cutting my body, she said, “Let's see what boy is going to like you now!”

This fight was nothing like the Brewster projects' fist-fighting days with hair pulling and a few punches! I could not believe this was happening to me. I felt like I was having a nightmare and could not wake up. The girls attacking me began to run away as they heard someone yell, “Call an ambulance!”

Someone else shouted, “Oh my God, look at her face!”

I was covered in blood from head to toe and felt faint as I ran back into the locker room to look in the mirror. I cried so hard! I could not believe that I was looking at a cut so deep that I could see the inside of my flesh hanging out. It made me weak in the knees, and sobbing I screamed, “My face! Look at my face!” The face I once took pride in was now mangled and dripping with blood.

The tragic event that I had hoped no one would find out about became the headline news. I wondered how I would ever go back to school to face everyone. I was given over one hundred stitches and stayed home from school for the next fourteen days. While I was home recovering, I experienced many different emotions and had several conversations in my head about why someone would try to hurt me like that. I felt alone, embarrassed and helpless. I was very angry with my parents for not protecting me. I built an invisible wall between the outside world and myself, and I no longer trusted anyone. I kept pondering what I could have done to prevent this. Maybe on that particular day I should have run away as fast as I could instead of trying to defend myself.

The authorities became involved, and our case went to court. After a few days of hearings and witnesses taking the stand, the jury decided that the defendant was guilty of a misdemeanor crime and would have to serve 90 days in the county jail. The others involved were not charged at all. I was so glad that the girl who used the razor had to go to jail, but I felt cheated because it was for such a short period of time. I wanted her to serve ten or fifteen years in prison. In just a short period of time she could choose to erase the memory forever while I would have to spend the rest of my life with physical scars to remind me. Justice did not seem fair.