Christmas morning 1984 I was awakened, not by the smells of cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate, but by a cold draft underneath my tattered nightgown. Even the two extra bodies that I shared the small bed with, could not keep the cold air out that morning. The body heat, I heard my aunts speak about, that black folks were to supposed to generate, was on strike that morning. I raised up to look around the dimly lit room. My older sister, Carla, and my younger sister, Mya, were still asleep. I peered over to the twin bed beside ours, and my two baby brothers were still snoring. Jason had his feet in Carlos Jr.’s face. At nine years old, I was very excited about Christmas.
“It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas! Wake up,” I said to my sisters.
Carla had the worst breath in the morning, so I quickly turned my head as she let out her morning yawn.
Carlos Jr. and Jason did not wake up. My sisters and I ran to the living room. I got there first, and stood in the doorway of the living room frozen.
“Move out of the way Sharon. What are you doing?” Carla asked, as she pushed past me into the living room. By this time there were tears in my eyes. I could not believe it.
“We’ve been robbed,” Mya shrieked.
Carla and I just looked at each other. We were a little older and knew the real deal. We had just gotten the water turned back on a couple of days before. Although I knew things had been tough lately, nothing could prepare me for this. Under the shabby Christmas tree, that we had so much fun putting up for the sixth year in a row, there was absolutely nothing. The only thing we saw was an old white sheet that we put there every year instead of a real tree skirt. Mya ran crying into my parents’ room.
“Daddy, Daddy, our toys are gone!
”I did not hear Daddy say anything, but I could hear Momma trying to console Mya.
When he emerged from the bedroom he was fully dressed. He peered at us from the doorway.
Carla and I both sat straight up, and tried to change our facial expressions.
Daddy was very strict. He was a preacher at a small church in Winston, North Carolina. We automatically were at attention at all times in his presence. You never knew what mood he would be in, so we were usually very quiet. Daddy served in the Vietnam War, and he was a very strange man. Momma said sometimes he would wake up from dreams, and command everyone to get down on the floor or rock the entire bed with his right leg, which would always shake at night. I would always hear people say he was exposed to some orange chemical, and that he was shell shock. Not knowing what that meant, I thought everybody’s Daddy was like mine. He had a metal plate in his head from being shot, and I thought that sometimes it moved around, and made him go crazy.
That Christmas morning he just stood there looking at us like we did something wrong. We were just kids. Without saying a word to us, he went out the front door. As soon as we heard the old Cadillac pull off, Carla and I jumped off the couch, and went to Momma’s room.
Momma was a good person, and she would always try to make the best of situations. I was named after her, and we had a special bond. She was a very good singer, who gave up a record deal to be a wife and Mother. I often wondered if she was happy. We got really bad whippings when we were out of line or if Daddy thought we needed one. Although I think Momma was too afraid to make him stop beating us, she would always sneak into our room later and check our legs for whips and bruises. She would tell us everything was going to be ok.
That day Momma sat on the edge of the bed, with her hair a mess, all over her head. She looked really tired and old that morning, and I could tell she had been crying. As usual, making us feel better was on her mind.
“Things are a little tight right now, and I need for you all to be big girls and Mommy will get you something next week.
”Carla and I nodded in unison, and hugged Momma really tight. I pretended to understand, but really tears were about to surface. Christmas had been on my mind for a long time. We never got much, but still I had spent the previous weeks imagining what would be under the tree. Mya was fast asleep on Momma’s lap with white dried up tears on her face. We just sat there on the bed, and she sang us a song.
When she finished, we felt a little better. Momma began to tell us a funny story about when she was growing up. This peaceful moment was suddenly interrupted by the sound of Daddy’s old Cadillac. The click clack of the muffler startled me. I nearly fell off the bed. We quickly wiped our faces, and ran to our room. As we closed the bedroom door, the boys were waking up. Carlos Jr. was six, and Jason was five. They repeated our initial excitement of Christmas morning. Just then I became sad again. For them understanding would not be an option. At that age, I am sure they would be heart broken.
“Carla… Sharon… Carlos Jr.… Jason yall come here,” Daddy yelled.
Scared to death, we all went to the living room. Mya was already there, and met us at the doorway.
“Look Sharon, Daddy got me a Candyland game!”
She was ecstatic, and smiling from ear to ear. The dried up tears were still on her face. I looked around the room, and there were five separate piles of gifts. Some were half wrapped, and some were not wrapped at all. I did not care. They were gifts. Daddy showed us which pile belonged to whom. My sisters and I had board games, and little rag dolls. The boys had trucks, and G. I. Joe men. Everyone was happy, and Dad even smiled a little bit. We all sang songs, and Momma fixed breakfast. Carlos and Jason never knew what had happened Christmas morning 1984, and we soon forgot about it also.
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The first day of school after Christmas break, all the kids would wear new outfits they got as gifts. I never had new clothes, so I always tried to be creative with what I had. Momma made most of our clothes, and the rest were second hand. Whenever we would see something that we liked, she would say, “I can make that.”
As I approached the bus stop, I could hear Marsha Davis, the neighborhood bully, giggling and pointing. She was always picking on someone. Carla and I were on the top of her list. Sometimes my Daddy would come to the bus stop with us. and make all the kids stand in a single file line, until the bus came. He also let them know that he was a preacher, and did not allow his children to fight. ‘Turn the other cheek’ was Daddy’s motto. He told all the kids to let him know if they ever saw us fighting, and that gave Marsha ultimate power over us. She would torture us, and had made a game out of thumping us in the head. That day I had made up my mind that if she did it to me, I was going to bust her in the mouth and take my punishment from Daddy. I thought my latest creation of two outfits mixed was cute, and I wanted to know what she was snickering about. A quick glance behind me answered the question. There, on our front porch, was Momma putting Mya’s coat on. Her hair was all over her head. She had on a nightgown, and boy tube socks with stripes on them. She saw me looking, and waved. Even though everyone knew who she was, I continued to the bus stop without returning the wave. The one good thing about Momma being on the porch was that Marsha would not be thumping anybody’s head.
The ride to school seemed longer than normal today. Our school was in the next town. It was about a thirty-minute ride. I was in the fourth grade, and Carla was in the fifth. We were only ten months apart. Every year we stayed the same age for two months. Mya was in the second grade, and Carlos Jr. was in the first. Jason had not started school yet, because his birthday was too late in the year. Carla and I always sat together on the bus, and played tic-tac-toe. Mya and Carlos usually went back to sleep.
That morning, Marsha spent the entire ride running her mouth about all the cool things she got. As the bus pulled in the parking lot, I could see all the new outfits, coats, hats, lunchboxes, and bookbags. I did get some new pencils that came in a beautiful box, so I put them on top of my schoolbooks, and walked into Kernersville Elementary School.
Mrs. White’s fourth grade class was full of chatter that morning. Everyone was discussing what he or she got for Christmas. I went to my assigned seat, and began putting my books away. My shiny new pencil box was proudly left on top of my desk. No one really talked to me, and my friends were few. I was a good student, and always made the honor roll. Mrs. White must have known what I was going through, and always made sure that she said a kind word or praised me for something.
“That is a fancy pencil box you have there Ms. Porter,” she said.
She was a great teacher, and lifted my spirits many days.
I gave her a big smile and said, “My Daddy bought it for me for Christmas.”
“No he didn't,” I heard from across the room. Everyone turned around in the direction from which this voice came. Up against the wall, all decked out in a new outfit and hairdo, was Francis Rock. She was my first cousin. My Daddy and her Mom were brother and sister. Her Dad had a really good job, and they always had the best of everything. We got along o.k., but I knew she thought she was better than my sisters and I. She got that attitude from her Mom. With the entire class giving her their full attention, she continued.
“Her Daddy came to our house Christmas morning. He asked my Mother for some of our unwanted, small gifts, because they didn’t have anything for Christmas.”
“That is enough Ms. Rock,” Mrs. White interrupted.
“Well it’s true, we gave him all the stuff we didn’t want,” Francis blurted out shamelessly.
That is why the gifts were half wrapped and some were not wrapped at all. It never crossed my mind where the gifts came from. We were just happy to get them. At that moment the entire class seemed to be laughing at me. Mrs. White tried to calm everyone down.
“You are no longer my cousin,” I said, and ran out of the class.
I was horrified, and could not believe Francis had done that to me. My heart sank to my knees.
How could my Daddy go to those uppity people, and ask them for anything. I would have rather had nothing for Christmas. It is amazing that we were so happy with our gifts, and they were all things the Rock kids did not want. Francis made me feel really low. The girls’ bathroom was the first place I saw. Luckily all the stalls were empty. I slid down the wall, and crouched by the radiator. If I hold my arm on here long enough to burn, maybe they will send me home. I ought to just jump out of the window.
As I stood up, and peered out the window, I began to imagine all sorts of bad things happening to Francis. Like her falling in the mud during recess, and messing up that nice new outfit. Or somehow gum getting stuck in her hair, and her having to get it all cut off.
“Sharon, are you all right?”
Mrs. White had found me. She persuaded me to come back to class. The kids had settled down, and a couple of them actually talked to me. It seems that Mrs. White had had a conversation with them about what Christmas was really about. I avoided eye contact with Francis for the rest of the day. On the ride home I told Carla what had happened.
“I’m throwing my gifts in the trash when I get home,” she said.
We decided not to tell Mya or Carlos Jr. As we walked in the door Jason ran up to us, with one of his Christmas gifts in tow. I burst into tears, and went to tell my Momma what happened. As I finished my story, a strange look came over her face. I quickly glanced behind me, and saw Daddy standing in the doorway. To this day I don’t know if he had heard what I said. All I know is that I felt something come down across my back. I tumbled to the floor, and rolled up in a defensive ball. I looked up just as the old extension cord was coming down again. Daddy continually struck me. Each hit worse than the last.
“Carlos wait,” Momma said. “You better hush your mouth Sharon, before your next,” Daddy threatened. “You don’t ever talk bad about family. You don’t deny your family. Do... you… hear… me?” Daddy screamed, timing each word with a hard blow to my back, legs, or whatever body part he made contact with.
“But Daddy,” I tried to explain.
“I don’t want to hear anything from you,” he said.
With each hit I thought: What did I do? Why didn’t I just jump? I hate my life.
Francis had went home, and told her mother that I was at school denying that she was my cousin. Of course she hadn’t mentioned that she told the whole class that we had gotten their unwanted toys for Christmas. My uppity Aunt Genene, who probably felt like I should be proud to even know her children, immediately summoned my Daddy to her house. She confronted him about my comments. He then came home, and without a single word, began to give me one of the worst beatings I ever had. Not once did he ask me for my side of the story. Instead, he just added to my pain and humiliation.
I could barely walk after that beating. As I lay in my bed, thoughts of running away filled my head. My legs were bleeding, and I could feel the swelling. A short time later I heard Daddy’s car pull off. Like clockwork my Momma rushed in, and began checking my legs, and making sure I was all right.
“Things are going to get better. Just pray,” Momma said.
The song she sang, as she cleaned my wounds, was beautiful. I never understood how Momma dealt with it. She never seemed happy. I think that is why she would rarely comb her hair or why she did not care what she wore. Our happiness was important to her, though. She really tried to give us little rays of hope. I laid in Momma’s arms, and although it was still daylight, I went to sleep
