P.S. Be Eleven (15 page)

I remember the president's brother, Robert F. Kennedy, came to Bed-Stuy a lot—before the riots and after. His visits were always in the newspapers. Back in spring, when I was in the fifth grade, just months before he, like his brother, was assassinated, Big Ma put on a church outfit to hear the senator speak. Vonetta, Fern, and I asked if we could go with her but she said it wasn't a meeting for kids. I learned later that plenty of kids had gone, and Rukia Marshall had posed for a picture with Senator Kennedy. That color photograph became her show-and-tell.

Well, Big Ma had gone down to Friendship Baptist Church to hear Senator Kennedy tell the black people they were American citizens who deserved decent homes, decent education for their children, safe neighborhoods, and opportunities. But Big Ma talked more about taking off her glove to shake a Kennedy's hand than she talked about his speech. You'd have thought Big Ma would've been baking cookies for the “Vote for Bobby” office on Fulton Street, the way she talked and talked about Senator Kennedy. But she said she wouldn't vote for him because his hair was too long and he let people call him Bobby and not Robert. He was too young, talking about changing things in Bedford-Stuyvesant and in every other ghetto. She said that while that sounded good, and the people hollered and clapped for him, he was still a rich, young Catholic boy whose daddy made millions selling liquor.

Instead, she planned to vote Republican for Richard M.
Nixon who, to Big Ma, was more suited to be president of the United States than a Catholic boy with hippie hair—or any Democrat, for that matter. She and Pa talked back and forth about that. After the assassination, Big Ma told Pa not to waste his vote on the Democrats. Instead of fixing things for the Negro race, Richard Nixon would win the war in Vietnam, clean up the country of its long-haired, drug-smoking hippies, and get those black militants and bean-pie-selling “Mooslims” in line. He would make America great.

Pa would say that Richard M. Nixon wasn't good for black America, but Big Ma would say, “Life for colored folks is how it's been. If Reverend King couldn't fix it, it can't be fixed. Only Jesus can give colored folks their rightful place, although Reverend King came close.”

That's what made Big Ma both funny and hard to figure. When she looked at Richard M. Nixon, she saw what a president should look like. But I bet you wouldn't have caught Richard M. Nixon at Friendship Baptist Church on Herkimer Street.

Big Ma put down her sewing needle and signed the note.

“Don't get caught up in foolishness, Delphine. You just study your lesson. Gradurate”—she said it with an
r
—“and maybe you can go to college. Be a schoolteacher. Something nice like that.”

Then I said the thing I'd never have said to my revolutionary poet mother. Still, I knew it was the right thing to say to Big Ma. I took the signed detention slip and said, “Yes, ma'am.”

Pa came home early enough that night to have dinner with us, but he didn't come alone. While we sat at the table and Vonetta filled in Miss Marva Hendrix on how good of a saver she was, I heard Pa in the kitchen, taking a tone with Big Ma I had never heard him use. “Get used to it, Ma,” I heard him say.

I pretended not to hear and so did Miss Marva Hendrix, but we both knew what was simmering in the kitchen besides gravy. Big Ma didn't care for Miss Marva Hendrix too much, but Pa refused to yes her like he did when they'd had words about Cecile.

My stomach knotted and rumbled from hunger and funny feelings. I wanted Pa to win the fuss going on in
the kitchen because he was my pa. I wanted Big Ma to win because she didn't punish me for getting myself in detention. And I guess I was a little mad at Pa because he never fought for Cecile to stay.

Vonetta went on and on about all the money we were saving and how she made sure Fern and I didn't waste our money buying candy, airmail stamps, and mooning over boys in Oakland. Then she ran to her room, brought out the jar all taped up, and shook it for all of us to hear. Even Uncle Darnell perked up when he heard the coins shaking. Then she put her mummy jar back in the room. Miss Marva Hendrix couldn't say enough nice things about Vonetta and how she was doing a good job.

I put up with Vonetta because we were almost halfway to Madison Square Garden. In less than six weeks we'd see Jackie, Tito, and the rest of their brothers live onstage. That was worth Vonetta crowing over her job as our saver, and boy, did she crow.

Big Ma brought out the pork shoulder and burnt gravy.

Pa shooed Vonetta out of the seat next to his fiancée. He pecked Miss Marva Hendrix on the forehead, and Fern said, “Ew. Mushy and gushy.”

Big Ma said, “Let's not have any of that mushy and gushy at the table.”

Then Pa gave Miss Marva Hendrix a real smack on the lips, and instead of being mad or sickened, I surprised myself and laughed out loud.

“A mercy, a mercy. Bless the table.”

When Miss Marva Hendrix added, “And all of us gathered here,” she didn't know that wasn't the blessing. Just Big Ma telling Pa to say grace. Pa said, “Amen. Let's eat,” and that was that. Then Big Ma gave a look to Pa. The same “mark my words” look that she gave when he spared me from the whipping rod. Pa acted like he didn't catch Big Ma's look.

If Uncle Darnell was being his jokester self, he would have gone over to one of us and planted a big smack on our lips. But Darnell sat curled over, sniffling back snot, his lids droopy. No matter how much rest they gave him at that hospital in Honolulu, he stayed sick and sleepy.

And he wasn't lucky. The post office hadn't called about the job.

Miss Hendrix looked at Pa like she knew something. Pa looked at her. I could tell by their eyes that they were having a full conversation grown-ups have without saying words. I figured it was grown stuff, which made me want to know what they were keeping from us. Neither Pa nor Miss Marva Hendrix gave me much to work with, but sooner or later, I'd come upon a clue and piece things together.

The not-knowing made me dislike secrets, and then I remembered I had one of my own. I hated keeping things from Pa, and since I was surrounded by my family—minus Cecile; minus Miss Hendrix, who wasn't family yet; and
minus Uncle Darnell, who was there but wasn't his old self—I decided I might as well tell Pa about the day.

“Pa,” I said.

My father had shoveled in a mouthful of rice and gravy. He looked at me, his eyebrows arched, urging me to go on.

“I got into trouble at school today.”

Vonetta and Fern “oohed.” This would be the place where Uncle D was supposed to say something funny to keep Pa from getting mad, but Uncle D just sniffled. And Pa didn't seem too mad.

“Delphine, what did I tell you about fighting with boys? You're too old for that.” He turned to Miss Hendrix and said, “Boys at school always teasing her.”

“Th'ain't the problem,” Big Ma said. “Problem's what they're teaching at that school.”

Vonetta and Fern sang another chorus of “ooh.”

I spoke up. “I was arguing with Danny the—Danny McClaren.”

“About what?” Pa asked.

I couldn't say the Dozens part. Not at the table. I said, “Our social studies group needed a subject, and Rukia said women running for president of the United States and Danny said—”

“Something dumb,” Vonetta chirped.

While I was busy glaring at Vonetta for interrupting me, Miss Marva Hendrix clapped her hands together
and said, “That's a marvelous subject for social studies. Right on!”

Vonetta and Fern had to say it too. “Right on!” And Big Ma scolded them for talking ghetto at the dinner table, half blessed as it was.

“Now, now, sweetie,” Pa said to Miss Hendrix, the same way he told Fern, “Now, now baby girl. Ain't no bogeyman in the radiator pipe.”

Miss Marva Hendrix didn't hear him “now-nowing” her. She said, “Stick to your guns, Delphine. Women belong in politics just like men.”

Big Ma said, “Women belong in their homes taking care of their families, and schools shouldn't be teaching them any different. Who'll take care of everything if young women are running around trying to be dog catcher and councilman?”

“You, Big Ma!” Fern said.

Everyone laughed. Uncle Darnell smiled a little.

But Miss Marva Hendrix thought she was having a discussion. She said, “There's no better way to look out for families than to make sure the government remembers the needs of children, women, and poor people. Who better to speak for children than women?”

“The men who take care of them,” Pa said without hesitation. “The men who put a roof over their heads. Food in their mouths.” He stuck his fork in his potatoes.

“I know, I know, honey,” she said.

Sweetie. Honey.

“But sometimes men forget these things,” she said. “They think about getting more, making their empires bigger, war.”

“Tell it,” Uncle Darnell said.

But Pa said, “Some things gotta be.”

“Some things gotta change,” she said back.

They were talking to one another and not us.

“If you ask me,” Big Ma said, “they ought to stick to teaching arithmetic in schools. Arithmetic. Home economics. Reading and history. Not all this jaw-jerking about women running for president. A woman running for president. When pigs fly over Alabama.”

“Pigs in the air!” Fern said as if she could see them.

Uncle Darnell smiled. His eyes were closed.

“There are a lot of women making noise in politics,” Miss Hendrix said.

“Noise, for sure,” Pa said. But Miss Hendrix ignored him.

“There's a lawyer named Bella Abzug. She has a good head on her shoulders and a loud mouth—and I mean that in a good way.” Her eyes twinkled at Pa.

I'd never seen a lady lawyer, but I knew what she meant about having a loud mouth. Like Angela Davis had a loud mouth. And Kathleen Cleaver had a loud mouth. She was talking about people who weren't afraid to say things.

“Only thing Bella Abzug's good for,” Big Ma said, “are
her big old hats. Hmph. Quiet as it's kept, she's only wearing those hats to catch the eye of a husband.”

Miss Marva Hendrix laughed politely. She could have let Big Ma have her say or changed the subject. Instead, she said, “I'm working on the campaign to elect Shirley Chisholm to be the first black congresswoman.”

I thought, Congresswoman? Was that a real word? But I didn't want to accuse Pa's fiancée of making up words. Instead, I said, “You work for Shirley Chisholm?” I knew her name and saw her on the local news. But I didn't think her campaign was for real. I didn't think any men would vote for her. I knew my Pa wouldn't.

“I volunteer,” she said.

Big Ma said to Pa, “Do you hear that, son? Are your ears and eyes open? Teaching foolishness in school, and bringing it home to this half-blessed table.”

It was funny. I felt one way when I sat down at the table and a different way before we had dessert. I couldn't make up my mind about women with big mouths running for president or about Miss Marva Hendrix. I certainly didn't know what to think about my father.

I shouldn't have been surprised by the angry words that came from our kitchen. Pa and Big Ma argued a lot lately. This time, Pa's voice was firmer. Although I couldn't hear all of the words, I could hear what Sister Mukumbu called an “ultimatum.” Once you give an ultimatum, you have to mean it. You can't pull back. Sometimes your “or else” is all the power you have and you can't be afraid to do what you threaten to do.

Pa said, “He better find work,” and Big Ma said, “He's sick.” Pa said something like, “The house is too tight,” then Big Ma said, “You can't” and “He's your brother.” Then I heard Pa say that having Darnell around the girls—us—wasn't good. That was when he gave Big Ma his ultimatum:
“If Darnell don't get cleaned up, he's got to go.”

Then Pa walked out into the dining room in time to catch me. “Delphine, that wasn't for your ears. Go on and do your homework.”

“I did my homework, Pa,” I said, careful how I spoke up. “Big Ma told me to come peel potatoes.”

“Go on and do what your grandma asked.”

I “yessed” him and went into the kitchen. Big Ma was wiping her face with her apron.

“What you want?” she asked.

“Peel potatoes,” I said.

She'd forgotten. She had Uncle Darnell on her mind. And Pa.

“Wash your hands,” she said like she was still arguing with Pa. I didn't tell her I had already washed them in the bathroom. I squeezed some Ivory dishwashing liquid on my palms and turned on the kitchen sink.

Having Uncle Darnell home was supposed to make us all happy. My sisters and I prayed to keep him safe when he was in Vietnam. Big Ma got on her knees every morning and prayed for an hour. Most of her praying was for Uncle Darnell.

The only thing I knew for sure was that Pa didn't want his own brother in the house.

I knew that Uncle Darnell wasn't himself, but was that a reason to stop loving him? Was it all right to stop loving someone you're supposed to always love?

I didn't know if Cecile loved us when we were born. She let Vonetta cry and cry in her crib. She left Fern before she could know Fern. She still left me even when she let me be with her while she wrote poems. And Pa. She left Pa.

All I knew about my parents was that Pa took Cecile in when she was sleeping on a park bench. They had us, and Pa painted the walls every time Cecile wrote on them. Then she left us after Fern was born. Pa wore his long face every day after that for seven years.

I think love wears out, and Papa's love for his brother had worn out now that Uncle Darnell rattled and hollered in the night like a ghost. His bones stayed cold and his nose stayed runny. He didn't wolf down his food or dance lame old dances like he used to. Maybe because Uncle Darnell wasn't his whole self but was like a ghost. Maybe that's why Pa couldn't love him like he used to.