Old Memories......New Beginnings

My very first memory of my parents is my mother hiding me in the bathroom, while my father was getting jumped by my aunts at a family cookout. Nice right? I think I had to be about 3 yrs old.

Unfortunately, I dont have many memories of my father in my early years. And the ones I do have are not all that good. My dad, Walter Green, was a Jamaican-born, 6'2", dark skin, handsome, tempermental man. He was a carpenter by trade, but I dont really remember him working too much. He also worked as a Janitor for the Poughkeepsie Schools for sometime. But I mostly remember him being home, always injured, smoking weed, drinking and selling drugs out of our home.

My mother, Theresa Braxton, was born and raised in the Poughkeepsie, Millbrook area of upstate New York. She was the only daughter of Harold and Bernice, who, between the two families had tons of relatives in the area. She and her brother were known as the "fighting Braxtons" because she says, in the 1960's people were very comfortable using the word "nigger".

My mother never really dwelled on how she and my father met. I dont have any romantic stories to tell about them. And even when I ask she replies, "we met, we got married, we had kids, he left." I do know, from stories I've overheard throughout the years that Ma was an independent, hard-working, fashionable & caring young woman, before my Dad came along. She worked at a phone company, went to Nursing School, had enough clothes and shoes to just give away to her cousins. She would take care of her godchildren and baby cousins for weekends at a time. She always tells me the story of how some guy was trying to pick her up in a bar and told her "you aint the prettiest thing but you built like a brick shit house baby!"

My parents married in April 1973. I was born in November 1974, their first child. Within that time, somehow my father had the nerve to put his hands on my mother to physically hurt her. And somehow, not that she accepted it, but it started to break her down. Kill her spirit. When I asked my Mom, "why did you stay after he hit you the first time?" She answered, "cuz i was young and stupid and believed him when he said he wouldnt do it again." Now, I dont know often, why, where any of this happened. All i know is that there is no way my grandfather or uncle knew anything about it, because they would've killed my father. It's amazing how women can hide abuse so easily for so many years. That just shows one of two things; either we love our abuser so much that we have to protect them even when they are trying to destroy us or we are ashamed of what has happened to us.

So, back to the cookout, my first memory of Mommy and Daddy. My grandparents always had get-togethers at their house. My grandfather would have these giant grills that were made out of old oil drums or something. My grandmother would prepare all of the food inside and Poppop would cook. They had a gazebo on one side of the yard, where we kids, when we weren't getting into trouble would sit and play cards or ease drop on grown-up conversations. beyond the gazebo was a small hill and another small yard. On the other side of the yard was a huge hill that grew dandelions every spring. I always thought of that movie "The Sound of Music" when I would run to the top of the hill. There was a small garage, that no one parked in, at the bottom of that hill on the other side of the long driveway. Next to the garage was our swing set. My sister, cousins and I would play on there for what seemed like hrs, singing, fighting, talking. behind the house was a small garden that my grandmother used to tend to. If I remember correctly, we used to save our watermelon seeds and try to plant them there. I dont remember anything ever coming of those seeds though. beyond the garden was the back door to the house, which led to the basement or you could go to the other side of the house and come up on that small hill that I mentioned earlier. It seemed like a huge place when we were small. But it reality it was just a small yellow and green house on a hill.

At some point, I remember Daddy standing close to swing set, I was near the front door I think, at the picnic table. I saw him hit Mommy. I dont remember if it was a slap or a punch, but I remember my aunts running over there. I'm pretty sure other people ran too, but all I remember is my Aunt Gloria....running. Next thing I know I was in the small bathroom of my grandparents house. My mother sat me on the closed toilet and she sat on the edge of the tub in front of me. This is actually the last time I ever remember her telling me, "its gonna be ok, I love you." I have no recollection at all of her ever telling me she loved me since that day. Not saying that she didnt, I just dont remember.

Over the next 14 yrs, my father did not improve, at all. There were times when he would be in prison and Mommy had to take care of us all alone. Thats probably when she was her happiest, because when he was home he was beating on her. He never laid a hand on me though. But I was still scared to death of him. Daddy wasn't all bad though. Its hard for my mother and brother and sister when I say that, but that was MY relationship with Daddy. Once, I was in 4th grade and got in trouble for selling colored sand in school. Daddy was locked up in the county Jail. Ma screamed and hollered and threatened me and told me, "we're going to see your father!! you tell him what you did!" So we went, I was crying so hard i got a headache. I don't know why, he was in jail, he never beat me anyway. So he definitely wasn't gonna be able to hit me then. But I was nervous nonetheless. I told him what happened, through the small glass window. How I sold viles of sand to other kids in my class and then tried to cover it up by hiding the letter from the teacher. I dont know what he said to me, but I know he saved me. He begged Mommy not to beat me. So I was grounded, until she said otherwise. 28 years and 2 kids later, I think I'm still technically grounded! Daddy and I would cook together, go shopping (what I later realized was more shoplifting than actually paying for goods), hang out, watch tv, paint....He was my Daddy. I didnt know any different.

One time, we walked into our apartment after Mommy had picked us up from school. Everything was completely dark and I saw a figure sitting in the middle of the room as Ma turned on the lights. Daddy was home from jail!!I was so happy! I just remember hugging him so tight. After my brother was born, Daddy would hold Harold on his forearm, like one of those blaxploitation, velvet pictures, and kiss him over and over. He adored my sister, Tiffani. Regardless of it all, he was always still Daddy.

Like I've said, I knew Daddy would beat up on Mommy. I was the one who would have to call the cops. I was the one who was told, I was fat and ugly just like my mother. I was the one he called lazy. The one he would force to eat every bit of food on my plate while my sister was allowed to leave the table, and then I would have to finish her plate too. I would hear him slamming her into walls and the slap of a belt against her skin. I saw and heard things that my mother still doesn't know that i've seen. But that one day, when she had to drive to the police station, with blood streaming out of her head, thats when my point of view of Daddy really changed. I think Daddy was locked out or something, but for some reason we had to go to the apartment building we lived in. Daddy was standing outside. I saw him coming to the car and as I opened my mouth with a smile to say "Hi, Daddy!" he hit my mother in the head with a hammer! I don't know how many times he hit her. I remember being in the police station and the cops telling her, as she stood there bleeding that they didnt see him do it so they couldnt do anything about it.

Daddy left in 1989. Not voluntarily, but at the "urging" of the U.S. Government. All the drug dealing and shootings and armed robberies and whatever else he did finally caught up to him and the FBI showed up at the door. Alot of his dealings have been blocked from my memory. But from what i've been told, once, people came to the house to kill him, and I answered the door. I remember traveling to the Bronx and Newburgh and Kingston with him on his drug runnings, whether he was picking up or selling, I was right there. I remember seeing him free basing in our bathroom. I remember him actually teaching me how to roll an ez-wider. Even though I can't roll a blunt to save my life now. I remember all types of people in and out of our house. I remember a schoolmate showing up to work for Daddy. I remember meeting our brother Avery, before my brother Harold was born. I remember being frightened when Daddy's lungs collapsed on Main Street and I had to run home to get Mommy. I remember him teaching me how to make a glass painting, cook calamari, make dumplings. I remember his stupid lil song about an old jamaican dude on a porch lying about his name. I remember his glasses, Mommy braiding his hair, I remember that big ass boombox he used to carry, the green gremlin that he drove, when he would leave money for me in my room (then turn around and ask for it back), how when i broke my arm he carried me home and bought me a whole box of doughnuts to nurse me to health while we waited to go to the hospital.....i remember Daddy.

The entire time she was with my father, Mommy worked 2 or 3 jobs at a time, went to school, was active in church. She was never home, but it was because she had to provide for us. No one ever faulted her for that. My mother is amazing!! And even though My father broke her spirit, she still showed us how much she loves us everyday, even when she doesnt say it. But when my father wasnt in jail or working, he was our caretaker after school and in the summer. When he was deported, I felt like he abandoned me, even though he put my family through hell. I hated him. The more I thought about the physical abuse he inflicted on my mother, the psychological abuse he put me through, the more I hated him. I even wrote him a letter telling him "the only thing i learned from you is how to break the law...I have a son now and I pray that he never grows up to be like you....You are dead to me."

Recently, I started to forgive my father. For everything. I've reached out to my brother Avery, who we held malice against for yrs, and for no reason. He was a baby, he didnt ask to be brought into that situation anymore than we did. Now, he is wrapped up in some legal issues and I havent been able to meet him in person but we write to each other and speak on the phone, like we were raised together. I have spoken to Daddy on the phone a few times. He's cried and apologized for everything he has done and put us through. He told me "I worry about you guys, but I worry the most about you, because you are the most like me." I smiled, and dropped a tear at the same time. Because he has no idea how much like him I really am. I have so much of Green's traits that it scares me sometimes. He told me that I have a 9 yr old sister in Jamaica, now. My sister, Tiffani and I were even planning on taking a trip to go see Daddy. There's this line in a Tyler Perry movie where he says something like "forgiveness is not for the other person, it's to set yourself free. You walking around mad at this person and they're going on with their lives." I actually cried when I forgave Daddy. And he didn't even know it. All the hate I had for him, I transferred to all the dudes I ever encountered in my life. To all of my relationships, friendships, and worst of all to myself. I dont know what my father did from the time I was 14 until I forgave him 5 yrs ago. I dont know anything about him anymore. But I'm willing to find out. Because no matter what, that's still my Daddy. and I love him.