One good thing about the house on School Way was Wilatrel lived upstairs with her husband and children, and I began to experience the joys of being an aunt to little “Peppy” and “Wally Bear.” But the best thing was there were no trees and bushes around. Mama couldn’t easily go out and pull a switch. She took to beating us with a fly swatter. At least it didn’t hurt as much.
By sixth grade, I had acquired a reputation as a charmer and a fighter, much in the tradition of my mother. With the kids on my block and at school, I was large and in charge. I had authority. When Sheila Williams damn near split open her head ’cause she tripped on the double Dutch rope, they brought her to me to see what should be done.
I had no sway in Mama’s house, but in the street, I was determined to be the boss. People in Kinloch survived by being strong. Sometimes that strength creates a culture where the response to every challenge is “Let’s take this shit outside.” You step to people before they step to you: “Jump in my chest, and make a bird’s nest” was what we said when we were about to fuck somebody up. It meant Bring it, bitch, I’m ready.
I was often quite the bully, but really I had little to back up my sharp tongue and controlling behavior. Sometimes I got in over my head. I teased Evette about a rash on the back of her neck. The next day I carried a kitchen knife, anticipating an after-school fight. I didn’t know how to use it, but I was going to try if I had to. A bunch of girls followed me home, with Evette leading the pack and determined to kick my ass. Just so happened that my dad was riding by in his friend’s car when he saw the crowd of kids. He looked a little closer and saw that it was his baby about to get a beat down, despite swinging a knife at her would-be attackers. He stepped right in and carried me out of there. To hear me tell the story the next day at school, I kicked butt and took names. I had the personality to convince everyone that I had won the fight.
Through my involvement with the YWCA and the Girl Scouts, I entered talent shows in Kinloch and the greater St. Louis area and usually won. I was gaining a reputation as a singer and when our choir visited other churches, I became the most requested soloist. These experiences were proof for me that I actually had the talent to become a star.
Around this time, I started to sneak out of the house to go to the movie theater in nearby Ferguson. My siblings and friends warned me not to go to Ferguson. It just wasn’t safe for black folks. But Ferguson had a movie theater and Kinloch did not. I would save a couple of dollars, get on the bus, and spend hours alone in the dark watching movies like Hello, Dolly! and Sweet Charity, which left a lasting impression on me. I could see my future self, and she was on-screen and she was glamorous, just like Barbra Streisand and Paula Kelly.
During my adolescence, we moved into a new house, where I finally had my own room, sort of; it was also the bathroom for the whole household. But I did have a curtain to separate me from the toilet.
Our household always had an undercurrent of tension, fear, and rage. There were mornings when Mama entered my room, pulled the bedclothes off me, and beat me for some infraction the night before. I was often miserable at home. When I wasn’t crying alone at night, I prayed hard for Jesus to come and make everything right.
And then, of course, there was church—the First Missionary Baptist Church of Kinloch, Missouri. We had to attend every function—Sunday school, Bible study, choir rehearsals, junior usher board meetings, and on and on. Church turned out to be a refuge for me because I found many kind women there who took me under their wings, including Miss Parks, head of the usher board, and, of course, my great-aunts Ida and Membry. In addition to singing in the choir, I energetically joined in on all sorts of tasks and projects, basking in the smiles and praise of these substitute mothers.
First Baptist Church was full of drama, much of it revolving around competition for the pastor’s attention. My mother, like so many women in the church, was in love with her pastor. The pastor was like the chief of the village infallible, like the pope. Women who lack support and love, who yearn for husbands and self-esteem, often fill the void with church. The problem is that many pastors know this all too well and take full advantage. It’s a tired old story that’s been played out forever.
My mother maintained good friendships and an active social life in and outside of church. In 1962, she was a founding member of the Wild Rose Social Club, a dozen women who would get together regularly for the next fifty years. These were hardworking women who cherished a few hours a month to socialize and sip cocktails. And baby, the Wild Roses were fabulous! They would work to out-dress each other, usually in outfits they had whipped up on their Singer sewing machines. I dreamed of being as stylish, hip, and fun loving as these ladies. When the club met at our home, Mama sometimes would call me in to demonstrate the new dances, like the Jerk and the Funky Four Corners (not to be confused with the boring-ass regular Four Corners). The night I showed them the Boogaloo, I knew Mama was proud of me, but also knew she wanted to be the one in the spotlight. Nearly forty years later, Mama said as much when she came to see me in Hairspray. When someone asked how she’d enjoyed my performance, her response was, “She may have the money, but I’m the one that’s funny.”
In junior high school, when I was elected class president, I began keeping a journal as an organizing tool. I’d note who would bring the soap and rags to car washes at the local gas station, whose mama would bake a cake for the bake sale, who would bring the record player and 45s for the dance in the basement of the YMCA, and who had lost their virginity.
As seventh grade class president, I was chosen, along with a boy in my class named Lenier, to go on a trip to Okalona, Mississippi with our teachers, Miss Downey and Mr. Griffin. During the trip, I decided Lenier would be the one to take my virginity. We were staying at the home of a cow farmer. Lenier and I walked out into a cow patch, started fooling around, and soon were naked. Lenier sat in an old, worn chair that was leaning against a poplar tree and I straddled him like I knew what I was doing. He had a dick as hard as the stolen obelisk robbed from the Temple of Karnak that now stands shamelessly in the heart of Paris. I lowered my body onto his. An unexpected pain shot through me. I saw blood and thought I was going to die. Nobody had told me about this part. I had absolutely zero sex education. Once I got over the pain, I began to like it. I felt like I had conquered. Like I was in control.