Just before my junior year, my mother’s hard work and determination paid off in a big way. Jackie, Robin, and I discovered there was an empty split-level house on Smith Street. It belonged to a man who bought it for his family shortly before he lost his job. As a consequence, he had to sell the house.
In the days after Mama learned this, she prayed that she could qualify to buy it. She had been saving money while trying to get us into a housing project, but she heard someone had blackballed her. Her application for the project apartment was rejected, but she got a mortgage to buy the house. She cried some happy tears then.
The house was brand new, with four bedrooms and not one but two bathrooms. I shared with Robin—who was on her way to Lincoln University, in Jefferson City, Missouri. Vertrella and Larry were already attending Lincoln. Wilatrel had moved out of Kinloch with her husband, David, a Baptist minister. Ba’y Bro was at Florissant Valley Community College and Jackie got married shortly after we moved in.
I found my first job with the Neighborhood Youth Corps, cutting weeds, clearing out lots, and picking up litter. From time to time I would babysit Wilatrel’s children. One of the kids broke my mother’s stereo. My mother said to me, “You’re going to pay for that.” I responded with “No, I’m not.” She slapped me and said, “You forgot who you were talking to.” I was so mad, I was ready to walk. I had saved $30 and planned to take a bus somewhere. Sister Robin was sitting on a lawn chair reading a magazine when I walked down the driveway with my stuff packed. She didn’t even look up when she said, “Jenny, don’t do it.” She knew that if I walked out of our yard, Mama would come for me and it would not be pretty.
The fall of senior year, I sought to complete my perfect record as class president for six years straight. My opponent, Dickie (one of my ninety cousins), was the smartest in our class, but I figured I was a shoo-in to win. I was the one who ran the car washes and bake sales that funded our junior prom. For years, I had organized our dances, and as a consequence, I had to work through them while the other students partied. I figured the classmates who liked me would surely vote for me and the ones who didn’t would be too scared not to.
When the votes were counted, I had won, but by only one vote. Again, I felt betrayed. I cussed out several friends for their lack of loyalty.
That night I cried myself to sleep as I thought about what happened. But I didn’t need a reason to cry into my pillow. It had become habitual, comforting almost. Here I was the shining star at school, but wracked by sadness at night. I was disappointed that my prayers to Jesus had been unanswered; it made me feel unworthy. I began to pray to my friends, in particular Mary. Unlike Jesus, she at least seemed to like me.
Midway through my final semester, I met a guy at the Northland Mall. He was a few years older, wore a sharp blue suit, had a gold front tooth, and was called—wait for it—“Goldie.” I was enthralled. We went on a few dates, and he taught me how to drive. He asked me for money, telling me he needed $50. I gave him $35. It made me feel even closer to him. Finally I went to his apartment and we had sex. I couldn’t feel his small penis. I actually couldn’t tell if it was in or not. Midway through, I felt him do something down there, but I couldn’t tell what. Later, I figured out he had broken the condom.
My guidance counselor, Miss Butler, gave me the moral support I needed when I went to her crying about my plight. She helped me arm myself to tell Mama. The first thing I said to Mama was, “It’s gonna cost two hundred dollars. But I have it. From the gifts.” A few of my teachers had given me money for my upcoming graduation. They were women of modest means themselves, but they held great hope for me. They believed in my dream. Of course, Mama was disappointed, but she didn’t dwell on it. I guess she sort of expected it.
I wasn’t valedictorian. Dickie was. I was chosen as one of the speakers at our graduation. It was a crowning achievement for a girl who’d been elected class president, voted class clown and most likely to succeed, and dubbed “the loudest” (what a surprise!). I delivered my speech with all the fervor and dramatics that I could. I stood before my classmates and their families, my fist raised. “Now is the time to move forward and go out into the world,” I proclaimed. Two months later, I left Kinloch for Webster University and my life ahead.
The summer after my freshman year at college, Mama wanted me to come home, but I felt my place was out in the world, not back in Kinloch. I decided to stay on campus and get a job at a nearby McDonald’s. After two days of cleaning toilets and mopping floors, I begged the manager to change my duties because “I am going to be famous.” He assigned me to bun detail. All I had to do was lower the toaster onto the buns, wait for the beep, remove the toasted buns, put the next batch in, and lower the toaster again. Easy enough. But then I began telling my co-worker at the beverage station about my future as a movie star. I described the songs I would sing, the shows I would do, and the awards I planned to win. The toaster beeped and I lowered it while continuing to talk. It beeped again and I lowered it again, never missing a beat in my monologue about my future success. Suddenly, flames shot out from the toaster and the buns turned to charcoal because I had lowered the toaster on the same batch about four times. I was fired on the spot. After that, ladies and gentlemen, I never had a job outside of show business.
Kinloch receded into my past as the years rolled by. I grew closer to my siblings and was grateful when I could make it home for family reunions, kids’ birthday parties and graduations. I returned for the sad times as well. Years later, when I was living in Los Angeles, the phone rang at 5 a.m. It was my niece calling from Dallas, Texas. She said, “Aunt Jenny, my daddy had a heart attack this morning,” and then she screamed, “AND HE DIDN’T MAKE IT!” I, of course, flew immediately home to comfort Mama and siblings. Dear God, our Ba’y Bro, Edward James Lewis Jr., was gone. Ba’y Bro and I were never superclose, but in my travels, I would always plan a layover in Dallas to visit him and his beautiful, sweet wife, Annette, and their amazing two children, Eddie and Ashley.
At Ba’y Bro’s burial in Texas, I admitted to the crowd that I had stolen quarters out of the drawer where he kept his tips from working at the Ramada Inn during 1966. I apologized to him that day, confessing I had been driven to the crime by my addiction to Hostess Twinkies.
TEN