I had been in therapy just a few months when Mama sent me a printed program from an event at her church. When I saw Pastor Heard’s name, every cell in my body reacted. A numbing sensation engulfed me. I went out and bought a bottle of hard liquor. I got drunk. I held myself together enough to call Mama and ask for Heard’s number. She hesitated. So I said, “I want to ask him about a scripture.” I knew that she knew his number by heart.
I called Pastor Heard.
“Hello.”
“This is Jenifer.”
“Hellooooo, Jenifer! We saw you on television! Oooooh, we’re all so proud of you!”
“It ain’t that kind of call, motherfucker.”
He was silent.
“You still fucking with little girls in your church? Listen to me. If you hang up that phone, I’ll fly there and kill you! Why did you do what you did to me?”
“When I kissed you, Jenifer, I was trying to show you what you might run into in Hollywood.”
“You sick, twisted motherfucker. Do you realize that in those ten seconds that you touched my body, kissed me, and felt me up, you took everything from me? And you still call yourself a man of God? Just know if you hang up and don’t let me get this out, I will blow your stupid, pathetic, little storefront church to pieces with you in it!”
“Am I allowed one word?”
“What, bitch?”
“Sorry. I am sorry.”
I continued to attack him and wanted to tell him to go straight to hell, but strangely, I felt his remorse. His apology did not lessen my disgust for him or rectify the damage he had done to me. But, confronting him was liberating. My conversations with Rachel about the molestation became easier. Ultimately, after many, many months, I was able to come to terms with the molestation, to acknowledge that it was evil, to feel my anger and sadness about it and to recognize that it was not my fault. Y’all, confronting Pastor Heard felt so good in terms of standing up for myself as a woman. I promised myself never to keep another secret. And I want other women to know they can stand up and must stand up to their persecutors. Feel the fear and do it anyway! We are all as sick as our secrets, y’all. Remember that shit.
In early December, I flew to Columbia, Missouri, to perform in a short run of Ain’t Misbehavin’. When I picked up the phone in my hotel room late one night, it was Mama.
“Hello?”
“Jenny, your daddy’s dead. When can you come home?”
I was devastated by the heartless way in which my mother told me of my father’s demise. She had once told me she detested him. But it was me she hurt. He was my daddy and she was not respecting my feelings. I rented a car and drove the two hours to St. Louis for my father’s funeral.
I’ve never known a funeral that didn’t bring surprises. When I walked in the house, I recognized everyone in the family except one person: a ten-year-old boy who looked just like my father. My family had received him with open arms, and so did I. The funeral was sad. Having not really known my father, I was unclear about what I felt or should feel. Some of my siblings were closer to him, and I spent most of my time comforting them. My mother sat in the front row at the funeral service, of course. Though they had been separated for thirty-three years, they never divorced. So there she sat in a full-length mink coat while the mother of the young son sat in the back of the church.
The morning of my father’s funeral, Mark Brown called and told Mama that Quitman had died. Thank God Mama was merciful enough to hold the news until the repast after the service.
I went into the old bedroom that was once mine. I curled up on my old bed. Surprisingly, I smiled at first—God, help me—remembering every salad Quitman had made. Every piece of toast he had meticulously spread butter on, careful not to miss a spot. Every tight T-shirt he had squeezed his perfectly formed body into. I lay there and could still feel the deep compassion he showered on me when I’d burst into his apartment, wailing about some lost man, some lost audition, some note I couldn’t hit, some lyric I had missed. But when my mind wandered to the last time I had seen him and those purple lesions covering my baby’s face, I lost complete control and sobbed into the night.
Rest in peace, baby. They’ll never tell you no again. Nobody will ever call you a nigger again. And all the suffering is over. I will love you into forever.
I returned to Columbia, Missouri, to finish the run of Ain’t Misbehavin’. When the show closed, I went back to Kinloch and confronted my mother for the first time in my life. I had learned a few things in therapy: (1) to protect myself; (2) not to let horrible things invade me to the point that I would lapse into a deep depression; and (3) to just tell the truth and get shit out on the table.
I used the courage therapy was giving me to confront my mother. She was washing dishes. I said, “The way you told me Daddy died was not right.”
“It was the only way I knew to tell you.”
I didn’t feel that was apologetic enough and after months of working on myself in therapy, I was not afraid to let her know how I truly felt. I had come to understand that my fear of my mother was no longer necessary because she was the one who was really afraid.
As we stood over the kitchen sink, I looked her dead in her eyes and I said, “Mama, I am going to ask you: if something happens to one of my sisters or brothers, please tell me to sit down first. Or warn me that you have some bad news.”
I don’t think anyone had ever talked to Mama like that. And, frankly, she was not fazed. But after so many hours discussing my mother with Rachel, I understood that my mama could never admit that she had been wrong, ’cause then she would have to feel remorse. Her life, her circumstances, had mostly blotted away all feelings but anger or disdain. Perhaps it was survival. I tried not judge her, but I had made my feelings known and could now choose to be my own self. I was growing up and went back to Los Angeles proud of myself.
Rachel suggested I try to resolve some of my issues by writing letters. “You don’t have to mail them, but sit with your feelings. You can burn them if you want.”
I wrote everybody I could think of, avoiding my mother. I wasn’t ready to handle the pain. However, after several more sessions, I finally conjured up the nerve.
As Rachel had promised, putting my feelings in a letter was helpful. A few days later, I read her the letter.
You worked very hard to keep us fed and clean. And I appreciate that very much. You sent me to school. But you never checked to see if I was learning anything. Where were you, Mama? I don’t even remember you helping me with homework. Nor sitting and just talking to me about anything. You only demanded this, beat me for that, then went to your room. You just used us to serve you, to worship you. Like animals without souls. I had a soul, Mama. I was a child. You were supposed to love me, not beat me at every turn.
I’ve been wanting to write you for a long time. Talking on the phone about these issues doesn’t work for me because I slip into being a child. And the child in me is afraid of you. Because of the physical abuse and lack of compassion you imposed on me, Mama.