Pretty Black

Chapter 3: Where’s My Daddy? Returning Home My grandmother and grandfather made the journey to Houston to bring me back home or to visit us one summer; either way, they were there. While I couldn’t remember the trip or packing or leaving my little red brick house in Anniston that was so full of love and cooking and gardens and trees and crops and land to run and play to my heart’s content, I could remember coming home to a beautiful but somewhat empty brick house with siblings I didn’t know, a mother I didn’t know, and no father to be found. Wow! This was a drastic change for me. What was a little girl to do? When I returned home to my mother in Houston, sadly, there was no daddy or close grandfather relationship for that matter. No healthy, functional relationships to continue with my grandparents, no playtime with Granddaddy, no rocking or rocking chair, no calming and quiet atmosphere like I was accustomed to in Anniston. It was on to the Houston hustle, even in the late 1960s. The morning Grandmother and I had to separate, unbeknownst to me, is forever etched in my memory. I knew something was not right. It did not feel right. It did not look right. I would say we had just finished breakfast or some other type of snack or meal of the day. Grandmother and I were in the family room. At that time, we called it the living room or den. She was standing behind the couch, and I was close by her but just far away that I could see Grandmother and Mom with the quick turn of my head. Mom was in the kitchen, holding a towel or some type of cooking utensil. A sliding patio door was directly behind Grandmother. I looked at Grandmother to my left and Mom to my right. My face grimaced because neither said anything to make me look in either direction. I just knew something didn’t feel right. Once more, I looked left at the woman I knew was my mother at the time—my grandmother. Then I looked to my right again at my mom. When I looked at Grandmother, this time, my mom called my name. She said, “Landa,” as I am affectionately known, pronounced Londa by my siblings, extended family, and close friends. I looked at my mom, and I suddenly felt a quick exit from the room. I then looked to my left, and Grandmother was gone! Chapter 4: That “Ugly” Little Black Girl You’re So Black I was reminiscing on how I felt at that time as a little girl who was taught to value and appreciate herself from the time she was a young toddler. Now I was here. And I often thought, Why did I let these things happen to me? Were my eyes too big? Was the texture of my lips too dry and pigment too pink? Was my butt not as round and plump like my sisters’? Were my fingers too short and stubby? And there was the question or comments about my skin tone. Well, you didn’t have to ask me about that. I was always known as “the li’l black one.” The darkest in the family! I was so black! “How black?” you may ask. Blue black, midnight black, starlight black—these were just some of the nicknames my “village” had attached to me. Maybe they meant for me to receive them as positive affirmations. They were not. I’ve come to understand they were stereotypes, characteristics that told me I wasn’t brown enough for some of their circles. They were meant to hurt me, to tear me or anyone else down who shared these or other coveted traits. Some names were meant to bring me to tears, and that was just what they did. They lowered my opinion of myself and who I thought I was. Grandmother and Granddaddy had instilled within me the esteem that I was beautiful and talented and quite the character like some of my other cousins, that I could do anything I set my mind to do. Yes, those attributes. The village’s nicknames soon cut me down to the point where I felt I had to make people happy for me to be happy. I mean, think about it: When I returned from Alabama, I was a four-year-old with her head held high, with long, beautiful ponytails, and if you asked me, I knew how to sing and pray to this man named Jesus. I believed He heard me because He heard my grandparents crying out to Him. So in my eyes, at least before the endearing names started, I was made to believe I was beautiful. I didn’t know how long it took me to “try on the coat,” but once I did, it took decades for me to take it off. After these encounters and wondering if relationships with most people were truly real or setups for opportunities to further catch me off guard, I began to look at life a little differently. I didn’t know my strength and what was within me. But God did.