“I’m glad you came back, cousin.”
“Me too!”
“Have you seen your mother?”
I told her I had and that the visits had gone better than I expected. She told me her father lived in Los Angeles and was doing well, but her mother died years ago. Though I couldn’t see her, I could hear the sadness in her voice. Aunt Virginia was loved by everyone. Despite her disabilities, she continued to work as a rehabilitation counselor. I shared with Petik how grateful I was when her mother bought us those Easter baskets years ago. She told me that she saw my mother recently. She went over to her house with Teresa and they played cards together.
“Your mother is so funny!” she said.
“I know,” I said, smiling in the darkness.
I woke up refreshed the next morning. Dappled sunshine pierced through the tent walls and I could hear the muffled voices of my aunt and uncle outside. Petik’s bed was empty. I didn’t know what time it was and feared I had overslept. I grabbed my toiletry bag and headed for the washroom. I ran into Petik on the way, who informed me it was only 7:30 A.M. She told me she fled the tent just before dawn for the warmth of her car. She was not the only one who was cold. Kim had gotten up in the early morning darkness, driven from her tent by cold. Petik told me she had driven back across the bay to her house to retrieve warmer clothes and extra blankets. As more and more of our group woke, the unifying complaint was how cold it was last night. Uncle Landon and I seemed to be the only two who slept well.
When I returned from washing up, I saw that another campfire was lit and surrounded by sleep-puffed faces and outstretched hands. Uncle Landon prepared pancakes he had made from scratch, while Aunt Ora whipped up scrambled eggs and sausage. Hot tea, cocoa and coffee were also on hand. The women recounted the horrors of the previous evening that mostly involved hearing raccoons invading the campsite and fighting each other over scraps of food carelessly left out overnight. A friend of Cousin Thembi’s was convinced she would have been torn limb from limb had she so much as poked her head out of the tent. Another talked of having to brave the cold and beasts in the middle of the night when a swollen bladder could no longer be ignored.
Around ten A.M., Kim came back from her mission laden with blankets and a toasty looking pair of Uggs, beaming with as much satisfaction as Moses returning from the mount. Now that all our members were present and accounted for, the conversation turned to plans for the day’s activities. I was looking forward to a hike but it seemed that everyone else was interested in spending the day at a nearby beach. Everyone except Uncle Landon and Aunt Ora, who were convinced that if left unattended our campsite would be looted and raided by other campers whom they eyed suspiciously.
I quickly saw that my decision to stay behind—despite a last-minute appeal from Petik—was a good one when I watched the mayhem that ensued as more than a dozen adults and four children tried to reach consensus on when and how they would get their caravan to the beach. It took an hour for them to gather an afternoon’s worth of food, water, blankets and other gear. Another hour went into finding missing children and locating errant sunglasses and pullovers. What would have been an exercise in frustration for me made for great entertainment since I wasn’t involved. After much fanfare they managed to get everything and everyone loaded up and on the road.
Left in the wake of the group clearing out of the campsite was a feeling of having narrowly avoided a stampede of wild horses. I could now hear my own thoughts, the songbirds and the gurgling creek. Uncle Landon and Aunt Ora were enjoying the quiet as well, as they relaxed in camp chairs and admired the view of the creek below.
I said good-bye to them and headed out into the forest to explore some nearby trails. I decided to hike the Ox Trail over to the site of Old Man Taylor’s paper mill. The day had certainly warmed up since that morning, making for a beautiful day for a walk in the woods. Despite the noise from the nearby highway, I was enjoying this easy hike along the creek accompanied by a few robins and dark-eyed juncos. I was a bit underwhelmed when I reached the site of the paper mill because all that remained were a few crumbly blocks of concrete. I looped around and headed back past the campsite and jumped on the Old Pioneer Tree Trail just past the bridge and entrance station.
It was another short loop that meanders through laurel, Douglas fir, madrone and oak. The trail promised to lead me to one of the remaining old growth redwood stands in that section of the forest, which is mostly second-generation. A little over a mile in, I spotted the Old Pioneer, which easily dwarfed the younger redwoods in girth and height.
The Old Pioneer was not one tree but a cluster of trees whose bark had fused together over time. creating this towering ancient that still stands despite evidence of fire damage that has hollowed out about thirty feet of the trunk. I stepped into the crevice at the base of the tree and stared up into the darkness of the Pioneer’s hollowed innards. I sat cross-legged in the shadows, closed my eyes and lost myself in the quiet and the terrene emanations of my refuge. When I emerged about a half an hour later, I was ready to shed the solitude for the comfort of kinship.
CHAPTER 19
IT WAS MOTHER’S DAY, and I was thinking of pushing Mama from a moving vehicle for backseat driving me like Miss Daisy. Her logic was that she hasn’t seen me since I was a teenager, pre-driver’s license, and therefore wasn’t totally convinced that I knew how to safely drive the car I’d rented specifically to take her out that day. If she didn’t let up soon, I would be forced to fake the sudden onset of a disabling bowel condition to get out of this.
“You have to slow down if you want to make that left.”
“I know, Mama.”
“Ain’t that the exit? You betta get over to it before we pass it.”
“I’m on it!”
Despite all the effort I had put into compiling meticulous directions to get us from her house in East Oakland to an IMAX theater in Emeryville and then to a toney soul food restaurant in downtown Oakland, she insists on trying to offer alternative routes.
I wanted her to relax and let me worry about getting us around and she wanted to show off her knowledge of the only city she had ever lived in. Things nearly reached the breaking point for me when she tried to direct me out of a Target parking lot where she had shopped for video games to blow some time in between watching The Avengers movie (her choice) and brunch.
“Turn right to get back to the street.”
“Thanks, Mama, but I think I know how to get out of this parking lot.”
She’s also showing me behavior I’ve never even heard of, like passenger road rage.
“Did you see that motherfucker almost cut you off?”
“I saw him. No worries.”
“Watch out for that asshole over there in the blue car, he don’t look like he know what the fuck he doing!”
At least it’s clear where I get my love of cursing. I tried to diffuse her anger by getting her focus off the road.
“When I went to visit Uncle Landon, I was impressed by how much the Fruitvale neighborhood is being built up.”
Instead of diffusing her anger, she seamlessly redirected it and went on a rant about how little public officials have done to serve the East Oakland neighborhood.
“You know the Mexicans took over Fruitvale. It used to be black now it’s damn near all Mexican!”
To Mama, Mexicans were all people south of the border, from Mexico to the tip of Chile.
She continued, “They were able to get politicians elected who gave a damn! Our representatives ain’t worth shit because niggers don’t vote for who’s good, they vote by race! That’s why we ain’t got shit in East Oakland! Just churches and liquor stores! Black politicians in Oakland ain’t done a motherfucking thang for us, Lawanna!”
While I sympathized with her concerns, her tone of voice and her anger made me think of the times when I was a kid and it was directed at me. My head was starting to throb but I stayed quiet, keeping my face blank and my eyes on the road, feeling l
ike a back-country hiker playing dead in the hopes of avoiding a grizzly bear attack.
Luckily her anger ran its course just as we pulled up to the restaurant. Because of her COPD, she couldn’t walk more than a few feet before getting out of breath, so I dropped her off at the curb in front of the restaurant, instructing her to go inside and wait for me at the table while I searched for a parking spot.
I took several tours around the block not because parking is scarce but to decompress from my stressful time in the car with Mama, which felt akin to Chinese water torture. Ten minutes later, after regaining my equilibrium, I got a parking spot on a side street and made my way back to Picán Restaurant.
I had scrambled to get reservations because I hadn’t planned on spending Mother’s Day with Mama. It had never occurred to me back in March that things would go as well as they had. So just a week before, I had found myself spending the whole day on the Internet searching for just the right restaurant that still had open reservations for Mother’s Day brunch.
Picán (which serves upscale Southern food) is a black-owned business and one of Oakland’s few quality restaurants. The online reviews were highly favorable and I was able to snag the last reservation. After a peek at the online menu, I knew Mama would appreciate the offerings that included biscuits and gravy, catfish, buttermilk fried chicken and slow-cooked collards—some of the foods she used to cook for us growing up.
I entered the restaurant and I was pleased to find towering ceilings, a rich décor and dramatic lighting. There was an air of homey elegance that was complemented by Michael Jackson music wafting through the main dining room filled with a multicultural crowd of large families at long tables and in booths, and mother-daughter duos at two-tops scattered throughout.
It was easy to spot Mama sitting alone and looking a bit forlorn at a small table in the middle of the dining room. I paused to take in the scene. There was a red rose on the table in front of her, given to her by the hostess. She looked adorable in one of her new outfits: a patterned top, black slacks and silken black ballerina flats. I gave her a haircut the week before, so her wild white afro was gone, replaced by a sophisticated cropped do. She looked as good as any of the women in there, but I could tell she felt out of place in this upscale crowd.
As I approached the table, I could see her slyly sizing up a sophisticated older woman who was sitting at a two-top next to ours with her daughter, who was a bit younger than me. When Mama saw me, she looked relieved. “I was wondering what happened to you.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry that took so long.”
While we perused the menu, we enjoyed the cream biscuits, coffee cake and maple butter our server left for us. We complimented the surroundings and peeked over to see what the couple next to us was having. The sophisticated black woman and her daughter recommended we try the ribs and shrimp and grits. Then the older woman engaged Mama in a bit of small talk and soon they were laughing and discussing recipes and stories about the welcome revitalization of downtown.
I could tell Mama was starting to feel like she belonged. The tension had left her face and body, and she was no longer glancing furtively around the room like Cinderella newly arrived at the ball.
A friendly waitress came by and took our order. While we waited for our food, we rehashed The Avengers movie, which we both enjoyed. We cracked each other up quoting funny lines from the movie, like when the Thor character defends his evil brother against the critiques of his fellow Avengers, then quickly points out that the brother was adopted when he is told his brother recently massacred a large number of people.
Mama also loved the scene where Thor and the Hulk, fighting side by side, succeed in defeating a behemoth from another dimension. After the beast is conquered, they stand together in victory when out of nowhere the Hulk punches the daylights out of Thor, sending him soaring out of frame.
We were nearly in tears with laughter. We discussed who our top three favorite Avengers are. We both selected Iron Man as our favorite but differed on the remaining two. Mama picked Thor and the Hulk. I chose the Black Widow and Captain America. We both agreed the Hawkeye character was a waste of screen time. Hawkeye from the old TV series M*A*S*H would have made a better impression.
Then before I knew it, Mama and I were deeply engrossed in a debate regarding who was the ultimate superhero badass, the Hulk or Superman. We go back and forth for a while. I’m standing firmly behind Superman and Mama’s going with the Hulk. I pointed out that Superman could reverse the rotation of the planet. Mama countered with Superman not being as intellectually strong as the Hulk’s alter ego, Dr. Banner, thus giving the Hulk the advantage of having both brains and brawn. I saw her point but in the end we agreed to disagree.
Our food arrived. We started with a tasty plate of grits and shrimp. For the second course, Mama got barbecue ribs and I got fried chicken. For dessert, we shared strawberry shortcake and chocolate cake so decadently rich it made my eyes water.
Over the course of the meal I found myself scanning her face for her reaction to each bite and asking if she was enjoying herself. It pleased me to no end that she was. After our meal and on the ride home, the car was full of the pleasant aroma of the tangy sweetness of Mama’s leftover ribs sitting in a doggy bag on her lap. Mama, who loves to cook, was thinking out loud as she tried to mentally reconstruct the ingredients in the sauce used in the shrimp and grits recipe, which she planned to re-create at home. I noticed that in addition to the doggy bag and the rose, she had also taken the brunch menu from the restaurant.
When she saw I had noticed, she said a bit shyly, “I want to show my friends what they was serving.”
I was genuinely sad to drop her off in front of her house. We kissed and exchanged “I love you’s!” and she was out of the car. I took a few moments to flick through my notebook in search of directions from her house back to my hotel. When I looked up, I see that her friends from across the street seemingly materialized out of nowhere and had joined her on her front porch. As I pulled away, I could see she was flashing a broad toothless grin with her friends and passing what looked like the menu to one of them. On the drive home, my mind’s eye envisioned her also sharing the ribs and a detailed description of our day. Cute.
CHAPTER 20
I WENT TO TEXAS to visit my niece Latasha. Last time I saw her, she was a curious little girl just barely out of diapers who secretly marked the walls and furniture of our apartment with slashes of purple marker. Now she was thirty-four years old and the mother of seven. She had invited me to Houston to attend a large family reunion. It wasn’t a Williams family reunion. Latasha was abandoned in Houston by my sister Donna when she was just fourteen years old and her little brother was ten. My sister left them with a great-aunt one morning, said she was going to work and never came back. It took just a few days for our great-aunt to catch on that Donna wasn’t coming back. Latasha, after nearly twenty years, was still hopeful.
Tasha met me curbside outside of baggage claim at George Bush Airport on a hot and humid afternoon in Houston that threatened rain. As she approached, I could still see the tiny girl in the pretty woman with the solid frame typical of the women in my family. She was a no-frills type of gal. No makeup. No jewelry. From her father’s side she had inherited light brown skin with reddish undertones, which folks from the South called “redbone.” She also had a healthy dusting of freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and nose, not unlike Uncle Landon. Her hair was thin (a trait from my mother’s side of the family) with a loose curl pattern, which she wore in a slick ponytail. Otherwise, she said, the humidity would turn it into an untamed cotton ball. She was dressed in an oversized T-shirt, Capri pants and sandals. She approached me with a shy smile. When she got within touching distance, I reached out and embraced her, kissing her cheeks deeply and repeatedly the way I did when she was a little girl.
She led me to a black car that belonged to her best friend, Sista, a very large woman with a shaved head, flawless makeup and eyebrows so manicured they
looked as if they were stenciled on. She wore a sleeveless top that highlighted the soft rolling contours of her arms. Sista had the figure of the ancient beauty woman artifacts of old—flesh upon flesh that does not repel but beckons you near. When she hugged me, she smelled of flowers and her skin was cool and soft despite the heat. Her nearly hairless head accentuated the flawless symmetry of her face and the impish gleam in her bright eyes. Also present was Latasha’s eight-year-old son, Maurice, a beautiful redbone like his mother. After we got in the car, he sat quietly in his mother’s lap, which Tasha said was completely uncharacteristic of the boy, who can be a terror. While she told me this, he looked back at me from the front passenger seat with a little face dominated by big brown eyes and a cherub mouth with an expression that seemed to say, “Lies! All lies!”
We left the airport and headed toward Tasha’s home, where we would spend the night and get picked up the following afternoon for an hour drive into the country for the reunion. I learned that Sista is the daughter of the woman who eventually took Tasha in after Donna left.
Tasha and Sista met in high school. Sista, who has always been very overweight, was being teased by a group of students. Tasha witnessed the bullying and decided to step in and defend Sista. She told me she did it not because it was the right thing to do but because, since her mother left, she had been holding in a lot of anger and used every opportunity she could to vent. That day she unleashed her anger in defense of Sista. They became fast friends. When Tasha became pregnant with her first child at sixteen, it was Sista’s parents, Mama and Pop, who gave her support and encouraged her to complete high school despite her pregnancy.
Because Sista is an only child and had no interest in having children, Tasha became a second daughter, and her subsequent children the grandchildren of Mama and Pop. Tasha’s oldest son, eighteen-year-old Ladarian, who was about to graduate high school, lived with Mama and Pop.