Caught Up

***What you are about to read is a true story. The events of my life as depicted in the following pages, are my truth. However, to protect the privacy of others, many of the names are fictitious. This depiction is in no way meant to harm, demean, or infringe upon anyone’s right to privacy***

Chapter 1

California Dreamin’

1979 was a year I will never forget. At the time, I was living in Los Angeles, California, where I had lived all of my life, and happily attended Western Avenue Elementary School. One day out of the blue, my mother told me that we were packing up everything we owned and moving to Houston, Texas. She said it was because she wanted to be closer to our family, but it would end up turning my whole life upside down. For the first time in my life, I would be separated from my beloved dad, my school, and all of my friends!

There we were, packed in the U-Haul truck headed for Houston. Glancing out the window along the highway out of town, I thought back on the last few years of my young life, afraid of what lay ahead.

Mom

My mom loved her family very much. She had five brothers and one sister spread around the United States. Her parents lived back in Louisiana, where I was born. She had me when she was just eighteen and we moved to Los Angeles around 1970. I was an infant.

During most of our time in L.A., my mother was a single parent who worked hard to make ends meet. She struggled from time to time, so hiring a babysitter was out of the question. Most days after school, I was left to fend for myself until she came home from work. She worked as a legal secretary for a well-known, high-profile attorney by the name of Mr. Alexander, in downtown Los Angeles. I was, what one might call, a “latch-key kid” because my mother tied a piece of rope-like material around my neck that held the key to our house, to let myself in when I arrived home from school each day. Along with the task of having to look after myself, came the added responsibility of honoring my mother’s request that I not remove the key from my neck at any time, and I never did.

Being left alone can be a scary time for a child and it was no different for me. It meant I had to assume the expected role of accountability, even when I wasn’t quite sure, sometimes, what that role entailed. I did, however, have a daily routine. I’d come home, drop my books in no particular place, and read my mother’s list of chores she routinely left for me on the living room table.

I thought of my mother’s notes, which were always simple and precise, as ‘The ‘DDL’ (Daughter Do List). Her list of chores included cleaning the ashtrays of the nasty, foul-smelling cigarette butts she left behind and if I found any “roaches” (marijuana butts) laying around, they were to be put in her cigar box on top of her chest of drawers.

Other duties on the list included dusting, running the vacuum, and making sure my bedroom was neat and cleared of clothes and miscellaneous things that usually found their way all over my bed; all of which had to be completed before she came home. My chores were routine enough that I was usually able to complete them all rather quickly. This left me with `just enough time to sneak outside and play before my mother returned home. It didn’t matter to me that she had a steadfast rule which strictly forbid me from going outside when she wasn’t home. All I needed to hear was the joyful sounds of my friends’ laughter as they played outside, and that was enough temptation for me to join them. As far as I knew, there was no way my mother would ever know.  

One day while playing with my friends and having the time of my life, a neighbor called my mother at work and told her they saw me sneak out of the house to play.

“Chasten thy son while there is hope and let not thy soul spare for his crying.” (Prov. 19:18, ESV)

“Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.” (Prov. 22:15, ESV)

That evening, when she walked through the door, I got the surprise of my life. She calmly went into her bedroom, came back out, and commenced to giving me a whoopin’ like a captured, runaway slave. Although I seldom got whoopins’ while growing up, when I did get them each one left a long, strong impression.

“Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. (Prov. 23:13-14, ESV)

My mother didn’t support the idea of “sparing the rod,” as many of today’s parents do. She simply expected me to abide by her rules and when I didn’t, she further emphasized her point with the use of real, rawhide, leather belts, and strong switches that came from a tree in our back yard.   While the welts from those lashings stung for about a day or two, the memory of the pain usually lingered for what seemed like weeks. Now, don’t misunderstand me, in my eyes, my mom was the coolest mother on the block. However, after two or three of those whoopins’ I came to fully understand that when she said I wasn’t to go outside until she came home, that was exactly what she meant. 

The only exception to this rule was that I could be outside just long enough to go next door to our neighbor’s home whom I loved.

They were an older couple who loved kids. When my mother first introduced them to me, the wife told me to call her Aunt Jazzie and she introduced her husband as Uncle Ges. They took to me real fast and instantly treated me like I was a part of their family. They were funny too, sometimes odd and a little weird, but they were fun to be around. At their house, I received daily snacks made available to me until my mom came home. Although I’ve never been able to confirm my suspicions, I often wondered if these very neighbors were the ones who “dropped the dime on me” when they saw me sneak outside. It never really mattered much if they did, because I felt safe with them. They always kept a close eye on me, even when I eventually went home alone to prepare for my mom’s arrival from work.

To tell the truth, I never minded visiting my neighbors, because most of the time they were drunk, and that’s when they said and did the most hilarious things! Whenever I walked into their home, the smell of liquor hung in the air like the scent of lingering perfume. I could always count on finding them talking loud, laughing, and ‘talking mess’ to each other, which busted my buttons laughing. To say they were comical would be putting it mildly. There were also other people living in that house, elderly men and women. I assumed they were roommates.

One day, all those good times came to a crashing end. As usual, I walked over to their house after school and found the door open. When I went inside, I noticed the house was exceptionally quiet. I didn’t see anyone at the front of the house, so I walked toward the back bedrooms and, to my shock, I found one of the men lying prone on the bed as one of the old ladies straddled him, and they were both butt naked! To a nine-year-old never exposed to sex, my immediate instinct was to get out of there, so I ran out as fast as I could.

At the time, I wasn’t quite sure what went through my mind, but in the confusion of it all, I knew I never wanted to go back over there. I never told my mother what I saw that day, but it shattered me for some time to come. How was I supposed to understand such an act between two people, which no one ever took the time to discuss with me? I suddenly found myself very inquisitive and wanting to know more about what I witnessed that afternoon.  

My best friend, Lacy, stayed three houses down from mine, on the same side of the street. Lacy was tall and slender with pretty, brown skin. I liked her because she was so full of life and excitement. She was somewhat of a daredevil and loved trying anything at least once. Together, Lacy and I were like Thelma and Louise. We had each other’s backs at all times, no matter what.

Now, Lacy’s next-door neighbor, Mr. Riley, was a music teacher, who taught voice lessons. Oftentimes, Lacy and I would sit on her porch singing songs we heard on the radio. Unbeknownst to us, Mr. Riley had been listening and invited us into his home one day, whereupon he played the piano and encouraged us to sing along. I had absolutely no clue what song he was playing, so we simply made up the lyrics as we went along. His beautiful music and my voice blended together like two instruments. Although he could play the piano with his eyes closed, I could tell he was delighted and intrigued by the melodic sounds that seemed to flow effortlessly from within me.

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” (James 1:17, ESV)

As time went on, Mr. Riley taught us songs that really brought out the quality of my voice. I didn’t really understand what vocal quality meant at the time, but I learned soon enough. Mr. Riley taught me the Debbie Boone classic, “You Light Up My Life,” and I remember singing that song over and over until we grew tired. It might have been an exhausting song, but it was great for building a voice.It was during those days that Mr. Riley told me I had a real, vocal gift. He always sent me home with encouraging words and said more than once, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t sing,” and, “Don’t ever do anything to squander the wonderful gift God gave you.” 

 Because I was just nine years - old, I never thoroughly understood what my having “a gift” meant, but I felt deep inside I had something special going on. Aside from Mr. Riley being one of the nicest men I had ever met, I trusted him because he knew so much about music. It was his interest in my gift that made me fall in love with singing.

Dancing was one of my favorite things to do but singing became my passion. Mr. Riley trained Lacy’s voice and mine, by taking us through the paces of “do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.” It was fun and exciting for both of us; so much so, that I found myself no longer wanting to go outside to play the “normal” kid games such as dodgeball, hide and seek, and hopscotch.

My focus now was on one thing only; I wanted to sing! After each rehearsal ended, I’d leave really motivated and eager to become a singer. In fact, I dreamed about it, and that dream became the most important task I was eager and determined to complete.  

“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old, he will not depart from it.” (Prov. 22:6, ESV)

Sundays were awesome! My mother and I attended Double Rock Baptist Church in Compton. You could count on us being there most Sundays. Double Rock Baptist was a small church building but every week, without fail, a lot of people came to worship there, in the House of the Lord. I loved everything about church, especially the way the choir sang as the director stood in front of them waving her arms up and down to the beat of the music.  We had a huge choir and, if I could compare them today, I would say they sounded like the great Mississippi Mass Choir. When that choir got done making a joyful noise unto the Lord, people ran up and down the aisles, shouting and giving God praise until some of them actually fell out. The church was definitely filled with the Spirit and it was an exciting place to be. As a youngster, my mother made it mandatory for me to attend Sunday school, followed by the regular church service. I can honestly say, I loved going to church from the very start. And, since the ministerial staff insisted that all the children sat up front, to make room in the pews for the adult church family, I was more than happy to sit close to the pulpit with the rest of the kids. That way, I could get a close and personal lesson in God’s Word.

My relationship with God seemed pretty solid to me. I enjoyed the Word and watching the fascinating reactions of others when the Word was preached. It wasn’t hard to believe in God. I watched my mom, who was a true believer in Jesus Christ, so I followed her lead and was willing to trust in that which I couldn’t see.

One Sunday, I received the most wonderful experience! It was an event that I couldn’t explain at the time, but as I got older, I came to realize I had received the Holy Ghost! This particular Sunday began just like any other, but the moment God’s Spirit made His presence known in my small body, I became totally consumed and I felt it through all my bones. My heart started pounding like it was trying to find a way out of my chest and my head was hot and clammy to the point that I felt feverish. Though I fell to the floor, it felt as though my life was being lifted away from me, like a weightless feather floating softly on a gentle breeze. Almost immediately, I knew it was God, because I’m certain I heard Him speak my name right before He took me up, and I cried tears of joy.

From that day on, I truly believed that I would be OK, no matter what! Our Pastor, Reverend Hill, when he was full of the Holy Ghost, always said at the end of his sermons, “Just believe, because God will never leave you nor forsake you! Amen?” All the people replied, “Amen!” What Reverend Hill said was true. After I experienced my encounter with the presence of the Holy Spirit, I learned to hear the quiet voice within that encouraged me to hold on to that day and trust those words forever.  

Every Sunday, following church service, the common practice for almost the entire congregation was to go to Reverend Hill’s house for dinner. It was like being at a family reunion. Churchgoers and their family members filled the Pastor’s house. When you walked in, you could hear the sound of music, laughter, and the joyful sounds of children playing. Although we weren’t from the same family, it certainly felt like we were because of the love and trust we so easily shared with one another. Because our own family lived far away, we made the members of Double Rock our extended family. I trusted them and so did my mother. Some of my most memorable moments were during the hottest days of summer when all the kids brought their bathing suits and trunks to swim in the Pastor’s backyard pool. Once we were in the pool, we stayed in there for hours on end just to keep cool. Boy, it was heaven!

One of our favorite church traditions was when the older church sisters brought delicious dishes of macaroni and cheese, fried chicken, candied yams, greens, homemade rolls, and a variety of other mouth-watering dishes they prepared the night before. Furthermore, our Pastor could always be counted on to serve up some of his lip-smacking barbecue and special sauce! 

However, like most things I suppose, it was inevitable that things would begin to change as our church membership continued to grow. Our Sundays at the Pastor’s house became less frequent and the close relationship we once had with Reverend Hill and his family changed dramatically. With a congregation growing by leaps and bounds, Pastor had his hands full. The times when you could just walk into his church office unannounced suddenly became a convenience of the past. Two huge gentlemen, who appeared to most as bodyguards, now stood in front of the Pastor’s office, questioning anyone who tried to enter without an appointment. "Where are you going?” they’d boldly ask, and, “Do you have an appointment?” was now the gateway to Pastor’s office.

The church’s long-standing, personal relationship with its original members and former priorities had changed dramatically. The main focus shifted to the building fund, where a new church was earmarked to be built, to accommodate its ever-growing flock.

My mother and I had been singing in the choir. She became so disappointed in the many ways things had changed at church, that she stopped going to rehearsals altogether. As much as she and I both loved Double Rock, we found ourselves gradually not attending church as often as before. Instead, Mom and I began to sleep in on most Sundays.

During that time, my mother was working really hard to make ends meet. While she was working long hours, I took an interest in, and began thinking about, what I saw grown people doing; drinking, smoking cigarettes and smoking weed. I was no more than eight years old, on my way to being nine; when I started to dabble. Playing outside with many of the neighborhood kids was fun, but it didn’t seem all that important, and I quickly found a refuge to indulge in. I, along with Lacy, my neighbor, a boy named Marquise and some other kids we hung around with, soon shared the same curiosities about life. Around the same time, I developed quite a crush on little Marquise, who was an absolute knockout. I called him my “cutie pie” and I was willing to do anything to get his undivided attention. Marquise’s silky skin was a deep, honey-brown and his eyes were hazel. His hair was curly and as soft as baby hair, although he usually wore it in an afro. What I really liked about Marquise was that he always smelled good.