brains.
If we didn’t know the exact details—or, indeed, had many of them wrong—there was nonetheless a horrific and genuine basis for our fear. This was always in the background of our interactions with medicine and science. Although we hadn’t heard about Henrietta Lacks, a black cancer patient whose cells were used by white doctors without her permission to create a multimillion-dollar biotechnology industry, that story was playing itself out as I grew up. Lacks’s cells allowed many important advances—but none of them helped the family whose genes they exploited, who remained poor and unable to afford basic necessities like health insurance. This story was only recently brought to light by Rebecca Skloot in her book, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks .
Although there were legitimate reasons for my mother to be suspicious of the white medical establishment, her suspicion in this case may have made life more difficult for her. Since she naturally continued to be sexually active with her husband, she had a child nearly once a year between 1961 and 1969. It was not just my mother alone but also her mother, sisters, and children who had to live with the consequences.
In Brenda’s case, this probably worked to her advantage. Perhaps because Big Mama basically saw Brenda as a motherless child, she coddled her. She always tried to make the granddaughter whom she raised feel special and wanted. Consequently, Big Mama supported Brenda’s interest in athletics at school, as well as her academic achievement. Brenda was on the drill team and in the marching band; she loved to strut her stuff. Surrounded by white do-gooders who expected her to go to college—and prodded by Big Mama as well—Brenda soon imagined and reached for the same future for herself.
Indeed, Brenda became the most academically serious of my sisters. She would later be the only one of the girls to graduate from college, with an associate’s degree in general education from Miami-Dade Junior College. She was the only one of my sisters who didn’t have a child in her teens or out of wedlock. She went on to a long and successful career in reservations at Delta Air Lines. To me, Brenda echoed Big Mama’s pronouncements about the importance of finishing my education and amplified them. My other sisters and my brothers didn’t get this kind of encouragement from adults. Brenda and I also learned lots of practical things from Big Mama, like how to cook and how to take the bus to get around town.
Our grandmother also tried making us take piano lessons. That never stuck because we didn’t really practice. The only use the piano in the living room got was when Big Mama played hymns herself or played and sang with Brother Curtis. He and Big Mama were treasurers in the church where she played the organ. I’m not sure if they were seeing each other romantically or not, but he would often come around to play music and to discuss church business. The Bahamian side of my family were Seventh-Day Adventists who went to church every Saturday.
Even though Big Mama disapproved, I tried to avoid church and related activities as much as possible. It was always either boring or frightening: when I believed in God as a child, I saw Him as an angry, unforgiving God who knew I was up to no good and had no tolerance or understanding of my circumstances. He didn’t seem to do much for those who prayed. And when the contrast between people’s behavior in church on weekends and during the rest of the week became obvious to me—and as my childhood kept showing me just how unfair life really was—I pretty much stopped believing or at least stopped thinking much about it. Later, in my teens, I sometimes even used the idea of God to convince friends to shoplift with me, saying that He would understand us taking from those who have more. But Big Mama’s deep and genuine faith sustained her.
She also looked out for me and stood up for me with my father in a way that no
If we didn’t know the exact details—or, indeed, had many of them wrong—there was nonetheless a horrific and genuine basis for our fear. This was always in the background of our interactions with medicine and science. Although we hadn’t heard about Henrietta Lacks, a black cancer patient whose cells were used by white doctors without her permission to create a multimillion-dollar biotechnology industry, that story was playing itself out as I grew up. Lacks’s cells allowed many important advances—but none of them helped the family whose genes they exploited, who remained poor and unable to afford basic necessities like health insurance. This story was only recently brought to light by Rebecca Skloot in her book, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks .
Although there were legitimate reasons for my mother to be suspicious of the white medical establishment, her suspicion in this case may have made life more difficult for her. Since she naturally continued to be sexually active with her husband, she had a child nearly once a year between 1961 and 1969. It was not just my mother alone but also her mother, sisters, and children who had to live with the consequences.
In Brenda’s case, this probably worked to her advantage. Perhaps because Big Mama basically saw Brenda as a motherless child, she coddled her. She always tried to make the granddaughter whom she raised feel special and wanted. Consequently, Big Mama supported Brenda’s interest in athletics at school, as well as her academic achievement. Brenda was on the drill team and in the marching band; she loved to strut her stuff. Surrounded by white do-gooders who expected her to go to college—and prodded by Big Mama as well—Brenda soon imagined and reached for the same future for herself.
Indeed, Brenda became the most academically serious of my sisters. She would later be the only one of the girls to graduate from college, with an associate’s degree in general education from Miami-Dade Junior College. She was the only one of my sisters who didn’t have a child in her teens or out of wedlock. She went on to a long and successful career in reservations at Delta Air Lines. To me, Brenda echoed Big Mama’s pronouncements about the importance of finishing my education and amplified them. My other sisters and my brothers didn’t get this kind of encouragement from adults. Brenda and I also learned lots of practical things from Big Mama, like how to cook and how to take the bus to get around town.
Our grandmother also tried making us take piano lessons. That never stuck because we didn’t really practice. The only use the piano in the living room got was when Big Mama played hymns herself or played and sang with Brother Curtis. He and Big Mama were treasurers in the church where she played the organ. I’m not sure if they were seeing each other romantically or not, but he would often come around to play music and to discuss church business. The Bahamian side of my family were Seventh-Day Adventists who went to church every Saturday.
Even though Big Mama disapproved, I tried to avoid church and related activities as much as possible. It was always either boring or frightening: when I believed in God as a child, I saw Him as an angry, unforgiving God who knew I was up to no good and had no tolerance or understanding of my circumstances. He didn’t seem to do much for those who prayed. And when the contrast between people’s behavior in church on weekends and during the rest of the week became obvious to me—and as my childhood kept showing me just how unfair life really was—I pretty much stopped believing or at least stopped thinking much about it. Later, in my teens, I sometimes even used the idea of God to convince friends to shoplift with me, saying that He would understand us taking from those who have more. But Big Mama’s deep and genuine faith sustained her.
She also looked out for me and stood up for me with my father in a way that no
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