church (my parents tithed 10 percent of their income), and even save up for a few luxuries (like our piano). By the way they managed their money, my parents passed on one lesson to me early: As important as it is to save, you should also spend and enjoy a portion of what you have. For instance, even when things were tight in our house, my parents would still set aside enough money for our family to go to an amusement park or on a road trip. And every week after Mom had written out the checks for all of our bills, she’d always leave herself with a few dollars for something she wanted for herself—like a new pair of panty hose.
Though my father was officially the head of the household, we all knew that Mommy was really in charge, especially regarding anything related to the house or us children. She simply had the loudest voice and the strongest opinions. Yet once Daddy got home and we all took our places around the table, he did sit at the head of the table, say grace over the food, and lead the dinnertime conversation. “We put up a new display at the store today,” he’d tell us. After giving us the full update on his day and listening to Mom’s, he’d sometimes turn to me and ask, “So what happened at school today?” I’d mutter a couple of sentences before stuffing the edge of a biscuit into my mouth.
Once I cleared the table and helped Mommy put away the food, my parents would often call us into the living room. “We need to pray right now,” Mommy would say. We prayed about everything—from an issue happening in the church to some struggle that had arisen in my parents’ lives. Sometime during the evening, Mommy would use her favorite line at least once: “The devil is raging.” I think my parents really feared that Satan was right there in the room, trying to overtake us. During our days at Pillar of Truth, Bishop Scurry would often oversee exorcisms, during which we’d cast demons out of people. Afterward, we’d all gather, hold hands, and pray that the spirits that left those people’s bodies didn’t get into ours. In 1977, my parents might have physically moved on from Pillar, but spiritually and emotionally, they were still quite connected to what we learned there.
Before bedtime, Mommy would occasionally pull out her gospel vinyl records and play either a Mahalia Jackson or James Cleveland eight-track. “Jesus is the best thing that ever happened to me,” sang Reverend Cleveland in that thick, husky voice that sounded as if it came from another world; his accompanying choir called out their agreement with a flurry of amen s. “Jesus is the best thing that ever happened to me.” I loved that style of music so much because it seemed closer to secular—and that made me feel closer to normal. What I didn’t know is that it was a remake of Gladys Knight’s song “You’re the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me.” With every soulful note that lifted from Mommy’s record player, I was smitten. The piano. The drums. The tambourines. The spirit. It all filled a space inside of me that only music could. Even way back then, I somehow sensed that. I’m still certain of it today.
CHAPTER 5
Levi’s and Puppy Love
D esigner jeans were all the rage in the early eighties—Jordache, Sasson, Calvin Klein. So you can imagine how excited I was when my cousin Felicia gave me a pair of original 501 button-fly Levi’s. I was fourteen—and my eighth-grade classmates had never seen me in pants, much less fashionable ones. On the day I got the secondhand jeans, I closed my bedroom door, slipped one leg at a time into the jeans, and quickly fastened each button. The Levi’s were a little big on me, which made them a perfect fit. Before Mommy could open the door and catch me wearing pants, I pulled them off and buried them in my bottom drawer. Every day for a week, I took them out and tried them on, just so I could practice what it would feel like to wear pants.
One evening in December 1980, a huge
Though my father was officially the head of the household, we all knew that Mommy was really in charge, especially regarding anything related to the house or us children. She simply had the loudest voice and the strongest opinions. Yet once Daddy got home and we all took our places around the table, he did sit at the head of the table, say grace over the food, and lead the dinnertime conversation. “We put up a new display at the store today,” he’d tell us. After giving us the full update on his day and listening to Mom’s, he’d sometimes turn to me and ask, “So what happened at school today?” I’d mutter a couple of sentences before stuffing the edge of a biscuit into my mouth.
Once I cleared the table and helped Mommy put away the food, my parents would often call us into the living room. “We need to pray right now,” Mommy would say. We prayed about everything—from an issue happening in the church to some struggle that had arisen in my parents’ lives. Sometime during the evening, Mommy would use her favorite line at least once: “The devil is raging.” I think my parents really feared that Satan was right there in the room, trying to overtake us. During our days at Pillar of Truth, Bishop Scurry would often oversee exorcisms, during which we’d cast demons out of people. Afterward, we’d all gather, hold hands, and pray that the spirits that left those people’s bodies didn’t get into ours. In 1977, my parents might have physically moved on from Pillar, but spiritually and emotionally, they were still quite connected to what we learned there.
Before bedtime, Mommy would occasionally pull out her gospel vinyl records and play either a Mahalia Jackson or James Cleveland eight-track. “Jesus is the best thing that ever happened to me,” sang Reverend Cleveland in that thick, husky voice that sounded as if it came from another world; his accompanying choir called out their agreement with a flurry of amen s. “Jesus is the best thing that ever happened to me.” I loved that style of music so much because it seemed closer to secular—and that made me feel closer to normal. What I didn’t know is that it was a remake of Gladys Knight’s song “You’re the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me.” With every soulful note that lifted from Mommy’s record player, I was smitten. The piano. The drums. The tambourines. The spirit. It all filled a space inside of me that only music could. Even way back then, I somehow sensed that. I’m still certain of it today.
CHAPTER 5
Levi’s and Puppy Love
D esigner jeans were all the rage in the early eighties—Jordache, Sasson, Calvin Klein. So you can imagine how excited I was when my cousin Felicia gave me a pair of original 501 button-fly Levi’s. I was fourteen—and my eighth-grade classmates had never seen me in pants, much less fashionable ones. On the day I got the secondhand jeans, I closed my bedroom door, slipped one leg at a time into the jeans, and quickly fastened each button. The Levi’s were a little big on me, which made them a perfect fit. Before Mommy could open the door and catch me wearing pants, I pulled them off and buried them in my bottom drawer. Every day for a week, I took them out and tried them on, just so I could practice what it would feel like to wear pants.
One evening in December 1980, a huge
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